A Matter of Time

Last night I finished reading Time Peace: Living Here and Now with a Timeless God (Zondervan, 2007) by Ellen Vaughn. Last year I had the privilege of copyediting Mary Beth Chapman's book Choosing to SEE, which Ellen helped to write and shape. She tells stories so well, and I wanted to see if she's as good a writer when she's telling her own stories instead of somebody else's. She is, and I was not disappointed.

Even though I'm a "word nerd," I've harbored a fascination with astrophysics since Mr. Engelsma taught us about the stars back in sixth grade. After eighth grade science class with Miss Jones, I found myself pondering light and its relation to time. And if that wasn't enough to keep my mind busy, Mr. Timmer got me thinking about matter at the quantum level when I took chemistry and physics during my junior and senior years. In the twenty years since then, the world of science has given us many innovations, such as the Hubble telescope and particle accelerators, that allow us to look outward at the vast distance of space and inward at the atomic level. But for all that, I still feel mystified every time I look at the clear night sky. That's as it should be.

Ellen does a good job of explaining all the complex scientific theories in a way even I can understand. She spends a lot of time on Einstein's general and special theories of relativity, and she even touches on string theory. Weaving everything together are stories that she tells so well, I almost felt as if I knew her personally. And what sets her book apart is the way she brings everything back around to a transcendent, unfathomable Creator God who humbled Himself for a season--a TIME--in the person of Jesus so that we can know Him personally.

I chose to read this book because I often feel so pressed for time in my life. And my life isn't that busy compared to a lot of my friends. I began to realize, however, that when someone asks how I'm doing, my automatic reply is often "busy." I'm busy homeschooling Ben. I'm busy keeping up with domestic chores. I'm busy editing and proofreading books. I'm busy with small group and church boards. I'm busy trying to read through my Bible in a year. That last one may sound strange, but that's how I felt around October when I began falling behind in the schedule. I'll close with a short paragraph that is helping me to change the way I think about this elusive yet finite thing we call "time." The reality of these words challenged me, and I hope they challenge you too, dear reader.

The notion that time can become an idol may sound ridiculous. No one would set out to worship time. But does it have its claws in us? Has a habitual preoccupation with busyness, stress, pressure, productivity, and hurry crowded out a preoccupation with the glory of God, not to mention a basic contentment with His gift of life? Are we missing its viable pleasures, subconsciously assuming that at some future point "when things slow down a little" we will enjoy God and the family and friends He has given us--except that mythical future point never arrives? (p. 110)

Challenging Myself

Once upon a time, I was a writer. Stories, book reviews, academic papers, poetry. Most days I wrote in my journal and kept a written record of my heart. I even had several pieces published, for crying out loud. Now it seems that the only time I reach for pen and paper is to make a grocery list, a weekly menu, a library list, a spelling list, or an agenda for a church board. Domestic responsibilities have seemingly drowned my creativity in the mundane.

That's going to change this year. And it starts today as I write this blog instead of writing the grocery list I know I should be making. A friend who read my blog the other day asked why I don't write more often. Looking back, I realized that I wrote 9 entries in 2008, 5 entries in 2009, and 3 entries last year. I've become so busy editing other people's words that my own seem to have dried up. There's my second excuse.

It all boils down to that, doesn't it? Excuses. I'm too busy with domestic responsibilities, homeschooling, church duties. I'm too busy keeping my finger in the page of my editorial career so that someday when Ben is grown I'll be able to work full-time again.

I recently discovered Emily Freeman's blog, "Chatting at the Sky." (Okay, so it was work-related...I'm currently editing her first book for Revell. But getting this project was providential, as you'll see.) I keep going back to her entry "5 ways to know if the art has to wait." And here's what she challenged me with: "All these things [homeschooling, work, church, etc.] could be reasons why you have to wait. BUT...they could also be excuses. It is important to know if you are waiting because of wisdom, because it truly isn't the right time. It is also important to know if you are waiting because of fear." She goes on to offer some insights on telling the difference.

Those words were spurs in the sides of this old nag! My falling out of love with writing does not come from fear. And while my life is busy, it's not as busy as the lives of most thirty-somethings I know. Ben is getting older and doing more things for himself. I could make time for this. After all, I make time to watch Hawaii Five-O every Monday night. My real problem is laziness. Lack of intentionality. With God's help and a bit of encouragement from you, dear reader, I pray I will be more intentional about writing and about sharing my words with others.

Lord, you know I desire to put words on a page. And not just any old words, but words that reflect you, that tell others about your goodness in my life. I was a writer once. Help me to be a writer once again. For my best good and for your glory.

