Ping Pong and Jesus

I feel closest to Jesus when I play ping pong. I don't mean close like relationally, but experientially. I probably also don't mean the insults that I yell at my opponent when I am losing. Jesus did yell, but not over a game and probably not before worship when folks are milling.

Ping pong is as close as I probably ever get to being completely present in the moment. I catch glimpses when I play of what it is to respond without being self-conscious or analyzing the snot out of life. If the game is slow, then I will lose. But if it is fast, then I will return shots that are unimaginable. That's from someone who failed the hand-eye coordination test in middle school when I hit the teacher with the peg I was flipping over.

I think Jesus' perfection lies somewhere in his ability to be completely present in the moment (and completely in relationship with God). The standard image of Jesus' perfection is often an asexual, good-looking guy in white who never dribbles coffee down the front of him. If that were true, then I could use a bit of perfection in my life because I have coffee stains on the chest area of all five white shirts I own. There's a reason I stay away from white.

I'm thinking perfection has more to do with showing up where you are and responding faithfully as you need to respond. That's easier to do when you are a single guy wandering around. There's a reason Jesus' disciples left their families. It's hard to be completely present in the moment when there are meals to fix, trash to take out, and toilet paper to put on the holder because obviously no one else in the house is capable of doing this task (maybe that was a conversation at the Stage-Harvey house tonight).

But, there were some folks who encountered Jesus and headed back to their families faithfully. I like to think it is possible to be loving, forgiving and present in this life without leaving family (except maybe for a moment tonight when a lone trip to Nepal seemed pretty appealing). Being present does take commitment and practice, unless you're a kid.  I suppose that's why I love this old picture of the kids running in the lupine field. They do teach us something.

I have to practice being present and responding faithfully to what is actually going on around me, not what I want to be going on around me. As strange as it sounds, I'm much better at living in the moment when I plan my week in detail and sketch out six months ahead of time. Once I have a big picture of what needs to happen by when, I'm much better at handling surprises and showing up with my whole self.

I also have to be honest about places and situations where it is hard for me to show up with my whole self. If I am on the phone for more than fifteen minutes listening, then I have probably started looking at shoes on Sierra Trading Post. Sorry, phones are hard for me. If I am at a large church meeting for more than an hour, then I am probably in the corner eating ginger snaps and playing cribbage. I'm still listening, but only with my right ear.

I'm not trying to be Jesus; I'm just trying to figure out how to love more and yell less. I'm trying to figure out how to be completely human without missing the important stuff.

The "perfect" Jesus in movies tends to freak me out or bore me to death, but some of my best glimpses of grace have come in those perfect moments when someone shows up with their whole selves and there is a bond or experience in that moment that's bigger than the moment. I don't know how to explain it better any more than I know how to explain my ability to whomp some booty on the ping pong table when I am not even trusted with scissors. Try showing up to life with your whole self; that's better than words.

Wisdom

Sophia has said several things recently that have whirled in my brain during quiet moments. The first was when we were in Malaysia and Kirt was missing in action. It was towards the beginning of our time, because by the end we just stopped asking, "Where is dad?"

Sophia looked up at me as they waited anxiously and I waited irritably and she remarked, "I know things always seem to work out for us, but what if this time they don't?" I told her it was a great question and there will come times when things don't work out, but I was pretty confident that her father was wandering the streets reading informational signs.

Last night she came and stood near. She had a hard time sleeping the night before because she was thinking about death and so she clarified. "Mom, what bothers me about dying is that once it's over, it's over and you don't get to go back and fix things."

There is no denying the reality of death and brokenness to a pastor's kid. They see and know too much. I affirmed her thoughtfulness; I can be serious. I told her how important it is to live with love and without regrets. Love and forgiveness - there's a reason those are at the heart of Jesus' ministry.

We will have more conversations along the way. I found a great quote from one of my favorite story tellers Brian Andreas I will share with her, "There is strength that comes from knowing you will die and still refusing to love with anything less than your whole self."

