More Breaking News

Back in September, I wrote a blog entry marveling at the range of news items that make the cut for CNN's Breaking News email messages.

Three have already popped into my inbox this morning (which is three more than I tend to receive on any given day). Just thought I'd share.

From: CNN Breaking News
Sent: Tuesday, January 31, 2006 7:03 AM
-- Female ex-employee kills six people, self, in shooting at postal sorting offices in Goleta, California, authorities say.

Sent: Tuesday, January 31, 2006 7:31 AM
-- Coretta Scott King, wife of slain civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr., has died, a PR company for the King family says.

Sent: Tuesday, January 31, 2006 8:54 AM
-- "Brokeback Mountain" leads Academy Awards field with eight nominations, including best picture

The Wall

As I got dressed this morning, I listened to Scott Simon on NPR's Weekend Edition Saturday, as I try to every Saturday morning when I'm home. The final interview, which aired just before 10 a.m., was with Rosanne Cash, about her new CD, Black Cadillac. She wrote the songs for this release during the two-year period during which her father, mother and step-mother all died.

I like Rosanne Cash's music, and I think I'll probably purchase this CD. Beyond that, though, I found myself moved by the conversation. The real emotion, the lingering grief that she clearly feels...by the end of the piece, I was crying.

There was this insight, from Rosanne:

"It's an odd feeling to become the wall between death and the generation behind you, between my children, you know... It's comforting to feel the wall ahead of you, with your parents, and when they're gone and you're the wall..."

Then the piece closes with a recording of Johnny Cash's voice, saying, "Roseanne, Roseanne..." and Roseanne's child's voice responding, "Bye, bye, bye."

I saw the movie I Walk the Line on Thanksgiving Day, with Myrna, during my Utah visit a couple months ago. I always associate Johnny Cash with my dad, and my childhood, and Myrna even commented to me, before knowing this, that she's always thought my dad looks a little like Johnny Cash.

I'm grateful that my parents are still The Wall. May that continue to be so for many years to come.

Here we go!

Pittsburgh's going to Superbowl XL*!

*That's 40, which is almost the number of years it's taken for me to become a football fan. Who knew?

Go Steelers!

New Life

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my
mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” —Psalm 139:13-14

It was a dark and stormy Wednesday afternoon.

The date was January the eleventh.

The time was 2:30.

I was sitting at my office desk, catching up on some paperwork, having just returned from a meeting at Geneva College in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania, where I was making arrangements for the Coalition’s two-week Spring Institute in May.

My phone rang.

It was my brother John calling to tell me that he and his wife Chris were at the hospital. It was two weeks before her due date, but after months of mandatory bed-rest and what had been a difficult (and seemingly eternal) pregnancy, Chris was finally going to have this baby!

“The doctor says it could be a long night,” John told me. They had broken her water, but it could be 12 to 14 hours before the baby would be born. “Can you call Dave and tell him what’s happening?” Did he want me to bring anything? “A camera!” they’d experienced so many false alarms, it hadn’t occurred to either of them to take a camera when they left for Chris’ doctor appointment that day.

No problem. I called my cousin Dave, who was working at home in Shadyside that day, just a couple of miles from my apartment. I needed to take care of a few things before leaving the office, but arranged to take the next day off. Dave and I decided to meet at my place at 4:30, at which point he would follow me to Forbes Regional Hospital in Monroeville (where just a little more than a month before, my friend Lisa had given birth to her second son, Christopher). Mom and Dad had been notified and were preparing to drive in from Cleveland that evening. We were all prepared for an all-night vigil.

John had given me specific directions on how to find him and Chris once we arrived at the hospital. Delivery room 7, all the way down the corridor, last door on the right. Dave and I, clutching dripping umbrellas, having survived a rainy Pittsburgh rush-hour, managed to navigate ourselves to what we thought was the correct destination. By now it was a little after 5:30.

In the front door. Take a left. Down this hallway.

Here we are: labor & delivery, 7.

Voices, bodies, activity. The cry of a baby. From 7?

Dave and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised. A nurse turned and saw us; she pulled a curtain shut—not that we’d seen anything aside from a cluster of people’s backs blocking our view of the bed. I strained to recognize a voice…John’s? Chris’?

“It’s a girl…” The doctor?

Then, Chris’ voice, then John’s. I don’t remember what either of them said, just that it registered that we weren’t standing outside the wrong delivery room.

