Reader Favorite: How To Break Up With an Evolutionist

The following conversation may vary with the unscripted responses of the other individual -- the most likely comments were chosen as representative.

“Umm, Honey, I believe the evidence examined in the unbiased light of real science supports the Intelligent Design and Creation.”

“What!?! How could you be so ignorant? Don’t you know that evolution has been proven?”

“Define proven.”

“Well, Everyone knows it’s true.”

Try not to be smug when you say: “I don’t.”
At this point they will look at you as if you are the stupidest person on the planet. Tell your soon to be in-significant other “Evolution is an unproven Theory. Even Darwin didn’t believe it in the end.”

The rebuttal to that point will most likely be an inarticulate scream of frustration and a forcible attempt to remove hair from their own head. A movement resembling a figure skating sit-spin sometimes accompanies this.

Now show some mercy, soften your voice and speak calmly but pleasantly. “I am willing to postulate that both Intelligent Design and Evolution are un-testable hypotheses and therefore theoretical, with no proof beyond sheer faith. I even go so far as to grant your right to believe, however misguided, that you are the product of millions of years of accidental mishaps in the life of an amoebic protein chain.”

“So you do think evolution is true, then.” Confusion and relief will struggle for dominance in this response.

“No.” Not too breezily, now. Be kind.
You and I know what you’re going to say next, but they do not see it coming. “But since I can neither prove nor disprove either theory to your satisfaction, I have decided to let you be the product of evolution if you want and I will continue to be the purposely created child of a Loving God.”

“Well, I… What?”

“It’s a compromise.”

“So I’ve evolved and you’ve been designed.” The shaking head and patronizing smirk indicate amusement and a degree of disgust.

“Yes, I will accept the idea that you are the end product, the eventual genetic offspring of random mutant monkey parentage, while you will admit I am the deliberate, intentional child of a purposeful Creator.” Pause for a moment, let it sink in. “Unfortunately that means I can’t date you anymore.”

“Huh?” [editor's note: there is a 47% variable indicating that this response might actually be "Wha...?" as that is not an actual word we have kept "Huh?"]

You continue, “Our compromise requires that I no longer believe that we are the same species, I’m sorry. I'm just not willing to practice inter-species dating.”

They will tell all their friends that they broke up with you because you're nuts.



Disclaimer: the above is pure imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental and mostly unintentional. For entertainment purposes only. ABSOLUTELY NOT MEANT AS RELATIONSHIP ADVICE.

Constance's Song

You learn to hold the Hand of God
You learn to walk the narrow way
You learn the hardest path to trod
Becomes the one away from God
When you do not obey

You learn the only peace of mind
Depends upon the strength you find
In arms that hold the lost and blind
And point the way to Truth

You learn to bless the grace of God
You learn to walk the narrow way
You learn the Comfort of the rod
The Shepherd’s staff, the Will of God
When you learn to obey

You learn to walk upon on your knees
To ask the Savior “Help me, please.”
The Holy Spirit intercedes
And leads you back to Love

~from an old work in progress currently gathering dust.

I was thinking of my story, the one this song (well, these lyrics, really) appears in. Thinking about why I started writing it and why I let it go half-finished for so long (about 3 years now). It's a story that falls between two markets, the Christian market won't like certain things and it's too Christian to sell in the mainstream market. Not salable if I believe the gurus.

Mainly though, I put it away because there were only a few parts that met my high standards. Okay it is a rough/first draft, but still!

'If I wouldn't put my name on it,' I thought 'why am I still writing it?' And so the characters sit there, living, breathing, patiently waiting to have the rest of their story told.

And some days they hum a little tune so loudly it rings in my ears. Like today.

