By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net 

Do you ever have one of those reflective kinda days?  The ones when you wonder how you got to this particular place in your life?  I’ve had one today.  Every spring when graduation cards begin appearing at Walgreen’s — although I think they arrived shortly after Valentine’s Day this year — I become quietly reflective about my school years and about the teachers who helped me to become the adult version of me.

The first one that comes to mind, I met in 2nd grade.  She wasn’t my teacher that year.  She taught 3rd grade.  From the day I met her in the hall, I began praying with much passion that I not get Miss Finch for 3rd grade.  There was a big reason for these fervent prayers.  Miss Finch scared the living day-lights out of me. 

The woman was flat-out frightening.  She made kids walk down different sides of the hall — depending on which way they were going.  If they did it wrong, she would make them repeat the walk until they got it right.  Her class was always the best behaved at any all-school assembly because they knew if they misbehaved, they would get the LOOK.  You did not want the look from Miss Finch.  Better to shrivel up and die right on the spot than to be locked in the angry-eyed stare of the meanest teacher in school.

And the clincher?  The thing that made me utterly quake in my new school shoes?  Miss Finch yelled at 6th graders!  With absolutely no fear!  6th graders!!!  Was she insane??  To a timid second grader who would hide in the bathroom rather than pass a 6th grader in the hall, this was quite the happening.  And I prayed like never before that God wouldn’t hate me enough to put me in that woman’s class the next year.

Guess what?  God hated me.  Or so I thought.  As a new 3rd grader, I was assigned to Miss Finch’s class and I began to wonder what illness I could possibly conjure up that would convince my parents to keep me out of school for 9 months.

With sweaty palms, an upset stomach and a huge lump in my throat, I took my place in the 3rd grade classroom and tried to wish myself into being invisible.  It didn’t work.  Miss Finch greeted me brightly as I walked into class that first day.  I slid quietly into my seat and pretended to be invisible.  It worked.  For about a month.

Lots of stuff happens in third grade.  Big stuff like learning times tables and cursive writing — both of which I struggled with at times.  The smart kids breezed through their math papers without having to think or count on their fingers.  I did not.  The smart kids made perfect, sweeping strokes as they connected their o’s and f’s during penmanship.  My connections looked like a road map gone bad.

I remember one day, we were partnered up with a friend and we were supposed to be practicing the connection between o’s and v’s together.  My friend Leslie executed hers flawlessly.  I’m sure, wherever Leslie is now, her employer is complimenting her on her penmanship — just like the teachers did every week in elementary school.  Leslie tried to help me with my connections but I was pretty hopeless.  I just didn’t get it.

“I’m going to tell Miss Finch,” Leslie said, out of genuine concern.

“NO!!! Don’t do that!”  I yelled; but, it was too late.  Leslie the Perfect had called attention to Kiera the Failure. 

I cringed as I waited for Miss Finch to blast me.  I remember her coming from her desk carrying a small ball.  In my mind, scary, horror-movie type music accentuated each step as she came closer.  Was she going to throw the ball at me?  Was she going to scream at me like she did the 6th graders who walked down the wrong side of the hall?  Was she going to send me back to 2nd grade?  She got to my desk and flattened the ball — which turned out to be clay — on my desk and traced the dreaded “o” to “v” connection in the clay. 

“Now close your eyes,” Miss Finch said sweetly.  “And feel what I just wrote in the clay.”

With great trepidation, I did as I was told.  After a minute or so, I got it.  I couldn’t see the connection but I could feel it.  And if I could feel it, I could write it.  The mystery was gone and so was a little bit of my fear of my third grade teacher.  She hadn’t been harsh or impatient.  Instead, she treated me with kindness and compassion.  I became a little braver — at least where penmanship was concerned.  I was no longer afraid to try or to ask for help.

Around mid-October Miss Finch announced that our class would be putting on a Thanksgiving program for our parents and for the younger classes at school.  No problem there.  I could be the third tall girl from the left.  Either that or I could reprise my role of Mopsy Cottontale from the year before.  That would be ok.  I still remembered my 3 lines: “Oh my!” “I don’t know.” and “Peter did it!”  And although my dog chewed on my bunny ears, they could be fixed.

Then the other shoe dropped.  Miss Finch said she would be drawing names out of a hat to cast the various roles in our program — including the two narrator parts which were rumored to be huge!  “It’s the only fair way to do it,” she explained.

What’s fair got to do with anything?  I want to be Mospy Cottontail, not a pilgrim narrator with a huge part!

Anyone want to guess which part I got?  I was Rose Standish — wife of Myles Standish.  I was a pilgrim narrator with a huge part and I was absolutely terrified.  The lines were long.  The rehersals would be many.  As we had the biggest parts, Myles and I were expected to stay in from recess several times a week so we could work with Miss Finch individually.  Now, this wasn’t necessarily all bad.  Myles was to be played by the cutest and most popular boy in third grade.  So that was a bonus.

Unfortunately, he was also one of the most outgoing kids in school.  If you can imagine Tom Cruise as Myles Standish, you would get a pretty good idea of who was playing opposite of me – Wallflower Standish – I mean, Rose Standish. 

On the downside, I had to spend recesses with Miss Finch — who I was still pretty scared of outside of the penmanship arena.

One afternoon, in the middle of our recess-time rehearsal, we heard a strange thump followed by a spray of shattering glass.  A worn baseball rolled to a stop in the middle of the classroom.  Miss Finch told Myles and I to stay where we were as she went flying out of the classroom to kill the owner of the ball.  After several minutes, Miss Finch returned to the classroom.  She was flushed and her nostrils were still flaring.  She reported that the culprits had been found and sent to the principal and the janitor would soon arrive to clean up the mess.

She didn’t know it yet; but, we had bigger problems.

