sunday's child

norming, storming, performing

2007-10-22T21:47:00.001-04:00

Today our staff discussed the different phases of a group. The "norming" stage is the stage where the members of the group feel each other out, getting a sense for the personalities of others and discerning roles within the group. The "storming" stage happens once the members are fairly clear on who the others are and how they operate. At this point, their differences begin to cause conflict. The final stage is the "performing" stage. At this point, people have moved through the conflict and have learned how to perform together as a group, and how to use their differences as assets rather than liabilities.

Our head of staff noted that we are probably still in the norming stage as he has only been there for 2 or 3 months, and we are still adapting to his styles and re-learning our jobs and roles in a new system. I think he is mostly right, but I realized, quite suddenly this morning, that I am in the storming stage. I am antagonistic, opinionated, and occasionally just plain cranky here lately. The storming stage feels more like chaos than a path to something good, and I think that is where I am professionally, and maybe a little personally. The discussion gave me some hope that there will be some performing, a time when progress is made more efficiently, at the end of the storm. I feel that there is something hopeful and unbelievably exciting just around the corner, and part of my frustration is trying to figure out how to get there NOW.

And coupled with my impatience is my not so deep fear that I will miss the treasure that is there, just around the corner----that I will take a wrong turn or get lost in this forest that it feels like I am pushing through. Or that I will be too confident in my abilities or not confident enough . . . or something.

So, there it is: I am afraid, and excited, and antsy, and frustrated, and overwhelmed. It is as though the whole indescribable thing is too much and not enough, and I am scared and crazy with anticipation . . . all at the same time.

And I have no doubt it is annoying to my colleagues and likely my husband as well.

But I know that I am at the brink of something very, very good--

if these damn storm clouds would ever clear.

sometimes

2007-10-16T21:24:00.000-04:00

things are broken beyond repair
the easiest choice is not the right choice
the right choice makes you cry
blameless people are blamed
good people don't act that way
"the way it was" is not an option
there are no good options
it is very, very sad.

*sigh*

Real Friends

2007-09-30T16:54:00.000-04:00

I spent the summer after I graduated from college with two high school friends working random jobs on an island resort. It was a great summer. We had each gone to different colleges, and those months helped us reconnect in a way that christmas breaks just can't. We made a promise that summer that we would go on a trip every year.

We have never been the same and seem to only become more different. But, somehow it seems to matter less and less. Some of us have more money than others. One of us lives in the city. One of lives in our hometown. One of lives in husband's hometown. We have different jobs and different dreams and plans, but it just doesn't seem to matter.

We all went off to graduate schools and managed to fit our trip in most years. We missed the summer I got married. We missed the summer my dad died. But we remained committed.

This year was another wedding year, and we struggled to find a time away. We finally found one Friday night that we could all spend at a fancy spa.

The best laid plans . . .

A couple weeks before, my North Carolina friend discovered that her seemingly healthy 35-year-old husband needed open heart surgery. It was scheduled two days before our trip.

We planned to postpone, of course, but in the meantime, Virginia friend and I took our planned time off and drove to North Carolina. She didn't need us, and there was nothing for us to do. But we were there. Because we are friends. And when you have a friendship like ours that is just what you do.

When my dad died, Virginia friend was spending a year eight hours from home. After a trip home to visit her parents, she drove eight hours, learned my dad had died, turned around and drove eights hours back. Because we're friends. And that's what you do when you're friends.

There are a lot of things I don't like about getting older, but one of the joys is having friends who have known you through your best and your worst. They know the real you, the parts that have grown and changed and the changeless pieces of who you are.

At 21 we had no idea that our trips would be to funeral homes or hospitals, but that's real life and we are real friends. I wouldn't trade it.

What decade am I in??

2007-09-23T20:55:00.000-04:00

I had this very nice thoughtful post in mind, but my thoughts were just interrupted by the telephone. I answered, heard a pause, and realized that it was a computer-dialed call. I always try to hang up before a real person can pick up, but I was too slow. "Lance" started telling me about the survey he was conducting, and I was planning my nice but direct "I'm not interested." But as he finished his spiel, he asked, "So, may I speak to the male head of the household?"

WHAT?!?

Are you kidding me? Seriously? September 2007 and the males are still the head of the household?

I paused briefly and replied, "There is no male head of this household."

And then I was planning my direct and not-as-nice, "And I don't want to take your stupid survey either," and instead Lance tells me, "Oh. I understand, ma'am. Thank you. Good-bye."

What the hell does he understand?

Somehow I don't think he understands at all.

Smack!

2007-09-06T22:40:00.000-04:00

Do you ever feel that a reality that should have been obvious all along has smacked you in the face? We have a new senior pastor at my church, and he keeps emphasizing that we are about making disciples rather than raising the budget, maintaining our property, paying off our debt, paying our personnel, or having great programs.

Right. of course. I know that. But suddenly, I feel God shaking me hard and letting me know that I have not been living that way. We have great Christian Education programs, but do they make disciples? I'm not sure.

I've been asking myself over and over. Why? Why would I allow the emphasis to be programs rather than Jesus?

I think I know why. And I am frustrated with myself for the reason. I hate being disappointed. And often the church disappoints me. Over the last five years, I think I have unconsciously lowered my expectations in order to avoid being disappointed.

In fairness, I also have enough perspective to see some factors at play. My dad died three years ago. It was terrible . . .the most terrible thing that has ever happened to my in my privileged, sheltered life. I handled this loss fairly well, but grief takes energy, and my grief left little energy for dealing with disappointment. In addition, I have realized that the previous head of staff was not interested in educational programs. He was very focused on the church's finances, and we were constantly told that there was no money for programmatic things. I didn't have the energy to push against such a strong and influential force . . .or against the fear that he induced in the congregation and session.

Regardless of the reason, I think that both personally and professionally, I have underestimated God, maybe even belittled God. I don't think I have expected transformation in people or structure. I can talk about God's kingdom, but I haven't been acting as though it was anything more than an abstract seminary idea.

And I am disappointed in myself, and very, very sorry for living in such a small way. God deserves better. I can give more. The church deserves to have more expected of them.

So God and I are going to talk and figure out how I can do better . . . and how I can help the church do better. I will have to risk, which I am not good at. And I will have to be brave, which I am only good at sometimes. But God is big. I have to remember, and I have to believe.

Catch-up

2007-07-30T21:34:00.000-04:00

In random order, this summer I . . .

. . .attended one conference and one mission trip.

. . .acted as head of staff for two weeks out of the summer while we were between Interim Sr Pastor and New Sr Pastor and Associate Pastor was on vacation. One week was chaos, one was good.

. . . visited a national park, went sea kayaking, witnessed lobster-trap-hauling, saw two Broadway shows, visited two major art museums, flew three times, enjoyed 4 evenings of gorgeous sunsets over water, was delayed one time, saw 8 relatives from other states, leaned how dysfunctional my family is and how much I love them anyway. . . all in 10 days.

. . .celebrated Husband's 30th birthday with an evening shindig that ended 5 hours before we had to leave for the airport for mentioned vacation (sleep was, unfortunately, optional).

. . .learned that I love the church I serve and will be staying for a while.

. . .ran a 10K with the associate pastor from the church and 54, 998 other people.

. . .agreed to preach at my home church for homecoming . . .even though some of them have decided they don't like female preachers

. . .wondered all over why summer never slows down like I think it will.

confessions and observations

2007-06-09T17:07:00.000-04:00

Confessions: I am a celebrity news junkie. It is embarrassing. I find the whole celebrity craze ridiculous, and I am one of the people that makes it exist. I am rolling my eyes at myself right now. I actually gave up celebrity blogs for Lent this year. Yes, really. Now I only read one, and never from work. I feel so good about this step in the right direction that I am calling it a happy compromise and read my one blog daily with great delight and pride in my self-control. Oh, and I only buy the magazines if I am on a plane or or one vacation. . . . .

Observations: In case you didn't hear, Paris Hilton went to jail recently. Then she went home. Then she went back to jail. I truly believe that Paris Hilton is the epitome of everything that is wrong with American society at the moment. I was not sad that she would go to jail. I was a disgusted when she was released (and do I think that someone got paid off? yes, I do.) But I do feel a little bad that she has to face her consequences in such a circus. I know that everything about her is a circus. She brought it on herself, but still. No one likes to be scrutinized when she's at her worst.

That said, I think that I have diagnosed her "unspecified medical condition": She is suffering from a severe reality check. I think that reality just hit her like a truck for the first time in her life. It is a reality that most of us learn much earlier. None of us like it, but probably your mother taught it to you early just like mine did: Actually, the world doesn't revolve around you . . . Yeah, I think that 26 years of undiscovered reality is hitting her like a ton of bricks and has been known to cause "severe problems" such as hers.

I'm just sayin' . . .

Memorial Day

2007-05-26T15:16:00.000-04:00

I've never been that into Memorial Day. I always have to remind myself that it is more than a long weekend or the beginning of summer. Yes, my father was in the Army briefly, but the military was never a big part of my life. I'm sure it also has something to do with the fact that I grew up in a very peaceful time in the United States. I was in 7th grade for the first Gulf War and was very into being sad for the troops and anti-Sadaam Hussein. But that "war" just furthered my sense of security that the United States was safe and our wars were quick and just.

