Searching For Sunday

I was, inexplicably, chosen for Rachel Held Evans's launch team for the release of her new book. I applied online and they sent me a copy of her new book, Searching for Sunday to review. 

I liked this book significantly better than Year of Biblical Womanhood. It is passionately written and honestly told. Evans uses some of the sacraments to discuss the richness of the church experience, the depth behind our traditions, and how they brought her to a deeper understanding of the role the church is meant to play. 

Some may say this book is about Evans leaving the church, leaving evangelical belief, choosing tradition over truth. I would question whether those people had read the same book I did. I found the book to be less about how to find the right church for you, and more about how to find Jesus wherever you are.

Evans looks back on her own experiences, her personality being one wholly devoted to right from a young age, and she sees herself from the perspective of experience, time, and hindsight. She paints a picture of herself, trying hard to do the right thing, looking down just a little on those who were not trying as hard as she was (a picture most of us can easily relate to). She tells of her experiences with learning grace and falling in love with Jesus -- an experience that resounds with most "millennials" who were teens listening to "Shine" and "The Great Adventure." We were young and passionate and had a little bit of a chip on our shoulders.

Evans applies the same lens, the lens of grace and understanding to her church experience. The church was an awkward teenager trying hard to do the right thing, watching the back row boys, extending to them grace it could not extend to itself. As the church grows it learns that the passion of its youth was not as shallow as its parents made it feel and that the legalism it had embraced as a teen was well-intentioned and protective, but ultimately harmful and kind of silly. As the church finds grace, finds Jesus, the table becomes more open and more reflective of the Christ it professes to follow. 

Evans has found her grace glasses, the lenses of which help her to see her church experiences, both positive and negative, through a new perspective -- the perspective of love. She looks beyond a bitter perspective, seeing the evangelical church as loved and loving, if a bit immature in their methods.

Gaining Life

(Final post in a three part series, which begins here.)

She sleeps restlessly, again, anxious for the task, wanting it done. She meets the other women that Sunday morning and they gather the necessary items, setting out before the sun is up. They arrive at the tomb just as the sun is peaking over the horizon and they see that the stone is gone. Mary Magdalene rushes in, suspecting something is wrong, and finds that the body she desperately wanted to be close to, is gone. She stands, panic setting in, darkness closing around her... When suddenly, light -- blinding light fills the cave and the women drop to the ground in fear. The angels say, "Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, he has risen, just like he said he would. Go tell everyone!" Then they are gone.

Mary is shocked. Confused. What? Perhaps the angels meant that Jesus had resurrected, his spirit going to heaven. But what had happened to his body. If Jesus was with God, then she would truly never see him again on earth. She would not hear his laugh. She would not touch the hand that healed her. She would not meet the eye of her beloved friend and feel the warmth of God's love in the depth of her soul. 

And as her loss sinks in, the tears fill her eyes. She does not know or care where the other women have gone. She stumbles through the garden, tripping on roots as tears obscure her vision, her mind quickly replaying cherished moments, moments of redemption, understanding, and love -- moments she would never have again. As this realization hits, she sinks to the ground. At this point she is no longer whimpering, or simply tearing up, she is all out bawling -- really ugly crying at this point, tears splashing all around her.

As always, Jesus sees her. 

He sees her sitting there, in her agony, and he cannot bear it. He has to say something. But Jesus is not coming from sadness or loss. Jesus is coming to her freshly victorious. The King of Heaven who had just won the world, made everything right and new and beautiful. He has defeated the last enemy and he is coming to her from a place of exultant joy. So, when he sees her, though she is crying... he is beaming.

It must be somewhat amusing to be the sole possessor of a wonderful secret, a healing secret, that you get to be the first to tell. He walks up to her kneeling figure and in a playful way, as if he were a stranger, he says, "Woman, why are you crying? Who are you looking for?" 

Of course she falls for it. Right in the middle of her sobs she looks up at him, unable to see through her tears. She says, choking on sobs, "Sir, I am looking for my master. He is gone and I don't know where to find him. If you have moved his body, can you take me there?" 

Jesus looks at her. She is collapsed on the ground, head bowed in loss, meanwhile his heart is bursting to share his victory -- and he says simply, "Mary!" 