“Miss Finch?  Kiera’s bleeding!”  My pilgrim partner shouted.  Thanks a lot, Myles!  What did I ever do to you?

It was true though.  A small shard of glass had grazed my leg, causing a trickle of blood — which I was attempting to mop up with my knee sock.  Miss Finch came unglued.  Her eyes bugged out and her head spun around.  Ok…not really.  But she was definitely angry.  I was scared to death that she would yell at me.  Why?  I’m not sure.  Logically, I was not at fault in the least; but then again, logic isn’t really a big thing on the 3rd grade hit parade.

Miss Finch was not angry at me and she did not yell.  She was worried about me and terrified that I was seriously hurt.  She was also furious at the 6th grade boys who had thrown their ball through our classroom window.

I found myself excused from school to go to the doctor.  After examining me and trying not to laugh at my “injury”, he gave me a band-aid.  And the next day when I returned to school, I got an apology from two of the biggest 6th graders I’d ever seen in my life. 

I learned several things during my 3rd grade year.  I learned that the “mean” teacher is not always the worst teacher.  I learned that I did have courage and that I could be an actress.  I learned that I was smart enough and capable enough to  keep up with Myles Cruise…I mean Standish.  I learned to ask for help when I needed it.  I also learned a lot about judgment and about deciding you don’t like someone before you ever really get to know them.

I am so thankful for my time in Miss Finch’s classroom.  That was the year that I really started to find myself as a person.  That was the year I had the courage to be someone — instead of spending all of my time trying to make myself invisible — which by the way, doesn’t work very well.  That was the year I discovered that I had value to other people and that God always answers prayers — even if sometimes His answer is, “No.”  

Whenever I get into these retrospective moods, I thank God for not answering my prayer the way I wanted Him to.  I thank Him for doing the unthinkable and putting me into the classroom of the meanest teacher in school.  That mean teacher turned out to be one of the best teachers I have ever had the pleasure of learning from.  And I thank God especially for placing people in my life that have made a lasting and positive change. 

Sometimes, I still feel like that shy little pilgrim.  But then I remember that I once had a teacher who believed in me.  A teacher who cared enough to demand excellence from everyone around her.  A teacher who loved me.  Somehow, that always seems to make it a little easier to believe in myself.

If you have some time later, spend a few minutes thinking about the people who got you to where you are today and helped you to become the person God created you to be.  If possible, send them an email or a letter or pick up the phone and call them.  My guess is that they have no idea how much of an impact they made on your life.  Can you imagine the look on their face when they find out?

Thanks, Miss Finch.  You’re still one of the best teachers I’ve ever had.  I’m proud of the person I’ve become and you’re a lot of the reason why.

Sincerely,

Kiera Rich – Reluctant Pilgrim

It’s Sunday again and therefore it is Kiera’s usual blogging day.  Last week, she didn’t blog because she was knee-deep in a curriculum project that she had to get to a church on Monday.  Today, she came home from church, all ready to blog but her computer, that’s me, had an attitude problem.

She’s been sitting in front of me too much recently.  She eats breakfast with me and usually lunch too.  Dinner is spent with Jeff before she dashes back to the office to spend time with me.  Her eye has turned all red from looking at my screen too much and her hands hurt from too much keyboard use.

Although Kiera uses me well to serve God, I have recently taken over way too much of her life so, we’re taking a break from each other for a little while.  This week there will be no blog, there will be no work on curriculum or drama or anything else.  This week will be a week of rest and re-introduction to Kiera’s husband, her cats, and the vast world that lives outside of her office.

If you miss Kiera’s blog, please drop her a line and let her know. You can reach her at:   KRich13@bellsouth.net

Thank you for allowing me to bend your ear for a few minutes.  I’m off to have a snack now.  I think I’ll have some chips!  Get it?  Chips!  I’m a computer and I’m having chips…oh, never mind.  See you next week when Kiera and I hope to be reunited for another thought-provoking blog entry.

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Happy Easter!

For many years I spent Holy Week giving birth (Figuratively!) to an Easter production.  Usually our last performance was on Saturday night and so Easter Sunday was celebrated with Worship, a long, hot bath and an even longer nap.  Don’t get me wrong!  I loved those productions and cherish the memories and the people I worked with; it was just really exhausting.

When I first started working with the Easter week dramas, the final performance was always on Easter Sunday.   It usually hit me when I was laying in bed on that Sunday night, too exhausted to sleep, I had missed Easter!  It had come and gone and I missed it.  I would get so involved in the process of putting on a production that I lost sight of the reason for the production in the first place.

So my first act of rebellion when I was put in charge of the Easter Week dramas was to change the day of the final performance.  Of course, there were a few complaints but mostly people were just grateful.  They could be in the production and yet have freedom to scoot out of town to spend Easter Sunday with family.  Cast members could actually Worship on Easter Sunday rather than being worried about finding their props (Always tricky with lots of kids in the cast!) and getting into costumes and make-up.  And I could slow down and let down and really think about the reason for Easter — which was something that I found it very hard to do when I was the one in charge.

In writing Easter productions, I’ve given the events surrounding the trial, death, and resurrection of Jesus a lot of thought.  One of the things I’ve often thought about was all those people who cheered as Jesus rode into town on that donkey.  I’ve wondered who they were and what their lives were like.  I’ve wondered about their families and their beliefs.  But mostly I’ve wondered how they could be so clueless. 

I’ve also done a lot of wondering about the disciples.  They spent time with Jesus and yet they didn’t know Him.  Jesus repeatedly told them what was about to happen but they didn’t get it.  Jesus revealed His identity to His closest followers.  Yet Peter denied that he even knew Jesus and Judas still chose to betray Him.  How could they be so clueless?

