Rings and Birds

Twenty-two years ago around this day my beloved asked for my hand in marriage.

I had no idea what the heck he was doing. 

We went hiking and for some reason I was strangely fascinated by a bird thingy. I don't even remember what it was other than I tend to randomly get drawn into caring about birds until I don't. It's just like shiny things, manhole covers, and pretty much anything else that suddenly catches my attention. 

I walked away from one of those moments with a stranger giving me a CD of 100 different bird calls found in Ohio. Unfortunately on our trip to Pennsylvania, it was the only CD in the car so we listened to them all and realized they weren't very interesting. (Except for Hannah, who thought they were fabulous).

My beloved began to sweat as I became fascinated by birds until he finally got me to the perfect spot where he sang a song, got down on one knee and placed the $6 abalone ring on my finger. That was how I knew he loves and knows me. I am not to be trusted with jewelry and I'm kind of a cheapskate. 

I've been through four wedding rings and now I just keep #3 taped to the sound machine next to my bed (I found it in the potato bed a year after I lost it). There are things I don't do well in life and accessorize is definitely one of them. 

This week has me thinking about life, love and the pursuit of happiness. It all kind of happens in the midst of distractions. The sacred ends up woven into the ordinary moments. One minute you're commenting on the mating habits of cardinals and the next you're beloved is proposing. 

It's not all happy stuff either. Death gets mushed in there with life, love and happiness right in the middle of shiny things and manhole covers. 

My beloved is making me triple ginger, coffee, molasses, and lemon cake right now. That makes me really happy. 

And I suppose that's my point. 

I try to be present to delight in what's around me now, and I try to be prepared for kairos moments. A kairos moment is a cool name for time (like proposals, birth, death, gingerbread cake) when we get pulled out of the present and thrown into profound life altering experiences where choices and character are revealed. 

Be grounded in the present, but prepared for the sacred. 
Watch the birds, but don't miss the guy on his knee.

Kale Chips

Sophia is taking a trip to Italy this summer so I made all my children watch A Room with a View. I didn't make my beloved watch it because he would fall asleep.

It's a movie about a young woman traveling to Italy and finding her passion and courage (the young woman is Helena Bonham Carter aka Bellatrix so that's fun).

Anyway, as we were having dinner and I was telling them about the movie, I mentioned that there were several penises in it. 

Unfortunately, I made this statement as I was placing the kale chips upon the table.

All of my children looked aghast. 

Finally, one of them said, "In the kale chips?" 

Welcome to dinner at the Stage-Harvey's where we not only talk about penises, but my children live with a little fear that I might put something that outlandish in a meal. There have been some strange meals my family has struggled through and some that were surprisingly yummy - I like to keep them on their toes.

There are penises in the movie and there'll be lots on the statues in Italy so it seemed like good preparation. The swimming hole scene is still one of my top ten favorite movie scenes.

Our little misunderstanding made me pause and think about how easy miscommunication is. Maybe it always has been, but the level of communication we do without body language seems like it is way easier now to get the wrong message.

There also seems to be a whole host of trigger phrases. . . climate change, fake news, women's rights, mass shooting, terrorism, abortion, guns, immigrants, undocumented workers . . .

Words and phrases are loaded into our heads packed with emotion and meaning depending on whom we hang out with, our experiences and where we get our news. It makes serious engagement of any issue nearly impossible because assumptions and emotional reactions get triggered before any critical thinking can occur.

Take for instance the word chicken. 

I don't think it has any political implications so it's remotely safe as an example. When you hear the word chicken, you probably think of someone who is afraid and running away; when I hear the word chicken I think of beloved creatures who holler at me as soon as I open the door to carry them across the snow so they can peck under the trampoline. Maybe I think beloved and spoiled creatures.

See. No wonder it's so easy to miscommunicate. 

I'm working on being a little clearer in my communication so I don't scar my children any further, but also offering a bit more grace when I engage in conversation, asking for more stories (especially if they involve chickens), and assuming less. It seems like a faithful way to navigate the time in which we live.

Space

Two different strangers randomly made fun of me recently.

Part of me was aghast.

One guy pulled over in his car after I nearly fell off a curb and turned it into a pirouette so he could tell me thanks for the laugh.

