Stained Glass


Masking tape on our glass door.

I remember admiring the stained glass windows at church as a kid, wondering how they got all those pieces of glass together, wondering how the windows didn’t buckle in the wind, and wondering how someone discovered a way to use the broken pieces to make something so beautiful. On migraine days, I feel my brokenness keenly; when the migraine leaves, I feel fragile as cracked glass. Truthfully, on these days, I am just more aware that I am not yet whole. How do you make something lovely out of brokenness?


Washable paint: 2/3 acrylic paint, 1/3 soap. Mix. Apply. Washes off with just water and cleans the glass to boot.

Usually, our idea is something along the lines of recycling. Stained glass window artists don’t, as I thought as a child, make their artistic pieces out of scavenged broken pieces. But when you’re done with a newspaper, it can be so many other things made out of paper maché; potato peelings can be composted to grow your tomatoes and zucchini; broken mugs and plates can become a mosaic. But people are a different matter.


Dries in seconds.

Easter is coming. The day we celebrate the completion of the only thing that could fix us: the Resurrection of Messiah. We may be singing songs of rejoicing in our living rooms; perhaps there will be no large gatherings over Easter dinner; but we are delighted in the One who heals our souls. Our brokenness is not merely fixed, but made whole. Further, we can look forward to a day when this will be true of our bodies as well.


I took the tape off–the crisp edges please me–but leaving them on might be just as nice. Now we have an Easter stained glass door.

He makes something lovely out of something broken.


man person cute young

Photo by Pixabay on

Someone asked me a few years ago what kind of music I listened to, and I had one of those sudden epiphany sorts of moments.

One of the enormous privileges of western wealth and culture is that we no longer have to play an instrument or know someone who does in order to hear music. We can turn on any number of devices and get any kind of music we want. Music is played free gratis while we dine, shop, and get our teeth drilled. It’s eerie if there isn’t music playing in the background of our films and sometimes audio books. I used to make or find a soundtrack to accompany every drama I was writing; just listening to it got me in the “zone” to sit down and work. I used to turn on music every time I came home; our 25-CD player was filled and when it got to the end, I’d start it over again. I used to sit in my office and hum along with show tunes and hymns and fall asleep with them turning over in my head. I used to have trouble falling asleep unless there was music playing.

But when I was confronted with the question, I realized that I don’t anymore. I just…rarely listen to music. I’ll enjoy it if someone else has it on; I like a good theme song that sticks with you. I love singing at church and with people and for people, but my internal monologue rarely includes music anymore. It just got too…noisy. There’s enough going on in my head; I don’t need MORE to drown it out. I want to really listen if it’s there at all; I don’t want white noise. Just once, I’d like to browse the lettuces without a saxophone wailing away; I’d like to wait for the doctor to see me without listening to a country break-up song; I’d like to pump gas without the tinny, echoing radio music bouncing off the concrete. My mental database for songs is vast; most people have one. But unlike some people, who always seem to have a song floating through their minds, mine don’t play anymore. They wait quietly until they are asked for.

Except for one. I only realized it today.

Every morning, when I say goodbye to my husband, I pray for him as he walks to his car. And as I think on him and his day and where he might be going, I also think of my dad…and my brother…and my sister…and my nephew and niece…and as the circle of my family widens, I pray for them. And every morning, quite without me really knowing it, a little song has been the soundtrack for these little loved-one prayers:

  1. Safe in the arms of Jesus,
    Safe on His gentle breast;
    There by His love o’ershaded,
    Sweetly my soul shall rest.
    Hark! ’tis the voice of angels
    Borne in a song to me,
    Over the fields of glory,
    Over the jasper sea.
  2. Safe in the arms of Jesus,
    Safe from corroding care,
    Safe from the world’s temptations;
    Sin cannot harm me there.
    Free from the blight of sorrow,
    Free from my doubts and fears;
    Only a few more trials,
    Only a few more tears!
  3. Jesus, my heart’s dear Refuge,
    Jesus has died for me;
    Firm on the Rock of Ages
    Ever my trust shall be.
    Here let me wait with patience,
    Wait till the night is o’er;
    Wait till I see the morning
    Break on the golden shore.

Safe in the arms of Jesus,
Safe on His gentle breast;
There by His love o’ershaded,
Sweetly my soul shall rest.

~Fanny Crosby

It’s like a lullaby; gentle, thoughtful, and full of rest. All my dear ones are safe in the arms of my Jesus, and so am I.