Jesus was right under the collective nose of the world and they didn’t see Him for who or what He was.  It’s pretty easy for me to sit back, with the wisdom and experience of 2000 plus years and say, “I would never do that!  I would listen.  I would know.  I would understand.  I would get it.  I would not be clueless.”

Good in theory but in practice?  Not so much.  If I had been alive back then, I would have ignored Him.  I would have mocked Him and spit on Him.  I would have denied and betrayed Him.  I would have called for Him to be crucified.  I would not have had the slightest clue that the Son of God was in my midst.

The reason that I know these things is simple.  That’s a fair picture of my life right now.   I can’t tell you how often my words, or lack thereof, have betrayed Him.  I can’t even begin to guess the number of times that my actions have denied that I even know Him.   Jesus has been right there and I have missed Him.  I have ignored opportunities to draw closer to Him.  I have disregarded chances to join Him in His work.  Albeit not in the flesh, but Jesus has been in my midst.  And I have been clueless.

Today’s blog is another first because we have a visual aid!  I would like for you to watch a short You-Tube video and be sure to follow the instructions.  Click here to watch and the video will open in a new browser window.  Please do not continue to read until you’ve watched the video.

So how many passes did you count?  I counted 13.  I got it right — or so I thought.  But I completely missed the break-dancing bear.  I even watched the video again to make sure the bear hadn’t been just slipped in at the end.  Yet there he was in all his furry glory and I was clueless.

It’s impossible not to miss Jesus when I concentrate on too many other things.  Even if those things are good, healthy, important things it still takes my attention away from the only thing that really matters.  My relationship with my Savior, Jesus Christ.

And so on this Resurrection Sunday, I leave you with some homework.  (Another first for Kiera’s blog!)

Slow down.  Rest.  Take a deep breath.  Celebrate the miracle of Easter.  Spend some time in private, Holy conversation and communion with Jesus.  He’s right there.  Right under your nose.  Waiting for you to notice Him.  Our Redeemer does indeed live!  Don’t be clueless.

Happy Easter!

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Last week, I had the opportunity to participate in a “Read Across America” celebration at a local elementary school.   The celebration had a Dr. Seuss theme, so of course I had to be involved.  Our instructions were to come prepared to read our favorite Dr. Seuss story.   As I was driving to the school, I was a little nervous.  Although my story was thoroughly prepared — even nearly memorized, I still didn’t know what to expect. 

It was a carnival-like atmosphere.  Every adult in the school was wearing a Dr. Seuss/”Cat in the Hat” hat — even the community’s policemen who came to read wearing their bullet-proof vests and holstered guns.  There were three or four young adults from a semi-pro soccer team.  There were retired teachers  and veterans and moms and dads.  It was amazing to see such a diverse group of people; but, what I loved the most was this feeling in the air that although we came from different backgrounds and professions, we were all there to do something for the greater good.

I had a blast.  I got my very own Dr. Seuss hat and loved seeing the excitement in the kids eyes as they enthusiastically devoured every word of “What Was I Scared Of?”  and “Too Many Daves.”  I went home feeling like I had spent a few hours making an extremely wise investment in the future.

Although I thoroughly enjoyed reading to the kids, the best part was after the story when I asked them if they thought Dr. Seuss was trying to teach us a lesson through the words and spooky pictures of “What Was I Scared Of?”  The kids picked up a wide variety of lessons through the story.  “Don’t pick snide at night.”  “Take an adult fishing with you.” ”Grinich Spinach is bad for you.”  My favorite lesson though was offered by a shy little boy in a striped shirt.  “It’s good to have friends who are different than you are,” he whispered. 

Although I wanted to cheer when the little boy said those words, I was also sad.  As a second grader, he understood the greater meaning of the story, but I had to wonder if he would feel the same way in five years.  I hope he will.  I hope by then the shy little boy won’t have been herded together with a lot of other boys who are just like he is.  I hope that in five years or ten or fifteen, the little boy in the striped shirt will have a friend who is different.

This week I also had the opportunity to meet with my Bible study friend and go through more of the book “Blue Like Jazz” by Donald Miller.  This week’s chapter wasn’t one of those that had me tossing and turning half the night feeling alternately like an insightful genius and a bumbling idiot.  It was actually pretty straight-forward; but, even in its simplicity the message was a bit haunting and made me more than a bit uncomfortable.

It asked if Christians are prejudiced people.  Before you jump to defend yourself, think about it.  How comfortable are you around people who are different from you?  Would you rather your kids hang out with their church friends or some kids from school that don’t have a faith-based family?  Given the opportunity, would you rather have a discussion about spiritual things with a Christian or non-Christian friend?  What choices and decisions do you make on a daily basis that serve to isolate you from the world?   Do you spend your life planted firmly in your safe little holy-huddle?

I’ve been extremely guilty of the “holy-huddle” syndrome in the past.  There have been times when my life has been totally consumed with church involvement and this is the time of the year when it would happen.  I would spend hours and hours and even entire days at church preparing for our annual Easter drama.  It was a nerve-wracking time.  I would get exhausted and stressed out to the point of breaking but I just kept telling myself it was worth it.  It was an outreach for our church.  The whole community was invited.  We occasionally had non-Christians in the cast but not very often.  Usually, it was the same old group of my committed, Christian friends.  Looking back now, I have to wonder…who were we really ministering to? 

We always did comment cards in the program — asking people what they thought of the show and what we could do to improve.  I wish now that I had followed up with some of those people.  I wish I would have gotten to know even one of them and had the courage to have a friend who was different than me.  I wish I would have learned the lesson Dr. Seuss taught all those years ago.  “It’s good to have friends who are different than you are.”

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Today’s blog starts with a little bit of reader participation.  Ready?

My name is Kiera, and I’m a Seussaholic.

This is where you say, “Hi, Kiera!”

