Death

I had a moment of silence when I heard George Michael died. I had his poster on my wall as a teenager. He wasn't Simon Le Bon but he was lovely. 

And I knew the words to "Let's Talk About Sex, Baby." Words that seemed scandalous but were so freeing. I don't know how men experienced that song, but it gave women control and voice. Intimacy is something talked about not something you're talked into or worse.

There are moments I shake my head with the new sex ed restrictions where we try to stop the knowledge and quiet the voices. If sex is not freely discussed in our homes and schools, then why would we imagine our children will find their voices when they are most needed?

But Carrie Fisher. 

I finally let my tears run. I'm embarrassed to grieve for a star like this, but she was so much more.

Carrie Fisher as my friend described her was the first of the "badass princesses." She was so strong and capable. Princess Leia was our hero in the 70s because she was a woman with a blaster and a mission. 

She was a woman with authority and grace.

I know it was a character, but Carrie Fisher was truly a strong and brave woman. Folks who figure out how to live with addictions are some of the strongest and bravest people I know. 

There weren't many women who modeled that for us as little girls in the 70s. 
We had Barbies as our norm.
Women were breaking ground in new fields of work, but that was not the norm and often fodder for jokes.

The thought of female pastors in the Lutheran Church was still scandalous and slightly ridiculous.

Princess Leia changed it all in our minds. We could live with authority and grace.

I once had a woman drop her kids off at VBS and ask me if I would have authority over a man at any time while her kids were at the church. She would be unable to have them participate if I went against that Biblical mandate. 

Yes, I have authority. And grace. It's part of the calling.

It doesn't stop the humiliation from bubbling up and biting at times; the shaming of sex and gender. But I like to imagine that Princess Leia gave us all some courage to blast our way through those times.

I swear it was a swivel

There were no Wookies. I won't complain about anything else in the new Star Wars movie because that is damning enough. 

No more critiquing.

I'm just thankful for getting to see Darth Vader enter with a hip swivel. 
Seriously. Watch him walk. 
I've been imitating it all night. 

I'm also thankful for the brilliant dialogue that makes George Lucas look like a mastermind in comparison. "Probe the shield" has given us a new euphemism to replace "taking a nap." 

Okay, the movie was not my favorite. I felt like I paid for every action scene by suffering through way too many sermons.   

But, the weird part was that the sermons seemed to ennoble a warped rebellion. 

When I took physics in high school, Mr. Bible had us write an essay on whether the "ends justify the means." I had no idea what that meant or what it had to do with physics so I wrote a pathetic piece regarding Nancy Reagan's "Just Say No" campaign. I'm sorry Mr. Bible. I'm still not sure how it is related to physics.

Does a noble goal justify destructive or less than noble methods? 

Do you fight for the idea of peace?

There is one scene in the movie and I'm not going to get this totally right, but part of the rebel crew is ready to go into battle and the speech goes something like, 
"We've all done horrible things in the name of the rebellion and if it ends with surrender how will we live with ourselves?" 

I suppose I would have enjoyed the movie more if they had actually wrestled with that dilemma more, but probably not. I just like the fight scenes anyway. 

Do the ends justify the means? It's worth the wrestling.

There are several guiding principles that I hold onto in the midst of rebelling:

Dostoevsky's quote, "The more I love humanity in general, the less I love man in particular." Beware of self-righteous ends that leave us despising and destroying the people around us.

St. Paul's quote, "Faith, hope and love abide, but the greatest of these is love." Rebellions are built on hope, but so is terrorism. 

Dietrich Bonhoeffer's, "We must be ready to allow ourselves to be interrupted by God.” Pay attention. Listen. Hold courage and humility in tension.

Baby Jesus

I'm not a huge Christmas fan. I love Christmas and I love Jesus, but right now I'm thinking about dancing naked in the street around a great bonfire. It's solstice tomorrow and I have no idea how people celebrate, but it makes me want to dance and burn something. I'm thrilled that the light will return and I will be able to see the smiles on my chickens' faces without a flashlight.

I do love Christmas,

but it tends to be filled with anxiety and nostalgia so I find myself treading gently. This is not a natural gift of mine and the effort is exhausting at times.

