Harry Potter and the Search for the Perfect Church

I recently finished reading the Harry Potter series. Consequently, our family has also begun an exhausting search for a home church here in Tulsa.

What in the world do these two things have to do with each other?

Glad you asked.

In being an incessant reader, a voracious consumer of classical and modern fiction, I have learned something. It's something you've probably heard your whole life in reference to everything except books, but there it is: You must never judge a book by it's cover. And it's true. Some of my favorite novels are nondescript volumes that I found on dusty shelves in the back of some funky old thrift store with dead cockroaches littering the aisles. Most of these were missing a dust jacket, if they were even fortunate enough to be a hardcover book, and spotted with mold, or food, or yellowed with age. In such a way did I stumble across one of my favorite stories, "The Last Unicorn" by Peter S. Beagle. I think I've probably read that book half a dozen times but it's not much to look at. On the other hand, some of the most beautifully bound, glossy surfaced thirty-dollar books are the biggest wastes of time and energy I have ever endured. I am thinking of a book I read last year about Dracula (don't ask). I don't even think you could call this a book - it was more of a tome. At least 600 pages and it came with a gorgeous cover and glowing reviews and it was a big fat endless waste of my time. I can't believe I bought it, but what's more, I can't believe I finished it. Insane.

For me, Harry Potter was the same way. I found the first book in the series at a garage sale for 25 cents. The cover was tattered, there was a yellow stain on the side, and it was laying in the grass, but I knew all the fame the series had generated and I thought, what the heck. I'll read the first one and see what I think. As an avid reader and aspiring writer I consider it my responsibility to read a lot of what's out there, not only to see what is being created in the fiction world, but also, as a christian, to gauge the temperature of the culture. You can tell a lot about this country by what's on the bestseller list. Of course, I do have my limits. There are certain authors I'll never read. With Harry Potter though, there was more curiosity than usual to add to my normal literary appetite.

I had heard for years polar opposite opinions on the series. Lots of christians believe it's a horribly witchcrafty series that glamourizes the dark side. Lots of other people, many christians included, believe it to be a fun and wonderfully imaginative fantasy collection with wild plots and all the fun of magic. I have noticed that many people who strongly disagree with the content in the books have never read any of them. I am of the school of thought that you aren't allowed to discuss a book unless you've read it or at least a significant enough portion of it to get the overall gist. If you disagree, I will think no less of you (unless of course, you haven't read the books).

As for me and the controversial Harry Potter, I didn't stop with book 1. I personally loved the series. I found the books unpredictable, well-written, excitingly imaginative and full of loveable and tangible characters. When I finished the series I had a day of mourning. I was sad to let go of Harry and Ron, Hermione and Ginny, Neville and Professor Dumbledore. If you read the series and enjoyed it, then you know just what I mean. It reminded me of the sadness I felt when I said goodbye to Laura Ingalls Wilder in the Little House on the Prairie series, or when I bid farewell to Anne Blythe in the final installment of the Anne of Green Gables collection. Finally, I remember the nostalgia I had in reading the final book of The Chronicles of Narnia. I wished wished wished that I could somehow whisk myself into that magical world of talking creatures and ancient magic and endless possibilities. This was the same sense I got in reading the Harry Potter series. Yes, it was full of magic and sorcery, there was evil and some scary stuff, also I found a couple of bad words toward the end books (I guess when Harry had more of a teenage audience), but there was a lot of good too and on the whole it was a wonderful escape into a new and intricate world where magic was not only an occupation but a whole culture and country to discover. The people who lived there were quite like those I talk to every day, their personalities unmistakeable, their human nature as intact as ever it could be, and the plots were wonderful. They swept me up into realms of good and evil, death and life, tough love, the power of friendship, the deceptions of power, and on and on and on. Like any good fiction, they were able to bring me up out of my life while teaching me the moral of the story in the meantime. And, like any good fiction, though the setting was fantastical, they had truth in them. So I think you get the gist. I absolutely loved them. While I think some of the content will need to be discussed with my children when they are old enough to read these books, I see no reason why I will not let them read them.

And this brings me to our search for a church. I've been judging them by their covers, you see. We've tried out so many churches by now, and usually they were the glossy ones. But none of them have really been "the one" yet. I went to a church that had a really good website but I accidentally sat in some old guy's usual seat and he glared at me almost the entire service. I went to another church that seemed like the right one until they kicked us out of the service for bringing our 4 year old into the sanctuary and weren't very nice about it. We've been to a few others, and a couple of them were actually great churches but they weren't for us. I thought I was being too critical. But at the same time, there's nothing wrong with having high standards - I mean it's what helped me marry a good man and not go off the deep end during my teenage years (well, not totally) and decide to stay home with my kids, etc...