The other woman just made fun of me for wearing a balaclava, hat, sunglasses and hood. It was cold and dorkiness doesn't count when you are trying to stay warm.

Part of me laughed.

I try to give thanks for my "goofy human stuff that makes me approachable." (That's how a friend graciously described why strangers are willing to mock me.)


I'm going to claim that and even hold it up as part of my pastoral calling. My goofiness makes space for others to breathe and laugh.


That could be my most godlike quality. I don't say that to boast about me, but point out what a wild God I worship.


I've been thinking about the one creation story recently

where we hear in Genesis,

"In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters."


God makes light, but then God pushes back the waters of chaos so there is space for creativity and life. Creation is not so much about making something out of nothing, but making space in the void, the chaos, the busyness, for life to exist.

Sometimes I think the most important part of my calling is trying to make space for breath and life. I try to join in this act of pushing back the overwhelming voids and darkness so there is some room to delight, create, and breathe.


I suck at most things religious so I'm going to hold onto this gift with all my might. I'll wear my goofy human stuff on my sleeve knowing it probably won't win me any glamour awards, but it might make a little space in the darkness for laughter and breath.

Waste of Time

Seattle airport is to blame. 

I haven't been able to write for a while, which isn't a big deal other than I think by writing and I am compulsive enough to need to write every Monday night. 

But I haven't felt like it since Seattle airport. 

The shelves in the bookstores were lined with only self-help books. Titles like Be a Winner in Finance, Leading like a Winner, Win Friends were everywhere we looked. (I have no idea what the real titles were other than winner seemed to show up a lot). 

I'm not opposed to sharing tools for managing life; I just think it belongs in relationship and community not Seattle airport bookstore, especially not with pre-underlined highlights. 

That kind of writing is obviously hot right now and some irrational fear overtook me that folks might look to me for helpful hints in life. 

I've got nothing. 

Okay, I do have the basics of trust the God of eternal love and try not to be an asshole. 

Other than that, I resort to my childhood favorite advice of "dry your face before your butt." 

I write simply because I try to pay attention and it keeps me from lying about what I see.

I got a pedicure in Florida and Elijah mentioned that my feet looked like old lady feet. He realized immediately this wasn't the nicest thing in the world to say so he fixed it by saying, "having your toes painted makes you look like you're trying to be young." 

Little shit. This is what I get for raising astute kids. Mind you, I got the pedicure because my toenails are black and blue from hiking, but the bright red polish might have been out of my league. He's totally right and he said it with such love and even some concern that I could only laugh.

I write not to help people succeed or figure out life or pretend like I have a clue; I write because I try to pay attention and give shape to the deceit and delight I see in the world I love. I try to notice that bright red toenails might be covering a greater truth.

And I do think it's a waste of time. My writing and your possible reading are without purpose or agenda. But some of my most fascinating glimpses of truth are when I'm wasting time, daydreaming, wandering aimlessly, or just sitting quietly. Or writing a blog with the dog on my lap and my red toenails dancing in the gleam of the happy lite.

Angels

We talked on Sunday about angels and I did the typical post-enlightenment pastor thing where I talked about angels as messengers of the good news and how we all are called to be angels. I stand by that demythologizing message, but it's a bit dull.

No wings. No halos. No robes of white. 

(One kid did talk about angels being white and it made me think about how we picture Jesus and the heavenly hosts. I'll never forget sitting in a church in Africa and the only white people were Kirt, Jesus and I. But that's a whole different blog about race.)

My systematic theology doesn't have guardian angels in it. I place my faith and hope in Jesus as a glimpse of eternal love as witnessed in his death and resurrection. That's my core belief and guardian angels lead me into all kinds of weird places, much like Kushtakas and ghosts. 

But here's my problem. Those things don't fit into my theology, but I've bumped into them enough that they mess with my reality.

I don't believe in guardian angels because I don't know what to do with creatures from another plane of existence who intervene to save my ass while Joe Blow's guardian angel lets him get run over by a train. I can't get that to make sense, but I've had a guardian angel save my booty.

Atlanta 1994
I lived in a small intentional community in Barnesville, GA just south of Atlanta on Possum Trot Road. We got a small stipend and worked providing hospitality for friends and family of people on death row. 