I turned to Dave. “I have a niece,” I said.

The nurse who had pulled the curtain came into the hallway and asked if she could help us. I identified myself as John’s sister; she smiled and pointed us in the direction of the waiting room. Dave and I headed back up the long corridor, bypassed the waiting room, turned around to backtrack and saw John walking toward us.

As we got closer, I saw that my brother was crying.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispered. “Absolutely perfect.”

And then John and I shared the longest hug in our 25-plus years of siblinghood.

***

Kathryn Noel turned 11 years old today (11 on the eleventh), a rainy January Wednesday, very similar to the day she came into the world. I just returned home from her birthday dinner in Monroeville, the city of her birth, at the Shogun Japanese Steakhouse, site of our family’s habitual birthday celebrations.

I wrote the above in April 1995, just three months after Katy was born, and sent it out to friends and family with an Easter card. Here’s how I closed the letter:

***

Have you ever thought about how amazing it is that an event like childbirth is so commonplace and yet so miraculous? As exciting as it is to hold any newborn, how much moreso it must be when that baby is your own offspring. The closest I’ve come to this experience is holding my first [and so far, only] niece, little Katy, when she was less than thirty minutes old.

This Easter, as I celebrate the miracle of the resurrection of Jesus the Christ, I’ll also be celebrating the miracle of every new life, and especially the new life of Katy Noel.

“How great is the love the Father has lavished on us that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!” —1 John 3:1

Christ is risen!
He is risen indeed!
Hallelujah!

***

Happy birthday, Katy Noel.

A Time Between

For the past couple of months, I have been working on a project with a few of my fellow CCO staff, headed up by my colleague Jennifer Rash.

During her recent (and current) sabbatical, Jennifer was inspired to invite interested colleagues to work with her to produce a devotional booklet covering the period between Easter and Advent, appropriately titled A Time Between. Working with the Revised Common Lectionary, each of us were assigned a few weeks' readings upon which to reflect and write.

One of my assigned weeks was July 30, 2006, the 17th Sunday in Ordinary Time. (Ordinary Time. I love that.) The passages all have to do with God's extraordinary provision, and while the Matthew 25 passage about feeding the hungry, clothing the naked and visiting the imprisoned was not among that day's readings, it kept popping into my mind, and therefore, found its way into my draft of that day's reflection.

I just received an email from my cousin John today, in which he offers a new perspective on that same passage:

The bread which you do not use is the bread of the hungry; the garment hanging in your wardrobe is the garment of him who is naked; the shoes that you do not wear are the shoes of the one who is barefoot; the money that you keep locked away is the money of the poor; the acts of charity that you do not perform are so many injustices that you commit. —St. Basil

This theme keeps cropping up for me. I suspect there's a reason for that.

In this season of New Year's resolutions (of which I've made none, at least not formally), it seems fitting to contemplate the power of these words. And to start living like I believe them.

Drinking the Cup of Life

The discipline of silence, word, and action focus our eyes on the road we are traveling and help us to move forward, step by step, to our goal. We will encounter great obstacles and splendid views, long, dry deserts and also freshwater lakes surrounded by shadow-rich trees. We will have to fight against those who try to attack and rob us. We also will make wonderful friends. We will often wonder if we will ever make it, but one day we will see coming to us the One who has been waiting for us from all eternity to welcome us home. Yes, we can drink our cup of life to the bottom, and as we drink it realize that the One who has called us "the beloved," even before we were born, if filling it with everlasting life. —Henri J. M. Nouwen, from Can You Drink the Cup?

My colleague, Lindsey Smyth, included this quote with her Christmas cards this year, and I found it both moving and inspiring.

I pray that we all may "drink our cup of life to the bottom" in the coming year and, as Lindsey writes, "gain an even greater understanding of our 'belovedness' in Christ Jesus, our Lord."

Amen.

Page 123

I'm borrowing this from Michele's blog:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don't search around and look for the coolest book you can find. Do what's actually next to you.

Here's what I found:

"She worked on overcoming her timidity, but discovered eventually she had the gift of serenity." (from Becky Pippert's Out of the Saltshaker & into the World)

So, what did you find?