If there was a 12-step group for people addicted to the writings of Dr. Seuss, I would definitely be a life-long, card-carrying member.  Of course with Dr. Seuss, it would probably be a 17  2/3 step program. 

As a kid, I loved the standard Dr. Seuss fare of “Green Eggs & Ham” and “The Sneetches”.  And I understood those stories as a child would.  They were simply tales about colorful food and strange looking birds who, oddly resembled my dentist.

I was an adult when I truly became addicted to Dr. Seuss.  It happened one afternoon while I was drifting through the kid’s section at a book store.  Giving into the draw of nostalgia, I picked up “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” and I began to read.  Through my adult eyes, I read a totally different story than I had remembered reading as a child.  The Grinch wasn’t just a “cuddly as a cactus” villian; through his story, he actually exposed and denounced the commercialism and hype of a secular Christmas.

The Lorax taught about the need to protect the environment, and Sam?  Remember Sam from “Green Eggs & Ham”?  He taught about having an open mind and trying new things.  In the “Butter-Battle Book” the Yooks & Zooks try to out-do each other with superior weaponry after having gone to war over their differences in eating buttered toast.  Sound silly?  It is until you look a little deeper at some of the reasons for historical world conflict.

I stood in that book store and I picked up book after book.  I laughed and I cried and I learned.  And I was inspired by a man who could spin a tapestry of whimsical, outlandish stories that have incredibly deep and morally important lessons woven throughout. 

Hands down, my favorite Dr. Seuss story is part of a compilation called “The Sneetches & Other Stories”.  Buried after the Sneetches, the stubborn Zax, and the story about a mother giving all twenty-three sons the name, “Dave” is a gem of a story called, “What Was I Scared Of?”.

In the story, the main character has repeated encounters with a pair of pale green pants…with nobody inside `em.  As you can imagine, this was a flat-out frightening experience for someone who had never even seen any pale green pants, let alone empty pale green pants, riding bicycles in the middle of the night.  The moral of this story is not to be afraid of things unknown — whether they be situations or people or freakish pants that row boats by themselves. 

The conclusion of the story brings the realization that the empty pants, who had tormented the main character throughout the story, were afraid of the unknown too.  However, after the unknown became the known, the fear was gone; leaving a blossoming friendship in its wake. 

You may be wondering why I have now used nearly 500 words to tell you about Dr. Seuss.  There really is a reason so please hang with me on this one.

A few days after Christmas, Jeff and I were wandering through a Best Buy fairly close to our home; and, I had a very bizarre experience.  I saw someone that I thought I knew.  This was bizarre because it wasn’t anyone from church or even anyone that is part of my current life.  The person I thought I saw was part of my distant past.  Very distant.  We graduated from high school together roughly 2800 miles from the place I now call home.   Although we have been in touch since graduation, it’s been sporadic at best with years between contact.

So was it him?  I didn’t know and I couldn’t gather the courage to go ask.  Instead, I quietly stalked him while Jeff looked at most of the merchandise Best Buy had in stock.  (Coming soon!  A blog about how Best Buy causes Jeff’s eyes to light up and his tail to thump like a happy puppy.)  Finally, I watched the mystery man check out and leave the store without ever knowing if it was really my friend or not.

Seems kind of sad, doesn’t it?  That I missed a possible opportunity to talk with a dear friend.  For days afterward, I thought about my friend and wondered if I had really seen him.  A long time ago, he was an integral part of nearly all of my happiest high school memories and yet I couldn’t go ask if it was him.  Why? One word.  Fear.

Fear that it wasn’t him and I would make a fool of myself.  Fear that it was him and I wouldn’t know what to say.  Fear of the unknown.  Fear of the known.  Fear of the fear.  Every bit of it kept my voice quiet even though I was close enough to touch him several times.

The really sad part?  After digging on the internet, I came up with an email address for this old friend of mine.  This week I found out that it really was him that I shadowed all over Best Buy.   I missed an amazing opportunity to bring a wonderful part of my past into my present and my future.  This incident has really made me wonder how many times God has sent me a blessing but I have refused delivery simply because I was a coward.

2 Timothy 1:7 says, “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” 

Hmm…stalking people in Best Buy?  Doesn’t really scream, “Sound mind”, does it?

Since last week’s blog “The Usual Place”, I have been chewing over the concept of my comfort zone and God’s gentle insistance that I be willing to move beyond it.  I think maybe this week has been part 2 of that lesson.

I’ve been thinking a lot about fear.  I started just by naming things I’m afraid of.  Tornadoes top the list.  So naturally, I spent nearly 15 years living in Nebraska’s famed tornado alley.  I’m afraid of public speaking.  God has had me doing some of that in the last year as well.  I’m afraid of snakes; and yet I married someone who is not afraid in the least.  The last time we were in South Carolina, he caught one to show me.  EW!  EW!  EW!  I can still see those beady little eyes.  The snake’s, not Jeff’s. 

In a more serious light, I’m afraid being a hypocritical Christian.  I’m afraid of disappointing those who love me.  I’m afraid of being nothing and for having nothing to show for my life once I’m gone.  But I think perhaps my biggest fear is the fear of being something.  What if I truly faced my fear?  What if I allowed God to use me?  I mean really use me.  Not just some of me but all of me; and, not just some of the time but all of the time. 

I’ve been struggling with the ending to this blog for about 30 minutes now.  Jeff just came to check on me and I expressed my frustration to him. 

He made a cliched suggestion and in playful disgust, I sent him out of the room.   But then his statement struck me.

What if we all faced our fears, sat down with our own empty green pants and figured out what it is, exactly, that we’re afraid of?  What if we collectively refused to live one more day under the oppressive weight of fear?  What if fear no longer came between us and the life God wants for us? 

What would happen then? 

As Jeff suggested, we would “live happily ever after!”