A Genesis RAP: The Story of Lot

Yo, My name is LOT and I’m here to say
I gotta little story ‘bout getting my way
I see something good I just gotta have
Like land for my sheep and fields for my calves
I want the land with the fields and streams
That rich rich land is the land of my dreams
[b-boxing]

Uncle Abe, you know, is a kindly dude
So he puts up with my attitude
I take what I want an’ leave none for him
An’ he lets me do it ‘cause we’re blood kin
[bb]

I shouda known better but I didn’t care
I was bein’ greedy didn’ wanna share
So up in the hills and far away
Ol’ Abe and his peeps live from day to day
While me and my fam live a life of ease
Down in the valley doin’ as we please
[bb]

Now the land was good but the towns were bad
Every kind a’ sin was the latest fad
But I couldn’t see how they made God mad
I just saw all the riches they had
Sodom and Gomorrah were tempting to me
So I moved in my whole fam-i-ly
We lived in the city and thought it was grand
A big big house and lotsa good land
[bb]

Some angels came and said run away
The Lord is gonna bomb this city today
I didn’ wanna listen, I’m sorry to say
But it’s a good thing we didn’ get to stay
‘Cause fire and brimstone started to fall
God was so mad He destroyed ‘em all
[bb]

Even my wife is a pillar of salt
I gotta admit that’s mostly my fault
If I could go back an’ do it again
I give the good land to Abraham
BEin’ greedy just doesn’t pay
Kindness is the answer e-ver-y day
Everybody:
Kindness is the answer e-ver-y day
[bb]

And why did she write this you ask? I've been filling in for the Kindergarten (Sparkies) Storytime at our church's AWANA -- and let's face it it's hard to keep the attention of 17 or 18 five year olds. Coming up with new ways to tell the stories keeps them interested. Why rap? I don't know, I don't even like rap, but the kids loved it. :D

Leaf Burning Deep

All Hallows Day burns yellow
with the fire of martyrs,
with the licking flames of ancient

judgment. Gusting
maple red, and glowing
the zealous sun overflows
a wind seared sky.

Clouds circle the heavens,
like wild white geese
who fly against

this ardent azure sky.
On the seventh day
the trumpets sound
in Jericho. A shout rings out,

a sign, a frost, leaves crumble
from the trees and fall. For
a moment they were green

and growing, grasping still
to oak and walnut, poplar,
ash. They clung as though
the planet burned,

like Rome,
like the bush of Moses,
like the Saints at Pentecost.

Anne of Green Garbled

I watched with increasing horror the latest "Anne of Green Gables" movie. New Beginnings is supposed to be a prequel. Based on the DVD's back blurb I was prepared for the astounding fact that Canada's most beloved orphan has been recategorized as a compulsive liar with a secret living parent for this latest Ken Sullivan flick.

Granted I was already resigned to expecting wide divergence from the facts of the books after the shenanigans of the third Anne movie in the original trilogy. In that third movie, ignoring a wealth of material to choose from in the books by L. M. Montgomery, Sullivan chose instead it invent a new story wholecloth, putting Anne and Gilbert on the front lines in WWI.... but that, at least was a fairly well written story. The prequel has no such merit.

From pillar to post New Beginnings is ill-conceived anachronistic trauma juxtaposed with speeches and spectacles lifted from earlier movies. And when I say earlier movies, I do not mean solely scenes from the Anne of Green Gables films which the new child star mimics perfectly down to the very pauses, emphasis, inflections Megan Follows used in the same speeches. I also spotted a scene or two from Jane Eyre. I am fairly certain the Shirley McClain "Mrs. Thomas" character and her mill town of "Merrysville" came straight from Pollyanna for the picnic. And to be honest, I was almost surprised not to have heard Anne saying "Please Sir, can I have some more?" But perhaps that scene was mercifully left on the cutting room floor.

Aside from being a pastiche, in the most hopeless sense of the word, the story is fraught with inconsistencies. To put it kindly, the movie is not only Not Anne of Green Gables, it's not even a good story.

I was particularly moved by a scene at a railway station when Louisa confesses to stealing -- and in the next breath gushed about her destine friendship. Not exactly an apology, and no offer to repay, not even any guilt really, just: "Hey, I stole money rightfully yours and sent you to a poorhouse - clearly we were fated to be bosom friends." The lack of reality and awkwardness of this construction moved me to near tears. Secrets that would force the mills to be sold, turn into secrets that make the mills worthless. I have to admit for forcing "suspension of disbelief" this is an excellent storyline -- I still can't believe I watched it to the end. Heart-warming moments of character growth are revoked in the next scene with no explanation. Villains abound. And moreover, no matter what happens in the interim when the action picks up again they insist on remaining villains -- or starting unions -- it's unclear, but either way it's bad news for young Anne.

