Albatross or Ebenezer

Some kids like to sleep with stuffed animals, but for months, my daughter chose to sleep with a large chunk of concrete. Because that makes perfect logical sense. It's soft and fuzzy and feels good if you roll over on it in the night. Occasionally, her twin would borrow it for bedtime (nothing like shared twin insanity), which meant that you never quite knew, when you were stripping sheets, which bed was going to dislodge a projectile capable of breaking your big toe.

Then, this year, the twins lovingly gifted me with this "rock" for my birthday. Knowing how much it meant to them, naturally, I was pretty psyched. Also, I was happy to have it out of their room and relegated to a place on my nightstand where I would no longer accidentally trip over it in the dark.

I see it multiple times a day, and mostly, it makes me smile a little and shake my head at how weird my children are. But lately, I've noticed that it's been a prayer trigger for me. I've been thinking of it as an Ebenezer. No, I'm not talking about Scrooge.

The idea of an Ebenezer, though you may already know this, comes from 1 Samuel 7, where, following an Israelite victory against the Philistines, the prophet Samuel sets up a large stone, calling it a "stone of help" or an "Ebenezer," not because the stone had helped them or because it was a way to force God's hand in the future, but as a sign to the Israelites to remember how God had already helped, that helping the Israelites was a part of who God was. The Philistines would be back. The battle had been won, but Samuel knew this was a short term victory, and he wanted his people to see that huge hunk of rock and remember, "Till now the Lord has helped us."

So these last few weeks, I've been looking at the rock chunk on my nightstand (that just screams "an interior decorator lives here!") and remembering. Maybe it's been a crap day of homeschooling or parenting--but till now the Lord has helped us. So I can trust that he will keep doing so. Maybe my heart is breaking over our broken world so desperately in need of fixing--but till now the Lord has helped us. So I can look forward with hope. Maybe I'm remembering the hundreds of prayers that seem to be left unanswered--but till now the Lord has helped us. So I can wait in faith that this is not forever.

The funny thing is that our RV has at times been an Ebenezer for me. When I looked at it, for the year and a half we lived there, I remembered how good God had been to us that we were together, that we had been able to save anything from our home, that we had such an amazing community around us, that God had provided a living situation that didn't involve cracked windows from a Cat 5 or a forty five minute commute to work for the Man. But somehow, over the last few months of waiting for it to sell, I have allowed it to become not an Ebenezer but an albatross around my neck, weighing me down. Not every day, but more often than I care to admit. But I don't have to keep that mindset.

Instead, I can choose, as I look at the rock on my nightstand...and then look out the window to where our old home sits solidly in the driveway of our new home...I can choose to remember: this far the Lord has helped us. And I can believe that he is a creative God with imaginative solutions for the things I view as problems, a creative God whose character does not change: he is helper, he is provider, he knows my own needs better than I do. In light of that, I can choose to remember the truth: it's not an albatross; it's an Ebenezer. It's not a snake; it's a fish. It's not a rock on which to break my teeth; it's bread to feed my soul.

Except, of course, for when it is a rock, a rock to help me remember. Till now the Lord has helped us.

Knitting My Heart to Another's

My lovely friend J. Elle's new book Wings of Ebony comes out this week (tomorrow!). In honor of her and upcoming Black History month (and MLK Day, which I missed already), I wanted to spend some time reading books that would give me a window into African American life. This last year we have had a lot of challenging conversations about race with our kids, wanting to do what we can on our end to prepare our kids to be advocates, defenders, supporters, and friends. The Man and I have read articles and books, talked to our minority friends, and spent a lot of time in prayer and discussion together. I haven't talked about this on the blog much because there are so many other voices who are talking about these issues with much more eloquence and insight, but I did want to share a few of the books that I've read just this week in particular.

May I challenge you, if you pick up one of these books yourself, not to read looking for what you agree or disagree with, but just to listen to the voices of those who have traditionally not been heard? Let them speak, let yourself be uncomfortable...and sit with it for a little while. 

Well-Read Black Women by Glory Edim. This collection of essays gave me so much food for thought. Well written and easy to pick up whenever I got a break (not as easy to put down), I came to this book expecting to walk for a while in another's shoes (and did!) but didn't expect to see a reflection of myself in the pages as well--myself caught between cultures, uncomfortable in my own skin, simultaneously feeling both not enough and too much. Chances are that you too have at some point felt "other", and if you have not, that you have people around you who do. Worth the read.

Dear Martin by Nic Stone. I picked this book up one morning and didn't get up again until it was finished an hour and a half later. Powerful and thought provoking, it was filled with nuance and grace. I cared deeply about the protagonist, Justyce, and his friends, and my heart broke again over the bigger issues through which they were struggling. Front end warning that this is written from the perspective of a 17 year old boy so there is language used that some may feel to be crass. My reminder to myself was that it's always the moments when I feel that I'm not being heard that I want to use the strongest words.

This Is My America by Kim Johnson. I stayed up far too late last night to finish the last few pages of this book. Both a mystery and a powerful confrontation of how historic racism has to be pulled up by the roots instead of just brushed over and moved past, I didn't always like this book. I am still glad that I read it. If I only ever read books that make me feel happy, I am never going to receive a chance to grow. Sometimes, I need to jam my ski-shaped size eleven feet into someone else's shoes for a while before I can walk away humbled, with more compassion and a wider perspective.

I'll close with this. One of the lines in Dear Martin wonders about whether, when white juries acquit a white shooter, it is because they look at the white defendant and see themselves, and don't want to see a murderer in their mirror. It reminded me of a conversation I'd had with my Bible study kids where they connected Matthew 5:21-22 to Matthew 10:17, 21 with the powerful acknowledgement, "We are all murderers and traitors." Yes, that is the truth. When we look in our hearts, there hides a murderous traitor. And this is good news. In our own racism, we see our need for Jesus. He has come that we may have life and so that our brothers and sisters with different skin tones and cultures and stories may have life too. But if we don't first look in the mirror and see our own inner ugliness, we'll never understand our need for Jesus. And then we'll be missing out on so much, most of all on a relationship with him, but also on a depth of love and a closeness of knit hearts with those around us.