Spiritual Journeys

“The more I tune in to the source of my own being..., the more anger, sorrow, and fear seem confined to the shallows of my personality, while my true self — and yours, and that of every being — is like a sea whose depths are always tranquil, however troubled the surface may become. Pain reminds me to return to the deep, calm, gentle sea, so that I find myself crying because I’m happy, and because I’m sad, but never because I’m in despair. Once you’re sure that God is waiting in the acceptance of every true thing, even pain, I’m not sure despair is even possible.” —Martha Beck, Leaving the Saints: How I Lost the Mormons and Found My Faith, page 303 (hardcover edition)

During my recent visit to Utah, I purchased a book I had been hearing about for a while: Martha Beck's controversial memoir, Leaving the Saints: How I Lost the Mormons and Found My Faith. I was about half-way through it by the time I was jetting home to Pittsburgh (feeling a little self-conscious about revealing the spine to any passers-by in the Salt Lake City airport), and it took me a while to finish once I got home, what with all the busyness that greeted me on this side of the continent. During our afternoon in Park City, I purchased a copy for Myrna; so many of the insights I was reading — and reading aloud, to her — were eerie echoes of observations she had already made to me about life in Utah Valley, either in person or via her blog.

There is a lot to say about this book, which I may or may not address some other time. I found it a fascinating, entertaining and disturbing read. For those unfamiliar with the book, here is an excerpt of the summary published at amazon.com:

“When graduate student Martha Beck’s son Adam was born with Down syndrome, she and her husband left the chilly halls of Harvard for Utah and the warm, accepting embrace of the Mormon community. Determined to assimilate back into her childhood faith after years of atheism, Beck’s disenchantment resurfaced when censorship from the church heavily influenced the curriculum at Brigham Young University where she taught part-time. More disturbing was Beck’s eventual belief that her father, a virtual celebrity in the Mormon Church, had sexually molested her as a child.”

My own interest in Utah and Mormons started a long time ago. I was nine years old when I “fell in love” with Donny Osmond, who was then exactly twice my age. At 8 p.m. every Friday night, I faithfully parked myself (and my clunky tape recorder) in front of our remote-control-less TV set to watch the Donny & Marie show. (During the pre-VCR era of the mid- to late-1970s, I was resourceful!) Often, my friend Lisa — and her tape recorder — were parked right there beside me. And my younger brothers can tell you about the ban on conversation during those hour-long variety shows, lest my recordings be polluted by their commentary. Instead, they were polluted by every loud “SHHH” I uttered each time someone in the room dared to cough, sneeze or — heaven forbid — speak.

Anyway, back to Utah and Mormons.

Any true blue Osmond fan who read as many issues of Tiger Beat and 16 Magazine as I did knew full well that Donny was a devout member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and his future wife would be one, too. My pre-adolescent brain reasoned that Mormonism couldn't be much different than Presbyterianism. I would happily convert, should Donny propose to me.

Of course, this never became an issue. In true Mormon tradition, Donny got married at age 20, breaking many young hearts. I was disappointed, but not heartbroken. Let’s face it: I was only 11 years old. I heard somewhere that many of the fans who were deeply disappointed by Donny’s marriage, and by the marriages of his many brothers, had actually converted to Mormonism. Donny and his singing brothers and sister may have never embarked on the traditional two-year mission that most young men in the LDS church serve, but they did reach thousands with their own testimonies. (For the record, I'm still worshipping in a Presbyterian congregation.)

By the time I started junior high, I was embarrassed to admit my earlier crush on Donny. I didn’t give much thought to him or his religion for many years. It wasn't until 1993, when I took a CCO Spring Institute class in “cults and alternative religions” taught by Dr. Ruth Tucker, that I discovered what Mormons actually believe. My immersion in orthodox Christian theology gave me an actual framework through which to view the doctrines and legalisms of the LDS church. Spending almost a week in Mormon country last month has added new dimensions of understanding and insight, as has reading Martha Beck's memoir, dismissed as fiction by many faithful Mormons.

I'll let any interested parties pick up this book or read the many online reviews (positive and negative, from both LDS members and “Gentiles” alike) for themselves. After finishing the book, I'm curious about how Martha Beck would describe the faith she ultimately “found” after leaving the LDS church. She’s not very specific about it — by design, I suspect — but it certainly seems to be a more grace-filled spirituality than what she left behind.

The Gender Genie

OK, this is just weird.

(Oops — I forgot. I apparently shouldn't be using the word is. Or the. Or something. Because those are masculine words. On the other hand, actually, like, because, too and since are feminine words.)

