Summer Kinard's Blog, page 29
February 22, 2013
Redeeming Martha
There’s a tiny little story in the Gospel of Luke that has been blown into epic proportions. It goes like this: Jesus comes to dinner at the home of three siblings, Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. While Jesus is sitting around teaching, Martha is working really hard to fix dinner for everyone, while Mary is at Jesus’ feet, listening to the stuff he says. Martha comes and asks Jesus to please tell her sister to come help. Jesus tells her she’s fretting over lots of things, but Mary has chosen the better lot.
Now, forget the fact that maybe he was joking, because drawing lots was a common way of settling disputes. Maybe he was razzing Martha for getting the short straw and having to make dinner that time, while Mary got to listen without the distraction of not burning stuff. So, he was maybe teasing her about it being her turn on the dinner rota, and given his propensity to tell people to calm down already, he may have been joking about the subject matter of his talks and her busy times over the fire.
The way we usually hear this story is with the following gloss: Sitting still and listening to Jesus is more important than cooking and other busy work. A lot of times, this scandalous message is accompanied with descriptions of how you, too, can learn to sit quietly for an hour or pray in stillness and quiet.
But that interpretation is pretty bullshit, if you ask me, even if you lay aside the cultural tendency to absolutize any description of a woman, so that her one time circumstance is applied to describe her whole life. Here’s why: Jesus was totally for feeding people, and even explicitly tells his disciples and other followers to do so on several occasions. He was so well-known for his food-multiplying miracles that he had an entourage that was in it for the meal plan and had to send them off on at least one occasion, when they failed to get the deeper connection between food and eternal life. Oh, sure, say the Mary was better than Martha because silent contemplation is awesome crowd, we know Jesus is fine with us feeding people; it’s just not the main point.
They are wrong, of course. Work is not opposed to prayer. Work is a type of prayer. If Jesus was teasing Martha, it was to tell her to get some perspective, not to say that working for the sake of hospitality is bad. The main part of faith is not sitting around in stillness. We are embodied, and our bodies are important to our salvation. Work and prayer are active pursuits. (And don’t even get me started on how weird and modern it is to pray or even read in silence. Traditionally, these -especially with prayer- were communal pursuits, spoken aloud.)
We see the proper relationship of prayer and work in the lives of the desert fathers and mothers. These extremely disciplined Christians lived in tiny stone houses in the desert, where they spent their time praying and weaving long ropes. Work and prayer went together in their daily lives as they sought to pray without ceasing.
The beginning of an afghan I’m making this Lent
I told you all that to tell you this: I like to crochet during Lent. Last year, I had the privilege of meeting with a small group of women so that we could crochet or knit while we took it in turns to read aloud from C.S. Lewis essays. That experience taught me how to weave prayers into the rhythm of crochet. Double crochet has three pull-throughs of yarn, which correspond to a simplified Jesus prayer: Lord Jesus Christ,/Son of God,/Have mercy on [us].
The long form of the Jesus prayer is, “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” It’s often shortened to end at “me,” but when I’m making a project for someone, I often say, “us,” to include the recipient as well as myself in the prayer. Sometimes I pray for the whole world in that “us.”
Other bits of crochet fit other prayers:
Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy.
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.
Alleluia.
Holy God, holy mighty, holy immortal, have mercy on us.
All of these simple prayers can be worked into the things we make with our hands. Prayers put hidden beauty into handwork like the cook’s love and creativity spices food. Prayers can likewise be stirred into our cooking, of course, and folded into our laundry, and made into our beds.
Maybe you’ve already “failed” in your Lenten discipline, or maybe you’ve never even heard of Lent. But here’s an idea for these last days of winter: don’t fret so much about separating out the spiritual from your daily life. Martha and Mary are not opposites; they are sisters who work better together. This week, if you are so inclined, try a simple prayer while you walk or work around the house. If you’d like, come back and share your experience in the comments.
February 17, 2013
February 14, 2013
Valentine’s Giveaway: WRITE Local Love!
From now until July, I will give away a prize or three each month to help spread the word about Can’t Buy Me Love and Durham, NC, the amazing city where the novel is set. Today I’m sharing the love with Bean Traders, the local coffee establishment where I wrote 95% of the novel.
BeanTraders Love Valentine Giveaway prizes- enter now!
