To Die...and Perchance, To Live

It's hard to let a thing die...especially when that something is the product of your hands, your heart, a product of you. This perfectionist wants to just make it better, do it over, fix it. But there is a time when you stand at a crossroads and imagine the knock-off version of the thing that would come from fixing it or the truly authentic yet hard and start from nothing (again) process that comes with letting the first thing go and starting the new. Whatever the thing is, I am sure you have stood at this place I am standing, and probably with much greater, more profound somethings than mine. What I am dreaming of is a new voice, a new space to write and to fill with words and life. What I must let die is this space, this season of writing, this blog. It served its purpose, but I am on to something new, I think, I hope, I dream. I am grateful for the readers who have popped by for a visit and glad to have shared this space for a while.

Thanks for sharing this time with me, and all the best to you on your journey.

Rev. Mommy aka Pastor Robin

An Unusual Discipline

When I was preparing for Ash Wednesday, I came across an article "Seize the Day: Reimagining Ash Wednesday" by Bruce Epperly.
In the article, Epperly invites the reader to observe Lent as a time of living in each moment. I interpreted this for my own life and work a little more specifically: finding the joy in each moment. For many years, I have practiced the discipline of fasting during Lent--giving up a food or behavior or activity. Theologically, I had interpreted Lent as a time that would be hard and dreary and not fun. That was the point. Getting to Holy Week should not be a pleasant experience. A couple of years ago, a church member confessed to me, "I just love Lent. It is my favorite time." And I thought she was: A. nuts B. brown-nosing C. one of those people who gets pleasure from self-denial. Because Lent just isn't fun.
Well, I can say that this year's observance of Lent has not been fun, but it has been filled with good things. And an unusual discipline. Finding the joy in each moment. This has been a good and fitting discipline for me to search for green poking through the barren limbs of this season.
At the more than halfway point, I must say that it has been an experience of God unlike any other. It has been a good Lent. It has been a holy Lent.
I have engaged in aspects of my work that I typically avoid and dislike--because they make this introvert uncomfortable-- on a more regular basis--and I have found joy here .
I have used my hands to create something--another task I avoid for fear that spending this time doing this is frivolous. I have found satisfaction here .
I have reorganized parts of my life--a task I avoid because it all feels overwhelming--and I have found peace here.
I have purged my living and working spaces of the excess--a task I avoid because having the stuff and clutter around me feels less vulnerable--and I have found contentment here.
Seizing the Day, and loving Lent.

Feeding and Being Fed

When I was nursing littlest baby girl, I was having trouble producing enough food to supply her hungry little demands. So, I went into research fiend mode and found every scrap of info I could on how to solve this problem and fill my little one's belly. The most helpful piece of advice I found was to take a "nursing vacation." Basically, I needed to stay at home for an entire weekend, lose the distractions, and focus on feeding baby girl as much as possible. The more she ate, they said, the more she would want, and my body would respond accordingly. Well, I do focus on that, I thought. Hello, that's why I am doing so much research--because of my focus on feeding her. But, I wasn't tuning out all of the distractions. I wasn't setting aside extra time when she wasn't crying and upset and well past "hungry."
I am unapologetic about my hiatus from blogging recently. Because, my cyber friends, I have been taking a nursing vacation. Not in the literal sense, but rather, in the spiritual sense. I have been getting away from some distractions in my relationship with God. I was well past hungry. And I was waiting far too long to get my nourishment. And as the baby literature promised, the more I fed on God, the more I wanted to spend time with him. Here's to more regular blogging...and with a full heart.
"That you may nurse and be satisfied
from her consoling breast;
that you may drink deeply with delight
from her glorious bosom." Isaiah 66:11

