Blog - Hope

So the kidlets and I were in Target this morning, racing to get an errand done between church services and a meeting we wanted to attend.

It’s 8:04 on Tuesday morning, and I’m sitting in the waiting room at the hospital after just sending my son off to yet another surgery.

Last week, I got this query:
Hello Anna,

Eight years ago yesterday, daughter Else was born.

“It took me a long time to learn that God is not the enemy of my enemies. He is not even the enemy of His enemies.”

Anna- curious of your understanding of Matthew 13:36-43.  Is this really telling of a one time judgement and not an eternal one?  I was thinking of our conversation at Outlaw Ranch this past week.  It sounds pretty eternal to me.

The problem I see every day amongst Christians is the inability to find a more practical explanation to those of us who don’t quite understand the meaning of giving up your only son to save a bunch of sinners. Why would anyone do that? And worse: no matter what kind of crook you’ve been your whole life,  just accept such a travesty and you secured a spot in heaven. And I’m supposed to reason with that?????  Come on!!!

We just returned from two weeks Florida, the children and I.

For people who think on such things, May 13th marks the day of medieval mystic Julian of Norwich.

Ten-year old (ostensibly) Virginia Cary Hudson wrote  O Ye Jigs & Juleps! in 1904.

“Eloi Eloi Lama Sabachthani?” cried Jesus from the cross.

My daughter Else and I have settled in these last several nights to read Bridge to Terabithia.

In my dining room hangs a framed and matted lithograph by William Benson, a now-retired art professor at the University of Wisconsin (Eau Claire).

So if I’m going to make the case that faith has relevance, I might as well throw myself into the Wisconsin fray, which has an awful lot in common with the Ohio fray, and is symptomatic of lots of frays both present and impending.

Two days ago I learned that my friend Ellie committed suicide.

Next Monday we celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

In the bleak midwinter, frost wind made moan,

“Let’s write words in the snow, Elsegirl,” I told my seven-year old daughter, after she had pulled me out to play in the 9° Sioux Falls nippiness yesterday afternoon.

These days I’m reading a lot of the Old Testament theologian Walter Brueggemann.

Reader Question: