Archive of The Word Shop Newsletters
(Click on the month to view the newsletter in its entirety.)
Going to the Dogs: January, 2008
I'm sure there was some reason why I wanted a puppy. I just forget at this juncture exactly what it was. What I do remember, is that I also got a puppy in early January some 16 years ago. A sudden flash of familiarity struck me while standing in the rain muttering entrepreneurial encouragement, "Good girl, do your business..." You would think I would have remembered this before driving to Madera in the middle of the storm of the century to pick up our mail-order bride. But noooo....
The Gatehouse: December, 2007
It's only a gatehouse, this little church, the manse is up ahead. The gatekeeper lumbers out, creaks open the iron bars, and with a half salute says, "I'll call ahead and let them know you're on your way."
The Story: November 2007
In this information age, attention is a limited commodity. We work to focus, to scrape together some leftover scraps of attention for the task at hand. Perhaps the attraction of a work of art is that it has captured not only an object, but also the attention of the artist. A leaf is only a leaf. But a drawing of a leaf holds both the leaf and the artist's attention.
All Saints: October, 2007
In Colorado for my brother's memorial service, I am awash with gratitude for the church; both for those organizations and individuals who poured out their particular gifts and graces at our 12th year celebration, and for the institutional church which held steady at the foot of the Rocky Mountains; ready to serve in our hour of need. Silence: September, 2007
You may have noticed that 11:59 on the last day of the month has come and gone without a newsletter appearing in your mail box. The last week of September I was on retreat in Seattle and then helping with a retreat in Alaska. I could have spent my silent retreat working on a newsletter. I didn't. Be Good: August, 2007
No matter how you teach it, school children often interpret the Gospel message as "Be good, follow the rules, stay out of trouble." This has something to do with stages of development, augmented and exacerbated by teaching material that leans so hard on this-is-how-you-should-behave. Shorts: July, 2007
My idea of how to spend the summer is to read long, leisurely novels under a shade tree. Of course, my idea of how to spend the winter is to read long, leisurely novels in front of a crackling fire. This month, however, has been so fraught with people and events that the time between was mostly spent staring off into space with a glazed expression. Hystery: June, 2007
In the early 70's several of us who were running counter-culture non-profit organizations decided to take over the local anti-poverty board. We beat the bushes and easily got the requisite signatures for seats that nobody much cared about. Eventually the shocked old-guard outmaneuvered us by declaring the election invalid; a stir that made the front page of the local newspaper.
Some Are: May, 2007
Summer reading. Some are not. It is difficult on this fogbound morning to imagine lying in the sun with a good book. Nonetheless I believe that the Son is somewhere behind the grey. I await a breakthrough. As an act of faith a Summer Reading display, fat with novels and staff picks is emerging from the piles growing behind the desk. One aChord: April, 2007
A year ago I was trying to figure out an "audio logo" for whatever it is I do. I came up with, "I am a companion for creative people on a spiritual journey." I tried out this sound-bite on that year's Lower Room Prayer bunch and Stephanie said, "Don't you need companioning too?" She used a tone of voice that sent me back to the drawing board: How about walking with spiritual people on a creative journey? How about journeying people on a creative spiritual....Oh, never mind. Marching into April: March, 2007
Four days and three novels into our Puerto Rico vacation I begin to relax. None of the novels were astounding. It didn't matter much; I just went on to the next one and entertained myself thinking about the differences. Beloved: February, 2007
Throughout my life, I have had many loving and intimate relationships with people involved in homosexual activity. With my positive experiences, my scriptural understanding and long conversations with people on all sides, Growing: January, 2007
The educational model of the universe claims that we are here to learn. Life is a series of lessons. The point is to Grow Up. (God is a teacher.) Remains: December, 2006
We are tromping into 2007 with twenty-three $100 sponsors, and a couple more promises to anty-up after the first of the year. Thanks be to God for this affirmation and support, for each sponsor, all the staff and for every one of you that brings light and love (not to even mention cash) into this little corner of the kingdom.
Hearing: November, 2006
Often, after sending this monthly newsletter into cyberspace, I get grand ideas of what could have/should have been written instead. I usually forget these promising insights by the time the next deadline rolls around. However, last month a rant rose up with sufficient force that I actually wrote it down--and then spent untold hours learning how to post it on the home page of our website.
