Sacred Things

Thanksgiving

2011-10-31T12:41:00.000-07:00

Thanksgiving, 2011

Once again we come into the month of November and prepare ourselves for the day set aside for Thanksgiving, a day of gratitude. It is my most favorite holiday because of a decision I made some time ago that gratitude was to become an important spiritual discipline and I love being mindful of that decision by having a national holiday built around that very theme. I also confess to a fairly serious addiction to pumpkin pie and late afternoon football, so the whole day just fares well for me in general.

As I work on my spiritual discipline of gratitude I am reminded of a quote by Albert Einstein. The great scientist once said, “There are two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” I like the sentiment and in gratitude, I seek to live my life in the latter mode, as though everything is a miracle. It isn’t easy. Often there are things that do not seem at all like miracles. Instead, they seem mundane and ordinary, disappointing, and not very interesting. But if I choose to live life with grateful intention, if I choose to live a life practicing the art of gratitude, then following Einstein’s equation and seeing all of life as a miracle is a good foundation with which to start.

I once officiated at a funeral for a man who lived to be ninety-nine. In all of his years, he chose to see life as beautiful and new and miraculous. I remember hearing from his wife how he would see a flower or a sunset and would say, “Would you look at that?” and “Isn’t that something?” It was as if he was seeing a flower or a sunset for the very first time. His wife laughed when she told this story to me, laughed and then wept. “He was like a child in that way,” she said. “He taught me how to see the world.”

Gratitude isn’t just being thankful for the good things in our lives. It isn’t just being thoughtful, having manners, and writing notes of thanks for the things others do for us. It isn’t even a litany of gifts that we list in a prayer for which we say thanks. I think gratitude is more than counting our blessings and naming them one by one. I think gratitude is a mindset, a way of encountering the world, a complete way of life. You can either see a day as a miracle, the flowers and sunsets as new and breathtaking, or you can take the stance that a day is nothing very special at all. I’m working on living life like the ninety-nine year old man who kept his child-like way of seeing the world. Who knows, maybe with a little help from Einstein I’ll get to that mindset eventually. And trust me, if that happens, there’s my first miracle, right there.

Reinventing Yourself While Jobhunting

2011-08-05T13:07:00.000-07:00

There’s not much fun to be had while searching for a job. It’s mostly demoralizing and easily fits in that category of “what I hate about being a grown-up.” However, as I have begun my own search for viable employment, I have discovered there is at least one thing that is actually interesting about the process. A person searching for a job has the luxury of considering the notion of reinventing herself.

Granted, this luxury only means something if the seeker doesn’t have to find a job right away. When you’re desperate to find work, have unpaid bills and notices of a dwindling bank account stacked on your kitchen table, there’s no luxury in job hunting at all. Or if you hate your present job and feel strongly compelled to get out of it and need to find work somewhere else right away, there’s no luxury or enjoyment in that search either. I write only of that employment-seeking process where you need to find work but there’s no real hurry and no real panic that you’re going to die if you have to stay at the present place of employment one more day. I’ve been in both spots; there’s nothing meaningful or interesting or luxurious about either of those occasions. However, when there is no desperation involved, thinking about reinventing yourself, finding jobs outside your work experience or educational venue, can actually be energizing and fun.

A friend of mine had been a pastor all of his professional life. He had progressed from church to church and never looked back, never thought of doing anything other than what he had been trained and experienced in doing. And then, things changed for him. A lot. He broke ties with the church and with his role in ministry. And when that happens, what’s a person to do but reinvent himself?

A few weeks back we talked about this experience. We compared notes on the various occupations we had considered for ourselves. As I have found myself in similar circumstances I thought I might enjoy going back to school for a career in the health care field or maybe work in the hospitality industry. My friend, however, had bigger plans. He considered becoming a helicopter pilot. From pulpit to cockpit, he is a dreamer, with no inhibitions about what he might try, who he might become.
When he almost hurt himself using a power-equipped gardening tool, unable to work the levers and gears, his wife, upon finding out about his new dream of piloting, quickly reminded him that flying a helicopter had certain requirements, the most notable being able to operate machinery. She quickly helped him learn that professional dream was not a very productive one. He moved on.

The thing about reinvention of oneself is that it is not restricted. When you’re in the dreaming stage, you get to think about all the things that interest you. You get to remember your childhood fantasies of being a cowboy or movie star. You get to reminisce about the things that you used to think were most important, things that you were going to do, ideas you had about who you would become; and you get to pull all those thoughts and dreams and ideas out again and think about them. “Maybe I can still be an acrobat in the circus or discover a cure for cancer or drive a dump truck. Maybe I can open my own candy store or build a time machine or teach in a foreign country. Maybe I can fly a helicopter.”

All that dreaming and remembering and considering might not lead to a new job; it might not lead to anything that can be measured or quantified. But just like my friend who thought he’d make a fine pilot and recaptured the dreams he had as a little boy, it made him happy. It gave him a few days of delight. And let’s face it, when you’re seeking employment, when you need to jump ship or make a move, there’s nothing wrong with a few days of delight. That’s a real luxury in the world of trying to find a job.

The Loads We Carry

2011-06-29T13:33:00.000-07:00

My grandmother used to have a favorite saying she liked to share whenever I had my arms full and dropped something I was carrying. “Never take a lazy man’s load.” It was her way of telling me that it’s better to take a couple of trips to tote things from place to place than it is to try and get it all in one load. Trying to do all that, she would explain, usually after everything I was holding fell out and around me, is a sure recipe for disaster.

I hear her voice inside my head every time I am trying to carry too many things, thinking I can manage too many objects, and I hear a “my, my, my…” to follow when I fail to obey. One would think that after forty years of being taught that lesson, I would have learned it. And yet, it still always seems like one trip is better than two.

This bit of wisdom, I have learned, can be interpreted figuratively as well as literally. Multi-tasking is certainly the way to go in this day and time. We have learned to do lots of things at once. I suppose, in fact, that multi-tasking is a sure means of professional survival in today’s world but it still seems to me that more often than not when I’m trying to do too many things at one time, trying to think about too many projects at once, trying to take care of too many errands in one trip, I find myself facing the same kind of disastrous experience as I face when I try to hold too many things in my arms. I know better than to say yes to too many events in one day but still, there is always the temptation.

Last week there was a message in my voice mail. “I guess something happened,” the familiar voice said, and I knew immediately who it was and what I had done. “Well, just try and call me when you can,” she finished and hung up the call.

The message was from my best friend, with whom I talk every Sunday evening. I had missed the call because in addition to planning a book signing at a local book store, a visit with another writer, and cooking dinner for an out of town guest, I had kept my standing date for the weekly phone call, the one I forgot, the one, like the extra bag of groceries that I’m sure I can handle, I dropped.

The next day when I retrieved my messages I hurried to my computer to write my apology in an e-mail. Of course, before getting to that I needed to reply to a request from my publicist, turn in a new draft of a manuscript to my editor, and check on a date for an upcoming interview. I finished those tasks, turned off the computer, and went inside to get ready for my lunch date. That was when once again I remembered my friend. “My, my, my…” echoed in my brain and I realized what I had done.

On the surface, attempting to do too many things at once doesn’t seem like the actions of a lazy person, but rather appears to be the work of an industrious being, a hardworking soul. And yet, to continue fooling yourself into thinking you’re able to keep too many balls in the air, more items on your list than you can remember, too many events for your mind to hold will certainly leave you with the same thoughts and emotions as the idiot standing over the spilled groceries. “Never take a lazy man’s load,” I hear my grandmother say; and I sigh as I head over to the phone and call my friend.