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

I didn’t go to church this morning.  Instead, I lounged on the couch chain-sucking cough drops while watching re-re-re-re-re-runs of M*A*S*H.  So Jeff went to church by himself; but, not without instructions!  He had a delivery to make to a very sweet young girl.  This girl is the daughter of some friends of ours and a few months ago, she graced our refrigerator with her beautiful drawing of an orange horse.  As a thank you for the horse, I made a colorful poster with her name on it. 

However, Jeff returned home with the poster.  “They weren’t there,” he said.  “I looked in their usual place and asked around.  Nobody had seen them today.”

His statement struck me in an odd way because of the phrase, “Their usual place.”  As an adult, I’ve been a member of exactly three churches.  In all three of them, I had a usual place — a place where I sat every week without fail.  Interestingly, I always sat by the same people every week because everyone else had a usual place too.

This got me to thinking about having a “usual place” in God’s Kingdom.  I’ve lived in Atlanta now for exactly 524 days.  One would think by now that I would be adjusted to my new surroundings.  I am well adjusted to some degree.  I can now go to the mall by myself without living in mortal fear of never finding my way back home.  I’ve learned that if a driver sticks their hand out the window, they intend to merge even if the space available is only slightly bigger than a Matchbox car.  Lizards crawling out from under the Pepsi machine during my workout no longer faze me and Jeff’s church has finally become “our” church.  But I still struggle. 

My struggle has been in finding what God has for me here.  This is the first time in my Christian life that I’ve ever had to work at it.  In the past, God has made my mission abundantly clear to me.  Has it always been easy?  No.  It has not.  I wish you could hear me laughing here because it has been so NOT easy at times. 

For example, a few years ago, I was absolutely certain that I was supposed to be a small group leader for a bunch of girls who were slightly south of being teenagers.   I didn’t feel like I possessed one skill which qualified me for the position.  Sure, I used to be a pre-teen girl; but, I don’t remember any of it.  That particular phase of my life was just so awkward and entirely too painful to waste space in my long term memory so I blocked it all out.  I think.

I had nothing to offer.  Or so I thought.  But along the way, I discovered I did have was a tender heart, a creative mind and the desire to do what God wanted me to do.  I’m not sure, if you asked those girls now, that they would remember any of our lessons.  I’m not sure if I ever showed them even the slightest glimpse of God.  But I do know that I listened to them and I cared about them and I loved them with all my heart.  And I think sometimes that’s everything a pre-teen girl needs — to be respected and loved and valued, unconditionally, by another person.

But since I’ve moved, God hasn’t been as clear about what He wants from me.  I’ve dabbled a bit in the things I used to do but haven’t really felt “plugged in”.  It wasn’t until today when Jeff was talking about our friends and their usual place in the sanctuary, that I had a bit of an epiphany.

Maybe I’m looking in the wrong places.  Maybe what God has for me here has nothing to do with writing Christian drama or teaching Sunday school or leading a small group of preteen girls or any of the things I’ve done in the past.  Maybe, in my effort to find my niche, I’ve simply been getting in God’s way.  Why this never occurred to me is startling, to say the least.  It’s extremely humbling to say the most.

On his CD “The Way Home” Wayne Watson sings a song called “Growing”.  At one point in the song, the lyrics are “I’m growing.  I don’t like it.  I’m growing and it hurts.” 

Yes, Godly growth hurts.  It hurts a lot but my mind is whirling with the possibilities.  I still don’t know what God has in store for me but finally I’m excited to find out.  Don’t get me wrong, trying new things with ease will never be part of my nature.  It will always be a struggle and I will never like it.  I don’t like to be pushed out of my usual place.  Even by God.  But, I think maybe I’m finally ready.

And maybe the desire and willingness to vacate my usual place is simply what God has wanted from me all along.

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

We just finished watching the presentation of the Heisman Trophy and we cheered out loud when Tim Tebow was announced as this year’s winner.   I admire Tim Tebow greatly.  He is an incredibly talented guy.  He’s fun to watch.  He doesn’t talk trash about people.  He doesn’t play dirty.  Instead, he plays with amazing passion.  Nobody has ever done some of the things Tim has; and, it’s likely it will be a while before we see anyone match his accomplishments.

But you know what I really love about Tim?  Here’s a hint.  It has nothing to do with football and everything to do with faith.  In his interviews, Tim stated his priorities — putting God first followed by family, school and finally football.  Although clearly overwhelmed by the moment, in his award speech, Tim put first things first and thanked God for His blessings and for the gifts he’d been given.  He thanked his parents and teammates and nearly everyone else in the world in less than 2 minutes.  Anyone know if Tim is at the University of Florida as an auctioneering major?   He rattled off his speech in such a  genuine and endearing way that I had tears in my eyes.

After years of teaching Sunday school and leading small groups for middle schoolers, I have to admit that I’ve been flat-out terrified at some of the personal role models my kids have come up with.  And I’ve been very discouraged at times when I have heard and seen bad behavior of said role models mimicked.  Since when was disrespect for authority, an arrest record, multiple piercings, tatoos and/or provocative clothing a prerequisite for being “cool”?  It just makes me so sad and very, very scared for the future and the culture that kids are embracing.  I know that I must be showing my advancing age when I ask this but what in the world is wrong with kids today? 

But tonight…tonight, there are a whole lot of little boys wishing that they were Tim Tebow and I think that’s a very cool thing to wish for.  I hope that Tim realizes that he is a role model and that he takes that responsibility seriously.  In response to a media question about how her personal clothing choices were affecting teenage girls, Britney Spears once said “I never asked to be any one’s role model.”

Guess what, Britney?  Like it or not, you’re a role model.