No Time Like the Present

I sit down for my early morning read/pray/write. The dog immediately wants out. Then the coffee needs turning down. Then I see the power cord the kids left out and have to put it away. The cat jumps up in my lap, bringing with her a pair of kneading paws and the strong smell of cat gas. Thankfully, the stench is short lived. I remember five things I should've finished yesterday instead of what I actually did: going to bed at 8pm. I can't find it in myself to feel guilty about any of them. I get up to refill my coffee cup. Another cat comes to join me. There's a brief moment when I wait to see if WW3 will break out between the two felines. I remember something else that needs doing, just a quick something, so I think I'll knock it off my list before I get back to work. Turns out that it's not a quick something. The dog wants back in. I hear the kids stirring upstairs, the creak of the floorboards giving me fair warning that time is running out.

My word for last year was "present" but still I struggle with actually being where I'm supposed to be, shepherding my time well. I'm on and off my phone and computer all day, reading a novel while I cook, juggling conversations and laundry and school books, going from one thing to the next and back again in the blink of an eye.

Some of this is the inevitable consequence of having five kids at home with me. Some of it is a choice to not prioritize well. Some of it is knowing that the time is short and every second must be used. And it's easy for me to allow in guilt over what did or did not get done, but just as easy for me to choose instead to say thank you.

To say thank you for the insane cats and the demanding dog and the sunlight seeping in over the frost and through my window. To say thank you for the cup of coffee and the husband who left me a note and a fully charged computer. To say thank you for still glowing embers in the fireplace and the ferocious sounds of a herd of children waking up and the time, however scattered, to read truth and pray encouragement and write a few words that might be what someone else needs to hear (or just that I need to hear).

And I find that, in the thanksgiving, I am present in a new way. Not in a single-minded zen state of calm, but in a way that stabilizes and softens and slows. And often, too, one that welcomes in laughter before the kids tumble down the stairs and into morning hugs.

Novel Means New

I did a thing this last year. 

Well, really, this last year and a half. I wrote a novel, a big fat novel, that, according to my sister, is engaging enough to make you want to keep reading at night even when you're off doing water projects and flipping your car upside down on sub-Saharan roads and that, according to my husband, is great if you need something to keep yourself entertained on a six hour flight across America while you're trying to block out the fact that your then-six year old twins are behind you eating all their Christmas candy in one sitting. Naturally, my sister and my husband are experts in the field, so you can trust them explicitly.

Now, the problem with having written a novel is two fold. First, I have to find a literary agent and a publisher so that at some point I can actually fulfill my life-long dream of seeing a book that I wrote on a shelf in a bookstore...and not because I put it there to make myself feel better about life. Second, it turns out that I am really terrible (I mean, really terrible) about talking about my book. I make it sound incredibly boring. And I promise you that it's not. I'm just horrible at selling things. Which is why I never went into retail. And why our RV still hasn't sold.

So I'm over here doing my level best to email literary agents and try to pretend that I'm not a sad and pathetic saleswoman and they do really want to read my book, but one of the things I keep seeing encouraged on all these websites is the building of a platform (that means you!), and my platform at present is pretty small. So, I'm doing another thing. 

I'm actually getting on Instagram. For real this time, not just to look at a book cover from an author I like and then pretend that I was never there for the next four years.

I picked Instagram because a writing group that I follow is hosting a one week writers challenge starting Monday. And I'm telling you about it because I can't do this thing called "building a platform" without people like you (which I've already mentioned). This means that, without you, my chances of getting my book into a bookstore near you are a lot slimmer.

So if you would like to read my book one day, may I ask you to do a couple things? One, keep reading my blog. I can't tell you how encouraging it is when I see that you guys are reading what I am writing (comments are an extra bonus). If it makes it easier for you, sign up for it to come straight to your inbox. If you've already done that and somehow the emails aren't showing up, yell at me, and I will try to fix it. But yell at me nicely. Two, if you haven't followed my writers page on Facebook, I would love it if you would. It makes me look so pretty and popular. That's a movie reference probably only my sisters will get and the rest of you will think I am totally full of myself. Three, if you are an instagrammer, you can find me easily as @marianfrizzell. There is literally one photo on there right now (that I only posted so that I could write this blog), but this will change soon! I promise.

Now, a couple addendums. If you like me but don't like my writing, I feel you, man. Some days I am totally there with you. Do it for the love of the children. You can delete my emails unread, ignore my blogposts entirely, scroll right past whatever I post on instagram--and still feel good about yourself because you are helping support my crazy dream. On the other hand, if you neither like me or my writing, wow, I am so impressed that you read this far! Also, I won't offer to change your mind, but I can sit with you in solidarity as there are days I also neither like myself nor my writing, so: SAME. But my offer to you is to follow me anyway so that one day you can go buy my book at a bookstore (or get it at a library) and read it and laugh hysterically about how bad it is and how ridiculous the publishing industry must be to have ever published it. And then you can still feel good about yourself too. Win win.

In the meantime, I will be over here, continuing to get up at obscenely early hours (and falling asleep mid conversation with the Man around nine pm every night) so that I can do something that makes me feel like myself and that hopefully will bring others joy or give a needed truth  or just a laugh at the right moment. Any of those would be a win in my book. 

On that note, may we keep making small choices together to encourage one another and to make our world (touched by our own small circle of influence) and our year (built moment by moment) a little better for all of us who live in it together.