Soup - Remembering Linda Wilkins

When I grieve someone's death, I tend to write their funeral sermon. Sometimes it's just in my head, like Berf's, and sometimes I want to offer it to the family hopefully as a balm in a gaping hole. 

So I offer this to Linda's family, friends, and all others touched by her.

Text: 1 Kings 17

So Elijah went to Zarephath. When he came to the town gate, a widow was there gathering sticks. He called to her and asked, “Would you bring me a little water in a jar so I may have a drink?”

As she was going to get it, he called, “And bring me, please, a piece of bread.”

“As surely as the LORD your God lives,” she replied, “I don’t have any bread—only a handful of flour in a jar and a little olive oil in a jug. I am gathering a few sticks to take home and make a meal for myself and my son, that we may eat it—and die.”

Elijah said to her, “Don’t be afraid. Go home and do as you have said. But first make a small loaf of bread for me from what you have and bring it to me, and then make something for yourself and your son.

For this is what the LORD, the God of Israel, says: ‘The jar of flour will not be used up and the jug of oil will not run dry until the day the LORD sends rain on the land.’ ”

She went away and did as Elijah had told her. So there was food every day for Elijah and for the woman and her family.

I made potato soup last night as an offering to Linda. I didn't scorch it or add too much pepper. 

Linda did not approve of pink Christmas tree cookies or substandard soups. She wanted things done the way she wanted them. We butted heads sometimes over whether hospitality should trump perfection, but she was wise enough to know pink cookies and scorched soups don't sell.

Linda fed me many meals, held my babies, and carried the singing for the whole church at times. She also carried a great many burdens, regrets, and sorrows so I won't try to turn her into some kind of angel who never struggled.

No, when I think of Linda I think of the widow of Zarephath. A woman who encountered the word of God, scraped together what she had, and kept making meals. I love that image of the woman gathering the last of her resources and then trusting God's grace to feed another instead of herself. I'm not sure I'm up for that challenge, but Linda rose to it time and again. 

Or perhaps the best image for the gift of Linda's life and ministry is that of soup. Soup night at our house is much like casserole night. It is when I gather the scraps of stuff left in the fridge and blend it with a mix of spices and broth to turn it into one more meal. Sometimes it works out well and sometimes we need lots of hot sauce. 

But that is the gift of soup. It is the gathering of resources that might otherwise be thrown out or ignored, throwing them all together in one pot with a dash of love and a bit of spice to make yet one more meal. And Linda was the queen of soup. 

I know she will be greatly missed. She held so many things together, but our trust is that she isn't the hostess of the eternal feast. God is the great soup maker, who pulls us all together even if others would toss us aside, and makes a feast. I'm sure Linda will have some tips for God to make it a little tastier, but she will finally get to rest at the soup luncheon that has no end.

Standing

I rarely engage politics in a public setting. It's not that I don't feel strongly about certain issues, but yelling them at someone has not proved to be an effective tool. I'm deeply troubled by the threats of violence and hateful speech that's pouring out of folks.

I write letters and contact my legislators on a regular basis. I rarely endorse a candidate, even though I am impressed with Independent Alyse Galvin, especially after Rep. Young voted for cutting SNAP (food stamps). 

I return to Father Boyle's statement regularly, "The strategy of Jesus is not centered on taking the right stand on issues, but rather standing in the right place." Ministry is about standing with people not turning them into issues or pawns in a game. 

I don't listen to or watch U.S. news; I either read it or listen to CBC. I'm going to encourage us all to take a break from TV news for the sake of blood pressure. I did listen to the hearings yesterday and I felt physically ill. I feel so much grief for people and for my nation; it's going to take a while to process all that went on.

But there are times when things need to be spoken out loud so I'm sharing the letter I wrote to Senator  Murkowski nearly two weeks ago:

Dear Senator Murkowski,

I am a Lutheran pastor in Juneau, Alaska. I want to thank you for your work securing childhood nutrition and your advocacy for SNAP. We run a small food pantry that grew into a summer lunch program with an average of 60 kids a day that grew into a hospitality network for families who are homeless. We know and love lots of vulnerable folks.

I serve a congregation where the general manager of one of the mines and a transgender Native Alaskan adolescent participate. We are a diverse community with lively conversation and engagement across the lines our society has created.

Part of a healthy community is engaging and having empathy for the struggles of others, especially those on the margins.

I ask that you vote against confirming Judge Kavanaugh. 

I do not oppose Judge Kavanaugh because of his stance on issues. After reading some of his articles and rulings, I find a lack of empathy and understanding for those on the margins. He shows a disconnect from knowing the struggles of immigrants, the poor, LGBTQ folks, people of color, Native Americans, and those living with disabilities. 

Nominees may have stances on issues, but that is not what I examine. I look at what people someone is standing with because people are not issues. If one does not know a Native Alaskan, a child, or someone who is transgender, then it is easy to tow a line dismissing their rights. When one knows and loves a beautiful child who you want to keep safe, then issues die away and humanity is preserved with just laws. 