The couple who lives across the street are grandparents for the very first time. Their daughter lived with them when her baby was born, because he husband was serving in Iraq. He came home for the birth for a few weeks. They bought a new home. She moved in last week and he returned to Iraq. I can't imagine having to leave my weeks-old child to return to fighting a war--this war.

Last night at 6:00 PM, two Army men paid a visit to my neighbors. They were looking for their daughter. They refused to give them any information. They would only speak to their daughter. Her father drove to her house with the Army men following him. I'm sure it was a long ride.

Yes, he is dead. Killed in action. He was supposed to get out in November, no, January after the three-month extension that the Army recently decided on. Doesn't really matter for him anymore. He was there too long, and he will never see the beautiful daughter whom they named after his grandmother ever again. And the new mother who was beginning a wonderful new life is now beginning the life of an Army widow and a single mother.

And this year I understand Memorial Day, but I understand this war even less than before.

spinning in place

2007-05-14T22:05:00.000-04:00

Do you ever feel like you are spinning in place? I sort of feel that way. It isn't necessarily a bad feeling, except that I don't feel as though I have any forward momentum. I suspect, like most spinning objects, that the spinning is moving me beyond a single point. I just can't tell which direction I am going or where I will end up. I don't really like it, but I try to just roll with it.

I am taking a big step soon. It has the potential to cause significant life changes, but it will likely only cause inward changes, which will also be good.

There is one big change, maybe a couple big changes, that I would be interested in making, but Husband isn't so interested in them. So I wait. and wonder. and spin.

I got a magnet in the mail from a friend one time. It read: God knows. That's all. And it is still on my fridge, and I rely on it's being true.

I just pray that God is in the spinning, somewhere.

Prayers for Virginia Tech

2007-04-16T22:16:00.000-04:00

Hi. This is High School friend. I'm sorry that I missed your call. Leave me a message, and I'll call you back!"

BEEEEEEP

"Hey, High School Friend! This is Sunday's Child. I'm just calling because I've been thinking about you all day. I've been watching all the stuff on TV today about Virginia Tech. I know it has been a few years since you were in school up there, but I have just been so sad all day. And I know that you must be sad today. Anyway, I was just calling because I was thinking about you, and to say that I am glad you aren't there anymore and glad that you are safe. No need to call me back. Just wanted you to know I was thinking about you. Love you and I'll see you soon."

Virginia Tech is "my neck of the woods." Unbelievable sadness and heartfelt prayers for the VT community.

Good Friday

2007-04-06T09:55:00.000-04:00

Just the name “Good Friday” represents the paradox that is Christ. When else could crucifixion be named good? Through this evil, this violence, this fear, this injustice comes freedom, peace, reconciliation, and hope. It makes no sense. Jesus doesn’t make sense. But Jesus is. Relying on rationality is a crutch—a way to prevent appearing stupid for believing in that which does not hold up to any reasonable argument. But denying reality just because we don’t understand it is ridiculous and arrogant. Good Friday points to a plan beyond our own, a will beyond our own, a Being beyond the limited scope of human existence and imagination. I am thankful and find hope in being small. For if I am big, hope is very small indeed. I need hope.

In Good Friday, we go to the depths with Christ for as far as we can humanly go and then we watch as Christ in his divinity goes deeper. Knowing the depth gives us a sense of the height of Sunday morning.

The goodness of Good Friday is that its darkness, its evil, its sorrow cannot match the hope and joy of Easter. The goodness of Good Friday is that it is not the end. Only people who know and live the rest of the story could ever name this day “Good Friday.”

Service and Obedience: Maundy Thursday

2007-04-05T21:15:00.000-04:00

I wrote this after last year's Maundy Thursday service. I am happy to report that this year was very meaningful but less eventful.

If there is one thing I hate, it is feeling incompetent. I am good at moving past mistakes for the most part, but when my missteps are seemingly broadcast to the crowds, I tend to dwell.

Tonight was one of those nights. Maundy Thursday. So many people love this day, this service. I have never quite gotten it, honestly (which, in and of itself, could make me feel incompetent). I got to the church early, I put out bulletins, I coached ushers, I roped off pews, I made certain communion would go smoothly for everyone. But I didn’t check the sound system, and it wasn’t on. And I was the first to speak. And associate pastor, whom I was trying to spare from the details before he had to preach, had to run up to the sound system to turn on the microphones while I proceeded to yell the Call to Worship. I am good at yelling in those situations and making it seem like I am not, but then the mic came on mid-sentence and I went from “projecting” to deafening. In my embarrassment, I proceeded to skip a line of the call to worship and ended by reading the last line (marked ALL) by myself. Mortifying.

The sermon was entitled ‘Crunch Time!” and it made me feel like I’d choked and shamed Jesus as well as myself. In his final hours, Jesus washes the disciples’ feet, teaching through his service, humility, and obedience. God washing the dirt of God’s own creation from the feet of God’s own creatures. We are called to this service, to this obedience. I expected it. I heard it. I cleaned up and I left.

After bemoaning my incompetence to my husband, I received a call for help. I didn’t want to go. “We need help. We are sick. We can’t stay up with the baby. We need help.” I just wanted to go to bed—in my own bed with my husband, not on someone’s floor in an apartment filled with germs and a one-year-old who has been sick for three days and whose parents are throwing up too frequently to care for him. I went because I should. I wanted to cry. I prayed for sleep, but I didn’t get it. I sat a glider in the dark with a heavy, sleeping child sprawled in my lap. He would sleep fine in my lap, but would scream bloody murder if I put him in his crib. I watched the minutes move past. “If I can only get to 2:00 AM . . . . If I can only get to 3:00 AM . . . .If I can only get to 4:00 AM. . . .” My mind wandered. He is sweet . . .One day I will do this with my own child . . . I will never have a child . . . any child I have will be adopted—and will be no younger than 26. But I also thought about my incompetence. I couldn’t lead a simple call to worship and I can’t make a sleepy child sleep in a bed. I had to go to the bathroom and couldn’t move without the baby waking. It was ridiculous. He was a year old, and I had no control. So I watch the clock, and I prayed, and I asked for wisdom and I asked for strength and I asked forgiveness for not wanting to be there. In my wanderings, I wondered about service and duty and if they can be the same thing—or if they are always the same thing. I wondered if real service might be the kind you don’t want to do, that it is not even within you to want to do? Instead, service is what you do out of duty, out of love, out of obedience to call that is beyond the moment and beyond yourself? Is that the most meaningful kind? Staying up all night with someone else’s child in your lap is hardly crucifixion, but I am not Jesus. It is humbling to realize your incompetence and realize that the best you have going for you might be obedience.

Costa Rica . . .part 3

2007-03-13T17:20:00.000-04:00

sunlit ocean before

strong, stately trees above

sand and shells beneath

friends beside

midday heat surrounding

joy and peace within

Costa Rica . . . part 2

2007-03-09T11:18:00.000-05:00

The first time I met him he put his arm around me and began telling me all about Honduras and how many trips he has been on and how much work has been done and about a ranch and people I didn't know and didn't I want to go?

I had just been introduced, but during his speech I had forgotten his name. I wasn't even sure he went to the church where I had just begun working. I just smiled and nodded and laughed nervously. I did have the presence of mind not to let him write my name down for the next Honduras trip in that first meeting.

Almost five years later, I still haven't been to Honduras. But I joined him for a trip to Costa Rica, and I realized that I had never known him before. Actually, no one could no him without being with him on a mission trip. He lives in Latin American.

His body, once the agile, strong form of a football player, is a slower and moves with more effort. His age and his health keep him from working as he once did, but he was the first one up each morning, and his energy kept the rest of us working.

Now he has "people"--someone to carry his hat, his sunglasses, his walking stick. He likes it because his "people" are all young women, and his wife likes it because it means there is always someone looking out for him.

He made a friend, as he always does. This time it was "Cacahuete" or "Peanut." He collected food for the tiny, scrawny puppy at each meal. He knew that it was unlikely that the puppy would live long after we left, but he spent each afternoon with Cacahuete as the rest of us painted.

He says he wants to die on a mission trip. I can only believe about half of what this man says. (How many times have I heard, "Would I lie to you?" answered by myself and others with a resounding and unhesitating "yes!" ?) I used to think that this statement was one of his many exaggerations. It's not. He would like to die doing what gives him life, with the people to whom he has passed his passion, with the joy of knowing he has lived and served well.

"Look at this," he said to me one day while we were working. "How can I give this up?" He looked me straight in the eye and had the tiniest hint of desperation in his question. I looked around--to the shack where a family of 5 lived, the new home where they would soon move, Cacahuete, his "people," the rooster passing through the yard, the mountains in the distance, the dust flying in the hot air as a horse trotted down the road. . .

I looked back at his sincere, smiling eyes. "I don't know," I said, shaking my head. I just gave him a hug and went back to work.