I have lovely moments:

Curling up by the tree on Christmas Eve with my love when all the worships are done, presents are wrapped, and children are tucked in their beds.

Celebrating Jesus' birth with deep fried goodness as we fondue everything in the house with beer batter. This is how we do all birthdays and major holidays.

Opening presents, talking with family, worshiping, singing Silent Night . . . it's all lovely.

One of my weird favorite moments every year is baby Jesus. 

I've never had a real live baby Jesus, because that is pure zaniness. I'm all about taking risks as congregations, but that one sends shivers. We all hold our breath when the acolytes light the Advent wreath hoping they don't burn down the church. Hand-eye coordination as well as rhythm tend to be challenging for Lutherans.

So we use dolls. 

Ragged, well-loved, often naked dolls.

I swear it's the same doll every year because they always look identical. 

It tends to be the doll found in the frantic search after the frantic phone call realizing we don't have baby Jesus. It is never the favorite doll. That's too much to ask out of a child, but a doll who gets pulled out of the bottom of the toy box often stripped. The doll whose hair has been cut and one eye closes when you lay them down, but one is broken and always stares at you knowingly.

Dolls still creep me out, and baby Jesus is not exception.

I suppose that's what I love so much. We sentimentalize Christmas into sweetness and peace, when it is the story of raw love entering a terrifying world. Or terrifying love entering into a raw world.

Baby Jesus stripped, staring, hair cut wildly dangled by a distracted Mary and then crushed in her sudden remembrance and love. 

Baby Jesus the star and the forgotten one in the pageant.

Baby Jesus naked and terrifying. 

The kids in bathrobes come and go clinging to and dangling the savior forgetfully. I love all those angels, shepherds, animals, and stars, but I tend to hear the mystery of God made flesh most loudly in the ragged, well-loved, naked doll. 

Fullness

I thought of whining about the cold on our hike yesterday, but then I decided to give thanks I don't collect snowballs on my butt hair. Watching the poor dog try to deal with the collection of snowballs on her backside was slightly painful, especially when she tried to lick them.

So, I'm thankful my fingers and face were chilled and snowballs did not accumulate anywhere on my body.

I'm also thankful for Billy Collins this morning who spoke words of grace much louder than the prophet Isaiah. 

Love by Billy Collins

The boy at the far end of the train car
kept looking behind him
as if her were afraid or expecting someone

and then she appeared in the glass door
of the forward car and he rose
and opened the door and let her in

and she entered the car carrying
a large black case
in the unmistakable shape of a cello.

She looked like an angel with a high forehead
and somber eyes and her hair
was tied up behind her neck with a black bow.

And because of all that,
he seemed a little awkward
in his happiness to see her,

whereas she was simply there,
perfectly existing as a creature
with a soft face who played the cello.

And the reason I am writing this
on the back of a manila envelope
now that they have left the train together

is to tell you that when she turned
to lift the large, delicate cello
onto the overhead rack,

I saw him looking up at her
and what she was doing
the way the eyes of saints are painted

when they are looking up at God
when he is doing something remarkable,
something that identifies him as God.

I was struck yesterday climbing through the meadows with my husband, realizing it was too cold for hanky panky in the snow, that I love being alive. It is enough to bask in the beauty and fullness of life. I caught myself looking at him, the sparkling meadow, the goofy dog with total adoration. 

One of the gifts of my faith, my life, is that I get to live out of a place of abundance. It doesn't mean there aren't dark and desperate places. Sometimes I move into unhealthy busyness and neediness, but for the most part I get to live out of a place where the love of others and the beauty around me fills me up and pours into the people and places I encounter. 

I used to weep every time I read the Giving Tree. I actually hate that book about the tree who cuts herself down to the stump giving to the selfish boy. It is enabling at its worse. Many years later, Silverstein wrote The Missing Piece Meets the Big O. I don't know if he or someone he loved went through rehab during that time, but this book is about finding relationships not as a means to complete oneself or obliterate oneself, but as companionship for the journey. 

Delighting in another seems essential to love, but we so often distort our relationships as a means to fix ourselves or others. When we look to another for what we lack in ourselves or try to fill an other's needs, we often end up as a stump.