The scary thing is, so am I.  So are you.   It’s easy to say, “I’m just a musician.  I didn’t ask to be a role model.”  Or “I’m just a teacher” or an actor, or an athlete or a dancer or a million other things.  But the fact is that we are role models, for better or worse.   And to say, “I never asked to be…” is simply a cop out.

Tim Tebow found a way to use his love of football for Christ.  As a result, he has become a very positive role model to a lot of people.   Christian drama is my way of doing what I love for Christ.  Sometimes it’s not easy.  When rehearsals are long, when actors are inattentive, irresponsible, or disrespectful, when a production schedule is hit with unavoidable delays.  It’s hard to be a good role model when all I want to do is scream at people and then throw my hands in the air and quit.  It is hard to be a good role model when what I believe to be a very creative and innovative script is panned by a well-meaning (Albeit very traditionally slanted!) critic.  At those times, I get very defensive.   And very, very human.

But maybe I could learn something from Tim Tebow.  Maybe my priorities aren’t always straight.  At those times when I’m frustrated or getting my feelings hurt, is God really my first priority?  Umm…let me think about that for a minute…  Nope!  Is He even a close second?  Probably not.  How different would my reactions and thoughts and feelings be if I was focused solely on God?  I’m ashamed to admit that at times they would be very, very different.

I’m not a kid.  Far from it.  Had I started early, I’m old enough to be Tim Tebow’s mother.  And yet, as I have watched and read about him for the last two years, I have learned much.  I’ve learned about boldness, about priorities, about stepping up and leading courageously.  I’ve learned about faith and passion.  It’s amazing to me that someone I’ve never met could touch my life and be a role model to me; but isn’t that one of the mysteries of Christ?  Through Him we have the power to impact and touch and change lives — even the lives of people we’ve never even met.

Raise your hand if you think that’s an incredible scary thought.  But ain’t it cool? 

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

As long as I’ve been writing Christian Drama, I’ve been asked, “Where do you get your ideas?” This is usually asked by people who don’t know me very well.   Anyone who knows me also knows exactly where I get my ideas.  From them.

Many times I’ve gone out to eat with friends only to have someone notice part way through the meal that I’m not saying anything.  That is sometimes a product of my personality but usually it’s because I’m madly scribbling mental notes about my dining companions, their lives and their public conversations. 

When I first began writing Christian Drama, I had a vision of what I did NOT want my scripts to be: boring, stuffy, sanctimonious, sickeningly-sweet, idealistic, sit-com-esque fiction.   I wanted my drama to be real.  I wanted the people who saw it to easily place themselves into the script.  I wanted them to feel what my characters feel and be drawn into a very real situation and/or conflict.   The result?  Scripts that resonate with real people.  Friends who laugh about seeing pieces of their lives played out on stage.  And most importantly, no defamation lawsuits! Yet.

I do have a few guidelines about using real lives as inspiration for my scripts.   I try very hard not to embarrass or humiliate people.  I won’t say I never have because I don’t know that for sure; but it’s something that I’m always aware of.  The things I use most often are the funny, slice of life things that happen in day to day life.  I have used the lyrics a father created as he sang the blues while changing his tiny daughter’s stinky diaper.  I have used a disastrous fudge-making experience that a friend of mine had as an 11 year old.   Here’s a hint…gasoline does not remove stubborn fudge from a Pyrex dish.  I have used verbatim conversations and playful arguments.  I have used over-the-top personalities and bad customer service experiences.  I even used things from my own childhood such as vacation road trips where the words, “Don’t make me stop this car!” were often heard.  

It’s important to me that I be extremely responsible about what I use.  I always change the names to protect the innocent and give the guilty a means of easy escape.  If I use a situation that is not so funny and even a little bit personal, I ask first and allow the subject editing rights.  And I never, ever enter someone else’s pain without the name of Jesus on my lips.   To do anything less would be careless at best with strong leanings toward absolute evil.

I have a purpose.  That purpose is to produce real scripts that touch real lives.  For that purpose, I use real lives and real people.   Is that cheating?  Does that make me more of a tabloid-type reporter than a writer?  I don’t think it does.  Although it may seem extremely voyeuristic of me, my method works well.  I know this because of the comments I’ve gotten from people who have seen my dramas.  “I’ve had the same struggle this week.  I needed to hear how someone else dealt with it.”  “My sister went through a similar situation.  I’m going to bring her back tomorrow.”  “I loved the husband/wife characters!  It was like you were peeking in my windows!”  This was from someone I’d never met.  I wasn’t peeking in her windows.  Honest!

I also had one of my actors tell me once, “It constantly amazes me how you can take bits and pieces from all of our lives and weave them together to create a real story that teaches Bibical truth about God.”  In a moment of personal epiphany, I realized that I could not have come up with a better mission statement for what I do.

If I had advice for anyone writing Christian Drama, it would simply be this.  Remember that you are writing for God first and that everything that goes down on paper (Or R.A.M. as the case may be.) must be Holy and pleasing to Him.  You can’t really move on if step one isn’t right.  I hate cliches but as Christian writers we are absolutely writing for an audience of One.  Nothing else really matters.

A few months ago, my husband and I were in Nebraska for a few days and I had the opportunity to have dinner with some old friends.  This particular group of friends have given me countless drama ideas and dialog over the years.  As we ate and the conversation fell around me, I found myself falling into the familiar role of observer.  Ideas blossomed and began to take shape as I listened to the conversations.  I felt the urge to get to my computer and begin writing while everything was fresh.  Eventually someone realized that I’d grown quiet and made the traditional, “Are you getting enough material?” comment and we all had a good laugh.

Thanks for dinner, everyone!  I had a blast and I promise I’ll change all the names! 

And thank you, God.  For a creative mind, a way with words, and a loving group of friends who let me borrow from their lives.  I am among the truly blessed.

