This reading from my prayer guide touched me this morning. Today, once again, I will strive to make my home in God and invite God to be at home in me.
You will find the living God in the pages of the Bible. You will find him also just exactly where you are. When Jesus knew that he would not have much longer with his disciples he knew that they were sad at heart and he said to them: "It is for you r own good that I am going because unless I go, the Advocate will not come to you; but if I do go I will send him to you...I still have many things to say to you, but they would be too much for you now. But when the Spirit of truth comes he will lead you to the complete truth." (John 16:7 ,12, 13).
Jesus does not break his promise. God has sent the Spirit of truth, he dwells in your heart. You have only to listen, to follow, and he will lead you to the complete truth. He leads through all the events, all the circumstances of your life. Nothing in your life is so insignificant, so small that God cannot be found at its centre. We think of God in the dramatic things, the glorious sunsets, the majestic mountains, the tempestuous seas; but he is the little things, too, in the smile of a passer-by or the gnarled hands of an old man, in a daisy, a tiny insect, falling leaves. God is in the music, in laughter and in sorrow too. And the grey times, when monotony stretches out ahead, these can be the times of steady, solid growth into God.
God may make himself known to you through the life of someone who, for you, is an ambassador for God, in whom you can see the beauty and truth and the love of God; anyone from St. Paul and the apostles through all the centuries to the present day, the great assembly of the saints and lovers of God. It may be that there is someone who loves you so deeply that you dare to believe that you are worth loving and so you can believe that God's love for you could be possible after all. Sometimes it is through tragedy or serious illness that God speaks to our hearts and we know him for the first time. There is no limit to the ways in which God may make himself known. At every turn in our lives there can be a meeting place with God. How our hearts should sing with joy and thanksgiving! We have only to want him now at this moment-and at any moment in our lives- and he is there, wanting us, longing to welcome us, to forgive us all that has gone before that has separated us from him. "If anyone loves me he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we shall come to him and make our home with him." (John 14:23)
God makes his home in you. They are not empty words. It is true. "Make your home in me, as I make mine in you." This is prayer. Isn't this the answer to all our yearning, our searching, our anguish, to all the longing, the incompleteness of our lives and of our loving? Until we dwell in him and allow him to dwell in us we shall be strangers to peace.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
A Fine Point
It is not normal to wake up at 4 am with a sick stomach. Yet, once again at the conclusion of an American election, my body speaks more forthrightly than I can find words to express.
But not finding words has never been a reason for me to stop speaking. Or writing.
I would be dim to pay no attention to last night's vote. Republicans won the House and nearly won the Senate. Americans overwhelmingly have spoken in favor of fiscal conservatism. Including a loud and braying call to repeal "Obamacare."
I've got to figure this out and I can't do it abstractly. I can only do it concretely.
Meet Marie. She is the church's full-time custodian. She has no insurance. Her son, Matt, has insurance through the state of Illinois' KidCare. (which I guess technically we hate, since it is a program supported by tax dollars). To purchase insurance for Marie will cost in the neighborhood of $500 per month for a program with a $1000 deductible, 80% coverage and no dental. So, $6000 per year on a roughly $28,000 salary, or an additional 21% in cost to the church on top of her salary.
With our vote we have declared: No National Healthcare. No "socialized" medicine. We want to keep doing it the way we've been doing it. So I'm correct to assume the responsibility for her insurance rests squarely on the shoulders of her employers, the church?
I arrive at this conclusion making the following presumptions:
1. People who work full-time (not those slacker, unemployed welfare people who have socialized health care coverage through Medicaid) but people who are holding up their end of the American bargain, which is to be employed and pay taxes, should reasonably expect America to uphold its end of the bargain, which is to provide healthcare.
2. Employers in our country, by and large, have been the primary providers of healthcare. (except for all the retired people who also have socialized health care coverage through Medicare).
If Point 1 and Point 2 are true, then it is my church's obligation (and every other small business) to provide insurance for their full-time employees, right?
But, our current economic climate says small business should be exempt because the high cost of health insurance would seriously threaten a small business' economic viability.
So, my former conclusion is wrong. What we have voted for is this: Marie, who makes about $28,000 per year, should go without insurance or pay her own annual premiums of $6000.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but after taxes and insurance premiums Marie will take home about $1483 per month. No worries. A mortgage on a modest home will run around $600. Food for two will be about $400 per month. Car payment of $200. Gas in the neighborhood of $100. Utilities for $100? That leaves $83 for dental care, or clothing, or a car repair, or public school fees, or school supplies, or a movie with her son, or a birthday gift for her mom or her grandson. She'll be fine, right?
Meanwhile, the congregation, the compassionate followers of Jesus Christ who stand on the side of justice and the marginalized are off the hook, while we trot off to the doctor with our insurance cards in hand because our full-time employment, which pays more to start with, also provides health insurance.
How many Maries in the US face this bleak future?
Really? This is the plan? This is what caused Americans across our great nation to rejoice? What am I missing that I cannot rejoice?
My stomach hurts and my faith is challenged. Not my faith in God; my faith in the goodwill of a nation to ensure that the basic needs of all its citizens are met.
But not finding words has never been a reason for me to stop speaking. Or writing.
I would be dim to pay no attention to last night's vote. Republicans won the House and nearly won the Senate. Americans overwhelmingly have spoken in favor of fiscal conservatism. Including a loud and braying call to repeal "Obamacare."
I've got to figure this out and I can't do it abstractly. I can only do it concretely.
Meet Marie. She is the church's full-time custodian. She has no insurance. Her son, Matt, has insurance through the state of Illinois' KidCare. (which I guess technically we hate, since it is a program supported by tax dollars). To purchase insurance for Marie will cost in the neighborhood of $500 per month for a program with a $1000 deductible, 80% coverage and no dental. So, $6000 per year on a roughly $28,000 salary, or an additional 21% in cost to the church on top of her salary.
