i'm just a girl in the world

For the sake of total honesty here, I did not watch Sarah Palin's speech last night. (In all fairness, I didn't watch Biden's speech either. I've never been a big fan of political conventions - they strike me as really, really long infomercials.) From what I've read, she's probably a very effective speaker. And her speech seems to have been long on criticism of the other guys, and a bit short on creative ideas of her own. Then again, the VP speech can get away with a lot of that, so she probably doesn't deserve particular criticism for that approach.

I'm irritated for her that last night's national news broadcast included a piece entitled, "Can a Mom of 5 be the Vice-President?" It might be a decent question, if anyone was asking whether a Dad of 2 could be President. And I'll admit that Palin has made some parental decisions which bother me a bit. It doesn't bother me that she twice went back to work the day after having a child; some women don't have the luxury of childcare or the money to take a leave. It does bother me that she seems to be bragging about it, as if that were an ideal situation (I'd hope that any new dad would take a little time off too). It certainly doesn't bother me that she has five children, or that her youngest has Down's syndrome - though it does bother me that she apparently spent a fair amount of her speech introducing her family, which strikes me as filler material for someone who doesn't have much substance. One of our local candidates for governor routinely pastes his family's picture all over his campaign ads, and that irritates me to the same degree. Candidates' families are always of interest, and always will be. I don't mind them being on stage (though I do wonder how they feel about it at times). I do mind feeling like I'm being manipulated by cute kids.

And I really, really mind that the pregnancy of Palin's daughter is being used, simultaneously, to prop up anti-choice agendas and to decry the invasive nature of American politics. Either you keep your family out of the public eye, or you live with the consequences. And if you are willing to let your 17-year old daughter be a poster child for the anti-choice movement, then you've sacrificed her privacy whether you think it's fair or not. You can't demand her privacy and show her off as a model of "choosing life" at the same time. (You also can't laud her "choice" and then spend the rest of your time lobbying for legislation which would get rid of the whole concept of reproductive choice. Equally irritating.)

There's a fine line here between disagreeing with parenting styles and wondering whether parental decisions reveal something about a person's basic character, so as to impact that person's suitability for public office. For example: I've read a quote from Palin's speech in which she said something like, "Some people use change to promote their careers: John McCain has used his career to promote change." Nifty line. But a bit slick coming from someone who is evidently willing to place her 17-year old daughter square in the public eye, including a really sickening emphasis on how she's going to marry the 18-year old father of her child, in order to become McCain's running mate. I'm not sure you're in a position to criticize someone else's ambition if you went back to work the day after having a baby.

This gets complicated, because for all I know, Obama went back to work the days after his daughters were born. If we're lucky enough to have children, I plan to be a working mom myself, and I have no shame about that whatsoever. But it goes back to my central problem with choosing Palin: consistency. Or the total lack of it.

Let's face it: the choice of a running mate is entirely political. You want to find someone who fills in the soft spots of your resume, who appeals to a different category of voters. So McCain might well have chosen someone from a different area of the country, with different experience, who appeals to younger voters. That's fine. If you think a woman candidate might help you get women voters, I can understand that. No problem.

But choosing a woman who, by any standards, is light on experience - after you have spent over a year decrying your opponent's lack of experience? What does that say to women? That you think we are so dumb as to vote for vagina over values? That we can't see past hairdo's and pantsuits to the vast and overwhelming differences between Sarah and Hillary? Do you really think that women (and men) who supported Hillary were in her camp only because of her gender?

I really love that McCain is now crying sexism because so many questions have come up about Palin's resume. Funny how that never came out of his mouth while Hillary was in the race. You cannot reasonably expect to choose a highly inexperienced woman, after months of pounding the pulpit for the value of experience, and then brand any questions about her background as sexist. If you had chosen a similiarly inexperienced man, would you be trying to protect him from the questioning? Why does she need protecting anyway? That's sexist.

I was never going to vote for McCain anyway, even if he chose George Clooney as his running mate. (I might have volunteered for George's campaign staff, but that's another post.) But after a historic primary, after knowing that a woman might actually become President during my lifetime, it's really, really disheartening to feel totally patronized. Choosing a candidate because she's a woman is just as unfair as not choosing her for the same reason. And no matter how hard you try to convince me otherwise: if you choose someone who's been the governor of one of the least populated states in the union for a whopping 18 months - and if you do that after harping on your opponent for being inexperienced - and if you then get super pissed at the media for questioning your choice - then you're telling me one thing: I chose her because she's a girl.

And that's exactly what girls don't need, Mr. McCain. Especially Ms. Palin.

a thousand words

Let's face it: I am not the biggest fan of our current president.

But, really. Even his most ardent supporters have to admit - the guy takes a horrible photo. Is there any shot of him that doesn't look like that freckley dude from Mad magazine?

Take this.



Is this the face you want telling you who to vote for in November? Really?

Please, O Lord, hasten the day when my first thought, upon seeing the President of this fine country, is no longer thus: "Boy, I bet that guy has some cheap used cars on his lot."

yes, I am still procrastinating

(Although I did not procrastinate long enough actually to KNIT this sweater. That would be quite an accomplishment.) I just remembered that I had taken a picture of it and wanted to show off a bit, since I'm still a newbie knitter and this is my favorite project so far. I made it for my cousin's baby, due any day now.

It might be hard to tell, but the buttons are little baseballs. Extra cute.



Now, back to the sermon. Again.

well, probably not

First things first: yes, the flurry of posting today does accurately indicate to you that I am SUPPOSED TO BE WORKING ON THE SERMON.

As part of the "information gathering process necessary to all sermon writing" (i.e. trolling the internet looking alternately for inspiration or excuses to procrastinate further), I checked the website of my previous synod. They've changed it over the past few months, to include a very lovely section describing, briefly, each of the congregations currently in the call process for a new pastor.

My previous congregation, for example, has a description something like this: "this programmatic-sized church in a growing community is currently interviewing candidates."

It occurred to me, as I was reading all the descriptions, knowing those congregations, that those sweet descriptions have some pretty hard-core stories behind them.

I wonder what would happen if the synod accurately described a few of those situations?

