Suzanne Schaffer

As Christians we sometimes get so caught up in saying Christian things that we fail to be real. We have our own language that few outside our church walls understand. We say things like, "It's under the cross," and "But God," but the truth is these words don't help as much as we think they should. We utter, "I'll pray for you," as we hurry off of the phone or away from a hurting person at the grocery store. What if, instead, we lingered? What if we turned off the Christianese and just allowed our presence to talk? Sometimes our words lend more confusion than the victory we think they have. When we first moved to the Saint Louis area in the winter of 2004, we did what newcomers do - we drove around getting to know the small towns that stretched along the Mississippi River. I kept noticing a sign at McDonald's that read, "Get Your Cards Cards Here." To be honest, it bothered me a lot. Cards Cards? Was someone having a hard tim

It's hunting season here in Pennsylvania. More specifically, it's deer season. This always leads to me being asked if I'd like some deer meat. "No thanks, I don't like deer meat," I say. I keep to myself that I did my time when we were poor youth pastors without much extra money for real steak. Year after year, deer after deer. BTDT. My response inevitably leads to, "Well, you just haven't had it cooked right," followed by them acting as though I've done something wrong because of what I said. I mean, this does happen, I do say things that get me in trouble but I'm generally a pretty easy going girl. Give me chocolate and all is well. Can we talk about this though? Because I love to cook. I cook all kinds of things and have cooked recipes of all different skill levels. I know how to cook deer meat. I just don't like the taste of it. It doesn't matter how it's cooked. I don't like it. And that's okay. M

I miss the days of fairytales and daydreams. Of Barbie dolls and seashells. Of bikes with banana seats and suntans without concern. These days are full of bad news, worries, deception, and everything else the media throws at us. They’re full of friends with cancer and families burying loved ones too soon. I feel like I spend too much time in a performance of a prettied up face and well-pressed clothing, masking the me within. The me who craves sweatpants, a clean face, air-dried hair, and hot chocolate. The me who would rather snuggle under a blanket and watch a Cary Grant movie than attend a Tupperware party, Girl’s Night Out, or even go to church. Because sometimes—as the pastor’s wife—church hurts. I’ve been the subject of gossip, rumors, and even have had my own words twisted and thrown back at me by a judge with an eye looking outward so keenly it can’t see the plank protruding from it like a crazy unicorn. So I put on my make-up and cover my heart. I build wa