Pockets

We are gearing up to backpack the Chilkoot Trail as a family this summer. That means the Easter Bunny brought new hiking boots and dehydrated meals for the kids. Who needs chocolate eggs when you have Leonardo da Fettuccine? You think that's bad? The British folks we met last time on the trail had dehydrated "spotted dick". The things you can dehydrate! We're taste testing to see what is worthy of the trip. 

But in the process of shopping, I bought myself a fabulous new quick-dry shirt. This is huge. I rarely buy clothes for myself. I would still be wearing 20 year old sweaters if my mom didn't buy me new clothes. Regardless, I still wear 20 year old sweaters.

Hannah made me take a few things
out of my pockets. I go overboard
sometimes.

So I have this cute, sporty shirt with pockets in the boobs. Seriously. I love pockets, but I can't figure out why someone would strategically place them there. I wore my new shirt on a lovely hike today and spent almost the whole time thinking about what I would put in these pockets. 

They seem completely pointless, except when I try to put my keys in the pocket and then they are pointy in all the wrong places. 

I crack myself up.

I feel strangely irritated to have these useless pockets. But then as I wasted several hours wandering the woods, I started to think most of what is precious in life is pointless. 

I was thinking especially of beauty. 

In my mind there is a difference between pretty and beauty. Pretty feels like a tool you use to seduce or manipulate someone. I'm not only thinking of people, but it seems like lots of movies and even worship styles come off as pretty. 

They feel dolled up not only to entertain, but to leave you with a certain way of thinking or feeling when you are done. I walk away with the sense there was a hidden agenda rather than entering the mystery of a story. Being pretty is a useful tool to get you something.

Beauty is an end in itself and useless. 

If it has a specific agenda or desired outcome, then it is an act of propaganda not beauty.

Webster defines beauty as a "combination of qualities that please the senses." 

I think beauty is kind of like how we talk about "God sightings" in our house. They are moments that take your breath away. They pull you into a reality bigger than yourself, and you get a glimpse of the eternal as you step outside of time and space.

My tea bag tag said something like "life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but the moments that take our breath away." Kind of cheesy and kind of true.

We often know beauty only when we bump into it and are left breathless. 

Beauty is a vulnerable offering without strings, but it does demand a sensitive openness to the world. It takes being present with your senses open to what is going on around you.

Sometimes I feel like we are surrounded by so many pretty things that it's hard to see beauty anymore. We have so many pretty things pulling us one way or another, it's hard to be patient and open to those useless offerings of beauty. Those moments that do nothing other than pull us out of ourselves to experience the world and ourselves from a different place. 

My shirt does not do that. It's just weird, but it does wick my sweat and that is good for something.

Crawling into bed

I crawled into bed with a parishioner once. I know it probably broke every boundary we are forced to learn by the lawyers, but it needed to be done.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of boundaries (and lawyers). It is good to know where I stop and you begin. It is good to define and stay within limits so I don't abuse or manipulate you or vice versa. But sometimes you just have to crawl into bed with folks.

I suppose I have to start this story like a smartass because it is one that still brings tears to my eyes.

I didn't want Connie to die while I was her pastor. She was one of the matriarchs of the church. She loved pastors and tended to them well. I loved her so much, but she came with her baggage and she held on to it tightly. 

Toward the end, she was being eaten alive by cancer and dementia. Her hearing was never amazing as long as I knew her and she was so tiny in her hospital bed. 

This is not conducive to a pastoral visit to deal with some of the anger and secrets that were keeping her from resting in peace. 

Chaplaincy with the dying is not easy for me. I'm good at being present with folks, saying our prayers, but any statement of hope always rings a little hollow to me because I get to go home to my family and health while they get to keep wrestling death and pain. 

I was not having a good visit with Connie. She was restless and hollering out arguments that no one understood. She couldn't hear me or quite understand what was going on so finally I laid down my prayer book and I crawled in with her. Luckily I'm a small person too so we curled up in her hospital bed like two thirteen year olds at a slumber party.

