Field trips

Someone once said (I think it might have been Ann Landers or Karl Barth) that the most frightening and most comforting words are "this too shall pass." In many ways that is true. Whatever heartache or joy we have will come to an end. 

But it's not technically true.

Today I pondered a different law. I found myself thinking about one of the classical law of physics - the conservation of mass. The mass of an object or collection of objects never changes, nothing can be created or destroyed no matter how the constituent parts rearrange themselves (Encyclopedia Brittanica).  

Yep. That's poop.

There's something comforting and terrifying in that law, especially after visiting the sewage treatment plant. Nothing can be created or destroyed.

I don't know why I insist on taking middle schoolers on such weird field trips, but I do. I want them to connect their daily lives and actions with faith, but sometimes I think I'm just sick and twisted. 

I take them to the sewage treatment plant and ask them to make some connections with baptism. I'm not looking for any profound connection in particular, but it seems like a good opportunity. They made some about being cleansed or caring for God's creation or the need to look for a different middle school group.

For the first time in my multiple trips to the sewage treatment plant, I was struck by how nothing goes away by magic. We may be cleansed and given a second chance, but the %&*$ doesn't go away. In fact, it costs Juneau two million dollars a year to barge our poop down to Oregon. We create 7-12 shipping cartons full of poop a day. I found all that pretty wild.

Yes, we can pull some cleansing waters and second chances out of the filth. But, we still have to do something with our messes because pretending like our stinky stuff magically disappears is a destructive lie. 

Maybe I take the middle schoolers to the sewage treatment plant for the same reason I baptize folks. It's the hope in the midst of the mess. And it takes a lot of courage to look at the mess we make and figure out how to live in grace and responsibility. 

I'm sure most of the youth walked away feeling slightly grossed out and never thinking of "cake" the same way, but I can guarantee that they will also never look at a drain the same either. The crap we leave behind takes a lot of work to clean-up. 

Something profound before Christmas

We went to see The Force Awakens like millions of other people this week. Loved it.

I thought I would have something profound, but luckily this movie did not take itself too seriously so there weren't major new age themes accentuated by pathetic dialogue. That sounded harsher than I meant it.

I loved the original Star Wars, but I loved it in spite of all the hokey themes and sad dialogue. Even though my all time favorite love proclamation is at the end of The Empire Strikes Back when Han is getting frozen and Leia cries out, "I love you" and his response is, "I know." That's foreshadowing for a rocky relationship, but hilarious to say to the one you love.

I cried throughout this movie. Not at the sad parts. I cried with each old character introduced. I cried like they were my best friends I hadn't seen since childhood (except for C3PO and Luke-never my favorites). I had to use my greasy popcorn napkin to stop my runny nose when the Millennium Falcon was revealed. It's like every adventure and dream of childhood wrapped in that ship.

I walked away without anything too profound or life altering except that I miss my grandma. Funny thing nostalgia is.

She is not related to Star Wars in any way, except maybe in the power of grandparents to shape grandchildren but I found that kind of a sketchy part of the movie so I won't go there.

I just missed her because nostalgia is like that. It's Christmas time and she was a huge part of making my childhood Christmases magic.

I miss her for the house filled with the smell of fried chicken and the living room where thirty of us would cram to open presents while fudge was passed. Mind you, we opened them in good German fashion, one at a time in order of birth. I was the youngest for 21 years and my brother will never let that go. Then, we kids would go play with our new toys in the bathroom, the newest and biggest room in the house.

It's funny as I sit here with snotty toilet paper in hand to think of those beautiful times that can get lost in all the drama and mess of aging. It was idyllic; those Christmases were a temporary suspension of disbelief where joy and peace and love reigned in the person of my grandma in that tiny living room crammed full of family.

I kind of feel like that is why I love communion at church so much. I know folks don't always get along or see eye to eye in the church, but for that moment we cram together with generations past and generations to come in the tiny room around the table and act like we believe joy and peace and love reign.

That's a long leap from Star Wars, but that's the funny thing about nostalgia.

Free Shipping

First Christmas in Alaska

As tempting as it is, I'm not going to whine about the fact that Alaska is the exception to all the free shipping deals online. I know I should shop locally and I know the amount I pay in shipping is nowhere close to the PFD we got this year. No whining. Not even when I complete an order and shipping is $100 and the rest of their costumers get it for free.

But I will whine about adopt-a-family programs. I'm trying not to, but I can only resist not whining about one thing at a time.

I'm not a fan of adopt-a-family programs. I'm sorry, but I really struggle with them.

• Do I think we should assist families who face a sudden crisis during this season? YES.

• Do I think we should make winter clothes accessible to families without means? YES.

• Do I think we should figure out a way to walk with families through the extra economic stresses around food, housing and transportation? YES.

• Do I think we should fund early childhood education, better addiction treatment, prison reentry programs, mental health programs, and a living wage? YES.

Poverty sucks and I see huge gaping holes where resources could help families move out of poverty. And as a pastor I value meaningful relationships over doing something that makes us feel good.

I find adopt-a-family programs involve a huge amount of resources without meaningful relationships or bridging gaps. There is a part of me that struggles with whether they may actually be destructive to a family's sense of integrity and the very nature of a gift.