She is, in a moment, transformed. Hope, though normally difficult to revive when so thoroughly killed, is restored to her in an instant. The darkness that had gathered around her is shattered as the sun itself breaks it forever. She who had been despairing, lost, alone, is restored again to life, life in him, not because he died, but because he is alive! There is a moment where she just stares at him, eyes widening, a new kind of tears filling them. Her brain tries to process the how of the moment, but her heart does not care. She leaps at him, unconcerned with social convention, wrapping her arms as tightly around him as she can. Never ever wanting to let him go again. 

Jesus holds her, feeling the exultation of finally having taken away the awful sting of loss and death. He laughs triumphantly. She catches his contagious laughter and laughs into his shoulder. He takes her hands from around his neck and holds them in front of him. She clings to his healing hands, clinging as if her life depends on them, afraid he will disappear. Maybe she is hallucinating, maybe this is just a dream. If so, she does not wish to wake.

He looks into her eyes, squeezes her hands and says tenderly, eyes sparkling, "Mary. I am here. I'm not going away yet, you do not have to cling to me. I need to see my brothers and tell them that I am going up to my father and your father, my God and your God. Go tell them I'm coming." 

She does not want to leave him, but she cannot disobey. She turns away, grudgingly releasing his hands, walking away slowly, watching over her shoulder to be sure that he is not disappearing. As she walks she thinks about Peter and John, Mary and Martha and Lazarus and Jesus's mother, Mary! She looks back once more at him standing, laughing, urging her to go... and she begins to run. The tears streaming down her face now are happy tears, tears of excitement as she hurries to find Jesus's mother and tell her that her son has returned to them, that he is alive and well in his beautifully whole body. 

Jesus's life could have communicated God's heart, his death could have saved us through atonement, but only his bodily resurrection could give us hope -- hope that we would see him, hope that we would live, and hope that we would hold those we have lost.

Losing Hope

(This is the second part in an Easter series. Part One, Losing Jesus here.)

That Saturday, for any who slept, was the first time they woke without Jesus. The first day waking without a loved one is terrible for anyone... The first sunrise on a life without them. Waking to a world without Jesus must have been horrifying. Jesus wasn't just a friend, a brother, a son. He was a side of God they had not known, and now could not be sure was real. Losing Jesus was losing grace, losing love, losing hope. 

Mary was lost. It is disconcerting to lose a person so close. I have friends who have lost children and for the first few days (and even now) could barely open their eyes in their house without a wave of loss. An extra seat at the dining table. An empty bed. A pair of rainboots that will never be worn again, but no one wants to move them from their place by the door. A prenatal vitamin, taken before you remember you aren't pregnant anymore.

And when we are lost we sometimes lean on the ordinary, the day to day, the routine.  We look for chores, things to occupy our minds. But for the disciples of Jesus, for his mother, for Mary Magdalene his death was at a terrible time for distraction. The Sabbath was a day devoid of duties. It was a painfully slow day where you could not even distract yourself with chores. So Mary Magdalene and the other women quietly made plans for Sunday, plans to go and honor the broken body. "It's something we can do." They did not know what awaited them, could not have hoped or imagined what they would find. For now, to them, hope was lost. The hope they had found when Jesus was with them, the hope of love, grace, and life -- that hope was killed on that long Sabbath. This Saturday was a day of reality sinking in, of memories hitting them like physical blows. 

This must have been a rough day for all of them, but I imagine Jesus's mother must have felt the blows the worst. She was likely the closest person to him. The love of a parent is immeasurable, she had borne him in her own body. I can't even begin to imagine what she felt at the cross, and facing her first day without him, a day supposed to be devoted to the God that she knew had just poured out punishment on her son.... So much for Passover; this year God demanded her son as the Lamb. This must have been one of the hardest thing she had ever experienced.

Mary Magdalene must have seen Jesus's mother, frozen with grief and anger and loss. And she could offer no words of comfort, she tried to offer action - maybe Mary would come with them to the tomb to anoint the body? But Jesus's mother said no. She could not bear to look on him broken and bruised again, could not bear to seal him away forever, could not bear the finality, nor was she sure she could utter a prayer to God today, or ever again.