Some of my favorite ladies. Judy, Brenda, Connie and Betty.
I'm not quite sure about the woman on the end

We giggled some as I told her silly stories. We wept as we acknowledged her pending death, great regrets, and unforgiven hurts. And we planned her funeral meal. Connie had always been in charge of funerals so we talked through hers. 

I reminded her that even in death she was going to be okay. I didn't quite know what okay looked like, but I trusted God's promise that things turn out okay. 

I know you're probably shaking your head at what a pathetic pastor I am. 

OKAY! That's the best you can do?

When a body is eaten alive by cancer, pain, and confusion, okay seems like paradise.  We always sang Children of the Heavenly Father at funerals. (We also sang it in Swedish at midsummer, but that's completely different). 

Children of the Heavenly Father, 
safely in His bosom gather, 
nestling bird nor star of heaven, 
such a refuge e'er was given

I wrapped Connie in my arms and reminded her she'd be okay in God's arms. I really don't know what that looks like, but I know what it feels like to be strengthened in a loving embrace and I'd be okay with that through eternity. 

We're entering Holy Week. This is my favorite week as a pastor. Not to sound creepy, but it's kind of like crawling into bed with everyone. 

I get to wash feet. What a huge honor it is for folks to trust me with such vulnerability. We will see each other's tears as we hear the story of Good Friday. We'll get up way too early on Easter and gather around the fire in the cold to greet the quiet dawning of hope. 

I love this week! (Except for ham; I hate ham.)

We get to share vulnerability and hope. 

We get to remind each other that it will be okay.

Death and Taxes

Filling out my taxes on pi day was almost too much titillation for me. I'm still giddy.

I love numbers and forms. I love order and tasks that have a beginning and an end. I love thinking about the money we make and how it gets spent. I wouldn't want to do it everyday, but it's a great way to celebrate pi day.

And I love pi. What is there not to love about a number that has order and infinity all wrapped up into one? Naturally 3.1416 is fun too because it is pi rounded and I'm sure there's something significant about that in my life.

Death and taxes. Thank you Benjamin Franklin. "In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes."

And on Saturday I almost died so it's like Ben Franklin was thinking about my week. 

Please no lectures and don't worry mom it wasn't too close, just a stupid choice that could have ended poorly. There is a voice in my head that kicks in when something seems impossible telling me I should probably try it. The peak was so close and it seemed like a shame not to stand on it. 

I should have paid attention to the dog when she gave me the "what the hell are you doing" look. I'm thankful to have a dog who is smarter than I am. She also chased me while I rolled. That was sweet. 

But when I gathered myself back together, it was a good reminder of mortality and humility. I call these Ash Wednesday moments. There is no magic force field that will keep me from suffering death. I'm thankful it wasn't on Saturday, but I still would rather die in the midst of an interesting life than cling to a dull one.

My grandmother used to beg me to stay home. She worried about all the traveling I did that someday the wanderlust would kill me. And it could have. People die in crazy ways everyday. But the leading cause of death in the US is heart disease. Rarely caused by wanderlust; often caused by poor diet and staying home. 

The funny thing about Franklin's quote regarding the certainty of death and taxes is that it's not true. I think we could say death is inevitable but certainty is a difficult word for something that always catches us surprised. 

And taxes, feel like order and certainty, but are symbolic ways of ordering the universe that could fall apart at any moment if we stopped believing in the symbolism of paper money. You can't eat it or wear it so what is it truly worth?

Now, since I'm a pastor, you're expecting me to pull the "Jesus is the only thing certain" card, aren't you? Can't do it. I tend to lean towards Dostoevsky's "If someone proved to me that Christ 
is outside the truth, and that in reality the truth were outside of Christ, then I should prefer to remain with Christ rather than with the truth." 

Not certainty, but Christ is the truth I trust. I'm willing to trust my heart and life in the God I see in Jesus not because it is certain, but because I see in him a life that has eternal reverberations of grace, a life that gives one courage to keep living even when death is inevitable, a life that is grounded in love instead of fear.

So I suppose, even at the end of a titillating day, I'm glad to still be a pastor and not an accountant. 

