Once upon a time I was a missionary--of a sort.  I worked as a writer for Campus Crusade For Christ's publication department.  I wrote feature stories for their magazine, Worldwide Challenge, acted as a ghost writer for the superstars in the organization, and created copy for brochures and other newsletters.  I basically wrote whatever my editor told me to.  I got pretty good at it, honestly.  I'd drive my little 1979 brown Camaro to the office and furiously type away on my electric typewriter (really, it was typewriters in those days).  I actually missed my manual that I used all through college--wish I'd kept it now. But I wax nostalgic... 

At one point, my assignment was to create a different, more pleasing name for what Campus Crusade described as aggressive evangelism.  Bill Bright had a vision that everyone in the world hear the gospel of Jesus, so each staff member committed to a practice of regularly going out on the street or the beach and talking to people about Jesus.  The higher ups didn't really like the word "agressive," although our required evangelistic practices were certainly that, in my opinion.  I never really came up with another better descriptor.  About the best I could come up with was assertive.  But that was lame. The assignment got dropped, and I think the powers that be stuck with aggressive.

I was really never a Beach Boys fan.  I can remember hearing their surf songs, but even as a child in the sixties, I didn't pay much attention to their music.  I remember watching The Ed Sullivan Show and seeing the band, girls in bikinis dancing atop surfboards next to them.

But then my daughter suggested I watch the movie, Love and Mercy.  "It's about Brian Wilson, the lead singer from the Beach Boys.  Believe me, it's not cheesy, Mom.  You'll love it." I doubted her recommendation, honestly.  I did not have any musical connection to the Beach Boys.  I forgot about her suggestion.  Several months later on my weekly sojourn to the library, I saw the movie in the rack. What could it hurt?

Sometimes the week is a collective of hard things.  Things that, if I'm honest, I rail against.  I feel self-pity.  I have a dress rehearsal as the victim of "Life Most Unfair."  The title of my imaginary play is apt.  The client's son died a year ago at age four, and she misses him. "I sit in his room sometimes,"she says. "I remember him laughing. I still see him laughing."

Another day I bite down on a Skittle.  I never eat Skittles.  It is purple.  My tooth breaks.  My tongue keeps darting to the tooth's ragged edge, even with the bonding material the gentle dentist placed on it for a temporary repair before the crown can be affixed. I looked at that little sliver of white in my palm when I bit down hard and realized it wasn't the shell of the purple Skittle. Such a small thing to break.

Broken hearts.  Broken teeth.  Where does God fit into the cracked places?  Does he speak to us?

Another dream. I'd been out working with a young man (some type of mission work, no less).  I was tired and looked forward to relaxing.  But when I returned home, there wasn't a door on the house--just an open rectangle.  My husband was on his hands and knees applying some type of gooey substance to the tile floor.  I felt burdened that our home was filled with overwork.  I'd literally be glued and stuck there by the gooiness on the floor--rest impossible.

Over my years in interpreting my own dreams, I've learned from the late John Paul Jackson of Streams Ministries to "flip" the dark ones.  In other words, when the dream is shadowy and gray, what would the opposite dynamic be?  In this particular dream I felt smudged with dread, confidence in self-effort and performance-based acceptance (mission work), guilt, shame, weariness, powerlessness and hopelessness.  The flip, what God would have for me is:  hope for the future, awareness that I'm the beloved of God with unconditional acceptance, consciousness of grace and forgiveness rather than sin consciousness, rest, peace and holy confidence that Christ is in me and I in Him.  The "flip" is a way to create a door to keep the distorted and shadowy thinking at bay.

Once in a while it really hits people that they don't have to experience the world in the way they have been told to.~Alan Keightley

Finally (Finalmente! as they say in Italy) we felt better--could get out of the house and go somewhere.  Still weak from a dreadful cold, but no longer contagious, Giovanni and I ventured over to Il Museo Del Violino--The Violin Musuem.  Cremona, my husband's hometown, is also the home of Antonio Stradivari who lived and made violins during his lifetime in this little gem of a city.  Even today there is a school in Cremona where people come from all over the world to learn the craft of makng violins.

And so that day we toured myriad rooms of violins encased in glass and watched with fascination video clips of how violins are made. We read the handwritten notes of Stradivari himself.  We ended our tour in an intimate, state-of-the-art auditorium where we waited for a vilionist to take the stage.  There weren't many of us in the audience--Giovanni and me, a small cadre of elderly women, and a few grammar school students.  I could the hear the whispers of our little group, like the quiet murmuring of water gliding over stones in a river bed.  And then she appeared.