This last part of Collins' poem is what I catch myself doing at my best moments of ministry and living:

I saw him looking up at her
and what she was doing
the way the eyes of saints are painted

when they are looking up at God
when he is doing something remarkable,
something that identifies him as God.

I am closest to faithfulness when I watch with those eyes filled with adoration.

• Lying on the floor with the kids at church while they play with the Little People manger giggling hysterically when we put the cow where the angel belongs.
• Watching the boy who drives me a little zany play piano while the woman who can't remember why I'm here dances around the room.
• The acolytes bowing way too many times just to make sure they get it right
• The song of the congregation continuing without accompaniment while the pianist participates in communion
• The sun shining through the crystallized snow
• My daughters wrapping their arms tightly around me during the sharing of the peace
• Writing Christmas cards with an electric blanket and glass of wine seeing all those faces of loved ones who've been delightful companions.

Sometimes I think the church and each of us would be better off if we stopped talking so much and we just looked. If we allowed the delight and wonder of the remarkable break into our lives and we basked in the fullness of the love and beauty around us. 

Fetal position

I'm writing quickly because it's cold. I know you're tempted to remind me that I live in Alaska so naturally it's cold. 

But I live in the rainforest part of Alaska where it tends to be mild. I'm sorry Fairbanks and even sorrier Barrow, I'm cold at ten above.

So, my husband is now warming up the bed and if I wait about fifteen more minutes, then it will be cozy and I won't scream and swear when I get in. I'll cuddle up with him and chat until it is serious sleep time.

Then, I will curl up in fetal position with my feet outside the covers. No, it's not easy, but I manage it every night.

I fall asleep in fetal position and I'm sure there are studies about people who insist on sleeping like a potato bug, but it's how I'm wired. 

I read once of a culture, which I can't remember, that buried their dead in fetal position. I'm sure I could look it up, but I like the idea much better than flat in a box, burned in an oven or even worse made into a paperweight. 

I'm thinking about fetal position, sleeping and dying, because it's Advent. As the rest of culture celebrates Christmas, happiness and buying lots of stuff, the church puts on darkness, stories of endings, and the profound hope of something new rising. 

It's hard to be funny in Advent and my sermons are never the sharpest, but I'm okay curling up in the dark in fetal position to wait. 

Purple socks

I'm wearing purple socks today, which instantly makes me think of Donny Osmond. 

I wore purple socks when I was a kid and then walked around the house singing, "I'm a little bit country, I'm a little bit rock and roll." 

Purple socks also makes me think about my purple underwear with a cow and poem on them, 
I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one,
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I’d rather see than be one!

I don't still have the underwear, but I loved that poem.

Thinking about Donny Osmond and purple socks and cows also makes me think about the Duke brothers. 

Here are some of the divisions in my life growing up:

           Luke Duke vs. Bo Duke
           Ponch vs. Jon
           Magnum PI vs. MacGyver (Okay, you actually could choose both without TV trauma)

I don't remember placing people into many categories outside of TV culture. That was a pretty huge part of the 70s and 80s without an overwhelming amount of choices so it was easy to put yourself and others into appropriate subcultures.

Here's the phenomena that I see in our current culture. 

We have way too many choices. I don't know how folks manage the number of radio stations down south where you can run through the dial for hours and most of it ends up sounding like the same twenty songs. We have a billion choices and sometimes they are overwhelming, exhausting, and superfluous.

We divide our choices into two opposing options. We lump stuff into two major categories and turn life into black or white, right or wrong, my way vs. your way to try and make choices easier. It's not silly divisions like TV, but major dividing walls that leave us unable to live in the same reality let alone find common ground.

It might be time that we get serious about moving out of either/or thinking and engage a wider range of quality options without a glut of exhausting choices around minutia. 

I know it's true in the church. I'd love to get out of the consumer culture of church where the goal is to find one to suit your own desires and there's a church on every corner competing. There are so many churches to choose from we tidy it up by pitting evangelical/conservative churches vs. mainline/liberal churches. Those are ridiculous categories and we end up mocking God's vision of shalom.