Mary Magdalene did not particularly relish the idea of looking on the body, but hoped that touching him would heal this awful ache, get rid of these new demons that threatened to break her if she listened to their voices. Perhaps touching his body would make it real that he was gone. But if nothing else she would be closer to him than she was now.

(Continuing tomorrow.) 

Losing Jesus

Easter is by far my favorite holiday. Christmas makes me fairly sentimental, but I can never get through Easter without getting unbelievably emotional. I can't even think about Mary Magdalene in the garden that morning without tears in my eyes and chills up my spine. My kids keep finding me with tears pooling in my eyes, because I just cannot handle thinking about the Resurrection and its impact on those who loved my Jesus. But before the resurrection is always this terrible day. A day that breaks my heart for those same people, Jesus's friends who in a few days would be joyous, but were now having their hope stripped away from them. 

Poor Mary Magdalene. Poor, faithful Mary. 

I imagine her at the foot of the cross, down in the angry crowd, reaching out, wishing there was something she could do. Watching the man who had seen her, heard her, redeemed her... Watching him die. She stayed as long as she could, watching every painful blow to her friend, getting as close as she could, wanting to reach out and offer a comforting touch, but being kept out of reach. She must have been distraught, sickened by his suffering and yet still hoping for a miracle, waiting for him to take charge, to turn this horror into joy as he had for so many others. 

She continued to hope for such a miracle until darkness fell. The very earth shook and broke at the immense paradox that had just occurred - creation destroying creator. 

And Mary of Magdala quivered. Aghast. Afraid. Alone. 

She heard them say that he was no longer breathing and her hope for a miracle faded.

She watched them remove the badly broken body of her beloved friend. Saw the men carry the body off. Many of the others had gone, but she remained. She followed, stumbling, numb, to the tomb. She watched his body placed on the stone. She focused on it, unblinking as the stone was rolled in front of the grave, hiding his body from her view. But she did not move. She sat and stared as if the stone was not there. The image of his broken body lying on the cold stone was indelibly inked on her mind and she could not move. 

She stayed as others slowly drifted away. She no longer cried. Her sadness was for him and his suffering, now she was simply lost and did not know what to do. So she sat at the tomb, like a dog who could not return home without its owner.

She waited. Waited for some sort of purpose. She had been nothing, rejected by everyone, tortured by demons of all kinds. Then Jesus. He had brought restoration and respect. Respect that, as a woman, she had never been offered, even before the demons. He had made her a new person, given her a life with meaning, and she had leapt into it with such beautiful vigor. She had been the poster child for redemption. But now... Now what was she? With Jesus gone, would the demons return? What would she do? Who would she be? Did she even care to live without him? 

She could not face any of those questions as she stared at the tomb. Eventually soldiers were posted there and she was told she must leave. She should have been home long ago as the Sabbath had started. But she did not want to go. Home was no sanctuary. Once there she felt like she was in a dream, watching herself act out her own life. She simply laid on her bedding, unable to move, unable to sleep, remembering her life before him and not wanting to wake to a world without him. 

(Read Part 2 here)

I asked my five year-old son,
"Are the red spots on the bunny his whiskers?"
"No, they're his tears." 

February Made Me Shiver

February was a long, cold month for us. We began our move the first week of February and with each planned productive day came setbacks. "Can't go pack at the old house, someone has to be here for the Internet company." "Had planned to go over this morning, but now the plumber is coming. Oh, turns out the plumber will be back tomorrow to replace the toilet." "We have to be around this afternoon for the dishwasher repair guy." It was a week of delays. When we finally settled on a day to move the big furniture, my husband and baby woke up that morning, puking. The day we were supposed to get all our furniture, I had a disconsolate infant on me most of the day, and we postponed the furniture move for the sake of our friends and their families. The day we finally did move the furniture, it rained off and on all day... So we still didn't get everything. Nine days into the month and we just couldn't seem to get things done. 

Three days after we moved the bulk of our stuff, I set up my cookbook shelf, because it makes me feel at home. It made me feel like some of my beloved book friends were within my reach. Like I knew where something was. I didn't actually, of course. I still went through four rooms yesterday looking for a pen! "Why can't I find a pen?!? They're normally everywhere!" (This isn't even true... We have toddlers. I don't leave pens just anywhere.) So, even though Julia Child and The Pioneer Woman sit snugly on their little shelf... I still spent the whole month lost in a place that people kept calling my house. 