This older, inner-city congregation will tell you that they are looking for someone to lead them in change and outreach, but what they actually want is a chaplain who will let them sing "Beautiful Savior" every other Sunday and never mention human sexuality. Ever.

This small, rural congregation will try to pay you as little as possible and also will never honor your day off, though they will try to set you up if you are single, so that could be good.

This growing congregation's last pastor was a whack job. Seriously. You should stop reading this description and RUN FOR THE HILLS if they try to interview you.



Yeah. Probably not.

wimps for Jesus

Over at Rev Gals today, there's an interesting discussion on the public - vs - private celebration of a baptism. I weighed in briefly, but after I did, I starting thinking more about the passion of those who were responding in a different direction than I did. Which, in turn, got me thinking about the whole issue of conviction, and how to walk the balance beam between intolerant and anything-goes. This is a beam on which I regularly fail to stick my landings, I fear. But worth thinking about some more.

The discussion started with a pastor who wants to know whether or not to celebrate a private baptism for a family somewhat estranged from the church. (As I write this, there are 6 comments on the post, and I think all of them are from Lutherans - no accident, I suspect!) I've been in that situation. I've said 'yes' to a private baptism, and I've said 'no' to more than one. When I said 'yes,' I felt guilty about violating what I deeply believe to be the essentially public nature of that act. And when I said 'no,' I felt sad about hurting a family who could not understand why any pastor would refuse to baptize somebody. You can argue that I shouldn't have felt guilty in either direction. I really wouldn't care, because I am the sort of person who generally looks for excuses to feel guilty anyway, so your very valid point probably wouldn't do much for me.

There are plenty of examples in the church and the world where way too much conviction, or absolutely none at all, create big problems. It's easy to set up either extreme and point and laugh, and claim not to be either one. Find a completely intolerant preacher who refuses to open his doors to a gay couple - thank God I'm not like that. Find another wishy-washy one who works so hard not to offend people that she ends up saying absolutely nothing at all - thank God I'm not like that.

I believe Jesus had something to say about that sort of response.

But it's a lot harder to live in the middle, where you know what you think theologically, but you also have to deal with the real, human, messy emotions that get in the way of nice clear theology. Somebody ought to tell you in seminary that you are going to sell your soul a million stupid times, and that it's going to bother the hell out of you, but that you're not always going to figure a way out of it.

Good theology is crucial. I believe that now more than ever, when good theology is getting shouted out of the public sphere by flashy idiots who believe stupid but ratings-getting things. There are times to stand up for good theology. There are times to say 'no' to things which violate your honestly-held, deeply-thought-out, humbly-convicted beliefs.

But I suspect the bigger temptation for some pastors - for this one, anyway - is to use theology as a weapon of sorts, claiming that the real work of the gospel is to do what God wants in spite of the human cost. I wonder sometimes if we mainline pastors are so desperate to be sure of something that we will hold onto our theology at rather silly points, when making a compromise might actually be the more faithful thing to do.

Baptism isn't silly, of course. There might well be a time when you will talk with a family seeking baptism and realize that their motivations are so completely at odds with the very nature of baptism, that you simply have to refuse to participate. That happens.

But what's more likely to happen is a much less clear-cut moment, where there are complicated family dynamics and church expectations and holiday schedules and "my Grandma can only be here on a Tuesday" kind of stuff. Where you will not know exactly which solution God is rooting for. Where either direction will be imperfect.

And I suppose the only conviction I've come to in those moments, is the hope of God's forgiveness, and the realization that life is a lot more questions than answers. I am suspicious of people who are too sure of everything. Almost as suspicious as I am of people who are not sure of anything. And I am somewhere in the middle, where I hope my endless uncertainty, if nothing else, at least keeps me on my toes.

ha ha. very funny.

Life is continuing to improve over at Chez Shalom. Beloved is in the midst of starting his new job, which caused some increased anxiety at first, but which also seems to be helping calm the anxiety as days go by. He's also started on a new drug to treat the anxiety, which won't kick in for a few weeks, but which does make both of us feel like help is on the way. He's back to himself for long periods of the day. Alleluia.

Yesterday, I went to a day-long workshop which I had completely forgotten about, having registered for it months earlier. Honestly, I didn't really want to go: I went because one of our staff members helped plan the thing, and I wanted to support her.

A lot of it was on family systems in congregations, which I've read plenty about and yet can always use a refresher on.

But here's the kicker - the title of yesterday's event?

"Leading in Times of Anxiety and Change."

Ha ha, God. Very funny.

This Week's Friday Five, brought to you by Sermon Procrastination.

(Before I get started on the Friday Five task, let me highly suggest to all preachers - or anybody who writes regularly - that you read this brilliant reflection on the process of writing a sermon. The next time anyone (anyone with a decent sense of humor) asks me, "how do you write a sermon?" I am going to send them to this post. It also explains to you why my participation in the Friday Five - indeed in any blogging task, no matter how minor - may actually be a thread in the beautiful pattern of sermon preparation.

Ah, denial.)

Anyway. To the calendar-related Friday Five, this week from Songbird:

Here are five things to ponder about dates. I hope you'll play!

1) Datebooks--how do you keep track of your appointments? Electronically? On paper? Month at a glance? Week at a glance?

I've recently switched back to a paper calendar after some sort of totally mysterious glitch completely effed-up my Palm Pilot. And honestly, I like the paper better. It's much more satisfactory to cross things off a paper list than it is to press the little stylo onto the little box on the little screen of "to do's" on the Palm Pilot. Plus I can see the whole week at a quicker glance. And no technical glitches. Except that I do routinely forget the thing on the kitchen counter at home.

2) When was the last time you forgot an important date?

I forgot my dad's birthday last October. First time ever. Woke up at 11:55pm, thought frantically, "it's still his birthday! Technically! I could call!" but decided that was a bit much. Called the next day and my mom said, "well, we were a little worried because you never forget birthdays" and then, of course, I felt HORRIBLE. My mom is not normally a big guilt-inducer, but that was a whopper. This year I Will. Not. Forget.

3) When was the last time you went OUT on a date?