I think it is also true in politics. It is time to move beyond a two party system. I appreciate what John Adams wrote a long honking time ago, 

There is nothing which I dread so much as a division of the republic into two great parties, each arranged under its leader, and concerting measures in opposition to each other. This, in my humble apprehension, is to be dreaded as the greatest political evil under our Constitution.” 
― John Adams, The Works Of John Adams, Second President Of The United States

We don't divide neatly into "country vs. rock n roll." That's a lazy way to think through complexity. Donny and Marie could get along because they looked for a third way that honored both their ways. 

Oh Alice, see what happens when you get me purple socks:)

Dark

It slips my mind how dark night can be.

Seriously, we have excessive light for a quarter of the year and then suddenly we are hurled into utter darkness. 

Beautiful sunset at 3 pm. 

Pretty soon I'll adjust and it won't matter. But now I'm having some challenges.

1. Sleeping. Since it gets dark by 4 pm, I'm ready for bed by 8 pm. It just feels like the day should be over.

2. Driving. You can't really see because we don't invest in street lights and there's fun black ice this time of year.

3. Eating. In the summer I forget to make dinner because it's light for so long. This time of year I'm ready to eat dinner at 5 pm. I just need someone to get it made by then.

4. Leaving the house. It's easy to hunker and hibernate. Sophie and I have quite the string of cribbage games going.

Other than those minor challenges, we adjust and try to maintain healthy rituals.

It's hard to sneak a walk in while it's still light so I find myself walking the dog in the dark quite often. On a normal cloudy day, the lights of the city are trapped and it's relatively light out. We've had a stretch of clear days so I'm freezing my booty off and it gets really dark. And I mean dark. And I don't believe in flashlights; they ruin your night vision.

On Sunday night,  I went to the local campground in the pitch dark to walk the dog. It was dark and no one was around. When I say dark, I mean barely see the ground kind of dark. I sat in the car making my list of why I should go back home:
1. It's dark
2. It's cold
3. I'm slightly terrified of being attacked either by a pack of wolves or the monster who lives under the ice in the lake and whispers to me as I walk by. Rationality is not my strong suit; imagination is. 

I have a great coping skill when the voices in my head start telling me not to do something. I do whatever it is they are trying to talk me out of to spite them. 

If spite isn't a good reason to face discomfort and fear, then learning to be brave should be.

I don't think courage comes naturally so I try to do things that make me uncomfortable if not terrified. If I can talk down my voices making excuses for inaction and comfort in little things, then maybe I can stand up to those voices in true tests of courage. 

Like the fight at the middle school today. It was uncomfortable and scary to intervene, but necessary so I did. I started a list of all the reasons I shouldn't get involved, which obviously made me get out of my car and get involved.

We often confess in the church, "The light shines in the darkness" but if you never hang out in the dark how do you know?

Underwear

Is hate speech ever helpful? 

The answer is probably not, but it sure is tempting.

There are times that being sensitive to everyone's feelings is exhausting. Sometimes I want to wear a sign that says, "I'm unedited, but I believe you are emotionally mature enough to respond appropriately so please forgive me and don't stew." 

I realize this would be a large sign and kind of weird, but I do tend to say or ask what I'm thinking or wondering and I trust people to either holler at me for being inappropriate or tell me what they are honestly thinking. 

I don't often think hateful things, just awkward things. That worries me a little. It makes me think I'm out of touch with other people's lives and pain. 

I hated and spoke loudly about that hate when I did work against the death penalty. The rage of feeling so powerless in the face of an unjust system made me throw fits. Having to sit quietly in church beside the guy who sent us death threats and wrote nasty letters to the editor made me want to scream. And I probably should have. There is justified hatred towards injustice, and there is justified  rage that comes from feeling so impotent in the face of it.

I hated when I would argue with someone about the injustice surrounding the number of poor people of color on death row who were defended by real estate lawyers. Folks would normally end the argument by saying, "You believe what you want and I'll believe what I want; we'll agree to disagree."

Hell no!

It's easy to be conciliatory when you have the power and the systems work to keep you in power. So what is left when you don't have power and you see injustice?

If not hate speech, then at least inflammatory speech. You need something to get people's attention and make them uncomfortable enough to consider a different point of view. 

