I have puppet music stuck in my head.

Did you know I made the first cut to be on the second season of Big Brother? I submitted my tape (back then, it was all VHS), and got a call back to go up to Minneapolis and interview on camera. It was also back when “real” people appeared on reality shows, not models and aspiring actors who already have agents and gigs. Anyway, I went into my interview ready to shine, and they about fell out of their chairs laughing when I pulled the stars from my audition video out of a paper bag. Two puppets: Jesus and Moses. I think it was my attachment to my then one year old daughter that eliminated me from further consideration, because the prophets and I rocked the interview.

My husband and I started leading the puppet ministry at our church several years before I actually hired on as staff. As completely dorky as puppet ministry sounds, it is one of the most fruitful ways that we have been involved. The youth who are now graduating still talk about the music and messages they first heard from the mouths of felt characters, back when they were small. With our combined creativity and resourcefulness, my husband’s extraordinary gift at bringing the puppets to life, and my ability to manage young people, we’ve come up with fresh ideas and lively shows for probably 14 years now.

Back around the time I summarized my personality for casting directors by appearing with Jesus and Moses, we took on organizing a puppet dinner theater for Holy Week. It involved preparing a dinner, decorating a dining room, seating charts, ticket sales, and a million little mind-boggling details. But the biggest endeavor was working with half a dozen teenagers to put together a three act show that would keep the audience’s attention between courses of food. Apparently the six weeks of rehearsals that led to our Good Friday show made as big an impression on me, as they did on the puppeteers, because every Good Friday, the soundtrack from Fish Tales runs through my head like, “Baby, Baby, Yeah,” after a Justin Bieber Today Show appearance.

There was a song about the feeding of the 5000, where Jesus took one child’s lunch of loaves and fish, and multiplied it to feed the entire crowd: or as the song put it, “fish sandwiches! What a plan was his! Supernatural Supper for the multitude!” Of course, you can’t forget the Good Friday number, “It was a good day. On a bad day.” Or the finale, “Do not fear! He was crucified, but he escaped the grave, he’s not inside, no, he’s not here. He is alive!”

Ten year old puppet lyrics, trumpeting through my mind, and recalling at once both the demands and the joy of a vibrant ministry. And, at the same time, filling my heart and mind with the bittersweet, compelling truth that this week is all about: the teachings, the sacrifice, and the resurrection of Christ.

And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split Mathew 27:50-51

Saying Good Bye to Grandpa

Obituary: H. Edward Reeves - The Prescott Daily Courier - Prescott

I'm writing this ahead of time, because Friday morning, when I normally would be sitting down to share some clumsy or humbling aspect of my own humanity on my blog, I will be going into a memorial service and bidding my grandpa farewell.

The indomitable nature of the human spirit is something often written and wondered about. Through the gravest tragedies and hardest persecutions, human beings find it within themselves, somehow, to persevere. I started pondering, a while back, whether I might know first-hand one source of this phenomenon.

One version of Grandpa's story (this is longer than my original link, but the original was no longer available.  At 19, Grandpa survived a shelling, being shot point blank in the head, being severely beat, and crawling through the snow in sub-zero temperatures in the Chosen Reservoir.  All his fingers and both his feet were amputated.)

This is almost a cliff's notes version of Grandpa's ordeal in Korea. It'll give you an idea, though, of all that he survived. I grew up with this story. I can't remember hearing it for the first time. Watching Grandpa, as young kids, we were fascinated at the way he could hold his spoon in the crease of his palm. The nonchalant way that he strode around on his wooden legs never gave me a moment to ponder whether he would have preferred to have shins, ankles, and feet, like the rest of us. He didn't just survive Korea, he made it all worth it. He raced go-karts. He drove his family in a station wagon to Costa Rica for a year of mission work. He took us shooting. He played Skip-Bo. Not long ago, just like then I was a kid, he took a swim in a hotel pool with my two little girls, showing them a few things about how to get around in the water. They shared their amazement, not because of his missing extremities, but because "people that old don't usually know how to swim." Growing up, knowing Grandpa's story, and seeing how he lived each day, no one in my family could readily complain about their feet being cold.