Anyhow, I've decided to be more systematic. I've decided to think like a guy engineer. I have a list of churches and we will thoroughly explore each one until we find one that feels like it wants to be our home church. Sometimes you have to go back a few times before you realize it's not the one. That's the exhausting part. Church searching is much like what dating must be like. I never did too much dating so I guess I don't know. I am trying to keep in mind my best loved, dog-eared, tattered books. We are determined not to lose heart. Somewhere in the thrift store of this garage sale world, there is a mediumish sized church with hymns and contemporary songs, young and old people, red, yellow, black and white, cool and uncool, fat and skinny, and life. Being alive is something a church must do. A church that offers spiritual alignment, prayer, friendship, encouragement, ministry opportunity, global perspective, people in jeans and slacks and....life. Blazing, radiant I'mhappytoloveGod LIFE. That's what we're looking for. Do you think my standards are too high? Well I did come from an amazing church that had all those things but I don't think my standards too high.

I think I'm just searching for that dusty book sprawled on the back shelf that's hiding a world of wonder inside. That's all. And I'd like to get it for a quarter.

The Great Switcharoo

The Great Switcharoo

You trudged that lonely hill to find

A foresworn play of cacophonic Grace

In all that noise, the lonely Mind

And ailing curses in their place

Of love were You born, and loved to death

Were sent for stricken, choked off breath

Sweat provoking the smaller flies

That flew and spat and smote Your cries

In foreward angle, foreordained

A backward glance at broken lanes

(in gardens of old, now guarded by flames)

Outside it all You once stood regal

Inside You folded down with beetles

And smaller things, like reverent rust

Found despair's asthmatic trust

Was broken for my sake, and bent

Grave-bound and sold for an earthquaked Lent

Their acid burn of condescension

Did we forget You commanded legions?

A fleet to guard the human race

At Your small word to slash in haste

Or remember when You giant-sang?

And stones slayed monolithic slang?

Always the fool to silence the wise

Always the quieter Babylon demise

But there on crooked creaking beams

That still grow strong from ancient seeds

You, raised to look out, halfway-dead

On the many-haired and numbered heads

Found ashes to Your enveloping beauty

My harlotry known from Advent's ready

We were meant to stand there small, below

And catch from You fresh crimson flow.

The old song meeting on intersection

The new cup of promised resurrection

And on folded knees at the foot of that Moat

We were built to hope for that only Hope.

-Jillian Rose

In the Garden

I am daydreaming about gardens lately.

Having just moved to Oklahoma where there is actually a real winter, after living in Florida for most of my life, I am prancing around in utter excitement for the anticipation of a real live spring! Winter has been nice, but spring oh spring, I can hardly wait for all the green...

I have been planning my spring garden the last few weeks. Well, I may as well be honest; I've been planning my spring garden since pretty much the second I ripped my old one out in Florida in September of last year. I can't help it - I love gardening! There is something so profound, so spiritual and enlightening, so philosophical and energizing about being a part of the process of Creation. I love the act of planting a seed in the soil with the knowledge that it must die there a quarter of an inch under the dirt's surface, in the dark, and only centimeters away from it's rebirth. I love the sight of tiny seedlings unfurling themselves slowly and sleepily from the ground and reaching their tiny tips toward the sun. I am picturing myself running my fingers over the tops of the tips of these baby plants, something I always do when they have sprouted - it feels as though I'm running my fingers through my garden's fuzzy baby scalp.

I love the process of growth, which involves thinning plants that are weak, cultivating the stems and branches that seem to be most productive and healthy, and pruning those that aren't. It is a wonderful and humbling partnership of working alongside the ancient magic that was so artistically instilled in Creation. During the spring and summer months I absolutely cannot stay away from my garden and will usually lure any kind of guest we may have outside to show them my adorable little jalapenos or my cheerful morning glories. If you know me well at all, you have most likely been the victim of my enthusiasm and a flashlight for a late night garden tour. Call me sappy, sentimental, overly in tune with my green thumb, but I won't care. I am completely in love with growing things and I do believe there is no known cure.

So of course, it only follows suit that right now the air hockey table has been overcome with seedling flats. It's also only natural that I'm quite protective of my baby lettuces and tiny tomato plants, so I am often checking on them to make sure their soil is moist, they are getting enough light through the window and standing tall in their little dirt-filled cubes.