We read the Legend of the Poinsettia last night at church where the young girl offers weeds to the baby Jesus after hearing the wisdom, "any gift is beautiful because it is given." 

I recognize that I'm writing this out of a place of privilege and you can poke me in the eye the next time you see me for taking potshots at this sacred feel good holiday phenomena, but I'm going to refuse to give into the religion of consumerism and the idea that the gospel has something to do with having more junk from China (or wherever it is made). It's hard for me to call something a gift when it doesn't come from the giver.

I suppose this struck me when one of the families requested a robe for Christmas. It just seemed like such an intimate gift for someone we didn't know anything about and it made me think about when Kirt and I were first married without much money to our names. I sewed him a stinking robe in my office at church with scraps of fabric some of the church ladies gave me. It wasn't the most amazing robe in the world by any means, but it had my hands and heart in it (and probably some blood because I'm not good with sharp things). 

I'm not advocating everyone be awesome like me and sew pathetic robes with lots of love. But I am saying that we might undermine someone's humanity when we take away the beauty of a gift given.

There are ways we may accompany families who are devastated by life and circumstances. But it requires active engagement year round and serious examination of our economic and social systems. 

I actually believe the good news of Christmas is the incarnation, the God who chooses to dwell in the vulnerability of flesh and blood. What if we stopped with the "feel good" programs and instead dwelled with folks in the vulnerability, the flesh and blood, of poverty? 

Yeah, it's probably easier to buy the robe.

Max

The best Christmas character is Max.

We had to watch The Grinch Who Stole Christmas because Jesus will not return unless we watch it every year. It's part of the waiting and preparation of Advent.

And every year I want to be the Whos in Whoville. I especially want to be Cindy Lou Who because she gets the tiny little strawberry on the tiny tray and I love that. I also love the fact that she has no legs. We're thinking she's part seal.

Actually, my new favorite scene that I've missed the million other times I've watched it, is the naked Who kid at the end. Seriously. Look for him on the right.

So I want to be a Who.

I want to imagine that if some green cretan snuck into my house and stole absolutely everything while also leaving my house a mess, then I would have a huge heart of forgiveness. But I'm not that person. I might be able to get there, but the fact is my gut reaction would not be singing. And in all truthfulness, I'd still yell when he returned the stuff because I'd have to decorate all over again.

So the cartoon character I relate to the most is Max. He's the dog. I'm sure there are all kinds of arguments about the abuse situation Max is in makes him a pitiful creature. He and the Grinch do not have a healthy relationship. I think we can all agree on that.


But Max seems to make the best out of the situation. I'm enough of a church nerd that when I watch Max, I hear the words of our confession, "We are in bondage to sin and cannot free ourselves."

Max is not a hero. In the face of evil he can't figure out how to fix, he shrugs his shoulders and smiles. In the face of tasks or experiences that are overwhelming, he waves.

These are coping skills I have embraced too often but with some success. Some problems just seem too big and I can't figure out how to stop being a part of them let alone fixing them.

There really isn't any explaining the character Max. His motivation is not the easiest to figure out. And I realize it's a thirty minute holiday special so I won't spend too much brain power on doing it.

But somehow Max is complicit in evil without being wicked. Somehow he is still a light of grace and delight in a dark venture. He doesn't quite come off as a victim of evil he can't control, but he's not tainted by it either.

When the Grinch is set free from bitterness and evil, then Max is set free to be the joyful dog he's called to be.  That for me resonates a little more than folks who are singing in the morning and not calling the cops.

I know I shrug my shoulders at too much evil, but Max gives me hope. 

It's not an excuse to turn a blind eye to evil. We still need to strive for justice, but with a humble hope. My hope is that someday we will all be set free from bitterness and evil to be joyful creatures, but till then we do the best we can with what we've got. And there are worse ways to respond than shrugging your shoulders and smiling.

Riding in the hearse

I miss the undertaker in Michigan where I was once pastor. No offense against the undertaker in Juneau, but he hasn't brought me chocolates.

I was never sure if the undertaker's chocolates at Christmas were a thank you gift for drumming up so much business or his way of staying in my good graces so I wouldn't yell when he snuck out of church to eat the deviled eggs and homemade pie the ladies had prepared for the luncheon.

They were really good chocolates, and he always got me the assorted nut kind, not the nasty creme-filled ones that are just wrong. (None of this has anything to do with the point of the column; I'm just looking for chocolates.)

In actuality, outside the whole two pounds of chocolate at Christmas, I miss riding in the hearse. Life looks different in the front seat of the hearse. I'm sure it really looks different from the back, but I haven't experienced that yet.

Something interesting happens to a neighborhood as the hearse pulls through with the parade of mourners following behind. People stop on the sidewalks, cars pull over and children point.

Life pauses right in the middle of ordinary acts with a dramatic reminder that someday we'll all take that ride. It's a pause in the ordinary acts of life to remember that we are mortal, everything is finite, that this moment and this breath are an absolute gift.

During that ride, I would often have to sit captive through many bad jokes and stories with too many details about how the deceased got that way before we would finally arrive at the cemetery.