Life is Good!

2011-05-04T14:13:00.000-07:00

In Judaism there is a practice of taking a small roll of parchment and placing it inside a container and affixing it to doorposts. They parchment and container are called mezuzot and the practice comes an instruction found in the book of Deuteronomy in the Bible which reads, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might. These words which I am commanding you today shall be on your heart…You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.”

According to author Lauren Winner in her book, Mudhouse Sabbath, “these are the boxes you see on the doors outside Jewish houses. You’ll find them inside, too, on the doorposts to any room in which people live.”

There are many reasons for hanging mezuzot, not the least of course being because it is a commandment. However, these doorpost offerings also serve as markers of heritage and history, a reminder of who one is, from where one comes, and what is deeply valued, clung to, depended upon. You walk in and you walk out and you remember exactly what your life is supposed to be about.

On Valentine’s Day this year I bought my husband a small wooden sign that reads, “Life is good.” It happens to be something he says a lot and I like the sentiment. It’s short, simple, and gets right to the heart of what we both ultimately desire to hold true. It was a great find and deeply appreciated by him.
Without my knowledge of his plans, he chose to hang the sign on the inside of an eave facing the front door, visible when you walk out. When we depart our hallowed halls of home, our sanctuary and safety net, and move out into the world that may or may not abide by the sign’s saying, it is the last message we read and this small sign brings me a measure of confidence.

It has become important to me, this little talisman of hope. It may not be as dire as a piece of paper with ancient holy words rolled into a sacred holder and nailed to a doorpost, a commandment to obey and a tradition long honored; but it steadies me in a way before heading out into the world. It is my mantra, grounding me, centering me as I leave what I have created and ordered and enter into that which is ordered and created by others.

Life is good. Simple. Truthful. The value I wish to uphold as I come and go, as I leave and return. Believing this, honoring this, trusting this, it is how I want to begin and end every day.

Finding Pie Town

2011-02-10T15:49:00.000-08:00

Finding Pie Town

About fifteen years ago when we were dreaming of moving to New Mexico from North Carolina, my husband and I were traveling through the southwestern part of the United States. Along one of our travels, from Albuquerque to Phoenix, we stopped in a little settlement known as Pie Town. I remember thinking what a quaint and funny name of a town. As we drove through Pie Town, we noticed a small restaurant and decided to stop and, with a name like Pie Town, have some pie. Imagine our surprise when we are told there is no pie. “No pie in Pie Town?” I thought and that notion stayed with me.

People have often asked how I get an idea for a story, what interests me, how do I start. And the answer is something like the situation of finding no pie in Pie Town. I began to think about how often names of places or ascribed roles for people lend others to make assumptions. We assume a small town will be welcoming and easy for newcomers to integrate. We assume a church will be a safe place, a loving and warm place. We assume mothers will be present for their children and children won’t die. Once you think about it, life is rarely what we expect. People behave in ways we never could have guessed and life is certainly full of surprises.

Having served as a pastor of several churches, I am often intrigued by what church members think about themselves. Most people in church will proudly announce about themselves that they are a “loving” place, a “welcoming and hospitable” place. And yet, in my experience, this is not always the case. Yes, churches can be quite welcoming and hospitable to the longtime members, the families that are connected to the area, the children who grew up in the church. But for newcomers, churches can often feel alienating and cold. As communities, as churches, as towns, as people, we are often not what we appear and we are not always as good as we think we are. It was this notion of irony that interested me when I began this story.

Now, many years after my first visit to Pie Town, I have discovered that there is a place that serves pie. The Pie-O-Neer Café has been open for more than ten years and has become quite successful. The owner, Kathy Knapp has found a great place for herself in Pie Town and I’m happy to include a recipe from the Pie-O-Neer with a few other regional recipes at the end of the book. I hope you will enjoy! And if you’re in the neighborhood of Pie Town, New Mexico, please stop by and have a slice. Tell them I sent you!

Month of Love, February

2011-02-10T15:46:00.000-08:00

The Month of Love

This is the month in which we celebrate Valentine’s Day, the day honoring romantic love, and subsequently, happens to be a month in which there are a lot of weddings and proposals for marriage. This past weekend I was with a young couple planning their sacred event and we were talking about the vows. They were trying to decide whether to use traditional ones or write their own and they asked me what words I thought were important to say and if there was a wedding that I remembered because of the vows. I immediately thought of one from my first parish.

Ronny and Peggy were in their early twenties when I met them. Members of the local community, they dropped by the church where I served to ask about having their wedding there. I explained to them that non-members of the church who wanted to use the building for their wedding were asked to attend church a couple of times, to get to know the folks in church and to allow the church folks to get to know them. They attended worship a few Sundays and discovered that they liked the community and decided to join.

Not long after first meeting the couple, Ronny was diagnosed with melanoma that had spread to his liver and lungs. He started aggressive treatments and the wedding was postponed. It became clear soon after the treatments began that his prognosis was not good and the three of us had many conversations about whether or not marriage was the best option for them. After a few months when they were given a terminal diagnosis, the cancer having spread to Ronny’s brain, they both came to me with the prayerful and clear desire to go forward with their wedding.

It was decided to have the ceremony during the church service on a Sunday morning. This was the day when the entire community was gathered for worship and became a wedding service in which we all made a promise to love and care and stand with each other from that day forward. There were love songs sung by the choir and the congregation; and my sermon was based on a psalm that begins, “Though I walk in the midst of trouble,” and goes on to say, “I will trust in God’s steadfast love.” We talked about choosing to walk together even if the path is laden with trouble and difficulty and as the couple made promises to walk together, the congregation made them as well. There were tears of joy and sorrow and I will never forget the intimate and deep connection I felt with the couple and with the gathered community. I felt as if the wedding was completely about love and that the church was really being church. Promises were made in truthfulness and as I came to see, were kept. It wasn’t too many months later that Ronny died, his wife at his side, his church family close by.

As I shared this story with the young couple planning their ceremony, I saw their surprise and sadness. It probably wasn’t the wedding story about meaningful vows that they were hoping to hear; but it is the one that I will never forget.
This month as we celebrate romantic love at Valentine’s Day and at the weddings we’ll attend perhaps we have offered to us the chance to be mindful of the kind of love that goes a little deeper than romance and involves a little more than just saying some words. For surely, to promise love takes more than just two people and more than just repeating something written on a piece of paper. Real love, like a memorable wedding, pushes us to promise our care, concern, and presence to each other even as we walk in the midst of trouble. Because if we can’t walk that walk, then even if the words are poignant and beautiful, we really shouldn’t talk the talk.

My Goodbye to Chewelah UCC

2010-12-08T09:03:00.000-08:00

This was what I wrote as a farewell hymn to Chewelah UCC where I served as Interim Pastor:

When I begin a story to tell of a kind place, a place where a heart can heal and open and dance, a place where you learn more than just your neighbor’s name or their political party to hold against them in secret conversation, a place where guards are let down and talk is easy, ideas are welcomed,
I shall write of you.

When I dig deep into relationships, friend being friend to the unlikeliest of intimates, caring about them, interested in them, desiring of their delight and well-being, grieving their failures, and gathering around them in their loneliness; when I watch the lives unfold on pages before me, the daily grind of work and play made so sweet by the tender ways of those who charm us, who move us, who inspire us, I shall write of you.

When I tell of the perfect day, of a sun that doesn’t scorch, snow that glistens, a valley of silk grass and golden grain, of mountains stretched up and across the horizon, a winding and clear and stony creek, a long and narrow river moving and moving to faraway oceans, the squeals of children jumping in, floating downstream; when I tell of brown paper bags of ripe cherries, donut peaches, and tall cups of hot coffee, the sharp whistle of the train slowing down to glide through a sleepy town, that perfect day we long for, I shall write of you.