Costa Rica . . . part 1

2007-03-06T18:17:00.000-05:00

as darkness crowds out the day
the slowness of time
carries thoughts to conclusions
that startle us
with that which we have always known
but never lived

glimpses that we have hurried beyond
become realities that we cannot outrun,
as we find ourselves knee-high
in the truths that litter our lives,
their meaning reduced to their wastedness

until that which we have treated as trash
burdens our pace
and our ignorance is no longer worth
the weariness that it costs

so we rest

and we know

and we tremble with the realization
that we cannot be as we were

sadness

2007-01-26T11:23:00.000-05:00

sadness is not a feeling that i had much experience with in the first 25 years of my life. yes, there were break-ups; there were fights with parents and friends; the loss of my grandfather. but mostly i felt sadness from a distance, safely viewing others grapple with sadness up close.

then my dad died and i realized that i no idea what it meant to be sad. i realized my naiveté and the ridiculous utopia that had been my life. and i realized that sadness is not just a feeling. it is a weight, a weight that i had always been able to shrug off when it became burdensome. no longer. the sadness could not forgotten or left for another to carry. the sadness was mine and despite a husband and friends and family who stood with me, it was mine alone to carry. and it was hard.

life changed. my family seemed to be sucked of its effortless vitality. we are strong and did not fall apart, but no amount of strength could make us whole. we drew in closer to one another, but the hole remained and we each had to carry the weight of what had been but was no longer.

we change to accomodate loss, but sadness breeds fear. my mother calls me late at night, and i feel panic run across my stomach before i answer the phone. i dread terrible news because i know that terrible news is possible. i knew it before, but i know it now.

my aunt and uncle, whom i adore and who serve as my paternal grandparents due to their age and childlessness, have both experienced strokes. my uncle has beginning stages of alzheimers.

my grandmother died and my mother is alone. an orphaned widow. it wasn't supposed to be like that. and no matter how i want to help, i am always the daughter and cannot replace a mother or a husband.

working in a church, i see mothers with breast cancer and fathers who die tragically and elderly whose children have abandoned them to age.

i feel robbed of my identity to an extent. i used to be the girl with the nearly perfect life. now i just like everyone else, carrying my sadness around everywhere i go--sometimes hidden, sometimes obvious, but always there.

it took a long time to get to me, but sadness found me and is teaching me that i am just like everyone else. and i am slowly learning the truth that too many others face much earlier.

sadness is inevitable.

but, as i adjust to its presence and its weight, i've realized that it is not necessarily the end of joy. it takes strength to hold them both together.

and that's life, whether i like it or not.

2007-01-19T15:37:00.000-05:00

Did you know that it is estimated that 1 in 6 boys and 1 in 4 girls are sexually abused before their 18th birthdays?

That statistic is dumbfounding to me. I learned it through a workshop called "Stewards of Children" developed by a nonprofit called Darkness to Light. I do not latch on to programs or causes very easily, but I write about this program because it is excellent. I cannot say enough about how important this training if for our churches.

Let me give you some background.

Well over a year ago Retired Senior Pastor (who was not yet retired) called me in my office.

"Sunday's Child, I've been speaking to church member who would like to make a very large pledge to the church."

"Great!" I said, having no clue what this had to do with me. I did know, however, that it was best to pay attention since Senior Pastor was on a mission to secure the church's financial future before he retired.

"This person will give this pledge if we would be willing to train our staff in a particular program for preventing sexual abuse. This person would like someone in the church to be trained as a facilitator. Would you be willing to do that?"

"Well, I think it would be great to train the staff. Where could I get information about the program?"

"I can't remember the name, but I am sure that they have it over as Nearby Seminary." (Just as a side note, Retired Senior Pastor thought that any type of training or class could be found at Nearby Seminary. I knew enough to know that this statement may or may not be accurate.)

"Well, if you would get me the name, I'd be glad to look into it."

"Great. Thanks."

End of conversation.

Two months later, another phone call.

"Sunday's Child, have you had a chance to look into that abuse prevention program?"

"Well, Senior Pastor, you never gave me the name of it. I am happy to take the lead on finding more information, but I need the name of it."

"Sure. I will find that. Do you think we could do the training here?"

"Well, it sounds good, but I would want to look at it before I committed to using it."

"I'll get you some information."

"Great. Thanks."

End of conversation.

Seven months later Interim Senior Pastor walks into my office.

"Sunday's Child, I received a very generous donation from a member along with a note asking if we had trained our staff in a program about preventing sexual abuse yet. Apparently, the pledge was tied to our training the staff in this program. Do you know anything about this?"

Pausing . . . remembering . . .feeling angry . . ."Well, sort of . . " and I proceed to tell Interim Senior Pastor the conversations I had had with Retired Senior Pastor.

"Well," Interim Senior Pastor said, "We obviously need to move on this. Would you be willing to take the lead?"

"Yes, but I need to know the name of the the prgram first!"

Interim Senior Pastor nodded and said, "I'll get you the name of the program."

Too many phone calls, several emails, and a couple months later, I found myself downtown in a sketchy goverment building to be trained in the Stewards of Children program. I was not very excited to be there or give up my whole afternoon. I had been to these kind of things before and had been sorely disappointed. Scaring me with outrageous stories of sexual abuse in churches is insulting to my intelligence as a person and to my competence as a professional. No, I was not excited.

Three hours sped by. We watched a video with survivors telling pieces of their stories along with individuals who deal with the issue of sexual abuse in some way--doctors, police detectives, psychologist, social workers, child advocates, pastors, teachers, parents. There was no cheesy music, no meladrama. The video allowed the stories and statistics to speak for themselves. And it was scary and heart-wrenching.

But it was also empowering. The training was based on the premise that while child-base sexual abuse prevention programs are good, it is not a child's job to prevent sexual abuse. Adults must pull together as a community in order to stop an epidemic in our society.

And who better to work as a community to protect children than the church? We must step up and take the lead--with policies, yes, but mostly with awareness, compassion, and diligence.

Visit the Darkness to Light website. You can take the training online if you like, but I highly recommend a group training with a facilitator. People need to talk about and process this information. Look into it for your churches, your schools, your play groups, your YMCAs, you summer camps, you Boys Scout leaders---anyone who has any contact with children.

I came away from this training believing that I can make a difference, but that we can make a bigger difference.

'Tis the Season

2006-12-22T09:41:00.000-05:00

nighttime darkness illuminated by twinkling roofs, bushes, railings and wreaths, plastic Mary and Joseph live on lawns by blow-up Winnie the Pooh in a Santa hat; carols and choirs and exclamations and joy; memories and expectations in reds and greens and silver and gold; gingerbread men and peppermint hot chocolate; crowds of shoppers pleased with purchases, overwhelmed and guilted by consumerism, beautiful displays that lead me to wonder “what if . . .” knowing reality but escaping it with my imagination of a Pottery Barn home; loving to find perfect gifts while shopping in perfect stores and balancing never-enough once we get home . . .smiling and sighing and laughing and fretting . . .white and colored lights shine from our tree through the window to the street; passersby unknowingly witnessing the unexpected beauty of marital compromise; finding hiding places in corners of a small house, knowing that though the intended receiver threatens to snoop, no one wants to ruin a surprise; leaving a half-decorated house with dishes in the sink in sparkles and ties to celebrations with friends and acquaintances, beloved and tolerated; brief moments of stillness that lead to warmth for what is and loss for what is not and cautious hope for what will be, all at once and never the same . . .

Hope
Love
Peace
Joy
Christ

And this:
A season of joy with sadness, celebration in uncertainty,
Love in grief and stress in peace
Hope in children and blessings in friends
Giving and receiving
Wanting more and needing less
Perfectly imperfect
Regular life tied up with a sparkly bow.

Christmas party

2006-12-16T12:18:00.000-05:00

Last week, Husband and I hosted a Christmas party. We have had a dinner party at Christmas every year since we have been married. The first one was not by choice.

At the time, we'd been married less than 6 months. We lived at the seminary where Husband was enrolled. Husband spent summers working at a church conference center, and some of his best friends from those summers were also seminary students. I, however, did not worked at said conference center; and though I knew of these friends and had met them several times, I always felt like I had to work to fit in. When we arrived on campus after our honeymoon, these friends decorated our apartment door and left champagne. A few weeks after our wedding, we were invited to dinner at the home of one couple from this group. We were surprised there with a congratulatory cake as well as a yummy dinner, good wine, and a fun night.

But it is hard to be the new person with a group who has known each other for years. I always wanted to go and hang out, but it took lots of preparation to work up my extraversion. We began to get together for dinner once a month or so. I dreaded when it would be our turn to host. I had never had people over for dinner--I mean real grow-ups. So, I waited until everyone else had taken a turn. And, you guessed it, by then it was December.

So my stress increased. We bought our first tree and all of the decorations. I bought a Christmas tablecloth for our table. I put candles in our wedding-present candle holders. And I conferred with my mother on what to cook. Everyone brought a dish, and we had plenty of drinks, lots of food, and a really good time.

Such a good time, in fact, that I wanted to host another Christmas gathering the next year. Sadly, by the time I wanted to host the party, all of that original group had graduated and moved away. So we invited other couples. Husband's brother and his girlfriend had recently moved to town. A couple of college friends were able to come.

And it was fun, too.

Each year we have some new faces and some old faces. I plan the menu and the decorations months in advance. We borrow chairs from the church and moved furniture around. When we were looking for a house a couple years ago, I imagined our Christmas party in every dining room.

We had our fifth Christmas party last week. I had planned a big party--extra tables, new invitees, placecards, and the works. But people cancelled at the last minute and threw my months-ago laid plans into a tailspin. So we squeezed the ten remaining people around a table designed to seat 8. I worried that it would be boring. I worried that we would have too much food. I worried we were squished around the table. I worried that people wouldn't like each other.

But it was fun, too.

I finally realized that my plans are fine and good, but fun people make a fun party. And they do . . . every year.

