Category Archives: Christian Science

Seasons of Love

I’ve had this song stuck in my head since a friend mentioned it on Facebook the other day. She was marking the occasion of her son’s first birthday, but as I relax in one of the most peaceful places on Route 66, awaiting the start of another year, I find myself captivated by the metaphysical implications of the lyrics, which ask, in part:

How do you measure a year?
In daylights? In sunsets?
In midnights? In cups of coffee?
In inches? In miles?
In laughter and strife?
In five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes?
How do you measure a year in the life? …

In the truths that she learned
Or the times that he cried?
In the bridges he burned
Or the way that she died? …

How about love?
How about love?

Facebook is buzzing tonight with chatter about New Year’s resolutions, most of them involving things like eating less or exercising more or breaking this or that habit. Longtime readers of this blog know I’m not generally a fan of New Year’s resolutions, because they tend to be unrealistic and stressful at best and shallow and self-serving at worst.

That being said, as I stand on the cusp of a new year, it strikes me that the best way to spend the coming 525,600 527,040 minutes (Leap Year, remember?) is to measure my life — consciously and consistently — in expressions of Love.

In the end, time spent on any other purpose is time wasted.

How about Love?


Kevlar and angora

At all times and in all circumstances, overcome evil with good. Know thyself, and God will supply the wisdom and the occasion for a victory over evil. Clad in the panoply of Love, human hatred cannot reach you.
Mary Baker Eddy

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself drawn into a circumstance that threatened to rip open old wounds, even as it presented an opportunity to heal them permanently.

It wasn’t as excruciating as one might expect, but the situation was a little unsettling, so I handled it the way I handle everything else that presumes to threaten my happiness: I called a practitioner, dropped the problem in his lap, and went out for coffee.

Later that evening, as I checked my text messages from the comfort of a battered old chair in a fashionable late-night coffeehouse, it struck me that if peace could be experienced through the material senses, it would probably taste like a macchiato, sound like a familiar song floating through the espresso-scented air in a shabby-chic cafe, and look like a text message from a confidant whose steadfast support is made of something like Kevlar lined with angora.

That last thought buoyed me as I finished my coffee and my grading and stepped into the chilly autumn night, drawing my friend’s words around my shoulders for warmth and knowing beyond a doubt that I was, indeed, “clad in the panoply of Love.”


Unexpected blessing

From the “I really need to pay more attention” files: I didn’t realize this until I was sitting in church this morning and heard it announced from the desk, but my fellow blogger Evan is giving a lecture this afternoon in Edmond.

(If you haven’t read Evan’s blog, do yourself a favor and click that link above for a quick dose of uplifting thought.)

Chance to meet an online friend in person and a good excuse to blow off my responsibilities for the afternoon in favor of spending a pretty afternoon driving a nice stretch of Route 66? Wrap it up; I’ll take it — especially after getting a Tweet this morning from a new Twitter follower recommending a link to some advice Mary Baker Eddy gave a student about the value of taking time to pray for himself even when he felt overwhelmed with responsibilities and demands.

I put the iPod on shuffle and drove straight over after church, enjoying the dazzling sunshine and an incredible sense of peace and joy all the way from Tulsa.

I got here with time to spare, had a chance to visit with Evan a little bit, and am looking forward to hearing his lecture in a couple of minutes. God doesn’t usually rearrange my schedule without a good reason, so this should be good. 🙂


Apple presents …

Reality is spiritual, harmonious, immutable, immortal, divine, eternal.
Mary Baker Eddy 

I never met Steve Jobs, but his work has been a part of my life for many, many years. He was part of my first encounter with journalism — we used an Apple IIe to produce the school paper when I was in fourth grade — and 27 years later, I’m laying out pages on a souped-up 2009 MacBook. It is not an exaggeration to say that the tools he created radically altered the course of my life. Without the Mac, I might never have discovered my fondness for page design — an affinity that ultimately led me into a career as a copy editor, introduced me to my husband, got us to Tulsa, led me to my current job, and introduced me to many dear, dear friends along the way. Indirectly, I can trace most of the good things in my life to this man’s work, and for that, I owe him a debt of gratitude I can never repay. There are those who claim Apple products are too expensive. Given their impact on my life, I’d consider them a bargain at twice the price.