So today, I am deliberately singing this little gift. I hope you can, too.

P.S.~I looked for a video link to share with you that had the original tune but they were all played on a nasally digital organ, a bit too country gospel, or something else that really doesn’t carry the words well. I’ll let you do the searching.

The Care and Feeding of Artists

multicolored crayons inside clear plastic round case

Photo by Pixabay on

“Mom! I made you a picture!”

Mom stops what she’s doing and looks at the wild scribbles. There’s definitely a person on that paper, but who they are and what they’re doing is debatable. Mom takes the democratic approach. “Thank you! It’s so colorful! Who is it?”

The artist is slightly offended. “It’s you! See your curly hair?” Mom looks at the wild nest of purple curls on the top of the stick figure and smiles. She finds an unused portion of the refrigerator and puts it up there with the rest of the art.

You were that kid, once, and so was I. It was deeply meaningful to see our work displayed in a public place like the refrigerator. We also knew all too well what it felt like when it didn’t make it up there. Mom never failed me; other people did. I gave them my art, and they set it down and forgot about it, or even outright told me “No thank you.” Ouch. Usually, though, people gladly accept the worst-looking offerings from the children in their lives. Since they love the kid, they love whatever the kid makes. Grown up artists aren’t really all that different. Here’s a few guidelines to caring for them:

  1. If they give you the product of their artistic endeavors, understand that they are telling you that they love you in one of the most personal ways that they know how. So accept it, and do your best to use it as intended! Loving their art means loving them. You know, hang it on the fridge.(Note: Loving the art and liking the art are similar to loving vs. liking a person. They ain’t the same.)
  2. Voluntarily read their writings, hang their paintings, buy their cakes from time to time…you get the idea. It will means tons to them if you just…show up at their art show.
  3. Speak of their creative endeavors as the genuine, useful work that it is. You might have pandered to the child’s early attempts; the adult would appreciate genuine encouragement. Art is really, truly useful in the world; it is not merely playing in a sand-pile.
  4. Understand that they might need time alone to accomplish some art. Lack of such time will play havoc with their emotions, so much so that you might need to step in and say, “Hey, I’ve got this. You go paint for awhile.” If they don’t actually smooch you, just know that they will probably really want to.
  5. If they ask you for critiques, be diplomatic but honest. It’s unfortunate but true that some artists are looking for compliments instead of critiques; know which one your artist is. Are they ready for that genuine critique to push them forward? Are you the one to give it?
  6. If you wish to give them supplies, ASK them about their preferences in notebook, brushes, charcoal brands, etc. They won’t use supplies that they don’t like.
    1. I have written before about a ring-bound, lined-paper notebook festooned with naked, glittery, butterfly-winged cherubs that some sweet soul gave me to encourage my writing. I wrote, but not in that.
    2. My father knows all my picky notebook preferences. God bless him!
  7. Introduce them to your favorite artists; they will love learning new things with you. Then it will be something that you share.

Make no mistake: EVERYONE is creative. Not everyone chooses to devote their creative urges to hours of artistry. Maybe you and a friend support each other in your different endeavors—they music, you ceramics. Maybe you consider yourself a supporter of the arts: you buy and read the books, the paintings, the music. But all the quirky little personalities in our lives could use a little knowledgeable love.

Blessings on all those people who have knowledgeably loved on me.

The Last Words of Jesus: a free Easter script for a small speaking choir

*Any part of this is available for use; just copy and paste. Feel free to add or subtract from this. It can be used whole or as a starting point. Songs may be interspersed throughout, if desired. I suggest only one instrumental: a hammer. Spoken parts are broken into groups: Chorus 1, 2, etc; those can be interpreted as individuals or small groups. “Chorus” without a number following it indicates the whole group.

Scripture references are provided at various points throughout should you wish to easily change references.


          Instrument: the sound of a hammer, pounding a spike.

          Three members of the chorus. ONE on the left, TWO in the middle, THREE on the                    right.

ONE: An overnight trial

THREE: Hate on every side

CHORUS: His compassionate ministry would inevitably lead to

ONE: Calvary

THREE: Golgotha

Hammer 2x

Hammer 2x

            Hammer 2x

TWO: “Father, forgive them.

CHORUS: They don’t know what they are doing.” (Luke 23:34)

TWO: He was crucified with two criminals on Golgotha—

ONE:…one on the right

THREE:…and one on the left.