We'll talk about how shit happens and will happen to us. Sophia is allowed to say shit for the same reason that she is allowed to get all the tattoos, piercings and hair colors she wants. I knew when I called her defiant as a child and she claimed that proudly and repeated it with awe, I was in trouble. We are talking about the child who wore goggles and angel wings through childhood.

But she is my whole hearted lover, my wisdom who continues to keep me awake in life with questions that cause some serious stirrings as I age.

My other favorite story by Brian Andreas is for my Sophia, "Most people don't know there are angels whose only job is to make sure you don't get too comfortable & fall asleep & miss your life." When I think of the word angel in its Greek form - the bearer of good news - it makes faith a lot more interesting. Good news in scripture isn't all about comfort, but waking us up and making us show up to life with our whole hearts.

It is only too true that once life is over, it's over and you don't get to go back and fix things.

P.S. Sophie read and approved this message.
P.P.S. www.storypeople.com

Easter Bunny

There were gaps I expected without Kirt here. Don't tell him, but the Tupperware is in utter disarray. I knew Hannah's genetic leanings when she opened the closet and let out a great sigh of disgust. If God meant plastic storage containers to be neatly stacked, then they wouldn't be such random sizes without matching lids.

I also suspected that I wouldn't change my clothes regularly. I try to quiet the voice that tells me I can wear the same thing as yesterday and nobody will notice, but the clothes are sitting there in a nice pile by my bed so I have to put them back on. There really is nothing I hate more than standing in my closet staring at all the different shades of black and brown figuring out if they go together.

But the Easter Bunny gap surprised me. I'm sorry if someone is reading this who still lives in the comfort of a large bunny hiding eggs around the yard for the ravens to eat and then seekers to find, but the Easter Bunny is Kirt. Always has been. I got a shot at tooth fairy, but lost it once I misspelled "ferry" on the return note. I'm still the one who sneaks the teeth out from under the pillow (while humming the Mission Impossible theme mind you), but that's all the more responsibility I get.

I'm a pastor. That doesn't mean I have theological issues with the symbol of fertility hiding chocolate treats; find new life where you can. It does mean that I'm really busy the weekend of Easter. I'm not whining; I love worship. Okay, I am whining because I don't love dyeing eggs, hiding them at the prime time to avoid the birds, and making up cool baskets. Those are not my gifts.

The Easter Bunny has always visited the Stage-Harvey house during nap time on Sunday, but I am normally napping during that time so it's as magical for me as the rest of the house. Maybe this is a good year to break out of the pagan rituals, but that feels a bit lame and lazy. None of the kids believe in the bunny, but they know if they say it out loud then the gig is up. Anyway it's fun to watch them navigate all the dog poop looking for eggs and it's really fun when they find one of last year's eggs with a prize still inside.

There should be greater profundity than my participation in pagan rites and the fact that I miss my partner and companion, but there isn't. I make a lousy Easter Bunny, but I'm a complete failure at the Lone Ranger. Don't get me wrong, I run a well organized household (except for the Tupperware). I am just feeling intensely aware that we all need companions. They don't need to come in the form of spouses, but we all need folks who walk with us and pick up where we struggle, or give us permission to let it go, or tell us to change our clothes.

Band

For just a moment at the band concert tonight, I regretted being so lazy in band. I hereby apologize to my parents for being such a goob about practicing, my continual competition with some guy with poofy 80's hair for last chair, and my attempt to make it an entire year without playing a note. There is a devious side of me that says if I can't excel, then I will make sure I am the worst and at least entertained.

I was never cut out to be in marching band. I might have been a decent musician, but once hand-eye coordination, rhythm, and paying attention were added to the mix, I was doomed for failure. At least it gave me the great memory of getting distracted and being on the opposite side of the field from the other two hundred band members. Thank you Mr. Swearingen for yelling my favorite defining line for life, "Stage, what are you doing?"

I regret I never learned the skill of practicing. I could work hard at school, but I've never been good at practicing skills. I sew like a bat out of hell. I garden well if Kirt does it and I pick stuff later. I can do some beading and have several projects started that will never be finished.