Procrastinating the Project

There's a story in the bible that makes me uncomfortable, though it's not the only one to do that. This particular story is that of Jacob wrestling with an angel, presumed to be God. That story makes me uncomfortable because it makes me think of all the times I have wrestled with God in my life, and to be honest, it creates this feeling of panic for the time that I will surely wrestle with God...and lose...not that that hasn't happened already. What I mean is that it creates in me this intense anxiety of God wrapping me in a full nelson, much like my older brothers used to practice on me, and getting me to cry "mercy" before doing what God is trying to coerce me to do. I don't think it really happens like that--the wrestling with God bit. I really don't. And my reading of Jacob's experience reinforces that it doesn't happen like that, but still, I can't let go of that eensy weensy suspicion that in my case it all might go down with a 10 second count. God 1. Me 0. Total Knockout. I realize I may be mixing sport lingo here, so to my one male reader (aka hubby): forgive me. Reluctant Pilgrim says that this passage might really be about wrestling with love. (http://reluctantpilgrim.wordpress.com/2010/09/04/at-first-blush/)
I'm saying all of this to really say that I've been wrestling with love on something--procrastinating out of anxiety and a host of other reasons and issues. A book. Okay, that's a big aim. The project I have finally agreed to begin is most likely not going to be a publishable work, but nevertheless, it is my dream to be a published writer. For so long, I have had this dream, but it has been more of a I wanna be a writer though I really don't know about what I would write kind of dream. I have no ideas.
I can remember being about 13 and asking my dad how to get started on a book. He said, "Well, you write what's called a synopsis, a summary of what your book is going to be about, and you send that to the publisher." So there I was in my teenage ambition with my purple feather-boa-tipped pen and my 3 pieces of torn out notebook paper, "Synopsis" scrawled across the top. And I had nothing to say.
Years later, I mentioned to a friend of mine, in passing, in one random conversation that I can't even recall now, that perhaps I would like to write a book.
A few weeks ago over lunch, her first question to me, "So how is your book coming?" "What book?" I asked, looking at her as if she had four heads.
"The book you said you would write. How is it coming?"
"Oh that," I said, even though I knew exactly what she was talking about. "I haven't started it yet. I don't have anything to write about."
"Why not write your story? You know sort-of like Richard Lischer's Open Secrets? A story about you and your journey. I can totally see you doing that."
"Who would want to read my story? It's not that interesting."
And then it occurred to me that I should tell my story, and not for other people, for me.
Not too long after that lunch came a breakfast with a church member who asked me about my writing. She occasionally reads this blog, and she said she'd like to read more of something from me...like a book. And I said to her, "It's my dream to write a book. But I'm not sure I have anything to write about."
The following Sunday at church, she handed me a copy of the movie, Julie and Julia. A woman who writes about her life. And not only that...she takes on a project--something she does for herself.
I could do that, I thought. I could take on the project of telling me story...for me. Not because anyone will read it. But because it could mean something to me. And it would get me writing.
A few months ago, I met my heroine in writing, Lauren Winner. I love Lauren Winner. Her witty, insightful, and profound works make me wish I could be her for a day. So, when she came to speak at the conference I was attending, I was beyond thrilled. Imagine my surprise to hear her talk about all the people who had written to her saying that they wanted to be writers and were looking for her advice. Drat. I thought that was just my idea. Well, I was actually going to make an appointment and meet with her in person. But I can't believe all these other people had the same idea. So, she said in her lecture, that those of us who really want to write should just get started writing. Just do it. Write. But not for a book or magazine. Not to get published. But write. For writing's sake.
So, here goes. I'm starting the project. For me. For writing's sake. From time to time, I might post some things on here, but mostly, it will just be between me and my laptop and Jacob's God and love. Wish me luck, or love, or something like that.

"Young Lady"

