Amy Writes

As I've said before, my mind tends to wander a bit on Sunday mornings. It wanders to the store, it wanders to the calendar, it wanders to the mismatched paint colors above the east door. Sometimes it wanders to scripture unrelated to the message - I consider that some kind of victory, although I'm not sure it's a point in my favor, since it's still evidence that could be used against me, should someone be peeking over my shoulder. Anyway, one Sunday this summer, my mind wandered to the Aerosmith concert we were planning to "attend" the next night. I noticed that I was starting to feel giddy, which started me thinking: Why am I 187 times more excited about that concert than about being here this morning? Why can I already feel it in my bones? What is it about the prospect of Steven Tyler screaming on stage that excites me more than being here, worshiping my Creator? So, as I followed my mind on this little sojourn, I came to a couple of possibilities, but I...

I know the day is going to come. I know it. I live and breathe expectantly, anxiously. There will come a day when they won't want me around. I know that. I will be dropping off and picking up, instead of parking and hanging out. I'll be knocking before entering. I will have to call them to the dinner table rather than asking them to get out of the kitchen. I know there will come a time when they won't want to breathe my air or share my allotted cubic feet of space. They won't interrupt me to tell me they need to go to the bathroom/need a drink of water/heard a funny joke today/that they love me. They won't interrupt me at all. They won't come barging in to our bedroom before sunrise on Saturday mornings just to ask if they can put a movie on or start breakfast. They won't spill the mix while crowding me at the counter. They might not spill anything at all. We probably won't hear the same DVD playing over and over again. They probably won't enjoy (or ...

A few of us have been wrestling a little bit lately with what it means to live in the grace of God. What does it mean to live fully covered by the Gospel? To embrace the freedom Christ secured for us on the cross? For me, last night, it meant big hair and hard rock. See, over the summer, I'd started to get a little self-conscious about my holiness. I was part of a study at church that consisted of mainly older, wiser, more conservative and traditional women. While I still felt largely like a voice of dissent - a raging postmodern compared to this crowd - there was a certain feeling starting to set in. An old nemesis. I can't believe I didn't recognize it, as we' spent so much time together in the past. Guilt. Guilt that I wasn't the teetotaling, perfect homemaking, gentle-speaking mother that I was being mentored to be in this class. I used my powers of wit and sarcasm to mask and suppress it, but with each chapter and interaction the guilt seeped deeper...wit...