Not to mention it was cold. The first night the oil furnace was out so my husband and I huddled together upstairs (where there is electric heat) on a mattress on the floor, which could not have hit 55° that night. The last few days of the month the furnace went out again, this time a broken spark plug, and we were without heat for five days... while it snowed. Just when we were starting to get into the swing of keeping the kids upstairs in the electrically heated warmth, knowing the furnace would be repaired the next morning, we were starting to breathe... when we lost power. Someone hit an electric pole on our street and just as we were putting kids in bed the lights went out. It wasn't so bad in the end. It only lasted 'til about 10:30 that night... But it was the not knowing whether it would come back on, whether we would have to wake our kids and stick them in he van, whether we could even drive the van 'cause it was the foggiest night ever... It was the not knowing whether my baby, who does not know to keep blankets on, was going to be freezing — that's what broke me.

I sat down and cried. 

This whole stupid month had just been ridiculous. After the original puking day the other kids gradually got sick, as we were trying to move in. We changed sheets about ten times that week. One night my husband spent on the non-sick kid's bed going back and forth between the two sickies, while I shared a bed with a six-year old on puke watch. Somewhere in all this chaos was Valentine's Day. A night which, had it gone according to plan, would have been all right... But in February nothing goes according to plan. Sometimes that's okay... As Waylon Jennings can attest. But as I sat, rocking a baby to sleep for the thousandth time that night, while the yummy restaurant food I'd picked up earlier sat on a table downstairs quickly getting cold, I decided February was not my favorite month. 

Now, I know. A lot of people will say, "Oh, Lauren. Count your blessings, sweetie. You spent Valentine's with your beloved husband, rocking a sweeeeet baby! What more could you ask for?" I could ask for hot food, for one thing. But mostly, I could ask for help, not judgment. I could ask for someone who hears me cry and brings me Starbucks. I could ask to be seen. I know it's petty to be upset about Valentine's Day... But I assure you that the night our power went out, with snow on the ground, after four days of not having heat on the main floor of our house, I was NOT crying petty tears. I was crying the tears of a mother who could not fix the problem facing her... A mother who could not warm her children, who could not be positive for her stressed out husband's sake, of a woman who had reached the end of her rope and now sat bundled in four blankets in a room with literally no light.

So I cried. I cried and cried. And then I stopped. I got up. I went to the kitchen and got a coke and some Reese's eggs. I drank my coke, ate my chocolate, and read a short story about beautiful food on my kindle.  The kids slept in the warm blankets, the temperature in the house held, though the outside temperature dropped. My baby woke up just enough for me to pat her sweaty back and be glad for the reassurance that she was warm. I made a contingency plan for what would happen if the power wasn't back on before midnight. 

And I felt better. Better, not because the lights were on (they weren't), but because light comes in many forms.

God is reconciling all things to himself. He is making things holy that were once lost. And James says that EVERY good thing is from our Father. He speaks holiness into the very fabric of creation; he calms our souls through any and every good thing. He gives us good food, good friends, good sleep, good places, good experiences, good books, good music... He gives us Good; and in that Good is light and life. 

And that night, when I stopped cowering and looked up to face my life, he gave me Good and it brought breath and renewal, light and life and warmth.

This Old House

This house is not actually that old. I remember when they built it behind home plate... Home plate where I can remember sitting with a fellow miserable homeschooler in the hot sun discussing how embarrassing it is when it's our turn at bat. Later I found out he was chatting me up because I was cute, but it's the first time I remember talking to the man I've been married to for almost ten years now. 

If you stand on the porch of our house, where we have had late night fires and where the kids have played for hours, you can see a great deal of camp. When the trees are bare you can see all the way up to the dining room where, in my 19 years of working here, we have fed countless hungry children. If you look just across the field you can see the swing set where my future husband and I had another pivotal conversation, and where now our children swing on sunny days. You can see the spot where we stood, the sun creeping out behind the rain clouds, the bugs crawling up the many layers of tulle in my dress, when we promised to belong to each other forever. 