With our vote we have declared: No National Healthcare. No "socialized" medicine. We want to keep doing it the way we've been doing it. So I'm correct to assume the responsibility for her insurance rests squarely on the shoulders of her employers, the church?
I arrive at this conclusion making the following presumptions:
1. People who work full-time (not those slacker, unemployed welfare people who have socialized health care coverage through Medicaid) but people who are holding up their end of the American bargain, which is to be employed and pay taxes, should reasonably expect America to uphold its end of the bargain, which is to provide healthcare.
2. Employers in our country, by and large, have been the primary providers of healthcare. (except for all the retired people who also have socialized health care coverage through Medicare).
If Point 1 and Point 2 are true, then it is my church's obligation (and every other small business) to provide insurance for their full-time employees, right?
But, our current economic climate says small business should be exempt because the high cost of health insurance would seriously threaten a small business' economic viability.
So, my former conclusion is wrong. What we have voted for is this: Marie, who makes about $28,000 per year, should go without insurance or pay her own annual premiums of $6000.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but after taxes and insurance premiums Marie will take home about $1483 per month. No worries. A mortgage on a modest home will run around $600. Food for two will be about $400 per month. Car payment of $200. Gas in the neighborhood of $100. Utilities for $100? That leaves $83 for dental care, or clothing, or a car repair, or public school fees, or school supplies, or a movie with her son, or a birthday gift for her mom or her grandson. She'll be fine, right?
Meanwhile, the congregation, the compassionate followers of Jesus Christ who stand on the side of justice and the marginalized are off the hook, while we trot off to the doctor with our insurance cards in hand because our full-time employment, which pays more to start with, also provides health insurance.
How many Maries in the US face this bleak future?
Really? This is the plan? This is what caused Americans across our great nation to rejoice? What am I missing that I cannot rejoice?
My stomach hurts and my faith is challenged. Not my faith in God; my faith in the goodwill of a nation to ensure that the basic needs of all its citizens are met.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Coming Out
Mondays are my trip down memory lane. I shuffle through my memory's snapshots and look for one that is especially clear.
To set the stage for today's post, I need to tell you about two things that have happened recently.
First, I had the privilege of receiving the gift of a confidence regarding a friend's sexual orientation. (Clearly, if it is a confidence, they are gay. Otherwise, they'd have no hesitation in telling me they are heterosexual, right? Straight is easy. Gay is complicated.) Second, I just found and friended Wes Brown on facebook. I know Wes from my time at Duke Divinity School.
Which led me to rummage around in my mind's Div School memory box. Rummaging unearthed this memory:
I was sitting on the steps of Duke Chapel with a woman I had recently met and with whom I shared an immediate and vibrant connection. A rare moment of deep kinship. As part of our deepening trust and vulnerability, Beth shared with me that she was a lesbian. I was very young. The sun was very bright. The look on her face was hard to read. I was unprepared.
To set the stage for today's post, I need to tell you about two things that have happened recently.
First, I had the privilege of receiving the gift of a confidence regarding a friend's sexual orientation. (Clearly, if it is a confidence, they are gay. Otherwise, they'd have no hesitation in telling me they are heterosexual, right? Straight is easy. Gay is complicated.) Second, I just found and friended Wes Brown on facebook. I know Wes from my time at Duke Divinity School.
Which led me to rummage around in my mind's Div School memory box. Rummaging unearthed this memory:
I was sitting on the steps of Duke Chapel with a woman I had recently met and with whom I shared an immediate and vibrant connection. A rare moment of deep kinship. As part of our deepening trust and vulnerability, Beth shared with me that she was a lesbian. I was very young. The sun was very bright. The look on her face was hard to read. I was unprepared.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Quite the Party
Wal-Mart is throwing the Christmas party for America again this year. And Best-Buy is co-hosting.
They've already sent out the invitations. The decorations are up. They've started playing the party music. They've set the theme: Consumption. And we will all send in our RSVP shortly, if not already.
Churches around the country will be hosting smaller, less well-attended events.
What is it about Christmas that evokes this annual frenzy? Of this I am certain: it is not love of Jesus or hunger for the Kingdom of God.
I think it is time for Christians to stop saying Jesus is the Reason for the Season.
They've already sent out the invitations. The decorations are up. They've started playing the party music. They've set the theme: Consumption. And we will all send in our RSVP shortly, if not already.
Churches around the country will be hosting smaller, less well-attended events.
What is it about Christmas that evokes this annual frenzy? Of this I am certain: it is not love of Jesus or hunger for the Kingdom of God.
I think it is time for Christians to stop saying Jesus is the Reason for the Season.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Rain, Rain, Come My Way...
It is pouring down rain. Thunder has been rumbling above the clouds. Spencer, the 12-year old, is on a Boy Scout camping trip. Just like last month.
Knowing the forecast, I asked him yesterday if he wanted to stay home this weekend since it was going to rain most of Saturday and Sunday. He said, "No."
Today, my palm smacks my forehead. What kind of foolish offer did I make him? Why would I have tempted him with "indoors," "safe" and "dry" when he can spend two days in the middle of a storm?
I hope he is enthralled by the sounds and the difference in nature. The way the birds quiet down in anticipation. The way the gray skies press in toward ground. The steady, powerful rumble of thunder. The hammering percussion of the rain. I hope he feels slightly unsafe. Uncomfortable. On edge.
I hope they batten down the hatches and huddle together to wait it out. Or run through fields getting muddy knees and wet shoes. I hope the fire is mostly smoke and dinner is difficult to prepare. I hope sleep comes in long snatches between damp and cold.
And I hope tomorrow he comes home safely with his own personal story of surviving this particular storm and coming out the other side...to warmth, comfort, safety and yes, XBox 360.
Storms are like that. Big and blustery. Ominous and forboding. And always, eventually, over.
Knowing the forecast, I asked him yesterday if he wanted to stay home this weekend since it was going to rain most of Saturday and Sunday. He said, "No."
