My Inner Teenager

I am a clumsy friend. I sort of stagger into relationships, hoping for the best though nearly always feeling deeply insecure with the one I'm trying to get to know. Most people have an inner child that oozes out unresolved childhood anxieties, or a critic in their head who tells them why they can't do anything right. Me? I have a teenager, an inner 15-year old who has managed to hold hostage a portion of my perception for decades. She's quiet most of the time, idling away God-knows-where in this cavernous head of mine. But certain things will bring her to the surface, particular equations of life and love that will create enough of a disturbance to invoke her angsty self from hiding.

Nothing seems to waken her more than my attempts to better my life.  She will come full force blabbering into my ear (no respect for my personal bubble at all) demanding to know why did I do that, and how come I didn't do this, and really, who do you think you are anyway? She is relentless. This persnickety teenage girl can bring a buzz kill to the best party.

Like the other day. I managed to get an invitation to interview for a scholarship given  by a foundation here in Oregon. Only 20 percent of the applicants get an invitation so it really is affirming in so many ways to make the short list.

Stories from The Shack : Coming to Seattle!!!!!

Words have power and books can change the world. A few years ago an everyday man living on the outskirts of Portland with his wife and children threw a novel together as an expression of his creativity for his family. He passed a few copies of it around beyond the family circle and with the positive feedback found courage to ask an author he was acquainted with to take a peek at it. From there his story picks up steam. The author loved it and showed it to others and before long, the xeroxed book was published and being distributed from somebody's garage in California to bookstores scattered around North America.

Most stories about an unknown writer's first book end right here. Happily. But for this author, Paul Young, and for his book, The Shack, the story was only getting started.

A typical book sells less than 5,000 copies. When I first interviewed Paul in 2008 he said he and his book project team hoped to sell 10,000 copies in two years. That was the dream. Well, it didn't quite work out that way. They sold out that first print run of 11,000 within 3 months. And it just kept gaining momentum, like a snowball flying downhill on a great big lick of mountain ice.

Within a couple of years The Shack went viral on a global scale. Last I heard it had sold 12 million copies and had been translated into at least 30 languages. The word phenomena seems too light to describe what was happening with this obscure, accidental best-selling author.

I blogged quite a bit at that time about The Shack, including a book review (I gave the book 3 stars, but the Lord 5 for the holy ruckus the story was
                                                                                            stirring up! Read all my Shack posts HERE)

From time to time I would have occasion to interview Paul who would inevitably tell me a round of stories told to him of how this book was affecting people. At some point I began to think to myself, This deserves attention. There are so many amazing stories being generated from this Shack story. 

So, it is with great pleasure that I announce the collaboration of my friend Jim Henderson and his production company, Jim Henderson Presents, with Paul Young in producing a mixed-media entertainment spectacle to bring those stories to life on the stage. The show is simply called Stories from the Shack
It will premier in Seattle on Mother's Day next month.

At his website, Jim writes this about the show:

Sometimes it’s too big for even a movie screen. And once in awhile a story is even bigger than the person who wrote it. That’s what happened with The Shack. The flood of over 100,000 stories coming from readers overwhelmed Paul’s capacity to respond. Lectures and speaking engagements could no longer express the emotions and capture the needs. Something new had to be created in order to catch the wave of response that was breaking in on Paul. That’s where the idea of a live show called Stories From The Shack came from.

"Why Mother's Day?" I asked Jim Henderson in a recent phone interview. "Intentional or coincidental?"
Just the way it worked out with everyone's schedules, he reports.  I find that interesting myself, for one of the biggest controversies of the book is the author's choice to portray God the Father as a woman (read the book to understand this cryptic reference!).  I think it's somewhat prophetic that the show featuring stories from the book and the book's impact being on Mother's Day is brilliant.

"Why should people come out on Mother's Day, Jim? What makes this show special and worth the effort?"

"It is a mixed-media spectacle," said Jim, "featuring music from American Idol Danny Gokey who also has his own story to tell about how The Shack affected his life. And we're also going to have aerial artists helping to bring the story to life through aerial acts. It'll be like Cirque du Soleil meets The Shack."

Will Paul be there?

"Yes, absolutely. He's part of the show."

Mother's Day in Seattle. The Shack plus music, stories and aerial artists. If you can get there, Do It. Sounds like another 5-star phenomena in the making of a story that has had a profound affect on people from all over the world.

Click HERE for ticket and show information.

The Writing Life of Pam Hogeweide {ReMixed}

A couple years back I signed up with iContact to manage an email subscription list for the electronic newsletter I started up. It went well for awhile, the idea being that I'd let my readership know what I was up to and where to find my writing pieces, as they scattered around the web. But then I started school last fall and my writing life has been more like the academic writing life of Pam Hogeweide as I crank out term papers and essays.

But I'm beginning to come out of the fog of school a bit and find myself desiring to write again from a non-academic voice. Blogging has been my best and most frequent way to do this, but sometimes I guest write in other forums, too. I'd like to get that going again. Writing is my most favorite way to express myself. I am a writer. Whether a few read or many, I write. It is good for my soul and it is good for my mind. I must write or I get kinda cranky. Words help me to sort out all the fussing in my head, and believe me, there is a whole lot of fussing and pouting that endures quietly in my head day by night. I have a cluttered mind, with tendencies to overthink and think myself right back into a corner of cynicism and mistrust. Writing helps keep that tide of cynical overthink pushed back a bit. Somebody once said, I can't remember who, that We Write in Order to Discover What We Think. That fits me like a custom made corset.

So, back to the Writing Life of Pam Hogeweide enewsletter: I have reinstated it. You can find a sign up form in the sidebar of my blog or if you are reading this in your email or RSS feed shoot me an email and I can add you if you want. I'll only be sending it out once to twice a month.