What I regretted for a moment at the concert tonight was discipline. I don't think it was just laziness. If I am honest with myself, then I have to admit I feared not doing something well and looking like a fool. I would rather be a fool outright than try hard and still fail.

I've learned some discipline along the way. I know I'm a lousy pastor and human being in general if I don't practice morning prayer. This will sound strange, but I'm not a naturally thoughtful or caring individual. I'm deeply compassionate and feel the suffering of others intensely, but I'll probably never remember your birthday or send flowers. Heck, I packed up two care packages for my husband before I realized I forgot to put a note in them.

The discipline of morning prayer helps me practice being present with God, hearing scripture and thinking of others. It helps me practice getting out of the way of my day and being present with the folks I will meet. I pray through my to-do list and get perspective on my priorities. It's not quite like the tedium of practicing the saxophone and I'm not convinced I'm getting any better at what I do, but the practice of prayer helps me be a bit more gracious with myself and others, a bit more willing to risk and look like a fool.

I'm excited that my girls practice their instruments. I was never going to be a concert saxophonist, and truthfully maybe I don't regret playing shadow puppets with the poofy 80's hair guy during band.

Brown Eyes

I just can't do it. I can't look into those brown eyes staring up at me, pleading to stay and refuse.

I'm not talking about the guinea pigs, even though every day the thought of what they taste like breaded and deep fried crosses my mind. It has nothing to do with hunger, but the fact that they create their body weight in poop every single day. We're not getting rid of them anytime soon, don't worry. I love them in that obligated kind of way.

I can't bring myself to get rid of my hiking boots. I'm not sure how old they are, but it must be close to a decade. My mom got me a lovely, much needed new pair I wear around the house, but I can't bring myself to wear them outside without great feelings of betrayal.

I know this is ridiculous, but I can hear them chiding me about all the streams we have crossed, cliffs we've scrambled, and roots we've navigated without twisted ankles or worse. They have been faithful through all the adventures and now that the tread is worn and gashes are deep, I am moving on?

My feet have never been easy to accommodate so perhaps it is pure practicality that drives my resistance to parting ways and experimenting with a new pair. Why is it boots wear out just when you get them worn in? Knowing myself like I do, it has nothing to do with practicalities. I'm emotionally attached to the memories of where those boots have taken me.

I've packed child after child through the woods of the Upper Peninsula, picking up beautiful  leaves in brilliant colors, gathering blueberries, and wandering through wilderness. We hiked the Chilkoot following the trail of the ancient miners. I might have gotten a little slap happy at one point and jumped from boulder to boulder pretending I was Tigress from Kung Fu Panda. Did they let me tumble? No. We've trekked up every accessible mountain around us with stories of sweat, blood, and tears. They are a part of me and that is always hard to let go. I thought duct tape might work for some spots, but I know it is time.

Hiking out to the glacier yesterday with Keith and Logan reminded me it was time. The boots I depend on weren't quite the traction or support I need. But, there was also a lovely moment as Keith and I were talking about Kirt at academy.

Keith said something like, "I think I know why you get all weepy when we go off to college or adventures, you know we'll come back different. It's kind of that way with Kirt now, isn't it?" Of course it is. All of it is exciting and as it should be, but it does feel like just when you wear something in comfortably, it changes and something new comes along.

The new hiking boots will be great and they don't smell. It's a good thing.

I know that I will get rid of the old ones, but I  need some ritual act and words to mark the transition as something sacred. I will need to mark a moment of thanksgiving and appreciation as corny as it is. I did find a lovely prayer for the disposal of Bibles that have served their time, "The pages once read, now brittle and yellowing, are now returned for renewal. May they make new paper on which truth, beauty, and joy may be known." 

I kind of like that. "The cow hide once supportive and full of adventure, now worn and tired, are now returned for renewal. May they decompose and let truth, beauty, and joy be made known in these new boots made out of some synthetic material that will probably never decompose." Maybe it loses something in translation, but it will be a few more weeks before I actually bring myself to trade so I've got time to work on it.