Today, my palm smacks my forehead. What kind of foolish offer did I make him? Why would I have tempted him with "indoors," "safe" and "dry" when he can spend two days in the middle of a storm?
I hope he is enthralled by the sounds and the difference in nature. The way the birds quiet down in anticipation. The way the gray skies press in toward ground. The steady, powerful rumble of thunder. The hammering percussion of the rain. I hope he feels slightly unsafe. Uncomfortable. On edge.
I hope they batten down the hatches and huddle together to wait it out. Or run through fields getting muddy knees and wet shoes. I hope the fire is mostly smoke and dinner is difficult to prepare. I hope sleep comes in long snatches between damp and cold.
And I hope tomorrow he comes home safely with his own personal story of surviving this particular storm and coming out the other side...to warmth, comfort, safety and yes, XBox 360.
Storms are like that. Big and blustery. Ominous and forboding. And always, eventually, over.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Time on the Fly
I remember somewhere in my early forties realizing I had accomplished my dreams. I'd graduated from college, gone to Divinity School, gotten married, been ordained, lived overseas, learned foreign languages, had adventures, birthed three children and enjoyed the deeply satisfying and chaotic pleasure of creating a family.
At forty-three, I wondered, "Now what?"
What were my dreams for the second half of my life? What were my goals? How would I challenge myself?
I discovered that I had dreamed really well for the first half of my life, but looking forward to the rest of my life was a blank canvas. I suspect there will be great joy in celebrating my children's accomplishments. And I am glad to be part of a family. But I don't want to just watch other people, even my children and grandchildren, live life. I want to live mine, too. Without a destination in mind, I can't arrive. Without a plan, I'll be on maintenance. And maintenance living seems a great pale wasteland.
I might live 40 more years. At the end of that time, I would like to have accomplished more. I'd like to have more adventures. I'd like to believe that big dreams are still possible to achieve.
What do I really want from this next phase of life? More than a bucket list of events, who do I want to become?
I want to be married to Frank and I want to fall in love with him in whole new ways.
I want to learn new things. I'd like to learn how to do bicycle repair work. I'd like to learn another way to make a living. I want to go deeper and further in my spiritual life than christian orthodoxy embraces. I want to drink coffee in more of the world's cafes. I want to be surrounded by beauty and create meals that nourish people body, soul and mind. I want to laugh more. I want to have a clean house. I want to spend more time listening to an ocean keep its beat and smell the salt in the air. I want to collect camping equipment and hiking boots and head into the woods. I want to be fit, flexible and strong.
I want the rest of my years to be as packed with challenge, growth and fulfillment as the first 51.
People have often asked me how I was able to: live in Germany, travel solo in Israel, Cyprus and Greece, live in Russia, take my children on a year-long RV trip through the US, work and raise a family. While the dreaming and the planning for each was different, and having Frank along for the ride expanded the possibilities and the joy, the execution happened for one reason: I just did it.
Instead of telling myself why I/we couldn't, shouldn't or mustn't, we behaved as if we should, could and must. We emphatically told people of our plans. We put our dreams into words and by saying it outloud started to make it true. Then, we just did it.
Phase Two has commenced. Plan B is underway. Time is on the fly. The wheels are rolling. There are plans to be made, classes to take, dreams to envision, people to tell.
And then as before, whether we are young, like now, or older, we will just do it.
At forty-three, I wondered, "Now what?"
What were my dreams for the second half of my life? What were my goals? How would I challenge myself?
I discovered that I had dreamed really well for the first half of my life, but looking forward to the rest of my life was a blank canvas. I suspect there will be great joy in celebrating my children's accomplishments. And I am glad to be part of a family. But I don't want to just watch other people, even my children and grandchildren, live life. I want to live mine, too. Without a destination in mind, I can't arrive. Without a plan, I'll be on maintenance. And maintenance living seems a great pale wasteland.
I might live 40 more years. At the end of that time, I would like to have accomplished more. I'd like to have more adventures. I'd like to believe that big dreams are still possible to achieve.
What do I really want from this next phase of life? More than a bucket list of events, who do I want to become?
I want to be married to Frank and I want to fall in love with him in whole new ways.
I want to learn new things. I'd like to learn how to do bicycle repair work. I'd like to learn another way to make a living. I want to go deeper and further in my spiritual life than christian orthodoxy embraces. I want to drink coffee in more of the world's cafes. I want to be surrounded by beauty and create meals that nourish people body, soul and mind. I want to laugh more. I want to have a clean house. I want to spend more time listening to an ocean keep its beat and smell the salt in the air. I want to collect camping equipment and hiking boots and head into the woods. I want to be fit, flexible and strong.
I want the rest of my years to be as packed with challenge, growth and fulfillment as the first 51.
People have often asked me how I was able to: live in Germany, travel solo in Israel, Cyprus and Greece, live in Russia, take my children on a year-long RV trip through the US, work and raise a family. While the dreaming and the planning for each was different, and having Frank along for the ride expanded the possibilities and the joy, the execution happened for one reason: I just did it.
Instead of telling myself why I/we couldn't, shouldn't or mustn't, we behaved as if we should, could and must. We emphatically told people of our plans. We put our dreams into words and by saying it outloud started to make it true. Then, we just did it.
Phase Two has commenced. Plan B is underway. Time is on the fly. The wheels are rolling. There are plans to be made, classes to take, dreams to envision, people to tell.
And then as before, whether we are young, like now, or older, we will just do it.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
What If?
I would like Wednesdays to be "What If?" days.
I have about a thousand "What If?s" I'd like to explore. It's liberating to imagine things in new ways with new light cast upon them. It opens up the creative side of things to push pause on what is and think about what might be.
Today's "What If?" is around the notion of worship.
What if....churches, like restaurants, offered their product (worship) many times per day and many days per week?
What if...the goal wasn't ever-larger worship services, but rather, ever-more intimate, smaller worship?
What if...pastors and musicians quit talking/singing/playing every so often, got out of the way and let God take the floor?