The cemetery is always the hardest part of the process. Up until that moment, we can fool ourselves with all kinds of distractions and defenses. It is only in the wind, and the cold facing a big hole that the finality strikes with such force. Words are spoken, prayers said and dirt cast.

We look straight into the face of death and have the boldness to hope. The Christian hope that death does not have the last word is not a sentimental sweetness to soften death; it is a defiant statement in the face of great gaping holes that life is not meaningless, that darkness will not be the end, that Jesus Christ is risen.

Advent, this season before Christmas, is the front seat of the hearse. We look into the black holes of our lives instead of trying to avoid or hide them. We look into the black holes of our world instead of making excuses. We look into the black holes of our hearts where bitterness has created an abyss. 

We look and then we sing, we pray, we might even throw dirt if we get a little zany. We laugh, we dance and we get shaken out of the numbness and ordinariness of life to see the hope, the gift, the joy of abundant life.

I think the undertaker gave me chocolate for some of the same reason that we hang lights, eat cookies, and give gifts. In the midst of the darkness, in the midst of death and brokenness, we are called to affirm life, hope and joy.

Watching the hearse go by, we are called to savor the gift of the day, the gift of being loved, the gift of this wonderful world, and maybe even the gift of a two pound box of chocolate-covered nuts.

This blog is an adaptation from an earlier article I wrote for the newspaper years ago - sorry for being lazy.

Sonntagskind

I learned today that I can kill vampires with my urine or saliva. 

I was going to write about how grumpy I get when people call me lucky because I work hard for some of this luck. But then I remembered that I am lucky. Luck comes from the German gluck (I don't know how to write umlauts), which means happy or good fortune.

All of that German got me thinking about when my friends called me "Sonntagskind" in Europe after college. I worked enough temp jobs to buy airfare over and back, then I relied on the hospitality of friends for the rest. 

Oh my. I am queen of mooching, but this took it to a whole new level. It did fall in place and that's how I got the name Sonntagskind. I have enough German to know it means "Sunday child" but I didn't realize what all that meant.

According to the great source Wikipedia, it originally referred to someone born on the sabbath (Saturday). A Sonntagskind in folklore was able to:

1. See or smell demonic creatures
2. Destroy vampires with urine or saliva (I had to put that in twice because it's so fabulous)
3. Foresee death (This is the gift that got children born on Saturdays ostracized from their villages. Who wants to know when they are going to die?)
4. Bring luck or predict winning lottery numbers

So I was able to mooch my way across Europe relying on friends and friends of friends. My favorite memory was in Budapest where I stayed with a Hungarian family twice removed from my friends in Germany. I ended up teaching English in the university and spending the afternoon on a hill of green grass with some twenty-somethings talking about life. 

The mom wanted to make me a traditional Hungarian meal. It was fried chicken. Amazing, but I didn't tell her that my grandma's was better.

The coming together of that experience was luck, but it was not easy. I spent four hours wandering Budapest looking for their apartment with a fifty pound backpack on. My luck comes packaged with some resilience and willingness to risk. 

I suppose that's why it bothers me when folks call me lucky. I am lucky, but I have never had an adventure placed before me without effort on my part.

My kids don't hike for miles by some spontaneous magical force of nature. I have dragged their booties out into the woods from the moment they were born, playing games, singing songs, and pretending I was Donkey in Shrek. They know this is what our family does and it is magical in its own way.

I plan my life out months in advance so I can figure out ways to sneak in recreation and breaks. Spontaneity is not easy to pull off with three kids. 

The idea of luck seems to dismiss the effort involved in adventures. 

Or it could just press the memory button of when I had whupped the one I love at cribbage repeatedly and he said, "The guys all say it's luck." He would still be removing cards from an orifice if I didn't love my decks of cards so much.

But luck, whatever that means, plays into life just like it does cards.

I had to look it up to see if I truly was a Sonntagskind. Yep, February 13, 1971 was a Saturday so if you are a vampire watch out.

Intimidation

I love my brother, but we don't have a ton in common. We both love ping pong and somewhat spicy food and each other, but we don't approach the world in the same way. That's okay.

One of my seminary professors reminded us before graduation not to be judgmental asses (I don't think he actually used those words, but he meant it). 

You have to assume that people are trying to do the best they can with the resources they have and you never know how long of a journey they have made to reach the point where they currently are. Good words to remember.

So I love my brother and I don't mean this to sound judgmental, but there was a wonderful shattering moment at dinner when I was home. 

My brother is a bit gruff. My son is a bit annoying. The two of them at dinner was hilarious.

I don't remember what Elijah was doing, but I'm sure it was irritating. My brother locked his jaw, looked at him with full force intimidation and growled "stop." And my son laughed. 

It was brilliant. In this moment of intimidation that is a mode of operating for so many folks in our culture, my son laughed, which made us all laugh. 

Our family doesn't work by intimidation on most days, except when I threaten to sell them to the gypsies, which I realize is not culturally sensitive or good parenting, except when I roll down my window driving through town calling for the gypsies, that's awesome parenting skills.

Intimidate - To make someone timid or afraid.