Balls and Nuts

I had serious ball envy the other night. He had rainbow illuminated ones and I now have them on my wish list. The cool thing about illuminated balls is your tricks don't have to be that amazing. Everything is more impressive when the lights are turned off.

I know what you are thinking. 

I am so incredibly juvenile and there is no end to ball and nut jokes. 

Not true. 

I made it through an entire day without one castration joke after someone told me about his diverticulitis and how sad he was that  he couldn't have any more nuts. No one can expect me to keep up that self control once the sun set and we started talking about steer. How I made it through pastoral care class I'll never know.

But the juggler we saw the other night was amazing with his light up balls, seven foot unicycle, and knorches (mix of knife and torches). I am inspired so you might want to keep sharp and flammable things away from me. Light up balls really are the safest bet to keep me consoled.

My favorite part in the show was when he threw his juggling balls back into the storage box and we all cheered. He stopped the show and asked us what the hell we were doing. 

I juggled five clubs, threw one over my shoulder, kicked it with my foot back over my head and kept juggling and you all didn't clap. But, when I throw three balls into a box from four feet away you get excited?

I drooled I was laughing so hard. One of my many issues. It's so stinking true of life. Sometimes I pour my heart and soul into something that barely gets acknowledged. What a blow to the old 
ego. Then, I throw crap together and folks think it's amazing. 

Why is that?

Here are my guesses:
1. We affirm the obvious. I know it's true of sermons. Lazy sermons often get the most affirmations because the preacher has probably stated what people expect and that makes folks feel good.

2. We often want folks to succeed. His act before the great ball throw was pretty lame so I think the crowd generally wanted him to be redeemed.

3. If something is so complex that we can't immediately process it, then we tend to check out or at least our brains take a few more minutes to figure out what is happening. Some things stun us and we need time and space to respond. 

4. We are so engaged in an impressive moment that clapping or cheering take us out of it. 

The best bet if you have to be in front of people is to check your ego and prepare the most diligently and faithfully that you can. You can't ever control how people respond; you can only control what you present and how you respond.

Sometimes it stinks because you may put lots of work and head injuries into a new trick and no one seems to care. Or lots of hours into a sermon, or a project, or a presentation and no one gives you a standing ovation. 

It's okay because ultimately it's not about you. Performances are a gift. Sermons are a proclamation. Projects are teaching experiences. Once you've done your work, you have to let them go. If we build our identities and worth around how people respond, then we'll be completely neurotic. 

And if there is an awkward lull where I feel like a failure, I always figure that ball and nut jokes are a great back-up plan.

10 stupid choices and 1 smart one

I read somewhere people like blogs with lists and that made me laugh so naturally I'm doing it. Lists don't have to have a point so I should be good at this.

10 Stupid Choices in no particular order :
(Stupid is normally a bad word in our house, but I love the etymology of it. ORIGIN mid 16th cent.: from French stupide or Latin stupidus, from stupere ‘be amazed or stunned.)

1. Sleeping with my head covered. I'm not sure it's a choice; it's my DNA. I have to sleep with my head covered and my feet out. I take a specially made cozy everywhere I go so I don't have to put creepy hotel covers over my face and I have a hole for my feet. I think the lack of oxygen explains a lot in my life. 
2. Making out on a red-eye flight because I was bored. Who knew he would be a stalker? Luckily, I was quick enough to tell him that Angoon had met its quota of white people and he would have to wait for someone to leave before he could visit. I've never been a good liar.
3. Being too lazy to get my keys out of the house and instead putting my car into neutral and pushing it out of the garage. This wouldn't have been that bad of an idea if the driveway wasn't sloped and curved. Imagine me holding onto the seatbelt trying to slow the vehicle down. Now imagine it crashing into the basketball pole at the curve in the driveway. That was fun to explain.
4. Getting into the backseat of a car with chopsticks in my mouth. Yep, I still have the perfectly round scar on my soft palate. Nothing is more entertaining for ER nurses than lots of blood and a good story.
5. Tubing a flooded river at midnight with the organic gardener. This one could have ended really poorly. It was a long four hours and if you've never ridden rushing water through barbed wire and a herd of cows drinking, then you aren't stupid. 
6. Wandering the streets of Atlanta alone, lost and without any money at night. Also one of those moments when I stopped and realized it could turn out badly. That's the night I was saved by my drunk guardian angel who had a gallery opening for painted toilet seats in inner city Atlanta and no one showed up. Except for me, standing on the sidewalk praying.
7. Ten is too many, this list has grown tedious. All other stories are derivatives of alcohol or men motifs.