Grandpa's story may be exceptional, but if you trace your family history, you'll find your own story. Toughness is bred into survivors and we, all of us, spring from survivors. From Noah on the Ark down to the soldiers of WWII and Korea, our culture is steeped in the stories of unlikely survivors who lived on to become our parents and grandparents. Those who gave up, whose luck ran out, or who for whatever reason didn't make it – their story is lost. It is not our story.


Without putting you to sleep with our family history, Grandpa's isn't even completely unique in my own family. There are at least three such stories of against-the-odds survival and perseverance that involved a person whose genes I share. Those stories always give me hope for my own, comparatively minor struggles. Even when things are hard, I know I can overcome it. No matter how uncomfortable it is, I know it won't kill me.

And then there's Jesus, whom Grandpa loved. Jesus bore excruciating torture to redeem us. He showed us how to overcome hatred with love, and that the power and wealth of earthly success would mean nothing in eternity. Through Grandpa's victory over adversity, I learned to live each earthly day with gratitude and hope. Through Christ's victory, I can say good bye to Grandpa with hope that this departure is, indeed, not the end.

Brothers and sisters, we want you to know about those Christians who have died so you will not be sad, as others who have no hope. We believe that Jesus died and that he rose again. So, because of him, God will raise with Jesus those who have died. 1 Thessalonians 4:13-14

I’ve been obsessing about my own mortality

I’m turning 35 this summer. Whether that seems old or young to you probably depends on how much higher or lower your own number is. What I know for sure is that, while there is potentially still a long journey ahead of me, I have also put some long years behind me. I’ve always tried to live intentionally, beginning with the end in mind, you might say. However, lately everything in my life seems to be contriving to bring me repeated consciousness of the fact that living is a terminal condition.

I attended another funeral this morning. A beloved friend from church who was blessed to enjoy a long and fruitful life has gone on to Glory. Another dear friend, not so advanced in years, had emergency surgery to remove her appendix the day after Mother’s Day; thankfully they caught it in time. My younger daughter is graduating from Kindergarten; it seems much too soon. Grandpa is back in the hospital again. A family in our community had two of their three kids die when their minivan was T-boned on a quiet side street we commonly drive down. My older daughter started needing deodorant. All are subtle and not-so-subtle reminders that time moves in only one direction and, sooner or later, that onward march is going to lead all of us to the same outcome.

I’m seeing everything different these last few weeks. Every time I get into a car, I consider the possibility of an accident. When I order French fries, I hear my arteries begging me to stop. I look in the mirror and see the smile lines and sun spots starting, and know that kid at the grocery store isn’t going to keep asking for my I.D. forever.

Some ministers will suggest that from the day we put our faith in Christ, our earthly life is just a hindrance, holding us back from the Glory that awaits us. When I was younger, that was one of my biggest fears; that life quit meaning anything, because accepting Jesus meant longing for the end. Life was just this burdened in-between of trying to spread the Gospel and secure eternity for others.

The Gospel is much fuller to me now than it used to be. While I hope for the eternal Glory my friends are now experiencing, I’m trying really hard to experience Glory each day. Life has these incredible seasons we get to pass through, each a unique gift from God who gives us life. From the beautiful naiveté of childhood, through the discovery of youth, the comfort of finding our identity and vocations, and on into the uncharted future that I hope will bring adventure, accomplishment, and grandkids. God didn’t plan just for the end, God planned for each and every day, each moment, of this Glorious life I get to live.

But even as I dream of this amazing future, I feel burdened right now by the reality that, as Mat Kearney’s song Closer to Love puts it, “we’re all just a phone call from our knees.” Anything can happen at any time to cut short the dreams I hope for, and I feel like, right now, life is just starting to get good. Really good. Good-byes are hard, but I don’t want to live in either denial or in fear of them; they’re part of life, too.  Lately, though, I've been feeling the pinch of their inevitability.

"Show me, O LORD, my life's end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life. You have made my days a mere handbreadth;the span of my years is as nothing before you. Each man's life is but a breath. Psalm 39:4-5 

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