If there is a modus operandi that is contrary to the Christian message, it is intimidation. One of Jesus' main sermons was, "do not fear." I don't want my children to be timid or afraid. I don't want them to be annoying little turds either.

There are ways of disciplining and resolving conflict that don't require intimidation. It just takes a little more effort and patience. 

Do I lose my patience and resort to intimidation tactics of growling or yelling? Yes I do. 

But those are moments I confess at the end of the day as we talk through our happy, sad, God moments. I ask for forgiveness for the many times I am not the parent I want to be.

That makes me realize that the great defense against intimidation is not only humor, but an environment of grace. 

When a family or culture functions by intimidation and fear, then those involved in that system have to resort to lying, sneaking or blaming to get around the threat. 

When a family or culture functions by grace, then those involved may admit when they are wrong, live in truth, and take responsibility for what they do.

We don't have our stuff all together by any stretch of the imagination, but I had a moment of joy to realize my children do not cower in the face of intimidation. If you could have seen the look on my brother's face. Makes me giggle thinking about it.

Memories or A Circle of Hell Called High School

I was wandering through the parking lot of my high school with my children when memories came flooding over me. 

One, I made the kids march on the parking lot line with high knees and pointed toes like we did in band.

Two, I explained what it was like to sit through four years of classes in a building from the energy crisis of the 70s with tiny windows you cannot see out of. Do you know how you cope with that kind of boredom? Obvious. You write notes to your friends, fold them, and then flick them across the room like a football. Texting has nothing on note passing.

Three, I did not whine about missing valedictorian by a hundredth of a point to the guy I helped through math. I've moved on. No need to relive that again. Unless someone does care, and then I'll be happy to whine.

Four, we talked about the Lichtenstein reproduction in the cafeteria and why I still say, "M-Maybe he became ill and couldn't leave the studio."

I also told them the story of why it was necessary for me to drive to school even though I only lived a couple hundred feet from school and it took me three times as long to drive. It's actually pretty inexcusable, except that I got heckled walking by the woods and I did not have the self-confidence to hold my head up high. 

I can't say high school is overflowing with awesome memories. I remember getting teased quite a bit. I had big unruly hair and I think I might have been a nerd. It was the 80s, but my hair couldn't even be tamed by hairspray. One unpleasant memory was the popular boys behind me in lunch line making fun of me. It culminated with one of them putting gum in my hair. Do you know what it is like getting gum out of huge hairsprayed hair?

I cried. Not in front of them, but as soon as I could lock myself in the bathroom and start cutting and icing it out. There are times I'd love to go back and tell that crushed girl to stand up for herself and teach her a few helpful words.

I also have great memories. A crew of us would buy all the bouncy balls we could afford and take them to the parking garages in downtown Columbus to send them flying all over. Whoever caught the most won. 

I remember doing giant shadow shows on the side of the downtown buildings standing in front of the big lights. 

I'm always thankful to my brother's friend Mark who was willing to take me to my senior prom when I couldn't find a date. He was so much cooler than I was and the fifty dollars to talk him into going was well spent.

Good and bad memories. 

It all goes into who I am now. I can laugh at most things, cry at some, and marvel at how it all works together for good or at least some good stories walking through a parking lot. 

A1 Sauce

November is "get the heck out of Juneau" month. It's getting darker and raining and getting darker and raining so I like to head out with the family. Once the snow comes all is well, but November is rough.

Getting out of Juneau naturally means TSA. I don't mind all the security stuff. Stripping in front of strangers is kind of a hoot. The House of Babes used to advertise around seminary for exotic dancers. Three thousand dollars a week! Actually, I don't think they ever advertised there, but I might have posted a classified on the news board.

What cracks me up about security is seeing the bin of confiscated items. A huge bottle of A-1 is my favorite so far. Who brings a huge bottle of A1 in his carry-on? 

I've spent a good chunk of time thinking about this. What traveling scenario requires a 33 oz. bottle of steak sauce? I have to ask that especially now that I've looked it up and realized there is an adorable 1.4 oz travel size I have to own immediately.

As a great lover of A1, I know it is not for steak connoisseurs so whoever this person was, he was not involved in some kind of culinary competition. Maybe it's a trip to Aunt Bertha's who cooks steak every night till it's dead and only redeemed with the handy and huge bottle of A1 stashed under the table for such emergencies.

I have to admit I'm stumped and that bothers me. One of the great lessons in acting is that nobody acts without motivation. When you develop a character, you need to know what motivates her to do what she does or else you look like a psychopath. In theater, you have to be aware of what stories, what mitigating circumstances, what true or false realities a person has built to bring them to a point of action.

That's helpful in all our other relationships too. There was a great chapter in Kirt's book for police families about the a**hole syndrome. It's easy to start believing all bulls**t comes from a**holes. Once you enter this syndrome, then you don't have to deal with relationships and what folks are thinking because they are dismissed as a**holes (I hope my dad appreciates all these asterisks). 

This is a syndrome to be avoided not by guessing why some a**hole would be so stupid to bring a 33 oz bottle of A1 on the plane, but by asking. If I could have found the culprit at SEATAC, I would love to have asked. When you can, ask. 