You can see the trading post, my little spot of community in the bigger picture of camp life... Where friends confess that they are struggling with their campers, that they are broken, exhausted, and just need a little Cheerwine. Or where I discover that a good friend is head over heels for another staffer - one who was my camper once. Years later their children will come to the trading post, someday soon as campers! 

You can see the pool. The pride of camp just a couple decades ago and still among the favorite activities. And why wouldn't it be? I learned to swim in that pool, taught by Splash herself. I danced mermaid dances with campers and made ridiculous unsuccessful attempts at flipping from the diving board in an effort to get my camper to try diving - which she did, far more successfully than I. And now my children have all been initiated into Splash's club, taking their own first splashes in the junior olympic pool. 

And then inside my house I see it before we lived here, and now I will see it without us, with new people living in it. I know it wasn't our house exactly, but camp has always been, and always will be home to us... We have brought our babies home from the hospital and this has been their first home. We have laughed and cried, we have rejoiced and we have been heartbroken. We have watched the struggles of those around us and we have had conversation that shaped our very souls. 

So now, as we pack up the dishes we have served many a Mexican casserole on, and move out the couches that held all the summer staff, emptying a hall once filled with flip flops... I can't help but feel that I'm leaving home. 

So you who have sat in our living room, who have journeyed with us, who have tasted our food - let these things call to you, let them draw you to our new house. Bring home with you and we will consecrate a new patch of land.

"If you ever pass through Bag End, tea is at four. You are welcome any time... Don't bother knocking."

What We Learn about the Heart of God from a Formula Ad

It's been going around Facebook for about a week, an ad by the formula company Similac. The ad is brilliant. It shows a groups of parents arriving at the park, all in their categories: crunchy moms, stay at home dads, cloth diaperers, formula feeders, working moms, etc. A verbal battle ensues and they all prepare to throw down... As they do something unexpected happens. You can watch it here: 

And the Internet weeps at the beauty of various communities coming together to save one of their children. Well done, Similac. 

As with all things that touch such a common chord across humanity, the image speaks to a bigger truth, something that resonates in us and speaks to our souls. For me, when I watched this ad... I did not see a random neighborhood full of strangers; I saw the Church. I saw Christians standing and greeting each other, not with love and unity, but with bickering and competition. 

God uses his people to do his work, but when his people are shouting their own rightness, they often forget to care for those under their watch. They don't set the brake on the stroller, and the hearts they are entrusted with slowly start slipping down the hill of shame, doubt, confusion, and bitterness toward death in the lake of unbelief. 

But God is calling us, like the person who notices the stroller start to roll... He shouts a warning, begging us to cease bickering and hear. God's people are here to do his work; we have to stop that stroller... And we ought to all be running as fast as ours legs will carry us to grab the hand of God's wandering child, securing them in the grasp of a united community. 

image owned, I assume, by Similac

In the end, the parents at the park all rejoice together as the baby, now safe and warm, is reunited with her mother and declared to be safe. They do not return to their bickering, because they have faced crisis. They have seen firsthand that the tiny choices we make about temporal things just do not matter when we look into the eyes of eternity. So let us look through the lens of eternal grace at those around us, not labeling each other by denomination or belief or political leaning, but seeing every person as God's child and reach out to everyone, beyond petty disagreements over interpretation or application — let us reach out to each other, making everyone feel at home in the embrace of God's love.

I Want Adventure in the Great Wide Somewhere

Someone asked me what I thought of Wild at Heart and my response could not be contained in a Facebook response comment. Wild at Heart by John Eldredge... The book describes itself in this way, "God designed men to be dangerous. Simply look at the dreams and desires written in the heart of every boy: To be a hero, to be a warrior, to live a life of adventure and risk. Sadly, most men abandon those dreams and desires — aided by a Christianity that feels like nothing more than pressure to be a "nice guy." It is no wonder that many men avoid church, and those who go are often passive and bored to death. In this provocative book, Eldredge gives women a look inside the true heart of a man and gives men permission to be what God designed them to be-dangerous, passionate, alive, and free!" (Taken from Amazon.) 