The Gift: October, 2006
When Leslie emailed my daughter-in law about having a baby shower for them at Family Camp, Shannon wrote back in gratitude, but added that presents weren't necessary, "The baby is the gift, you know." Hugs: September, 2006
At a healing service one night I look up at a big stained glass window of Jesus and I want more than anything to hug him; to fling my arms around him and bury my nose in his neck. One Bread: August, 2006 Sand Castles: July, 2006 Recognition: June, 2006 People of Prayer: May, 2006 Company of Saints: April, 2006 The Three Chairs: March, 2006 The Ripple Effect: February, 2006 Walking in the Light: January, 2006 December, 2005 November, 2005 October, 2005 September, 2005
August, 2005
July, 2005
June, 2005
"Me either," I said.
"Well, you're running out of time," he grinned.
May, 2005
April, 2005
March, 2005 February,
2005 January,
2005 December,
2004 November,
2004 October,
2004 September,
2004 August,
2004 July,
2004 June,
2004 April,
2004 March,
2004 February,
2004 January,
2004 December,
2003 November,
2003 September,
2003 August,
2003 June,
2003 May,
2003 April,
2003 March,
2003 February,
2003 September,
2002 August,
2002 May,
2002 March,
2002 November,
2001 April,
2001 March,
2001 January,
2001 December,
2000 November,
2000 October,
2000 September,
2000 August,
2000 July,
2000 June,
2000 April-May,
2000 March,
2000 February,
2000 January,
2000 December,
1999 November,
1999 October,
1999 September,
1999
Sometimes, while sitting at table, I dunk a crust of bread into my glass of wine and chew it slowly, rejoicing in the simple pleasures of bread and wine, in the intimacy of family and friends round the table; marveling that our Lord would choose to meet us through such simple, homely means.
People often ask which church supports The Word Shop. The answer is, "Yes." The Church through the ages has constructed various groups, houses, denominations and organizations to meet the needs of her people and to proclaim the love of God in Christ Jesus to a diverse and hurting world. The shifting tides of cultural conditions wash away some structures and modify others. The amazing thing is that the Church survives at all.
Tromping along Pacific Ave. one day, I glanced in the window of the Thomas Kinkade gallery and saw a portrait on the back wall. "Hey, I know that guy," I thought and went in for a closer look. It wasn't until I got right up to the picture, that I realized it was a painting of Jesus. .
Four of us prayed weekly in the lower room--a huge crowd in the annals of our Easter to Pentecost prayer time. Healing and direction for ourselves, our families and friends. Healing and direction for our country, our churches, our communities.
"Why are we always praying for healing and direction?" I blurted out mid-prayer one afternoon.
On Monday, Sunnie saw couple of ten year-olds take an armful of books from our window. She was a bit concerned but reasoned that the sign does say "Free Books" and we do want people to take them. Then the kids returned and put some back. Turns out they had cruised the neighborhood asking if anyone wanted a book. Two people came into the store that afternoon as a result of their efforts. Best PR we've had all year. Sunnie said we should add them to the payroll. Jelly beans and chocolate eggs.
Once upon a time there were three chairs: A great big leather papa bear chair that Adrianna gave us ten years ago, two twin soft mama bear chairs that Sherrie gave us and a wee baby bear chair Devorah decorated, which doesn't enter into the story at all. One day Julie was enjoying lunch in one of the mama bear chairs, when she noticed the arm was loose. "This chair is breaking," she said.
Five of us sat on the edge of the queen beds in the hotel room--knees almost touching, an inch of wine in our plastic glasses. In the post-glow of the OSL conference we talked of the deep and abiding pleasure of praying for others, of ministering under the anointing. "I'd forgotten how good it feels."
If you're casting your shadow before you
If moving forward you see only darkness, failure and imperfection.
It is possible that the light is at your back
And it's time to turn around.
Running the last gauntlet of errands before Christmas, I feel the
desire for a new notebook rise up. Ten running feet of spiral notebooks already
lurk on various shelves, many notebooks only half or three-quarters full. Pads
proliferate. Lack of paper is not the issue. More tantalizing is the
desire is to start fresh, to bask in the shimmering potential of empty pages, to sit
in a small room with a wide view and be able to hear myself think.
Since people of different traditions staff The Word Shop, our faith and
knowledge expands as we encounter the variety of perspectives. The
downside is that I regularly find rare treasures from one tradition priced at a
mere pittance by someone who didn't recognize the diamond in the dust. Or, as was
the case last week, discovering a handful of recently acquired books stuck
outside on our free shelf. "Yikes," I said gathering up Thomas Merton's SIGN OF
JONAS, a book on the Trappists, and a couple of others. "These we need to price
and sell."
