One of my Facebook friends is known for his thoughtful status updates. No political rhetoric or cheesy humor; you can count on him to be insightful and profound. Last week he posted something that hit dead center for me and it got an interesting online conversation going back and forth between the two of us.
He wondered if I’d read Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet. Well, I had no idea who the heck he was talking about, but Google saved the day. (How did we ever survive before the Internet?)
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875 –1926) is considered one of the most significant poets in the German language. His haunting images focus on the difficulty of communion with the [sacred] in an age of disbelief, solitude, and profound anxiety… (Wikipedia)
My friend offered up the first letter, written by Rilke to a young man who sought him out for literary criticism and career advice. I saved it for a bedtime read, curious but not expecting anything extraordinary (although I should have known better, this is the guy with intelligent status updates, remember?) Continue reading
A year or so ago, I found myself in a bit of a rough patch, trying to make sense of a jumble of thoughts that refused to go away. There were a couple of pointed conversations with God about this, but mostly it involved just laying awake in the dark and staring up at the ceiling. I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud, even to my husband – who was on his own (wonderful, he said) spiritual journey.
Those may have been the good old days (if you measure “good” by the lack of existential angst.) Because all I was doing was wrestling with someone else’s journey. Can what he believes actually be true? Really? Hmmm. That’s a new angle on the Bible…
This place I’m in now – and it more or less snuck up on me – is intensely personal. I’m wondering about the basics: God, faith, the afterlife… the meaning of life. I have to tell you that this mostly feels like I’m digging through the proverbial giant pile of horse poop, but there’s no pony to be found, if you know what I mean. Continue reading
In exactly 10 days from now, my niece Aubrey is going to walk down the wide curving staircase of an historic hotel in downtown Nashville on her father’s arm. Like royalty, she’ll be stunning in the perfect white dress of her dreams.
Family and friends will have come from near and far to see this wonderful thing play itself out; some of them will be meeting Patrick for the first time.
We will also celebrate the graceful journey that carried Aubrey to this day. Because you see, Aubrey made the decision long ago to stay true to herself, not willing to exchange authenticity for popularity, and she’s still comfortable in that skin. Continue reading
There is a rambling yellow house with a big porch on Azalea Street in Berry Hill. It’s a funky little area, a mish-mash of cottages where purveyors of vintage attire, dolls, used CDs plus this-n-thats sell their wares from within oldish walls that have been revived to new life. The yellow house sits off on a quieter street but is filled with the voices of children and teens, most days after school and on weekends too.
The house is called Daystar, and it’s a place where kids can come and feel safe, where they can open up and discover who they were created to be. Lucky for us–tonight Daystar staff came to our school tonight to share some of their tried-and-tested wisdom about Raising Kids of Character.
Just thought I would include some sound bites for your perusal. Feel free to stick around and chew on ’em. Take all the time you need…
- Parents tend to make their kids into what they think they should become, instead of who they were created to be.
- Character cannot be lectured into a child. And no, saying it LOUDer over and over and over again doesn’t make it any more clear!
- To the extent that your kids can predict your reaction, the more they will tend to dismiss you.
- If it’s hard to meaningfully interact with your child, try the old “Drive-by Complement” approach.
Thanks to the Christ Presbyterian Academy PSF for sponsoring this event!
I hate it when I’m late to yoga. I whip into the parking lot, locate a spot (hopefully near the door), jump out and jog past the front desk. With the room dark and peaceful, and everyone halfway to their happy place, I tiptoe around bodies to grab a mat, find a spot and start relaxing. And swear that I’ll get there on time, next time.
As class wound down yesterday, the music transitioned into Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring and I was transported back into the past. The year: 1979. My dad is walking me down the aisle of a little Baptist Church and the music is Jesu, the guitar version. It was like I was there again. Strange how music does that.
Anyway, post-yoga I’m drinking coffee at Panera and contemplating the relentless passage of time. I can’t believe it’s really been thirty years since that trip to the altar. Alot of water under the bridge. I’ve moved to a different state, married again, become a mom, and now just this week became Facebook friends with that guitar player from my past. Circle of life stuff, I guess… Continue reading