The framework for the younger story is a conflicted, aging Anne's struggle to write a theater play. This is the plot line where the manners and wardrobe anachronisms really bothered me most. I realize I am more sensitive than most when it comes to period costuming but SERIOUSLY???? Anne wears slacks the entire time. Okay, sure they've yanked the time frame forward to the 1940's so women were wearing slacks then -- though I seriously doubt that a 12 year old who yearned for "puffed sleeves" (c. 1875) would have worn them no matter how many script writers were lying about her age -- but even the most liberated young pant wearing female wouldn't have worn a shell blouse, over sized sweater, and trousers Everywhere. I'm sorry, it's a good look for the actress but it's just not period correct. And even if, by some inconceivable stretch of the imagination, you could justify the pants for each and every scene -- there is NO way to justify a trouser-clad female sitting with one knee up, foot in the chair, other leg curled around in the lobby of a hotel. Respectable women in that time period did NOT sit that way in public, EVER, even in pants.

Plus the unrecognizably morphed and modern Anne is really the only character remaining that L.M. Montgomery ever put a pen to. Diana Barry won't return Anne's calls, she's too busy golfing. I suspect she saw the script and decided she rather be dead than participate in such a travesty. That was certainly Gilbert's approach. Anne cries on his grave in a touching scene that reminds me of another movie I saw ...

Just Do It

A children's song floats in the background as I read over my email. My taste in music is eclectic and sometimes even I have no explanation for how some songs get on my playlist.

"Do as I'm doing,
Follow, follow me.
Do as I'm doing,
Follow, follow me
If I do it high or low
If I do it fast or slow
Do as I'm doing,
Follow, follow me."

Here, at a writer's conference, there are many successful authors delivering that same message. They phrase it slightly differently: "You should do this. This works for me."

We rush to copy those whose methods we admire. We pull out our manuscripts and "follow follow" as best we can. The different methods and methodologies, the multiple rules of each genre, the quirks and habits of writers we admire and aspire to meet on equal footing.

"You have 98 books? Why, my 153rd just went to the publisher's last week."
"Oh, wow!" says the currently best selling award winning author who will not be as impressed or intimidated by this as the dream scenario indicates. "Would you sign a copy for me? I just love your writing."

As we day dream of incandescent success, as we learn how other writers write, and as we mutilate our own manuscripts trying to write in someone else's words there comes a moment when we realize what these wonderful teachers really mean.

Do as I'm doing -- follow, follow the ideas, talents, dreams God gave you.
Do as I'm doing -- follow, follow the advice that works with who you are as a writer.
If you do it high or low, If you do it fast or slow
If it's what you're born to do
Do as I'm doing -- and DO it!

Classical Gravel Road

The road curves,
sinuous and sonorous
with the tones of oboe,
opening on whole string sections
of orchestrated views.

Rain,
a passing percussion,
has laid the dust
and washed the roadside to notes
of clear summer greens

and lingering
thunderheads compose the symphony
in C major coming up
after the news break.

The Wisdom of Bears

I don't see much sense in that," said Rabbit.
"No," said Pooh humbly, "there isn't. But there was going to be when I began it. It's just that something happened to it along the way."
Winnie the Pooh

Eeyore was saying to himself, "This writing business. Pencils and what-not. Over-rated, if you ask me. Silly stuff. Nothing in it."
Winnie the Pooh

Never quit. It is the easiest cop-out in the world. Set a goal and don't quit until you attain it. When you do attain it, set another goal, and don't quit until you reach it. Never quit.
Bear Bryant, football coach

Editing

these illusions wrap themselves like Adam
tight against her ribcage
her bone, her breath, her dust to dust self
fig leaves and flesh...

These are leftover lines from a poem I am working on today. They are good lines... well, not-bad lines at least. I like them, but they don't belong in the poem so I chopped them out. To keep the focus of the poem they had to be sacrificed. Not because they were horrible, but because they are not a part of what I want the finished poem to say or be.

I think sometimes life is a little bit like that.