Go like my Facebook author page [Click Here], then come back and leave a comment on this post by 10am EST, Sunday, February 17, 2013. I’ll pick three winners to receive either the blue banjo towel, the red banjo towel, or the orange Bean Traders mug pictured in this post. (Make sure to include your email address on your comment so I can contact you if you win!) If you’re from Durham, tell me what you love best about the city in the comment. If not, tell me your favorite hot beverage and why you love it.
I am not receiving any kickbacks or other renumeration for this giveaway; I’m just doing it to spread the Durham love and the word about my book. Fun fact: Banjos show up in the novel, too!
Oh, and here’s the tag on the tea towels, which are made locally:
Item description tag for the banjo tea towels.
February 13, 2013
On washing the tea cups by hand
It’s steamy!
I have this theory that the highest use of every thing is hinted at, even when it’s not being put to that use. That’s why I like washing china tea cups by hand. All that rises is plain, unscented steam, but, oh, to watch it rise gives me joy.
I see a similar action in people when they act in the direction of their best selves. Maybe their joy is not complete, but it’s there. I try to look for the little places where even broken persons act a little like they would at their best. Malice has tells, but goodness has even more. It just takes extra care to find the hints of higher purpose.
Here’s how it works in writing: I try to show the “steam” in antagonists. In my current work in progress, the villain is a very damaged and very gifted man. Unfortunately, he uses his gift of seeing right to the heart of a person to try to seduce the married protagonist, but still! There’s very real beauty in his soul, and taking care to let the reader see it leaves open a path for that character’s redemption.
These days have been full up with editing, gathering, connecting, and planning as we prepare for the launch of Can’t Buy Me Love, but today I am pressing the pause button. It’s the first day of Lent, and I’m going to try to treat the people around me at least as well as I treat my teacups.
What about you? Do you have a seasonal commitment you’d like to share?
February 3, 2013
Ask Glow in the Dark Jesus
Ask Glow in the Dark Jesus!
Dear Glow in the Dark Jesus,
Have you tried out those new running shoes that are meant to be worn without socks? What do you think about them?
Sincerely,
Footloose in Florida
Dear Footloose,
How many pairs of shoes do you have again?
GitDJ
Dear Glow in the Dark Jesus,
My parents were mean to me. Do they still love me?
Wondering
Dear Wondering,
Go ask them.
GitDJ
Dear Glow in the Dark Jesus,
I want to be famous for you, so I can spread your name through all the world.
Sincerely,
Aspiring Star
Dear Aspiring,
No offense, but I’m kind of a big deal already. I have some friends who need your help, though. They are at the homeless shelter, the payday check advance center, and in the grocery store comparing prices on beans. You want to spread my name, you help them.
GitDJ
February 1, 2013
How We Use the Light
Last weekend, I sang, “Senza Mamma” for a master class in opera performance. The teacher is not especially famous, but many of her students are. When I stood on the stage, before I entered the character or began to sing, I found the light and made sure it was on my face. In opera, the light must [almost] always be on one’s face; it amplifies and reveals the emotions you are conveying.
At one point in the aria, the mother sings, [my translation] “Now you are an angel in heaven; now you can see her, your mama. You can descend from the heavens…You’re here. You’re here! You kiss me and hug me.” I started out that phrase with hands folded over my breast in prayer, and as the section progressed, slowly opened them in supplication, letting the bright light spill over my hands, which were holding the mother’s heart out to her child. The light transformed my palms, and I angled them so that the light reflected more onto my face when the mother exclaimed in joy that her son was there. It was as though I were actually experiencing revelation, that added light on my face.
One of the comments the teacher made was that I used my hands and face well to convey the meaning of the music, making it accessible even to those who do not speak the language. She said I had beautiful hands, and contrasted them with her own, gardener’s hands. Now here is why I told you this story: At the time of the master class, I had approximately two dozen nicks and cuts on my hands, which also suffered from partially peeled beige polish, huge splits on two finger tips, and chafed, dry, completely unladylike, but very motherly, backhands. The light, along with the expression I gave them, transformed my hands into vectors of beauty for the aria.
Christians talk about letting their lights shine, but perhaps not enough about reflecting light that shines on them. Way back in the archives of church history, there are these bits of advice from respected teachers along the lines of being a good mirror. Mirrors at the time were often made with silver coated glass. Over time, the pattern of light on the mirror could cause an image to appear, sort of like what happens in film photographs, but much slower. The idea was that when God shines light on us by showing up in Jesus, we ought to turn toward that light, and let the image of the invisible God form in us through exposure to that goodness. We could then be images of the image of God, which is a way that the teachers tried to get us to understand a bit of how God makes us more like God.