"Young lady," he said, and I knew immediately where this conversation was going to go. I have had this conversation before. I waited for the first in the series of veiled insults (in the form of questions and snide remarks), and I didn't have to wait long.
"I hear you're a woman . . . of the cloth (that last word he whispered as if ashamed to say it in the same sentence with "woman."
I thought about bolting at that moment, not wanting to have this predictable dialogue again, but instead, something like God whispered to me, "stay." "Yes, you could say that I am a woman of the cloth" I said.
"Well, I don't see how that's possible seeing as you're clearly only about 19. You must have just decided to take up preaching and made yourself a minister, because there's no way you've been to seminary....And who's your District Superintendent? Ah, that's a girl, too....You got a husband? Is he any good? The only good preacher is the one who has a pretty wife who blends in with the congregation, sings in the choir, plays the piano, you know, makes the preacher better....You're so young, you probably got about 50 more years before you retire, right?....Oh, you went to THAT seminary--ain't nothing but a bunch of liberals down there....stupid liberals who want us to help the poor, but the poor just want my money--they're deadbeats. You don't want any more cake? What's a matter--afraid of losing your figure? You the only preacher at that church? So, you preach every week? By yourself? You ever need a week off--call me and I'll come preach."
I've had this conversation before, but in the past, my responses would be tentative, brief, and above all--polite. I wouldn't make the other feel uncomfortable. Basically, I would take all the shots, and then say, "Nice talking to you."
But not this time. That voice inside me that whispered, "stay" powered my too often silenced self, and something different happened this time. I responded. As me. Without being defensive. Just calmly, and confidently, I let him know that I knew his game, and I wasn't going to sit quietly as little young lady. Dare I say it, I even (*gasp*) evangelized a little when he began taking pot shots at the poor and preaching his prosperity gospel.
I can't believe I am saying this, but I am glad for this conversation. Because the real me finally opened her mouth--the me that is called, affirmed, loved, and empowered to be who I am made to be--a pastor. An unapologetically young and female pastor.
"Let's just go ahead and be what we were made to be."--Paul, the former Christian-hating Jew who followed Jesus

Eat, Pray, Love

That's the new movie out, and it's the latest on Oprah's and New York Times' lists. I read it before it was the thing to read. I remember being in the store and being drawn in by the title. Simple, I thought. I like to eat. Praying's my business. And romance is the third charm. I loved the book. I loved the idea of the journey. Lately, it has occurred to me, though, that life isn't finding the right journey--it's more about life being the culmination of detours on the way of the journey, which all add up, in the end, to a life well-lived. In the 2nd year of my "next 30 years," I realize that in the last decade or so, I have spent way too much time stressing about finding the right journey, or the right stops along the way of the journey. Like those I hold dear in my heart, I have developed habits and patterns of living that strive to create an ordered world around me--a predictable place that I can control. This has brought me nothing but stress and frustration since you probably already learned at a much earlier age than I that life cannot be measured or controlled or ordered--if it is to meaningful and lovely, that is. So, I'm trying to learn to love life in a different way these days. I am looking for beauty in non-obvious places. I am finding contentment in the plentiful chaos of everyday. And I am discovering that this non-ordered, messy world is, in fact, as the Creator said, GOOD.

Do Over

Have you ever found yourself wondering what life would be like if...? Have you ever wanted a new life? I posed that question to the hubby recently and quickly had to clarify what I meant. First, I wasn't suicidal...wondering about offing this life. Second, I wasn't contemplating leaving him or the children. The new life would absolutely include them. What I was dreaming of was a new place, a new setting in which to live the life we already have. I know it might not make much sense, but when you are a dreamer, like I am, you dream of going places and doing things that are exciting and fresh and new. Staying in the same place is comfortable, but it gets old. A blog I follow talked about the lure of looking for life somewhere else. She has some great thoughts on Eat, Pray, Love, too. That's why I wonder and wander around asking myself...what would I do if...? What would life be like in Seattle? What would life be like if instead of being a preacher I were the owner of a small bookshop in England (it's very Nottinghill of me, I note)? Why am I constantly looking for do-over? I'm not sure, but I think I like it because it helps me escape a little from reality and reminds me to never stop dreaming...because though I am content with the present state and place of my life...someday one of those dreams just might be my reality.

If I Weren't a Pastor...