When you can't go with Luther's explanation to the 8th commandment, "We should fear and love God, so that we do not lie about, betray or slander our neighbor, but excuse him, speak well of him, and put the best construction on everything."

It's probably a good idea to ask yourself the same question too. What is my motivation? Why am I doing this? What lies am I telling myself to make it all right? If I had to tell Tari, would she swear at me?

Football

There was a very sweet moment hiking with my beloved when he started to talk about football. He talked for ten minutes about OSU and the big ten and standings and southern teams. And I dutifully said uh-huh until he turned around and laughed.

I hate football. Unless I'm playing. I like tackling. And throwing the ball, but I don't like breaking my nails when I catch the ball. My favorite football game ever was with all the drama majors in college. I think we gave up on the ball and just did combat mime tackling.

I went to an Ohio State game once. The stadium seats over 100,000 people and each ticket goes for at least $65. I sat there doing the math and had a moment of horror. In case you can't do the math that fast, it's a lot of money.

I try not to get all judgmentally, but holy. Watching football just seems like a strange priority.

I hear folks talk about not having enough time and money. I participate in the talk more than I like, but when I do a reality check it is a question of priorities.

One of the greatest lessons I ever had in money management came when I was a T.A. in seminary. I graded papers for $8 an hour and I could normally grade three or four papers an hour. Those weren't always the most entertaining hours.

What it did for me was helped me evaluate costs. If something cost $24, then it meant three hours of work and twelve papers. Was it worth twelve papers? I lived without a lot of things that year.

I worry about the burden of debt folks carry and what it does to our soul. I worry about our sense of time being so scarce. There are many social justice issues around people making a living wage and our long work week. I don't want to devalue that conversation, but I also think we need to be aware of our priorities around money and time.

Where and how do we spend time and money as individuals and as a society? It's well worth tracking yourself for a week to see. We vote with our money and choices way more than our whining in a blog.

And now I laugh at myself after buying a month of TV so I can watch the World Series. But baseball is completely different.

Really?

Halloween is not my favorite holiday. It's in the same league as pranks. In my mind, they are a lot of work to do something mildly wild, which in the end makes more work for me to clean-up. Every party needs a pooper.

I do like the excuse to buy all the Junior Mints and Skittles I desire. I'm not much of a candy person, but those are my definite weakness.

We did carve pumpkins, or I should say the kids and Kirt carved pumpkins while I sang along to Monster Mash and drank cider. My pumpkins have had triangle eyes and jagged teeth since I was first trusted with a sharp object. Since neither creative design nor sharp objects are my forte, we're all a lot safer with me singing along to songs off my first album ever purchased with my own money - Goofy Gold. Loved that record.

Locked and Loaded  Cop
costume for Teens 

And costumes. I'm pretty sure I was Paul Bunyan every year. I love flannel.  Elijah wants to be someone scary who carries a chainsaw. Not a pretend chainsaw but a real one.

Okay, we settled for an outlandishly overpriced zombie jester costume with a scary staff. While looking for his costume, I also checked out possibilities for the girls.

Wow. Teen girl costumes. Not okay.

I'm all about expressing yourself through your clothes and awareness of your body. I love exploring how different clothes bring out different aspects of my personality. There are times I like to wear clothes that make me feel sexy. Kirt did nix the cute little police outfit I wanted because it looked too much like work and it was expensive. Holy.

But, I struggle with marketing Halloween costumes that look like porn stars to teen girls while guys get to wear outfits that look warm. So maybe part of my indignation is the thought of my girls freezing their exposed flesh off since it is normally a bitterly cold rain for Halloween.

And part of my indignation is the blatant over-sexing of my daughters. They can express themselves and their beauty without showing half a butt cheek. I'm not a purity fanatic, but a little modesty is helpful. Or a sense that we can get attention as women without being scantily clad.

At least, I think we can. Then I remember reality. It is actually hard to get attention unless you pull the drama queen act, or the sickly take care of me role, or the big boobs and short skirt schtick.

I know showing respect for women has come a long way. I've noticed huge changes in the way female pastors are treated. And then I walk into a room and get ignored, dismissed or shunned and I remember. . . I should have worn my Wonder Woman costume.

Moves like Jagger

I thought of Jeff Harris this week; I hope he is well. 

Jeff and I were buddies in the modern dance class all theater majors were required to take. We were equally graceful even though he was three times my size and we were equally humiliated walking around in leotards and tights. He was a very large black man and I was a tiny uncoordinated white girl so we did wonderfully together. I think we spent most of the class dying of laughter watching each other in the surround sound mirrors. 

I'm currently taking an acting class in the Alexander technique. Don't ask me for details about what the heck that means, but we did lots of moving and if Jeff was there we would have been giggling.

But he wasn't, so I paid attention and tried not to stare at the other participants or worry about what they thought. 

We did explore our own and each other's bones. It was weird and fascinating. One of the insights I kind of got out of exploring all the stinking bones in our body (who knew there were so many?) was learning to trust the support our skeleton gives us.

The Alexander technique is being present in the moment and aware of all the supports you have around you and letting go of what is weighing on you (I think). So you feel all the bones in your feet so you know you are not walking on peg legs but a flexible structure able to provide for your needs.