ONE: Aren’t you the Messiah? Don’t you claim to be God? Save yourself from this! Save all three of us!

THREE: We are all going to die—and you’re mocking God? You and I are being punished for our crimes—but He hasn’t committed any crimes at all. Jesus—please—remember me when you enter your Kingdom?

TWO: “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.” (Luke 23:43)

CHORUS 1: Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene.

CHORUS 2: When Jesus saw his mother there, and his disciple John nearby, he said to her:

CHORUS 3: Woman, this is your son.’

CHORUS 2: Then he said to the disciple:

CHORUS 3: ‘This is your mother.’ (John 19:26-27)

CHORUS 2: At noon, when the sun should have been brightest, a deep darkness came and covered the whole land.

CHORUS 3: In the third hour of this darkness, those present heard Jesus call out:

CHORUS 1: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? (Matt. 27:45)

ONE: Is this what it is to be without God?

THREE: Endless blackness?

CHORUS 1: Knowing that everything had now been finished so that Scripture was fulfilled, Jesus said:

CHORUS 2: I am thirsty. (John 19:28)

CHORUS 3: A jar of wine vinegar was there, so they soaked a sponge in it, put the sponge on a stalk of hyssop plant, and lifted it to Jesus’ lips.

CHORUS 1: When Jesus had received the wine, he said,

TWO: Father, into your hands I commend my spirit. (Luke 23:46)

All voices

CHORUS: It is FINISHED! (John 19:30)

            One voice

TWO: …and he bowed his head and breathed His last.

CHORUS 1: And the earth shook!

CHORUS 2: the rocks split!

CHORUS 3: tombs broke open and the bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life!

CHORUS 1: The curtain in the temple was torn from top to bottom.

CHORUS 2: It was finished!

Three more chorus members.

FOUR: And he was buried,

FIVE: –and guarded

SIX: –just in case he would come back from the dead, like he had said.

FOUR: Three days later, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene

FIVE: and Mary went to anoint the body of Jesus.

FOUR: How will we get past the guards? The heavy door?

FIVE: We can only try.

CHORUS: And there was a violent earthquake

SIX: an angel of the Lord came down from Heaven and rolled away the heavy tomb door…

FOUR: and sat down on it.

FIVE: The guards were so afraid they fainted.

SIX: Don’t be afraid of me—I know you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. But He isn’t here! He has risen! Just as He said He would. He is going ahead of you into Galilee!

CHORUS: It is finished! He is risen!

FOUR: So the women hurried away—afraid—

FIVE:–afraid but joyful!

FOUR/FIVE: When Jesus met them!

FOUR: And talked with them!

FIVE: And told them to tell his disciples!

CHORUS: He is risen! He is risen! He is risen!

           The End…sort of. 🙂 


St. George and the Reluctant Dragon

St. George and the Dragon is an old story. I mean, it’s really old. It’s the conglomerate of all the stories we know where a dragon is terrorizing the country and a knight risks life and limb to save them all and do away with said dragon. It’s rather marvelous in the way of classic fairy tales, and stands up brilliantly whenever someone tries to allegorize it.

Then along came Kenneth Grahame in 1898 and wrote another, delightfully askew version: The Reluctant Dragon. (To be accurate, it was originally a chapter in his book Dream Days. It horrifies the purist in me a little bit that a book would be dissected, but that’s neither here nor there. The whole thing is available for free here. You’re welcome.) Disney turned it into a short film at some point, but that was in 1941 and not many people are acquainted with it now. Allow me.

A smart little shepherd boy who reads books (his parents don’t) isn’t at all afraid of acquainting himself with a dragon when it moves into the neighborhood because he’s read about them and he knows. Very soon, the village knows about the dragon and a knight, St. George, is enlisted. He is armed with all sort of horrifying tales of the dragon’s evil deeds to spur him on to victory. Except none of them are true.

The dragon will not, has not, nor ever does wish to fight. The knight fights for a living but has been lied to. The boy becomes a mediator between the two of them to come up with a solution to the problem that now faces his two friends: everyone expects them to bow to convention and duke it out.