Well, since Beloved and I were living in two different cities for about five months, we did actually do some "dating" when we were in the same place. We stayed at a fancy hotel in New City for a night when he was visiting me, and went out for dinner and walked around town. Very fun.

4) Name one accessory or item of clothing you love even though it is dated.

I suspect the black rayon-y gaucho pants I am currently wearing would cause great gasps of horror from some high fashion people. Mostly I just wear them around the house because they are so comfortable.

I also have a super cool silk bathrobe that belonged to my grandmother in the 1930's, but it is not dated. It is retro. (Right?)

5) Dates--the fruit--can't live with 'em? Or can't live without 'em?

In general, shriveled food = not good. (Exception: chocolate-covered dried cherries from Starbucks.)

Leap, taken

So, he took the job. He resigned yesterday from the school he's been at for fifteen years - a really big step, emotionally and practically. He took the middle school job here. He alternates between excited and terrified, happy and sad - but a normal level of all, I'd say.

It's real now. We really live here, and he really works here. We cut the final ties to Old City (besides the ties to family, which definitely and happily remain).

Big day. Scary day. Exciting day. Thanks for the prayers.

Now, back to a sermon on Romans 12:1-8, which has somehow, mysteriously turned into a rumination on how hard it actually is to be transformed. How could THAT theme have come about?

Good Courage

Just about four years ago, when Beloved and I were dating, we went to the mall to look for a barbeque. We had started talking about getting married, so we stopped at Anonymous Mass Market Jewelry Store in the mall to look at rings. (Side note: I always thought it was unfair for women to expect guys to know, magically, exactly what kind of ring they want - but probably tell them nothing directly. I have some definite opinions about rings, so I figured it was only fair to show him the sorts of things I like, and then let him take it from there.) So we looked at basic designs and price ranges, and then we went to Sears.

We had been dating for about six months at this point.

On the way to Sears, Beloved started talking about how he'd been looking for the right barbeque for awhile. He'd read Consumer Reports and been saving for the right one, and trying to decide what features he wanted and how many burners it should have and whether or not to use propane or natural gas. He is an Information Collector. And if you know any of these people, you know that Information Collectors are generally also Slow Decision Makers. What I found out on the the way to Sears is that Beloved had been stewing over the Great Barbeque Decision for - let's count them - TWO YEARS. Mind you, he did eventually buy one, a very good one, and it wasn't cheap. But taking two years to buy a barbeque is not what a girl wants to hear when she's been dating the guy for six months.

"He is never going to ask me to marry him," I thought.

Fortunately, I was wrong. Slow Decision Maker went into hiatus because we got engaged only a month later, and married five months after that. This was, without doubt, the quickest decision Beloved has ever made. I thought that perhaps Slow Decision Maker would be on hiatus for a good, long time. Like maybe forever.

But Information Collector is back, and that means that Slow Decision Maker has also emerged from his winter slumber. And both are in high gear at the moment.

The Decision to be made, of course, is whether or not to accept the job he was offered yesterday. To be fair, it's not a complete slam dunk. On the plus side: it's a grade level he wants to teach; it's a subject he really likes to teach; it's only one subject all day long, which means only one lesson to prep; it's a good salary; it's not terribly far from our house (17 miles, with some traffic). On the minus side: it's a non-continuing contract (for now) which means that there is a real, if slight, possibility that he could be looking for another job come next summer.

If you've been reading my previous posts, you might remember that Beloved has been suffering from some pretty severe anxiety issues since our move became final a few weeks ago. While those are mostly under control, this kind of big decision is enough to make anybody anxious, not to mention someone who's already prone to it.

He's watched a few colleagues get, to be precise if not ladylike, screwed over by non-continuing contracts. School districts sometimes use those to balance their budgets, to make sure they can cut a position here or there without actually having to riff a teacher (RIF = Reduction in Forces = getting fired). This does not appear to be one of those cases; the principal told him yesterday that the only reason this job is non-continuing right now is because it's so late in the year, and that the job would be there next year. Technically, she can't promise him the job because it's possible that a continuing employee could request a transfer and bump him out. Is this likely? Probably not. Is it technically possible? Yes. Guess which one of these is Beloved's focus at the moment.

What it comes down to is risk. And here's where it's hard for me to know exactly what to do. Truthfully, I'm not the biggest risk-taker in the world, so it would be fairly hypocritical for me to lecture somebody about being conservative. But, on the other hand, life is full of risks. Not taking them every once in awhile means you might get stuck missing a lot of great things. Getting married is a risk. Taking any job is a risk.

But lecturing someone else about how they need to gird up their loins and take a risk, for Pete's sake, is not helpful. At all. And I have no interest in doing that. On the other hand, saying nothing is not the best option either. Letting him spin in his anxiety and give into the fear of new things would, I think, ultimately be worse.

Before I left for work this morning, he sighed and said, "why can't these decisions be clear and easy?" I guess because we're human. And almost no decision is perfectly clear and easy. The good news that God is always going to catch you is still tinged with the reality that the catch, as Barbara Brown Taylor has put it, sometimes comes on the other side of the grave. Or, as a friend once said, "I know God is going to take care of me, but I still have to figure out a way to pay the Visa bill."

This is, I think, where sermons always hit a snag. Real life is not as clear as I would like to make it in the pulpit. I don't think I often give in to cliches or facile descriptions of life in sermons, but the fact of the matter is that people in my congregation are making these sorts of hard decisions every day, and I'm continually struck by how inadequate I am to say something meaningful to them in the midst of it. I know, I know: it's not about me. Got it. But every once in awhile, the enormity of the preaching task really scares the shit out of me. Especially when the congregation is the person you're married to.

So I think we'll just have to pray about it, and see what happens. I'm nearly sure that he'll take this job: what I'm praying for is peace for him as he chooses this new thing, and the lessening of anxiety as a result. Good courage. That's what we need.

Wow. Sorry about the swearing, Lord. Well done you.

I cannot believe the complete turn around we've experienced in twenty-four hours. Yesterday, Beloved didn't get the job he had interviewed for; by the evening, he was back to being very anxious and emotional and we were preparing to be 300 miles apart from each other for another school year.