I'd be a hairdresser. Wow, what am I, 70? Hairdresser? Surely, nobody in the business calls herself that anymore. Unless she's doing perms and beehives. Ahem, I would be a hair stylist, hair designer, even. Yes, hair designer. That sounds fancy and fun and creative. Except for one teensy little itty bitty almost not even important enough to mention detail: I am a perfectionist. A friend of mine who is a hair designer tells me that you cannot be a perfectionist and do good hair. Good hair, she says, is not perfect. It is not M'Lynn's brown football helmet ala Steel Magnolias. It moves; it has life; it is real. Real hair does not have perfectly placed streaks and straight across bangs. I did try my hand at hair design once: I decided I would paint blond highlights through my own hair. They turned out pumpkin orange and about 5 inches wide. Because I kept painting over the spots I had already done in attempts to create the perfect streaks. And I was so anxious about ending up with the perfect color, I didn't wait for the process to be complete and the color to change from orange to blond. There are no logical reasons to affirm me as a hair designer. I have no gifts or skills in this area. But it sounds really fun...it sounds like a job that doesn't require me to be perfect or appear to be. It is a way I could honor my creative streak--that part of me that begs to be freed of perfectionist woman, the part of me that wants to break up with do-it-all-for-everybody-all-the-time lady, the part of me that wants to create something beautiful, the part of me that knows that making and doing with my hands is important but often forgets how to do that or remembers but doesn't take the time to do or make with my hands. I don't give in to hair designer wanna be, artist in disguise (very heavily disguised) girl very often, but when I do, all kinds of crazy, unplanned, imperfect, beautiful things happen. The reality is I am a preacher girl, but I think preacher girl and quirky artsy girl could be better friends.

Some Things Just Don't Get Old

"I really love my pit crew, and I sometimes love my work. Sometimes it feels like God has reached down and touched me, blessed me a thousand times over, and sometimes it all feels like a mean joke, like God's advisors are Muammar Qaddafi and Phyllis Schlafly." --Anne Lamott, Operating Instructions


There are parts and pieces to every occupation that are monotonous, aspects that get old, and some scenarios that just plain suck the very life out of you. Ministry has these parts and pieces, aspects, and scenarios, too. There are days that I wonder, "Are you sure you want me for this work, Lord?" But then, there are moments and glimpses and even whole days that leave me boggled--that God would use me--and bursting with joy that he does. Yesterday was one of those days. Yesterday, I gave the sacrament of baptism to my littlest baby girl. I baptized bigger baby girl when she was 8 months old, and it was such a God-saturated time. So, I was expecting baptism #2 to be just as awesome. And God did not disappoint. I wonder how the early Christians ever sat down to write their experiences with the Holy Spirit? It's just so hard to put into words. What can I say about feeling the water drip through my fingers, feeling different than ordinary water? What can I say about touching the forehead of a child, knowing and feeling that it's a different kind of touch? What can I say about God actually showing up when I ask God to show up? I can say it doesn't get old. It isn't a routine I know like the back of my hand. It's an experience with God that is never the same twice. It is always powerful beyond measure. It never fails to move me in the deepest place of my soul. And it even blows back into me the life that gets sucked out at other not-so-moving times. "Sometimes it feels as if God has reached down and touched me."