That description points out the thing that bothers me the most about this book... It's extremely gendery. The author is all "men want adventure, women want security; men want passion, women want softness."  Anyone who knows me and my husband will know that our relationship is hardly so black and white. We both desire to do the brave and exciting thing, while both being inhibited by a need for safety and security. If anything, I want loudness and passion and excitement, and he desires quiet and peace and normalcy. So, when I was 19 and reading Wild at Heart it seemed strange that it seemed to be saying that men were created a certain way that women were not. I remember thinking, "Um, has this dude not seen Beauty & the Beast?" Belle famously sings, while twirling in a field of wild flowers (that should satisfy you, Mr. Eldredge) "I want adventure in the great wide somewhere. I want it more than I can tell." And her song resonated with every little girl in America, about a decade before Wild at Heart was released. 

Even though this book was intended for men, I was a fan of his previous works and found myself chapters in and finding that the message of the book spoke went straight to my teenage heart. I decided to overlook all references to gender and to simply see the bigger point of the book (which is a good thing, because had I thought too much about it, I would have wondered if I was actually a man). And that major theme was beautiful. The book, like Eldredge's previous works The Journey of Desire and The Sacred Romance, simply sang into my life. It helped define my path as a young person on the strange edge of who I had been and who I would be. 

I excitedly underlined, highlighted, and scribbled notes in the margin as I read. So much so, in fact, that when we got married, I think we got rid of my copy in favor of my husband's as mine was unreadable. The major themes of the book were so true and inspiring that even now, when I hear the name mentioned, I am filled with warmth and nostalgia and think, "Everyone should read that book." Of course, I think they should read it as I did, as the heroes of their own stories, not as princesses in towers, or as knights who would rescue those princesses and sweep them far away from adventure. But I think everyone, particularly teens and college students will benefit from the messages of finding what makes your heart and the heart of God beat together. This book helped me to see that your world is not defined by societal standards, you do not have to live in the perfectly defined box of 2.5 kids, a dog, and a mid-range income to pay for your house on the cul-de-sac. As Chris Rice sang (at about the same time this book came out), "There's a world out there that we left behind full of souls as important as yours and mine." 

John Eldredge asks, "What is written in your heart? What makes you come alive?" And he also discusses what keeps us from feeling that way. In Wild at Heart he digs deep into wounds — as a teenage girl whose parents were recently divorced, the chapters confronting relationships with parents were particularly poignant for me. Eldredge inspires the reader by reminding us that the battle is ongoing, but the Lord fights for us and that when we are fighting for the Lord, we are always on the winning side. 

So, for all of those reasons I believe it is an absolutely beautiful book. But now, over a decade and much life lived later... I have a different perspective on this book. I think there was a bit of something missing. I happened on it because the thing that made me come alive, the thing where I felt God was pleased with me and my work, happened to be ministry and working with children. Had my passion been ice skating, I think the further truth would have been harder to find... And that is this... Adventure is important, but adventure created for adventure's sake is not true adventure. There's a sense of adventure in climbing a mountain, or winning a game, or running super fast... And that all speaks to a bigger, truer adventure. The real adventure is not found simply by going to China and tasting the food. Real adventure is found when we live in communion with the heart of God. When we interact with the people he cares about, when we make a real difference, when we help build his kingdom through grace and mercy and love. And that doesn't usually look like the super masculine image that Eldredge presents in his book. Jesus did not come waving a sword like William Wallace delivering vengeance and fighting for his rights -- he came with meekness to deliver forgiveness and mercy. He wasn't acting like the hero of his own story, making it about him and his awesomeness; many of his miracles were done in secret. When people asked him questions he did not direct them to his own glory, but redirected them to the heart of those around him. Compare Jesus to the "wild man" that Eldredge describes and you will find little resemblance... and that's okay... because the ideas that Jesus espoused — forgiveness and accountability, compassion and relationship — these things take a lot of strength and hard work, and they are not for the faint of heart.  

So, I wholeheartedly support the idea that we ought to to take risks in the fight for the kingdom. I absolutely believe that the fight is worth it. And I one hundred percent endorse the message that we are capable of having our hearts made whole and fortified for the task at hand by a God who loves us beyond measure. But I do not think that this message is just for men, and that women should focus on being beautiful objects of desire. I think the fight looks a lot different than people expect. I furthermore believe, contrary to what the author seems to think, that Jesus would DEFINITELY encourage you to buy a safe car, because driving fast on an open road helps no one, and you certainly won't further the kingdom here on earth if you die doing it. 