I do not see evidence of Judge Kavanaugh as someone who either knows or will protect the “least of these.” I encourage you to vote against his confirmation.

Balls

Why do adolescent boys devolve into hitting each other in the balls regardless of the activity?

We're taking a break from singing Father Abraham because the "right leg" was swinging too high this last Sunday. We do a group juggle to learn names, but that also might also need a break since the bean bags are prime projectiles for private areas. 


I love middle schoolers. They are inquisitive, delightful, energetic creatures who are trying to figure out relationships and life.

But there are times I want to play the Jesus card and ask if they think Jesus beamed his friends in the balls with bean bags, except I'm not sure about the answer.

If we confess that Jesus was completely human and completely divine without sin, then does that rule out having friends and trying to figure out relationships in an age appropriate way? Do we envision Jesus as the isolated freak child who did everything right pulling out his superpowers to be able to pass his tests? That's actually a more disturbing portrait of Jesus than the one who is trying to figure out life like adolescent boys do.

I don't condone whatever obsession boys have with nailing each other in the nuts, but I've been working with this age for long enough to know it is nothing new. Peter Steinke, who works with family systems, tells us we create intimate relationships through either play or conflict. I think this strange phenomenon does both. I'm sure Freud would throw some reasons in there too.

I remind them of personal space and boundaries, of respecting each other and themselves, but I don't play the Jesus card.

Unless it is to remind them of the deep solidarity Jesus has with us in our humanity; remind us all of his communion in our relationships, pain, and joy. 

Potatoes

There are few activities as rewarding as digging potatoes.

I love the smell of dirt, the surprise, and the memories. There's not much I grow well, but I've got potatoes down, especially now that gardener friends told me to cut the vines and let them harden in the ground for a couple of weeks before digging. Who knew?

So I dug them up yesterday. I pull the last of the plant up to find the potatoes clinging still to the root and then I dig into the dirt with my hands to find the remainder. It's messy, but I love the warmth in the top layer of soil and chill beneath; I love feeling around to discover a beautiful potato hiding.

I sift the dirt pretty well with my hands before I pull out the shovel. I'm not fond of this part because I always end up slicing up some potatoes I missed in the first go, but that just means we have to eat them for dinner that night, which we did with ginger pancakes and cardamom peach sauce.

Finally, I let the chickens have a go. They are all excited about the opportunity to scratch and normally turn up a few more potatoes I missed. It's surprise beneath surprise.

And memories. 

Digging potatoes was one of the few activities I did with my grandpa. I don't remember him talking much, he laughed and he grunted, I don't remember many other vocal effects. But digging potatoes doesn't need much talking and it was lovely to be near him where the scent of dirt, Old Spice, and Ben Gay mingled.

He wasn't necessarily a kind man, but I loved him for his grit, his humor, and for making bacon every morning. My grandpa was a farmer, an alcoholic, drove the gas truck, and worked at the cemetery. 

My favorite part of the resurrection story is where Mary mistakes Jesus for the cemetery gardener. He must have looked rough because that has never been a fancy-shmancy job.

I automatically assume the risen Lord looked like my grandpa with bibs, flannel, and a John Deere hat slightly off kilter. That's a man who's seen hell and claims life and love in spite of it. I imagine the risen lord smelling a bit like dirt, Old Spice and Ben Gay trying to do the best he can with what he has. I picture him tired, without too many words, but some laughter and grunts, a name spoken with love, a presence that simultaneously brings fear and joy. 

I'm not saying my grandpa was like Jesus, but digging potatoes made me think of the surprise of grace, finding life in the dirt, seeing love when you expected nothing.

Efficient

There is a word I despise and it's getting thrown around quite a bit in our current election year fiesta.

Efficiencies. 

It's the magic word to balance our budget.

It freaks me out almost as much as boring.

I've watched too many Marvel movies and visited too many communist countries to not cringe when I hear it. 

I'm not a Marvel expert, but it seems to me that most of the stories have a "bad guy" who is actually somewhat altruistic and looking for the most efficient path to peace. It soon becomes clear that the most efficient path to peace is to get rid of people. 

Same with Communism. It looks awesome on paper. It's an incredibly efficient way of managing people and resources until you actually have to deal with people. 

Efficiency dehumanizes. 

It turns people into machines whose purpose is to accomplish a set task. It creates distrust and anxiety in communities as people strive against one another to not get "cut". 

I have to agree with Bill Watterson, mainly because I love him for bringing us Calvin and Hobbes, but also because I think he's right when he says, 

We don't value craftsmanship anymore! All we value is ruthless efficiency, and I say we deny our own humanity that way! Without appreciation for grace and beauty, there's no pleasure in creating things and no pleasure in having them! Our lives are made drearier, rather than richer! How can a person take pride in his work when skill and care are considered luxuries! We're not machines! We have a human need for craftsmanship! 

We have a human need for grace and beauty, and we find that grace and beauty in our relationships.  We need relationships with the work we're doing, nature, people, our selves, and God. It's these relationships that make us more creative and engaged workers as well as people who have boundaries with our work. 

