This is Wednesday - Kid Style

"Why do we need to learn about God and Jesus? I already learned it and know all about it," whined Luke just as I shut the classroom door. Steven quickly chimed in, "Yeah, why do we? It's boring."




Uh-oh, looks like it Sunday just became Wednesday for Sophia's Playground, the children's ministry I coordinate for a small church. My class of 4 to 7 year olds was about to stage a mutiny and I didn't see it coming. (I never do.) Could I survive this "onslaught" and still remain captain of the ship? I'd better think fast (and pray faster!)




Thoughtfully I said, "Okay. What do YOU want to learn about? " Luke's answer came fast. It was sharks and karate moves and fossils. Steven wanted to know how God created crayons. Claire thought we should learn about Princesses and Rachel agreed, "Yeah, Princesses!" Bella was quiet for a while then thoughtfully suggested that learning about faraway places would be good. "Or maybe we could just take a trip to the park," she offered. Only Sarah, who always assures me that angels surround all the time, differed, "But I LIKE learning about God and Jesus."




Humm, this not what I planned for tonight. My teacher's lesson book indicated that we were to study the story of Jonah on the boat in the storm, running away from Nineveh. There was nothing in the index about sharks, whales maybe, but no sharks. I couldn't find anything about karate moves, fossils, crayons, or Disney Princesses. I could be in trouble here, on a boat in a storm like Jonah. We were pretty comfortable with each other, these kids and I, and if they thought it would quell the storm they wouldn't hesitate to throw me overboard to the whales.




Unlike Jonah I wasn't running away. My planned lesson went back into my bag and I pulled out Genesis. I used the creation story to work in their questions about fossils and sharks, and how God granted us intellect to create crayons and dollies named Molly. We talked about "Princesses" like Queen Esther. By snack time we were fully engaged in the discussion, even Sarah came up with an offbeat question or two. The Spirit was certainly upon our little classroom.



I am thankful for having to throw that lesson plan into my bag and following where my heart was led. I am even more thankful that the large "Wednesdays" in my life brought me to my "little church job", a place I certainly would not be if I had followed my original "life plan." I am grateful for the little "Wednesday", grateful for children who keep me young, who challenge my faith and who assure me that angels are everywhere all the time and in all places.

Words - An Invitation

Looking back I often regret that I did not take Latin in high school. At the time I thought it was stupid and old fashioned. At 14 or 15 I certainly had no interest in being involved in anything that might be remotely considered old fashioned. The cool kids were not taking Latin and I wanted to be a cool kid. "What's the point of a dead language?" we all said. The value of studying Latin only became apparent to me as an adult. I no longer care if I am cool, hip or da bomb. It's still flattering if someone calls me cool, I'll admit, but it doesn't matter anymore. I am living by my own lights.





The older I get the more I like words and understanding their origins. Endlessly fascinating to me, is researching the Latin, Greek, Old English or other linguistic roots and meanings of a word. Inspired by my friend and wordsmith, Dody, who chooses and uses words in the most spiritual way, I have come to see that unexamined words are like birds in a tree. They fly by me most of the time and I don't really need to bother to identify them, to notice the details of what they really look like. When I get out my binoculars to look closely at the birds I can not only see their species, but I can also observe their behavior thereby making them more meaningful to me. And it can be that way with the words I choose. If I stop for a moment to examine a word at its root I can often use it in a way that is more potent for both reader(or hearer) and me.





Recently, I have been exploring being a catalyst. This word comes from the Greek kata, meaning “down” and lysis or “a loosening.” A catalyst is a person who can break ideas down and loosen up the energy within, thus being an agent for change. The catalyst is the means and vehicle for change, not the change itself. The change is already within the people waiting to be loosened and unleashed.






I am, by nature, a collaborative person. This is especially true when working on projects, creative and otherwise. When I began writing this blog I was thinking of it not only as a way of writing my story, but also as a way of reaching out to others whose lives have not gone the the way they planned. I wanted them and, by extension me, to feel less alone, less odd and less adrift on a sea of uncertainty.






Your feedback has not altered my goal, but rather has suggested that I am on the right track. While the site is mine, (meaning you can't use anything here without my permission and proper attribution), I would like it to also be a place where you can share your Wednesday stories. I hope that I, through this site, can serve as a catalyst for bringing forth your stories, your struggles and your joys as you find your own paths.



Please email me your This Is Wednesday stories at thisiswed@gmail.com

Quicksand Redux AKA I Hate When my Words Come Back to me

He'd given me fair warning. "If I get home before you do, I'm going to start cleaning out the vegetable bin," my husband said. It was late summer and we'd fallen behind, way behind, on our produce consumption. There were potential science experiments lurking at the bottom of the produce drawer. Something had to be done and someone had to do it. I would be spending the day at Joshua Farm, as I do every Thursday,  and I'd be bringing home a load of fresh fruit and veggies, the payment for my labor. 

Produce sucks me in, so gently and seductively, that at first I never see the warning signs. My mind gets busy spinning out scenarios on how I'll use all this loveliness, "Half dozen ears of corn, a bag of plums, zucchini, okra, onions, garlic and tomatoes, oh my.  Sure I'll freeze those peaches and make a couple of pies. Watermelon, that will be good for desert. Never-mind that it won't fit in our refrigerator. I'm gonna pickle all that okra and make vegetable soup."  I constantly misjudge just how much two people can eat in a week.  Instead of paying attention to the signs that read, "DANGER. QUICKSAND. STAY ON PATH." I forge ahead.  I can't say no. I have a plan. Suddenly, I am knee deep in tomatoes, peppers, and green leafy things; and sinking faster than I realize. I keep thinking, "...But, I'll freeze it. I'll try canning. I think I can dry this." In reality I have limited freezer space, never canned anything in my life, and have only ever dried herbs.

When I arrive home on that Thursday night, my husband is on his knees in front of the refrigerator throwing my plans into a box for the composter. The warning sign is way behind me now.  My hip waders are filling with quicksand as I grab apples and peppers from the box. "Look," I say, "If we cut out the bad spots these apples can be apple butter and these plums aren't too bad either. It can be fruit butter, instead.  These peppers are salvageable, just chop up the good parts, put them in baggies in the freezer." My husband is trying to speak reason to me. He is literally telling me to FLOAT, but I can't hear him as I snatch another soft peach from the box. I am not listening. I throw a pot on the stove, get out the cutting board and knife, attacking the fruit like a woman possessed by demons.

"Where is your stick?" he says,

I rage back at him as I furiously peel and slice fruit. "What? What on earth are you talking about? What stick?" I want to be eating dinner, not chopping fruit or having this inane conversation.

"Where is your stick, Woman? Quit flailing around like a crazy person," says he and at that moment I slice into my finger instead of the plum I was holding.

"Oow!" I drop the knife and grab my finger. Finally, I hear. "Oh, I hate when my words come back to me," I stammer as my husband places a paper towel over my bleeding finger.  He says gently as his hand closes over mine, "I know." I lean back, relax my body and float; allowing myself to be hauled out of the muck.