British Movie Extravaganza!

I spent a good share of my work-free weekend watching movies. As a family we watched Shrek Forever After, which turns out to be the only one of the Shrek movies that I really loved. As a couple, Sean and I were entertained by Knight and Day with Cameron Diaz & Tom Cruise. But by far the majority of my time was spent watching movies filled with British actors and scenes of my beloved England.

First up: Nanny McPhee Returns. Loved, loved, loved it! What's not to love about Emma Thompson playing a magical nanny who teaches children more lessons that Kevin Leman on speed. I wish she'd spend a week in our house...of course, there's that whole "when you want me but no longer need me, then I must go" thing. I couldn't bear to part with her.

The next entree on my silver-screen buffet was an obscure movie loaned to me by my friend Heather. Relational Values stars Dame Julie Andrews, which was more than enough to get me to watch it. The plot was a bit quirky, but a nice surprise was Stephen Fry as--surprise!--the butler. (What ho, Jeeves!) Not one I'll watch again, but it was more fun than watching Sean play Dr. Mario out in the living room. :-)

Tonight rounded out the Anglophile fest with The Young Victoria. Hey, Sean was at youth group, so I didn't have to worry about boring him with the intrigues and scandals of the British monarchy. The constumes were amazing, the music was beautiful (Schubert!), the cinematography made me want to hop a plane to London, and the story was well written. Definitely not an action film, guys. But what a love story! The scenes at Windsor Castle and Blenheim Palace brought back wonderful memories of visiting those places.

The weekend is at an end, tomorrow starts another busy week, and so I'm off to bed. But I enjoyed my little English vaca while it lasted. Maybe I'll even dream in a British accent tonight...

All Things Pink

Last weekend, a friend and I walked in the Komen Race for the Cure in Grand Rapids. We crossed the starting line and began our walk up Wilson Avenue, and I was amazed at the sea of pink ahead of us. As far as the eye could see were people walking and running to support breast cancer awareness—nearly seven thousand of us!—men, women, and children in all different variations of the color pink. And it got me thinking…

Pink is not the color I would have chosen for my life. In fact, six years ago my wardrobe held only one item of pink clothing: a pink sweater my mom had given me for Christmas in my freshman year of high school. I wore it through high school and into college before tucking it away in a drawer. Then came my cancer diagnosis in June 2004 and my world suddenly turned pink. For some reason I had kept that sweater all those years, and instantly it took on greater significance, almost as if my mom somehow knew I would need it one day. Now, some twenty years after I first unwrapped it, the sweater is a showing inevitable signs of age—kind of like myself! :-) But I still wear it during the cold winters, and each time I wear it is like getting a hug from Mom.

October is breast cancer awareness month, and few people are more aware of breast cancer than those of us who have walked the path of surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, and follow-up treatments that alter our lives forever. My body healed, my hair grew back, but my wardrobe is still chock full of the color pink: pink t-shirts and turtlenecks; pink sweatpants, sweatshirts, and tennis shoes; pink socks, purses, and pins; pink ball caps, bracelets, and bandannas. They are reminders of the miracle God worked (and continues to work) in my body and of how thankful I am for the gift of each day.

Once upon a time, I dreamed of picking out lots of pink stuff when God would bless us with a baby girl, a sister for Ben to complete the “American Dream” family: dad, mom, boy, girl, and a dog. The Lord had a different plan for my life, however, and baby girl pink wasn’t in it. I’m still waiting to discover all God’s plan involves, but for now I’m content to enjoy this season of being a mother to my absolute favorite son, watching him grow and learn. Life could have been so different for him and Sean if God had not chosen to heal me.

So my pink “fix” has come in a way I never would have chosen for myself, via physical pain and broken dreams. Looking back, though, I can honestly say I wouldn’t trade it for anything. The lessons I learned about compassion, patience, endurance, encouragement, and the giving and receiving of blessing have genuine Kingdom value. And never fear, I still wear plenty of pink stuff. Even as I type this, I’m wearing the hot pink survivor t-shirt from last weekend’s 5K walk.

Lately, however, I’m being more intentional about including other colors in my fashion and accessory choices. You see, while pink is a color of courage and hope to those of us who have journeyed through breast cancer, I am to the point six years later where I refuse to be defined by a disease. Yes, I survived breast cancer. That’s a big part of my life, but it’s only a part of my life. So I’ll mix things up with some other shades: peach, salmon, rose, magenta, fuchsia. Maybe even a bit of red, blue, and purple while I’m at it. Just not yellow…please, God, don’t make me wear yellow! :-)

A Mom's Life

I shared this poem with a college friend after reading her blog this morning. She really like it and asked if I would post it for others. As a sometimes frazzled mother of one, this is how I feel sometimes when I get to the end of the day. Enjoy!