At 10:00 this morning, he called to tell me that he had received a phone call from a middle school principal who wanted to meet with him about a full-time history job. Keep in mind that he's been hoping to move from high school to middle school for the past few years. And that he loves to teach history.

At 2:30pm, he called to say that she'd offered him the job.

The only nervewracking bit is that it's a non-continuing contract, which means he's not guaranteed to have the job next year. But the job is a subject he loves to teach, a grade level he's been interested in for awhile, and the person who left the job already took another one, so chances are that he'll be renewed for next year without any problem.

I'm not sorry for yelling at God yesterday. I said what I needed to say.

But I'm awfully grateful that God doesn't hold grudges.

Amen.

And thanks.

curse you, nbc

There are only so many days you can stay up watching tiny gymnasts until 12:30am and then successfully try to get something done during the day. I believe I am nearing the limit.

Why, NBC, why so late? Give a girl a break.

Praying with Job

(If this post stops in the middle of a sentence somewhere, I'm pretty sure it will be because I was struck by lightning as I wrote. Editing via biblical smiting. Very old school.)

I'm not sure how many pastors started their prayers today with these three words: "Fuck off, God." I did.

The thing is, I'm pretty sure this is not a trespass of the second commandment. (Pause while awaiting smiting. Nothing yet.) The way I read it, the second commandment is intended to protect God's name from abuse or misuse. So you're not supposed to use God's name to hurt other people, or use it like it doesn't matter ("like, oh my God, that is just the weirdest thing ever. Jesus."). For me, the second commandment is a reminder not to cheapen God's name or use it as a weapon. But it sure doesn't preclude total, base, even profane honesty to God in the midst of prayer. I sure hope it doesn't, anyway, because that kind of prayer is really, really necessary every once in awhile. As it was this morning.

Beloved did not get the job he interviewed for last week. This is, of course, not the end of the world. It wasn't a perfect dream job; he was definitely interested but not radically passionate about it. But you know, that doesn't really matter. All the stuff you tell yourself about how the job wasn't perfect, it had some problems, it wasn't exactly what you wanted...all you hear in your head is the fact that you've been rejected. In person. They met you, they listened to you, and they didn't choose you. Whether or not you really wanted the job does not matter, at least at first. Rejection sucks.

This on top of the anxiety issues he's been dealing with (which have been much better but had already flared up again this morning before the phone call about the job) is discouraging. He left his family. He left his friends. He left his job (technically, not yet, but that's the goal). He left his house. He left the place he's lived in for twenty years. He did all of this to follow me because I felt like this was the right place for me, this congregation, and for us - he left because I thought God had called us here. And you know what? I don't care if this is shitty theology or not: I think God owes him something for that. He pulled up stakes and came over here for me and frankly, I am a little pissed off at God for leaving him hanging like this. What more do you want, Ha Shem? Huh? TELL ME, you fickle, frustrating, silent being. I want to know exactly what more you want from him than you haven't taken already, because I have about had it with you. He deserves better than this. You are the one who brought us over here and you had DAMN WELL better do something about it because you CANNOT KEEP DOING THIS TO HIM.

That was my morning prayer. After the opening shot across the bow. I am taking Job as my inspiration today, and if God eventually tells me that I just have to look around and the world and suck it up and realize that I am not in charge, then fine. But I get to say these things out loud. I get to say them to God, who apparently is listening although there seems to be no indication of that at the moment, and the reason I believe I can do this (besides the fact that I have not yet been smited as I write) is because Job said so. Job said everything he could possibly say, and in the end, it was his complete honesty, not the pithy cliches of his friends, which God commends. So there.

I talked to Beloved after our staff meeting was done this morning, and he was already doing much better. The anxiety comes and goes, and at least for awhile, Xanax is a very good thing. He's figured out that exercise is a huge help in dealing with the anxiety when it starts rising, so he had gone on an hour-long walk after I left.

I am not quite as angry at the good Lord as I was this morning. I've never been terribly good at waiting for things, and I never seem to learn any better. I know there will be a day when we will look back and see how it all worked out as it should, but that doesn't really matter on days when it's not working out at all. I also realize that we made the decision to come here together, and it's not my fault for dragging us here - but again, that sort of logic doesn't mean much more than ashes when disappointment keeps finding you at every turn.

Still not smited. Or smote? So that's good. So we'll keep waiting, I suppose, and hope that the Job moments get further and further apart as time goes on. But every once in awhile, that's about all the kind of prayer you can summon up. And today is one of those days.

Friday Five: Fall Transformations

Given that we're nearing record-breaking heat here in New City, it's a bit hard to think about fall. But in spite of my denial, it is indeed on the way. So, Mary Beth at Rev Gals issues this invitation: For this Friday's Five, share with us five transformations that the coming fall will bring your way.

Hmm...

1. New House. Beloved and I have been in the new house for a week, which ends a long spring and summer of living either apart from each other, or together with my parents. It's a huge relief to have our own place, but it's also a big transition. On the plus side: a five-minute commute for me (WOO HOO!) and a great house. On the minus side: well, nothing really. Except the larger mortgage payment.

2. New Job? Beloved is interviewing as I write for a new job here, and I'm definitely praying for him. We should find out this weekend whether it's a real possibility. If it doesn't work out, he'll head back to Old City to start the school year there, and we'll hope for openings in districts here once the final enrollments numbers hit in October. Our prayer, obviously, is that our 'transition' in this category is a new job for him!

3. Fall Programming. New Congregation has a huge push for fall programming, and I'll be teaching an adult class and large portions of confirmation (about 85 junior high kids, so help me). I chose a class I've taught before to kick off the fall, so that I would feel a little less overwhelmed, but there's still a lot of work to be done. A lot. LOT. In a short period of time.

But it will be fine. Fine. FINE. I'm sure.

4. Baby Track. I'm gearing up to re-start the baby quest with a minor surgery in September, and then some artificial insemination attempts later in the winter. We've got a real diagnosis now, and hopefully we have a good plan to deal with it, so part of this fall will be following the plan and hoping for the best. Speaking of which, I need to call my acupuncturist.