My friend Lisa just sent me this link, which assigns you a gender based on how you write.

As Lisa instructs: "Paste in a blog entry (preferably at least 500 words) and click the submit button. Based on some weird algorithmic formula, it will then tell you if it thinks the blog entry was written by a male or female."

Only once has it correctly identified me as a female. Granted, it claims an 80% success rate, but still. I'm not sure what (if anything) to make of this.

Thoughts?

A Utah Thanksgiving: Pickles, Duke and the Outlaw Café

It’s 10:30 (MST) on Thanksgiving evening, and Myrna and I just returned from seeing the new movie, I Walk the Line, a biopic of Johnny Cash. We aren’t sure exactly when this movie opened—last weekend, maybe?—but it was packed. Apparently, we weren’t the only ones who thought a Thanksgiving movie night was a good idea.

Myrna was still full from our Thanksgiving feast (which we enjoyed with a group of folks from her church) but I decided to indulge in popcorn and cherry Coke. While in the concession line, we noticed the menu: popcorn, candy, nachos, pickles.

Pickles?

Is it just us, or is a pickle that least likely movie snack you can think of? Popcorn? Check. Junior Mints? Check. Chilled, garlicky, preserved cucumbers? Not so much. But the guy two people in front of us actually ordered one, so apparently, it’s popular movie food in Utah. In Provo, anyway. (We’re assuming this item wouldn’t be on the menu if this is the only guy purchasing them.)

I arrived in Salt Lake City late Monday night—sadly, my luggage did not. Myrna greeted me at baggage claim, where we left information with the nice lady who deals with lost luggage, then headed to Denny’s for a midnight snack (for me, anyway—it was only 10 here, but literally midnight where I came from).

Tuesday, Myrna went to work while I slept in; later, we took a drive into Provo Canyon—looked for Robert Redford at Sundance Resort (no sightings). We drove north to Salt Lake City again—went in search of the actual lake (which we found, but right at dusk, so not much to look at). We found our way to our ultimate destination: the Sugarhouse Barnes and Noble in the city, where former President Jimmy Carter was doing a book signing. We naively hadn’t anticipated the long lines that wound around the block to await entry into the bookstore, but quickly decided that going to dinner was probably a more useful endeavor than finding the end of the queue. So instead of meeting Mr. Carter, we enjoyed a delicious meal at Mazza, a Greek restaurant a few blocks away. (When we finally arrived home, so had my luggage. Woohoo!)

Wednesday, we headed south to Moab, but only made it as far Wellington, where we met Duke at the Outlaw Café. We ordered lunch and asked the waitress about Nine Mile Canyon, which was close by, and were referred to Duke, who sat at a nearby table, sipping coffee while his daughter finished up her meal. A self-proclaimed “font of useless information,” Duke at first joked that he wouldn’t advise a trip back there if we valued our tires, but he and his daughter agreed that it would be a more worthwhile trip than a visit to Canyonlands, which was our original destination. (That or Arches National Park.)

On Duke’s recommendation—and with his business card in hand, should we break down and need to be rescued—we decided to take a chance on the dirt roads of the 40+-mile so-called Nine Mile Canyon. (It was a nice gesture, but we did not end up needing his assistance, which is a good thing as we had no cell reception for most of our drive.)

So now it’s after 11:00 on Thanksgiving evening, and Myrna is reading the Entertainment Weekly article about the movie we just saw, and I’m typing to the accompaniment of Johnny Cash in the CD drive, and we’re still figuring out what tomorrow holds.

Note: It is now Friday around 1:15 p.m. (MST), and so far, this day has held a lazy morning at Myrna's place, and a fruitless search for an open library at which to post this blog entry—both here and at M's blog. Apparently, library employees in Utah get to enjoy Thanksgiving Friday as a holiday, as the three we visited, in Springville, Spanish Fork and Provo, are all closed until tomorrow. So here we are at a Kinko's in Provo, paying per minute to use the computer. And we're soon off to find lunch and explore Park City. My Utah sojourn is coming to a rapid close...more once I'm back in Pennsylvania!

Happy Thanksgiving!

In just a few brief minutes, I'm off to the airport to catch a flight to Salt Lake City! I thank God for my many blessings, and especially for loving friends and family members. May you have a blessed Thanksgiving celebration, wherever you may be.