What if...clergy 'fessed up and admitted that they don't have any magic powers over the elements at communion? I mean, c'mon!? If the lay people read the words of the communion liturgy and invited the Holy Spirit to be present...would the Holy Spirit say, "Nope. I ain't coming unless an ordained clergy person asks me to."
What if...we began each service with these words, "Lord, this next hour is not about me. Allow me, Lord, to live for others for the next 60 minutes. Allow me, Lord, to love the people standing around me more than I love myself. Inspire me, Lord, to lay down my life for others right now. You know, Lord, I love praise music, but for this hour, let my voice be lifted up in praise through the hymns that make Mr. Smith so happy." "You know, God, I don't really like the music parts of worship that much; I love to hear the Word. But for this hour, I offer up my happiness and sing each song with gusto because I know how much Elise finds joy and comfort in the songs of faith."
What if the greatest benefit and joy in worship came, not when our desires were satisfied, but when we sacrificed our desires for the good of the people we call brothers and sisters in faith?
What if...we looked for everything that was right in worship and forgave all that fell short or was wrong?
What if...we really wanted God to bring people into our communion...and we really meant "all people." Even the sick, the damaged, the poor, the different, the difficult.
What if...I could come to worship with all my doubts and nagging questions and not feel the need to pretend I am completely in sync with the other "good Christians?"
What if...we just laid to rest the concept of "good Christian" altogether?
What "What If....?" would you add?
I have about a thousand "What If?s" I'd like to explore. It's liberating to imagine things in new ways with new light cast upon them. It opens up the creative side of things to push pause on what is and think about what might be.
Today's "What If?" is around the notion of worship.
What if....churches, like restaurants, offered their product (worship) many times per day and many days per week?
What if...the goal wasn't ever-larger worship services, but rather, ever-more intimate, smaller worship?
What if...pastors and musicians quit talking/singing/playing every so often, got out of the way and let God take the floor?
What if...clergy 'fessed up and admitted that they don't have any magic powers over the elements at communion? I mean, c'mon!? If the lay people read the words of the communion liturgy and invited the Holy Spirit to be present...would the Holy Spirit say, "Nope. I ain't coming unless an ordained clergy person asks me to."
What if...we began each service with these words, "Lord, this next hour is not about me. Allow me, Lord, to live for others for the next 60 minutes. Allow me, Lord, to love the people standing around me more than I love myself. Inspire me, Lord, to lay down my life for others right now. You know, Lord, I love praise music, but for this hour, let my voice be lifted up in praise through the hymns that make Mr. Smith so happy." "You know, God, I don't really like the music parts of worship that much; I love to hear the Word. But for this hour, I offer up my happiness and sing each song with gusto because I know how much Elise finds joy and comfort in the songs of faith."
What if the greatest benefit and joy in worship came, not when our desires were satisfied, but when we sacrificed our desires for the good of the people we call brothers and sisters in faith?
What if...we looked for everything that was right in worship and forgave all that fell short or was wrong?
What if...we really wanted God to bring people into our communion...and we really meant "all people." Even the sick, the damaged, the poor, the different, the difficult.
What if...I could come to worship with all my doubts and nagging questions and not feel the need to pretend I am completely in sync with the other "good Christians?"
What if...we just laid to rest the concept of "good Christian" altogether?
What "What If....?" would you add?
Monday, May 10, 2010
Monday Memory: Snow, Fog and Surprises
This memory is a short one, but has been an enduring image of beauty and a memory of a time of wonder.
In January 1987 I had just finished seminary at Duke Divinity School. We had been hired to go to Moscow, USSR to work in the food service department of the U.S. Embassy. We knew we were going, but didn't know if it would take two weeks or two months to get the paperwork in order and tickets in hand. Thumb-twiddling time.
During that time we lived with Frank's parents in Phoenix, Arizona. We filled our days with good food, sledding in the north mountains, hot air ballooning and daily Wheel of Fortune. It was a rare opportunity to explore Arizona and enjoy the company of my in-laws (hence, Wheel of Fortune).
Frank and I decided to visit the Grand Canyon. We'd been there before, but thought it would be a lovely way to pass a couple days. We borrowed a little tent from Frank's brother, hopped in the car and headed north.
It was a great day. Cool, but not miserably cold. We drove the canyon road and stopped to admire the vistas. We stopped at the lodge and had some pie and coffee. Eventually, we headed to the campground, threw up the tent, grabbed a bite to eat and settled in for a good night's sleep.
We slept great! All that mountain air, I suppose. We woke up, stretched, chatted, organized our stuff and made plans for the day. When we unzipped the tent door to get started we made a wonderful discovery. The campground we'd zipped out of view the night before had been brown, with pine trees and scrubby vegetation. When we flung back the nylon door the next morning that same drab scene was glittering in the bright new snow that had fallen overnight. There was a layer of snow on our car, on our picnic table, on our tent. Snow always makes me smile, but this was an ear-to-ear grin. Wonder and delight. Surprise and beauty.
We headed over to the Canyon Lodge on the South Rim for breakfast and one more look at the Canyon. The Grand Canyon has never let me down and never failed to impress. But on this day, the fog was so thick we couldn't see into its colorful depth or gaze out upon its remarkable breadth. We waited for the fog to burn off, but eventually headed back into the restaurant for another cup of coffee.
The Lodge was full of disappointed tourists. All of us were waiting for the fog to lift and the canyon to emerge from invisibility. Some tourists passed the time in the restaurant and the gift shop. So did we. For a while we chatted by the fireplace. We wandered out to the guard rail to peer into the fog hoping to see a rock outcropping or a tree outline in the mist. Nothing. We went back inside. A busload of Japanese tourists wandered around reflecting our own impatience, frustration and growing sense of disappointment.
Didn't Nature know we had come a long way for a splendid vision of grandeur? Didn't Nature know we were on a bit of a schedule? Why was she being so petulant and uncooperative? We'd been patient for the first hour or two. Now let's get on with it.
