I've Moved!

Some of you might read the heading and think, "There she goes again!"

But this time, movement comes a bit more subtly and doesn't involve a cross-country drive. Relieved? Me too! (Though I dearly miss my "right coast peeps.") Over the course of the past several months, it's become clear I need to allow expansion and containerization to better serve and love on those God calls me to. So I established a website and began writing. It is very much in process of being built. You are welcome, in spite of the dust and exposed beams.

As far as the writing, you'll find similar style. But it's more deliberate. It will be a community, a place to talk life, give life, be life. I'm finding myself wanting to sit down in it a while every day so I can get the walls painted and the fridge stocked. Come hungry. I'll leave the door open. :)

http://robinstanley.org/

A Million Miles in a Thousand Years

I read books much like a crane captures his dinner. He flies low across the lake then dives headlong and deep once he spies something worth catching. After hovering high over A Million Miles in a Thousand Years for weeks with no commitment, I gifted it to a friend who really wanted it. At Christmas time, she sent it back! No, not a return. A re-gifting, of sorts, with an attached note saying she enjoyed the book so much she wanted me to borrow it. And read it. “But,” she concluded, “You don’t have to read it all.” She knows me. If she says it’s my turn to read, I’ll take my turn.

I’m glad I did.

When Blue Like Jazz came out, Donald Miller’s mega-hit memoir, I tried like crazy to love the book all my friends couldn’t live without. I couldn’t get past the first few chapters. But I’m not the same girl I was then. Nor is Donald the same guy.

I took in every word on every page of Million Miles and celebrated life. His. Mine. Even yours. For in the span of these pages, beginning to end, Donald moved from being an “incidental memoirist” to becoming a “deliberate mentor.” He writes his journey of transformation in a way that brings me up close to his story and connects me with my own, inviting me into something more, as a good mentor would.

Donald’s wit and delivery make me laugh. Yet I’m struck by the depth of insight he seems to speak over his shoulder while engaging with the story unfolding in front of him. He sees. And as he sees, he ascribes meaning to the life he finds. Not as an observer, but as a witness. He allows himself to enter fully into a scene and be affected by it. Then he testifies to the Truth in it.

He describes times when he would rather stay on the couch than stand up to choose a better life, a better story. But varying incidences bring him into the company of some outstanding people. People who see him. People who enter into his story and affect his character arc. He embraces their influence and receives their insight. They guide him into positive turns and help him to avoid negative ones.

In a scene toward the end of the book, Donald describes kayaking with his friends up the Jervis inlet in British Columbia. A mile-wide inlet with cliffs on either side, “the stone faces of the mountains come into the water like walls.” They had been up since before dawn, stopped to spend the day with an unexpected friend and found themselves paddling through the hardest part of their journey in the pitch of night. “If it weren’t for the other guys in the kayaks, I would have quit that night. . . . I would have lay down in my hatch and slept and drifted out with the tide.”

But he didn’t quit. Not on his friends. Not on his life. He responded to his mentors, and he’s living a better story because of it. Come to think of it, so am I.

To read more from Donald Miller and to find out how to GET A FREE PAPERBACK COPY OF A MILLION MILES THAT JUST RELEASED, visit http://donmilleris.com/.

To see the impact of his transformation, visit http://thementoringproject.org/. They’re looking for summer interns!

To consider the impact of your story, give a look:

What story are you telling? from Rhetorik Creative on Vimeo.

An Empty Beggar's Bowl

I'm sitting here looking at an empty bowl on my table. I put it there to remind me that I'm a beggar. I am nothing except for the grace of Christ. As a monk takes his bowl into the community and receives from gracious hands his portion for the day, I hold my bowl heavenward to receive from the Lord my portion for the day. And usually, it is enough.

Not today. There are too many people hurting, dealing with grief, struggling to hear hope, dying senseless deaths, sitting by hospital beds watching their young child barely breathing. Doctors' reports are grim. My heart feels heavy. So tonight, as I intercede for several friends in need, I find myself begging God for more. To say more. To do more. To heal more.

Josh Hunter's five year old daughter Ava lies speechless and barely breathing in a hospital bed in Orlando. In late June, doctors removed from her brain a tangerine sized tumor. He writes nearly daily to keep things sorted out and to update the thousands of visitors who now frequent his blog. Thousands.

What draws us? I don't know Josh personally, though I do know his parents, and we have mutual friends. But many who leave notes and pray for this family have no association but to be a part of the "holy catholic church."

