Facing the Giants

“That was a great movie about God and football,” my five-year old son commented after seeing the film, “Facing the Giants” at our church. “God gave everybody what they wanted in the end,” he continued, “it was a happy movie, wasn’t it Mom?”

I have to admit, I didn’t have high hopes for “Facing the Giants.” When our church announced plans to show this movie for free as an outreach to the community, I was skeptical. Would it really attract that many people? As a pinch-hit volunteer in the four and five year old Sunday school class, the answer is a resounding, “YES.” We had eight visiting four-year old boys, and the movie isn’t even geared toward preschoolers.

Sadly, I don’t expect much from Christian movies, so I was surprised to find that it wasn’t completely hokey. It even had moments of genuine humor. But Twin B pretty much summed it up in the above exchange, and he’s only five.

The theme “nothing is impossible with God” really shines through. A young couple choosing to trust God in difficult circumstances sees God work miracles. Wonderful. The downside? It was a little bit like reading a Christian romance novel: you know exactly how it will end as soon as it starts.

Am I just cynical? I believe God can do the impossible. But I also know that life is messy and new trucks from God rarely show up in any of our driveways, even if we really, really need a new truck.

I’m reminded of a friend who, years ago, was on bedrest in the hospital with twins, one of whom was not expected to live due to a severe birth defect. One night I was so grieved for my friend, I prayed until early morning for God to do the impossible. I didn’t pray a polite, “God, comfort my friend” prayer. I anguished for her and cried out for the impossible—for both of her babies to live. Not long after, her daughter was born, lived a few hours, and died in her arms. Is God still good? Of course He is. But there is no simple answer to life’s most troubling concerns, and while miracles are awesome, they don’t often come, even when we have great faith.

I wish this movie had ended without every problem being wrapped up into a tidy package. Maybe they lose the baby they prayed so long for; maybe they adopt a special needs child; maybe their car dies and they both walk a long way to go to work. But this was not a film about “God’s plans are not always our plans,” this was a movie about, “Nothing is impossible with God.”

In any case, eight four-year olds I have never met before heard the story of the Good Shepherd, who cares so much about each of His sheep, He leaves the 99 to go after just one. Many seeds of faith were planted today, and for that, I am thankful.

Stranger than Fiction

After a thrilling afternoon of playing Whac-a-Mole and building a highly unstable tinker toy lighthouse with the noisy boys, I really needed to get out of the house tonight. So I called a friend, and off we went to the movie theater. Not the big, flashy one a mile from my house, but the $3 theater on the other side of town. I love it there. Free refills on slushees and popcorn, plus a mint when you leave. And if you go as infrequently as I do, it doesn’t really matter how long the movie has been out, or even which movie you see, as long as it doesn’t have the word “flush” in the title, it’s all good.

Stranger than Fiction is, well, strange. I had heard from several people that this was a pretty good movie, so I suppose my expectations were slightly out of line. I was expecting GREAT, maybe even FUNNY, and while it had its great and humorous moments, as a whole I would not describe it as either.

And what’s with the whole “writer as misfit” thing? Does that get on anyone else’s nerves? Why does the writer character always have to be a maladjusted, quite possibly suicidal, chain smoking alcoholic in a crisp white shirt? Why not a middle-aged, slightly overweight stay-at-home Mom who scribbles down stories on napkins at McDonalds while her children play? And, of course, these crisp-white-shirt writers would never publish said stories in some obscure journal that nobody reads in exchange for a few copies; no, it’s always a big, fancy publishing house. Or even better—the writer is rich and lives in a beautiful mountain cabin, writing the day away. She never has to do laundry or fix supper; it’s brought to her on a silver tray, presumably purchased with the vast sums of money she’s made on her first novel. Right.

The popcorn was good, the company stellar, and I don’t have to put anyone to bed except myself. And I’m complaining about…what exactly?