But, relationships take time. We need to just be present with one another, nature, our selves, and God. Taking breaks and wasting time  is not efficient, but it is what gives us the space and energy to dream, to be creative, and to be human. 

Delightful

Do other places in the world have feelings associated with their weather forecast in the newspaper?

My order for reading the local newspaper:

1. Police Blotter
2. Obituaries
3. Dear Abby
4. Weather Report

There are times I read the articles, but it's hard to get through to newspaper conglomerates that Fairbanks is not actually local news.

It's the weather report that sometimes makes me the craziest. There are times a day is forecast as "dull and dreary" or this Wednesday is supposed to be "partly sunny and delightful." 

I'm used to weather writers having to come up with fifty million ways to talk about rain, but I can't wrap my brain around forecasting how I will experience a sunny or rainy day. 

Sunny days are rarely delightful for me. They are exhausting, grueling, and adventurous. Like today, where I did a seven hour hike up a strenuous mountain. I'm not sure "delightful" is the right word, but then again it's not supposed to be delightful until Wednesday.

Here's the thing. . . nobody gets to tell me what to feel. 

I hear people talk about just wanting to make someone happy and I tell them that's controlling bullshit. You don't get to make anyone happy. 

How someone responds emotionally to what is going on around them is their responsibility. You can put experiences in place, be a truthful and gracious companion, but you can't force someone to be happy. 

It's the Disney syndrome where parents start melting down on kids who aren't having fun - "We paid a ton of money for you to have fun!" You can take a kid to Disney but you can't make them enjoy it. 

You can forecast a sunny day, but you can't make me delight in it. Actually, I have lots of office work for Wednesday so I will have to stare out my window at a beautiful day and become grumpy. 

And I kind of love cloudy days. You think dreary; I think cozy reading. 

It will make us crazy to try and forecast peoples' emotional reaction to experiences. 

When we try to manipulate emotional responses, then relationships get really out of whack. I've heard people censor themselves or the truth because they know it will upset someone else. 

I'm not for being a jerk, but if it's truth then intimacy and trust is damaged when you refrain. That's a serious control issue when you walk on egg shells trying to keep the other "happy". 

I trust the people around me to be emotionally mature and responsible for themselves. I don't entertain or pander. I rarely censor (even though folks might appreciate a little more), but I try to show up as myself ready for adventure rain or shine. 

Folks can figure out on their own if its delightful or dreary.

Skookum

I pick up hitchhikers when I can.

I know this goes against some safety standard set in someone's mind, but it truly isn't more dangerous than walking in bear country or crossing the road in a city. I've depended on the hospitality of strangers too often to ignore an outstretched thumb.

Kirt and I just celebrated our anniversary, which reminded me of when we had to hitchhike 60 miles on our honeymoon. Whoops. 

More than once I've had to extend a thumb hoping someone who wasn't scary would be hospitable. That might seem unnerving, but here is what I've learned about life so far: everyone gets hurt and dies regardless of how careful we are. 

Asking for or offering hospitality is always a risk, but no greater than isolating oneself and dying of loneliness and boredom.

That brings me to my favorite word perhaps of all time: SKOOKUMS.

I love this for three reasons:
1. It's the name of the metal recycler where all the abandoned cars dumped in the church parking lot go after a ton of hassle and money. I appreciate the reminder when I stop by there that nothing stops "being" just because you haul it away and get it out of your sight. This is the graveyard for metal where it is collected and transformed into something new (or a pile of parts waiting).

2. Skookum means "strong, brave, powerful." 

3. Skookum also means "a woodland monster kind of like Big Foot." 

It's #2 and #3 I want to focus on, even though I'm eternally grateful for #1.

I wonder what would happen if we renamed Holy Spirit, Holy Skookum. It would be nearly as fun to say as Holy Ghoooost, but it would also give some grit to the pallor of words like spirit or love. 

Maybe I'm the only person who thinks "love" and "spirit" tend to be empty and ethereal words. They are nice to say or put on cards, but they don't necessarily keep your feet moving when the world is crashing. They don't give one the backbone needed to extend and accept hospitality to strangers let alone those we deal with daily.

I feel like most hard parts of life and relationships require a swift kick in the butt to move out of comfortable numbness or unhealthy systems. We are willing to live with so much hurt and destruction if it means we can avoid putting on big girl panties and facing the darkness. 

That's the gift of Holy Skookum, a blend of courage and a creepy woodland monster. I kind of dig imagining the Holy Spirit as a giant, hairy monster who walks beside us with the power and courage to live without lies and numbness. 

The love we see in the person of Jesus is actually pretty terrifying so I feel better with Big Foot beside me than Casper the Friendly Ghost. 

Or I'll be honest, I picture Chewbacca and that's kind of the image I need to strengthen me to speak up, to face brokenness with truth, to reach out to a stranger or a loved one. That's the courage I need to live in relationships based on forgiveness and grace, not disregard and numbness.