With that in mind, you can imagine my sadness when I picked up my iPad this evening and read of his passing.

In Christian Science, we learn that man is a reflection of God — an expression of divine nature. We define this nature in many ways. God, Mrs. Eddy says in her writings, is divine Life, Truth, Love, Mind, Soul, Spirit, Principle.

I’ve always appreciated Steve Jobs as an expression of Mind. His creativity, intelligence, and refusal to tolerate artificial limits allowed him to turn sci-fi daydreams into everyday realities and show us possibilities we might never have considered. We may no longer see his familiar smile behind wire-rimmed glasses, but we will feel his presence wherever we find imagination, innovation, and practicality.

Travel well, Mr. Jobs — and thanks for the memories.


P.S.: Steve Jobs’ passing was actually the second tragedy to visit my world today. This afternoon, Ron and I said goodbye to Ms. Pushy Galore, the buff Orpington hen whose outgoing demeanor and insatiable curiosity made her a great favorite in our garden. Ron found her little body next to the feeder in the backyard. We saw no signs of trauma and assume she passed away peacefully. Her antics will be missed.


Shepherd, show me …

“Home is the dearest spot on earth, and it should be the centre, though not the boundary, of the affections.”
— Mary Baker Eddy

When Riggy went missing Thursday morning, my first instinct was to call a Christian Science practitioner. She assured me she would take up the work and asked me to keep her updated.

In between calls, Ron and I took the appropriate human footsteps: talking with neighbors; putting up posters; contacting Rig’s microchip company; posting online; calling vets; checking shelters; and even taking Songdog out for walks all over the neighborhood so Rig would have a familiar scent to follow if he’d simply lost his way.

I woke up this morning thinking of a few lines from one of Mrs. Eddy’s hymns:

Shepherd, show me how to go
O’er the hillside steep …

I will listen for thy voice,
Lest my footsteps stray.
I will follow and rejoice
All the rugged way.

When I called the practitioner this morning, she mentioned that hymn — and seemed delighted to learn I’d been humming it all morning.

Rig is coming home, I thought.

When we walked Song this afternoon, I felt drawn to an industrial area surrounded by vacant, overgrown land. To human sense, it might seem dull and empty, but to a hungry little dog who was bred to hunt rodents, it would look like a game preserve.

As we walked, Ron took note of the thick vegetation and commented that our bees probably foraged there.

It clicked: Our bees have seen Riggy. I took comfort from the realization that if he were within two miles of the house, at least a few of our 200,000 honeybees would encounter him in their daily travels. He wasn’t lost. Our girls knew where he was.

I turned that thought over and over as we walked home. I’d been awfully angry earlier this summer, when the city ordered us to move our hives. My anger was a function of fear: Conventional wisdom says if you move a hive more than two feet but less than two miles, the bees won’t realize they’ve moved, and they’ll get lost trying to find their way home the next day.

We moved the hives a week ago. The girls are fine.

I thought about that. I thought about bees. And I thought about the fact that thousands of tiny creatures manage to explore the entire neighborhood and find their way back to our yard every single day.

Is anyone really surprised that when Song came in from his evening constitutional, Riggy came sauntering in with him, as if nothing had happened?


Righteousness’ sake

Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.

Christ Jesus

A longtime acquaintance recently “unfriended” several people — including me — on Facebook as part of an apparent effort to insulate himself from criticism where his political views are concerned.

This individual had developed an unfortunate habit of posting ill-researched political screeds and incendiary comments which could be interpreted as a tacit endorsement of violence. If anyone questioned his statements, one of his supporters would immediately respond by assuring him that he was merely being persecuted for “taking a stand for Christ.”

This kind of nonsense is obnoxious and offensive, but it’s not particularly unusual. There is a species of error that loves to go around calling names, inciting arguments, and preaching hatred and division in the name of Jesus.