I think of the prophet Jeremiah in the Bible hiding his underwear in a rock for many days and then pulling it out to parade around town saying,

Sophie with a bag on her head because I
couldn't find the
 underwear on her head one.

"Thus says the LORD: I am about to fill all the inhabitants of this land — the kings who sit on David's throne, the priests, the prophets, and all the inhabitants of Jerusalem — with drunkenness. And I will dash them one against another, parents and children together, says the LORD. I will not pity or spare or have compassion when I destroy them." (Jeremiah 13).

Parading ruined underwear around with a warning of God's destruction sounds like street theater to me. It sounds like the way to shock or jolt folks into a new way of seeing and hearing those without a voice.

That doesn't condone hate speech and it is never appropriate for those who have power, but I do understand the need for inflammatory speech so the comfortable might wake up.

I also get that I follow a savior whose greatest act of street theater was pouring out life and love on a cross instead of vengeance and hate. Instead of playing the power games, the just vs. unjust, he opened his arms to all. "Forgive them for they don't know what they're doing" (Luke 23:34). 

So for those who have power right now please leave some space and grace for those who feel crushed not only by the election, but by every look of disdain and suspicion they have to navigate through each day. Maybe if we did some serious listening to each other, we could have fewer ruined underwear parades.

Sunglasses

My husband has gotten disgruntled a couple of times because I keep getting our sunglasses confused. They look the same to me in my world, which is probably revealing about how cheap my world is. 

Sunglass confusion isn't normally an issue since we don't see the sun regularly, but we're on vacation.

I bought new awesome sunglasses for only three dollars. Kirt got some Oakley's for his birthday. I have deduced that his cost more than three dollars.

Don't ever buy me expensive sunglasses. I break and lose them on a regular basis so the guilt and responsibility would kill me.

A bit like wedding rings. 

I've gone through four of them, but I found number three again in the potato patch so it doesn't really count.

I'm not a diamond girl. Besides all the ethical baggage around diamonds, I'm afraid Kirt would become bitter and hateful every time I lose them so twenty dollar bands are perfectly dandy.

I lost one in the cranberry bog many years ago. That was my favorite one. I learned the important lesson that cold hands in mucky water does not bode well for wedding rings. 

Number two was lost in a grocery store when I was telling a story with hand motions. 

Number three was in the potato patch but later recovered. 

Number four is somewhere in a drawer but it's really tight so I don't wear it unless I need to have something on my finger because I've lost number three again.

Here's my challenge. I'm a cheap German and a little scattered about where I place things. There are times I think I could live happily as a hermit in a cave without stuff to lose. Shopping does not bring me great joy and I hate feeling obligated to spend money as a way of showing affection. 

I'm willing to spend money if it is:
1. An experience
2. Good food
3. Outdoor equipment
4. Something I know will bring delight to someone I love
5. Sweaters or socks
6. Books

One of the great gifts of living in Juneau is that it is not convenient to eat out on a regular basis or shop on a regular basis. It's much easier to wrap your life around other elements of being. 

The temptation to eat out and buy stuff is much harder to resist when it is in your face every moment of every day. I knew I was in trouble when I picked up one of those creepy cats with moving eyes and arms to see how much it was. It never occurred to me to want something like that until I saw it was on sale. That was my cue to go sit outside.

And that's my cure when I feel the consumer bug start to eat me alive. 
I go outside. 
I close my eyes. 
If I can't ground myself in prayer and the eternal, I at least try to do a reality check and think of how much work and exercise it will take to pay off and burn off this trip. 

That's really it. How we vote has power, but how we spend our money probably has more. It's not like there's a perfect or pure way to use our money, but there is a mindfulness and awareness that's helpful. Some things are truly worth more.

I'm not sold on the thought that sunglasses are one of those things, especially since I normally end up layering them over my regular glasses. My kids tell me I look like a rock star when I do that Oakley's or not.

National Anthem

I  L-O-V-E  baseball. 

I'm so blessed to get to watch the entire battle between the Indians and Cubs, even if it involved a seven hour delay in the Seattle airport. Four of those hours were spent watching baseball so it wasn't so bad. We'll see how things turn out with the game tonight.

6 reasons baseball rules. 