A box of books--12-step, psychology, birth order, sexual abuse....I pull out a hardback with no dust jacket and ruffle the pages. THE CHALLENGE OF ART TO PSYCHOLOGY by Seymour B. Sarason. This looks really boring. I place it on the this-looks-really-boring stack. The desk is covered with stacks: prayer, healing, 12-step, family, steals, boring. Later as the desk thins out--books shuffled onto shelves--I remember that the mixing of Art and Psychology is an important part of my writing classes. I look at the book again and decide to take it home.
Opus Dei means work of God, the work that we all hope to take part in. Opus
Dei is also the name of a group within the Roman Catholic Church and a
secret-society bogeyman in Brown's DAVINCI CODE. Founded in 1928 by Josemaria
Escriva, Opus Dei focuses on the holiness of ordinary, everyday work--both as a
means for personal transformation and as a way to transform secular society.
Primarily a "lay organization" Opus Dei currently has around 85,000 members
worldwide, over half of whom are women.
"I hate it already," my son said after negotiating the annual schedule
screw-up a few days before school started. "I hate it already," I thought a week
later as I affixed my signature to the requisite stack of papers. (You can
always tell how asinine an organization is by how many papers are required to
cover its ass.)
One of the loveliest things about getting away is returning home; returning
to those particular comforts you'd grown accustomed to that others don't seem
to deem necessary. After two weeks in climes held captive by the sun, I
greeted our fine feathered fog with the delight of a long lost lover. Yes, that
exact same fog which we complain about vociferously, which we even have driven
east to escape with much mumbling and mutterings, that now friendly and
fortuitous fog which soothes skin sucked dry and weaves a blanket around cool night's
sleep undisturbed by the roar of the air conditioner...who would have thought
a grey day could bring such joy?
"I don't really know what I want to do when I grow up," said my high-schooler
as we discussed college possibilities.
It was a great retreat: Large swatches of time alone where the silence sank deep into my bones. Anointed scriptures, quotes and questions that stirred the quieted heart. Ample time to share with others--in the large group, in small prayer groups, in casual time around the table. Creative nudges through various artistic tasks that expressed more than we knew we were saying.
Held as we are by the cords of our sin, it is a great mercy to find not only
forgiveness, but a loosening of the bonds, a freeing from the cycle of
degradation--from continually finding ourselves doing again what we know is not good.
Some years ago I sat stuck in a parking lot, immobilized by the turbulence
within. Trying get a handle on the swirling abyss, I sought a word, a name for
the feelings. What came to mind was "powerless." I had been wounded at
depths I barely knew existed, had lost the treasure wherein I had invested my
heart, and there was nothing I could do about it. I felt utterly powerless.
Helping each other is the axis on which the world turns; both the
satisfactory exchange of goods and services, (which can get muddled enough, God knows)
and the freely offered aid to someone in need. In this time when terms like
"self-sacrifice" are bandied about, the question arises, "To what extent am I
supposed to sacrifice my time/money/self on the altar of someone's sin and
selfishness?"
There is an altar, round which a few are gathered week by week; an altar made of driftwood burnished bright. I would love to sit within the branches, a small feathered thing; a baby owl nestled in the woven wood, tucked in safe with treasure held above; surrounded by song and His wondrous love.
On the third Sunday of Advent, I belatedly unpacked the advent box. The
golden ring, which by now should have held partially burnt pink and purple
candles, rested disconsolately by the side of the box. The candles stood by, but
Michael, who usually found greens for the wreath, had gone skiing.
On more than one occasion I have written myself into a corner. However, I am now walled in, floor to ceiling books and papers wherever I turn. Instead of enemies, my footstool is stacked with friends: books waiting to be finished, started, written about, passed on. No room for feet, except carefully balanced atop a teetering stack. If one falls, it takes root, like a runner from a strawberry plant, and grows into a whole new pile.
Hot and dry...parched people. Life barely moving. Oh, my people--sin piled
on sin, pain multiplying in the wake of greed and lust; tears evaporating
before they hit the dust. Dry lifeless eyes--past hope, numb endurance; another
day, another moment.
They say you can't fight city hall, though most of us do in one way or
another. If not the government, than some other institution where we find ourselves
lost in a telephone maze, or standing in slack jawed amazement at some
bureaucratic BS that is interruptive to the very thing the institution is supposed
to be serving.
It was a place where love bloomed. Not the romantic streets of an exotic
night, or the luxurious suite of a Hollywood set; rather the action took
place in unexpected corners: sometimes dusty, often shabby; chipped Formica tables
under glaring florescent lights, rickety park benches scarred with names
crying out for recognition.