“Oh, you’ve been taking in all the yarns those fellows have been telling you,” said the Boy impatiently [to St. George]. “Why, our villagers are the biggest storytellers in all the country round. It’s a known fact. You’re a stranger in these parts, or else you’d have heard it already. All they want is a fight. They’re the most awful beggars for getting up fights—it’s meat and drink to them. Dogs, bulls, dragons—anything so long as it’s a fight. Why, they’ve got a poor innocent badger in the stable behind here, at this moment. They were going to have some fun with him today, but they’re saving him up now till your little affair’s over.”

Upon re-reading this little story, I had a pause over those lines. It felt a little like the story-teller talking to the audience just then. It was like it wasn’t the Boy so much as Kenneth Grahame talking about people. Everyone wants a fight. Anything, so long as it’s a fight.

But it’s still a children’s tale. It soon becomes clear that there must be a fight. The villagers will keep calling for one until they find a knight who will make it happen, and anyway, the dragon wants to join society, and in the current state of things, he can’t. He must be defeated first. But the dragon simply doesn’t want to.

“Believe me, St. George,” he [the dragon] went on, “there’s nobody in the world I’d sooner oblige than you and this young gentleman here. But the whole thing’s nonsense, and conventionality, and popular thick-headedness. There’s absolutely nothing to fight about, from beginning to end. And anyhow I’m not going to, so that settles it!”

“But supposing I make you?” said St. George, rather nettled.

“You can’t,” said the dragon, triumphantly. “I should only go into my cave and retire for a time down the hole I came up. You’d soon get heartily sick of sitting outside and waiting for me to come out and fight you. And as soon as you’d really gone away, why, I’d come up again gaily, for I tell you frankly, I like this place, and I’m going to stay here!”

He’s right, of course. No one can make him fight. In the end, though, they convince him that it really is the only way for everyone to get what they want. St. George and the dragon set up the choreography for a grand mock battle. They duke it out with a wonderful bit of staging, pretend stabbing, and writhing of scales. Then the dragon pretends that the wound has tamed him so as to join society and he, St. George, the Boy, and all the villagers have a grand feast after. We are led to believe that just perhaps, the dumb, duped villagers become a little better. Maybe they are a skosh less fight-oriented.

But it is still an excellent fairy tale. It is not meant to be allegory and let’s not muss it up by pretending that it means a lot more than what it says. But a thought for the new year. Let’s you and me not be villagers, yes?

P.S. The badger is set free.

Back-to-School: January Edition

close up of girl writing

Photo by Pixabay on

I’d like to know who started the Back-to-School sales traditions. It was smart; they started a good/helpful thing. In early August, absolutely no one can forget to buy pencils, notebooks, folders, planners, lunchboxes, pencil cases, locks and other student paraphernalia. Backpacks go on sale, special deals on computers for students reel people of all ages in, and everyone decides they need new clothes. At least first-day-back-to-school clothes. (This is true for teachers, too.)

But the sales in August have conditioned us to think that we only need to do it then, when in fact, if you have kids, you might need to do some back to school shopping, again. Right now. In January.

Allow me to paint a grade-school picture for you: on the first day of school, the students arrive flush with pencils, paper and new notebooks and folders. The pencils are kinda like lottery millions; they are generous and free with their “dollars” flinging them all over, to anyone and everyone (all but the most discerning and careful of students). Most teachers could easily collect 10 pencils from their floors at the end of every period. They rarely have to loan pencils because there are always more. The wise teacher squirrels these away for the lean days of January and February, not to mention April. In May, there is an utter famine of writing utensils. But in the sunny days of plenty—August—the paper is flowing, the notebooks are new, and the folders are not yet turned to Swiss cheese by multiple pencil-stabbings and thousand-times-retraced doodles.

But now it’s January.

Your student had dropped, chewed, snapped, loaned, or otherwise lost 95% or all of her pencils. Any student who is an exception is hounded by all the others for loans. Teachers, in spite of all their squirreled stores, not to mention what they’ve bought with their personal money, find themselves loaning pencils. Every. Hour. Pencils they never see again. Every. Day. To kids who lose them in between classes. No child has any paper left; if they do, it lasts them two weeks into the semester. Lined paper has to come from somewhere. Computer chargers are broken, actively dissassembled, or lost. Binders and folders are requiring Duct Tape on their spines (which most teachers have). If there are still things like glue sticks, they’ve lost their lids. Some kids ask every day for everything. Some kids will never ask for supplies. They’ll simply do nothing until they’re noticed. Just in time for winter flu, sneezes and other such loveliness, the teachers are dipping into the dangerously low stash of tissues and sanitary wipes for their classrooms. By March, if the classrooms have anything to blow noses on, they’ll have a roll of toilet paper on a shelf somewhere. So, sneezing kiddos have to be sent to the bathroom…lose classroom time…etc.