The Grand Canyon had never disappointed me before, but it was starting to look like this would be the day.
Frank and I decided it was time to head home. We walked out for one last look at the fog. Kind of a fist-shaking at the heavens, really.
While we stood at the rail lamenting the wasted morning, the sun burned a hole in the fog and pushed it back to the edges of the canyon. There it was! The pinks, oranges and reds of the canyon walls shimmered in the hazy light. The trees stood tall and deep green against the backdrop. I'd never seen the Canyon when she was dressed in white, but the light layer of snow gave her a whole new look. We gasped and looked around to see if others could see what we were seeing. There were just a handful of people at the rail. They were amazed and entranced, too. We turned to the lodge and saw the faces of people who were chatting with one another, oblivious of the moment.
We turned back around to enjoy the view and just as quickly as it had opened up, the fog closed in again and the Grand Canyon disappeared from sight.
It was a surprise, a moment, a gift.
We felt sorry for the international tourists whose schedule had allowed them only a morning at the canyon. If they weren't at the rail for that one brief minute, they missed seeing one of Nature's most remarkable accomplishments. It was a long way to come to watch fog swirl.
Many left disappointed that day. But not me.
The Grand Canyon has never disappointed me. Not even once.
In January 1987 I had just finished seminary at Duke Divinity School. We had been hired to go to Moscow, USSR to work in the food service department of the U.S. Embassy. We knew we were going, but didn't know if it would take two weeks or two months to get the paperwork in order and tickets in hand. Thumb-twiddling time.
During that time we lived with Frank's parents in Phoenix, Arizona. We filled our days with good food, sledding in the north mountains, hot air ballooning and daily Wheel of Fortune. It was a rare opportunity to explore Arizona and enjoy the company of my in-laws (hence, Wheel of Fortune).
Frank and I decided to visit the Grand Canyon. We'd been there before, but thought it would be a lovely way to pass a couple days. We borrowed a little tent from Frank's brother, hopped in the car and headed north.
It was a great day. Cool, but not miserably cold. We drove the canyon road and stopped to admire the vistas. We stopped at the lodge and had some pie and coffee. Eventually, we headed to the campground, threw up the tent, grabbed a bite to eat and settled in for a good night's sleep.
We slept great! All that mountain air, I suppose. We woke up, stretched, chatted, organized our stuff and made plans for the day. When we unzipped the tent door to get started we made a wonderful discovery. The campground we'd zipped out of view the night before had been brown, with pine trees and scrubby vegetation. When we flung back the nylon door the next morning that same drab scene was glittering in the bright new snow that had fallen overnight. There was a layer of snow on our car, on our picnic table, on our tent. Snow always makes me smile, but this was an ear-to-ear grin. Wonder and delight. Surprise and beauty.
We headed over to the Canyon Lodge on the South Rim for breakfast and one more look at the Canyon. The Grand Canyon has never let me down and never failed to impress. But on this day, the fog was so thick we couldn't see into its colorful depth or gaze out upon its remarkable breadth. We waited for the fog to burn off, but eventually headed back into the restaurant for another cup of coffee.
The Lodge was full of disappointed tourists. All of us were waiting for the fog to lift and the canyon to emerge from invisibility. Some tourists passed the time in the restaurant and the gift shop. So did we. For a while we chatted by the fireplace. We wandered out to the guard rail to peer into the fog hoping to see a rock outcropping or a tree outline in the mist. Nothing. We went back inside. A busload of Japanese tourists wandered around reflecting our own impatience, frustration and growing sense of disappointment.
Didn't Nature know we had come a long way for a splendid vision of grandeur? Didn't Nature know we were on a bit of a schedule? Why was she being so petulant and uncooperative? We'd been patient for the first hour or two. Now let's get on with it.
The Grand Canyon had never disappointed me before, but it was starting to look like this would be the day.
Frank and I decided it was time to head home. We walked out for one last look at the fog. Kind of a fist-shaking at the heavens, really.
While we stood at the rail lamenting the wasted morning, the sun burned a hole in the fog and pushed it back to the edges of the canyon. There it was! The pinks, oranges and reds of the canyon walls shimmered in the hazy light. The trees stood tall and deep green against the backdrop. I'd never seen the Canyon when she was dressed in white, but the light layer of snow gave her a whole new look. We gasped and looked around to see if others could see what we were seeing. There were just a handful of people at the rail. They were amazed and entranced, too. We turned to the lodge and saw the faces of people who were chatting with one another, oblivious of the moment.
We turned back around to enjoy the view and just as quickly as it had opened up, the fog closed in again and the Grand Canyon disappeared from sight.
It was a surprise, a moment, a gift.
We felt sorry for the international tourists whose schedule had allowed them only a morning at the canyon. If they weren't at the rail for that one brief minute, they missed seeing one of Nature's most remarkable accomplishments. It was a long way to come to watch fog swirl.
Many left disappointed that day. But not me.
The Grand Canyon has never disappointed me. Not even once.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Hereby Declaring Mondays as: Favorite Life Story Days
OR: "If You've Known Me for 20 Minutes, or Been in a Congregation I Serve(d), You've Probably Already Heard These.
Most days are normal. Thank God.
But some experiences are out of the ordinary. Some days are extraordinary. Some stories are more interesting.
One of my favorite parts of ministry is hearing people's stories. I loved hearing about Buda and Sherwood eloping to Missouri. She wore a red, satin wedding dress she'd sewn in Home Economics (circa 1930?). I loved that Bruce built a zipline in his backyard for his kids. I am still in awe that Betty left her abusive husband and was surrounded by love and support in her small, rural community...long before women were allowed that freedom. My mother-in-law wasn't allowed to go outside as a child to play until the streets had been "watered" to keep the dust down. (When she first told me this, I was a mother of small children, and my first thought was, "Ummm....MUD?")
