Temporary

Halloween stresses me out a little. I struggle putting clothes together for a normal day; I don't have the creativity or skill to put a costume together.

I was telling the girls about my hardest college class - costume design. We had to draw people and match clothes. 

My nightmare.

Keith Belli was our professor. He made the mistake of revealing to us that he hated The Gambler so we sang it every chance we got. He had so much patience and somehow I made it through with lots of tears and an A. Never underestimate the power of pity.

I got to visit a dear friend from college during my whirlwind trip outside (that's what we call the world outside Alaska). He made it possible for me to watch Death of a Salesman at Ford's Theater. I almost balked because I imagined the play had to be dated. Arthur Miller wrote it in 1949 about the collapse of the American Dream.

It's not dated; I wept through it. I should have brought tissues, because snot on sleeves is unacceptable at Ford's.

It's still a powerful commentary on the things we hang our lives and hopes on. One moment that stuck out so poignantly was Willy Loman saying, "I feel kind of temporary about myself." 

Thankfully, I had a dark yard and lots of time when I was in the sixth grade to lie there and stare at the vastness of the stars. Those were my crisis and calming moments. The vastness made me critically aware of my temporality. It cured me of any illusions of grandeur; there is no proving oneself worthy in the face of such enormity.

In some ways, I think of those nights staring at the stars as my baptism. That's when I died to any thought my story was central and realized I was part of a much greater narrative. My choices have significance and consequences. The hurt and joy I bring do ripple throughout eternity, but the universe does not revolve around me. 

Willy Loman's response to feeling temporary is standard American: buy stuff,
worship your kids,
isolate,
pick fights,
exaggerate your significance,
bully those with less to make yourself feel greater, 
and finally despair. 

My tears matched those of the father and son in front of me so I didn't feel so alone grieving this life we fall into so easily.

The gift of theater is letting us step back and see ourselves. We get to watch our stories, weep, laugh, wipe snot on our sleeves, and walk out a little more aware of how temporary we are in the vastness.

Tom Petty

“But, how did you get here?” 

This was the question the sweet twenty something kept asking my friend Lance and I at the bar at 1:00 am in Baltimore. He just couldn’t wrap his head around how two pastors, one from Alaska and one from Pennsylvania, could be in his neighborhood bar heckling the singer for Tom Petty songs.

We told him how I flew in and Lance drove down to have some time to catch up.

"But, how did you get here?" 

"Well, the place we ate dinner was closing at midnight and we weren’t done painting the town puce so we walked two doors down because we were promised live music and the musician promised Tom Petty songs, which never happened."

"But, how did you get here?"

He really wasn’t letting it go. Finally Lance made up a ridiculous story that made us giggle for a long time.

But, “here” was an unpredictable place to be.

We met as young pastors fourteen years ago as part of a Lilly Endowment gig to retain pastors and we’ve walked with each other through secrets, sorrows, and silliness I rarely get to explore. 

How did you get here? I’m not going to whine about being a pastor, but there are times that I carry responsibilities and secrets that get heavy. There are times I forget to delight and laugh so hard that my stomach hurts the next day.  I get wrapped in the drama of  the world and forget to be here.

And here is a good place to be. Tending friendships, confessing struggles, playing with theology, and laughing are good places to be. When I fret about the world, I admit that I can’t fix it all, but I can rebel against the increasing division and isolation by digging deeply into meaningful relationships.

So if you are ever at 1919 in Baltimore and a sweet twenty something shows up at 1 in the morning with friend chicken and potato wedges and asks you how you got there, just tell him that Lance and Tari sent you.

Umbrellas

Let me begin by saying how thankful we are in Juneau for tourists. It is a gift to have guests and show off the land we love. Thank you for visiting. 

And now two confessions:
1. We are always a bit relieved when October rolls around and the ships stop coming. It's like after company leaves and our entire town puts on pajamas to lounge on the sofa and drink wine. I personally appreciate the return of quiet. There were no helicopters, crowds, or float planes when I hiked today to disrupt the melody of the water and wind.

2. If you visit Juneau and carry an umbrella or wear a poncho, then we point and laugh. I'm sorry.  I don't know why this is true, but those things seem appropriate for Disney not a rain forest. An umbrella is a sure sign that you're not from here because people who live with 285 days of precipitation know how to handle rain.