I saved up my stipend to go see Cirque de Soleil in Atlanta. I stayed with some friends who worked with Habitat for Humanity, but they couldn't go see the show with me so I was on my own. 

This was before cell phones, before the Olympics boosted Atlanta's public transportation, and before I developed my entire brain to process good ideas. I'd traveled extensively so I told my friends I would be fine, except I really don't have a good sense of direction. I got off MARTA to walk back to their house, but there was a gang of young men gathered around the map so I decided now was not a good time to stand in front of it, in the dark, in the pouring rain, and get oriented. 

I chose a direction and walked confidently. 

This normally works out for me, except when it's dark, I have no money left, and it's raining. After a while, I realized I had no idea where my friends lived, I found myself in an area where there was no sign of life, no stores, nor even traffic in this burned out, boarded up part of Atlanta. 

I still remember stopping in the middle of the sidewalk with tears starting to roll down as I realized I was in some serious trouble. I uttered the prayer that has probably crossed more lips than any other, "O God, help." I've never felt so lost and helpless as I did at that moment.

Then, the door of what looked like an abandoned warehouse flew open and a large, intoxicated woman stared out at me and said, "What the hell are you doing out here?" 

She dragged me into her place and it was a large room with decorated toilet seats adorning an entire wall. With a slight slur, she explained to me that she was having a gallery opening of her designer toilet seats, but nobody showed up so she drank all the wine. She couldn't give me a ride home, but I could call my friend. 

My friend nearly had a fit when I told her where I was, but she came and got me. She made me tell the story several times, shaking her head each time. 

There's no doubt in my mind that my guardian angel would be an intoxicated woman who designs toilet seats. I've tried to come up with all kinds of rational explanations, but here's where I end up:

If I can't get things to make sense, then simple gratitude is the appropriate response. 

The day will come when we will see clearly and understand. For now it's enough to put our trust in the good news of God's eternal love, but always leave room for surprises.

Snow

This is as light as it got today

I drove out towards the end of the road today hoping to find a respite from the rain. Sometimes if you keep heading Northish the clouds clear and the sun pops out, but not normally. Sometimes it's just cathartic to remember the end of the road exists. It's a good reminder that you can't drive your way out of responsibilities and messes.

Margaret Atwood once wrote about the high suicide rate in Vancouver, which I think would speak for Alaska as well. She said something about people keep moving West thinking they can escape their past and start fresh until they reach the coast and realize they are still stuck with themselves. That's how I remember it, but I'm too lazy to find the quote and I think it rings true with the experience in the frontier.

It's a lot like snow. Not that we would know since all of ours is gone now. I'm bitter and slightly grumpy. I love snow and I like to think of it as an image for grace. It floats down and covers all the ugly with pure beauty.

Except that's a shitty image for grace and one that the church clings to way too often. Cover up the shit, make it look pure, and we'll all be happy.

Then it melts, the rain washes it away and you're left with all the piles of dog shit and broken toys left in the yard. This year, we had the added bonus of our pumpkins. The first snow caught us by the surprise so once it was all gone, we had to scrape the rotting pumpkins off the porch.

I want grace to be like the pure and beautiful snow, but it's much more like the rain. It washes away the veneer and let's us face our shit with a garbage bag in hand. You can leave it, but it's way less fun to play in when it's all over your shoes, and you're sliding around, and then you're tracking it through the house.

Grace gives us the confidence that we matter and we are loved even if our backyard looks like a disaster zone. We don't have to hide it under snow, but can get to work cleaning it up. It's not pretty, but it's easier than moving just because your yard is full of feces.

I give thanks for the snow and for drives out to the end of the road where we get a bit of respite from the hard work of being human. I'm not opposed to denial and escaping reality. Sometimes you need a break from hard truths.  I just know sooner or later, reality returns and the longer you wait, the more piles of shit you have to clean up.

Instant Pot

I'm slightly pathetic when it comes to reading binges. I've found a new love so I'm staying up a little late and delaying work. I haven't resorted to a flashlight under the covers, but it's close. I'm reading Peter May's Lewis Trilogy set in Scotland. 

So I'm recycling an article I wrote in 2011 that still rings pretty true, except now I want an Instant Pot. Those are amazing. Not as amazing as Scottish mysteries, but still phenomenal.