Christmas Songs

2006-12-08T10:12:00.000-05:00

I took piano lessons for years as a child. At this time of year, I was allowed to pull out the Christmas piano books and use those for my lessons. Each year I would pick a new favorite Christmas song. It would be "my song" for that year. I would play it incessently and learn all the words to all the verses. A few highlights:

"Have Yourself a Merry Light Christmas"
"Silver Bells"
"Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer"
"O Holy Night"
"O Little Town of Bethlehem"

There were others, but they run together. As an adult, I am realizing that I like instrumental seasonal music. I can keep the words in my own head instead of hearing some Jessica Simpson-esque version that tries to hit every note in the scale in record time. It's too loud during this season without having to listen to people trying to to cash in with a Christmas album.

Another annual Christmas season tradition was the "Widows and Orphans" dinner at my church. My parents' Sunday School class hosted a candlelit dinner for the elderly widows, widowers, and never-marrieds of our small church. My mother made wassail and lots of food. My father was often in charge of the entertainment. The entertainment varied, but several years it was a music provided by the men of the Sunday School class. My mother was the church pianist, and our dear family friend was an unbelievable guitar player. The men's group would practice in my family's living room.

"Beautiful Star of Bethlehem" and "Mary Did You Know?" always take me straight back to falling asleep in bed to the muffled sounds of the piano, guitar, and vocal harmony of some dear saints still practicing just downstairs.

And finally, songs that make me want to run out of the store or switch the radio station:
Anything by Mariah Carey or Alvin and the Chipmunks
For my husband it is "Christmas Shoes." He detests this song. He always announces his first hearing of the song with grim resignation to the fact that someone out there must like it and he will have to endure it for at least one more year.

Now I'm off to finish decorating the tree!

Last thoughts on Thanksgiving . . .

2006-11-26T13:44:00.000-05:00

It was wonderful, and I am grateful. I called my far-away brother a week ago and tried to talk him into driving the 14 hours to come home for Thanksgiving. I told him, "Five is too few for Thanksgiving, but seven would be perfect! So if you and E came, we would have a perfect number!" I thought it was a convincing argument, but it was not effective.

BUT . . . we did have seven after all. Far-away brother and his wife did not change their plans, but my mom invited some family friends whose children would not be in town. The wife had back surgery a week ago and was in some pain and a little loopy from her medication, but both she and her husband were ready for a change of scenery. It was nice. We've known this couple for years and years. Their youngest daughter is one of my oldest friends. She was the matron of honor at my wedding. Our families held garage sales together, went of vacations, and shared lots of meals together. So it was very relaxed.

And we made our plans to go see far-away brother this summer.

And we did a little (little being the operative word) shopping on Friday.

And we did this.

And we saw this.

And generally found many, many reasons to be thankful. I should never doubt that I will have a fun time with my family. They're great. They just are. Everyone should be so luck--- no. Everyone should be so blessed.

Thanksgiving

2006-11-22T07:47:00.000-05:00

Husband and I are leaving this afternoon . . . along with most of the 5 million other residents of my metro area. We are going to spend Thanksgiving with my mom. One of my brothers and his wife will be with us as well. We've never had the huge Thanksgivings that some families have, but five people is not very many. I think that we have done that before, back before any of us were married and when my dad was still living. Somehow that five felt like enough while this year's five does not. We spent lots of Thanksgivings driving 8 hours to my grandparents' house (which actually was over a number of rivers and through a lot of woods). It has been a number of years since my grandmother was up for cooking Thanksgiving dinner, so that is not a recent tradition. However, since her death in September it is not even a remote option. And Mama won't be calling her on Thanksgiving day to see what she is doing. My other brother lives far away and can't make it home. I've spent a lot of Thanksgivings away from this brother, but somehow this year, I really wish he were coming home.

While this may not be my most memorable Thanksgiving, I know it will be a good one. Because, honestly, I have a lot to be thankful for. This is what I love about Thanksgiving: just as you begin to feel sorry for yourself because you miss family members or can't be where you want to be, you remember that it is Thanksgiving and inevitably begin to mentally list the blessings that fill life. And I have found that it is possible to be a little sad and deeply grateful at same time. And often the deep gratitude overtakes the sadness at least for spells of time.

So, though there will be a small group of five, I know that we will have lots of laughter--we always do. I know that we will be talking about a family trip to visit far-away brother in the spring or summer. I know that my mom's house will be warm and smell good and home-y in a way that mine never does. I know that my mom will be glad to see me and Husband. I know that Husband will be with me. I know that I will get to sleep as long as I want and that I will get to relax and read and nap and chit-chat to my heart's content.

So, yes, maybe there have been "better" Thanksgivings, but tomorrow doesn't have to be compared to years past or years in the future. Thanksgiving is about being thankful for now, and I really, really am.

Thanksgiving Memories

2006-11-19T14:05:00.000-05:00

When I think of Thanksgiving, I have a very sweet memory celebrating Thanksgiving with my kindergarten class. There were two kindergarten classes in my school, and we were separated by a moveable wall, which I didn't realize was moveable. I just knew it didn't reach the ceiling like the other walls.

Mrs. Nelson was tall with long red hair. Every couple weeks I would bring her a present because she did such a good job of appreciating them and because I thought she was absolutely wonderful. She told us stories about her trips to the grocery store, about her three sons, about how the snow fell at her house. She let us into her life in a way that made us feel special. It was Mrs. Nelson who first told us the story of the first Thanksgiving: the pilgrims, the Indians, the feast, and the friendships. She showed us how to make Indian vests out of Kroger paper bags. I worked hard to decorate mine and meticulously cut the fringe for the bottom.

Mrs. Wright taught next door. She had salt and pepper hair, and her class was loud. I remember being sorry that the kids in her class didn't get to have Mrs. Nelson. But Mrs. Wright was kind and friendly, and what I didn't know was that on the other side of that wall, she was teaching her class about the pilgrims and the Indians, about the feast and the friendships. She taught her class how to make pilgrim hats out of black and white construction paper and helped them to roll up their pants and tuck them into their socks.

One day I came to school and the classroom smelled like my aunt's kitchen on a Sunday after church. Mrs. Nelson showed us the green beans in a crock pot behind her desk and the corn in a dish wrappend up tight to keep it warm. She told us that we were going to have a special treat later in the day. I waited and tried to be patient as we went through our regular day: circle time, play time, reading time. Just as my 5-year-old patience was wearing thin, we came back from music and found our classroom had been transformed.

I had not realized until that moment that the wall could be moved. The small tables and small chairs that had their precise spots were placed end to end, starting in Mrs. Nelson's room, going straight through the place where the wall should have been into Mrs. Wright's room. Our class donned our vests and feathered headresses. Mrs. Wright's class rolled up their pants and put on their contruction paper hats. We took our places at the very long table, and we feasted on corn and green beans and even a little bit of turkey. The green beans didn't taste quite like my Mama's, but they were good.

We were quiet at first, eating our food and taking it in, but we warmed up and laughed and joked with our friends from Mrs. Wright's class who we only saw in P.E. and music class.

Then it was over. Our vests went into our cubbies to be taken home at the end of the day. The tables were moved back into their regular places. And finally, the wall was moved back.

I don't think that kindergartens have Thanksgiving feasts together anymore. The Indians are now Native Americans, as they should be. And headresses are out of fashion as well. And the pilgrims didn't really invite all the Indians, just the chief, who brought 90 of his closest friends. There are good reasons that kindergartens don't have Thanksgiving feasts anymore, but I certainly learned something the day the wall was moved to reveal a ragtag bunch of construction paper pilgrims who were ready to share a meal of food that was different but familiar. Thanksgiving isn't perfect, but it is a day when differences give way to similarities, a day pulled out from the calendar to be unlike any other day, a day for sweet memories.

Class Reunion

2006-11-09T23:50:00.000-05:00

I always said that I would go to my high school reunions. I loved high school. I was glad to move on, but I had four good years at AHS.

But my ten-year reunion was three weeks ago, and I didn't go. I've heard it was awkward, but fun. I've heard it was just awkward. But that's just what I heard. I wish now that I knew for myself.

It was not well attended, but there were people I would have liked to have seen. My two best friends from high school were there. My senior prom date was there. My elementary school friend who went through drivers' ed with me was there. My first kiss from 8th grade was there.

There were married people, single people, people with children and those without. They were way too skinny and way too fat. They are in high-powered jobs and unemployed. They live in big cities and right in our little hometown.

The weird but really likeable guy was there . . .still weird and really likeable. The funny girl was there. . . and is still funny. The actor was there . . .he's an engineer. The valedictorian was there . . .and she works in a restaurant. The cute guy who you never thought about dating was there . . . and is now drop-dead gorgeous.

But the salutatorian wasn't there. The class secretary wasn't there. The captain of the cheerleading squad wasn't there. And she is a little sad that she missed out.

I guess I will mark my calendar for 2011.

Ghoulish Friday Five

2006-10-27T09:51:00.000-04:00

I am jumpy. I will scream if you walk into my office too fast. I will jump if you call my name before I know you are there. I watch not-very-scary movies through blankets or barely parted fingers.

If I have a phobia it is probably an irrational fear of things jumping out of hiding unexpectedly. I believe this is due in small part to my cousin's family taking me into the Fall Festival Haunted House at my elementary school about two years too early. I distinctly remember standing, absolutely frozen, looking at a man with a chainsaw while my aunt said in my ear, "It isn't real, sweetie. It is just pretend." I don't remember how they got me out of the haunted house, but I couldn't sleep for a week.