Those of us who live here wear whatever and get wet. Like idiots. Or locals. However you want to cut that one.

I've given into the Juneau pressure to fit in. I'm not sure if it is self-consciousness, pride, or seeking acceptance, but I just stood in the pouring rain with lots of other parents at a cross country meet without a rain coat, umbrella, or poncho. It's like defying the wet of the rain. 

We live with so much rain, we don't need any protection; we're above it. 

Except we're not; I was cold and wet. 

The web of self-consciousness, trying to fit in, and pride can tangle me into some stupid choices. I'm old enough to know this. There have been too many opportunities I've passed up because I thought I might look ridiculous or get teased.

So, I've started carrying an umbrella on Sundays. I always walk to church on Sunday morning regardless of weather and one Sunday I was wrapping my backpack so it didn't get wet and putting on all my rain gear because I didn't want to show up to church all wet, when it finally hit me that I could use one of the myriad of umbrellas my parents have either brought or purchased when they visit. 

I carried an umbrella while walking on a busy street. 

People did point and laugh. I took some heckling, but I realized two things:
1. I stayed dry with less effort

2. Umbrellas make me happy. I sang Singing in the Rain and Mary Poppins' songs the whole way. The pointing and laughing might be related to that, too.

This past Sunday was a little too windy for an umbrella and I started thinking how amazing a transparent poncho would be (I don't know why transparent, they just seem a little cooler), but I'm not quite self-confident enough to walk down the street in a transparent poncho yet.

National Anthem

I heard the news. I read the news. I'm thankful I don't watch news because I can't take anymore. The written descriptions of Las Vegas are enough.

I had to step away and pull out the Juneau Empire whose main story was about the Juneau man who can tie cherry stems with his tongue. I drank my coffee, talked to my chickens, dressed all in black (I'm not sure Johnny Cash would appreciate the glazed donut streak on my black pants, but I still carried a "bit of darkness on my back") and I headed out to wander the woods.


And rant.

I needed to rant. To get out all the things I'm so sure are wrong with our world and who's to blame out of my head. I ranted to the dog and ravens. My beloved children have taught me the ineffectiveness of ranting to people. Ranting about putting laundry away or unpacking backpacks is nearly as effective as bashing my head against the wall. I got it out of my system; I realized I don't have any amazing answers or good people to blame. Then I dug through my brain for some kind of soothing balm.

I landed on Tuesday night's national anthem. Tuesday night was a huge volleyball game with the stands full of Thunder Mountain and Juneau Douglas football players, friends, parents, and fans. The air was already electric with the cross town rivalry. 


I know and love the young woman who stepped out to sing the national anthem to this crowd. She blanked. She started the anthem twice and blanked. Then something lovely happened. She started it a third time and we all sang. The football players, friends, parents, and even the volleyball players sang what words they knew to the tune they could carry and we lifted the song of our nation when it faltered.

I'm not a fan of national anthem performances so this was exactly what the anthem should be. We all risked raising our voices the best we could. Even with our differences, we offered what we had and the song filled the space and I saw more than one teary eye.

I'm pretty convinced we need fewer public rants and more leaders who make space for every voice when the national song falters. We need fewer egomaniacs and more who are willing to risk being part of a song that is bigger than themselves.

And as the rants start, when I am tempted to join in the vomiting of what is wrong with this world and who is to blame, I will remember the quote from Dale Earnhardt Jr. in today's paper.

I am about to quote something from NASCAR. The closest I've come to NASCAR was on the Autobahn when I made race car sounds and a running commentary on my maneuvers, but our Monday paper is pathetic so once I finished the cherry stem article, it was either the Classifieds or the full page article on Earnhardt.

So here's the quote from Earnhardt that feels like a bit of a balm in our broken world, "I don't always claim to be right, but I think in transparency in conversation and compassion you can learn from others. There is only one way to sort of do that and that is by communication and sharing."

Transparency, learning, compassion, sharing . . . those are probably some helpful words as we wrestle through the faltering of our national song.

Ugly Chicken

Ptari is looking a little ugly. 

I'm trying not to make her self-conscious, but she looks like a mangy chicken. A molting chicken is an ugly chicken who doesn't lay eggs. I'm happy she isn't dying, but she is U-G-L-Y.

I was talking to her today as I was cleaning out their nasty, stinking coop about how it didn't matter to me that she wasn't pretty or productive, I still loved her, it was just a little harder.

