My back is out. It isn't the same spasmodic thing that has beset me before. This time around, it's a pinched nerve that radiates pain all the way down my neck and spine, and even sometimes throughout my left arm. I can hardly move my head, and if I'm not careful I clench my shoulders up and make it worse. The good thing is that unlike the spasms, which affect me no matter what I do, I'm generally not in too much pain so long as I'm lying down. So I've been lying down most of the day, alternately reading sermon commentaries and The Other Boleyn Girl. It stinks to feel so useless.
It feels like tradition to blog about my spinal misfortunes...
On a lighter note, Ben took Juliette to Trader Joe's today, and she is having a blast with her orange TJ's balloon. She is such a happy kid.
2.17.2009
More on my Aversion to Hipness
During Lisa's recent visit, we decided to take a trip to Mood, the fabric store popularized by Project Runway. Mood LA, that is. My excitement waned the moment we walked into the store. The inventory itself was overwhelming, for one thing. And everyone in there seemed to part of the club - to be wearing the proper clothes and certainly working on the proper projects. As for us... well, Lisa is slinkster cool. But I was in my very obviously Old Navy gear, including a sweater I've been rocking since 1997. And Ben... well, let's just say you probably don't get too many guys wearing Browns caps without irony at Mood. Especially guys wearing Browns caps carrying fussy toddlers who want to explore the designer play silks.
It was, and I can't emphasize this enough, the opposite of JoAnn's.
Without going into details, I never felt particularly welcome at the store. It certainly could have been 100% my perception, but sometimes "Can I help you?" totally sounds like "You clearly don't belong here."
I hate that feeling, even if it's entirely in my head.
I spent $1.57 at Mood. A half a yard of elastic, and a yard of ribbon. I decided to use my undesigner, "Joann's exclusive" fabric for the skirt Lisa helped me make. As for Juliette, she doesn't seem to care that Christian Siriano wouldn't touch the print with a ten-foot measuring tape.
It was, and I can't emphasize this enough, the opposite of JoAnn's.
Without going into details, I never felt particularly welcome at the store. It certainly could have been 100% my perception, but sometimes "Can I help you?" totally sounds like "You clearly don't belong here."
I hate that feeling, even if it's entirely in my head.
I spent $1.57 at Mood. A half a yard of elastic, and a yard of ribbon. I decided to use my undesigner, "Joann's exclusive" fabric for the skirt Lisa helped me make. As for Juliette, she doesn't seem to care that Christian Siriano wouldn't touch the print with a ten-foot measuring tape.
2.05.2009
Writer/Preacher
A couple weeks ago, Erica wrote this: Sensual Orthodoxy, Debbie Blue: I’m over halfway through this book of sermons and I’m thinking about rationing it because I love it so much. My colleague Bart calls her “the Sarah Vowell of preaching”. This woman can take a Bible passage and pick it apart and then put it back together again. She can own up to all the weirdness and oddity of the Bible and still love it to pieces. She can find something lovely that others might discard, blow off the dust, and make it relevant. Wow. I can only hope I preach like this once in a while.
I trust Erica's taste, and since I had a bit of professional expense cash to spend, I tossed this in my shopping cart at Amazon. It arrived lickety-split, and like Erica, I can't even wait until I'm all finished to gush about how much I love this book. In some ways the sermons me of Barbara Brown Taylor's - the lyrical storytelling, incarnational language, and the way they illuminate the gospel and make it new. But they are also unlike anything I've ever read; there's an originality that is so hard to come by, given that hundreds of thousands of preachers have mined these texts before.
I haven't yet listened to the mp3 recordings on the House of Mercy website to hear how Debbie Blue preaches. Obviously, that's half the sermon; it's a live event, a spoken word in the context of worship. But I'm such a lover of the sermon as it sits on the page, the sermon as it impersonates literature. As a writer and a reader, I believe in the power of ink and paper, and as a preacher, I believe in the craft of the manuscript.
For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be a writer. At age fifteen, I first contemplated becoming a minister because it dawned on me that I would get to write a sermon every week. And now I realize that up to that point the only sermon I'd ever read was Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God; not exactly my homiletical model of choice. I think what I hoped for, without knowing it, that something like this was out there. That preaching could be, in addition to whatever else it is, an art form.
I echo Erica: I can only hope I preach like this once in a while.
I trust Erica's taste, and since I had a bit of professional expense cash to spend, I tossed this in my shopping cart at Amazon. It arrived lickety-split, and like Erica, I can't even wait until I'm all finished to gush about how much I love this book. In some ways the sermons me of Barbara Brown Taylor's - the lyrical storytelling, incarnational language, and the way they illuminate the gospel and make it new. But they are also unlike anything I've ever read; there's an originality that is so hard to come by, given that hundreds of thousands of preachers have mined these texts before.
I haven't yet listened to the mp3 recordings on the House of Mercy website to hear how Debbie Blue preaches. Obviously, that's half the sermon; it's a live event, a spoken word in the context of worship. But I'm such a lover of the sermon as it sits on the page, the sermon as it impersonates literature. As a writer and a reader, I believe in the power of ink and paper, and as a preacher, I believe in the craft of the manuscript.
For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to be a writer. At age fifteen, I first contemplated becoming a minister because it dawned on me that I would get to write a sermon every week. And now I realize that up to that point the only sermon I'd ever read was Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God; not exactly my homiletical model of choice. I think what I hoped for, without knowing it, that something like this was out there. That preaching could be, in addition to whatever else it is, an art form.
I echo Erica: I can only hope I preach like this once in a while.
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