One smart choice that I'm not even sure is a choice. 

I get to live my life in grace. I get to live my life in the freedom to make mistakes and own up to them. My family, friends, and church community always surrounded me with a sense of being loved. It didn't mean they shielded me from consequences of stupid choices, but they supported and walked with me through them. Grace doesn't make consequences goes away, but it doesn't abandon us to face them alone.

There have been times that they've also graciously given me a heads up that something is destructive or unhealthy. Sometimes I even listened.

I suppose that's what I hope for my kids and even the church community. I want them to be surrounded with enough grace so they can make some stupid choices and experience failure and pain. 

Obviously, I don't want the choices to destroy their lives. I'm not advocating recklessness, but I don't want to protect and frighten them to the point that they have no good stories. Those life experiences that amaze or stun us are often the experiences that make for rich lives and build us into the resilient characters we are today. 

Next week, top ten uses for edamame. Not really, I just love saying that word. 

Coward of the County

I had four records growing up I loved or at least I loved a song on them. I had the Elvis record for children with a song about a dog that always made me cry. I had Goofy Gold with Purple People Eater that always made me laugh. There was the Country Bear Jamboree where my favorite was Blood on the Saddle sung by Big Al (Uncle Bill's nickname for me to this day). 


Blood on the Saddle
Blood all around
There's even a puddle 
Of Blood on the ground

That song just made me weird. Who carries around an ugly bear and sings this demented song as a child? Probably the same one who dressed up like Paul Bunyan.

Then there was Kenny Rogers and Coward of the County. That song confused me, but I loved it. 

I still feel confused at times by how we define courage and cowardice. Not to disagree with Kenny, but I don't think the difference is merely whether you're willing to fight or not. I still think force is the least creative way to solve a problem. It may be the easiest tool to use, but rarely is it the most effective in the long run.

So, what is the difference between cowardice and courage? 

Courage. The call for courage in the Bible is almost as common as the call to love. Unfortunately, I don't think many folks look to churches as places of great courage. 

What is courage? 
Courage comes from the word for heart. 

Courage is doing the "heart" thing when it is inconvenient, costly, awkward, or painful. Locating courage in the heart is different than doing the right thing. Breaking the law or social norm may not be the "right" thing to do, but it may be the gracious and loving thing to do.

Courage is stepping out of what is comfortable to risk something. 

I think people of courage need to have great curiosity and humility. Courage demands a sense of entering mystery. People can do risky things and it is just controlled cowardice with experiences and adrenalin rushes that maintain the status quo.You can be a coward who engages in risky behaviors if they don't break open your heart.

You see I don't think cowardice means backing down from a fight or refusing to take a stand. I've seen plenty of cowards stand tall parroting the latest propaganda proudly. 

Cowardice is insulating your heart to protect it from pain or discomfort. 

It demands lies and deceit to yourself and others. A structure has to be put in place where comfort and ease are the goals. Lots of lies have to be told to keep things easy, evade consequences and maintain a facade of calm. 

Cowardice demands triviality. I still think of Ed Loring at Open Door Community in Atlanta saying, "God's judgment on the rich is filling our time with meaningless decisions." Shop till you drop. When we keep our interactions shallow and our lives busy, then cowardice comes naturally. Courage takes work, investment and time.

Whenever a culture is shaped by consumerism and militarism, then cowardice is a natural by-product fostered especially by media. Our dominant culture is based on accumulating and protecting our stuff. That is not a culture that fosters courage. 