And when I dare venture to speak of church, the true church, the beloved community, the gathering of those who know they come only by grace and who widen their hearts, make room on their pews to others who come by the same way, the family of the humble and the humbled, the lovely and the unloved, the broken and the healed, the wee ones who dance to hymns, their little knees bending and lifting and the old ones who sing new songs with vigor, those who weep recalling what has been lost and those who pray in hopes for that which will be found, when I tell that story, the one of faith-seekers, pilgrims pulling together, holding together, moving together, the story of us at our best and even our worst, but still a story of us stumbling forward together in grateful anticipation, in joyful unity, in peace, in God’s perfect immeasurable love, always and forever,
I shall write of you.

A Life of Faith

2010-10-12T11:56:00.000-07:00

Over and over we hear that living a life of faith is hard work. We’ve all heard the sermons that remind us that living in faith requires service, commitment, and sacrifice. We all know that living in faith requires the resolve to take the high road even when it may be easier and more popular to be petty or dishonest or reactionary. Faithful living requires discipline and devotion. We know that there is suffering involved, hard choices to make and that it is often tempting to abandon living and working in faith because sometimes it just feels too hard, too complicated, too costly.

We’re all heard that sentiment and I would agree that it is a truthful way of looking at living in faith. It does require a true commitment, discipline, and hard work. However, I also understand that living a life of faith is living a life that promises great happiness. It is my understanding that the life of faith is meant to be a life of peace and joy, real joy. It is joy that cannot come from possessions or fame or fortune. It is a joy that doesn’t even come from our relationships and certainly not our circumstances. Rather, the joy that comes in living a life of faith is a joy that comes from knowing there is meaning and purpose in life, joy that celebrates being free of worldly distractions and the “happiness traps” we can so easily fall into. It is a joy that comes from a peace in knowing that “all things shall be well,” and everything is as it needs to be. The life of faith is discussed as laying down one’s life for one’s friends, the ultimate sacrifice, but it is also discussed as a great wedding banquet, a great celebration of love.

I don’t always feel happy. I often find myself struggling to see the good in things, the hope for the future, the meaning in my work. But there have been times when I have known the sweetest moments of life. There have been times, perfect and lovely times, when I knew I was in the absolute center of true joy. I have experienced grace and love at such depths that I know I would choose this life of faith over and over and over again every time. There are days when I sense such a rightness with things, such love in a gathering of other faithful folks, such clear and perfect hope that it seems as if I have crossed over to the next world; and on those days I think I couldn’t handle any more goodness.

I read a story once about a young boy who loved the television shows, Mister Rogers and Captain Kangaroo. These two men were his heroes. One day he learned that Mister Rogers would be visiting the Captain Kangaroo show and the boy was too excited to stand the wait. Every day he would ask his mother how long before the show was to air, watching as she marked off the days on the calendar. Finally, the great event was to happen. The boy and his entire family gathered around the television and there it was, Mister Roger walked on the stage and joined Captain Kangaroo. The boy sat for a few minutes and then in a moment of great surprise to his parents, got up, and walked out of the room. His father followed him out into the hallway. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “I thought this was what you’ve been waiting for.” The boy shook his head. “It’s too good,” he replied softly, “it’s just too good.”

A life in faith is a life of hard work and sacrifice and dedication. It requires discipline and commitment. And yet, a life of faith is also a life when you find yourself knowing such joy, such contentment, you shake your head and may even have to leave the room because you can’t believe you could feel this happy. Like a boy seeing his heroes, you hear yourself saying, “this life, this wondrous and lovely life, it’s just too good.” And that’s living in faith.

Saturdays as Sabbath

2010-08-23T12:45:00.000-07:00

I used to hate Saturdays. The day before Sunday, a pastor’s busiest and often most stressful day, it quickly became for me the day of dread, the day of hard mental and spiritual labor preparing for what was to come. Those difficult days have consisted of every emotional outburst from tears to anger. There have even been a few panic attacks. I anguished that I was not ready or worthy to preach or lead worship on Sunday mornings and I would weep and stress or just feel awful for the entire day. Throughout my eleven years of parish ministry I discovered Saturdays have exhausted me.

I finally decided I was either going to have to change how I spent my Saturdays or I was going to die from a heart attack with all the emotional upheaval. So, I prayed and I made changes. I became intentional with what I would do during that day before Sunday. I began to make sure that there were certain events built into every Saturday, events that raised my spirits, encouraged me, rested me, energized me. Now, as a parish minister still doing the same work on Sundays I have done for years, Saturdays have become my one day of the week that has been set aside as the designated “day of goodness.”

There is to be yoga or stretching of my body, breathing exercises, and some part of an hour spent outside. Some days I take a long walk. Other Saturdays I just sit in the back yard. Some days I ride my bike. I only allow myself to take in good things, both in my body and in my mind. This generally means no television, no trashy magazines or negative websites, and no junk food. I drink water and juice (a switch from my Monday through Friday usual diet sodas); I eat fruit and fresh vegetables; I talk to friends who have a positive effect on me and try to stay away from those who bring me down. I read passages that inspire me. I make sure the pace of the day is slow and easy. I allow for enough time to practice my sermon and go over the other events of worship so I don’t feel anxious or unprepared. I listen to or create my own music. I dance. I make sure that my Saturdays are restful and healthy and include taking notice of beauty.

After a year of my designated “Good Saturdays”, I am happy to report that this once-dreaded day has now become my favorite day of the week. I look forward to what has become a day of Sabbath instead a day of stress. I enjoy my easy Saturdays so much, the content, the activities, the beauty, that my Sundays are much lighter and more worshipful. I have even decided that I love my Saturdays so much that I choose to spend all my days in goodness. And with that decision, I have become intentional about filling all my days with good things, healthy things, beautiful things. And the result is that I feel better. I feel happier and more at peace and more balanced. And I now feel this way all week long. My cursed day has become my blessed day, my teaching day, and has led me to change everything about how I live my life.

“You must hate your job,” a person recently said when they found out I was a minister, “because you have to work every weekend.” I smiled, remembering how I used to think that way, how those two days were such a burden. “It’s not so bad,” I reply. “In fact, it’s not bad at all. My weekend work is actually the best work I do.”

An Unfulfilled Garden

2010-08-10T10:16:00.000-07:00

Last year we had a garden growing in Albuquerque. Facing a number of difficulties in previous years when we lived about an hour north of there, I wasn’t expecting too much. After all, desert life isn’t known for its flourishing vegetable gardens. Last summer however, we lived in a section of the town known as the “North Valley,” an agricultural area situated near the Rio Grande. There are many horse farms, several fields of hay and lavender, a couple of wineries, and that summer, a garden growing in my back yard that far exceeded my expectations. There were tomato plants taller than I am and the leaves on the zucchini plants were as big as the tobacco leaves I remember from my grandfather’s farm in eastern North Carolina. Neither my husband nor I added any fertilizer. We didn’t do anything special other than turn the soil and build a little rabbit fence around the plants. We watered daily, pulled weeds as needed, but the plants went crazy and overran the plot, stretching across the fences. It should come as no surprise therefore, that every day in the month of August last summer I walked around our little garden expecting to find an amazing harvest. And here’s the thing, there never was much of one.

Those tall and full tomato plants only had a few tomatoes growing. Those oversized zucchini leaves with lots of blooms and thick stems actually bore only a few zucchini. And once I had gotten beyond my frustration and disappointment, I found myself saying something the folks in my profession like to say a lot. “That’ll preach.”