I can only conclude that, if you're like me, we long to see God. To be present as He reveals Himself to and through a little girl just like ours. A dad just like us. A wife. A family. A community. We wait for the miracle that will astound the world. And marvel at the everyday miracle of those barely-there breaths. We grimace at the uncertainty of life, but we can't. take. our. eyes. off of Ava.

She helps us see that maybe God isn't as far away as He sometimes seems. And she reminds us that we don't need God to do more. We need to see Him more in what He is already doing.

In Ava's weakened state, the glory of God sits very near. I see Him. In the vulnerable words of her father, the tired shoulders of her mother held in the loving arms of a friend. In a family hurting together, walking beside each other on good days and bad. In a community praying, supporting, serving, even holding vigil for healing. Hope lights the darkened hallways of that hospital.

Life flows in and among and around and through this little girl and her family. A family who reaches heavenward, bowls in hand, to receive from the Lord His portion for the day. And trusts His grace to be enough.

Then Jesus declared, "I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will never go hungry, and he who believes in me will never be thirsty." John 6:35


If you'd like to read more about Ava or pray with her family, visit her dad, the Daily Philosopher, at his blog.

Soaking Up Stories in Winter Park

A few weeks ago Facebook reconnected me to a friend through its 140-character-updates. Friday a shared appreciation for art and Winter Park reconnected our hearts with 140-sentence (or more) stories! We strolled down memory lane and walked the brick-laid streets while soaking up the sun and the stories comprising our lives.

Cheri moved to Orlando this week from Wisconsin. It’s been more than ten years since we last spent time together. But by the time we got our lunch at The Briar Patch, our Cincinnati-learned rhythms of conversation returned. You eat; I’ll talk. I’ll eat; you talk. You cry; I’ll stop. I’ll cry; you stop. You laugh; I’ll laugh. I’ll laugh; you laugh.

The patterns continued as we wandered through the crowd, pausing at times in the middle of the street to absorb the depth of the other’s words or to capture the glint of joy in the other’s eyes. But ours weren’t the only stories unfolding. Lining the walkways and byways of the park — nah, the entire town — master artists displayed their tales through various mediums. Clay, pounded metal, watercolors, batik, woven straw, blown glass, photographs, oils, even digital images all revealed the essence of something more.

We casually took in the occasional perspective of ships at sea and hillsides adorned with the colors of spring. We took time to consider the unique, discuss the eccentric, honor the beautiful. A few of these expressions took our breath away, and at once breathed life.

This scene from an Afrikan Market in MALI, vivid and true in its representation, held as its caption: The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life . . . and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life (William Faulkner). 

Enthralled? I was too! Imagine it in uber-high resolution, taking up the whole corner of a booth! I could almost smell the sweet bananas and hear the marketers proclaim their goodness to us passersby.

From inside the booth, quietly inviting 

us in to behold the outline of his life, hung a large image called The Prophet, taken in India. Every stunning detail of this man's face revealed a life far different from mine and brought me right up into his personal space. 

How could this man’s breath have been captured without interrupting his breathing? Intimate. Welcoming. Soul-stirring. It’s a photograph, yet I imagined he might be reading the stories of my own heart. Impossible, I know. But it turned me to the Spirit of the Living God.

This group of young boys gathers around The Storyteller in Kashi, China.

Can you contain the smile that breaks out when you gaze upon these wonders? Words can hardly express the joy that spreads across my face. Wonder. An appreciation for the story. 

Emerson Matabele engaged me with his visual storytelling. So real. So personal. So graceful. May it be that I would offer such care for the hearts of the people I encounter.

What a rich, rich day. Filled with laughter, refreshment, the warmth and glow of the sun, expressions of beauty in art, and the stories we shared as we reveled in the life and breath of God's creation. 

Let everything that has breath praise the LORD. Psalm 150:6

Re-Gifted Winter Weather Advisory

As friends sit by cozy fires watching snow gather on their window sills —even in southern Texas! — I sit in my cozy chair listening to a whirring fan overhead, remembering past blessings of unexpected snow. The memories bring perspective and contribute well to my quiet celebration.

One such memory took me back to my apartment in Cincinnati, where, on January 21, 2007, I received the gift of a winter weather advisory advising of snow that actually came! I'll re-gift my journal entry here. . . .

I awoke this morning to receive from God a very special gift: a winter weather advisory advising of snow that actually came! Four inches worth—give or take a flake.