I am a fan of StoryCorps, a national movement to collect oral histories from people. I feel like I've heard a lot of stories that, sadly, went to the grave with their perpetrators, so I'm grateful that more stories are being preserved. I especially love hearing about the shenanigans and adventures of young people coming out of the mouths of their 90-year old incarnations. It helps me remember that old people are real people with real passions, real histories and real experiences. They snuck out with girlfriends, had secret marriages, dreamed big dreams, lost loved ones, overcame obstacles and took risks. Even if they are frail now or their lives have become much smaller...it wasn't always the case!
I have stories, too.
So, I'm dedicating Monday to the preserving of my own stories. I think I'll enjoy them when the nursing home volunteers come to read them to me in the future. I hope you enjoy them, too.
Among my favorite life stories are the experiences of Extreme Hospitality I've known.
Just one for today:
I was backpacking alone in Israel. I'd been living in Germany for a year and had met a lot of international students. Before I returned to the US, I wanted to visit some of my friends in their home country.
I'd been in Israel for a few days. I stayed at the hostel in Tel-Aviv and Jerusalem and did some sight-seeing. I went south to visit the Dead Sea and slept on the grass in a park with some just-met friends when the air conditioning in our rented room broke down. Somewhere along the way I ate something or caught something that started to work its evil power. By the time I'd flown back to Jerusalem, gotten to the bus station to catch a bus to Haifa (to visit my friend, Tami), and was waiting for departure, I was definitely slowing down.
A man who was also waiting for the Haifa bus asked me, "Are you sad? Homesick, perhaps?"
"Not homesick; I think I'm getting real sick."
In spite of that confession, he sat next to me on the bus.
In the three hours it took to travel by bus from Jerusalem to Haifa, I went from "not great" to "definitely ill." I learned that my seat companion was a Professor of Yiddish at Haifa University. He was an American who had re-located with his family to Israel to teach. When we arrived at the bus station in Haifa, he stayed by my side until he was sure I had a place to stay. But, I was a day early and my friend, Tami, could not be reached by phone. The professor invited me to his home until the next day when Tami was expecting me. He was sure his wife wouldn't mind. If he'd only known...
Once we got to his home, he and his wife got me settled in their son's bedroom. I spent the next two days crawling from that bed to the nearby bathroom and back again. The days passed in oblivion; I was either asleep or throwing up. My hosts, virtual strangers, brought broth and soda to my bedside until I was able to sit up and eat a meal. They communicated with my friend and made arrangements for her to meet me once I was well.
Keep in mind, once I was a mother myself, I could only barely care for my own children when they were vomiting. My husband would not give me even that much credit.
So, I am amazed that I was invited, sick, at a bus station into the homes of two wonderful people who had compassionate hearts. I am still grateful.
Their hospitality and fearlessness in welcoming "the stranger" deeply impacted my own reception of those I do not know and my treatment of others in need. Having once been "the stranger," I try to look at people through the eyes of my compassionate hosts, who saw, not an enemy, not a threat, not a danger, but a fellow human being in need for whom they had the available resources to provide care.
Two terrible days in their lives; a lifetime of influence in mine.
Most days are normal. Thank God.
But some experiences are out of the ordinary. Some days are extraordinary. Some stories are more interesting.
One of my favorite parts of ministry is hearing people's stories. I loved hearing about Buda and Sherwood eloping to Missouri. She wore a red, satin wedding dress she'd sewn in Home Economics (circa 1930?). I loved that Bruce built a zipline in his backyard for his kids. I am still in awe that Betty left her abusive husband and was surrounded by love and support in her small, rural community...long before women were allowed that freedom. My mother-in-law wasn't allowed to go outside as a child to play until the streets had been "watered" to keep the dust down. (When she first told me this, I was a mother of small children, and my first thought was, "Ummm....MUD?")
I am a fan of StoryCorps, a national movement to collect oral histories from people. I feel like I've heard a lot of stories that, sadly, went to the grave with their perpetrators, so I'm grateful that more stories are being preserved. I especially love hearing about the shenanigans and adventures of young people coming out of the mouths of their 90-year old incarnations. It helps me remember that old people are real people with real passions, real histories and real experiences. They snuck out with girlfriends, had secret marriages, dreamed big dreams, lost loved ones, overcame obstacles and took risks. Even if they are frail now or their lives have become much smaller...it wasn't always the case!
I have stories, too.
So, I'm dedicating Monday to the preserving of my own stories. I think I'll enjoy them when the nursing home volunteers come to read them to me in the future. I hope you enjoy them, too.
Among my favorite life stories are the experiences of Extreme Hospitality I've known.
Just one for today:
I was backpacking alone in Israel. I'd been living in Germany for a year and had met a lot of international students. Before I returned to the US, I wanted to visit some of my friends in their home country.
I'd been in Israel for a few days. I stayed at the hostel in Tel-Aviv and Jerusalem and did some sight-seeing. I went south to visit the Dead Sea and slept on the grass in a park with some just-met friends when the air conditioning in our rented room broke down. Somewhere along the way I ate something or caught something that started to work its evil power. By the time I'd flown back to Jerusalem, gotten to the bus station to catch a bus to Haifa (to visit my friend, Tami), and was waiting for departure, I was definitely slowing down.
A man who was also waiting for the Haifa bus asked me, "Are you sad? Homesick, perhaps?"
"Not homesick; I think I'm getting real sick."
In spite of that confession, he sat next to me on the bus.
In the three hours it took to travel by bus from Jerusalem to Haifa, I went from "not great" to "definitely ill." I learned that my seat companion was a Professor of Yiddish at Haifa University. He was an American who had re-located with his family to Israel to teach. When we arrived at the bus station in Haifa, he stayed by my side until he was sure I had a place to stay. But, I was a day early and my friend, Tami, could not be reached by phone. The professor invited me to his home until the next day when Tami was expecting me. He was sure his wife wouldn't mind. If he'd only known...
