So what is J. S. Bach writing these days?

I have long lamented the lack of time for all the things I would like to do. I once took Betty Edward's Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain onto the hills of Mpumulunga and spent enough time to know that I didn't have the patience. But photography! If I had another lifetime... If I could take pictures like the ones in National Geographic...

I was somewhat disappointed when our daughter did not go into architectural conservation and restoration since it is a field that has long fascinated me. I will be refinishing an antique dresser in the next couple weeks (if it ever stops raining), and a friend has assured me that reupholstering is "easy." There are quilts and calligraphy, wood carving and cabinetry, all skills I would love to pursue, not to mention all the books I haven't read and story ideas I would like to develop. Don't get me started on what I would do on the ice if I had the time and money to skate every day and take multiple lessons per week. If only reincarnation were true, I might have the time to develop a different skill in each lifetime.

A couple years ago it hit me like a speeding semi that God is Creator. Duh. What I mean is that it is part of his basic character. He created me in his image. Why do I assume that all that will end in eternity? God can't change who he is. Surely creativity will go on.

Last night I finished reading Andy Crouch's Culture Making: Recovering our Creative Calling. This evening I plan to start again at the beginning. There is too much meat for one reading. This book belongs on my shelf next to the writing books and Madeleine L'Engle's Walking on Water. It is about culture defining the limits of what is, and is not, possible, and about changing culture through circles of influence that start as small as two or three creative people thinking and acting together. Even the founders of MySpace couldn't guarantee the impact it would have on society. But as they created and their friends caught their enthusiasm and told their friends, the world has changed. As Christians, we want to change the world, but changes always start small with people in community thinking beyond their horizons of possibility. Culture Making maintains that creativity is a ministry as divine as preaching. Crouch tells us to examine whatever we are doing and ask, is this good enough for the New Jerusalem?

Long ago I asked the Lord to make my room in heaven a two-story paneled library with a fireplace, a teapot, and French windows opening onto a garden terrace. One of these days in eternity, I'm going to ask him to freeze over that Crystal Sea in front of his throne and let us do an ice show for his glory to the live music of Michael W. Smith and the heavenly choirs. Maybe my resurrected body will even be able to do a triple Axel. Who needs reincarnation when you have all of eternity to plumb the depths of his gift of creativity?

Proud moments

This blog entry has nothing to do with Africa. Neither does it have anything to do with children except those who grow up and make you proud. My daughter Erika ran her first marathon in Baltimore on Saturday. I say her first because despite the pain, she is determined to run another—just not next week.

My little sister Jill ran with her. I emphasize that she is my ‘little’ sister. She is much younger than I am—almost two years—that’s why she is able to run marathons and I am not. This was her second. She has been a major encourager of Erika in running as well as in many other aspects of life. Jill had a cold and could hardly talk. “There’s nothing like a good run to make me feel better,” she assured us the night before.

Erika shaved her legs. “Just in case I pass out, and they take me to the hospital,” she explained.

Erika’s husband, Dan, also ran. He is army-buff, and after graciously waiting at the start with Erika and Jill among the eleven-minute milers, they never saw him again until the end of the race.

Jill’s husband Kent, my husband Steve, daughter Katie and her almost-two Bella, and I came to cheer. Katie made a poster. I bought balloons so our runners could find us in the crowd. (I considered the balloon that said “Hope you’re feeling better” but wondered if the humor might be missed by some.) Bella waved pom-poms. Kent threatened to stand on the other side of the street and pretend he didn’t know us.

We saw our runners in the long line for the porta-potties, but we lost them in the crowd at the start. By the time we had walked the three blocks to the point where they would pass at the seven-mile mark, the front-running Kenyans and Ethiopians were already running by.

We cheered and waved to all. There was the large red-headed man in a kilt and the elderly man running in a cream tuxedo. (Okay, maybe he wasn’t exactly elderly, but he was definitely older than I am and by the end of twenty-six point two miles, he seemed to be feeling his age.) There were the “Marathon Sisters” in green T-shirts and the Baltimore crabs complete with feelers on their heads and red claws on their hands (at least at the beginning.) Everyone cheered the man pushing a three-wheeled chair with a disabled child in it. Somewhere in there Dan passed us, slapping the palms of excited little boys. Then Erika and Jill came by, bouncing with enthusiasm and waving their arms to be sure we saw them.

We grabbed a Starbucks and headed for the thirteen mile point. We thought we would be clever and stand on a bridge over the road, but that put us with our backs to the sun, and Dan never looked up while we screamed his name. So we moved down onto the roadside, and Erika and Jill came by, still bouncing, if not quite so much.

It was a two-mile hike to mile eighteen, and Kent and I took off complete with balloons, sign, pom-poms, and it turned out, the diaper bag. I was wearing loafers. (Hint: When you go to a marathon, wear sneakers even if you aren’t planning to run.) Dan had already passed by the time we got there. Erika was having trouble keeping up with Jill’s pace. Her legs were cramping despite the sports jelly beans and a salt pill. They decided to separate.

Jill ran on. Erika stopped to talk to us, stretching her legs and trying to work out the cramps. She was determined to go on. I gave her a kiss good-bye. When I licked my lips, I tasted the salt from her cheek. Then Kent did a very special thing. He took off to run with Erika “for a while.” He was wearing long pants and a sport shirt. His computer was in a backpack on his back. (The system where we were supposed to be able to track our runners electronically didn’t seem to be working properly.) He also had the bag with the change of shoes and socks Jill had thought she might want and whatever else. At least he had the right shoes.

That left me with the sign, the balloons, the camera, my purse and the pom-poms stuffed in the diaper bag to traipse back across Baltimore. It wasn’t the most up-scale neighborhood which I was more aware of without Kent. I only started to get really nervous when I saw the building ahead ringed with razor-wire on every floor. It turned out to be the ‘Correctional Adjustment Center’ which I suspect is a euphemism for ‘county jail’. I said a quick prayer and didn’t stop to rest until I reached a green park in the historical (i.e. restored) section near downtown.

Thanks to cell phones, I found the others at about mile 25.5. By this time the runners were on their last legs with the exception of a few relay-racers who passed at a sprint from time to time. The guy in the tux was still jogging along although the tux looked somewhat the worse for wear. Dan passed on a pace to make his four-hour goal. (He did. He clocked in at 3:59:20.) Jill passed a long time later, not quite so bouncy as when she started.

Dan finished his race, got something to eat, skipped the line for free massage that was clogged with 5k runners, and headed back up the hill to find us.

When Erika came, Kent was still running with her. He had skipped the loop around a lake that they did at the top and picked her up on the way back, secretly relieved when she decided she needed to walk for a bit from time to time. He gratefully dropped out when he saw us.

Then came the second very special part of the race for Erika. After running his own twenty-six point two miles, Dan took Erika’s hand and ran the last mile with her. We weren’t there to see them cross the finish. We were still traipsing down the hill carrying a sleeping Bella.

What is it about a marathon? There is pushing your body to the limits of its endurance. There is meeting a goal that a hundred pounds ago you never thought you could. For us on the side, it is proudly cheering people we love and being there for them when they hurt.

And then there is the party afterward. That’s the part Bella liked best. She’s always a good one for a party.

Maybe it’s a lesson on life. A friend died recently of cancer. At the funeral they handed out forks. You know after dinner when they collect the plates and tell you to keep your fork? It means dessert is coming. “The best part is still ahead,” Joanne’s family said at the funeral, “when we get to heaven.”

I’m with Bella. I’m looking forward to the party. But first I have to run the race.