1. I can process all that is going on without too much effort
2. The interactions between players is almost as much fun as the sport
3. I've enjoyed the wide display of gum chewing and sunflower seed spitting. Elijah gave us the helpful hint that it's best not to chew gum and sunflowers seeds at the same time.
4. Pitching is an artistic performance.
5. It's not a contact sport so each player models healthy family systems where they play their part without getting enmeshed in other's drama.
6. There is a child-like pleasure in the game that can be seen in the faces of many players.

One of the great things about baseball is the singing of Take Me Out to the Ballgame. The goal of singing this song is for everyone to sing along and encourage the players and crowd. It nearly brings tears to my eyes because you can feel the unity of the stadium in the solidarity of song. They don't necessarily use professionals to lead the singing because it's about the crowd not the leader.

There is something about being part of the spirit of a crowd that helps one understand the Holy Spirit. It is being part of something greater than yourself but which encompasses one self. Sorry, that's theology; we're talking baseball.

I grieve what we have done with the National Anthem. I'm not opposed to all the lovely performers who sing their little hearts out to great applause, except that's not the point of the National Anthem. 

IT'S OUR NATIONAL SONG. 

There's only a bit of irony that we've handed our national song over to soloists. The country that sings together stays together and we are definitely struggling with our national song.

Time for baseball. 

P.S. I had to include a picture climbing trees because we also miss that in Alaska. How do people remain on the ground with so many amazing trees to climb?

Waves

I hiked out to Lena Point yesterday. It is what we like to call an Auntie Whit hike: short with big pay off. 

Lena Point trail ends at a bluff where you can watch sea lions, whales and beautiful scenery. I'm borrowing the following detailed information from the Juneau Empire, because details evade me.

There are dramatic views south to Admiralty Island and north to the snowy Chilkat Mountains.

In the early morning hours of Sept. 7, 1952, the 352-foot ship Princess Kathleen sailed into the rocks off Lena Point, going 9 knots. All 307 passengers and 80 crew members managed to climb ashore. The next afternoon, the ship slid stern-first off the rocks. She now lies on her port side, with the bow only 45 feet below the surface and the stern about 145 feet.

Dramatic views and a shipwreck. It doesn't get much better than that on a Sunday afternoon hike. But the thing I loved were the waves. The wind was whipping and the waves were crashing so wildly they splashed me standing on the cliff. I'd tell you how high that is to truly impress, but distances also evade me.

So, I'm standing there with the wind whipping and the waves crashing surrounded by dramatic beauty and destruction. It was enthralling and terrifying all at the same time. I wanted to remain in that moment with the chilly salt water and wind knocking the breath out of me, communing with the wreckage of the Princess Kathleen and the splendor of snow cap mountains, but I had to pee and strong winds and peeing do not go well together.

Naturally in the moment, I was thinking of Rudolph Ottos' description of the holy, "Mysterium tremendum et fascinans" That's the only Latin I know, but it sounds more impressive than the "tremendous and fascinating mystery." 

The holy is something that is terrifying and captivating, overwhelming and alluring, tremendous and fascinating. The holy is something we cannot explain or control, but it draws us in and scares the snot out of us.

I was recently thinking about why I'm a pastor. Other people might wonder this on a regular basis. I'm not particularly well behaved, or preachy, or drop Jesus' name into every conversation. I'm unsure of most things and there are times the Church makes me want to scream, but I am called and find great meaning as a pastor. 

Sometimes I feel like the main thing I get to do is create spaces and experiences where folks are open to bumping into the holy.  The church is at her best when folks are drawn into a mystery loved as they are and willing to risk ventures of which we cannot see the ending, by paths as yet untrodden, through perils unknown. 

The last part is one of my favorite prayers from morning prayer. The rest of it goes, "Give us faith to go out with good courage, not knowing where we go, but only that your hand is leading us and your love supporting us; through Jesus Christ our Lord." 

Misery Meter

We've had some challenging family adventures. I'm all about shaping resilient children so we have slogged, sweated, and sometimes wept our way through some difficult trips. It's just kind of expected so we're all a little disappointed when things are comfortable and easy.