July is Christian Community month for us: The Big Sur Camping & Crawdad
Society drew forty folk for relaxing, feasting, river play and goofy songs around
the campfire; and Family Camp at the conference center in Oakhurst brought
together seventy folk for a week of worship, prayer, fellowship, teaching, water
play, disc golf, marshmallow roasts, creative experiments and goofy songs in
the chapel. Draped around our living room in a post-camp glow, we talk of a
possible Winter Family Gathering. Let me know if you have any bright ideas for
a time & place.
Moses' staff, flung onto the ground, became a writhing snake; the moment's
flamboyant magic exposing a deeper message: Drop the authority you've been
given and it becomes a hissing serpent.
Standing as we are, knee deep in a pit of vipers, it is easy enough to
rail against the mess. More to the point would be to reach down and grab a
slithering beast by the throat. Give it a shake and it will become a staff of
authority in your hand. There is, as Mother Teresa said, always room at the
bottom.
A tattered pamphlet on how to convert Anglicans to the Roman church emerges
from the heap. Books on Evangelicals going Orthodox perch on the shelves.
Others tell about growing up in guilt and ritual and finally discovering Jesus
through the Evangelical church, about fleeing worldly denominations that have
lost sight of the Lord, or about escaping from social and doctrinal legalism
into freedom. ExRomans, exEvangelicals, exFundamentalists, exPentacostalists,
exWord/Faith, exAnglicans, exOrthodox... extra...extra...read all about it.
Lent in Santa Cruz is ridiculous: Trees covered with pink, white and
yellow blossoms. Multicolored flowers springing up everywhere. Soft languid air
breezing through in the high 70's. It is nigh on impossible to feel solemnly
repentant in the midst of such bounteous beauty.
Thursday afternoon. I am theoretically packaging Laura's books to ship
to Berkeley. What I'm ACTUALLY doing is reading one of her books, GIRL MEETS
GOD. It's a memoir of author Lauren Winner's reconciliation of her Jewish
heritage and her relationship with Jesus ($13.95). What I SHOULD be doing is
dealing-with-things; the things in question being the fallout from the drips.
We sang Christmas carols at The Word Shop party; people leaning on the doorjamb, sprawled on the floor or sitting around the table loaded with eclectic offerings. No printed words, no musical accompaniment; just folk calling out a title or bravely launching in--hoping someone would remember the words to the obscure third line...
I sat in the healing service feeling prickly: easily offended, old wounds ready to flare at any minute. Desert imagery came forth. I realized that being a prickly cactus is a good thing if you live in the desert. Then I thought of the Christmas cactus in my bedroom. Most of the time it doesn't look like much. A bunch of straggly green arms. Easily ignored. Then in the late fall, red drops appear at the end each branch. You blink and suddenly BOWANZA.
A veritable tsunami of books has swept into the store; a tidal wave that threatened to overwhelm our little craft. Rising up sputtering and gasping, I blinked away the water and discovered great treasures: gorgeous art books, biographies, current fiction and classics--many in extra fine condition.
A number of years ago, when I began to suspect that some of my problems with the pastor were wrapped around his secret homosexual identity, a friend suggested I read Leanne Payne's books. My friend had turned from a lesbian orientation, joined YWAM and pointed to THE BROKEN IMAGE, and CRISIS IN MASCULINITY as books that had aided her healing. A year or two later Payne's THE HEALING PRESENCE came out; the best book I read all that year. Along with gaining an understanding of how deep prayer counseling can work, I appreciated the book's delineation of Jung's gifts to psychology, both his positive attributes and his clear departures from Christian rationale.
From the outset forgiveness of sin was a primary gift of grace; not the mere shrug of "that's OK--who cares," but rather a dynamic "go and sin no more" that delivers release from shame and freedom from the snares of destructive patterns. Testimonies from the New Testament onward continually tell stories of lives changed, of freedom from bondage, of hearts set free.
On our 3rd morning in Portland, after a particularly rocky night, I was staggering around our hotel room muttering lines from Macbeth and wondering when the 'pause' part of menopause was going to kick in.
It was a tough two days. I tried to navigate around the hot, inner point of fury; lest it boil over and scald those I most love. I actually remembered to pray once or twice, and aimed for the images that floated in unbidden. Not that I wanted to go there. Not that I was able to make a blind leap of faith or muster up some form of heroic obedience.