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Have you heard?  The Colorado Rockies are in the World Series!   Apparently few people in Atlanta have heard the news.  Apparently few people in Atlanta have heard of the Colorado Rockies.  Period.

Last Thursday, my husband and I did a fairly thorough search of local retailers looking for Colorado Rockies t-shirts.    We just wanted to support our team.  This is the first time the Rockies have ever been to the World Series.  For a Colorado native like myself who lived through the Denver Bears era, this is a big deal!  I’m proud of my team.

The search did not go well.  If there is a Rockies shirt anywhere in our area, it’s exceptionally well hidden.  The search was frustrating albeit interesting.  The reaction of the sales clerks we encountered bordered on ridiculous.   At each stop we would explain that we were looking for Colorado Rockies shirts.  Each time we were met with blank stares — except for one helpful lady who happily showed me to a stack of black and gold shirts.  Thank you, no.  I know they sound similar but the University of Colorado and the Colorado Rockies are not one and the same.

As we were heading for home, we drove past a large discount chain-store – which, to protect the innocent, shall remain nameless.  Always.   Shopping failure tends to make me a little giddy anyway so we threw caution to the wind and made one, last, hopeful, stop.  “Who knows?” I thought.  “They have a vast inventory of items.  Maybe they’ve heard of the Rockies.”

Nope.  With our little consumer hearts broken, we headed for the door.  That was when we saw it.  Right in front of the door.  Right by the greeter.  A big cardboard box full of festive, autumnal gourds.   Then we looked at the sign on the box.  We blinked.  Shook our heads and blinked again.  And then my husband snickered and began to elbow me.  “Look at that!”  He said as he pointed.  I didn’t have to look.  I was staring right at the sign.  Jeff went ahead and read the sign for me anyway.  “Lage (Pronounced: “Law-gey” as best as we can figure.)  Pumpkins”. 

I was still blinking as I processed what Jeff said and what I was reading.  The sign was indeed missing an “r” in the word “large.”  However the sign was missing something else — unless Webster’s changed the spelling of “pumpkin” without telling me.  Yes, indeed.  This large (lage?), nameless discount chain was selling “lage pumpins” by the boxful!  It was our lucky day!

Only after driving away did we come to the conclusion that we should have probably told someone about the sign.  As it was, we simply laughed all the way home — repeatedly chastising each other for not jumping all over that sale and getting our “lage pumpins” while the getting was good.

I don’t know who made that sign.  I don’t know how long it had been up there or how many people had walked by it.  I  don’t know how many large pumpkins had already been sold under the false pseudonym.  I don’t know how many people left the store like we did — laughing like hyenas.  I do know that someone, somewhere was responsible for that sign.  *Snicker*

I have to admit, one of my favorite hobbies is looking for stupid signs, advertisements and headlines.  This one was definitely a find; but, I did feel a little guilty about our behavior.  Everyone makes mistakes.  I’ve made them frequently even though I’m meticulous about proofreading and about requiring everyone who edits my stuff to do the same.   Sometimes they just slip through.  As hard as I try to be perfect, I’m not.  Never will be.

I am still humiliated by some of the mistakes I’ve made in my literary career.  However one mistake really sticks out my mind.  Mostly because it wasn’t a mistake.  It was just gross carelessness on my part.  It was back when I wrote for my high school yearbook.    My adviser selected me to write a tribute for a classmate who had died after a brief but fearless battle with cancer.  Deborah’s death had left my small school reeling with a palpable, excruciating pain.

As I wrote the tribute, I agonized over getting the words just right.  I wanted to capture the very essence of Deborah.  I wanted my classmates to remember her.  I wanted future generations to know how much she meant to our student body.   I wanted her parents to know that their child was valued and loved and missed.  I probably would have accomplished all my goals – had I taken the two minutes to verify the spelling of her last name.  But I didn’t.  When the yearbooks came out, it was wrong.  Twenty years later, I still feel horrible.  

I learned a valuable lesson through that experience about doing my best work.  I learned that sometimes it takes extra effort to do things right instead of just getting things done.  I learned that words that I write have power and that I have a big responsibility as to whether that power will be used for good or evil.   God taught me a huge lesson about lazy writing.  I have never looked at a high school yearbook without thinking about Deborah and her family and my own arrogance and stupidity. 

God-lessons are tough and they hurt but they are always good as they can bring about needed and necessary growth.  Writing and directing Christian drama makes this die-hard type-B person very type-A.   I consider everything I write to be an offering to God and I am therefore less than tolerant of those who mess with said offering.  Usually, I’m a fairly easy going person — as long as I don’t have a production ready to go live and three of my main characters suddenly have scheduling conflicts for a dress rehearsal that they’ve known about for three months.

At that point, my head begins to spin around, I foam at the mouth and instantly transform into Beelzebub’s little sister.  If you don’t believe I can make this sort of transformation, I do have names and email addresses available on request of those who have seen this phenomena in person.   Trust me.  It’s not pretty.

Yes, there comes a point in every script and in every production that I need to let go of my offering.  However, when I do, it had better not lack for ANYTHING because I was lazy or didn’t want to put in the effort get it right.  To me, writing Christian drama is the most intimate form of worship and communion with God imaginable and I never want to give Him anything less than my best.

Matthew 5:15 & 16 says, “Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house.  In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.”

Drama is my way of letting my light shine before men.  Every time I write something I pray that God will use my words to change one person’s life in a lasting and eternal way.  Deborah is also on my mind every time I write.  God never reminds me of that awful mistake.  Instead, I remind myself as a warning against laziness and arrogance.  I don’t want someone’s only glimpse of Jesus Christ to be the drama that I did half-heartedly.   Letting my light shine for Him is a privilege and honor and something I strive to do right — no matter what task I’ve undertaken.