Re-Think Food

I have been on a new adventure of late. (I have been dying to work "of late" into a sentence...sounds sort-of European, no?) I digress--back to the adventure. Baby girl has a confirmed allergy to dairy, and since she is feasting on mommy's milk, that means no milk or dairy products for me, either. Those who know me well know I love cows. Literally. I once collected all cow decor like it was my part-time job. I don't do that anymore, but I still love cows. Bigger baby girl has a cow carseat to prove it. I love milk...and cheese...and chocolately, milky creations...and tiramisu...and CHEESECAKE!! When the pediatrician first mentioned me going on a dairy fast, I snickered and said, "Nah, I don't think so." When she later told me it wasn't an option, I groaned and but-but-but-ed to no avail. "Looks like we are going dairy-free," I told the hubbers. To which I received the following reply: "Yeah, right. You can do it, but I am not giving up milk. If I was going to be stranded on an island and could only bring one thing, I would bring milk. You can't live without milk. Look it up." One dreadful and small fortune extracting visit to Whole Foods, and I came home in tears. There must be something we can do. It cannot be this difficult to find things without milk products. Oh, but it is. Milk products are in bread, chicken broth, NON-dairy creamer, cereal. Even McDonald's fries are cooked in a concoction that contains milk! At first, I began by replacing my highly processed foods with dairy free options--dairy-free Oreo-like cookies, dairy-free crackers, and you know I found dairy-free burritos. But then, I began to do research, and I kept stumbling into Kosher. That's right, kosher, as in the Jewish food laws (kashrut). I was reminded how aware of what they are eating Kosher-keeping people are. Everything is scrutinized and examined. Everything that goes into a food matters. And Kosher tracks what has dairy and what does not--so that the laws of cross-contamination are kept (milk products cannot be in foods with certain other products). So, I've been reading up on Kosher and the various symbols that mark foods, and it has me thinking...What has happened to us as a society when we no longer notice what is going into our bodies? Sure, we're aware of fat and calories and recently, trans fat and whole grains. But most of this is out of a sense of protection--protecting our bodies from fat and disease. What I have found in looking at Kosher foods is that food becomes a way to honor God through the way we nourish ourselves. It is a reminder of the basic supplication, "Give us this day our daily bread." The word "kosher" comes from the Hebrew for "appropriate." Being conscious of what I have been eating has been a way of testing food's appropriateness. Is the order of fries from McD's really appropriate? Is the pizza I ordered out because I was too tired to cook appropriate? Is it fitting to eat? Is it fitting for me to eat? We Methodists have been on an appropriateness kick with re-thinking church. Is how we have been doing church appropriate to nourish the souls of people in a changing world? Is it fitting for the ones we've been called to reach, or just for ourselves?
Through this adventure, there are some who have offered their unsolicited opinion of the appropriateness of what I am eating--or not: "Just put the baby on formula. It is fine." As a mom, I know I can do better than just fine. I can be aware of what I am eating and make sure baby girl is nourished in the best way possible.
There are those in the church adventure who offer their opinions of appropriate nourishment, too: "Feed your soul in whatever way you want, but don't do it in my church. That's just not--ahem--'kosher' here." I'm just wondering if we all might benefit from some old school kosher education?

Skin

During those difficult teenage years when I was blessed with acne, my mother would tell me I was beautiful and lucky. Lucky? "Lucky," she said, "because when you are old, the bad stuff will be gone, and you won't get wrinkles." So, I hoped and hoped for the day I would get "old" and the skin would work itself out: acne-free and wrinkle-free. I'm old-er, and I do have wrinkles--on my belly from the stretching of skin as my children grew within me--and around my eyes from days of squinting at a computer--and on my forehead from thinking too hard and worrying too much. What does my skin say about me? Does it say that I am perfect, that my body is free from flaw? Does it say that I have had nothing hard to deal with in life? If it's either perfection or wrinkles that I have to choose between, I choose wrinkles. People with wrinkles are interesting. They have lived. They have experienced joy and sorrow and somehow made it through both. Wrinkles are a badge of honor for a life that didn't overcome the liver. When faced with harsh realities of life, the liver, absorbed them, dug in, and held on. The very best kind of wrinkles are those at the corners of the mouth--lines that etch the good memories and laughter. These lines keep the beautiful moments alive.

Toward Newness

I started this blog as a way to connect with people in the pews during the week. Since that time, I have found other ways to meet that need, I think. Lately, God has been prompting me to change the purpose and format of this blog somewhat. It has been a struggle to find things to write about at times because I have tried to make this a min-sermon type of blog. I feel now God is leading me in a different direction... and here's why... I have never had a good relationship with numbers. They mock me; the elude me; I do not like them. The written word, on the other hand, inspires me, fills me, brings me joy. And I have been neglecting that burning need within me to write--I have made this about forming the right words rather than letting the words that are already there come through me. Also, for me, writing is a spiritual discipline. Much as people sit in a quiet room and pray, I find sitting in a noisy room and finding my center through a few meaningful words to be a very prayer-filled exercise. Writing is a way I ground myself in the whirlwind of thoughts that fill my mind. On another note...for several years, I have been toying with the idea of writing a book. I haven't yet figured out the definitive form of this book--and I'm not even sure it happens that way (setting out with an idea in mind and making that idea come to life). So, this blog will now be my personal reflections, musings, ideas, thoughts, prayers, poems, maybe even some images that I find inspiring. I will not be speaking in any particular role: pastor, wife, friend, daughter. I will just be myself, speaking whatever comes to mind. I will not "censor" my thoughts to see if they are mini-sermon worthy. I will simply let the words flow through me and see where God leads me. You are welcome to come along for the ride, to eavesdrop, to ponder, to comment, but know that this is now primarily about how I feed myself. If you are able to find a morsel, as well, that's a bonus, but not my goal. Thank you for following and reading, and I invite you to continue. May you, too, find that something that burns within you and draws you closer to the divine.