Misery by armpit

I'm recovering from the Sr. High overnighter at John Muir cabin. That means I'm currently on the couch with a glass of wine and the dog. Overnighters take a toll.

Eleven of us headed up in the fresh snowfall that ranged from six inches to a foot and we headed down in sideways rain. There was some grumbling amidst the teens about this being rough. 

Photos courtesy of Cameron Marx

Hannah and I ranked it as a .25 on the Stage-Harvery Misery Meter. Finding our way up with some serious post holing and falling through snow so our boots were caught in muck started to get tedious so it did make it on the meter.

But we've experienced worst. 


I started to tell my little pack of teens stories of Stage-Harvey miseries as we were working our way up to the cabin. Most of them included a part where one of us sat down and refused to keep going.

They were all incredibly thankful not to be in our family, but finding motivation even in the midst of misery is a vital skill in life. There was one point when our gaggle in the back was contemplating snow caves for the night because they didn't want to go any further. 

So, I bribed them with food. If they made it through this patch of woods, then they could have trail mix. I used to carry candy for Elijah for this kind of situation. Just make it through this gnarly part and I'll give you something to eat. 

One young woman commented that she felt like she could keep going now that she'd consumed some chocolate.

The kids made me laugh so hard once we got to the cabin and they were dry and fed. Suddenly they found the energy to play, run around, and even be thankful for the experience.

One of my favorite Bible stories is Elijah under the broom tree. He is miserable, his life is overwhelming, so he curls up under a broom tree and swears to God he is ready to die. So God sends an angel to bring Elijah food. 

Seriously, God's words of comfort through this angel is "Get up and eat." Elijah eats and drinks and then curls up under the tree to die. Again, the angel shakes him, gives him food and says, "Get up and eat for the journey is too much for you." No duh. That's why he wanted to curl up and die.

There are no false promises that it gets easier, God doesn't tell Elijah he's got this, and God doesn't deny Elijah's misery or the difficulty of the task. Get up, have some food and keep going. 

Some of life sucks. There's no way around it and you don't get to curl up on the side of the trail and stay the night. Get up, have something to eat and keep going. We told some great stories, goofy riddles and played games to get through some of the hard parts, but sometimes you just have to eat a little something, put your head down and keep moving forward.

This morning when we looked out the cabin window, it was raining sideways. It looked and felt miserable. Hannah's quip was, "Now this looks like a Stage-Harvey adventure." 

Zootopia

I might have been the only person who cried through the movie Zootopia. I sat in the theater watching this story about a female bunny trying to find her way into her calling in the midst of a masculine world and I was weeping. My heart hurt in a way it hadn't in a long time as I thought through the past 18 years in ministry where I have been disinvited or ignored at best, belittled and preached to at worst. The lecture is the worst. But I have always had to prove myself capable.

I might also have been the only person who screamed during the movie. Welcome to my life.

It wasn't until I watched Michelle Obama's speech tonight with my daughter that I felt the tears well up again. 

I don't want my daughter to have her ass grabbed at work and dismiss it because it's a manager and everyone laughs it off. 

I don't want her to go on trips with a bunch of pastors and priests and learn to stay with a buddy in the hallway so the guys don't trap you and try to get a good feel. 

I don't want to whisper a good idea in a man's ear because I know he'll get heard in a way I won't.

I've adopted so many different techniques through my years in a man's world, and most of them are dismissive and demeaning to me.

And I think I'm tired of it. It really is too much to be asked to dismiss on a national scale what I've been forced to laugh off or ignore for a good chunk of life. 

I talk pretty openly with my kids about assault and boundaries. Hannah's been traveling lots with volleyball and they stay in host homes. Sometimes I know too much about humanity and what we are capable of doing, especially to those we think will remain quiet  so I teach them to yell and swear. 

I worked with Hannah to point with purpose and say, "*%#$@ Stop It! That's inappropriate." No one gets to touch you without your permission and if someone is making you feel icky then tell them to %$&* off and get out of the situation.

Men cannot do anything to you they want. 
It doesn't matter how much power or money they have. 
We are not owned. We are not less important. We will not be dismissed.

And if a man wants to call me any kind of slang term for a vagina, that's fine with me. I'll carry those names proudly because I've brought three kids into this world and I know just how flexible and strong vaginas are.  