I believe I could have recovered from that, however. I think that my "phobia" is largely the work of my childhood friend, K. She was a year older than I, but she was the youngest in her family while I was the oldest in mine. She came over to my house every Sunday night for years. She was fearless and very, very cool--even at 6. And she loved hide-and-seek.

"I'll only play if you don't jump out and scare me," I would insist, having planned all week how this this time I would stand my ground with my very cool friend.

"I won't!" She would say, "I just want you to play. Please play!"

"Do you promise?" my five-year-old self would ask with a serious look. "Becuase lots of times you say that, and you jump out and scare me anyway."

"Yes!" she'd say, "I promise! Please just play. I can't play by myself."

"You really promise?"

"I really promise."

A pause as I think it over.

"Okay."

Sometimes she would even let me hide first to get me into the game, but inevitably, the game would end with my searching and her jumping out of her hiding place and scaring me. I would scream and jump, and she would laugh.

"You promised!" I would yell.

"But it's just a joke!" She would say.

"I'm never playing hide-and-seek with you again!" I would vow.

And I wouldn't. Until the next week when this scene repeated itself all over again.

The end of the story is that K. was the matron of honor at my wedding, and she has accepted full responsibility for unalterably scarring me. She is pregnant with her second child, and I am suggesting that she never play hide-and-seek with her children.

Risk

2006-10-26T16:39:00.000-04:00

I took a risk today.

I was very upset after a session meeting a few nights ago. I vented to a colleague and to my husband after it ended. I talked (with a quieter voice and fewer hand gestures)to my head of staff the next morning.

And today I sent an email to the elder who was responsible for the situation. It was clear. It was direct. It was not rude. It was not angry. But it was risky.

Elder and I do not operate the same way. We don't communicate the same way. We don't even have the same sense of humor. We have "different levels of sensitivity," to quote the Elder. So, while I carefully chose my words, I could not know how he would react to my email.

I've done this before. Sometimes it has turned out well. Other times it has resulted in deep hurt. That's why it is a risk. I pray and trust my gut. To me, a mended, more honest relationship is worth the risk.

This afternoon Elder called me. We talked. He apologized. I forgave--fully. We found the common ground of our love for our church and for God. Somehow our dissimilarities gave way to that common ground, and we found peaceful reconciliation in a mere five minutes.

Some say, "Let it go." Some say, "Don't rock the boat." Some say, "Don't worry about it." But when I can improve relationships by speaking truth boldly and lovingly, don't tell me to get over it. I have a responsibility to myself and to my fellow Christians to mend relationships when I can. Don't tell me to watch a relationship lie broken and do nothing.

Just pray that I'll have the courage to follow where I am led--even if the path is risky.

confession

2006-10-13T11:57:00.000-04:00

it is not quite noon, and I have already screwed up two of the three things I have done today. I committed to doing something, and because I did not have all the information I did not do what I had committed to doing and it made more work for someone with an already busy day. It is a small detail in a big project, and another person might have let it go, but the person I let down stresses over details easily. So, though I could forgive myself and be okay with my mistake, it is not okay. But I can't change it. So I am having to figure out a way to make it okay for me--even if it isn't for the person I let down. That is hard. And I am committed to going back to help with a larger part of the project tonight---when friends are in town and want to get together.

It can only get better, right?

Wise Words

2006-10-09T12:56:00.000-04:00

“You are competent. You endear yourself to people easily. You can go through your whole career and people will look back and say, 'Sunday's Child, she was so nice. Everyone really liked her.' Or maybe they’ll even remember you as competent or perhaps as cute. You can go through your life being ‘nice,’ or you can stop worrying about always being nice and really accomplish something.”

Wise words that I will never forget from a kind mentor whom I will never forget.

Sense enough to get out of the ditch

2006-10-02T21:56:00.000-04:00

I've often heard those in ministry express their frustration in not being able to "fix things" for people. They weary of the "ministry of presence" and want to actually make something that is wrong right. Others need life to be easier or better than it is, and those in ministry are expected--sometimes by others and sometimes by themselves--to do something to make it that way.

I am not one of those people.

Sure, I have the urge to fix things. I don't want people to experience the hurt and pain that inevitably comes with life to a greater or lesser degree. I know that there are situations that have no answers.

But some do. And when I can see the answer plain as day and must talk on and on to the person who is struggling, I get frustrated. I feel like I am going in circles. And I want the person to stop the circle. Jump off the merry-go-round. See the path and walk it rather than continuing in the mucky, weedy ditch alongside it.

The answers are so simple.

"Listen to the dozens of positive comments rather than the couple negative comments."

"Stop expecting perfection, and just seek God's help to do God's will."

"Listen and observe before you act."

"If you resent saying 'yes' then do everyone a favor and say'no.'"

Why do truths that take a sentence to state, take a lifetime to live?

In memory of Grandma

2006-09-25T23:10:00.000-04:00

On Wednesday morning, my mother called with the news that my grandmother had died. A nurse in World War II, my grandmother enlisted, in part, to "see the world" before she settled down and married. She was the firstborn of a strong mother, and a strong mother to her own firstborn: my mother. I am my mother's firstborn and stand as the only granddaughter in this tradition of strong women. It just felt right that I should speak at her funeral--something I never though I would be able to do. Sometimes, with God's help, we surprise ourselves.

I realize that my grandmother lived much of her life before I knew her. We all have stories and have all been shaped by Grandma, and I just want to share a few of the ways that Grandma left her imprint on my life.

One of the things I loved best about my grandmother was her sense of adventure. She joined the Army as a nurse to see the world. When I was in high school, I had to interview a World War II veteran. I chose to interview Grandma. I was the only person in my class who interviewed a woman, and I remember how proud I felt to call this brave, adventurous, and committed woman my grandmother as I presented my report.

She may have seen more than she counted on—of the world and of human nature, but she saw places that I have certainly never been. When I was in college, I spent a semester in England. I was excited and nervous before I left. Grandma came to visit a month or so before my trip. While she was there, I learned that my traveling partner was backing out of the trip and I would be traveling alone—on a plane, on the subway, on a train, and on a bus—to a college I had never seen. The prospect of spending a semester lost in United Kingdom loomed large. I told her the news as I tried to keep back tears. I counted on her poor eyesight holding my secret of how frightened I was. This was my grandmother who had traveled the world during WWII, dealt with death and dying of friends, family and strangers and never seemed to miss a beat.

But Grandma was always direct and to the point.

“Are you scared?” she asked, as I told her the news with a shaky voice.

“Kind of,” I said trying to be brave but truthful.

And Grandma proceeded to tell me about her days in the Army when she was transferred away from her unit, had to travel alone, and was put on a night shift in an unfriendly hospital where she knew no one. She was scared. She was lonely. But she made it. And without saying so directly, she let me know that I would to.

I felt infinitely better knowing that my brave, resourceful, unflappable grandmother had once been frightened too. She didn’t hug me, she didn’t worry with me. She didn’t need to. She simply sensed my need and did what she could to alleviate it.

And that was Grandma. Practical and kind. Never sappy or over-reacting. She took life as it came, accepted that sometime good things happened and sometimes bad things happened. What I learned from Grandma is that all we can control is how we react. And she always reacted with dignity, regardless of the situation that came her way. She stood up for herself despite her blindness, her age, and her growing limitations. Her mind and her dignity never shrunk. She was a gracious, dignified lady with uncompromised integrity. She was strong and sometimes stubborn. She dealt with what was rather than what she wished to be, and she did her best to make life good for those whom she loved and knew.

She was a woman of faith. Her faith was not loud, but was one of action more than words.

One of my favorite stories was from when Grandma was in Australia. It was cold, and the nurses lived in quickly constructed tents on platforms. Each tent had a wood burning stove in the center. By the morning, the night’s fire had inevitably gone out; and often Grandma was the one who rose early and started the fire.

One morning a fellow nurse said to her, “Louise, I say a prayer for you every morning when you get out in the cold to make that fire.”

Grandma’s quick reply: “Well, thank you, but tomorrow morning feel free to skip the prayer and build the fire instead.”

Grandma was many things to many of us here, and I cannot speak for you all. We miss her and will continue to miss. But she taught us, the grief is a part of life and showed us how to hold our head high and be grateful. I know that her influence runs deep and reaches far. More and more often, I find myself saying something that sounds an awful lot like mother--who has always sounded an awful lot like Grandma. My brothers and my husband will tease me about this. I protest, but really I wouldn’t change it. I am proud to carry on the traits of my strong grandmother and pray that I will be faithful in passing on the dignity, kindness, loyalty and faithfulness that characterized Grandma’s life.

My voice shook, and I started to cry at the last sentence. The words were not my most eloquent or polished, but I conveyed my grandmother as I knew her with truth and respect and gratitude. And it was good enough.

ALT 9.26.16 -- 9.19.06

An Evening at the Golf Course

2006-09-15T10:36:00.000-04:00

After a day of sitting inside, Husband and I decided we needed to get outside and enjoy the evening. I’m not sure if I have shared it here, but Husband works at a golf course. A nice golf course. A nice golf course that hosts a PGA Tour event every year. This golf course has been known to tell very important people who usually have their run of the city, “No, I’m sorry. You can’t play here, but have a nice day.”

Husband and I are not very important people who usually have our run of the city. However, because of his being a part of the golf staff, Husband can play any time that it is not too busy, and I am allowed to walk with him.
So, we walked out of our little, rented house, got into our little, used car, and were waved through the gate by the security guard.