A church I heard about once wanted to raise three million dollars for a renovation project. They paid an architect to design their dream building which included an open and appealing narthex where visitors and members could relax and mingle before going into the newly furnished and technologically enhanced sanctuary. There would be new education facilities, a tiered music room, a larger and updated kitchen, roomy offices, and all kinds of architectural extras and landscaping possibilities to create a beautiful and modern church building and campus.

The only thing is that there is no way this church could raise three million dollars since a few years ago there was a split and half of the congregation left and they have never completely rebounded from the loss. Within the congregation there remain lots of unresolved issues, a good deal of tension, not a lot of support for the pastor, and no real mission outside of themselves. Still, several members think a newly renovated building, a good sound and light system, a big kitchen, and new furniture is the answer.

I don’t fault the church for wanting the change. At least members recognize there are problems to address. At least they are paying attention and making some attempt to improve their situation. At least they haven’t lost hope. And yet, I have to wonder, if they do manage to raise the money and build the “dream church” they are hoping for, will it ever really amount to anything? Will there ever be much of a “harvest” or any growth in the community to show or share if they fail to work on their deeper issues of identity and mission? Can they bear fruit if they aren’t healthy?

And yet, what do I know? Even after I had no harvest, I continued taking pictures of my beautiful tomato plants and sending them home to my family of farmers and gardeners in southeastern North Carolina. “Can you believe how big they’ve grown?” I wrote, always in hopes that no one wrote back asking to see a picture of an actual tomato.

The True Self

2010-07-17T11:15:00.000-07:00

Recently, on a television talent show a young magician auditioned for a spot in the finals. He was nineteen, performed a very bizarre magic trick, and was favored by the crowd and selected to continue in the competition. After his performance, one of the judges asked him a couple of questions about his history and interest in magic and finally asked him who he aspired to be. The young man grinned and replied without hesitation, “me.”

I like the answer. It puts me in mind of the Jewish proverb that reads, “The Hasidic rabbi Zusia said, ‘When I shall face the celestial tribune, I shall not be asked why I was not Abraham, Jacob, or Moses. I shall be asked why I was not Zusia.’”

It seems that many of us spend a life time trying to be somebody we’re not. Especially for those of us who are second or third in the birth order, the comparisons with older siblings who may be talented or bright or popular may have set us up early with thoughts that we need to be more like somebody else. We learn somehow that who we are is not good enough, not interesting enough, and the only way we can succeed in school, in relationships, in life is to try and emulate someone we know who is or was successful. It is, of course, not a terrible thing to follow examples of those who model important qualities like kindness and loyalty, patience and civility. We could do with a few more dignified and respectful leaders. But in the end, we are who we are. And instead of trying to be somebody else, instead of trying to be who we think everybody wants us to be, wouldn’t it be more satisfying to know ourselves well and try to be the best at who we are?

All my life I have thought I was an extrovert because that’s the role I took on as a child. I knew it wasn’t completely comfortable for me to be in large gatherings or in front of others but I continued to be the extrovert because I thought that’s what I should do, what was expected of me, what was most rewarded and honored. It was only when I became middle-aged and began to really know myself, my tendencies, my passions, my weaknesses, that I figured out I didn’t really like being out front. I don’t like large groups. I’m actually an introvert who has learned how to be an extrovert. And now that I know who I really am, I can still use my extroverted skills; I can lead when I need to lead, speak in public when I need to speak in public, but I no longer need to try and be that great extrovert when that’s not really who I am. Knowing this and honoring this has become a source of great relief in living my life.

It is not easy to face our true selves. Sometimes we wish to be different, wish to have other talents or gifts than the ones we have. Sometimes we hide behind pretenses for a long time. And yet, peace comes when we know and honor ourselves. Even as we seek to improve our human nature, seek to be kind or patient or loving even though that may not feel natural, let us not be unhappy with ourselves; let us celebrate our uniqueness of our creation. There is delight in being true to who we really are. That is, after all, where the real magic lies.

A Prayer for Graduates

2010-06-16T10:31:00.000-07:00

“Though I speak in the tongues of humans and of angels and have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains but have not love, I am nothing. And if I give away all that I have and even turn over my body so that I may boast, but have not love, I gain nothing.” (1 Corinthians 13:1-3).

God of love, we thank you for these, your beloved. We thank you for their accomplishment of graduation, their achievement of finding their way to this milestone. We thank you, God, for all those who helped them make it this far. For mothers and fathers, for grandmothers and grandfathers, for teachers and coaches and counselors, for friends and parents of friends. We thank you that somewhere along the way, they have known love, been touched by love, and continue on the lifelong journey of learning how to love.

We ask for you to encamp your angels around your beloved. Protect them from evil. Keep them wise in their decision-making. Teach them to be kind to themselves and to others. Be near to them when they call.

As they say goodbye to what they have known for so long and move into new places or at least new circumstances, help them to care about the world and its creatures. Create within them the desire to care for the stranger across the street and the stranger across the border. Remind them to care for their family especially the old ones who will desire their tenderness and the very young ones who will need their friendship. Teach them to care about the things that matter and teach them NOT to care about those things of little consequence.

Give them courage to speak out against injustice, strength to make it through difficulties, wisdom to know what is required by and needed of them, and joy that sustains them through sorrow. But mostly, O God, keep them in love. Keep them in love with you and the world. Keep them in love with truth and seeking righteousness. Keep them in love with the earth and sky with their rainbows and full moons, flowering trees and running streams. Keep them in love with birds of the air and animals that creep and crawl upon our sacred lands and swim in our beloved waters. Keep them in love with the laughter of children and dancing and holding hands.

Open their hearts wider and deeper so that this will be the generation that teaches the rest of us what it means truly to love.

In the name of love, we pray, Amen.

Wishing for World Peace

2010-06-01T09:57:00.000-07:00

There’s a wish list on the refrigerator at the church where I serve. People working in the kitchen write down the items that run out and that are needed for fellowship hour and potlucks. This list is written on a narrow pad of white paper and as the top page fills up, items get marked off, the page is torn away, and another one takes its place. No one told me about the list. No one has explained who takes care of handling the requests. I’m not sure exactly who is in charge of supplying the items; I just know that for my past seven months of service here what is asked for is received, what is empty gets filled, and what is missing is replaced.

One day, I walked into the kitchen and noticed a new item had been added to the list. Just beneath the requests for measuring cups, sugar, and a white tablecloth, someone had written, World Peace. I suppose it was just a joke. I must say it brought a smile to my face. How amusing that someone wants world peace AND a tablecloth. And yet, after thinking about it, maybe it wasn’t meant to be funny at all. Maybe someone had noticed that when trash bags and plastic spoons are listed on these pieces of paper attached to the refrigerator, the items suddenly appear and maybe that someone decided that if crackers and salt, tea and creamer can magically happen, peace can too.

Finding peace, creating peace, is of course, nothing like shopping for kitchen items. You don’t just order up peace for the universe in the same way we pick up grape juice and cookies. But as I’ve considered the listed item and decided it was probably a joke, it concerns me that people of faith don’t even hope for it any more. Maybe we have decided it is no longer a prayer worth praying. With our own young men and women fighting on two battlefields for over a decade, stories of civil strife and tensions rising across borders, with the history of the world numbered by wars, maybe we’ve decided it isn’t even worth our wishes, even isn’t worth a petition for grace.