5. Starting Over. It's been almost exactly a year since I got the surprising phone call from my now-colleague, asking whether I was interested in the pastoral position here. Labor Day weekend, to be exact. It's been a year full of transition - some moments much better than others - and we're ready to start making life normal again. Pretty soon, we'll be at the point we've been looking forward to: that day when we can look back at the last year and say with relief, "wow - we made it!" Hopefully that day is coming this fall.

How you know for sure that you are home. And that you are a bit of a geek.

This is how you know that you are really home: after months of transition, you bring your cable bill to the library and you get yourself a real, permanent, shiny library card. And you wander around and find good books and check them out and bring them home and then, and only then, is that house your home.

And also, you discover that the latter part of the title of this post is still true. And you are perfectly okay with that.

Back...at last

Wow. This is going to be a long post.

I've been on vacation since July 20 - a good, solid three weeks for both rest and moving. We spent the first week in Old City visiting Beloved's family, enjoying some time at the lake cabin, and celebrating his birthday. Week two was spent with final preparations for the move last Tuesday: buying appliances, scheduling appointments with the cable guy and the phone people, setting up garbage service...all the exciting stuff.

Then, last Tuesday, we moved in. The movers were great, the stuff was all in the house by 2:30pm, and we started to unpack. The goal was to have as much done as possible in a week, at which time I'd go back to work. With both of us there, and family to help, we figured we'd do well.

But then, last Tuesday night at midnight, our first night in the house, Beloved woke up in a panic. At first, I thought he might be sleepwalking (which he's never done before, but there's always a first time). He said he couldn't breathe, that there was no air flow in the house. He got up and started pacing and crying and said this had been a huge mistake, that he wanted to go home. He was, without exaggeration, hysterical. After three hours, I finally persuaded him to take a muscle relaxant which he uses periodically for jaw pain, and which tends to make him very sleepy. He finally fell asleep at about 3:30am.

Wednesday morning, he was about the same. And for the next three days, it continued. He paced all day. He hyperventilated almost all the time. He cried about everything. He was unbelievably anxious about the move, about whether he will find a job in New City, about leaving his family - and he kept repeating that this had been a mistake, that we had to leave, I had to quit my job and we had to go home. He began to panic about the panicking: "why am I like this," "what happened to me," etc. He panicked whenever we couldn't find something silly, like the Tupperware organizer and the pole for the sun umbrella (and when you're moving, as you probably know, you can't find a damn thing for the first week anyway).

I cannot really explain how terrified I was to see him like this. This is a guy who doesn't like change, and we both knew that; and he's someone who does show his emotions (which is great), but his reaction was completely foreign to both of us. By Saturday night, we knew there was something seriously wrong. We called his sister and asked if she and her husband, a family physician, could come for a visit, which they immediately agreed to. They drove until midnight to get here. Sunday morning, we went to urgent care and the doctor there prescribed a low dose of Xanax to start breaking the anxiety, and told us to follow up with a physician.

To make a long story slightly shorter, Beloved is doing much better. We went to the physician yesterday, and he thinks Beloved had a "night terror," which apparently is like a nightmare on steroids, with an adrenaline rush that can last for up to two weeks after the initial event. That adrenaline rush intensifies your emotions, causes extreme anxiety, and explains why the guy literally could not sit down for five days. It's more common in children, but can be brought on by situations of extreme stress or emotional turmoil.

As of today, Beloved can finally sit down. He actually had enough concentration and interest to go work on unpacking the garage (the fact that he didn't want to go anywhere near the garage during the worst of the panic was what really worried me, because this guy LOVES the garage). He started to laugh. He laughed about how panicked he was when we couldn't find the sun umbrella pole. He takes deep breaths.

It's better. It's not entirely over, because there are still anxieties about being homesick and about finding a job. But those are normal, and his reactions to them are calming down. The best thing is how willing he was to talk about this, and how quick he was to accept the fact that he needed help. For awhile, we thought he would probably have to go on anti-depressants, and he had very little problem with that.

There's a much longer story here, more details, but for now, this is enough. We're back. We made it through a very dark valley. It seems that the sun is coming out. You always forget how grateful you should be for normal life until you lose it. I can't tell you how grateful I am today. Thank God.

update from the front lines

Three little letters: VBS. Vacation Bible School week is upon us.

It's only Wednesday morning, and I'm exhausted. It's that peculiar mix of exhilaration and exhaustion unique to VBS.

But after this week is over, and after a wedding on Saturday night, I'm on VACATION. Three whole lovely weeks (okay, okay, we have to move in to a new house and unpack but frankly, that sounds wonderful too).

So I won't be updating here for awhile. Happy summer - see you in late August.

Friday Five: Summer Camp

Mother Laura wants to know about summer camp - which, I admit, is not one of my favorite topics. But I'm stuck in the middle of a funeral sermon at the moment and I need to do something else for awhile, so even though I'm not big on camp (or camping), I'll give it a shot.

1. Did you go to sleep away camp, or day camp, as a child? Wish you could? Or sometimes wish you hadn't?

Just went one year, to a vaguely-Christian-but-more-focus-on-horses camp. It was okay. I don't really like horses - more specifically, I don't like riding them. They scare me. I did have fun with friends, though.

2. How about camping out? Dream vacation, nightmare, or somewhere in between?

My idea of camping = Motel 6. Enough said.

3. Have you ever worked as a camp counselor, or been to a camp for your denomination for either work or pleasure?

I would have been a horrible camp counselor when I was the right age to do that, because I was much too shy. My first congregation was only 15 miles from our local denominational camp, however, and I grew to really love camp after nine years of working closely with the staff there. I did lots of teaching, spent a fair amount of time during all seasons at camp, and really enjoyed it. Definitely a turning point for me - now I understand why people are so enthusiastic about summer camp.

4. Most dramatic memory of camp, or camping out?

I had to pee in the woods. Again - enough said.

5. What is your favorite camp song or songs? Bonus points if you link to a recording or video.

My favorite is called "Blessed Be the Lord our God of Israel." I you-tubed this, but all I got was a few videos on the rapture and several options involving the 1967 6-day war. So, no video. But sing along if you know it!