That's not really the super interesting part and I know I'm not summarizing this perfectly, but the teacher said, "this technique is finding the space between stimulus and response for freedom of choice." 

And the relationship between student and teacher is not one of figuring out the right way, but the teacher observes what the student is doing and the student experiments and adjusts.

I believe that's what creativity is all about. It is not looking for the one right answer, but having the space to observe, experiment, and adjust. 

So even though I felt kind of hokey walking around the room, I didn't feel judged or freaked out about not doing it right. 

This is why I'm doing an acting class on movement and not yoga. I know I should do yoga, but I feel like I would have to embrace a life of half-truths. "Yes I ate homemade granola this morning" (with a frosted cherry Pop Tart and a billion cups of coffee). 

This class was about creating space where awareness was raised and options explored without condemnation. 

Sometimes I wonder if the violence in our society is a response to our lack of creativity. Violence is such a dull way to resolve conflict (unless Jackie Chan is involved). As our schools and culture focus more on the "right" answer, I worry we don't foster creative problem solving well.

So I'm looking like an idiot for all of us. I'm trying to learn a bit more about this space between stimulus and response where we can find the freedom of choice. I'm trying to learn more about trusting our bodies and trusting a weird group of folks willing to take this class. I'm still laughing at myself even without Jeff there, but I do miss sharing the joy of humiliation.

Crying Fool

Three things I made Shepherd of the Valley aware of before they hired me.

1. I hate Precious Moments statues. No idea why they bother me other than their big eyes freak me out and I promise to smash them to tiny bits if anyone ever gets me one. They are like bunnies and will start reproducing if I turn my back and then they are everywhere.

2. I will steal your pen if you let me come anywhere near it. I absorb them into my skin unconsciously.

3. I cry. And my nose runs. And my face gets blotchy. If you want me to stay in emotional control all the time, then . . . I don't really have anything to finish that with because it's just not an option. I wear everything I'm feeling and most things I'm thinking pretty close to the surface.

So it probably won't come as a huge shock that I cried at the memorial I recently did. It was sad - a beautiful young life cut way too short. I made it through three eulogies just fine, even with young men crying. But, the fiance cut me to the core with her dashed hopes of a life together and her profound sorrow.

Everyone was crying so I don't feel too badly, but I did have to ask the kind lady in the front to pass me some tissues because my nose was starting to drip on my sermon. Pleasant. Especially in front of hundreds of people.

No idea what I'm doing, but I look like a dork

It could have been embarrassing, but I didn't feel embarrassed. I get embarrassed when I realize I just went through my whole day with my pants on backwards or my shirt inside out. Not that it's ever happened. I normally realize halfway through my day.

I didn't expect to cry. I didn't know the young man or the family and on paper he seemed a troubled young man. It was in the midst of the fiance's stories when he became every child, brother, and love. 

I realized later that the best way to keep the tears at bay and pain under control is to judge. If I go through all the reasons why bad things happen to other families and why they won't happen to mine, then I can insulate, pretend to be coated in God's Teflon. If I judge and set myself above, then I can protect myself from their pain. That's when we pity. We stand above others and call them less fortunate, and shake our heads and fingers as if we care, but it's got judgment written all over it.

So I suppose I'd rather cry than judge. I'd rather be blotchy than distant.

Jesus doesn't call us into pity or judgment, but compassion. I would tell you that the Greek for compassion is literally "bowel movement" and my favorite King James passage is Philippians 1:8 where Paul writes, "For God is my record, how greatly I long after you all in the bowels of Jesus Christ."  I would tell you those things, but my dad is threatening to stop reading these blogs if I mention bodily functions one more time.

So, compassion is to suffer with our neighbor. That doesn't always mean tears and I totally realize tears can be dramatic and manipulative. I try to save those tears for when I get pulled over by the police. 

Compassion is being with each other in our pain without judgment and condemnation, but a loving hand to hold and a tissue to offer. It doesn't mean giving people puppy dog eyes, but showing up to help carry the pain of loss. 

Sometimes I wish I could control my tears (and snot) better, but the only way is to disconnect and I think in my line of work folks would rather keep tissue boxes handy.

Poop

I am as obsessed with bodily functions as any nine year old boy or at least as much as Martin Luther.

Dearest Martin Luther wrote about his bowels more than any person outside a gastroenterologist. I would quote more of his poop and fart quotes, but they are totally inappropriate. That's saying a lot for me. My favorite quote was when Luther thought he was facing death and said,

“I’m fed up with the world, and it is fed up with me. I’m quite content with that. The world thinks that if it is only rid of me everything will be fine, and it will accomplish this. After all, it’s as I’ve often said: I’m like a ripe stool and the world’s like a gigantic anus, and so we’re about to let go of each other.” (Martin Luther,  Table Talk, 5537).

Seriously. He had some issues.

 I haven't come to the point in my life where the two major subjects of conversation are bowel movements and sleep, but there are times I come close. Like when we go on trips.

There is no way to travel with twenty-two people and share three bathrooms without some awareness of bodily functions, especially when they feed us split pea or bean soup. I think folks can keep up polite facades for a good twelve hours, but after that things slip through.