Once we got to his home, he and his wife got me settled in their son's bedroom. I spent the next two days crawling from that bed to the nearby bathroom and back again. The days passed in oblivion; I was either asleep or throwing up. My hosts, virtual strangers, brought broth and soda to my bedside until I was able to sit up and eat a meal. They communicated with my friend and made arrangements for her to meet me once I was well.
Keep in mind, once I was a mother myself, I could only barely care for my own children when they were vomiting. My husband would not give me even that much credit.
So, I am amazed that I was invited, sick, at a bus station into the homes of two wonderful people who had compassionate hearts. I am still grateful.
Their hospitality and fearlessness in welcoming "the stranger" deeply impacted my own reception of those I do not know and my treatment of others in need. Having once been "the stranger," I try to look at people through the eyes of my compassionate hosts, who saw, not an enemy, not a threat, not a danger, but a fellow human being in need for whom they had the available resources to provide care.
Two terrible days in their lives; a lifetime of influence in mine.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Bikes and Aluminum Foil
Today was beautiful. We've had so many beautiful days in a row that I'm getting suspicious. This is Illinois, after all. Winter, ice storm, cold, winter, cold, winter, cold. A nice spring day or two. Then the blazing heat and suffocating humidity of summer. Until the nice autumn day or two. Then winter, cold, winter, cold and the cycle repeats. Last spring was pretty unpleasant and I didn't get my bedding plants in the ground until the end of June. It was freezing cold, wet and a tornado blew through town. Then it was hot.
So a beautiful day Should Not Be Wasted. I wanted to ride my bike, Trusty Steed. (Yes, my bike has a name. Doesn't yours?) But Trusty had a flat tire, so Spencer and I decided today would be Clean and Repair Your Bike Day. Spencer actually had a grander thought: it should be National-Fix-Up-Your-Bike Day. His reasoning was spot on: "If we can have a National Talk-Like-A-Pirate Day, we should definitely have a National-Fix-Up-Your-Bike Day."
So, unbeknownst to millions of Americans, N-F-U-Y-B Day was today.We'll try to get the word out sooner next time. (photo is not my bike, but same brand, frame, etc. looks similar)
Bicycles, to me, are the perfect form of transportation. Riding them is fun. They are inexpensive. They are good for you and your heart. They don't hurt the earth. They look good. Some people really like the clothes. But, take it from me, bike clothes are NOT flattering.
If there weren't so many fast cars on the road (interstate) between my house and my job, I would definitely ride a bike. I love my bike and we have shared some of my life's happiest memories. But that will be another blog.
For now, one of the great things about bikes is they are easy to repair. So I changed the tire and while I was doing that, I was giving the rear wheel a bit of a sprucing up.
Which brings me to an important tip: Aluminum Foil, Vinegar and Chrome.
If you dip wadded up aluminum foil in vinegar and rub it over your chrome, it'll take the rust spots off and bring back that beautiful chrome shine. This is almost as good as my tip to buy a rice cooker.
Frank and I discovered this amazing, wonderful, cool little science-project/home-repair tip when trying to clean up a 1950's dinette set we bought in Jacksonville. A little labor intensive, but very satisfying. (photo is not mine...same table; our chairs are orangy-red.)
Today, I gave Trusty the aluminum foil and vinegar touch up she's been needing! I changed her tire and went for a quick spin to the neighbors to visit Spencer (who had gotten as far as removing the front and back brake cables from his bike when he decided National Fix-Up-Your-Bike Day was officially over.) While at the neighbors, Ron boosted my tire pressure while Sharon dug up her neighbor's irises. Spencer and Madi played Wii. I admired the new trees Ron and Sharon planted ($35 for 10 trees from the Sangamon County Soil and Water Conservation District Tree Sale. This year's sale is over, but watch for next year's!)
On this beautiful day, life in the neighborhood was good. Even the chrome on my bike was gleaming.
So, unbeknownst to millions of Americans, N-F-U-Y-B Day was today.We'll try to get the word out sooner next time. (photo is not my bike, but same brand, frame, etc. looks similar)
Bicycles, to me, are the perfect form of transportation. Riding them is fun. They are inexpensive. They are good for you and your heart. They don't hurt the earth. They look good. Some people really like the clothes. But, take it from me, bike clothes are NOT flattering.
If there weren't so many fast cars on the road (interstate) between my house and my job, I would definitely ride a bike. I love my bike and we have shared some of my life's happiest memories. But that will be another blog.
For now, one of the great things about bikes is they are easy to repair. So I changed the tire and while I was doing that, I was giving the rear wheel a bit of a sprucing up.
Which brings me to an important tip: Aluminum Foil, Vinegar and Chrome.
If you dip wadded up aluminum foil in vinegar and rub it over your chrome, it'll take the rust spots off and bring back that beautiful chrome shine. This is almost as good as my tip to buy a rice cooker.
Today, I gave Trusty the aluminum foil and vinegar touch up she's been needing! I changed her tire and went for a quick spin to the neighbors to visit Spencer (who had gotten as far as removing the front and back brake cables from his bike when he decided National Fix-Up-Your-Bike Day was officially over.) While at the neighbors, Ron boosted my tire pressure while Sharon dug up her neighbor's irises. Spencer and Madi played Wii. I admired the new trees Ron and Sharon planted ($35 for 10 trees from the Sangamon County Soil and Water Conservation District Tree Sale. This year's sale is over, but watch for next year's!)
On this beautiful day, life in the neighborhood was good. Even the chrome on my bike was gleaming.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
A Moment of Perfection
Sitting on the deck this morning for my prayer time was a moment, a sweet, brief moment, of perfection. Better even than the bowl of french vanilla ice cream with fresh-cut strawberries I had last night. It's hard to top that.
Behind me was the morning's chaos of Getting to School. Before me lies the work of a church...the finances, the scheduling, the sermon writing, the wedding counseling, the day-to-day work of every pastor.
But in between chaos and ordinary was perfection. The air this morning was like the little puffs of breath a baby exhales while peacefully sleeping. Like the gentlest of caresses or a silken shawl, it touched my skin, then slipped away.