In thinking all of these gardening thoughts, my contemplation naturally turns itself to more internal channels of growth. I am also taking stock of my soul in these pre-spring weeks. It seems there are things growing in there too, some good and in need of a little more cultivation, and others might need to be taken down a notch or two with some pruning shears. I've noticed lately that I'm a pretty impatient person. I don't know if I ever would have realized how impatient I am had I not started homeschooling Carson. Homeschooling is such a huge sacrifice for most people who do it that I think it probably brings most faults to the surface pretty quick. I've been trying to chill out a bit, let her really learn something and enjoy it before moving on at lightning speed like I normally would. It's been really good and I can tell she feels better understood and loved.

What about you? In the coming weeks, as winter hands the baton to her teammate spring, who seems to be more of a people person, are you analyzing the internal compartments of your life? I challenge you to do so. Lift the lid on dusty boxes in your heart and take stock. Find good reason, in the season of winter, to plan enthusiastically for all the green that is to come. Let the seasons of your life align themselves peacefully in an order that is beautifully set up by your Creator. Become a gardener in the farthest recesses of your ambitions, stroking into full bloom those most lovely aspirations and severing quickly the habits and weeds that will only hold you captive. A scripture came to mind as I wrote that last sentence: "Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us." (Hebrews 12:1)
My garden in the winter is a desperate sight to behold. There is no indication that anything green would ever want to live there. But beyond what can be seen, there are tiny root systems working their way throgh the nutritious loam, that will one day break free of the dark and grow increasingly toward light and productivity. May we work consistently to do the same, ever stretching our roots down deeper into the foundation of a Creator who loves us and made us with a smile on His face, and only stretching up from the dark and into the piercing, life-giving, warm Light.

By Degrees, The Separation

It is 59 degrees.

I am ecstatic. Though we live in Florida and heat is just part of the job description here, it is mid-October and we have just experienced the hottest, longest heat wave in as long as I can remember. Usually at this time of year it is at least in the mid 80's, though often in the high 70's. But we have had July heat around here and there is no one who has been more affected by it than me.

I am Autumn's biggest fan. When I woke up this morning, I could just sense that it was cool outside. You don't believe me. You will have to verify with my husband that I have a sixth sense about weather. Sometimes I can smell the rain coming - I will run outside, sniff the air like a dog, and announce to anyone listening that "rain is imminent, I smell it!" Of course, the first time I did this, Derek didn't believe me. He made fun of me. But when it started to pour 20 minutes later, I watched the amazement on his face with relish. Never again has he mocked my weird ability to ascertain precipitation or temperatures or clouds...So this morning, as soon as I woke up and felt the cold air outside pressing against my window, I asked him to open every window in the house.

For awhile, the kids weren't sure what to do with this new freedom they had been granted. Open windows meant the world could hear what was said if they yelled loud enough and so, for a while, Lane (4 year old) stood in front of his open window in his underwear and yelled "Helloooo", hoping to get a response. When that didn't happen, all three kids practiced smashing their faces against the screens. Then they started running in and out of the sliding glass doors and knocking on all the windows from the outside, trying to freak each other out. Since that can only be entertaining for a limited amount of time, they got bored and decided to do laps around the house. They have a circuit that they run, it goes: around the kitchen island, around the wall that divides the kitchen from dining room, around the island again, down the hallway, into the office, jump over the chair or something else, back down the hallway, and repeat. Meanwhile, Derek was outside mowing the grass and I was sitting in bed with my coffee and a sloppy grin on my face. Every so often a blur of a child would run by my bedroom door (which is off the dining room), accompanied by much laughter and yelling. They like the cold air as much as I do.
What is it about a mere change in temperature that excites me? Why do I feel a sudden reinforcement in strength, what is it about fall that dusts off and shines up my hope? I think it has something to do with the definite signal of a change of seasons. Not just physically, but mentally and spiritually. Maybe it's the matching up of my outsides with my indsides. I have different seasons of the heart. Different seasons in my circumstances, in my relationship with God, Derek, my children, friends. Different paces of busyness, different weather in my writing. I even have different cookbook seasons. :)

So perhaps it is the feeling of being more aligned with my outer surroundings that gives me a newfound buoyancy in my soul. I've always loved seasons. I've always loved the gentle dropping away of something old and well used and the moving forward to something shiny and new, totally undiscovered and mysterious. Living in Florida doesn't allow me much opportunity to feel the outer seasons harmonizing with the inner ones, but when those times do come, I feel so grateful. One day, I hope to live somewhere with all four seasons. To have four separate outer starting and finish lines each year is something I have a strong and inexplicable desire for. In Florida we only have the heat and the fickle cold fronts that populate the October to May months. It's beautiful here, and I enjoy my garden year round but after awhile the constant heat and the monotony of season sameness can burrow deep into your optimism and start to germinate into small veins of despair. Despite the best efforts of blooming where I am planted, I sometimes find my "leaves" wilting.