Meanwhile, if you are a  blogger and wanna ever trade guest blogging with me, let's do it!

Where's the Bacon? aka How My Dad Taught me to Survive Mean Sons of Bitches

I had no idea  that it would have served me this way. None at all. My dad, who passed away in 2007, was a difficult man. Chronically ill the last half of his life made him bitter, not better. But even before he got sick he was what some in the South would refer to as  "a mean son of a bitch." Hospitalized often, my mom has reported that at times he was so rude to nurses it embarrassed her.

And now I work in a hospital with lots of contact with patients and some of them are like my dad : mean sons of bitches. I'm a room hostess, which means I assist patients with their meal choices and tray delivery service. I am in and out of hospital rooms all day long. In my short tenure there - just about at my seventh month anniversary - I have encountered a wily patient or two who reminded me of my dad.

Like this one patient who was hollering about his turkey bacon. This man laid in his hospital bed and refused to give me his lunch order because turkey bacon had been missing from his breakfast tray. "Why should I tell you what I want when you ain't gonna get it right anyway," he retorted as I cheerily entered his room without a clue of what a grouch he was. "Don't even bother trying to tell me you gonna bring me what I order 'cuz I know you ain't gonna get it right."  His demeanor, the gravely tone of his voice, his age, his irritability, it all reminded me of my dad.

Though my dad scarred me up good with that abusive mouth of his, a fairly warm relationship managed to emerge when I entered adulthood. This encounter with this patient brought the ghost of my dad in the room with us. I had to force myself not to smile as the patient continued his rant about not getting his turkey bacon.... so much like my dad.

The Good - Hearted Sexist

"I support women in all levels of leadership in the Church," writes a pastor from his blog.

I did not always have this “view” but after years of praying, wrestling, discussing, listening, fasting, and praying some more, I came to this conviction some time ago and while it has been questioned, pushed back, and tested, I remain convicted. It is a view that endears me to some and um, makes me a quasi-heretic to others. --Eugene Cho

I appreciate so much that this pastor has made this public statement. What disturbs me is that he had to make it in the first place and that it required a significant amount of spiritual energy and soul-searching on his part to get there. I'm so glad he did though I hope for the day that men and women together will enjoy the wisdom of mutuality and serve God and one another in the free spirit of liberation.

A couple of years ago  I was interviewing a pastor I know in the Portland area. I really nice guy, compassionate, good-hearted, authentic in his public and private life and respected by all who knew him. He was on the cusp of changing his mind about women and the leadership question, he told me. He and his wife, he further confided, had been in discussion about the possibility that perhaps women are meant to freely roam the entirety of the construct of church rather than only certain parts, i.e. womens ministries and the nursery and kitchen. I listened and held my tongue. It was tempting to scold him for being so cautious about something that I feel deeply  is a matter of fairness and justice.

But I think I get it now. It's not just about women. If one has been taught and trained their entire life that the Bible teaches us that God has pre-ordained roles for men and women, then to change one's mind about women is to bring a certain amount of tension upon how one has interpreted the Bible. I can understand that. I don't like it, but I can understand it and sympathize with it.

The Bridge: A Love Letter

 On an ordinary corner in the northeast part of Portland, sits a yoga warehouse that gets a little loud on late Sunday mornings. It's not much to look at. A typical box building with a forgettable paint job. A lone window gleams from the cinder block front reflecting the tree-lined street scene.

During the rest of the week the warehouse is well behaved. Quiet. Full of yoga goodness as Portland's sons and daughters come inside to rejuvenate the body, spirit and mind.

But when Sunday comes, and surely she comes each week like the sun comes up each day, the peaceful corner takes on a new energy as a rowdy church called The Bridge takes up residence for a few chaotic  hours. A barebones faith brigade, The Bridge has been my family's faith community since New Year's day 2006.

It's a church that thrills many who have found an oasis in their spiritual wilderness. For others, it's a short-lived fling that fizzles out with disillusionment and disappointment when the honeymoon  ends. This is the nature of human relationships and it is the nature of community. It doesn't always work out. As cool as The Bridge may seem with the rampant energy of Portland's twenty-somethings hollering their hallelujahs without a single inhibition, at the end of it all, we are just a collection of flawed, imperfect human beings trying to share life and the way of Jesus together. Totally my kind of people and the tribe I love to be flawed with.

My 400th Post : Learning Like a Woman

This is my 400th post at this blog. In cleaning up old doc files I found this wonderful essay I wrote in the fall, my first official college paper for an introductory class I took about a liberal arts education. I think it is perfect in honor of my 400th blog post.

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Slowly, I began to understand fully that there was no place in academe for folks from working-class backgrounds who did not wish to leave the past behind.  – bell hooks

I live in a north Portland working-class neighborhood. I grew up in a working-class family and I am married to a factory worker. I recently began a new entry level job at a hospital after being a cleaning woman for nearly a decade. 

During my admission interview last spring I asked the interviewers, “Will I fit in here?” What I really was asking was, “Am I too working-class to join a learning community like Marylhurst?”

This reveals the fear I have that my identity as well as my roots could be challenged by trying to better my life through higher education. This is the mindset I bring as a learner. 

I am, by nature, a voracious learner. I have considered myself a well-read woman, informally educated by my own thirst for new understanding and the relentless pursuit into undiscovered realms of knowledge.  I am a dedicated student for life. 

I settled it in my mind a long time ago that this kind of individualistic education is just as valuable as one built within an institution setting. I told myself that unlike university students who must follow their instructor’s academic guidance, I am free of all restraint and may study whatever I want in whatever manner I so choose. I am my own professor and academic adviser.