“It’s just human nature,” I’ve heard folks say. “As long as there are people and greed, people and religious differences, there will be battles fought.” Maybe. But maybe not. At the very least it seems to me we ought to keep asking for peace. We ought to keep working for justice, finding solutions to poverty and hunger to help ease the tensions, create new ways to deal with the strife. It seems to me at least that people of faith should once again imagine that love is stronger than hatred and peace can overcome chaos. People of faith should at least pray for world peace.
But maybe that’s just a naive and silly request. Perhaps I should imagine only teaspoons and paper napkins, communion cups and Kool-aid will appear at church and in the world. Maybe we should keep our expectations low and our lists manageable. After all, when it comes to kitchen supplies, there is somebody making that happen. Somebody can handle those needs.

Still, I walk in the church kitchen, take a look at the refrigerator and notice the one item not marked off the list and I say a pastor can dream and there’s no danger in asking. There’s nothing wrong with claiming what we need and requesting a little help. Sugar and world peace, I’d say we could use a little of both.

The Seeds We Plant

2010-05-24T15:11:00.000-07:00

The Seeds We Plant

We moved into the church parsonage here in eastern Washington late October of last year. It’s about fifty years old but an adequate house situated only about three blocks from the church where I am serving as interim pastor. The front and back yards are small, with landscaped flower beds wrapping around the house and garage. No one told us what was planted in the beds. No one told us what to expect once winter ended. In the last few weeks at least a hundred bulbs have broken through the thawed ground and although there has been no bloom, I am confident that soon this house we call home for a few more months will be surrounded by color, bathed in the hues of spring. We live in a beauty imagined and created by the hearts and hands of others.
In this season of birth and new growth and in a place gardened by others, I am reminded of the power of planting seeds. I am reminded of the hope that emerges in the hearts of planters, how diligently farmers and gardeners rake and plow and dig and make way for life. Every year lovers of the earth go to nurseries and stores, purchase the seeds or bulbs that offer possibilities, and in faith, with care and hope, drop them into the earth in joyful anticipation. Most plant gardens for themselves but some folks, like the anonymous members of this church, hearty ones who love to landscape and care for church properties, plant their bulbs and seeds for others.
It is the same in spiritual gardens. We plant seeds of kindness, faith, hope, joy, love, peace, and patience in our own hearts, hoping to enjoy the bounty of our work and desire. We plant seeds within our souls, toiling with tools to grow spiritual gifts that we look forward to see come to fruition. We pray and study and meditate and practice for us to become patient, to become kind, to become people of peace and love. It is the harvest of our work for our own souls. But we also plant seeds in the hearts of others, in temporary places, in organizations, places of worship, in souls of those who may or may not ever know our names. We plant seeds without having to reap the bounty. We plant seeds without needing to watch the garden grow. We plant seeds letting the hope of what might come, the power of what may spring forth, the joy we expect for someone else, to be reason enough to keep planting.
I’m sure I could ask the church membership who planted these bulbs that grow in perfectly-spaced rows, filling the beds in the front and back yards of the parsonage and someone would give me names; but likely, I will not. Instead as they pop and bloom I will think of the people in my life who planted seeds within my soul and never saw what grew. I will think of grandmothers and teachers, the parents of my adolescent friends, the authors of books that shaped me, the countless words of wisdom from others that fell like seeds in my soul and have finally begun to bloom. I will think of planting my own seeds, being kind to strangers, writing words of hope, working for justice and peace, and learn how to be content with just the planting. It takes faith to grow a garden you don’t get to harvest. It takes faith to plant a seed. I know because I live this season in the center of someone else’s hopes for spring.

Finding What Was Lost

2010-03-22T13:08:00.000-07:00

It is Easter and I have been thinking about resurrection and finding life where there has been death. I have been thinking about heaven and what it might be like when we pass from this world to the next.

I remember reading once that heaven was the place where things that are lost would be found. I like that thought because throughout my life I have lost a lot of things. Some of those things were able to be replaced, keys and books, for instance, articles of clothing, pieces of jewelry, poems or photographs. Others were not. I may have bought something new to take the place of the thing that is missing, but somehow it never fully satisfied me in the way the first thing, the lost thing, had done. Other things could never be replaced. Friends, for example, people I cared about who wandered in and then one day out of my life, leaving without a forwarding address. Moments of unfettered grace in which I can’t exactly call up the circumstances any more but I still know they happened. My innocence that fell away in pieces and my naïveté about the intentions and motivations of some people that seemed to have been lost in one fell swoop. I have lost, and regret having done so, the way loved ones, dead now, looked when they were content and what it was that used to make me laugh so hard that my face hurt.

I lost my fearlessness when I fell off the back of a motorcycle and I lost my need to be the best or win first place when I discovered that not everything in life is about winning. I lost the knowledge and anticipation that my plans will turn out as I expect and the notion that bad things won’t happen to good people. Not all of the things I lost, therefore, are missed or necessary or important. But sometimes I would just like to see them again just to remember what it was that I used to think was so wonderful about them. I don’t know if I’ll ever get that chance, of course because even though I believe in heaven, I don’t really know what it will be like. And if I’m honest, even in this season of Easter, I don’t know if Jesus physically rose from the dead either. I guess somewhere along the way I lost the need for that kind of certainty too. If pushed I would say I like the thought of heaven as a grand place of love and sweet reunions and I like the thought of Jesus, up from the grave, skipping down the street holding hands with a friend who didn’t go anywhere and laughing about what he had missed in the three days he was gone.

Truthfully, part of the reason I’m a pastor, a bearer of good news, is because I’d like to be the one to tell him, “don’t worry, one day soon, you’ll get it all back.”

The Calm Waters

2010-03-20T14:26:00.000-07:00

One of the rules for whitewater rafting reads, “Rest when you get to a calm place because there is going to be more whitewater.” I have found this rule to be relevant not just for rafting but also in life. I have not, however, always paid attention to this bit of wisdom. In my younger days, I misused the calm places by worrying about what I assumed was likely downstream. I spent my calm and uneventful days waiting for the other shoe to drop, anxious about what failure or trouble was around the bend. I never fully enjoyed the calm places because I could only think about the next spot of whirling waters and how easily it would be to drown.

The older I get, however, the easier I have found resting to be. Maybe it’s just because I’m old and I find I have less energy for being anxious about tomorrow or about what may or may not be coming my way. Sometimes yesterday’s paddling wears me out so much, I need today just to recuperate. Maybe I am just old and tired but at least I finally know how to enjoy a good rest when I’m given one.

The truth is, I have never really loved the whitewaters of life. Even though I know there are times when I have made my own turbulence, created my own undertows and dangerous currents, I have always preferred an easier ride downstream. I’m not one of those people who always seem to swim against the tide or who doesn’t feel alive unless they’re paddling against crashing waves and dodging rocks or maneuvering long drops. I know folks like that but their lifestyle and their dramas always make me weary.

Yet and still, there’s no way to avoid the swirling torrents. Life is after all, full of whitewater. There is always a crisis we had not expected, trouble we hadn’t planned for, waves of grief and disappointment that seem to emerge from nowhere. Whitewater is ahead but that doesn’t mean we need to be afraid or worried, although, it certainly helps if we are prepared. Wearing a life vest is wise. Having faith can keep a person from becoming lost to the trouble. Learning a few skills, correct paddling, how to hold and set the oars, can keep the raft from flipping. Understanding how to navigate trouble, knowing healthy responses, where to go for help, will keep you afloat. And how we look at whitewater can make a difference too. Trouble can actually be a time of great learning, an opportunity to grow. Whitewater can make us strong.

