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The Kingdom and The Shadowlands
April 19, 2025
I read Psalm 16 this morning and immediately thought of The Lion King. In this psalm, David offers a prayer of confidence to God. He praises the Lord for safety and protection, for being the source of all good things.
Then David says this: “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed I have a beautiful inheritance.”
There’s an iconic scene in The Lion King where Mufasa leads Simba to Pride Rock. They look out over the Savannah and Mufasa says, “Look, Simba. Everything the light touches is our kingdom.”
He goes on to tell the young lion cub that one day, Simba will inherit the kingdom.
Jesus says something similar in Matthew 25. “Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world.”
When Simba learns of his coming inheritance, he gives a simple one-word answer. “Wow.” It’s hardly an adequate response, but I can relate. Knowing that “The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit, that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ,” (Romans 8:16-17), I find it difficult to verbalize anything more meaningful than “Wow.”
Sadly, that’s not where the comparisons between Simba and me stop. After Mufasa shows his son the greatness of his kingdom—all the lands the light touches—Simba immediately asks for more. “What about the shadowy places?”
“That’s beyond our borders,” Mufasa says. “You must never go there.”
If you’ve watched the movie, you know what happens next. Simba defies his father, leaves the boundary lines set in pleasant places, and that’s when the trouble begins. Mufasa has to leave the Pride Lands to rescue Simba. Later, after more conflict unfolds, Mufasa ends up dying and giving up his own life in order to save his son.
Like Mufasa, God presents us with clear boundaries. We are instructed to “walk in the light, as he is in the light,” (1 John 1:5–7) and to “live as children of light.” (Ephesians 5:8) God’s law is the boundary, and beyond it lies darkness.
Despite all the goodness of the Pride Lands, all the promises, safety, and goodness, Simba follows temptation, leaves behind the protected area, and enters the Shadowlands. Simba is selfish. He’s reckless. He’s blind to all the gifts his father offers.
Simba is me.
Simba is you, because according to Romans 3, “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”
I’m glad The Lion King doesn’t end with Simba’s reckless choices or his time wandering in the desert. Those scenes call to mind the Israelites desert wanderings after their escape from Egypt—lost, searching, and uncertain. But the story doesn’t end there. Instead, it ends with Simba receiving forgiveness and extending it to himself. He returns to the Pride Lands and finally steps into the inheritance that was always meant to be his.
I’m glad my own story doesn’t end with my foray into the Shadowlands—all the times I willingly leave God’s boundaries to figure things out for myself. Instead, God prepared a rescue party for me. He sent his own Son, Jesus, into the darkness, that He might lead me back into the light.
Romans 3:23 is bad news. “Everyone has sinned and is far away from God’s saving presence.” But Romans 3:24 delivers Good News. “But by the free gift of God’s grace all are put right with him through Christ Jesus, who sets them free.”
And that’s the story of The Lion King. And it’s the story of Easter.
The word, Sheol, appears in Psalm 16:10. This is a Hebrew word that translates as “the grave, the pit, or the place of the dead.” A more nuanced translation might call it “a silent, shadowy existence after death.”
In The Lion King the place beyond the boundaries is an elephant graveyard—The Shadowlands.
If you like story and parallelism like I do, I think you’ll enjoy reading the last few verses of Psalm 16 within the context of The Lion King and more importantly in the context of Easter.
“Therefore my heart is glad and my whole being rejoices; my body also rests securely. For you will not abandon me to Sheol; you will not allow your faithful one to see decay. You reveal the path of life to me; in your presence is abundant joy; at your right hand are eternal pleasures.”
Happy Easter.
Guilty Conscience
March 19, 2025
Guilt and I are well acquainted.
It doesn’t even have to be my own guilt.
I’ve read crime thrillers which left me walking around in a shameful haze, sure someone would discover the murder weapon in my possession. I’ve woken up from nightmares dripping with sweat over horrific mistakes made by my subconscious. Certain movies and TV shows leave me feeling as though I’m keeping a terrible secret, even though the secret is entirely fictional and not even plausible in real life.
This could mean I’m empathetic.
Or, at the very least, catastrophically prone to secondhand shame.
Whether real or imagined, I know I’m not the only one who suffers from a guilty conscience.
I recently learned the United States Government has something called the Federal Conscience Fund. Like most government entities, the Federal Conscience Fund collects money, but this one is quite unique. The fund, established in 1811, accepts voluntary, anonymous payments from people who feel guilty about having committed fraud, tax evasion, or other financial wrongdoing against the federal government.
Did you pocket a pen from a federal office in Washington, D.C.? Take more than one free government brochure from a museum, even though the sign clearly indicates one per customer? Maybe you fudged your tax records?
The Federal Conscience Fund will take your money and your guilt—no questions asked.
Unless you really did cheat on your taxes. In that case, you are screwed. IRS auditors are going through your tax records right now. They will find you.