Blessed be the Lord our God of Israel
from everlasting (where?) to everlasting (oh!)
Blessed the the Lord our God of Israel
from everlasting (where?) to everlasting (oh!)
And all God's people say Amen (AMEN!)
And all God's people say Amen (AMEN!)
And all God's peple say A-meh-eh-eh-en...Praise the Lord!
Woop woop (here we go here we go)
Woop woop (one more time)
Woop woop (yeah)

THEY TOOK IT!!!!!

A summary of yesterday's emotional journey:

Excitement
Disbelief
Frustration
Anger
Worry
Uncertainty
More frustration
Hope
Anxiety
Impatience
And finally...

Joy!

The sellers took our offer last night, at the price we offered. This house is a steal of a deal and we are completely delighted. I'm not only excited by the house, but really, really excited that Beloved is so happy with it.

And please, God, may we not have to move for a very, very, very, very long time.

Amen. And hallelujah, my friends.

Because I need to distract myself while waiting to hear from the realtor

I've seen this around, most lately at Choral Reef's place. I've been nervous to try it in case I'm revealed to be a much less inveterate reader than I think I am (but look! I used the word inveterate! Only readers do that, right?)

Here goes... (I've read the ones in bold type)


1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6 The Bible
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveler’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
34 Emma - Jane Austen
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis (note: how is this not the same as #33? Oh well. I get twice the credit.)
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding
69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce
76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web - EB White
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

i hate real estate

So everyone knows that this is the slowest market in...what, twenty years? It's a buyers' market, they say.

Sure.

So why is it that, after we made one offer to the only builder in town who apparently has no intention of budging on his asking price, we now made an offer today to a couple who vastly underpriced their home, have decided they can get more, and now want to take their house off the market and price it at $17,000 higher?

In other words, HOW ARE WE IN A POSSIBLE BIDDING WAR IN THE WORST HOUSING MARKET EVER???? How is this possible???

The house is great. It's worth the higher price, actually. Beloved, however, is super pissed about the fact that we might have to offer more, and I'm not sure I can convince him to get over his annoyance and look at the bigger picture.

Once again, I'll ask for your prayers today - mostly for Beloved and I. God, give us the patience with each other to do this well.

By the way, the agent who is working with couple on house #2 is, coincidentally (?), the same agent as house #1.

So maybe a few prayers that the Lord would smite him. Just a little bit. Maybe one boil someplace.

Kidding.

Sort of.

happy 4th of july

This is my song, O God of all the nations,
A song of peace for lands afar, and mine.
This is my home, the country where my heart is,
Here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine;
But other hearts in other lands are beating
With hopes and dreams as high and true as mine.

My country's skies are bluer than the oceans,
And sunlight beams on cloverleaf and pine.
But other lands have sunlight too, and clover,
And skies are everywhere as blue as mine.
O hear my song, O God of all the nations,
A song of peace, for their land and for mine.

O God of peace, O God of all the nations,
You are our strength, our hope, our life and grace;
When storms assail, when darkness builds among us,
When light grows dim, and anger takes its place;
Open our eyes to see your kingdom shining,
In all your children may we see your face.

Hymn tune Finlandia, by Jean Sibelius. Verses 1-2 by Lloyd Stone. I wrote verse 3 to be sung on the Sunday following September 11, 2001.

we now interrupt any potential serious theology or intellectual thought with a post about something totally ridiculous

As I have mentioned before, I am a fan of Sex and the City. Yes, I saw the movie - yes, it's full of rampant materialism and grown women acting like teenagers, but here's my secret to the enjoyment of SATC: I don't care. It's fun. I'm entertained. I don't have to find my core values in the show, or the film. I can still enjoy it. And I do.

Also, I love shoes. Love, love, love them.

If you are a fan, you might remember the episode called "A Woman's Right to Shoes." In which Carrie, invited to a friend's baby shower, is forced to remove her shoes upon entering this home, because the mother doesn't want any outside dirt in the house. And then somebody else steals Carrie's shoes. And then the mother shames Carrie for her extravagant shoes, upon which Carrie realizes that she has spent quite a lot of money celebrating that woman's choices in life - engagement gift, wedding gift, trip to the wedding, three baby gifts - and all of this adds up to a lot more than the cost of her shoes. (Which is still a lot, but there you go.)

Essentially, it's an episode about the reality that American culture is almost totally focused on the traditional nuclear family structure - mom, dad, two kids and a dog - and that anyone who doesn't fit that mold gets left out of most of our common celebration times. I felt like that on a routine basis while I was single. And I still feel like that now, as someone without kids. So I loved this episode.

And I love, love, love those shoes. I've looked at them on ebay a few times - and that price point is just way beyond me. Seriously. $900 for one pair of shoes? Can't do it. I've looked for knock-off versions for years, and never found a good one.

Until last week.

I ordered them. And they showed up yesterday. Yesterday, I had my wrap-up appointment with my fertility doctor, at which he went through all my test results and we talked about how to proceed from here. I was hoping it would be a little more optimistic than it was: it turns out that I have severe endometriosis, so our best option would still be in-vitro fertilization. But, we do have a shot at success if I have a laproscopy to remove the endo, and then try insemination for a few months - and the very good news is that my egg supply is fine, so we don't have to be in a huge hurry.

But I was hoping for a little less dramatic diagnosis on the endo, so I was a bit down when I got home. And then, on my bed, was the box from the shoe company. I opened it. And inside, were these:




I LOVE THEM.

I am not ashamed to admit that I put them on last night and watched that episode of SATC. Sometimes a little stupid happiness is just what you need.

Barbara saves the day

It's not very often that I come into a Friday morning with ABSOLUTELY no idea what I'm going to preach about. Having read the text only once, very briefly, on Thursday. My hope-against-hope, that I could recycle a sermon from three years ago, crashed and burned when I opened the file drawer to realize that, despite having been a solo preacher for five+ years, I somehow have no sermon whatsoever on Sunday's assigned text. (Which, by the way, seems like a new one to me. Is that right? Do the Lectionary People just screw with me by adding a new twist every few years? And did they have to do this on the week when I moved everything I own? Aaargh.)