“Day’s End”

The endless flow of chatter has finally ceased.
I’m alone at last, with only the flip of these folios
And the strains of a Brahms sonata to permeate the stillness.
My little one is in bed, and my shell-shocked brain can finally pause—
Or not, as he emerges to beg another drink of water, another trip to the bathroom.

Alone again (for good this time?) I ponder
How quiet the printed page is…

It cannot talk back to me, tell me it doesn’t like me anymore,
Threaten to take a long vacation.

It won’t whine for the latest toy or the most sugar-filled breakfast cereal,
Sometimes in the same sentence.

It is not forever in motion; serifs don’t fidget or fuss
Or jump on the furniture.

Its rhetoric is not accentuated with karate kicks, wrestling throws,
Or the gatling of gunfire.

It does not shout “Mom!” for the thousandth time,
Then forget what it was going to say.

When I’ve had enough, I simply shut the cover
And stop the flow of sounds inside my head.
That’s when I’m reminded that printed words cannot
Suffocate me with bear hugs,
Rub noses like Eskimoses,
Sing along with Mary Poppins,
Build a snow fort,
Sink my battleship,
Or let me win at Uno.

They cannot speak in spoonerisms,
Tell me I’m the best mom in the world,
Or say “I love you” before lights-out.

Still, that black-on-white crispness calms my frazzled nerves
As I close the book on another day of being Mom.

Copyright 2010 by Amy Nemecek

What I've Been Reading in 2010

Something old, something new, something borrowed…now I’m blue.

I started out the year reading two books about the instrument I love the most: the violin. First up was The Violin Maker by John Marchese (HarperCollins, 2007). I got it (almost) new via paperbackswap.com, and as soon as it arrived I tucked in. Fascinating! The author had a musical background, but really knew very little about stringed instruments when starting out. By shadowing a world-renowned luthier, Marchese follows the creation of one of these “magic boxes” from start to finish to first performance. I couldn’t put it down until I found out whether the violinist liked his new instrument…and I won’t give it away. You’ll just have to discover it for yourself. The book is accessible even if (perhaps especially if) you know absolutely nothing about violins.

That led me to read something old…a biographical novel from the fifties titled The Violin Hunter by William Alexander Silverman. I was amazed that our little library in Cadillac, Michigan, actually had a copy, tattered though it was. The subject of the novel is Luigi Tarisio, the man responsible for discovering over a thousand Cremonese stringed instruments in the mid-nineteenth century. Many of the world-famous Strads and del Gesus still played today were found by him on his travels through Italy, France, and Spain. Silverman does a good job of taking what we know about Tarisio (not a lot) and weaving it into a most enjoyable story. While it may be hard to track down a copy, it’s worth the trouble if you love expensive violins and a good story.

On a completely different note, just last night I stayed up late to finish The Mascot, a WWII memoir by Mark Kurzem (Viking, 2007). The subtitle tells it all: Unraveling the Mystery of My Jewish Father’s Nazi Boyhood. The book does read a bit like a mystery novel. Kurzem’s father, Alex, was five years old when his village in Belarus was "liquidated" of its Jews in 1941. Alex escaped and hid in the forest, but his entire family perished at the hands of the Latvian police, who were backed by the Nazis. That police brigade eventually found the boy wandering in the forest. Nobody suspected he was Jewish, so they adopted him as their mascot. He was dressed in a little Wehrmacht uniform and accompanied the brigade on patrol because he was supposedly good for the soldiers' morale. But that is only the beginning of Alex’s remarkable story.

At first it doesn’t seem possible that this could really happen to a child, and as the author researched to help his father discover his true identity, most of the “experts” he consulted discounted the story as a child’s faulty memories. Nevertheless, he persisted and eventually was able to accompany his father back eastern Europe where they could put all the jigsaw pieces together. So many seeming coincidences come together in the end to make for a satisfying read. I marveled at what my worldview could only interpret as divine Providence directing every contact, every scrap of information. Still, I’m left feeling sad when I think what evil mankind is capable of and how that evil can affect the life of a small child, robbing him of his family, his very identity, and haunting him into what should have been his golden years. The Mascot is not for the fainthearted, but it is a well-told story that deserves to be heard.

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