Revisiting The Visitation

One of the things I really enjoy on other blogs is when the author re-reads a book they remember from their childhood or adolescence and writes about the things that stand out to them now. For example, Samantha Fields has taken a critical look at Joshua Harris’ I Kissed Dating Goodbye, former homeschooler Libby Anne has been working her way through Michael Farris’ Anonymous Tip, and Fred Clark wrote a scathing and hilarious commentary on the popular Left Behind series.

I’ve decided to give it a shot, and so for my retrospective review I decided to dust off (literally, we need to clean off the bookshelf more often) Frank Peretti’s The Visitation. I was an avid reader of Peretti when I was growing up. His tension-filled supernatural horror stories were by far the most exciting thing you could find on the shelves of the local Christian bookstore.

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My copy of The Visitation actually belongs to my dad. He got it as a “thank you” gift from the Bible club at the high school where he taught (I know this because it’s written on the inside of the cover). The book was released in 1999, which was the year before I went to college. I must have packed it up and taken it with me, and my poor father never got it back.

It’s one of those books that I kept, all of these years, through multiple moves and bookshelf purges because it was very meaningful to me at the time that I read it. As I was considering doing this, I was trying to remember what exactly it was about the book that spoke to me at that place in my life and the only thing I could directly remember was a quote from one of the minor characters of the book.

I’m probably paraphrasing here, but she says, “I never gave up on God. I just needed a break from all the church stuff.”

And that’s where I was in 1999. At the ripe old age of 17, I was totally and completely burned out on church. I didn’t talk about it much, because I assumed that endless optimism was the ideal, and that cynicism reflected some moral failing on my part.

I didn’t go to church much while I was in college. I tried a few things, a few places, a few campus groups, but they all had the same feel to me. They all had the same resounding message that I just needed to go back and do it better. Love Jesus more. Read my Bible more. Pray more. Aquire the fire. Be a crusader for Christ.

None of it spoke to me. But The Visitation did.

Coming soon, Chapter 1-2: supernatural horror, real people, and tired old dogs.

 

This is my blog.

In my head I keep a list of things I want to do someday. I think most people do. I want to visit New Zealand. I want to own a cherry red El Camino. I want to learn American Sign Language. I want to start a blog.

I watch other people start blogs, and it doesn’t look that hard. I’m web savvy. I’m hip to social media. I keep up with cultural trends. I can write. Why not type out a few posts and share it with my friends and family?

I’ll tell you why not.

Or I guess you could just look at the title of this blog.

But with my older children in school and my toddler taking regular naps, maybe…just maybe I can pull this off.

So I’m starting a conversation with myself. One that will probably consist of short posts and long words. It’s up to you if you want to join in, or watch from a distance.

And thank you in advance for your patience. Because it turns out this is harder than it looks, and I don’t know as much as I thought I did.

For example, I still haven’t figured out how to end a blog post.

So I’m just going to end it.

 

 

 

 

 

The Twitter Wars of the Late 1700s

Every election season there’s a point, right about at the end of summer when rhetoric reaches an all-time high. Political ads are grainy and grim. Biblical apocalypse is imminent. People quietly block their relatives on Facebook.

You know what I find soothing in the middle of the election fervor? Listening to the Hamilton soundtrack.

In case you somehow missed this cultural phenomenon (Lord knows I almost did) I’m referring to the hip hop musical about treasury secretary and founding father Alexander Hamilton.

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The ten dollar founding father without a father

It’s one of those things that shouldn’t work, but it does work, and the music is amazing. Even better for history nerds like me, the songs reference some of the more eccentric details of our government’s formation.

Did you know that originally the office of the Vice President was awarded to the presidential candidate who came in second? Can you imagine?

It was supposed to prevent partisan fighting by forcing former opponents to work together, but people are people and it lasted all of three presidents.

Newspapers of the era were wholly owned by political parties,* and politicians often published letters under pseudonyms or letters written by supporters (the 17th century version of re-tweeting) to attack their opponents.

In fact the very first laws on our books about defamation were worked out because Alexander Hamilton used the “it’s not libel if it’s true” defense while attacking Thomas Jefferson in the press.

We tend to gloss over our first clumsy attempts at democracy, but one of the things Hamilton does extremely well is hit that perfect balance between idealism and realism.

For example, in one song, Thomas Jefferson boasts about the prosperity of Virginia and Hamilton raps back, “a civics lesson from a slaver/hey neighbor/your debts are paid/because you don’t pay for labor.”

The foundation of our government and our political system was a flawed landscape, and populated by characters every bit as slippery and morally questionable as the politicians of today.

And that’s why listening to Hamilton makes me feel reassured. And not just reassured, but hopeful. Because one of the other themes that runs throughout the musical is the idea that America is an experiment. At one point the titular character calls it “a great, unfinished symphony.”

We all have a part to play in this experiment. We can make things better, or we can make things worse. Just because our past is full of injustice, corruption and pettiness doesn’t mean we have to stay there.

Finally, here’s beautiful song from Hamilton about the very first presidential farewell address.

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*The Whistlestop podcast did a really excellent episode recently about political journalism in this era. You can listen to the whole thing here.

 

2-Minute Life

Have you heard of the two minute rule? It goes something like this:

If a task takes you less than two minutes to complete, do it now.

Here’s a succinct explanation:

It’s surprising how many things we put off that we could get done in two minutes or less. For example, washing your dishes immediately after your meal, tossing the laundry in the washing machine, taking out the garbage, cleaning up clutter, sending that email, and so on.

It’s one of those things I heard once and it made me laugh. Because this is my life right now:

It’s August. It’s evening and my husband is mowing. I come in from watering the garden, a wet and stinky toddler on my hip. I need to go back out to turn off the water and roll up the hose, and that will be easier to do if my toddler is indoors and not within running distance of the road. It shouldn’t take longer than two minutes.

I quickly wash the toddler’s hands and take off her dirty shoes. I peel off her wet shirt (no pants because it’s August) and change her diaper. She’s fussy and clinging to me. I need to distract her so I can go back outside, so I hunt for the TV remote.

Several minutes later I manage to get a YouTube video on and gather up the dirty diaper and wet clothing. Laundry basket. Diaper pail.

My five year-old comes down the stairs in his flannel pajamas. It’s August, I tell him.

While I’m at the diaper pail I notice the cat’s litter box needs to be cleaned, so I grab a bag and do it.

The YouTube video has ended. On my way back to the living room I step on a goldfish cracker. It shatters into a million orange crumbs. Broom and dustpan.

I look at the clock and realize it’s time for the toddler to have her evening milk. But then the seven year-old wants me to Ask Google what the most venomous snake in the world is.

Ask Google yourself, I tell him, before I rethink the wisdom of letting an internet search engine correctly interpret his question.

The toddler is now watching whatever YouTube decided to play next. I dash outside and turn off the water. I leave the hose laying in the yard and tell myself I’ll get it later.

And that’s my life. One simple, two-minute task takes approximately twenty minutes to complete.

There are hundreds more of those two-minute tasks that won’t get done. I have to prioritize. I have to do two minutes of laundry before I can spare two minutes for the kitchen floor. Oh, wait, it’s lunchtime. Time for two minutes of cutting up grapes and dividing out crackers and baloney.

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My life.

I have to text my husband about plans for the weekend, and pay the electric bill. Dentist appointments are overdue. My phone reminds me that I haven’t taken my Words with Friends turn and my grandmother is waiting.

Someone starts crying in the living room and everything gets reshuffled. Time passes so quickly in two-minute increments.