The air was warm, but cooling. The sun was bright, but setting. The grass was vividly green. The water of the lake was shining in the sun. And Husband was in his element.

He played. I walked behind with the camera. I helped him look for balls in the rough. We admired the view. The shadows lengthened. We heard the hoot of an owl from the trees announcing that night was falling.

The final putt fell into the hole just as the last traces of light disappeared from the sky. We walked back to our little car by the light that shined from the beautiful, historic clubhouse, ready to go home to our little house and our frozen pizza.

Happiness and contentment marked our steps. All should be so lucky as we.

Reflecting on the Week

2006-09-08T19:00:00.000-04:00

A nice, quick Friday Five from the RevGalBlogPals.

Five things I enjoyed this week:
1. Waking up on Sunday morning while on vacation and realizing the Sunday School would start in 5 minutes and it was fine that I was not there.

2. Getting to see good friends--at the beach!

3. Listening to a 3rd grader recite the children's catechism--the same one I learned when I was his age.

4. Spending a lazy morning at home with my husband.

5. Starting back into the fall routine (yes, the same one I was ready to get away from when the summer started!)

Bottled Water

2006-09-07T00:53:00.000-04:00

It was 5:00, and I was going home. Yes, there was more to do, but every part of me felt done for the day. I packed up my things, walked out the door into the bright sunlight. The oppressive August heat seemed to come from everywhere at once-- the sun, from the asphalt, the passing cars, the stillness of the air.

My eyes adjusted, and I saw her coming. I ducked my eyes as I fought the urge to hurry the other way. But this was a church, and when you work for the church, you don’t run away from someone in need of help—even when you are tired. So I approached the woman from whom my first response was to run.

She was not young, but I knew she was not as old as she looked. Her thin frame seemed barely able to stay upright, and the weariness in her eyes came from more than her obvious physical exhaustion.

“I am tired and hungry and I have no place to stay tonight, can you help me?” she began immediately. She was obviously tired, possibly hungry, and probably had no place to sleep. We hear this request several times a day at the church I serve. We don’t have money to put people in a hotel or the time to solve their very complicated problems, but we try to treat them with respect, with Christian love and care.

I smiled, though it was barely sincere, and we probably both knew it.

“Ma’am, we don’ have a program to help you here, but we might have some food inside, and I can get you some phone numbers of places that you could call for assistance.”

“Thank you, thank you,” she said as she followed me inside.

The food I had expected was gone. All I could offer was a half-empty bag of pretzels. I apologized as I offered them to her. I realized that she had very few teeth and that pretzels would be difficult for her to eat, but she accepted them graciously. She told me about her medical problems, her homelessness, her hunger as she followed me to the office.

And I handed her a piece of paper as she sat crying. The weariness in her eyes seemed to be overflowing into tears. I offered to pray with her, told her that if she came back in the morning, a pastor could talk with her. She just shook her head and continued to cry.

I was grasping at straws. This is why I wanted to run to the car. I knew I could not help this woman. I didn’t have the resources or the strength.

“Let me get you a bottle of water to take with you,” I said. “It is really hot out there.”

She only nodded as I handed her the cold, plastic bottle. She thanked me as she continued to cry tears of defeat and exhaustion. I walked her to the door, because there was nothing else to do, and watched her slumped figure walk away with a cold water, a few pretzels, and a sheet of paper.

Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.

I stood and watched her leave knowing the depth of the need and the inadequacy of the response. Limitations pushed me to place of too little, when gracious abundance was required. A desperate cry for rolling waters and flowing streams had looked me in the eye, and my best response was bottled water.

Friday Five

2006-08-25T09:54:00.000-04:00

From the RevGalBlogPals Friday Five

1. What is your earliest memory of school?

I remember going with my mom and two younger brothers to register for kindergarten the spring before I started school. I was five, and my brothers were three and newborn. We sat in the open library in the middle of the school, and I saw my two church friends who were already in kindergarten walking down the hall in a line with their classes. I thought that they were so grown up, and I couldn't wait to be that big.

2. Who was a favorite teacher in your early education?

One of my favorite teachers was Mrs. Nelson, my kindergarten teacher. She told us great stories from when she was a child and about her family while we were sitting in "circle time." When I "graduated" from my elementary school at the end of 7th grade, I saw Mrs. Nelson on my way out the door on my last day. She gave me a hug, told me she would miss me, and we both cried. She came to my wedding.

3. What do you remember about school “back then” that is different from what you know about schools now?

I had P.E. class every day for 30 minutes and got to play on the playground several times a week. My sixth grade teacher read to us for 30 minutes every afternoon.

4. Did you have to memorize in school? If so, share a poem or song you learned.

I did have to memorize a poem a month in 6th grade. I don't remember any of them except for one called "October's Bright Blue Weather." I can't remember most of the lines, but I think about the poem every sunny October day.

5. Did you ever get in trouble at school? Were there any embarrassing moments you can share?

I was really a boring child. I was so afraid of getting in trouble or doing the wrong thing, that I didn't everything I was told to the letter. I would go through the whole day and not ask to go to the bathroom, because I saw some kids get reprimanded for asking to go to the bathroom. Of course, I didn't make the connection that they were the kids who asked to go every 15 minutes. I did have to go to the principal's office one time. . . . in 7th grade, for an out-of-control "girl squabble." You know, "She said she's not my friend!" "She told so-and-so this and lied to me about it!" "Yes, I said that to her, but she started it." "Maybe it was a little mean, but she wasn't nice to me either!" Gotta love 7th grade girls. . .

Opinions needed

2006-08-22T22:59:00.000-04:00

When a woman is pregnant, how much should she expect to be done for her? I have a lot of friends who are pregnant right now. Some of their husbands make me roll my eyes with their doting, while others make me indignant with (what I perceive as) their lack of attention. Should they not lift heavy things from the day they discover they are pregnant? When does that go into effect? Are husbands obligated to run to the store after late-night cravings or can mom-to-be do that? Is there a point in the pregnancy when that changes? And what is my role as the female friend? As of now, I lift the boxes, climb the ladders, and walk on the traffic side of the street? What else should I be doing? Or what is unnecessary?

And do I need to ask my friends how they are doing and feeling every time I see them? It seems like that question would get old. And I don't pat the belly. That would get old too.

Of course, I guess it all depends on how well you know the person.

As a childless person, I am clueless. As a woman, I am supposed to know these things.

Thank you

2006-08-20T22:10:00.000-04:00

Dear Mama,

Thank you for taking me on our trip to the West Coast. I loved seeing San Francisco, something I have always wanted to do. The coast was beautiful. I would have loved seeing it with anyone, but I was especially glad to see it with you, knowing that it was a special place last summer. I have yet to describe the redwoods to anyone with anything other than the word awesome, even though I know that such a trendy, overused word doesn’t really do them justice.

I had been looking forward to our trip for a long time, in large part because I got to go with you. A week-long trip driving up the west coast with one's mother is not everyone's idea of a good time. But I always look forward to spending time with you. Yes, I know I sometimes ask random questions, tell long stories, and even pester, but it is because I love you. I want to tell you my stories; I care about your opinion; I want to learn from your experiences; I like being where you are.

I know that I did nothing to deserve you and Daddy as parents, and I know it is blessing that many would envy. You are a gift, and for as long as I have been able to form that thought, I have known it. I’m just really grateful you are my mother and for the family that you helped to shap into the one that I love so much.

I know that things are never the same the second time, but I hope the trip was want you had hoped. It definitely was for me, and I am very, very grateful.

Love,

Sunday's Child

From the garage

2006-08-16T08:38:00.000-04:00

My in-laws have been cleaning out their garage and recently brought us several boxes of my husband's old stuff. One box included all of his high school notebooks, which we had a great time going through. We found quizzes on Shakespeare, notes written to friends, and lots of doodles. The following, however, is my favorite find.

Untitled

This Poem is just a bunch of words
That have no deeper meaning.
I did not even want it to rhyme,
And in case that you are gleaning
Any deep insight into your world,
That's good, but I must say,
I didn't mean for it to change
Your life in any way.

There is no use of simile
Nor a single metaphor.
This poem tastes quite like cardboard,
To read it is to bore
Yourself awake in seconds flat,
But that's not a paradox,
Because I've always found great joy
Playing in a cardboard box.

written by Sunday's Child's husband circa 1995

Summer should be . . .

2006-08-10T23:31:00.000-04:00

Sunlit water at the end of a sunburned day
Of lazing, laughing, snoozing, splashing
Inspiring the silliness of

1…2….3!
a brief moment in hand-held suspense before

warmed water, dulled sound, paddling toward the light

and suddenly

the vivid harmony of laughter.

Wiping water from the eyes to see the laughing, bobbing
Of one you trust enough to be silly,
To hold and to let go,
One worthy of the whole-hearted vulnerability of summer.

Middle of the Night Whys

2006-08-08T00:34:00.000-04:00

Why am I the person calling to recruit Sunday School teachers?

I am calling because no one else is and I am the one getting paid.

Why did I not remedy this problem by getting together a committee some time ago?

I didn’t get a committee because I unintentionally decided it was easier to do myself than get a group together to do it.

Why am I less enthusiastic about asking people to do it than I used to be?

Because I have been disappointed and have unconsciously decided it is easier to expect less than to continue to be disappointed.

Why do I feel like there are no new people to ask?