And my busy mind took a breather. Sitting with my eyes closed I could hear the eager morning chatter of a hundred birds, smell the fragrance of spring trees that have flowered abundantly this year. And my mind shrugged its impatient shoulders and sat still.
This is a victory.
I am generally held captive by a mind that over-processes, flits, worries and spins like a dervish (which I have actually seen once on the Today show). A mind that was blank for a mili-second or a minute is a victory. It felt like my brain relaxed. Like it slipped a little more deeply and comfortably into the easy chair of silence. I liked it.
A moment of physical, mental and spiritual perfection. Is this a glimpse of what prayer can be? Dare I hope for more?
Blessings today,
Julia
Behind me was the morning's chaos of Getting to School. Before me lies the work of a church...the finances, the scheduling, the sermon writing, the wedding counseling, the day-to-day work of every pastor.
But in between chaos and ordinary was perfection. The air this morning was like the little puffs of breath a baby exhales while peacefully sleeping. Like the gentlest of caresses or a silken shawl, it touched my skin, then slipped away.
And my busy mind took a breather. Sitting with my eyes closed I could hear the eager morning chatter of a hundred birds, smell the fragrance of spring trees that have flowered abundantly this year. And my mind shrugged its impatient shoulders and sat still.
This is a victory.
I am generally held captive by a mind that over-processes, flits, worries and spins like a dervish (which I have actually seen once on the Today show). A mind that was blank for a mili-second or a minute is a victory. It felt like my brain relaxed. Like it slipped a little more deeply and comfortably into the easy chair of silence. I liked it.
A moment of physical, mental and spiritual perfection. Is this a glimpse of what prayer can be? Dare I hope for more?
Blessings today,
Julia
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Unbinding Your Soul
But, reading the book over 8 weeks was a little bit like my daughter, Anna Sophia, learning to drive on a stick shift. Not only did she have to learn the fundamentals of driving and traffic, she had to do it while shifting gears. It was too much.
One group of participants felt that way, too. We read the chapters about faith sharing...interesting. And we learned to pray better...awesome. But learning to pray so we could better faith share was, well, a bit much. We are not, however, discouraged. Quite to the contrary.
We're going through the whole book and the prayer exercises again. I think mostly we just want to hang on to this precious place of encouragement, sharing and spiritual growth.
Which brings me to an important discovery: there is a fourth book in the series called Unbinding Your Soul. GREAT CONCEPT. The subtitle is "Your Experiment in Prayer and Community." It is a book that encourages a group of people (church people and NOT church people) to get together for three weeks of prayer and faith sharing together. It invites us to "talk about religion." To talk humbly and kindly about the deepest things of our spirit. Even if we don't understand everything (anything?) the same way.
This book will only work for people who are open to practicing prayer. And it uses the Scripture of the Hebrew Scriptures (Old Testament) and the Greek Scriptures (New Testament). So, for the avid atheist, this may not be a good fit. But for those of a Christian tendency, but maybe not happy with church or looking for something more "real," this might be a wonderful way to experience the very best that church has to offer: real relationships that help us love God more deeply and opens our eyes to the people beyond our own wingspan.
Prayer can be better, deeper and more meaningful. I haven't ever said this before: I really love to pray.
Really pray. Really love. Really love to pray.
Blessings, Julia
PS: By the way, for pastors within the Illinois Great Rivers Conference: our very own Mike Crawford is mentioned and Roger Ross was given three pages of his own to write on in Unbinding your Soul.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Simple Faith
I long for simple faith. I wish I could easily proclaim orthodox understandings without wondering, "Do I really believe that?"
But I don't have simple faith. I have complicated, agonized faith. Unclear thoughts that roam free, untethered to words or reason. So, I blog in search of clarity. I write to nail down those pesky, free-flying, out-of-focus thoughts. I want to look at them up close. Examine them and see if we can be friends.
Well, starting right now, I blog.
I am propelled in this direction by the convergence of three random things.
First: my husband told me yesterday, out of the blue, I should write more.
Second: my chair of Outreach for our church said last night our church needs a blog (this is not that, but might be a precursor). This got me thinking about blogging.
Third, in wandering around the internet this morning, I ran across a link from a Norwegian pastor to the website "Desiring God." I glanced at it and moved on. A couple hours later I googled "pastors and blogs." The first link was to John Piper's blog entitled "6 Reasons Pastors Should Blog." He is the owner of the Desiring God site. I should stumble on the same website quite by accident, TWICE? By the way, the article was compelling.
So here I am.
And now I can give you an immediate example of my spiritual struggle.
On one hand, I view those three random incidents as The Hand Of God. That's the simple faith I long for. God at work in the details of my life. Guiding and shaping and opening doors. I do believe that.
My head is screaming, "Are you kidding me? You think God has nothing better to do than lead you, via Norway for crying out loud, toward a place where you can write about things you barely grasp?"
My simple spirit shouts back: "Yep."
And that's when the fight started...
But I don't have simple faith. I have complicated, agonized faith. Unclear thoughts that roam free, untethered to words or reason. So, I blog in search of clarity. I write to nail down those pesky, free-flying, out-of-focus thoughts. I want to look at them up close. Examine them and see if we can be friends.
Well, starting right now, I blog.
I am propelled in this direction by the convergence of three random things.
First: my husband told me yesterday, out of the blue, I should write more.
Second: my chair of Outreach for our church said last night our church needs a blog (this is not that, but might be a precursor). This got me thinking about blogging.
So here I am.
And now I can give you an immediate example of my spiritual struggle.
On one hand, I view those three random incidents as The Hand Of God. That's the simple faith I long for. God at work in the details of my life. Guiding and shaping and opening doors. I do believe that.
My head is screaming, "Are you kidding me? You think God has nothing better to do than lead you, via Norway for crying out loud, toward a place where you can write about things you barely grasp?"
My simple spirit shouts back: "Yep."
And that's when the fight started...
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