If you are looking for that spiritual food, you are welcome to join the discussion group on Facebook (Center-Salem SermonTalkBack).

She

This video captures what I think we all know but need reminding from time to time. God is neither male nor female, yet has characteristics we associate with being male and female. I know this, but still, I find myself picturing that old white guy with a beard. I guess I found it comforting to think of God like a protective grandfatherly figure. This God seemed safe and approachable. This God seemed knowable. But this God(the one I had created in my mind), became harder to relate to. How could I ask this old Grandfather to help me raise my children, balance my life, find rest and Sabbath, relate to my husband, enjoy my girlfriends? How could this God actually know what it is like to be stressed out in the way women are often stressed out? How could this God possibly understand all the demands on me as a wife, a mother,a woman in ministry? I found myself thinking, "Yeah, I know you are there for me. But you are one of them. You're not like me. I know you feel for me, but you've never actually been here, so I guess there's nothing to say about this." I didn't, I couldn't see God as a woman, because that would be just as bad as seeing God with a beard. So, that's where I stopped for a while. But then, I began to make some important connections. That unconditional love you have for a child who just looked at you defiantly and did something you told her was bad for her. I could see God scooping me up and embracing me even though I had broken his trust. That gut wrenching feeling when you see someone you care about in pain. I could see God weeping and wailing, frustrated and feeling helpless. The moments when your heart gets ripped open by a harsh word, an argument, someone's judgments about you, or any of the other ways people let us down or go out of their way to break us down. I can see God's disappointment, agony, feelings of betrayal. Compassion, healing, comforting, patience, trust, hope, unconditional love. Gifts we women get from the God who created us in God's image.

This Blog is On Hold...

....until after baby arrives! See you in January! In the meantime, you might check out the blogs in my list to the left. They are good ones!

Friday Five (Fun New Posts)

As a member of a girl preacher blog-ring (an online sharing of our blogs), I am beginning to share the Friday blog starters and my answers here each week. On Fridays, one member gives five thought provoking and light-hearted questions to which I will post my responses. Just for fun! Enjoy what you learn about me!

Today's Friday Five: Jammies
Because it is getting cooler, we are getting into PJ season.
Without going to TMI land, share with us your sleepwear memories and preferences....



1. What was your favorite sleeping attire as a child? And did you call them pjs, pajamas (to rhyme with llamas), pajamas (to sort of rhyme with bananas), jammies, or ???
Jammies is what I called them but they were actually nightgowns or the famous eighties "underoo" sets. And I had some Big Bird Slippers that I loved, too!


2. Favorite sleepwear put on your own little ones, or perhaps those you babysat? .

Sleepers with feet on them. So cute!

3. How about today-do you prefer nightgown, pajamas, undies, or au naturel?

Pj's. Actual pj's is what I prefer, but I don't have a wide selection, so often it is sweats and tees when the pj's are in the wash. And cute pj's that is--none of this wearing the husband's oversize sleepwear or granny's mumu.

4. Silky smooth or flannel-y cozy?

Either silky or cozy but never flannel or fuzzy. Eww.

5. Socks or bare feet?

Bare feet! Socks are too hot!