So this January, may I offer you a little Back-to-School Shopping List? Believe me, it’s necessary.

  • 2 packs of pencils
  • 1 pack of lead (if necessary)
  • 1 pack of erasers
  • 2 new lined notebooks
  • 2 pack glue sticks
  • 3 boxes of tissues
  • 2 pack of Clorox wipes
  • Send an email to teachers; they might make a few suggestions as well.

If this looks just like the list you fulfilled back in August, you’re not wrong. That is frustrating for some parents. But if it helps, think of it as grocery shopping; you’re just covering their needs for the longer, harder haul from January to May (or June, in some cases.) Students spend seven hours every day at school; that’s the equivalent of 52.5 entire days by the end of the school year. They need equipment for all that time. No teacher can meet the needs of 100+ kiddos for 52.5 whole days from either their small classroom allowance or their personal savings. So perhaps it makes more sense for some families to make these things stocking-stuffers or Christmas gifts rather than yet another shopping trip post-Christmas. Maybe these can be requests from aunts and uncles at the holidays. Maybe you can start a tradition of a school-supplies gift-card to make it more fun.

Whatever you do though, if you send your student back to school in January with a fresh store of supplies, they will be more prepared, less stressed, and your teachers will bless the ground you walk on.

close up photography of colored pencils

Photo by Plush Design Studio on

A Christmas Celebration

shallow focus photography of red bauble

Photo by Todd Trapani on

We have spent a fair amount of time in our house this year thinking about, writing about, singing about, and planning for Christmas. That’s what writing a Christmas program will do; in September, we were playing Christmas carols while we edited. We planned, we shopped, we called upon other people and their talents for painting, instruments, and singing. We practiced, discussed, and practiced some more. We spent months preparing to celebrate. Then last weekend, we threw open the doors and celebrated in earnest. We told a dramatic story, sang together sometimes and sometimes listened while others sang. Such a shared experience makes people vulnerable and more willing to share their thoughts and their hearts, and we did that too, over cookies and punch. We gave gifts and stayed out late, and when we finally got to our beds, I’m certain it took a fair number of those who were most involved awhile to unwind.

That’s what it is to celebrate. We happened to do it through drama. But in large part, all of those elements are part of any good celebration. We become extravagant in our joy; we “open our shut-up hearts more freely” as Charles Dickens’ Fred told his uncle Scrooge.

Maybe we’re closer to getting celebration right around Christmas. The best thing the planet has known since we were banished from Eden happened at Christmas: our Reconciler was born. So of course, we celebrate! There can be peace between our souls and God. We should celebrate! Is there any wonder that the whole world still celebrates such an occasion hundreds of years later? We buy gifts and attend feasts even if we don’t fully understand why. Maybe there is too much “stuff”; but then again, maybe we should all be part of a giant musical number belting out our joy in celebration. Maybe we should pull out all the stops we have on a feast in preparation for the Feast that is coming. I am quite sure that Feast will be more extravagant than anything we could dream up in our celebrations. Maybe if we were all passing around the dishes while we sang that musical number, with no difference between audience and stage, we would be the closest we’re going to get to that great Feast day.

I have heard it pointed out that the angels didn’t “sing” their Advent Song to the shepherds on the hillside. At least, the Bible doesn’t actually say that they sang. But how on earth could such an announcement of grace, brought straight from Heaven to a broken earth NOT sound like a song? I suspect the most casual words spoken in Heaven would sound like music to us who have only ever known brokenness. When a song is begun in earnest There…I suspect we couldn’t handle the sheer joy of it’s rhythm.

Were we celebrating when we were hashing out the plot in January and February? What about when we were going through the exhausting work of editing? (Hours, I tell you.) Were we celebrating then? What about when we sorted and gathered props; were we celebrating then? What about when we actually did the program? And the refreshments afterward? I think we were; in the same way that celebration now prepares us for celebration Then. For now, all of these celebrations are just practice. Holidays are special; a happy reprieve. But one day we will not wait for special days to come; we will only ever go “further up and further in.” Each wonderful day will be better than the last–even though there will be no distinction of days; no sense of anything good ever ending.