The “lage pumpin” sign was pretty unforgettable.  Jeff and I are still laughing about it and we’ve incorporated the vocabulary into our everyday lives.  “Well, we could order pizza for dinner while we watch the Series.  We have a coupon for a lage pepperoni.”  What a great idea!

One more thing…and this is to the executives at the Fox Network.  I understand that we’re in the eastern time zone and that people on the west coast eat dinner long after we’ve gone to bed.  But could you please, please, PLEASE start the World Series games a little earlier.  I turn into a lage pumpin at midnight! 

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Today my church, Dunwoody Community Church,  is hosting a day of service.  Different teams from the church are going to serve at a dozen worthy organizations in the community.  They are cleaning and repairing and moving and sorting.  They are helping people they’ve never met and probably will never see again.   They are loving people the way Jesus did — through service.

And where am I?  At home.  Writing my blog.  Why do you ask?

Several times throughout the last few weeks, I have wondered why I hadn’t committed to helping with such an incredible event.  I have several good excuses.  Really, I do.  But the best reason I can come up with is not an excuse.  I honestly think it’s a valid reason.  I don’t think that’s what God wants me to do right now.

Cop out?  Maybe.

In the movie “Michael” — which I think is pretty questionable in content; but, that’s a whole different blog –   John Travolta plays the main character.  He is Michael the Archangel.  At one point in the movie, Michael tells a reporter, ”That’s not my area.”  And refuses in become involved in something that he doesn’t feel he’s supposed to do.

There are an awful lot of things that God put me here to do.  And some things He did not put me here to do.  Over the course of my life, I’ve become more discerning about what, exactly, those things are.

When I first became a Christian, I felt that I must be involved in acts of service every waking moment.  I felt that I had to be completely imersed in community service and participate in every single thing that my church did in order to be a “real” follower of Christ.  That made for some seriously frustrating moments — for a lot of people.

My stint on the welcoming committee at church was stellar proof of this fact.  A church I attended in another state had a wonderful Monday tradition of delivering fresh baked bread to people who were first-time visitors the day before.  I had been extremely touched when a wonderful lady showed up at my door with a loaf of blueberry bread still warm from the oven.  We chatted about the church and the weather and a dozen other topics.  When she left, I felt as though I had made a new friend and I couldn’t wait to go back to church.

So when I became a member, I wanted to be part of that wonderful “warm bread” ministry.   I should have given up when my bread came out of the oven looking like a brick and tasting even worse.  I should have given up when I went to the grocery store, bought bread from the bakery and then warmed it in my own oven.  I should have given up when I went to make my first delivery to a single lady with three lively grade-schoolers.  As the kids clattered around us, I could not think of one solitary thing to say to this lady.  We just simply sat there and looked at each other.  It was extremely uncomfortable for both of us.  Finally, I turned tail and ran for the door.  To nobody’s surprise, this family did not return to our church.

I think I probably delivered a dozen loaves of bread before I finally gave up.  My baking skills improved.  My kibitzing skills did not.  I am a shy person by nature.  Until I get to know someone fairly well, I have to literally force myself to have conversations.  I would undoubtedly be a very happy hermit.  So why did I EVER think that delivering bread to strangers was a good idea?  I’m not really sure.  I learned a valuable lesson.  Calling on people I don’t know is definitely NOT my area.

A dozen families may still be without a church home because I didn’t know enough to stick to what God created me to do.  I try not to let myself play the “What-if” game with that one.  You know, “What if they were planning to start coming to church but my visit changed their mind?  What if they weren’t Christians but really felt drawn to God’s Word but were scared they would run into me again?  What if my bad bread and worse conversation changed the course of someone’s life forever?”

Ok, I know I’m probably stretching there but think about it…people and experiences change lives — for better and for worse.  Did you have a teacher in school who was so bad that it caused you to permenantly hate the  subject they were teaching?   I did.  I had a guy for Science one year that became a teacher because he hated kids.  He never said that but I promise it’s true.   He was a terrible teacher who crushed every ounce of interest that I had for the natural world in just two semesters.  When people don’t do what God created them to do, there are consequences. 

It took me a long time to realize that God created people to bake and deliver bread to complete strangers.  He created people who are natural “friends” who have a gift for putting people around them at ease.    He created teachers and pray-ers and builders and planners and hostesses and organizers.

And God created me.  He gave me creativity.  He gave me ability with the written word.  He gave me an incredible love for kids.  Those are my areas.  When opportunites for service come along now, I try to be discerning.  I try to fit what I do into what I’m good at because I know that is where I will be the most effective for God.

Is it always comfortable?  Nope.  In the course of being creative, I’ve done some things that I hated doing — directing drama springs to mind!  It’s good that I had to do it because God was stretching me and forcing me to rely on Him.  If the situation comes up again, I know that I can do it.  But I also know that there are a lot of people that can do it a lot better because of how God made them to be and how He defined their areas.

I often think about the first family I visited with my warmed-over bread.  I wonder what would have happened if I knew then what I know now.   I probably would have talked to the kids and created a game for us to play.  I would have helped them with their homework, maybe ordered a pizza for dinner and given their frazzled mom a break.  I could have loved on that family.  God gave me such an opportunity to be truly be myself and I missed it. 

So why am I home today and not serving with the rest of the church?  Because it’s not my area.  I promoted the event with posters I created.  I wrote a drama for tomorrow’s church service about short-term mission trips.  Click here  if you would like to read part of the drama!  I also stayed up until 2 AM Thursday morning creating a prop for said drama.  I supported the event by using the gifts God gave me — just like everyone else who used their gifts in their areas.

In a few weeks, there is another service Saturday.  This one has the church helping with a kid’s event at a low-income apartment building.    That opportunity to serve has me extremely excited because there are kids involved.  Definitely my area.  Hmm…I wonder if they want me to bake bread.