I'm all for Febreeze in bathrooms and such, but I'm also all for recognizing that none of us smells like roses. I do try to convince my husband that my gas is cute and smells lovely unlike his which originates in the bowels of hell. But, I know it is not true.

Our bodily functions keep us humble. Everybody poops and everybody stinks. Perfection does not lie in constipation or rose scented farts. Perfection, or at least Christian community, does lie in trying to live with one another in our stench as well as our fragrance.

That's why I love going on trips. Anyone can fake having their stuff together and smelling lovely for an hour, but over a long weekend, we have to learn forgiveness and trusting each other with our less lovely selves.

I'm happy to be home with my own bathroom. Don't get me wrong. But, I'm always thankful for a chance to love and be loved a bit more fully in all our fetidness.

Don't Be a Good Person

My kids are allowed to say, "shit" but they aren't allowed to say "bored." I'm sure I've shared that before, but I hate all derivatives of "boring" with a burning hate. "Shit" is just fun to say and appropriate in so many situations.

The official definition of bored is, "feeling weary because one is unoccupied or lacks interest in one's current activity." 

The cure to boredom is not more entertainment or more stuff to do, even though we invest tons of money and time into those cures. The cure to boredom is being interested and invested in one's current activity. I can stare at clouds for hours without being bored, but Super Mario gets about ten minutes of my attention before I glaze.


And even though I know the word is off limits, I find driving kids around to be one of the most boring things I do. I love spending time with my kids and that they are active, but there are times I feel like that one creepy worm thing from Star Trek is eating my brain. (I'm not a Star Trek fan because that thing still gives me nightmares.)

So, I signed up for a hand-to-hand stage combat class. See what I mean about the worm thing eating my brain.

I needed to do something interesting and frightening so I can check back into the less interesting aspects of life. The first class was last night and I learned that my body does not bounce back like it did 25 years ago in college. Little stiff and sore today.

There were several times I felt utterly ridiculous, but luckily I laugh at myself well. I loved that the teacher apologized every time he swore, which was a lot. Oh yeah, there's a pastor in the house, you better behave.

But, my favorite part was a line he kept telling us, "It is more important to be a good partner than a good person."

On stage, being a good partner is more important than being a good person because you are working together for the audience's belief. You need to act with purpose your role and expect your partner to respond appropriately. 

Being a good person is defined in my head and I think most of our culturally assimilated heads as behaving in a way people expect us to behave. Good people don't rock the boat, speak the truth if it is uncomfortable, or let their children say shit. They punch softly from a great distance. That is not believable for an audience. It also leads to sheltered, shallow relationships.

So, what makes for a good partner? We did an exercise of giving and receiving energy. Little creepy, but fascinating to feel and get into sync with another person. A good partner listens and responds appropriately. A good partner trusts that the other is not an incompetent idiot who must be carried or coddled. A good partner is loving and critical because that is the only way you grow and improve.

I wonder what the church would be like if we focused less on being good people and started figuring out how to be good partners.

Cranberry

Cranberry is not a color.

I refuse to call the new Lutheran hymnals cranberry (they're not that new but time is relative).

It is red.

I will admit that I have a streak of incorrigibility in me. I'll be the first to acknowledge sometimes I  do something just because I'm a brat. For instance, Kirt and I went on a hike this summer and he was chiding me for  my poor choice in clothing so naturally the next time he turned around I had removed the unsuitable clothes.  Luckily he couldn't arrest me, but I made my point whatever point I was trying to make.

But, I feel pretty strongly about this cranberry vs. red thing. We're not allowed to call it red because the red hymnal was just phased out four decades ago. People will get confused, but calling it cranberry eliminates all confusion. People start looking for Ocean Spray juices and bladder infections, but at least they won't dig through the basement to find the old hymnals.

It also degrades the great fruit cranberry.

Maybe that's why I hate using cranberry as a color. I love it as the amazing berry it is.

Wimps go blueberry picking. That's easy. You stand up, swat a million mosquitoes and fill your bucket in an hour.

Cranberry picking is for the tough ones. You journey out into the wet, slightly unsettling, jello-like bog after the first freeze. You lay down or kneel and search. There's only one berry per plant well hidden in the rest of bog vegetation. It takes a long time for your eyes to adjust and rarely do you walk away with a full bucket. Each one is a precious treasure.

I also love the tartness of low bush cranberries. I love the pop. I love the pucker. That's cranberry.

Calling something cranberry when it is obviously red reveals one of the great challenges for the church. Our language is so heavy with baggage from the past couple millennia we feel like we need to invent new and creative ways to express ourselves. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes it's distracting and makes me snigger.

I love language filled with memories and brokenness. It doesn't mean I won't use contemporary language, but I
blend it with the language ripe with church memories knowing they won't always be good memories nor relevant to everyone - sorry.

I love when I refer to the red book and people recite the confession or tell me their favorite hymn. It is ripe with memories for some in a way that cranberry isn't. And I don't feel nearly as ridiculous talking about something that's red as I do cranberry.

Toothbrush

Do not be alarmed if you see my toothbrush. 