Excited to celebrate this first snowfall in my usual way, I quickly tucked my toes deep into my slippers and hurried out to the balcony. My head tipped back, and my hands stretched up as I closed my eyes to let the wintry sweetness scatter across my face. Each flake softly awakened a nerve ending somewhere between the tips of my eyelashes and the small dimple bringing together the two halves of my otherwise ordinary chin. I was in heaven . . . and still in my pajamas!

What is it about freshly fallen snow that calls to the kid buried in the heart of nearly every one of us? There must be something. The park next door brimmed with childlike wonder from young and old alike. Families engaged in snowball fights. Older couples walked arm in arm, slowly taking in the sights. Laughter erupted from the hillside as sleds tipped and dads slipped.

While making my way around the park’s path, each step accompanied by the satisfying crunch of icy goodness under my feet, I became aware of a strange sensation. A smile had escaped the intensity of my grown up thoughts. My heartbeat slowed, and a stillness infused my wandering spirit to its very depths.

So, this is what it’s like to be in the moment. I haven’t been here in a long time, and it may be a while before I pass this way again. My memory begins to awaken. I scan the untouched canvas of white spread before me, looking for the perfect spot to leave my signature mark. It’s a mark I’ve made at least once in nearly every year of my life at the first sight of freshly fallen snow. A mark that serves as indelible proof that I was there and did not let God’s gift slip by unnoticed.

Rising from the frosted earth, an old oak tree stood poised to protect well the patch of white beneath it. With the infectious sounds of winter play drawing out the child in me, I carefully stepped from the path to position myself under the branches of that old oak. Inhibitions vanished and laughter burst from the now unguarded center of my spirit as I let myself fall back into the powdery softness behind me.
There I lay, flat on my back, flailing about in the snow like a little kid. Unashamed and lost in the moment, I celebrated the goodness of God, thanking him for his wintry gift.

After several minutes of this satisfying, childlike worship, I scrambled to my feet. In my spot on the canvas of white remained the imprint of a snow angel. Proof that I was there and had not let God’s gift slip by.

Before heading for home, I paused for one more breath.

While the snow presented to me a wonderful gift, the greater gift became evident as I stepped outside myself to worship God without encumbrances. My brain uncluttered and my heart unfettered, he freed my spirit to soar without the boundaries of my adult-sized frame.

Whatever it is about freshly fallen snow that brings me to that place, I want more.

More snow. More stillness. More laughter.

More opportunities to step outside the intensity of my grown up thoughts, so I can experience more God. I’m on the lookout. How about you?

Every Life for Good

"He didn't make it."

The sting of these words scatter my thoughts today. They're the words my brother used when he called Mom late Friday night. The birth of his son, William Steven Stanley, had come a month too soon.

He separated from his life source. No warning. No shout from his cozy growing space. His active body simply stopped.

No one knows why.

But we do know the sting is real. Losing life hurts. When life ends, grief grows toward a season of sorrow. And sorrow mingles among the tears of the living, weaving its way through a family, a community.

When God set loose his breath within this tiny human form and provided parents for his nurturing and protection, he intended for good.

He intends every life for good.

My brother grapples for understanding as he attempts to dismantle the beginnings of a nursery. "Robin, we saw the baby clap his hands. The nurse doing the ultrasound said that maybe he would grow up to be a gospel singer. No matter what she did, he just kept clapping." His voice trailed off. "Now I can't get this . . . this crib thing apart. I just put it together . . . you'd think I could figure it out."

A picture of his hurt, his helplessness.

Oh, God, I feel his hurt. His struggle with the finite nature of the human body. His frustration with not being able to make things better.

I haven't seen my brother Jim in over a year. I saw, then, his tearful journey with sorrow as our great Aunt Pearle lay unresponsive after a severe stroke. When I entered her room, he looked up at me from the foot of her bed, his heart broken. Tears poured out his helplessness. "She's not going to make it." I wrapped my arms around his neck. We cried together.

She didn't make it.

At her funeral, in our sorrow, we found a way to express our love and celebrate the impact of her long life. We remembered sitting on the steps while she told of her travels, pointing at a different salt shaker for every state she'd been in. We marveled at the way she brought life to those around her, even from a wheelchair when she broke a hip and couldn't be her normal bustling self.

God intends every life for good.

I wish today that I could wrap my arms around my brother's neck. I know that I can't make his hurt go away. I don't want to make his hurt go away. But I would sit with him in his sorrow. I would celebrate with him the short life of his stillborn son. And I would help him see how the sorrow in his tears and Cheryle's tears and Mom's tears and Dad's tears and my tears and his friend's tears mingle together to validate that life.

A life that God intends for good.