The Discipline of Surprise

It probably comes as no shock to those of my readers who really know me that I hate surprises. I cajole my husband to open at least one Christmas gift early each year. I want to know what happens next in life. I have a plan, a dream, a goal, a vision, and I work toward it. It is comforting to know that I will not be smacked in the face with something unexpected because if I am expecting something, even if it is something negative, I have at least prepared myself for the impact, I have braced myself for the hurt or embarrassment or discomfort, and I have at least considered one or two helpful responses to whatever the thing is. But surprises are ridiculous. They have a way of showing up in your life unannounced, with no preparation, no explanation. There they are, plopped right in the middle of my ordered world, just to confound me, to throw me off my otherwise predictable course. What is it about the unexpected that gets me so worked up? I have tried so often to get to the root of my phobia, but I can't really come up with a suitable explanation. I think it's because in knowing everything I can about everything that will happen, I am hoping to create some sort of barrier against the surprises that cause trouble and giving myself an extra time of celebration for the would-be surprises that induce joy. Particularly, this latter category has dominated my thoughts lately--let's say for the last 32 weeks. With only 8 weeks to go of pregnancy, this pact that the hubs and I have for not knowing the gender is driving me positively mad. I must know. I must. You just don't understand. I have tried all sorts of reasoning techniques...I must know because it will help us to plan for the baby (there really isn't much selection in the gender neutral department, because let's face it, none of us are actually content to be surprised about anything anymore). I must know because it will help me bond with the baby--knowing whether I am talking to a baby boy or baby girl. I must know because it's like carrying around this tremendous gift for 10 months without even peeling back the wrapping paper to get a sneak peek. I must know because everyone else in my life wants to know--they won't stop asking me until I do know. Lame excuses, I know, but I have done my best to support these as my banners for pre-knowledge. I think what it really is that drives me up the wall with this scenario is the discipline part of it. Let me be totally honest and say that we had this pact 2 years ago when expecting our first child, and I cheated. I made it to the end of the ultrasound and sent the husband out of the room so the technician could tell me the gender. I couldn't take the discipline of waiting. So, this time around, I thought I would give it another go, see how the old school way worked out. But it's the discipline that's so hard. To have the ability to do something but to choose not to do it. That works in most areas of my life, but there are some places, I'll admit, that I choose to do something I have promised someone I would not....nothing huge, just the occasional new pair of shoes I shouldn't spend money on or the across-town trip to the burrito place I shouldn't make. When it comes to discipline, though, does it really matter if it is a big or small breach of discipline? Luke 16:10 says: "If you're honest in small things,
you'll be honest in big things." (The Message) I write this as I anxiously await an ultrasound this afternoon, a very big temptation to be faithful (or not) in the small things. Looking to God to help me be disciplined so that I might experience a joyful surprise.

Sometimes You Just Need a Little Magic

Last week was the unofficial "babymoon" and a sort-of last minute vacation before things get really hairy around here. The destination: Happiest Place on Earth. At least, that's what the hubby calls it. He has been to Disney so many times that he could be a tour guide. While I enjoy the place, I can't say I have the same passion for the sprawling kid-town as he does. I wondered how this much needed vacay would prove to be relaxing. I was thinking crowds and heat and lines and kids everywhere (We went sans-toddler!) But, as the bus pulled up to the "Pacific Northwest," I think I finally got some of that inexplicable giddiness. There are no worries; there are no plans; there is no rush; there is no stress. There is only magic. The magic of being a kid again. The magic of enjoying each moment as it comes. The magic of new experiences. The magic of friendship. And I realized something important: sometimes we all need a little magic in our lives. While we might not get it from the same places, we all need it. We need to know that, in the midst of all the chaos and hurt in the world, surprises of grace abound, if we are willing to look at the world "just so." And if we do this, we might be surprised to find magic, even joy waiting for us to choose them.


Henri Nouwen says it best: "Joy is what makes life worth living, but for many joy seems hard to find. They complain that their lives are sorrowful and depressing. What then brings the joy we so much desire? Are some people just lucky, while others have run out of luck? Strange as it may sound, we can choose joy. Two people can be part of the same event, but one may choose to live it quite differently than the other. One may choose to trust that what happened, painful as it may be, holds a promise. The other may choose despair and be destroyed by it. . .What makes us human is precisely this freedom of choice. Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day. It is a choice based on the knowledge that we belong to God and have found in God our refuge and our safety and that nothing, not even death, can take God away from us."