Stranger in a Strange Land

My friend Myrna moved to Utah in September. Temporarily. She is spending the year working with an environmental testing company, making as much money as possible to pay off graduate school debt and to replenish her dwindling savings.

I'm excited to report that this time next week, I'll be getting ready to head to the airport to board a plane for Salt Lake City! I'll be spending Thanksgiving week with Myrna, exploring this foreign-to-me part of the country.

Speaking of which, Myrna has started a blog to share the impressions of Mormon country through the eyes of a (non-Mormon) western Pennsylvania native. If you're interested in reading some of her observations, you can check them out here. Stranger in a strange land, indeed.

Road to recovery

Just a quick post to let everyone know that Mom was released from the hospital yesterday (Saturday). By early afternoon, she was on her way home, and her prognosis is good. She just needs to take it easy and, according to her doctor, "not fall again."

So much for being kept in the hospital "through the weekend"! We'll take it, though.

Thanks again for praying.

Through the weekend

The latest word about the saga of Mom's ruptured spleen: sounds like they'll be keeping her under surveillance at the hospital through the weekend. Which we're interpreting as "at least through Monday."

While she'd certainly rather be at home, we agree that it's better to be safe than sorry, and the hospital must be where she needs to be for the time being. She's feeling relatively OK, but I'm not sure what progress has been made toward the spleen healing itself. Maybe there will be more word later today. It's a waiting game.

Thanks for praying!

Monitoring the situation

A big thank you to all who have been keeping my mom in your prayers. No big news to report today, except that she is still in the hospital and probably will be for the next couple of days. After a CT scan this morning, all seems to be at status quo, but it's obviously serious enough that the doctors want to keep a close eye on her, and they moved her to yet another room so that they can hook her up to heart monitors and such. I don't know why, exactly, but am trusting that the doctors know what she needs. We continue to hope and pray that surgery won't be necessary and that the ruptured spleen will heal on its own.

She would much rather be in the comfort of her own house and away from needles and other hospital paraphenalia, but Mom is hanging in. Thanks again for your concern and prayers.

Privacy

I just got a call from Mom a little while ago to let me know that she's been moved out of the ICU and into a regular room. She sounds like she's in good spirits, and she's definitely appreciating a more comfortable bed and relative privacy. I'm looking forward to visiting with her after work this evening.

Thanks for the prayers!

Rupture

Dad and I went to visit Mom last night in the hospital for the allotted 30 minutes (plus 10, since they didn't kick us out at 7:30 on the dot). She seems to be doing very well, considering. She's still in ICU and will hopefully be in a regular room tonight. Which means that she'll be in the hospital until tomorrow, at least.

And I had been under the impression that her spleen was "bruised," which I suppose is true, as far as it goes. But the terminology of "ruptured spleen" came up in our conversation last night, in direct relation to what happened to hers. Is it just me, or does "rupture" sound far worse than "bruise"?

I'm praising God that surgery looks to be an unlikely scenario. And I'm amazed by the human body's ability to "heal itself."

"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made..." —Psalm 139:14

Prayers for Mom

Back in March, my mother had open heart valve repair surgery. She's been doing great ever since, and just the other night when we attended an exhibition basketball game between the University of Pittsburgh and Slippery Rock, I mentioned to her how relieved I was not to be visiting her in the hospital. (Her surgery took place during March Madness, shortly after we attended the last basketball game of last season, in the hospital right across the street from Pitt's Petersen Event Center.)

Mom went back into the hospital yesterday, not because of anything heart-related, but because of a fall she took last week. She's been experiencing quite a bit of pain since then, and apparently, the impact of her fall bruised her spleen. So she's back in the hospital, in the Intensive Care Unit, where visiting hours are limited to a half hour twice a day and where she has no direct telephone access. The latest report from Dad is that she's doing well enough for them to consider moving her out of ICU and into a regular room. We aren't sure they'll actually do that, though, as they can moderate her condition more effectively in ICU. Either way, I plan to get my half hour visit in later this evening. And so far, praise God, it doesn't appear they'll need to operate.

So. If you're inclined, please join me in praying for healing and comfort for my mom. Thank you.

It’s about incarnation, or “My friend Ginger”

If the contents of this post sound familiar to some readers, that's because I am republishing the October 2005 newsletter which I sent out to friends and family last week: posted for the benefit of readers who have not already received (or read) it. —alm

I first met Ginger Weeber in the mid-1980s. She was a campus minister at Edinboro University of Pennsylvania and I was a student at Allegheny College, 20 miles south.