On Palm Sunday we move with breathless speed from shouting "Hosanna" and waving triumphant branches to yelling "crucify him" through contorted lips. It is a reminder of the fickle nature of public opinion; that yesterday's hero can become tomorrow's victim, that we change our minds with the ruthless ease that comes of long practice.
The thief comes to mind. The one crucified next to Jesus who said, "Lord, remember me when you come into your kingdom." It's an essentially selfish prayer; a prayer by someone still looking out for number one. Not exactly a great moment of faith. What other options did he have? End of the line. Throw your dice here. What have you got to lose?
The buying of books is an odd thing. I sauntered down Pacific Ave. one afternoon, stomach nicely filled with blackened salmon Caesar salad from a rare lunch out with my husband. The idea was to burn off one or two of the several hundred calories I'd just consumed.
Katy (age 13) writes that she recommends A WALK TO REMEMBER by Nicholas Sparks. And she adds, "if any one thinks, 'Oh I have seen the movie I don't need to read the book,' you are wrong. The book is totally different."
June slipped away. July slipped away. I figured I better grab August by the neck before the whole concept of a monthly newsletter slips away. Fortunately, people have been writing me about books:
The worst part of our 7 week prayer/study with Foster's STREAMS OF LIVING WATERS was sitting in my chair with my afternoon cup of coffee, utterly entranced with some turn of the pages and wishing that you were sharing this wonder with me.
Almost as bad was the list of folk at the beginning of each chapter, exemplifying the stream under consideration;
The bottom line on the upper room is disciples waiting together to see what God will do. Between the Ascension and Pentecost, they waited in prayer and unity for the promise of the Father. I'm usually so exhausted after running the gauntlet of Holy Week and Easter, that the thought of doing anything churchy at that point is fairly repugnant. However, in this particular mid-March moment, having a prayer time at The Word Shop between Easter and Pentecost sounds like a fine idea. I'm thinking 9 -10 on Wednesday mornings, beginning April 3. Would anyone care to wait with me? Several folk hailing from and praying for different churches would rejoice my heart.
The Word Shop staff is an odd conglomeration of folk; each of us wounded and weird in our own way, yet committed to His way--His light fractured and shadowed on the planes of our personalities, yet light shining forth nonetheless--a city on the hill.
Sometimes I feel like a little lost lamb, hiding under a rocky overhang,
hoping the shepherd will come and find me. How did I get separated from
the flock? The wolves came, the hireling fled...or maybe I just wandered
off. It doesn't matter. There's a bit of grass, a stream flowing by and
some safety in a corner of the rock. Will the shepherd come find me and
carry me home rejoicing? Sometimes I get tired of waiting.
Official Pastors are too busy keeping their own little boats afloat to
be out searching for lost sheep. So who is looking? Who?
God's economy is different: it's not based on fair trade or supply & demand
or market value. The market value of a human life was fairly negligible
when Christ died for us; signing in blood our eternal worth.
Ordinary time. The various festivities of Christmas & New Years left behind.
Time to get the flakes (snow!) off the window. An uncluttered livingroom.
A miraculously cleaned home office. In between doing last year's accounts,
I cruise office supply stores looking for the perfect system to Organize
My Life.
It happened again. Despite the press of Daily Life; the press of daily
life augmented and magnified by Christmas Concerns; the shopping and cooking,
decorating and wrapping, writing and lighting; Despite the hustle and
bustle and hurry and flurry, not to even mention the harangues from various
pulpits on how This Is Not What Jesus Wants (thanks a lot, guys); Despite
the fact that this whole undertaking was undertook ON TOP OF various other
crisis large and small (I mean it's not like everything else just STOPS
because Christmas is coming); Even still, God Showed Up.
Thinking of Christ the King, I imagined a small hamlet hidden in the mountains;
a young boy running through the village shouting, "the King is coming."
Thundering hooves, banners flying; a barefoot girl has only time to grab
a handful of wildflowers and tuck a stray hair behind her ear. Will the
King accept such a simple offering?
The New Testament shelf is packed. Fact is, believers rarely come in and
buy a paperback N.T. Oh, they may on occasion want an Amplified, J.B.
Philips, or Message Bible to get the shading of a different version. Or
some stray person might notice the Serendipity N.T. with its questions
for group studies. But the stacks of NIV KJV Living NE TE and NAS tend
to just sit.
The unity of the Church is an article of faith; a gift of the Holy Spirit.
Happy are we when we recognize that unity across the centuries, through
denominational and cultural barriers, or in the midst of our present personal
struggles. Jesus knows his own.