I threaten sometimes to celebrate communion on the roof of the church dangling over the side holding each other up. If we aren't learning and practicing how to face fear and support one another, then how will we be able to do it in crisis?

If the church isn't fostering a counter-culture of courage, then I don't know why we exist. If a church is in survival mode, then it might be more faithful to die.

I know I sound like a self-righteous brat talking about cowards, but it is only because I see myself and too many faith communities bowing to fear and comfort.  I'm not sure how to break out of it and truly be a person and community of courage. 

I'm scared that someday we'll all end up looking like Kenny. Slathering on a bit more plastic, tucking a few more wrinkles to pretend we can insulate ourselves from the pain and death in this world. I'd rather have a broken heart than a plastic face. God bless him though; I still love that song.

Sorry

"Do you all know what necrophilia is?" 

This is not how you want the funeral director to begin a discussion with a room full of middle schoolers and their parents. That was three years ago so I prepped the crew this year. Funeral directors rarely have filters. Life is way too raw for them so they don't coat stories with protective coverings.

Our tour on Monday was much tamer. It is still the unfiltered tour of the embalming room, crematorium, and refrigerator room. There are always follow-up conversations after this tour.

I try to be upfront with parents that catechism class is about connecting faith to all of life so we talk about poop, sex, jail, work, birth and death. Or better yet, we go on field trips to explore all these aspects of life except for sex. Hmm. I don't think they are allowed in Mystic Treasures so you all are safe.

The most phone calls I ever got from middle school parents was after the Hooters fiasco - NOT MY FAULT! We were in Toledo touring the mosque, Orthodox church and synagogue but we split up for lunch and the sweetest older woman took the crew of boys. She had no idea what they were asking. I'm sure they told her how good the food was and when they got back and I was a bit irritated she did tell me how good the food was. 

She also accidentally left a crew of kids at a random diner in a random town off the freeway instead of the agreed upon Denny's. Long story. Before cell phones. I came close to panicking. Misplacing three children is definitely a bad thing. 

I work with folks in a setting where people expect you to be nice and make everyone happy. Okay. Maybe the expectation that I am nice was quashed years ago at the church, but only recently have I been able to abandon trying to make everyone happy. That's a hard one to give up as a pastor and I would argue as a woman of my generation. 

My biggest way of trying to make people happy is saying I'm sorry. I am quick to take responsibility for all of life around me, even the stuff I can't control. I annoy myself with how often I say it. 

My corrective is slightly twisted so I need to work on that too. After something happens I say, "I'm sorry" and then "I'm not really sorry, that wasn't my fault" and then "I'm sorry it happened to you, but still not my responsibility." 

See it just gets awkward. So I've discovered my true Lenten discipline is to only say "I'm sorry" when I mean it.  There are times that I'm hurtful and I need to take responsibility for that. But there are lots of times accidents happen or life happens or people get mad at me and I may experience sorrow because I care for them, but I don't need to heap it on my shoulders and pretend like I'm Atlas. 

We don't really have a good phrase in English when we want to express solidarity in sorrow without taking responsibility.

Maybe something like,

"I'm sorry that you are uneasy confronting your twelve year old son's desire to see hooters and eat hot wings."

"I'm sorry you feel uncomfortable talking about dying with your teenager."

"I'm sorry you are angry because I refuse to get choir robes." 

"I'm sorry I left your kid in a diner playing with straws for hours while we searched for them." See, I really was sorry for that one.

The rest just sound snarky. I suppose I can be sorry that someone is responding and feeling the way they are to a situation without taking responsibility for the situation. 

The best I can do is live as honestly and openly as possible and trust the people around me to respond as they need to. Sometimes that is calling me on what an obnoxious and hurtful person I am. Sometimes that means the folks I love experience some disgruntlement and discomfort that I shouldn't try to apologize away. 

I'm going to wean myself off the excessive "I'm sorrys". I'm actually thinking of replacing it with, "Do you all know what necrophilia is?" That's much less awkward. Or maybe move to Canada where they say "sorry" all the time.