I’m able to rest in calm waters because I don’t fight what I know is coming anymore. I accept the whitewater and am confident that what I have on the raft, what I have learned over the years, all my resources and experience is enough, and the fact that I trust the direction of the river, keeps me from too much anxiety. The calm places are a blessing, a gift, and I am glad that I know how to rest in them. It has taken a long time but at least I finally recognize a good thing when I see it. I lay back, let the current carry me, close my eyes and let the sun warm me, and I don’t worry too much. Whitewater is coming but for the first time in my life I trust that I’ll be ready.

Finding the Sign We Need

2010-02-24T11:36:00.000-08:00

There is a hand-painted sign in the desert where my dog and I walk every day. It’s large, a 4 x 4 weathered piece of plywood and the letters, about six inches high, are block shaped, cobalt blue, and easily noticed in the dull brown landscape of New Mexico.

“Please don’t give up on me,” it reads and it is propped against a small Russian olive tree, the only tree in the small walking area off Tramway Road. The patch of land is owned by the city and is protected by the Flood Authority Office of Albuquerque. It’s situated between a housing division and an apartment complex and there are trails and loops used by joggers, dogs and walkers, mountain bikers, and horses with their riders. It is a wonderful place to be outside and enjoy the high desert atmosphere.

I saw the sign for the first time about a month ago. I don’t know who made it or who placed it near the tree along one of the trails. Perhaps it is the same person who put stones around the trunk of the Russian olive or the same one who strategically places large boulders along the path to discourage drivers from operating their motor vehicles across the desert. I suppose the sign refers to the tree, a message to anyone who would run over it or destroy it in some way. Seeing something, especially a tree, survive in the desert can make the most cynical of people become a little sentimental.

I have also considered that the sign hasn’t anything at all to do with the tree but is instead a re quest about a relationship, a plea begging a lover not to leave. I think of some young man, desperate not to lose his sweetheart, making a sign, leaning it against a tree on a trail where he knows she’s bound to walk. It is a message from his heart asking her for one more chance at love.
I don’t know what the sign means, who is asking for what. I only know that it touches me, reminds me of the frailty of love, the unpredictability of relationships, and the delicate balance we always seek of knowing when to hold on and when to let go, when to fight and when to quit, when to say, “I’ve done all I can do,” and when to say, “I will not give up.” I imagine learning that balance takes more than a lifetime and probably more than a few signs to guide us.
Yesterday, I stopped by the tree on my early morning walk. I studied the sign and then poured the water from my bottle all along the narrow, spindly trunk. Carmella, my dog, sat, respectfully observing my small blessing. She sniffed the air, her long golden snout lifted slightly, and turned again to me. I nodded and she stood and we finished our walk and went home.

I’m not sure of the significance of my gift. I’m not sure that it benefits the tree or that it addresses the concern posted on the piece of plywood. It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Water in the desert, after all, is always a blessing and maybe that’s all the maker of the placard wanted. Somebody, somewhere, honoring their plea, somebody not giving up. I suppose, when it comes right down to it, that’s really the sign most of us are longing to find.

A New Beginning

2010-01-21T14:24:00.000-08:00

Texan journalist Browning Ware tells the story of a school boy who was having an awful time with his classroom assignment. Each time he went to the teacher to ask for help he had to mark through his work and begin again. By the time he had finally finished with the assignment, his paper was a mess. Filled with answers scratched through, notes written on the margins, small holes where he had erased too many times, he was ashamed of the work he had to turn in. The teacher, noticing his embarrassment and his untidy assignment, called him to her desk. As he stood before her, his work held in his hands behind his back, she reached in the drawer beside her. “Here,” she whispered and handed him a sheet of paper from her own pack. “Why don’t you use a clean piece of paper? Why don’t you start over?”
I love January because it is the month when we get a clean piece of paper. It’s the month when we get to begin again, get our do-over. It is the first month, the beginning of another year. Having noted that, however, we must understand of course, that there’s not anything wrong with having a messy paper or a messy life. Messiness is, after all, a sign of humanity and honesty; it’s what life is really all about. But I just think when we get a clean piece of paper, have a new beginning, especially when we have an answer, it’s nice to feel that feeling of being able to start over, try once more, leave behind our mistakes and wrongdoings from the past and begin again.
I am rarely able to keep my resolutions, which is probably why I have the same ones every year. I resolve to drink more water and not talk as much but I always seem to manage the same results. By March I’m back to the diet sodas and unceasing chatter. I also resolve every year to be more patient and a better friend. Unfortunately, just like the lack of water and silence, I fail miserably every time I make the effort. But I love the knowledge that I get another chance to try again, try and do better, try to be better. And even though my growth may appear minimal, I do think I manage at least one more right answer a year. And somehow, the starting over helps. Even if I begin the new year knowing that I’ll mess up this page too, that my mistakes will likely outnumber the right answers, I still like the sense of being able to have a fresh start.
The school boy in Ware’s story took a long time, making a lot of mistakes, filling up an entire page with his errors before he finally got to the answer; but he got there. And when he had his right answer, he got to begin again. My life is filled with stumbles and falls and long periods of heading in the wrong direction; but once a year I get a new piece of paper. I get to begin again. And even as the year ends and my paper is filled with mistakes and holes, I look to January, an answer in hand and a fresh start, and I think, maybe this year I’ll get it just right.

Saints and Thanksgiving

2009-11-09T15:54:00.000-08:00

Since it is November, the month of the celebration of All Saints Day and Thanksgiving, I have been thinking with gratitude about the people in my life who I have declared as saints. It might surprise you that topping my list are not the names of seminary professors, famous preachers, or great heroes of the faith. My saints are not known and recognized by others as truly great persons. Instead, they would mostly be described as common folks, ordinary people.

My mother-in-law was a saint. She died a couple of years ago. She never went to college, worked as an ice cream dipper most of her youth. She was a single mother for seventeen years, raising my husband by herself along with the help of her parents and siblings, before she married a sailor and moved south. She would never talk much about that time. I think she was ashamed that she had given birth out of wedlock and she could never find a way to forgive herself for that. And yet, that shame never defined her. Nothing harsh or heavy ever defined her. She was as simple as she was kind, compassionate as she was gentle. From the very first moment I met her, she welcomed me into her heart as the daughter she never had. And unlike all the other stories about mother-in-laws I have heard, the story of my relationship with my mother-in-law was a story of unconditional love and acceptance. She is on my roll call of saints because she was exactly the woman she showed herself to be, nobody more, nobody less. She’d give you the clean and pressed blouse off of her back and tell you when you were done wearing it to pass it on to somebody else. She never met a stranger and I never heard her say a hurtful thing about another living soul.

There’s another saint on my list, a man whose name I no longer recall, a Baptist preacher from West Virginia. He was a chaplain who helped train me and I remember him telling me the story of why he kept his cigarettes in his front shirt pocket. He said he was an addict of cigarette smoking and he saw no reason to hide it. Admonished and criticized by the other staff at the hospital, he kept his cigarettes out front where everybody could see them. He said he didn’t understand it but that when he kept his pack in his front pocket he noticed that the patients in the hospital and their family members were more likely to talk to him so that even though he was reprimanded time and time again, he kept it there. He said a few of his patients told him that if he struggled with an addiction like smoking then probably he could understand their struggles and they weren’t afraid to confess what it was that was really troubling them. That Baptist preacher taught me about being real, being honest, and even though I don’t carry cigarettes in my front pocket, I’ll never forget the importance of not hiding my sins or my sorrows, my disappointments or my doubts. Not everybody wants to see the human side of preachers but most people who are troubled appreciate the honesty.