Glaciers

Least favorite quotes as a pastor:

"Sorry Pastor, we're out of pie." 

"Pastor, the toilet is clogged."

"Look at this incision for my hernia surgery."

"I'm sorry I haven't been to church for a long time." 

"My kid doesn't go to church, but she is really nice." 

I have my reasons for cringing at all of them and most of the time I'm happy to speak up or make gagging sounds. It's the last one that I've never figured out the right way to respond.

I see absolutely no correlation between being nice and going to church. The super nice people are the ones I trust the least in church. I always imagine they're hiding bodies in their freezers and the niceness is just a facade so I don't go looking in their freezers.

Sometimes I think about telling people there are actually lots of assholes in church so if she really is nice she might want to stay away. 

Church isn't about becoming better people; it's about becoming people who live in community.

Church has something to do with figuring out how to live as the body of Christ so we need all kinds. We are one body and the goal is not to achieve niceness, but some sense of real community:

• knowing each other in our messes and gifts
• confessing when we've hurt others 
• forgiving what stands in the way of relationship
• being honest about our limits and gifts
• taking risks
• offering hospitality and compassion
• having boundaries
• laughing and crying together
• opening our tables
• taking turns unclogging toilets and taking out the trash

Maybe I just don't want my faith to be about niceness because I find my nice moments to be my least authentic and often the ones that stir some resentment. They are the moments when I put on a mask and create some distance. 

Maybe it's because being nice makes me feel a bit like a doormat where I forget to be alive and try to always care and tend for others.

I had a long list of "shoulds" today. I suppose that's different than being nice but they are wound up together in my mind. I've learned that I cannot be compassionate and loving if I don't take at least four to five hours and wander the woods on my day off. It's hard to check out for that big of a chunk of time, but I have to. 

Today I got to experience a beautiful day and place with one of my good friends. We got to be the church knowing, confessing, and laughing. It was a kingdom moment and I might have missed it because I was thinking about what I should do. 

You can tell me your kid doesn't go to church, but please follow up by telling me where they or you find meaningful community, where do they find places to be themselves confessing and forgiving, loving and being loved? I'm not sure it always happens in our churches, but if it's not happening anywhere in your life then I don't care how nice you are, it sure sounds like hell to me.

Ravens

I don't feel very fun in the fall. I've moved into the earnest, somewhat stressed, not enough Vitamin D mode. 

Except at dinner last night when I spit smoothie. My children like to mock my cooking concoctions sometimes. I will always be a cheap German who tries to use everything until it is gone, unless I can leave a tiny bit in the bag so somewhere else has to throw it away.

So we had halibut on Sunday night. But I got distracted chasing chickens out of the neighbor's yard and overcooked it a minute. Here's the thing about halibut. If you overcook it for a minute, it turns into this never-ending chew experience. Nothing some special sauce and cheese couldn't fix, but there were some leftovers.

I couldn't just warm it up as is for Monday night or they still would be chewing so naturally I made it into chowder. And maybe I threatened that if it didn't all get eaten, it would reappear on Tuesday night as casserole. My sweet Hannah asked if it would be soggy bread, chewy halibut with cheese on top casserole. Turd. They ate it all and made me laugh hard.

But that has nothing to do with ravens, except there is a paper raven taped to my window that simultaneously makes me laugh and creeps me out. It's on my office windows at church so the whole time I'm trying to focus on Jesus I hear, 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary ... 

It's not easy trying to think of something inspirational when the tapping, tapping of death is right there. 

And it is. This fall has been a difficult one for Juneau with way too many tragic deaths.

But it also makes me laugh. Becky taped them on the office windows because we have a mountain ash tree in the front of church. If you are unfamiliar with mountain ash trees, you should get one for your yard. Actually, come dig the one up from the church and put it in your yard.

The berries are edible and messy all over the sidewalk, but they also ferment and the robins who love eating them get drunk. 
Seriously drunk. 
And fly into our windows. 
It's horrible. Except when it's slightly amusing watching them behave erratically. 

So we remind them of imminent death if they don't change their ways or at least where the window is they should avoid.  

Such is the nature of fall.