You’d think most people wouldn’t bother feeling guilty towards the government. It gets way too much of our money as it is. And when I first heard of this fund, I doubted anyone had ever contributed money to it. I was wrong. Over the years, the Federal Conscience Fund has collected millions of dollars.
That’s right. Millions. Of. Dollars.
That’s a lot of guilt.
Here are a few actual donations this fund has received:
$5 from a Former Soldier – A veteran sent in money because he had stolen a blanket from the U.S. Army during World War II.
(Dude, you fought in a WAR! You should have taken two blankets.)
$1 for Reusing a Stamp – Someone mailed in a dollar to make up for the fact that they had fraudulently reused a postage stamp.
(I mean . . . If the postman forgot to cancel it . . .)
(Now I feel guilty for considering such a crime.)
$1,500 from an Anxious Citizen – A man mailed in a large sum of money, stating that it was for something he had done wrong years ago, but he didn’t specify what it was.
(I have so many questions! This could turn into a plot for a novel.)
A Small Amount for Stolen Office Supplies – Several people have sent in money for stealing things like government-issued pens, staplers, and paperclips.
(Stolen office supplies?!? How could they?)
(Also . . . Making mental calculations as to how much money I owe my past employers for keeping me well-stocked in writing instruments.)
An Anonymous Donation for Underpaying Taxes – One person sent a payment with a note saying that they thought they had miscalculated their taxes but weren’t entirely sure.
(Okay, but the IRS is still coming for you.)
Perhaps my favorite story is of a man who sent in a check for $100 along with a note of explanation. "I cheated on my taxes and can’t sleep. Here’s $100. If I still can’t sleep, I’ll send the rest."
I may not have any crimes to confess (that I know of), but now I’m wondering—how many people are out there tossing and turning over a borrowed government pen? If you suddenly feel the urge to make an anonymous donation, don’t worry—you’re not alone. The Federal Conscience Fund will always be there, collecting guilt, one dollar at a time.
The Power of the Pause: Why Writing Helps Me Think Before I Speak
February 26, 2025
I don’t usually put my foot in my mouth.
Normally I swallow both feet whole. Then choke on my embarrassment. Later, I regurgitate the scene over and over again, longing for a vow of silence. This lasts until I open my mouth again.
Some people tread lightly with their words. I cannonball. My verbal self-control is limited. Though, I do deserve some credit for all the things I don’t say out loud.
This is why writing is a sanctuary. The delete key is within easy grasp, so I can undo the endless stream of word vomit. With writing, I’m forced to pause and think before the words escape.
How I wish I could go back and rewrite a conversation I had at my husband’s work dinner. One of his colleagues flaunted a shiny new engagement ring. I didn’t know her well, but wanted to make conversation.
“Congratulations!” I gushed.
“Thank you,” she said, holding out her ring and allowing the facets to catch light.
“How did he propose?” I asked.
“He proposed on Thanksgiving Day.”
“Oh nice. Did he hide the ring inside the turkey cavity?”
Her polite smile stiffened. “No. As a vegan, I would not have appreciated that.”
Nervous laughter. “Yeah, that would have killed the mood.” I took a swig of my drink. “Well, congrats again and best wishes on the wedding.”
I made my escape, but replayed the conversation on a tortuous loop.
Of course, I’d been told she was vegan. But it slipped my mind, just as easily as you can slip a diamond into a turkey carcass. There was no Ctrl-Alt-Deleting my way out of that situation.
Keyboards provide moments of reflection, pauses before publication. Writing gives me a chance to check and double check if I’ve said what I really want to say.
Though not even writing is foolproof against idiocy.
To this day, I can be driving down the road when an intrusive thought commandeers my brain and I slam the palm of my hand against my face and inwardly curse myself.
“Are you okay, Mom?” the kids ask.
“Oh yeah, totally fine,” I say, clutching the steering wheel while my body goes into full-body cringe mode. These are the moments I’m remembering the accidental reply-all e-mail (okay . . . e-mails) I’ve sent, or the text messages that went to the wrong person. Once your words enter the ether, they disappear into the black hole of non-retrieval. Even an ill-worded Facebook post can forever be used against you thanks to screen shots.
So why write? Because it gives me a fighting chance. A chance to gather my thoughts before they come spilling out, to shape my words before they take on a life of their own. Writing lets me pause, rethink, and—on a really good day—save myself from another forehead-smacking moment. It may not stop me from the occasional verbal misstep, but at least on the page, I get to decide which words are worth keeping and which ones are better left unsaid.
Still, no matter how much I refine my words on paper, I can’t edit real life. There will always be moments where I say the wrong thing, moments where I wish I could hit "undo" on my own mouth. But maybe that’s just part of being human.
So I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep pausing. And I’ll keep hoping that the next time I open my mouth, my foot won’t already be halfway in.