I used to think that saints were those folks who did things I could never do, showed great courage or accomplished extraordinary feats but I don’t think that anymore. This Thanksgiving I am grateful to have learned that anybody can be a saint. If an ice cream dipping single mother can live her life with an open and loving heart and a Baptist preacher isn’t afraid to show the world his bad habits, I suppose even I have a shot at sainthood. For now, however, I’m satisfied with just being thankful with learning how to recognize a real saint.

2009-08-31T15:32:00.000-07:00

The Burden of a Grudge

I received a call awhile back inviting the church to participate in a campaign for a local radio station. The man who called was very professional, albeit a little pushy, and very well-informed about St. Paul’s. He gave his marketing plan and I listened to the entire pitch. Once he outlined the pricing program, I explained that this church is very small and operates on a very limited budget. I politely declined his offer. After my third decline, he yelled some final remark and slammed down his receiver.

I confess that the phone conversation and especially how it ended made me mad. I confess that it made me so mad I wanted to let somebody know just how mad I was. I flipped through the yellow pages, found the number for the radio station he represented, picked up the phone to dial the number, and then stopped. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I am a new pastor in the community and that perhaps I needed to refrain from making the call. Perhaps, I thought, it would be best for the church and for my reputation if I just ignored the conversation. I did, however, decide that I would forever hold a grudge against this radio station and would always wait for the day when I would be able to let them know just how rude I thought their employee was to me.

And then, I thought about that. I realized forever is a long time to hold a grudge and that maybe that was actually a worse reaction than just making the call. At least, I thought, if I call and lodge my complaint, I’ll be better able to just let it go. So, that’s what I did. I called the radio station, asked to speak to speak to someone in management, and was immediately connected to the assistant manager. I explained what had happened and that I felt angry to have been treated in this manner and that I thought the radio station supervisors might like to know how I experienced their marketing endeavor.

There was a pause and then finally, this reply. “Ma’am,” the young woman said, “we’re not participating in that kind of marketing endeavor. I don’t know who called you; but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a person on our staff.”

It turns out it was a scam. It was some professional con artist trying to get money from churches. The man did not represent the radio station. The managers knew nothing about this phone call or this campaign targeting local churches.

Of course, I am very glad I made the call, and not because I learned new information about scams and the need for caution in talking finances with strangers on the phone. I’m glad I made the call to the radio station because I learned the lesson once again that sometimes the things we hear are not always the things we need to believe. Holding a grudge is a very serious decision to make and usually not the best one. Forever, after all, is a very long time and an unfounded grudge is nothing but dead weight. Perhaps, like a phone call that’s a scam, it’s best not to pick it up in the first place.

2009-08-31T08:55:00.000-07:00

“The Goodness of Grace”

Texas journalist Browning Ware tells the story of a man who went to have breakfast in a diner somewhere in the south. The man wanted ham and eggs and when his plate arrived he found grits sharing the plate with his order. “What’s this?” he asked his server. “Them’s grits,” the waitress answered. “I didn’t order grits,” he responded. “Mister, you don’t have to order grits. Grits just come.”

Grits, like grace, just comes.

I was going through a difficult time a few years ago. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with my life, whether I was going to stay in the ministry, how I was going to get through the struggle in which I found myself. A couple of times I sat in my car near an exit on Interstate 40 and considered just taking the ramp and heading west, driving until I ran out of gas. In the midst of this dark night of the soul, I spoke with a dear friend. She knew of my trouble as I had already confessed to her on a few occasions my sense of utter loss. After spilling my sorrow to her during this particular phone call, I hesitated. And she said the words that seemed to ease me just enough to find hope, to feel hopeful. “You know, we don’t have a lot of extra room here; but you can always stay with us if you need to.”

Grits, like grace, just comes.

It seems that we spend a lot of our time complaining about how things never work out the way we want them too. And it’s true that life rarely turns out like we expect. Disappointments, sorrow, trouble, betrayal, all these events and the consequences of them can keep us burdened. And yet, at least in my life, there have always been moments of grace, moments when the right words get said or when the right act of kindness comes my way, moments when the sun peeks through a sky filled with clouds or a flower blooms in the least likely place. And when these moments come, it’s as if the sky opens and great drops of mercy fall upon my head. It’s as if I get something that I didn’t even know how to order.

I can’t say that I fully understand the ways of God or how it is that someone can come along with just the right thing I need to hear or see or experience; but I do know that if I hold on long enough or even if I find myself having to let go, grace, like the grits my grandmother used to put on every breakfast plate she served, always comes.

Winter, with her long shadows and her gray mornings, her barrenness and her refusal to offer warmth, cannot last always. Do not give up on spring. Do not give up on mercy. Believe even in what you cannot see. Grace, like grits, will come.

2009-08-31T08:51:00.000-07:00

My Grandmother's Gift

I was twenty when she died. My mother’s mother was living with my parents and I was in college when she finally lost her battle to pancreatic cancer. Her name was Lessie Alford and she was the oldest of ten children, born to a farmer in eastern North Carolina. She was also, according to everyone who knew her, a saint.
She didn’t make the news or have wealth or fame. She was not important in politics or church history books. She didn’t invent any great medical cure or write a great treatise. She was a school teacher, a Sunday School teacher, a farmer, a neighbor, a wife and mother and grandmother. And she was the kindest, most loving, faithful person I have ever known.

After her death, the family gathered to divide Grandmother’s few belongings. My sister chose her quilts. My cousins wanted some of her pots and pans and the sewing machine. My mother wanted to keep her wedding rings, her mother’s few pieces of jewelry. My dad asked for her Bible and my brother wanted a few pictures. When I was asked, I knew immediately what I wanted. I chose my grandmother’s mirror. It was part of a set; but I don’t know what happened to the brush and comb. I suppose I got them as well; but I didn’t keep up with them. The mirror has a long handle, gold-plated, with a well-faded fabric backing. Like my grandmother, on the surface, it does not look that remarkable.

For more than twenty years I have never really understood why I chose the mirror. After all, I never remember my grandmother actually using it. She was never one to wear much make-up or worry too much about her looks. She was definitely not vain; she rarely checked a mirror and I don’t recall that this mirror was that significant to her. And yet, I have always known that upon Grandmother’s death I truly wanted the mirror. And for all of my adult life, having relocated more times than I can count, I have kept the mirror on my dresser, prominently placed so that it was always near.

Recently, during my weekly housecleaning, as I was dusting the bedroom furniture, I picked up the mirror and decided to look at myself. I put down the dust rag, held the long handle in my hands and turned it over to see my reflection. And without having any real clear idea of why I was having this revelation at that particular moment, it was just at that time that I finally understood why I chose my grandmother’s mirror.

I have never thought of myself as being special or important. In fact, I would have to say that I have spent much of my life feeling inferior, insignificant, even worthless. Mine, I have learned, is a constant and familiar battle for many people, that struggle of never quite feeling good enough. As I stared at myself in that old and well-worn mirror, however, I realized that I never felt that way when I was with my grandmother. She always made me feel special and significant and beautiful. She said only good things about me, always told me that I could do anything, that I could be anybody. And I realized as I stood looking at myself in my grandmother’s mirror, more than twenty-five years after her death, that this was the reason for my choice. This gift meant more than her jewelry or her hand sewn quilts or her sewing machine or even her pictures. I wanted to keep with me for as long as I live my grandmother’s image of me. I have always longed to see myself as she saw me.
And so, I keep the mirror close at hand, always in sight. It will never bring me money or fame or even great wisdom. It will, however, bring me what nothing else can, a reflection of myself, created in love. It holds the best of me, the view from my grandmother’s eyes. It is her greatest gift.