I imagine we are like poems, some of us are traditional rhyme, some amuse in metered syllables, some touch the emotions and spirit evoking mood in word choice and free verse. As we go through life we come to moments when we are revised and edited. Sometimes God asks us to remove a line or two from our lives. Not necessarily because these things are sins, just because those few phrases don't fit with what He wants us to be.

He is the Author of the Universe. He knows how to write good poetry, and how to shape good lives. When God asks us to edit something out of our lives, no matter how much we like those things we will be stronger poems without them.

Blue Ridge

but tonight they are purple
ridge mountains
topped with iridescent
shot satin setting.

They are hollow, sad
ridge mountains.
Behind me and broken
lonely at the edge of sky,

they are home
ridge mountains.
They are swallowed in mist
and tears, and clouds of dusty roads

and I just keep leaving
just keep watching
the colors turning
blue.

Rhododendron calendulaceum (I think)

Native Flame Azalea still holding rain from the storms.

The colors of lightening and fire in wild tongued nectar.

I saw them burn the roadside as I passed.

Today I begin classes at the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference. We slept in Mt. Laurel, breakfast is in Rhododendron, and the keynote speech will be in Azalea... keeping it all in the same botanical family. :-)

My Silent Spring

I don't have a clue about MySpace. And I don't Twitter either. I know my limits. To all my friends who encourage me to spend more hours networking on the computer, and buy a blackberry or an "i-something" I must apologize. I cherish you all, and your friendship means a lot to me. But I think the cacophony of following tweets and chats would drive me to distraction.

As a writer when I turn on my computer and face a blank screen, formulating a response to an email or polishing a piece of my day into a blog post does help ease me into "writing mode" and yet these things have a finish point. An end stop which forces me to move on to the work I really meant to do when I turned on the computer; SEND.... POST.... FINISHED.... DISCONNECT. Okay, now WRITE.

The process of writing is said to be a solitary one and those who are called to be writers, in order to work, tend towards isolation. I believe this extends to the internet also, at least for me. So, with many apologies, MySpace, for me, will stay only this room and this desk; the silence of technology will leave time for hearing the tweets of songbirds; and blackberries will continue, for me, to be the sort that grow on vines.

A Lesson in French Toast

The smell of French toast lingered in the air. And I was hungry. I had left the house before breakfast and it was now passing noon. My stomach rumbled.

"You saved me some, right?" I asked my sister knowing how much she loved Mom's French toast and fully expecting to hear that only one or two pieces had been left for me.

"No. We ate it all."
"What? Why? But I'm hungry."
"Actually," added Mom "we were just thinking of starting lunch. Did you want to get started peeling the sweet potatoes?"
"I can't believe you ate all the French toast!" and I stomped off into the kitchen.

As I stood at the kitchen sink peeling sweet potatoes I heard giggling from the next room. Listening more closely I heard my sister say "She's actually in there peeling the potatoes?!?"
"What's so funny out there?" I was still mad about the French toast. They had no business eating my breakfast and then laughing at me too.
"Didn't you check in the fridge?" My mother wheezed out the words, gasping for breath as she laughed.
While, rocking back and forth in her chair spasmodically in her amusement, my sister managed to add "I can't believe you thought I was serious."

I was having a gullible day, and had missed the joke. It had never occurred to me to open the door of the fridge and look for myself but if I had bothered to check I would have seen my breakfast sitting there that whole time. I had nearly missed it because I didn't look for myself.

When we hear a sermon, or listen to a speaker, how often do we just take them at their word without checking? We should be reading our Scriptures and checking that what we are being told really is the truth. In Acts 17 Paul and Silas travel to the town of Berea and the people there listened, learned, and double checked to make sure they were being taught the truth. Verse 11 tell us they ... received the word with all eagerness, examining the Scriptures daily to see if these things were so.

I have a feeling the believers in Berea would have thought to look in the fridge for their French toast. Opening our Scriptures is like opening that fridge door: We shouldn't just believe what someone says about the Bible without looking. We should check for ourselves. After all, we may be having a gullible day.

Poetry Contest

Utmost Christian Writers has announced the 2009 poetry contest winners.

Hint: I'm on the list.