I just don’t know the gifts of the new members, and there is not a good system in place to figure that out.

Why do I feel like discovering who God is calling to ministry with the church’s children is a burden rather than a privilege?

This process feels like a burden because I am tired, stressed and feel alone in the process and because I have been disappointed in the church members this summer.

Why when I met with the mother of the child to be baptized on Sunday did we talk about logistics rather than theology?

I talked logistics because I have been disappointed and have unconsciously decided it is easier to expect less than to continue to be disappointed.

Why is getting people to make church enough of a priority that they can follow through on the commitments of their membership like pulling teeth?

See next question

Why am I not doing anything to educate people on how to make those priorities or what commitments they actually made?

I have been disappointed and have unconsciously decided it is easier to expect less than to continue to be disappointed.

Why do these whys make me feel lazier instead of spur me to kick start things at the church?

I have been disappointed and have unconsciously decided it is easier to expect less than to continue to be disappointed.

Why in the world did God call me into this in the first place?

Am I supposed to know the answer to that?

Is this what I was called to or have I missed it somewhere?

I don’t think God called me to laziness or lowered expectations.

What will I do?

Step it up. Quit thinking this should be easier and stop making it harder on myself. Pray more. Complain less. Focus on people before programs. Look for partners in ministry. Expect more of myself. Expect more from the lay leadership. Expect more from the church. Listen. Learn. Commit. Do not let a lack of commitment by church members result in a lack of commitment on my part.

And clean my office. It is stressing me out.

Friday Five Musical Memories

2006-08-04T09:33:00.000-04:00

I was thinking too hard about the RevGalBlogPals Friday Five, so I have instead listed my Five Favorite Musical Memories. A little trip down memory lane . . .

I can remember exactly where I sat in the high school auditorium watching West Side Story as a 9th grader. I had been too scared or nervous or cowardly or something to audition for the production. I saw it two or three times, but I think my memory is from the opening night when I first heard the sophomore with an amazing voice sing "Somewhere" from the back of the auditorium. I don’t remember what was happening on stage or who I sat with. I remember only the darkness and a single, clear, bodiless voice. I had never had chills like that.

On a senior trip to New York, I saw Les Miserables for the first time. Our seats were against the back wall in the highest balcony. The actors were very, very small, but the sound of the unbelievable score and incredible cast made up for the less than stellar view. I don't know who played Eponine, but she sang "I Dreamed a Dream" more convincingly than I have ever heard anywhere else. In addition, I got to sit next to the boy I had a crush on (in the dark, with love and drama spilling all over the stage). I think he gave me his sports jacket as we walked back to the hotel in the cold, and the underclassmen behind us speculated about our status as a couple. (I later discovered he wasn't really worth all the swooning, but the night is a good memory nonetheless!)

While studying for a semester in England, my two friends and I walked right into the theater in London where Rent was playing and got very discoutned student tickets for that night. When we left after the show, we saw a line of students camping out around the building in order to be first in line for the same-day student tickets for closing night--which was the next day. Undeserved dumb luck that we saw that show at all. However, I wanted to tell those campers that their night on the street was worth it to hear “Seasons of Love” live.

I did finally get the courage to try out for the high school musical, and I was cast as one of the "seven brides" in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. My dance partner and I were the best dancers of the seven couples--until the first performance. That night he had so much adrenaline that instead of tossing me to sit on his shoulder, he threw me over his back. I never saw a video, but I am sure if you put it in slow motion, you would see the look on my face go from a smile, to surprise, to panic, to pain in a second or less.

My husband got us tickets to see The Producers several years ago. We picked the date months in advance, and a week before we were offered tickets to a Masters practice round in Augusta (did I mention that Husband loves, loves, loves golf?). So we went to the show after getting up at 5:00 , stalking famous golfers, and walking what has to be one of the prettiest courses ever. Ten rolls of film and 14 hours later, we were sitting in the theater. We had needed showers, but there was no time. A change of clothes and a new layer of deodorant had to do. Thankfully, the show was great. We were a little punchy at that point, but I remember laughing and laughing. There are still random days that "Springtime for Hitler" gets stuck in my head.

My First Friend

2006-07-31T15:14:00.000-04:00

The floor had been opened, and many had spoken. I had thought about what I wanted to say, I really had, but it still hadn’t come together exactly. I waited as person after person spoke about my brother and his almost-wife and all that they had meant to them. “Please give me the courage to speak,” I prayed. “And don’t let me sound stupid!” I pleaded with God. Someone sat down. Silence. I saw my other brother who was emcee-ing the event prepare to stand. It was now, or I would miss my chance. So I stood and began.

“Weddings always make me begin to think about the first time that I met the people getting married. Usually that is relatively easy. When my brother A. got married in May, I thought about the day my mother went to the hospital and the morning I heard he was born and about how I wanted a sister instead.”

Everyone laughed as I smiled and took a breath. My heart was racing, and my voice was close to cracking, but I barreled on.

“But when I think about my brother, T., I realize that I don’t remember my life before he was born. I was not quite two-and-a-half when he came along, and my earliest memories all include him.”

At this point, I realize that my hands are moving ninety miles an hour,and I am in danger of taking off. I also know that there is absolutely nothing I can do about it, and so I continue.

“I tell my husband stories all to the time of things we did when we were kids. I told him just the other day about summer evenings in the front yard. My dad would sit on the front porch with his coffee, and my brother and I would play in the grass in our bare feet. There was a huge pine tree in the front yard, maybe 50 yards from the front porch. We kids would race to the tree and back, and Daddy would time us. I always won, because I was the oldest. I first told my husband about all three of us racing, but then I paused and thought. ‘No,’ I said, ‘Actually, I only remember racing with T. because A. was too young.’ And story after story goes like that. So many of my earliest memories are of me and T.

“As I thought about it recently, I realized that T. was my very first friend. We played games that no one else understood. I would play with cars and He-man . . .and he would play with some of my toys.” (Laughter at T.’s expense, which I felt only mildly guilty about.)

“We sang the same church songs and played with the same toys. We argued whether his sword that could cut through anything could cut through my shield that nothing could penetrate. We would fight, I’m sure, but that is not what I remember. I remember have hours of fun playing with my little brother.

“And now, my little brother, my very first friend, is getting married. I have thought and thought about the first time I met E. I am going to be embarrassed if she remembers when it was, because for the life of me I can’t remember the first time I met her.” I look at E. apologetically and see her shaking her head that this first meeting is a lost memory for her as well.

I continued, “I’ve heard her name for such a long time that I can’t distinguish being meeting her and hearing about her because she and T. have been friends for so long. We have had a few chances to get to know each other a little, and I am grateful to add her as a new addition to my list of friends. I look forward to knowing her better, and I know that one day I will be able to point her out and say that she is one of my oldest friends as well.”

At this point, the tears are beginning in my throat, and I realize that I don’t have a good way to end this little speech, so I settle for short and sweet rather than long and teary.

“So, tonight I am grateful for friendship—my long-standing friendship with my brother, my very first friend, and my new friendship that will come from this marriage and will grow with the years.

“And I look forward to the friendship and love that the two of them share and know it will be a blessing to them and to others.

“Congratulations and much love.”

A quickly blown kiss and swift move to my chair, and I am done just as the tears reach my eyes. Not the most eloquent or composed, but truthful and without too much embarrassment to myself or my brother. My heart continues to race, as my husband pats my knee and winks at me. I breathe, and silently give thanks for answered prayers.

For my buddy

2006-07-26T06:17:00.000-04:00

We were twenty years old. It was Valentine’s weekend, and I had just been dumped for the first time in my life a week before. I had also managed to have a very unwelcome date for the weekend. My buddy was my excuse for going home early. We sat in his dorm room, played video games, and watched movies. And I knew there was something, but I wasn’t sure what.

We started dating, and I fell truly in love for the first time in my life. I didn’t have time to think about it, analyze it, or try to manipulate it. I felt like it was all I could do to keep up and experience it.

I first understood the underside of love when we parted ways for the summer. It felt like I missed him every second. Places and people in my hometown looked different, because I imagined showing them to my buddy. I got in trouble with my parents for running up a huge phone bill. (I didn’t tell them that I didn’t talk as much as I wanted to.)

He was funny, and I was so proud of myself if I made him laugh. He was smart in a different way that I was, and I knew he helped me see the world from a completely different perspective. He was spontaneous and kind and clever, confident and really cute, and he gave the best hugs at the right time. I knew he loved me, and I knew I loved him well before I had the courage to say it.

I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up. I didn’t have any thoughts of owning a home, or saving for retirement. Bills were something for parents, and 9-5 was just an old movie. Forever was for sappy love songs. We didn’t talk about growing old together, but somehow my buddy whom I fell in love with turned into my best friend, the person I wanted with me on my best days and my worst. I can’t tell you when it happened, but it did. And I am so very grateful.

Happy anniversary, buddy!

Remembering

2006-07-23T13:38:00.000-04:00

Daddy loved lawn mowers. At one point he owned three. I used to laugh that he had a thing for lawn mowers like some men did for cars. I'm not sure if Daddy liked mowing the grass, but he never seemed to mind it. The project would take the whole afternoon. During that time, his mind could wander to those far reaches where he could only go alone, so he probably mostly liked it.