In May of 1988, a couple weeks shy of my college graduation, I remember standing in a Geneva College dorm room, holding Ginger’s two-month-old daughter and sharing my excitement and apprehension about joining CCO staff myself. Ginger and her husband Dave were attending the CCO’s annual Spring Institute. I had driven down to Beaver Falls from Meadville to meet with my soon-to-be Geneva College colleagues.

In 1989, when I moved to Erie to work with Gannon University students, Dave Weeber became my new supervisor. I joined First Presbyterian Church of the Covenant, Ginger’s home church, where I ended up worshipping and playing in the bell choir with Ginger’s mom, Peg Herrod.

In 1990, the Weebers moved from Edinboro to Pittsburgh so that Dave could attend graduate school. While raising two small children, Dave resumed student life and Ginger continued to work with the CCO, supervising Pittsburgh-area staff people.

When I prepared to move to Pittsburgh in 1993 to work at CCO headquarters, guess who was instrumental in finding me a place to live? Ginger not only connected me with two great roommates — Lynne was a grad student at the University of Pittsburgh and Sarah worked for the CCO at Chatham College — but the townhouse we shared happened to be just a few doors away from the Weebers’ home. The “Beacon Street Community” was born and remains vital to this day, even though none of us live on Beacon Street anymore.

The baby I remember holding in a McKee Hall dorm room is now applying to colleges. Ginger recently celebrated 25 years on CCO staff, and since 1990, she has served as Regional Director, as Director of the Intern Program, and as Director of New Staff Training. She has done work around leadership development within the CCO, and she currently holds the position of Development Associate, raising money for the CCO's General Fund.

Not too long after coming on staff, I remember attending a Staff Seminar where Dave and Ginger were recognized for a decade-plus of ministry at Edinboro. That seemed like an eternity to me at the time. I was moved to tears by their testimonies of God’s faithfulness in the midst of steadfast commitment to a single campus community over the long haul.

The CCO was only 17 years old then. I’ve now been on staff that long. And Ginger Weeber and I, after so many serendipitous intersections of our lives, are now collaborating on various projects to strengthen the effectiveness of this ministry we both love so much.

The CCO is twice the size today as when I joined staff 17 years ago. Even though I haven’t held the number or diversity of positions that Ginger has, my work has changed significantly since 1993. I still do a lot of the same jobs that I was doing back then. I write and edit brochures and magazine articles. I facilitate inter-staff communications. I proofread my colleagues’ work. But over the past 12 years, I’ve had to become much more computer-savvy — I wouldn’t have recognized the term “Web site” back in 1993. The CCO is now a 34-year-old, 21st century ministry with close to 200 employees, and it requires more of its support staff today than it did in 1971 or 1988 or 1993.

I have learned how to write and distribute press releases. I send “Weekly News” emails to all of our staff members. Lately, Ginger and I have been working together to compose a new case statement for the CCO. Why do we exist? What needs does this organization meet? Why should anyone financially support this ministry?

We have also been tracking down former students of CCO ministries to find out what is going on in their lives. We ask them how they imagine their lives might be different today had they not been involved in the CCO’s ministry when they were in college. What influence has the ministry had in how they pursue their vocations, raise their families, contribute to their churches and communities?

Here’s the not-so-surprising discovery Ginger and I have made as we’ve worked together and talked with student alumni of the CCO’s ministry:

It’s about relationships. It’s about friendships and community. It’s about people caring about one another, encouraging one another, challenging one another, and pursuing faithfulness together. It’s about the incarnation: God with us, Emmanuel, Jesus Christ.

Ginger Weeber herself has illustrated this for me, so naturally and with such constancy that it’s taken me half a lifetime to recognize how deeply she’s influenced my life. Those of you receiving this letter have also been that for me — caring, loving, encouraging friends and family members. Thank you for the many ways you support me and the work I continue to do through the Coalition for Christian Outreach: transforming students to transform the world.

Welcome, baby Jack!

My mom celebrated her 64th birthday yesterday (Monday, October 24), the same day my friends Sarah and Jeff welcomed their third child into the world. Little Jack joins two sisters, Alison (who turned four in August) and Taylor (who turns two on Christmas day).

Welcome, baby Jack!

And happy birthday, Mom!