Filling Our Pockets With Feathers

2009-07-14T12:22:00.000-07:00

I started collecting feathers many years ago. I find them on paths in forests, along mountain trails, and beside lakes and streams. Like people discovering pennies and figuring them for good luck, I have always thought of feathers as some sort of blessing, a sign of good fortune or heavenly approval. It wasn’t until recently, however, that I considered them to be something more.

Every Sunday, as the pastor of a small church in Albuquerque, New Mexico, I am called upon to lead both a sermon for the adults and a sermon for the children. I usually try to shape them around the same Bible story or the same message. Recently, there were two Sundays that I talked about angels. One week I told the children about a man named Jacob who wrestled with an angel. His is the story of a guy on his way home to reconcile with an estranged brother and I told them that angels sometimes help us do the hard work of forgiveness and managing conflicts. The next Sunday I told the story of the prophet Elijah and how he ran in fear for his life until he fell exhausted in the desert, begging to die. I explained how an angel came to him bearing the gifts of cake and water and the presents of rest and refreshment. It was that Sunday and with that story that I decided to give away my feathers to the children, explaining to them how I loved to collect them and how they remind me of heavenly attention. “In fact,” I said, without much forethought, “When I see a feather, I think that an angel has passed by that place.”

Jimmy, a bright eight year old boy who comes to church every Sunday, likes feathers too. He took a couple of my long hawk feathers, tan with narrow brown streaks, their curved form, soft and smooth to the touch. Jimmy’s life is not an easy one. His mother, addicted to drugs, is in and out of trouble and in and out of unhealthy relationships. He was adopted by his great-grandmother when he was still a baby. Jimmy sometimes has trouble concentrating and staying on task. He also struggles with anger. The days before the beginning of the school year this summer were especially hard for Jimmy and his great-grandparents.
He started third grade a few days ago and his great-grandmother dropped by the office later in the week. “I walked with Jimmy to the bus stop the first day of school,” she reported. “While we waited for the bus he spotted a feather right at his feet. He believes an angel was there.”

I waited for the rest of the story. “He bent down and picked up the feather. ‘Why do you think an angel came here?’ He asked me.”

“And I told him, to make sure you had a good start to school. And then,” she said grinning, “he had the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.” She paused.

I knew trying to raise an eight year old was no easy task for my parishioner. I knew she was often tired and frustrated and that she was deeply afraid that she would not always be there for her young great-grandson. “I didn’t tell Jimmy what I really think,” she confessed.

“And what is that?” I asked, not exactly sure of what she was going to say.

“I think Jimmy and I are going to be okay,” she replied. “I think the angel really came for me.” And she drew in a deep breath, turned around, and left my office. And as she walked away, I thought I saw a feather drop from her fingers. And it was then that I realized that sometimes we merely find the signs of angels and sometimes, if we’re paying close attention, we catch a true glimpse of them before they slip away.

What I Learned at Camp

2009-07-14T11:22:00.000-07:00

Philip is what would be described as a high-functioning client in the circles of caregivers for those suffering from developmental disabilities. He carries a job, is literate, and manages most of his own personal care. His question, posed to me at camp on the last night while we danced to Beyonce’s “If you like what you see put a ring on it,” came as a surprise. I was shaking and gyrating and grooving, using muscles I forgot I had when he asked what his question, jolting me right out of rhythm. “When do you think Jesus is coming back?” That was what Philip wanted to know.

Since I come from a long line of literal-minded Christians, I know what Philip was asking. What he wanted to know was whether I thought the rapture would happen in our lifetime or whether it would be later. He could probably even quote me chapter and verse to back up his theory of when the world would end, but I was dancing and I didn’t really want to stop and hold a theological discussion.

The funny thing about his question, however, was that I sort of felt like the second coming of Jesus had already happened. The reign of God, as far as what I know, was breaking out all around me at that very minute Philip asked his question. I saw it when I glanced over to see Jill, a tiny slip of a girl, nonverbal and profoundly disabled, donned in her pink helmet and hugging her teddy bear, standing right in front of the speaker, smiling and rocking in perfect rhythm, perfect rhythm, her face completely at peace. I saw it when Bonnie, a staffer who teaches high school English, wheeled a squealing Johnny, darting in and out of couples and circling the group. I saw the reign of God break out when Larry, a camper who would never even enter the room where we danced in years passed, wore his cowboy hat and a huge grin, camped out in the center of the floor, dancing the entire night.

Bill, now in his sixties and suffering from dementia along with other developmental disabilities, slow-danced with Martha, a young woman who points to pictures to show you what she wants and laughs hysterically when offered cookies and applesauce. Roger, bound to his wheelchair, also profoundly disabled, was lifted up and out by his caregiver and whisked across the floor. Frank held hands with Matthew, swinging their arms back and forth while Debbie, a staffer and survivor of breast cancer twirled by herself, laughing right out loud.
It was all there and it was complete and whole and right. The reign of God, a dance of crooked people, broken people, despised people, all holding each other up, all dancing together, all in perfect delight. “If you like what you see, put a ring on it,” pulsing louder and louder.

“When do you think Jesus is coming back?” Philip asks his question so innocently, so honestly, so desiring of acceptance, so desiring to be seen as normal.

And I look around the room and I bounce from side to side, snap my fingers, dip my knees, fling my hips, and I smile and say, “Philip, he already has. He already has!”

Going To Camp

2009-07-14T11:20:00.000-07:00

Every year in June I direct a camp in Blowing Rock, NC for developmentally disabled adults. Since moving to New Mexico, I have at times thought that it’s just too expensive and time-consuming to go back every summer, but as the time rolls around I realize I’m not just doing this because it’s a charitable thing to do or because the camp needs my help. I lead this camp, I participate, because it’s really the best thing I can do for myself and subsequently, the best thing I can do for my family and for the parish I serve.

I don’t exactly know why or how or when it happens, but at some point during the week of crafts and devotions and sing-alongs, the talent show and shared meals, I remember the person I want to be. I see the woman I desire to become. I find myself slowing down, paying attention to small things, saying thank-you more often, laughing at myself, holding hands with someone. At some point in the midst of the campers’ delight, their unique spiritual maturity and their special needs, I find myself more loving, kinder, a gentler spirit and I have to admit I am happy and relieved to find and be that woman again.

It’s not that I dwell in self-loathing. It’s not that I hate who I am the other fifty-one weeks out of the year. It’s just that I’m not always pleased with how I handle things, how I process events, how I participate in relationships. It just seems that so often during the rest of the year, the rest of my life, I hurry through the days and worry through the nights and I’m not always very nice or very hopeful and I look in the mirror and I’m not happy with who I see. Special Days, this camp I attend, puts me back on the spiritual track I try to follow. It makes me slow down, makes me be attentive to things going on around me, makes me sing and laugh and reach for the hand of somebody else. And somehow by Tuesday night while the campers congratulate each other on their great talents or Wednesday morning when we’re heading out to Tweetsie Railroad, I catch a glance of myself in the mirror and I see her. I recognize her, that woman I want to be. There she is, the kind woman, the loving woman, the gentle woman. And truth be told, I’m afraid that if I quit going to camp, quit participating in this summer experience, I will lose her forever and that I will not remember how to find her.

So, during the first week of June I will be in the mountains. I’m directing a camp called Special Days. I’m playing the guitar. I’m helping with crafts. I’m dancing. I’m serving meals and rocking in a rocking chair. I’m leading devotions and I’m riding the train at Tweetsie. And most importantly, I’m finding the woman I want to be. The good news for my family is that when I come home I plan to bring her back!