A major Christian statement of faith clarifies that Jesus Christ was “light from light,” in part so that we understand that the Son of God was not just another mirror, but actually God light, straight from God light, sent to shine right up in our faces and transform us.
So that’s where we are. There’s this light that has an amazing power to transform us if we will just take it in our hands and let it shine on our faces. It can make us better than we are: more beautiful, more whole, healed, holy. It might even make us sing.
January 24, 2013
A Tale of Two Grannies
I was four years old, and crayons were one of the best parts of living. The smell of a fresh pack, especially if they were the expensive name brand colors, is stored in the part of my brain that responds to sea air, beeswax candles, joyful choirs, and puppies. When Grandmawmaw walked me over to the crayon aisle in Kmart, my palms started sweating in anticipation. She was looking at the name brand crayons. Only the eight packs, but still. She chose two packs of crayons.
Curiosity got the better of me. “Who are those for, Grandmawmaw?” I figured it was a foregone conclusion. I mean, I was standing right there, and it was well known that at least three of my crayons were broken.
“They are for some little boys who don’t have any toys.”
“Oh.” I admit, my empathy was not stirred. My greed, however, was. “They could have my old crayons.”
“They don’t have any new things, so we are going to give them some new crayons and coloring books. Help me pick out some coloring books. Which ones are best?”
I picked through them and found a Thundercats and a Bugs Bunny coloring book. Grandmawmaw guided me back to the checkout and paid. I didn’t dwell on the disappointment. The fact was, I had colors and books already. I also didn’t look forward especially much to seeing the toys leave Grandma’s house, which I assumed would take place anonymously. Grams would leave with the toys and come back without them.
When we got back to Grandmawmaw’s house, she turned to me and explained. She was not giving the boys the toys; I was.
“Why do I have to give them colors? I don’t know them.”
She explained the situation: a granny had to take in her grandsons who had nothing with them, she was proud but very poor and having to ask assistance from the state, a gift from one child to another would make them feel better, and the granny wouldn’t accept it if she thought it made her owe someone. I didn’t really get what she was saying, but I held her hand and walked the Kmart bag of colors and books down the sidewalk, around the corner, and knocked on the door Grandmawmaw indicated. She stood back a bit.
The door opened on a middle aged, haggard woman with faded bottle blond hair. She was dressed in shorts and the sort of banded bottomed shirts grannies wore at the time. Behind her legs, two stricken, small faces looked out at me sadly. One of them had on a shirt and underpants, the other just a pair of jeans. I could tell they were probably from the only pair of clothes they owned. That doorstep was where I grew empathy. The bright, naked boys in the foreground of a dark, destitute apartment showed me the meaning of need. We stared at one another, kid to kid, and I lost my voice for a moment.
“Summer has something she wants to say to the boys,” Grandmawmaw explained to the other grandma, who eyed us with equal parts suspicion and despair. I knew my cue.
“I just thought you might like some colors and coloring books,” I said to the boys. I looked at the one my age, in the underpants. His eyebrows raised. The topless boy, maybe a year older, smiled a bit. “It’s not much, but they’re the good kind.” I smiled back, shyly.
We said good-bye, and Grandmawmaw and I walked back to her apartment hand in hand.
That was my first experience of almsgiving, an ancient Christian practice of direct relief of poverty. Almsgiving is not tithing or financial pledges to organizations, though of course those types of giving are good, too. Almsgiving is meant to be from one hand to another, person to person, so you can look another kid in the eye and give him his dignity along with his crayons.
My other granny, Grandma Betty, also introduced me to a type of giving. I was playing at her house one day when I was six or so, and a young woman with a toddler on her hip knocked on the front door. Grandma Betty answered graciously and listened to the woman’s spiel. This time, I was the kid looking out from behind a granny. I watched the woman’s nervous body language, heard her twitchy voice. She said she needed money for milk for her baby.
Now, Grandma Betty is and always has been Baptist and kind at heart. She was not about to let a baby go without milk. I watched eagerly for how she would make it right for that baby.
“Alright. Let me get my purse. I’ll take you down to Seller’s Bros. and buy you a gallon of whole milk.”