This is from Waking the Dead, another book by the same author that is EXCELLENT and everyone should read it! "The glory of God is man fully alive." 

Watching "Peter Pan" with Peter Pan

I was watching the recent live broadcast of "Peter Pan" with my six-year old boy. At the end, when Peter finds Wendy all grown up, with a daughter of her own... I, in a typically motherly way, got all teary. Saddened for Wendy who is hurt by Peter's characteristic forgetfulness, heartstrings pulled by Peter's disappointment in finding that Wendy was not the same... that things change and he is forced into a new reality, one he did not ask for or desire.

I noticed that my boy was watching intently. He is notoriously bad at identifying emotions, and we do a lot of emotion discussion. Since he was so engrossed, I figured he was emotionally connecting to the play, so I asked, "Is it making you feel sad?"

He looked at me like I was crazy and said, "No, it's just weird that she grew up."

And that is the essence of a little boy, a small child, that J. M. Barrie captured so timelessly. My son was not concerned for the feelings of the characters, he was just confused by the story. Why would Wendy grow up when she could just stay in Neverland? Why would the lost boys choose a mother over their great leader, Peter?

Peter Pan believed that he was the greatest, that he was invulnerable, that his childhood could endure forever... and so it does, for it lives on in the heart of all children who have no concern for the future and who will not grow up... at least, not today.

The Games of My Childhood

When The Internet Archive announced that it was making 900 old arcade games from the 90's available to stream through the internet, I was interested, but not overly excited. I played very few arcade games as a child... we rarely left the house and when we did we were to poor to throw quarters away into arcade machines. A relative had a pacman machine, so I played some of that, but arcade games were never a huge part of my youth, so when I heard about the old games being available it was with a sense of interest that I perused the list, not of nostalgia.

This was not the case when I saw an article stating that now along with these games, one could also find 2,400 DOS games to download or stream. There are not words to express my excitement when I saw this article. Everyone is all excited about Oregon Trail, and sure, I get it, it's iconic... but I never played Oregon Trail, so I wasn't super stoked about that. But I played tons of the other games on this list. Many were "shareware" back in the day... meaning DRM free and open for distribution. As I looked through the list of games I was submerged in a wave of nostalgia. I was, again, a small child on my Grandfather's lap, noting that he always smelled of onions and bitter coffee, listening intently to the best way to defeat evil vegetables with the help of Commander Keen. I was taken back to sitting in "the library" of the house I grew-up in, slogging through the ridiculous load times of the Commodore 128/64 that the same technology loving Grandfather had given us, just to play Marble Madness or Pole Position. I was a child, living in a rural small town with few people my age, whose family had just been given a new 286 PC and couldn't wait to save some Lemmings with her older brother, or find out exactly where in time Carmen was hiding today... and I distinctly remember that game was 6 5.25" floppy disks, 6!

This was the era I was born into, the era of video games, the internet, online community -- working, playing, building together. And going through this game list was like sitting down with a box of books I hadn't read in twenty years, I remember the smell of the pages, the names of the characters, but not how they end - It is all at once old and new... like unwrapping a gift and it being a favorite old sweatshirt. In the same way that Nancy Drew made me a lifelong reader, these games were the gateway to me becoming a "girl who games."

Today I sat with my six-year old and showed him the amazing games of my youth... and let's admit it, they're still great games! He was drawn in by the "vile henchmen" of Carmen Sandiego, stressed out by the puzzles in "The Castle of Dr. Brain," excited by the nature photography in "Duck Tales." That's why these games are preserved, so my children can see my excitement about the games that were to me what Minion Rush is to them. Because even though their graphics and sound quality are obsolete by a couple decades, these games were well crafted, well thought out, and lots of fun. These are the game forefathers, let's pay them a visit and share them with a new generation of gamers.

Disclaimer: DO NOT, I repeat DO NOT let your kids peruse this list of games without supervision. Some are HIGHLY inappropriate!