The Lollipop Story

I have a really great brother. It's a good thing God only gave me one because any other brother would have to work hard to compete with Andrew. Andrew and I were best buddies pretty much from the day I was born. At twelve years apart, he was my babysitter, my protector, and my playmate. As I grew up, those roles didn't change, but only intensified.

When Andrew graduated in 1999, it was a big deal. My awesome brother finished school (which I was just starting) and he seemed so impossibly cool and smart. I actually remember his graduation vividly, or rather, I remember the party following. There were blue and white balloons everywhere, a giant graduation cake and these fascinating, tantalizing chocolate lollipops.

This was the first time in my life I had seen chocolate on a stick (and who hasn't remembered that life-changing experience?). The pop was perfectly round, decorated with a head wearing a graduation cap cut in chocolate form. One was milk chocolate, one was white. Clear cellophane was delicately wrapped around them, tied around the stick with blue ribbon. Unfortunately, these delectible morsels were only given to the graduates. I knew I had to use my sisterly powers to persuade Andrew to share them with me. They had to be mine.

And so, day after day when I made my daily trips to Andrew's room for our visits, I badgered him incessantly to give me one of his lollipops. He tortured me, displaying them in the cup of an Awana trophy atop his bed-stand and yet he firmly told me everyday that he wasn't ready to eat them. This ritual continued, but no whining, begging, hugs and cuddles, or cute eyes would do anything. Finally, in a last attempt to hush me up, Andrew told me that we could eat them on his wedding day. This defeated me at last and I gave up any hope I would ever taste those treats.

Fast forward to August 4th, 2007. The day my brother got married. It was a bittersweet day for me as I was saying goodbye to my dear friend. It was hard for me to share Andrew, but I loved his new wife, Elizabeth, and while it was difficult for me to let him go, I was happy for him.

I was very surprised, then, when at the reception, my brother took the mic and started to tell the lollipop story. I hadn't thought about those lollipops in years. I couldn't believe it when he concluded the story with, "Well, Marian, I didn't forget my promise" and he produced the same lollipops, old and totally inedible, in front of all his wedding guests. Then, he also gave me two new lollipops, in the shape of graduation caps, for us to enjoy together.

I still have those old lollipops. So, I guess I got my way in the end after all.  

The Power of the Mediocre Worship Song

*Note: this post was started in January, but due to life I couldn't finish until now. Apologies.

I just had a really amazing weekend, holed up with some of my favorite people in a beautiful home. We were gathered together to read the first draft of my novel, Aakroveil. So many wonderful things happened this weekend that I could probably write a whole new novel just based on the events that occurred. For now, I will per-maybe-haps share some of it over a few blog posts.

Today being Sunday, we took a break from the reading to attend church. The party broke up, some going to their home churches, others opting to stay at home as they had stayed up until 4:30am, another found that he had to go purchase a plunger instead of visiting a house of worship due do to a rather unfortunate circumstance that I'm sure you are savvy enough to understand.

Pond, Sharon, Amanda, Steph and myself all decided to visit a church nearby to the house where we were staying. We were a powerful force. Five gorgeous women-four of whom had sweeping maxi-skirts and flowing long hair and the fifth, rebellious, heathen with a sweater dress, leggings and a boy crop. (We pray for you, Steph.) We all piled into Pond's little car and drove to the church. Pond uncharacteristically pulled into a parking spot instead of backing up in the parking lot behind the church. We had trailed a yellow mini cooper into the little lot. We politely said good morning to the young man as we filed out of the car and headed into the church. Once all five of us had entered the stone building, the man turned to take us in.
             "Did all of you come from that car?" He asked.
             "Yes," I smiled, "we did."
             "That's intense." He replied and went into the sanctuary.

I had been to this church once before with my best friend, Momo. We both had visited when we were having a sleepover. That time, the sermon had been so powerful and just what Mo and I needed. After church that day, we both talked about how awesome it was that God knew that she and I both needed to hear it.

I was excited to visit again. Steph, Betsy, Amanda, and I all slipped into the back pew of the sanctuary as the service started. Sharon had to go to the bathroom, of course. By the time she got back, the band had already started playing and the worship music had begun.

Now, for those of you who don't know, I was raised in a Presbyterian church. My beautiful mother is the music director there so I have to be careful what I say (just kidding, Mum). For the most part, I adored the music at my home church. We sang mostly hymns with a few moderately contemporary jigs thrown it. (Yes, I did just use the word "jig" to describe a Presbyterian service. No, it is not accurate.) I am a big fan of hymns. I think the tunes are pretty singable. Often times the words are both beautiful and thought-provoking and they get me in the mind to worship the Creator of the universe.

So, I stood there, in the back pew with the three chord diddy which reached up to heaven and tugged on God's sleeve and said, "Hey, God! Just so you know, you're AWESOME. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah" pouring into my ears. Thankfully, those weren't the actual words, but that was the message I got. But I brought my attention back to God and asked him to help be stop being so gosh-darn cynical and worship him no matter the medium.

And then, something really cool happened. The band started playing the song "How He Loves Us". I recognized it as a song I didn't absolutely hate and started singing. I'll post some of the words here:

He is jealous for me,
Loves like a hurricane, I am a tree,
Bending beneath the weight of His wind and mercy.
When all of a sudden,
I am unaware of these afflictions eclipsed by glory,
And I realize just how beautiful You are,
And how great Your affections are for me.

And oh, how He loves us, oh,
Oh, how He loves us,
How He loves us all

Those simple words I had heard dozens of times suddenly hit me. God loves me. He loves me.

Some of you may be reading this thinking that that knowledge should be a given. But for me, it wasn't. As those words kept flashing on the PowerPoint, I felt tears stream down my face as I realized that I had been living for a long time thinking that God and I had a very utilitarian relationship. I knew that he took care of me. I knew that he provided my physical needs and that he provided salvation. I knew he was there if I needed help or someone to talk to. But I genuinely did not believe he loved me.

If you asked me if I believed the God I follow loved me, of course I would have replied with a yes. That's what we do. We're Christians. We're so quick to offer the Sunday School answer without honestly looking at our heart and our relationship with God.

I won't get into the particulars about why I didn't believe God loved me, because this is posted and social media, and hey, y'all don't need to know every intimate detail of my life. But it had been a very sore, open wound for a long time. But I cried and I sang-quietly because I was listening to his love.

Thank you, John Mark McMillan for writing a mediocre worship song. And thank you, Jesus, for getting your message through, no matter what.