As I get dressed on this (for us with thin skin) chilly fall morning, I thank God for each simple pleasure he built this world with. Each tiny miracle, each day that passes, each season and change of temperature is a gift, a joy, an occasion to rise to, a mystery wrapped up beautifully and, sometimes so personally that it seems it was made just for me. I am off to the craft store this morning to find paper for fall cards. I need no pictures of leaves in northern states, or fantasies conjured up about sweaters and seeing my breath in the air, I need read no fellow bloggers comments about the oranges and browns in their front yard. No, I have my own inspiration for today's cards, derived directly from the world in my front yard.

As I walk down the sidewalk toward my car, I take in all the fun around me. The kids are wearing all manner of creatively combined "winter clothes, Mommy". Derek and Lane (4) are at the side of the house, trying to find a tiny black snake that they have discovered and that disappeared a moment ago. They are afraid Derek might have run it over with the lawn mower. Carson (7) is standing across the street at the edge of the woods with her back to us swinging a basket full of dead wet leaves and singing something, I can't hear what. Matthew (3) is crouched by the front flower bed, wearing his bike helmet, and a hood over that, and picking grass and putting it in a sand bucket.

I slide into the front seat, start the car and back down the drive, still sloppily grinning, still offering thanks for all of these blessings: the wonder of childhood that spins around me every day, the beauty of a marriage steeped in unconditional love and grace, the love of a God who calls me by name and knows the number of hairs on my head, the fun and fulfillment of making something as silly as a card to celebrate the weather, and the non-eternally significant change in temperature. Yes, these things are small and normal, but for someone like me, they are enough. It is simply enough to have the rare and wonderful affirmation of my inner and outer weather walking hand in hand.

The Greenest Version

The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.

How often have I heard this expression? How often have I said it? How often have I nodded my head in assent as it fell off another's lips with certainty and nonchalance?
How many times have I felt the discontentment, envy, cynicism or resignation that is wrapped up in this statement?What about you?
Think about life as dirt, with certain seeds that were placed there when I was created, before my birth (Ephesians 2:10).These seeds are the gifts and abilites, the choices, the opportunities and relationships that I would inevitably and undeservedly walk into by merely being born. I picture them waiting there for water and sun and eventual germination. Some of them grow right away, others grow slowly and need a little fertilization, some are not meant to flower until enough time and experience has passed, and some will never grow unless I pointedly cultivate and discipline them.
In me, these seeds are accompanied by an incessant and often secret thirst to pursue them to their most excellent end. I long to be in bloom, to stretch my mind, heart and soul to the very ends of my God-given abilities, to dive deeply into each appointed relationship, to make the most of each moment I am given. I seek to discover the trick of dropping off those unfruitful or weedy or bug-infested propensities that "so easily entangle me and run with endurance the race that is set before me..." (Hebrews 12:1). I am driven to be a garden in thriving vigor, succumbing to the beauty of each season with grace and humility.
Instead of always looking at my neighbor's lawn with anything but kindness and celebration for their very green grass, why not determine to have it all? Why not live a life full of life? Why not embrace who I am, what I've been through, and who I was meant to be? Why not be thankful for my particular handful of seeds, and why not grow and thrum and sing in the time that I have?

In being born, I have been given dirt. And seeds. The water and sun has been provided in many ways. The growth is up to me. I can choose to be a plot of dirt bereft of flower and color, with drooping stems and jealous roots. I can be average and settle for lesser growth and thinner heart and lighter fruit-bearing.
Or I can come to life, fill out superbly, accept the self that was fearfully and wonderfully made for a purpose and reach roots and stems and petals to the utmost of their longings and to the outskirts of possibility.
This blog, my new fun, has been named The Greenest Version. As I write about my faith, my marriage, motherhood, creative pursuits, the daily routine, doubts, struggles and victories, may you be inspired to the same determination.
May we insist on being chunks of sod infused with real growth and new growth, with bravery for each season, with love for the us that was made, and with surrender to a wildly creative and hugely huge God. May we live our best life and be the best version of what was intended at our very beginning.
May we be The Greenest Version.