OUR USED BOOKS ON PRAYER are now listed on abebooks.com and on our web
page http://www.companyofsaints.com/hotreads/prayer.html
Going at present rate, we ought to have all our books listed by the beginning
of the next millennium
Prayer was the theme of this year's Family Camp and the hottest selling
book was EXPERIENCING THE DEPTHS OF JESUS CHRIST $8.95. Written in the
late 1600's the book was publicly burned, with author Jeanne Guyon denounced
as a heretic and imprisoned in Bastille. Here's the original title: SHORT
AND VERY EASY METHOD OF PRAYER; WHICH ALL CAN PRACTICE WITH GREATEST FACILITY
AND ARRIVE IN A SHORT TIME, BY ITS MEANS, AT A HIGH DEGREE OF PERFECTION.
Among others this book influenced the Quakers, Moravians, John Wesley
and Watchman Nee.
Robert and I went from bookstore to library, lured by the Summer Reading
Program and its promise of earning ducats. While he gathered up THE SPOOKSTERS
HANDBOOK and PIRATES, I wandered aimlessly, picking up an antique price
guide for Marc, who is unloading my mother's storage unit, and John Irving's
CIDER HOUSE RULES for myself. "Just what I need, another book," I muttered
darkly at the check-out counter.
The Word Shop continues to be an oasis of peace in the midst of a bustling
world, an open door, a place to discover great saints and funny ducks...all
beloved of God. In order to maintain our already odd hours, we need 7
weekly volunteers, most doing three hour shifts. We currently have 5 of
us with various staff members traipsing about the country, tending children
out of school, or just plain goofing off.
Local folk who know Jesus as Lord and Savior can commit a weekly time
slot to reading, praying and fellowshipping with whoever walks in the
door.
SIMON'S NIGHT is a simple, beautiful novel (as the book jacket proclaims)
by Jon Hassler that I discovered on our Steals & Deals shelf ($1 Cloth
50¢ Paper). It almost went into the free box, but I got interested in
this tale of a retired English professor, who decided to check himself
into a private rest home.
He sat in the chair across from our desk, a grizzled old codger aglow
with the Spirit. "I used to be in this little evangelical church," he
explained. "It wasn't going anywhere and neither was I. In North Dakota,"
he added quickly with a wave of his arm as if to ward of the tentacles
of gossip: What church? Where? What brand?
Sometimes I do odd things. Once I picked up a copy of Joan Baez's memoir
at the flea market. I had been reading a lot of Chuck Colsen's work, and
as I finished AND A VOICE TO SING WITH, I was struck by a similarity between
these two. Each had strained after righteousness and had found it in concern
for the littlest and lost, those bound and imprisoned.
The day I stopped worrying about The Word Shop finances was a summer time
Friday several years ago. I had barely unlocked the door and put out the
flag when a fast talking black evangelist stepped through the threshold.
He had a large sports bag with a Bible sticking out of a side pocket.
In a long tale of woe laced liberally with scripture, he told me that
his car had broken down and he needed $45 bus fare to get home. Now at
the time I was splitting every $100 personal tithe, $50 for my church
and $50 to some place else...
'Twas a bright and shining idea, a many faceted jewel spinning brilliantly
between heart and mind. Caught by words, it suddenly developed feet of
clay and trudged ponderously across the narrow lined page.
Why leave the spacious wonders on high and descend to the depths of common
language? Why not dance in breathtaking beauty, alone, unsullied by the
limitations of words and phrases?
He came in a year ago, hung over and trying to stay sober for a day. He's
been back every Monday for a year, checking in and celebrating each milestone:
one week, three months, a year of sobriety.
One Monday Lynn stopped by to say hello and swab down our bathroom. "What's
really amazing about this place," He said as he realized she regularly
dropped in and emptied the trash or did some other chore, "is how people
just give into it. Time, books, things...this is not really a business,
it's more like a club."
Rolling toward our 4th birthday, we are grateful for all who have sustained
this little witness to the love of God in Christ Jesus. Thank you for
buying books, for your generous donations, for your friendship and your
prayers.
If you haven't been in for a while, you will be surprised at the number
and breadth of the books on our shelves. I've been told that we have the
largest selection of used Christian books for sale in a 100 mile radius.
I love that we have a God who speaks. As the psalmist says, we don't worship
dumb idols. "The word of god is like potato chips," a beloved Bishop once
remarked. "Even though one word is so full and rich it can keep you going
for years, you can,t eat just one. You always want more."