There is a lot of red permanent marker on it saying things like, “MOM” and “Use and suffer”. I’m not a heartless person, but there are few things I hate more than a wet toothbrush when I am about ready to use it. Buying toothbrushes at Costco is great except nobody in our house can remember what color they are. I used to put mine in a special place, but that didn’t help so now I make threats. IT IS MY TOOTHBRUSH!

The best story I ever heard about wet toothbrushes has nothing to do with this article, but makes me laugh every time I think about it. A couple was newly married and the husband discovered his toothbrush was wet and accused his wife of using it. She told him with a clear conscience she didn’t use it, but it might have dropped in the toilet.

Okay. Back on to the toothbrush with my name and idle threats on it. I feel a wee bit guilty about my possessiveness. Sharing is caring as my mom would always say. But there are boundaries. There are things essential to our being that should not be shared or compromised.

Pastors normally stink at healthy boundaries. Along with many folks in our culture, we have a sense that we should give and give. Generosity is incredibly important and selfishness is destructive, but giving without healthy boundaries stunts the growth of the people around us. It can also lead to bitterness and emptiness in ourselves.

I bring this up because I had an interesting conversation with a man who decided to sleep in the church. I told him he was not welcome to do that. There are too many safety and boundary issues. He told me that Jesus would let him stay there. 

Here is a challenge for me as a Christian, a woman, and a pastor. People play the Jesus card and this is when keeping healthy boundaries get hard. I follow a guy who died on the cross out of love for the world so it seems like I as a Christian leader should be willing to lay down and let people walk all over me.

Hmmm. The problem is, I don’t feel close to loving people when I do that. I become resentful and angry towards them. And I do feel like I cheat them out of growing experiences by doing for them what they can and should do for themselves (that’s the basic definition of enabling). Or I create dangerous situations where the chances of someone getting hurt far exceeds the chances of successful transformation.

Jesus had boundaries. He carved out time to be by himself and pray, he called people on their destructive patterns, he grieved at losses in his life, and he stood up for himself and his integrity. His life given on the cross was not a lack of boundaries, but a self that was so secure and defined it didn’t need to meet violence with violence. The cross is his unwillingness to play the power games of the empire.

Do I think Jesus would have shared his toothbrush? No, because they didn’t have toothbrushes in first century Palestine. Do I think Jesus would have let the man stay? I don’t know. I’m not trying to be Jesus, but follow his way in this world. I also know that our church community does not have the gifts or boundaries in place for overnight guests who let themselves into our space uninvited. Do I think Jesus would have been in relationship with people in transition, the poor, and hungry? Yes I do. And we do that. Not always well, but aware that we are called to be in relationships without fixing or giving everything away people want and still maintaining the core of who we are.

I do know I’m not sharing my toothbrush, everything else is a wrestling match trying to stay faithful to the call to love and healthy boundaries.

Warmth

King David was old and advanced in years; and although they covered him with clothes, he could not get warm.So his servants said to him, "Let a young virgin be sought for my lord the king, and let her wait on the king, and be his attendant; let her lie in your bosom, so that my lord the king may be warm."So they searched for a beautiful girl throughout all the territory of Israel, and found Abishag the Shunammite, and brought her to the king.The girl was very beautiful. She became the king's attendant and served him, but the king did not know her sexually.

1 Kings 1:1-4


I told Kirt the other day that if pastoring didn't work out, I could be a bed warmer like Abishag. He did not recall the story and I didn't actually recall her name so we looked it up and laughed. He pointed out that I failed in at least one of the qualifications needed, possibly two but he wasn't going to push his luck. He also pointed out that I didn't want to be a bed warmer, I wanted one.

That's pretty true. This night shift makes for a cold bed. It takes about five blankets to make up for the furnace I'm married to, but that's probably enough details about our life together.

The story has been rolling around in my head for a couple of days now. Whenever a woman gets named in the Bible, you want to pay attention. It doesn't occur that often and something memorable and profound must have happened for her to be recalled by name.

Initially the story struck me as sweet and funny. An old man finding comfort in the arms of a young woman to keep him warm at night has a tenderness to it. I've been in nursing homes enough to know the desire for companionship in bed does not necessarily fade with years.

Then there is the horror of this story. A young, beautiful girl forced from her family to spend the night with an old man nestled in her bosom. The story gets even more horrifying because after David gives his list of revenge killings to Solomon and dies, his other son Adonijah, who should get the throne but loses to Solomon, asks Bathsheba for Abishag as a wife.

One's mind can wander all kinds of places about Abishag and Adonijah. Did they make eyes at each other? Was it part of his grab for his father's throne? Did they know and love each other? Could her scandal of sharing an old man's bed be redeemed as wife to David's son? 

It doesn't really matter because Solomon goes into a rage and has Adonijah killed. We never hear about Abishag again. Her name simply means, "the father wanders." 

Comfort and horror. There is something lovely about David finding some warmth in his old age and there is horror as the consequences of his wandering sets his sons at each other's throats. There is the horror of this young girl caught in the midst.

Like most Bible stories, I don't think there's a tidy moral. It's messy. There's comfort and there's consequences. But this week, I'm thinking of Abishag and all the young women who get caught in the midst of power games.

I also think I'll settle for an electric blanket.