I really hate heading into Saturday with no sermon ideas. So, after "brief perusal of old sermons," back-up sermon option number one, I went straight for back-up sermon option number two: "scan through all books of sermons by Barbara Brown Taylor and hope for something usable in there."

Jackpot. I love this woman.

Technically, her sermon "Last of All," a chapter in Bread of Angels, is on the Mark version of Sunday's text. Close enough. Enough to start with, anyway.

But I was listening to a great episode of This American Life on my ipod while driving this morning - "The Devil Inside," I think it was called, about all the little voices in our heads which try to convince us to do dumb/thoughtless/prejudiced/destructive things, and now the prominent voice in my head (nicknamed 'Grandma,' for its constant tendency toward worrying and guilt-producing) is wagging its little finger about plagarism. Are you ripping off someone's sermon? asks Grandma. Because that's just wrong, you know. And you'll be in church. Lying. In the pulpit. On behalf of the good Lord. Isn't this breaking the rules? Lying in church?

To quote the great Todd Flanders, brother of Rod and son of Ned, "Lies make baby Jesus cry."

I don't actually intend to lie. I always reference as much as possible and appropriate, and I will certainly be clear about anything directly attributable to Pastor Brown Taylor.

But sometimes, you have a crazy week and you have to dip into the reserves. Maybe your reserves; maybe someone else's. All you can do is be as honest as possible and plan for better next week. At least I'm not at square one anymore.

Even if the voice of Ira Glass will be taunting me all afternoon.

I was going to write earlier, but I seemed to have packed my energy in a brown cardboard box.

Lord, I hate moving.

To be more precise, I hate packing.

Got to Old City last Thursday and Beloved and I worked like crazy people until Monday night. The movers showed up bright and early yesterday morning - and eight hours later, voila! We watched the truck turn the corner...and watched all our worldly possessions be driven away. That is a very odd sensation. Let me just say, however, that professional movers are the BEST THING EVER and I am so thankful the church paid for that part of the process. Packing is enough work on its own. Besides, having moved into our now-nearly-former home only two years ago, our friends are still recovering and we hated to ask them to help us yet again.

We signed the papers this afternoon to close. Once the money shows up on Friday morning, we're officially house-less. The good news is that we then have money with which to buy another, undoubtedly much more expensive, house.

We are both exhausted, but in a good way. Once we actually found ourselves in the same city again, all the tensions of the past few weeks disappeared. It's a huge step to have this house sold, to know that we can live together again (there is the small detail of Beloved finding a job, but this will be easier to do once he's in New City...we believe).

For now, I'm borrowing my in-laws' computer to sneak peeks at blogs and catch up. I go back to work on Friday morning to write a sermon on...the near-sacrifice of Isaac?

Maybe some things are harder than moving.

1-800-FIGHTING

Two words: moving sucks.

Oh, no, wait. Three words. Moving sucks hard.

Today Beloved and I had our first honest-to-God, knock-down, drag-out fight. We've argued before, but nobody yells. Neither one of us is a yeller. We do not come from yelling families. (We are Scandinavian and German. We do not yell, we just go silent and possibly drink beer.)

The fight was ostensibly about the process of moving. New Congregation had agreed to pay for our moving expenses, including the services of a professional mover. Since my first congregation paid for the services of a U-Haul and my dad (well, they didn't pay for my dad), this was a big step-up for me. I swear to the tips of my toes that I told Beloved we would do our own packing, as this was the compromise I reached with the personnel committee. Beloved, having grown up in a military family in which moving every few years involved the services of people who come to your house and pack all your stuff for you, swears that I never mentioned the self-packing thing. We have argued about this a few times, both acknowledging that one of us must be wrong, but neither one willing to admit which one of us that would be. (See here, how I'm still defending my version of events? This would be evidence of the aforementioned problem.)

A few weeks ago, we started the process of contacting the movers. To be specific, the chain of command goes like this: personnel committee chair talks to movers; movers come to our house and look at our stuff; movers talk to personnel committee chair about estimate; estimate turns out to be nearly five times what personnel committee guy thought; movers email estimate to me; I talk to Beloved.

This is a lot of activity between movers and Beloved. Keep in mind that this is a guy who plans everything well in advance and needs a lot of information before making a decision. As in, it took him two years to decide which barbeque to buy. TWO YEARS. I am not making this up. So, suffice it to say that Beloved has been getting frustrated with his lack of opportunity to provide input.

The truth is, the vast underestimation of the moving costs was the responsibility of the personnel committee guy. He never asked us the size of our house, or how much stuff we had. He never asked for more than one bid on the job, and now there's simply not enough time to get another one. And he has been unfailingly kind and supportive about this process, even if it's not going as quickly as anyone would like.

Now and again, I hear about people who are married but live in separate cities, and not just as a temporary thing, but simply as their way of life. Perhaps because both people have jobs which can't be moved, or one person found a job far away and the other person couldn't find a job in that city, or maybe because they just don't like living together - I don't know. The wife of one of my seminary professors lived in Hong Kong. He lived in St. Paul, Minnesota.

I used to think that was a perfectly fine thing to do if that's what you wanted, and I suppose it still is, but let me tell you this - it ain't gonna work for me. I think the main reason our fight today escalated the way it did was precisely because we were not in the same room. When you're on the phone, you can roll your eyes or make that "I could strangle you" gesture with your hands, or stop really listening and scan through your email. You can start yelling or say things you wouldn't normally say because you don't have to look the other person in the eyes while you say them.

Tonight we had a meeting at church about redesigning our website, and perhaps using more social networking stuff to help people connect with each other. In some ways, I think this is a great thing. I have made great connections with people because of what would seem to be impersonal things, like this blog: there is an intimacy to this way of communicating which surprised me. There is a safety, especially in anonymity, and there is something about this never-being-face-to-face thing which helps me say more honestly what I really feel.

But then again, I think about how Beloved and I got into this shit over the phone, and I realize how limited phones, or email, or blogs, really are. I can say anything I want here, because almost no one knows who I am. But I don't have to be particularly accountable for any of this. And for all that such freedom allows me honesty, I don't have to pay for any of it.