Check out my poem "The Finality of Rain"

Drawing a Blank

Has my blog seemed sort of sparse or random recently?
Current projects demand most of my creative time and energy -- a daily blog post seems a struggle now and I find myself staring at the computer thinking I have nothing left to say/write.
My tired brain tells me there must be something interesting to say, but I draw a blank.
So what am I up to?
I'm putting together all new materials for a women's spiritual retreat, six sessions (3 a day for the weekend, or one per day for a week long retreat) complete with slide shows and handouts and, naturally, enough research notes to turn each 45 min-1 hr session into it's own book.
It's exciting to discover the way things dovetail, and see how many "coincidences" the Lord has prepared for me with this message.

Morning Thoughts

This morning the sun rose in a mist of contrails where last night only a few wild geese strayed across blank blue. Twenty-three I think I counted before the clouds, confused by water vapors not their own began to merge and fold the eastern sky in on itself. Maples in filigree black against the frosted hour tipped themselves in rising sunshine and beckoned me to observe silence. To watch as no motor pulled morning into the sky. To see the way nature quietly grew, slowly grew from bare branches to budding branches. Soundlessly life stirred. The pussy willows arched and stretched budding out their soft paws. The witch hazel uncurled yellow streamers of flower on leafless branches. Sunshine greeting yellow rays. And the day began.

Pink Notions Doggerel

So you go to the store for All Purpose pink,

for thread that will sew up quick as a wink

Just in and out, that's all you had planned
But something occurs and it gets out of hand.
Before you go to the counter to pay
You ogle pink buttons they have on display.

You didn't need ric-rack, "Or did I?" you think,
When you happen to notice that it comes in pink.
I won't mention the fabrics that didn't get bought
'cause the sales slips say you bought quite alot
of notions and items with which to play
from fancy fat quarters to pink basting spray.

Notes to readers:

As some of you know already, this is quite far from my usual writing style, but every once and a while a quick bit of rhyming doggerel is just fun to whip out. Links to poems in my more literary style can be found in my side bar under "My Poetry Online."

Pink Saturday originates with Beverly at How Sweet the Sound, you will find links to other participants there.

Come Ye Thankful People, Come

As the holiday approaches the thought passes through my mind:
WHO are you thanking?

You are, no doubt, thankful for the blessings of your life, you are thankful for health, or wealth, or the afternoon football game when your favorite team finally wins (I'm assuming)...

But who do you breathe that "thank you" to under your breath?

Do you thank a blank universe, random genetic mutating chances, an impersonal deity who wound up the world and left it to fend for itself?

Or do you thank GOD?

Do you actually, or mentally, write Him a Thank You note?


Father, I wanted to write today to thank You for all the blessings in my life. I am not so well-off as some but I am a great deal better off than I deserve. I know that this is Your doing. Thank You for protecting me from dangers I am not even aware of. Thank You for walking with me. Even when I forget to hold Your hand You are always there for me, watching over me and waiting to guide me. Thank You for the way the sun rises and sets, the way clouds roll and oceans foam, for the veins of leaves and blue dwarf stars. Thank You for tadpoles. Thank You for Your Son, and the knowledge of saving grace. Thank You for stooping to write Your name in the dust from which I am made. Thank You. In the name of my Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

November Fields

I have seen the land that seems always November.

I have heard it call in the honking cries of geese above the clouds.

And when the fields lie bare and barren I have remembered,

this stark landscape is beautiful too.

October in the Mountains Retreat

Sunday afternoon sunny mountain views abounded, but I was too excited to take more than a few pictures. After all, I had checked the area forecasts before I left home and it was to be clear and sunny all week. At first that seemed to hold true.

That's Mountain Laurel where we stayed. After I arrived I went to my room, unpacked, went to dinner, then the welcome session. Why yes, I believe I did stay up 'till 2 am talking with other writers. The next night as well -- there was so much to learn and absorb, so many good friends to be made. And when I woke Tuesday morning: FOG. The views for the rest of the week looked much like this:
You can't tell, but there are mountains behind that grey stuff. It rained, and rained, and rained... The playground equipment began to look inviting.

There are so many things I have done wrong with my first novel -- ack! so many re-writes to do -- but I am so glad to know where and how to improve my work. I never did get around to posting live from the conference, although I did have wireless access the whole time, I was just too busy learning and enjoying the experience. Oh well... maybe next time.