I’ve often wondered why a self-professed Christian would want to act like that. In considering the question, I think I’ve found the answer in the fifth chapter of Matthew.

Jesus begins the Sermon on the Mount with some pretty sound spiritual advice: Look to God for inspiration when you’re feeling down; know that heartaches can’t last forever; don’t get too full of yourself; try to do the right thing; cut people some slack; keep your mind out of the gutter; be nice to each other.

It’s pretty straightforward until we get to Matt. 10-11, where Jesus starts talking about being “persecuted for righteousness’ sake.”

Righteousness is, in essence, a tendency to obey the rules. Thanks to our Constitution, precious few people in this country can honestly claim to have been persecuted for righteousness’ sake. And I think that worries some people. If we’re not being persecuted, maybe that means we’re not being righteous enough — so we panic and try to provoke some kind of confrontation that will allow us to feel persecuted (and, thus, assured of our own salvation).

There’s a difference between being persecuted for righteousness’ sake and being persecuted for self-righteousness’ sake. Jesus promised us blessings if we endure the former. He didn’t say anything about the latter. Do we understand the difference?



It’s no secret that I think Baseball Hall of Famer Ryne Sandberg may be the most gorgeous creature God ever set on this earth. My students carry me pretty high about that, mostly because they find it hilarious that anyone would consider a middle-aged man attractive. Meanwhile, I find it incomprehensible that anyone wouldn’t consider Sandberg attractive. Who cares how long it’s been since he turned his last double play? Dude is hot.

That probably doesn’t sound like the lead-in to a riff on spirituality, but bear with me.

A couple of weeks ago, while teasing me about Ryno, a student expressed horror at the thought of getting “old,” which she defined as anything past 30. Several of her classmates nodded in agreement, so I asked the kids what bothered them about the prospect of aging. Their primary concerns? Gray hair, wrinkles, and a deeply held suspicion that boredom is directly proportional to age.

By my students’ standards, I’m old. I’ve got lines around my eyes and a gray streak above my right temple. I also look better and have more freedom, more disposable income, and fewer hangups than I had at 16. But there’s a multibillion-dollar industry that depends on convincing the public that age is ugly at best and hazardous to one’s health at worst, so it’s no wonder my kids are terrified of losing their looks or their happiness in a few years.

Mary Baker Eddy once wrote:

“Except for the error of measuring and limiting all that is good and beautiful, man would enjoy more than threescore years and ten and still maintain his vigor, freshness, and promise. Man, governed by immortal Mind, is always beautiful and grand. Each succeeding year unfolds wisdom, beauty, and holiness.”

I’m Madison Avenue’s worst nightmare. I refuse to buy into society’s carefully cultivated obsession with youth, and I’ve always had a thing for silver hair and laugh lines (which might explain why I find Sandberg more attractive now than when People magazine was fawning over him in 1990).

I don’t mind that my kids think I’m old. But I wish they knew that lines come from laughing too hard, and gray comes from caring too much about too many things. Maybe then they’d realize the signs of aging that scare them so much are merely the visual evidence of a life well lived, and they wouldn’t be afraid any more.



“Sorrow has its reward. It never leaves us where it found us.”
Mary Baker Eddy

Three years ago today, my journalism career unceremoniously ended with the announcement that my section of the newspaper had been eliminated, taking my job with it.

Earlier this week, history repeated itself, with the same company doing the same thing to a different group of journalists.

I am going to be fragile today, I thought as I dragged myself out of bed this morning.

But I wasn’t. March 4 had been my own personal Day the Music Died for three years, and as I stumbled toward the shower, the Father whispered into my thought:

Reclaim this day.

That pink slip three years ago wasn’t the first March morning I’d seen explode into heartbreak with the loss of a job.

On March 13, 1998, my then-principal informed me that my contract was not being renewed. Her words and tone led me to believe I wasn’t worthy to stand at the front of a classroom, so I left the profession, vowing never to return.

Longtime readers of this blog know how my layoff from the paper set in motion a series of events that led me back into a sophomore English classroom.

That process also put me in touch with a former colleague I hadn’t seen in years. I contacted her for a reference when I applied for my current job, and we quickly renewed our friendship.