“Oh, that’s okay. No need to go to the trouble. I can just take the money.”
“It’s no trouble at all. I have an account there. If you’d like, you can wait on the porch, and I’ll be right back.”
“Um, well, I also need some cigarettes.”
Grandma Betty has a particular genius at clearing her throat. For instance, she can hawk and clear her sinuses loud enough to be heard through walls and doors. When she scoffed, “H-uh!” at that girl, the young woman nearly jumped out of her skin with nerves.
“I am not buying you any cigarettes. I am glad to help you with milk for the baby. But you listen to me: it’s not right to try to use your baby to get stuff that’s bad for you, and that goes for alcohol and drugs, too.”
“Yes,’m. I’m sorry.” I didn’t hear the rest, as I was shooed from the doorway.
The woman refused the offer of milk after all, which troubled me for a long while. Grandma Betty said that the baby had milk at home, and that the girl was just trying to take advantage of kindness.
I filed the story away as my first example of giving as “charity,” from a more powerful to a less powerful person. I learned to be wary of people who came knocking on strangers’ doors, because they often lied. A year or so later, I saw Grandma Betty feed a hungry man right out on the porch, because it wasn’t safe to let a stranger in the house. She really was kind hearted, in case the story made you doubt. She just had the type of doors people knock on, and she had learned caution.
For a number of years, I ignored the sign holders on the side of the road as best I could. I would pray for them, but I rarely felt comfortable giving them money. Then my son got old enough to ask me, “Why are those people standing on the road with signs?”
I explained poverty and its indignities and needs, and I drove to the store. Crayons wouldn’t cut it, but food would go a little ways toward helping the men and women we passed so often. I decided on Poptarts, which have a nearly universal appeal and come cheap. For weeks, if we pulled up by a sign person, I would crack the window and ask, “Do you like Poptarts?” and hand over a box of the frosted strawberry variety if they said, “yes.” Most of them said, “Yes.”
Since then, we have tried a few other things: cans of honey roasted peanuts (which don’t work for the meth addicts with poor teeth), yogurt raisins, ziplocks filled with an assortment of protein-laden snacks plus a few hygiene items (individual wipes, tooth Wisps, chapstick). Poptarts still work the best.
Every time I pass a box or bag out the car window, my son speaks up afterward. “Mama, why did you give that man that food?”
“Because he is made in the image of God, and he is hungry.”
January 16, 2013
Spoiler Alert: It’s awesome.
I mentioned before that a local artist has been bringing the Luchadora mask from Can’t Buy Me Love to life. Well, the mask is finished!
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This beauty will probably show up in my book trailer, and it will be available to win through a charity raffle on June 9,2013, at the launch party. Stay tuned for more details.
January 9, 2013
A literary household
What? The Room of Requirement is a perfect place for this special mirror.
We have a longstanding family tradition of reading aloud to one another. My husband and I started it when we were newlyweds, and of course we read to the children. (“I want to read Fancy Nancy – AGAIN!” quoth the two year old.) Sometimes, I just start reading out loud, and my son is drawn inexorably into the vortex of the story as he leaps and plays in his four year old way. He’ll appear not to be paying attention, until he quizzes me on a detail of the story.
In addition to reading to one another, we also incorporate props from our favorite books into the architecture. In the not too distant future, the children will understand the reference in our powder room mirror. They’ll get the joke when they read the Elvish runes (Thanks, Tolkien) spelling out a quotation from Dune around the edges of the Pensieve mysteriously smoking at Hallowe’en. Maybe I’ll finish my middle grade fantasy trilogy in time for them to see references to its themes in artwork as well.
My son is just learning to scratch out letters in the pattern of words, but already he wants to be a writer “like Mama.” My daughter is a natural storyteller. Her small voice enchants the air in her room as she directs her toys in play. Between the two of them, they could spin a Doctor Who scarf’s worth of yarn in a few minutes.
This is a house where story matters.
When people ask how I can find the time to write, this household, this life we’ve built, is why I look at them askance, mouth open, and reply, “How could I not?”
January 7, 2013
Sneak preview
This little guy is going to light up someone’s life.
I’m preparing materials for the launch of my Kickstarter campaign for the book tour. This beeswax hedgehog candle might be the cutest book promotion tool ever, so I thought I’d share. You’re welcome.