When I was young--three or four, I suppose-- Daddy would let me ride with him on the lawn mower. I spent all week with Mama watching her do work inside. Saturday with Daddy on the lawn mower was a novelty and a treat. On a hot summer afternoon, I would go with him to the garage as he got the lawn mower ready. Dried grass clippings fell in clumps, and the smell of gasoline enveloped the garage as he moved the machine to the driveway. He would get himself seated, and I would scramble right up into his lap. He would turn the key, and instantly the lazy silence of the summer afternoon was shredded. Off we would go to blaze our first trail through the overgrown grass. I would turn around to see the single band of tamed lawn lengthen behind us. I loved it.

We went to places in the yard where I didn't venture much--near the road where the cars would rush by, to the very back edge of the property by the scary but intriguing abandoned barn surrounded by weeds, near the drainage ditch that led to the creek and joined just before the water went under the bridge. I would take in the different views from the safety of Daddy's lap. Sometimes I would try to ask Daddy questions, but yelling over the din of the engine took too much energy. I would grow quiet, and Daddy would grow quiet, and I suspect that we each went into our own worlds (a trait I believe I have inherited--albeit in a milder form). We could think and daydream away and never be alone. I would silently watch as we moved along that distinct line of freshly cut grass and watch the fresh clippings fly from the mower.

Inevitably, I would fall asleep, my sweaty head up against Daddy's white t-shirt, my sticky legs, pink from the sun, hanging limply off his knee. It was a routine, one that was uniquely ours, and one of the few in which solitude and companionship, adventure and habit were melded so completely.

KWA December 17, 1936 -- July 23, 2004

Life changing

2006-07-22T10:41:00.000-04:00

It is Saturday, and I have to prepare for Sunday School tomorrow. It is such a headache. Details, time eating into my day off. When it is an idea, it seems so important and educational. When you get to the details, it just seems trivial.

Why don’t I cancel Sunday School in the summer like so many other churches? I wonder to myself. Then I remember last week’s Sunday School lesson. An intergenerational class in the fellowship hall (with a large hole in the floor for the new grease trap--yuck!) gathered with some hesitation. The 8 CD players that I bought a year ago have disappeared to two. I need five. Three summer interns stand by, ready to see Christian Education at its best. We start 10 minutes late. We don’t get through everything. All the girls in the youth group end up in the same small group. But it was fine. Even good. And I felt okay about it.

As I was cleaning up, an elder of the church came to speak to me. He is a prominent lawyer, a master poker player, a grandfather, and a relatively new Presbyterian. We talk about the class and our conversation leads to a past Sunday School series. “You remember that series on grace that I helped teach?” I indicated I did. “I learned so much preparing and teaching that class,” he said. “That class . . .” he trailed off, looking in the distance, thinking, “Well,” completing his thoughts and looking straight at me, “it changed my life.”

“I didn’t grow up a Christian, and I really didn’t think that Christianity was that different from other religions. But it is,” he insisted. “And grace is what makes it different.”

We walked to worship together discussing the class. As I sat in the pew, I thought about his words. It changed my life
.

Mine too.

I guess that’s why we all—including me—keep showing up week after week.

Back to the lesson planning . . .

Discovery

2006-07-18T21:17:00.000-04:00

From this mountaintop, the explorers received their prize They had dreamed of the Great Ocean that stretched beyond the merging rivers, but the reality was beyond dreams, beyond imagination. Before the bridge, before the towns, before there were any threads of safety through this wilderness, Lewis and Clark left the familiarity of all they knew for the adventure and glory of the unknown. They must have, at times, lost hope that this new land ever ended. A year of traveling; encountering Indians, both friendly and hostile; mapping; searching; and patiently moving ahead.

And this was their prize, their long-reached-for goal. The mighty Pacific, a fairy tale to most Europeans, stretched out before them. Did they shout? jump up and down? sing? dance? or just stand in silent awe?

As I discover this same view and imagine the weary, determined explorers who stood on this ground, I hope they made their discovery on a day like this, believing the sun rejoiced in their victory.

Homesick

2006-07-14T15:58:00.000-04:00

I was one of those homesick college freshmen. I am sure you remember me. Your eyes glazed over as I showed you one more picture of my friends from home, gave you one more description of my family members, told you one more inside joke that had been so funny in high school.

I didn't know a soul when I started college. I had no car, no friends at nearby colleges. I might as well have moved to Mars as far as I could tell. It seemed everyone came from a big city or some nearby suburb. No one could understand how I didn't live in a neighborhood but didn't live on a farm. No one could quite get their head around my living across the street from grazing cattle while still having indoor plumbing. No one knew me because no one knew where I came from, the place where my grandparents were sharecroppers, a county with only slightly fewer cows than people.

I didn't actually want to leave college, but I surely missed the "known-ness" of home. I clung to the thought of Thanksgiving break, dangling in the future, without realizing it was the carrot on a stick that kept me moving forward. I think my parents knew better than I did how homesick I was. Daddy, whom I remember writing one letter in his life, began a mission to fill my mailbox.

One of Daddy's many hobbies was photography. We had photos to document every occasion--from every angle, with every possible lighting, sometimes with several different cameras. My mother faithfully documented each picture until his prolificacy outpaced her organization.

So when Daddy decided to give me a glimpse of home, he did just that. He chose a photograph, wrote a short note and my address on the back, put a stamp on it, and stuck it in the mail. You would imagine that it would be mutilated before it got to me, but 95% of them arrived intact. The photos had no pattern. One day would be a picture of Easter morning when I was eleven. The next would be a picture of the mountains that Daddy had taken before I was born. Days later I would receive a picture of myself cheering at a football game only a year earlier. They were always a surprise, always a gift, and they were as caring and creative as my father.

The photographs stopped after a while. Thanksgiving finally came. I began to settle in. Daddy got distracted by other things. Even after countless moves, several states, and a number of years, I still occasionally stumble across one of those photographs. Despite the memory of the comfort they brought, I cannot escape the homesickness they now evoke rather than ease.

My present homesickness is much deeper than those first months of college, if not always more intense. I miss the home where I knew my place and where no place was empty. I miss my home that was full of life, unclouded by death. I miss my home where sorrow was only a word, not an experience. I miss Daddy, and I miss the home where we belonged and fit together. And I hate knowing the distance between me and that home grows with each day.

I don't want to leave the place where I am, but I surely miss the "known-ness" of home.

Before I Die

2006-07-11T09:21:00.000-04:00

Run a marathon
Write a book
Live in another country
Have children
Learn Spanish
Visit Africa
Take my children to see Anne Frank’s home in Amsterdam
Pass on qualities of my father to my children who will never know him
Have grandchildren
Teach English
Run a stationery store
Live in the mountains
Be a church volunteer
Own a home
Go on a cruise
Take a once-in-a-lifetime family vacation—or several
Go on an international trip with my mom
Get to a place where I am not worrying about money
Don’t get fat
Go on an international mission trip
Be a part of some type of political campaign
Do something that I never would have thought to put on this list at this point in my life.

Full of Grace

2006-07-10T22:31:00.000-04:00

Sunday's child is full of grace.

Grace was best defined by my uncle when he taught my 3^rd grade Sunday School class. He defined grace as love that is undeserved and cannot be earned, and no amount of theological study has led me to a better definition.

I have definitely lived a life “full of grace”: two parents who truly loved unconditionally, two siblings whose love never wavers, friends whose love brings them through the night to be in my darkness , a husband whose love for me is a constant touch on the small of my back. All reveal glimpses of the Source of all grace, whose love I cannot comprehend.

Grace is the bedrock of my faith, which is the bedrock of who I am. I don’t fully understand it, and I don’t expect to. I don’t fully live it, but I expect myself to try. I don’t see enough of it in the world around me, and I think I may have to do something about that—though I’m not sure what.

This, however, I know: Sunday’s child got the best the week had to offer, and grace is meant to be shared.

Sunday's Child

2006-07-09T12:21:00.000-04:00

Sunday's child is full of grace,
Monday's child is full in the face,
Tuesday's child is solemn and sad,
Wednesday's child is merry and glad,
Thursday's child is inclined to thieving,
Friday's child is free in giving,
And Saturday's child works hard for a living.

I am Sunday's child if ever she had one. I was born on a Sunday; and ever since, Sundays, and all that comes with them, have been my starting point. A day of Sabbath, a day of responsibility, a day of guilt and confession, a day inextricably linked to the church. I have clung to Sundays, but the week moves on and takes me with it. I have tried to ignore and to escape Sundays, but I return to them as surely as the week begins anew. That's where I am; that's who I am; and mostly, I am at peace with it.

sunday's child

norming, storming, performing

sometimes

Real Friends

What decade am I in??

*Smack!*

Catch-up

confessions and observations

Memorial Day

spinning in place

Prayers for Virginia Tech

Good Friday

Service and Obedience: Maundy Thursday

Costa Rica . . .part 3

Costa Rica . . . part 2

Costa Rica . . . part 1

sadness

'Tis the Season

Christmas party

Christmas Songs

Last thoughts on Thanksgiving . . .

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Memories

Class Reunion

Ghoulish Friday Five

Risk

confession

Wise Words

Sense enough to get out of the ditch

In memory of Grandma

An Evening at the Golf Course

Reflecting on the Week

Bottled Water

Friday Five

Opinions needed

Thank you

From the garage

Summer should be . . .

Middle of the Night Whys

Friday Five Musical Memories

My First Friend

For my buddy

Remembering

Life changing

Discovery

Homesick

Before I Die

Full of Grace

Sunday's Child

Smack!