I came home this afternoon to find a Facebook message from her.

My friend’s daughter is a teacher, and a callous administrator had just chosen this, of all days, to tell her that her contract wasn’t being renewed. Could I give her a pep talk?

Twice in one week — just as I was settling in for a good pout and some righteous indignation over a pair of outdated grudges — history has repeated itself, and I can either whine about the unfairness of it all, or I can get off my duff and use my experiences to help victims turn into survivors.

March 4 has officially been reclaimed.


Photo credit

Remember when I put up a password-protected post a few weeks ago? I had spent an afternoon running around Tulsa to shoot some photos for my friend Brad, who was being featured in a Christian Science Journal article. The photo editor had asked him to send a picture or two of Tulsa, so we scrambled all over the city, looking for just the right angle of downtown, before returning to his office and finding the perfect shot right outside the window.

I took several pictures of the sort Brad thought the editors would want, and then I coaxed him into a quick environmental portrait, which he assured me was not what they were looking for.

The Journal came out this week. This is the photo they ran:

I’d really love to get a portrait where you can see more of Brad’s face, but based on his description of the article and similar features I’d seen the magazine do with other CS teachers in the past, I decided I probably needed to focus less on Brad himself and more on the city and his connection to it. I was pretty sure this was going to be The Shot as soon as I saw it. The fact that the editor agreed is kind of reassuring: I consider it a validation of my page-design instincts, which haven’t had much exercise in the past couple of years.

Here are a few of the other images I shot that afternoon:

I think any of these would have worked just fine, but I’m glad they chose the one with Brad in it. At some point, I’d really like to photograph him with the Holga. The Rebel does nice work, but the Holga is my portrait camera; it seems to have a knack for picking up whatever it is I love about the person I’m photographing. There’s something about the soft focus and the vignetting that manages to capture a subject’s identity better than the crisp, controlled shots I get with the Rebel.

I haven’t read the entire article yet, but I glanced over it briefly yesterday, and it looks pretty good. It’s not online yet, but I’m hoping it will be posted sooner or later so I can link to it.

— Emily

Secret beauty and bounty

I couldn’t get quite enough of Ryne Sandberg on Saturday, so I attended two more games before he and his boys left OKC.

During Tuesday’s game, I was sitting behind the home dugout when a foul ball rolled outside the third-base line. Sandberg picked it up, and people immediately jumped up and started shouting: “Ryno! Throw it! Hey, Ryno — over here!”

I kept quiet, watching as Sandberg gave the crowd a quick once-over, spotted a little boy sitting in the front row, and tossed him the ball.

Good form, I thought. As the guys around me let out a disappointed groan, I leaned forward to watch the little boy’s reaction, laughing as he turned excitedly to his chaperone, who was already breaking out her cell phone.

When I glanced back up, I noticed that Sandberg was watching the same scene, with the same level of delight. That alone would have made me happy — after all, it’s wonderful to find out that a celebrity is as classy as you’d hoped — but a split-second later, I caught something even better than a game ball.

I caught Ryno’s eye.

He grinned at the kid, glanced back up at me, and gave me this sort of knowing smile, as if to say: “Oh, good — you saw that, too.”

As I was mentally replaying game highlights today, I thought about that brief, silent exchange, and I remembered a line from Science and Health:

“Christians rejoice in secret beauty and bounty, hidden from the world, but known to God.”

— Mary Baker Eddy

Beauty and bounty shouldn’t be secret, and they shouldn’t be hidden. In reality, they aren’t. They’re hiding in plain sight. The trouble is that mortal mind, with its emphasis on matter, has a way of obscuring them.

Everybody saw Ryno toss that ball. But once it landed in somebody else’s hands, they lost interest.

Had the ball been the gift, that might have made sense. But Ryno’s gift wasn’t the ball. That wasn’t where the beauty and bounty were. The beauty and bounty were in the boy’s response to an act of kindness by a man he admired. Ryno’s gift was a child’s joy. And it was there for everyone to share; we just had to look past matter to see it.