It wasn't that I loved her any less. I don't believe in loving more versus less, falling in or out of love. 

Love is. 

Love is steadfast faithfulness. There's no more or less, but there are definitely times it's easier and harder.



I feel a little shallow saying it's harder for me to love when my beloved isn't pretty or productive. I wish it was just about chickens, but my guess is it's true in all my relationships. 

It's harder for me to love something that's ugly and requires work without any return. 

There. I said it out loud. 

I think it's important to say that confession so we recognize love takes practice; it doesn't come naturally. Our instinct is to cherish the butterfly and stomp the spider, but how do we become people who love and cherish the beautiful and hideous? How do we love when it is hard and when it is easy?

And to know when it is time to end a relationship. There are times that the ugliness of life can so corrupt a relationship that it's destructive to remain and the least broken, most loving thing to do is sell the chicken to the butcher. 

I'm just joking. Mostly. I'm a sick and twisted person. I still love her lots so don't fret. I'm actually working on her Halloween costume. I think she'll love it. 

Dead Fish

"Do you think I'll die if I licked a dead salmon?" 

How do you answer that as a parent?

"Yes, I think you will die regardless of what you licked because we all die.  Are you asking about imminent death from some salmon parasite disease? I'm not sure."

Why I'm allowed to parent, I don't know, but we googled "licking dead salmon." That's an interesting search and there are parasite issues that are uncomfortable for humans and deadly for dogs. I then forbid her from licking or kissing the dog. I have boundaries.

After we learned more about parasites than I ever wanted to know, I finally broached the subject of why she was licking a dead salmon. 

"Even if you thought he would turn into a prince, he'd still be dead." 

I should have known. It was a dare. With money attached. Now it all makes sense and I'm slightly proud.

I once ate the remains from an all you can eat Chinese buffet in Elijah's bib pocket for $10. It was a dare from the youth group. Or maybe I said, "how much will you pay me to eat this?" It looked more disgusting than it was, but it still was kind of gross. 

Well worth $10 from a bunch of teenagers. 

Yes, I made them pay.

There's something motivating about dares with money attached. I've been wrestling with how the community of faith can be a more courageous community and I feel like dares backed with money might push us all out of our comfort zone. Imagine if we played truth or dare on Sunday mornings at church pushing and cajoling each other into a greater honesty and risk. 

It has its hazards. Risking and revealing ourselves just for the titillation of it is dangerous and addictive. But, there is something vitalizing when we are uncomfortable and slightly grossed out. 

If you can lick a dead salmon, then maybe it's also possible to risk intervening when something is wrong,
       speaking and standing up for those who are silenced, 
               and even acknowledging hurt and offering forgiveness.

If you can push yourself out of your comfort zone for one thing, then maybe that's all the practice you need for the stuff that really matters.

Or maybe it's just gross and funny. Either way you win.

Meat Bubble Wand

I decided to write again for two reasons:

1. Kirt goes off night shift and I can no longer stay up until 2 AM reading mysteries so I need to get a life. I also need a break after I was up half the night fretting about one of the characters. Do normal people invest this much emotional energy in books or is that reserved only for Dancing with the Stars?

2. I had a dream last night that made me wake up laughing. There I was up in a tree where I really wanted to blow some bubbles with the bubble mix I had handy, but I didn't have a bubble wand. Don't worry. I took the meat I was chewing and wove it together to make a bubble wand. Then, I started to brag to people in the dream about my amazing meat bubble wand. 

Last Human on Earth from Dr. Who.
Her face got smeared, which only
makes it creepier and more absurd

It still makes me laugh. If you were in my dream and saw the chewed up steak woven in a circle bubble wand, you would giggle too. My ideas are brilliant even in my dreams.

I remember after 9/11 David Letterman asked when it was okay to be funny again. It was a good question.

There is so much sadness and fear right now. There are obviously times when humor is inappropriate and disrespectful, but I would argue that we don't laugh nearly enough. If you are open to laughing then you also tend to be open to grieving. They come from the same place in your body and defy the urge to shutdown emotionally in the face of fear and sadness.

Laughter doesn't make me escape reality, but it helps me name the absurdity of life without being overwhelmed by it. 

Just say out loud "meat bubble wand" and you'll get a taste of what I mean.