Reflections on a Year in Ministry

The end of last month marked the end of the first year at this appointment. I could measure it by the calendar: days--365, months--12, hours--8760. I could measure it by tasks: hundreds of phone calls, thousands of emails, pounds of paperwork. I could measure it in connections: hospital visits, home visits, baptisms, too many funerals. But, I think the best way to measure this year of ministry together with the people of God in this place is to reflect on the glimpses of the Kingdom we saw together. Meals made to comfort families in grief--showed the comforting love of God the Father. Words of love and support expressed to families in need of hope--showed the power of prayer among the faithful. Mission teams going to serve--showed the hands and feet of Christ at work. Families invited into the family--showed the relentless love of God to continuously pursue us. Sharing the meal of the Lord--a taste of what is to come. In all of these moments, and in others we may have overlooked, God has been among us and continues to be among us as the people of God.

Changing You, Changing Me

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Earlier in the week, I was reading an article about a seemingly secular person. It was the story of a celebrity stuggling with cancer and her faith. Sorry, but when I think Hollywood, I do not immediately think, "people of faith." In fact, I tend to think the opposite--terribly judgmental on my part--but it's the truth. So, when I read these words: "She is a firm believer in miracles and has not given up on the power of God," I wasn't sure what to make of it...considering the source. But then, I begin to think of all the folks I know who are praying for a miracle, and not just praying but hoping and believing, almost expecting a miracle. And that got me to thinking, "What exactly is a miracle anyway?" Is it God changing your circumstances? Making the pain or the cancer or the rotten situation go away? Is it God fixing your problems? I believe in miracles....but not in the traditional sense. I believe that a miracle is the power of God that transforms someone's life. In essence, believing, praying, loving, trusting God changes things. Believing changes the believer. Her outlook is different. Her joy is stronger. Her hope is centered. Her focus is clear. Her eyes are on her Savior. And that's the miracle.

Forgiveness Like a Child

I realize that many of my posts involve parenthood, and that's because being "mommy" is teaching me so much about being "faithful." The innocence of a child so often speaks to me on a faith level. Last week, we moved our little one to a new daycare, which meant she had to say goodbye to her friends at the old daycare. I took her by for what I thought would be over her head--maybe she would wave bye-bye, but that would be it. So, it was a shock to see her run over and hug her friends. She understood, at least a little, that this was a bye-bye moment and that she needed to do something special. It was the first time I had ever seen her hug another person, so it didn't all compute right away. But later, when I was thinking back on it, I remembered the shocking person she had hugged. In my parental pride for her new accomplishment, I had missed a theological moment. Since she had been going to this daycare, one little boy had continuously shown aggression toward her. He scratched my precious baby's face and eyes. He was a bully. He was bigger than her, older than her, and she was not yet walking so was unable to get away from him. The workers began to separate him from her because he would go after her to release his aggression. I'll admit I am being a little overly dramatic in the description of these events--it was probably not premeditated and just an older child's way of treating someone as he had been treated, but still, it's my baby, so it's a big deal. Anyway, when I would see this child at daycare, I would think, "There's the little bully." I only assumed that my sweet girl would have the same thoughts about her classmate, that she would not want to be near him. But the day we went on our bye-bye visit, she ran up to little bully man, threw her arms around him, and they both giggled. They were friends! I didn't even notice this until the replay in my mind. And as I hit rewind, I was irked that she didn't get who he was. Why was she hugging the little bully man who hurt her? And then, I hit rewind with my "preacher's cap" on, and I realized, to her, he wasn't little bully man, he was a friend, with whom she'd had some problems, but none too big that they couldn't forgive each other and still be friends. Her heart does not carry with it the baggage that mine does. I still think of my own little bully man, and I think it may be many years before he and I shall hug, but it is my prayer that God would make my heart more like the one of a little child. Who was it that said, "To enter the kingdom, you must become like a child"?