Dear David, I Promise My Kids Won’t Cook Meth in Your Kitchen
February 10, 2025
Dear David at VRBO. Thank you for your recent response to my inquiry for your beautiful property. It’s understandable you cannot accommodate my request due to the fact I have children. They are rather inconvenient. If you can believe it, they require feedings three or more times a day. They have an endless number of arguments as to why we are always wrong. The youngest one breaks things.
But hear me out.
What if I told you they weren’t actually children, but rather human pets? We live in an age where people love pets. Some people wear T-shirts that self-advertise as Dog Mom. Others don bumper stickers on their cars that say, “Drive safe: Fur babies on board.” I love animals too. As a bonus, my pets don’t even shed. They’re more like fur-less fur babies. Reptiles? But better than reptiles, because my pets have been successfully potty trained for years. And yet, we’re somehow considered worse tenants than a group of adults who may or may not treat your property like a Vegas afterparty.
Here’s the deal.
Two out of my three children have nearly graduated to full humans at this point. They are teenage girls, so they are exactly like adults, only scarier.
The boy is a work in progress, but let’s be honest—most members of his gender take a few extra decades to reach full domestication.
What if I resubmitted our request as a family of five adults? Would this appease you? If so, I’d like to ask a follow-up question. Have you met many adults in our current society? There’s a decent chance we are partiers, drug users, swingers, or overly influenced by conspiracy theories.
Trust me. Parents of children are far less likely to party after hours and leave puke stains around your toilet. We are too damn tired for that. At most we’ll have a glass of wine while our youngest child wanders out of his room repeatedly. Eventually, we’ll realize we’re too tired for even that, and we’ll go straight to bed. During the day, we’ll be out of the house as much as humanly possible, because if we sit around too long, the youngest will no doubt require constant entertainment, like a Golden Retriever with a tennis ball.
So in truth, we’ll be in your house less than a family of adults. Mathematically, you’ll make more money per actual minute of use than you would with a family who has the luxury to sit and relax for more than a five-minute stretch. When we are at your house, we’ll have tumbled into bed with such a thick layer of exhaustion, we won’t have time to use most of your offered amenities. They will remain clean and untouched.
Again, thank you for your kind explanation as to why you cannot accommodate us on our next trip. We wish you the best of luck in all your future guests—may they not use your beautiful kitchen for methamphetamine cooking.
Unfinished Business:
A Novel Left Behind
February 2, 2025
I once wrote a novel about a college graduate trapped in a dead-end job. She staved off an eventual emotional breakdown by self-diagnosing with every mental illness in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.
They say, “Write what you know.”
It wasn’t entirely autobiographical. For one thing, the main character didn’t have a husband, and I didn’t have a dog. The main character had a degree in psychology and a lifelong commitment to vegetarianism. I graduated with an English Journalism degree, and my foray into vegetarianism lasted only long enough for me to forget most of what I’d read in Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle. (That’s a lie. I still remember the meat packer who fell overboard into the rendering vats, but turns out my love for a slightly-pink hamburger overshadows my fear of cannibalism.)
I titled the novel A Self Diagnosis and spent months querying every agent listed in The Writer’s Market. Some responses were encouraging, and I even received positive feedback. Donald Maass, agent and author of Writing the Breakout Novel, wrote me a personal letter describing my writing as promising but lacking sufficient conflict for publication.
He was right.
I took his advice to heart, rewrote the book with his ideas in mind, and thought for sure that an agent and a publishing deal were just around the corner.
But the rejections kept coming. Over and over, I heard the same thing: “It’s not right for us.” One agent described my book as too caustic for the Christian book market and too Christian for the secular market. Apparently, the world wasn’t ready for a sarcastic, self-deprecating Christian who didn’t have her act together.
I’ve thought about my main character a lot over the years. She and I were the same age when I last left her on the page. What is she up to now? Did she marry the guy I made her fall for? Did they have kids? Did those kids turn out cynical and mistake-prone like their mother?
A Self Diagnosis is stuck in the early 2000s, but I’ve thought about resurrecting it, setting it twenty-five years later. With the freedom of independent publishing, I no longer have to work within the constraints of traditional publishing.
But I’ve changed so much over the last quarter-century. I wonder if I can still relate to my main character. I don’t need to diagnose my mental disorders anymore. I turned that over to the professionals as soon as we could afford health insurance. Now, I mostly Google normal things—like best restaurants in the area, cheap airplane tickets, and whether that lump on my back is fat or a cancerous tumor. (The doctor assures me it’s just a lump of fat. Did she really think that would make me feel better?)
Whether or not I return to A Self Diagnosis remains to be seen. For now, though, I’m excited about my new projects. There’s The Ding Dong Altar Boy, written with my brother, Donald Osborn, and Chameleon Flowers, which I’m also working on. My goal is to release The Ding Dong Altar Boy by summer 2025, and I’m not setting a timeline for Chameleon Flowers just yet—but I’ll keep you updated.
Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll come back to that original novel. For now, I’m looking forward to the next chapter in my writing journey—and, as always, I appreciate you following along.