The thing about marriage is, at some point you have to pay for being honest. Or not being honest. And if you're not in the same room as the other person, you might dish out a little more payment than is really required. While we were arguing about moving expenses, what we were really fighting about was control, and losing control, and not being together, and the fear of not finding a job, and the fact that the Sears people are refusing to fix the waited-two-years-for-it barbeque, and everything else you can think of. It got out of control because there was no reason to stop, not when it feels like you're in the room by yourself.

Tonight we talked again, and he said at some point with a smile in his voice (you can hear that over the phone, you know), "Are you going to apologize to me?" "Well, I don't know," I said, "but I do have a lot to apologize for." "Yes, you do," he said, and then he apologized, and I said thank you. And then I apologized too. And life will go on.

Just hopefully not over the phone anymore.

adventures in real estate, volume 2

I have decided the reason that Jesus, the Son of Man, had "nowhere to lay his head" is because he knew the real estate market is a giant pain in the ass.

It's much easier to be the buyer than the seller, so from that standpoint, we're doing well. In our area, the most motivated sellers appear to be builders whose empty homes are sitting on the market, so we've been looking at a number of new construction houses. Having talked to a few builders who are friends or family, and having gotten the following advice from both - "make an embarrassingly low offer" - that's what we did on Wednesday afternoon.

Apparently we made the offer to the only builder in town who is not willing to budge on his inflated asking price.

It's not that big of a deal. There are plenty of homes to choose from, and I have to admit that it was a bit of a power trip to scoff at the counteroffer and walk away. Pastors don't normally get to do that sort of thing. "I laugh at your ridiculous price! Ha ha! Watch me walk away!" This is empowering, in a very self-centered manner.

But it does mean that we need to find someplace else to live, and the clock is ticking. 17 days from today, we sign to turn over our current home. 11 or 12 days from today, we will pack up the truck and move our stuff. Have we started packing? Ah. No. Not really.

And, pray tell, where will all this stuff go when it arrives on this side of the state? There lies the rub.

One of these days, we'll look back at this time and wonder how we got through it all. That day can't come fast enough. For now, I'm off to drive past yet another house.

sermon, redux

I have a love-hate relationship with publishing sermons. (Namely, that I love reading other people's sermons and hate publishing my own.) Actually, the main problem is that sermons are so contextual, it's hard to float them out on the internet. Oh, and that writing to be delivered orally is quite different than writing to be read visually, so I'm not always sure that sermons read very well in print.

But. That aside, I had such a great time messing around with thoughts brought up by Choralgirl (she has a great blog! Read it!) that I thought I'd throw this out there as an addition to a discussion she's got going. I made some changes as I preached it, especially the second and third times around, but of course I can't remember those at the moment, so you'll have to take the original draft.


Dear friends in Christ, grace and peace to you from God our creator, and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

There is an old story in the Jewish tradition about the creation of the world. There are several versions of this story, but they all say something like this: that long ago, long before the world was created, there was only a holy darkness. When the world came from that darkness, it was a great ray of light. And then there was an accident. And the glass vessels containing the light of the world, the wholeness of the world, broke. And the light of the world, the wholeness and truth, was scattered into a thousand, thousand fragments which fell into all events and all people. The story says that human beings were created as a response to this accident: that we were created to put together the pieces, and to restore the wholeness of the world. This task is called “tikkum olam” in Hebrew, restoring the world, which is the task of all people who have ever been born or ever will be born. Another version of the story says that when the world was created, the truth was a giant mirror, and it was what shattered in an accident. Now each person holds a piece of the mirror, a piece of the truth, and the more pieces we put together, the closer we are to seeing a larger truth than any of us can see on our own. (1)

But if you’ve ever broken a mirror, or a piece of glass, you know that this story has danger to it. Shattered mirrors have sharp edges. You can cut yourself easily; you could hurt someone else if you wanted to. Which is also something you can do, not only with a mirror, but with a piece of the truth.

This is a beautiful image, that each of us has a little shining glint of truth, a piece to contribute. It reminds us that truth and wholeness are things none of us can figure out entirely on our own – that we need each other, or we will not be able to see much of anything at all. But it is also an image with an edge. It is not a very safe image. Then again, when it comes to the truth we hear in the gospel, safety may be overrated.

Our reading from Matthew tells three stories of healing in only a short few verses. The first does not appear to be a healing story, but a calling story: Jesus is walking along and sees a man called Matthew sitting at his tax booth, and Jesus calls him to become a disciple – which Matthew does, without hesitation or a single question. That in itself sounds like a miracle: who would walk away from their life without even a backward glance, without asking any questions? It’s partly a testimony to God’s ability to create faith, of course. But it’s also a reminder that the life Matthew was so quick to leave behind wasn’t necessarily a very good one. No one liked tax collectors, after all. When Jesus stopped and talked to Matthew, it may have been the first time in weeks, months, years, that someone didn’t leave his tax booth hating him and everything he stood for. The religious authorities take note of this right away, when they object to the company Jesus is keeping: “why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?” they ask of Jesus’ friends.

This was much more than the typical “nobody likes the IRS” sort of thing. At the time, tax collectors often preyed especially on the poor, demanding much more than they could pay. Their fellow Jews despised them for selling out their own people; and the Roman government didn’t think much of them either, though they did take the money. Perhaps Matthew followed Jesus because he felt his heart leap when Jesus called his name; and perhaps he followed because he was desperate to leave his miserable life.

Either way, the authorities object. The Pharisees get a bad rap much of the time, especially if we think they were all like the few who criticized Jesus in the gospels. But remember, the Pharisees were the churchgoing faithful of their time. They were the pastors, the altar guild members, the council committee chairs, the people who drive the van and weed the church property and know everyone’s name. They were, in other words, not so different from us, although we would like to think otherwise. They were serious about their faith, and so they studied the bible, and in the bible, they found passages like this one from Psalm 1: “Happy are those who do not follow the advice of the wicked or take the path that sinners tread.” That’s in the bible! So what is Jesus doing walking around with a bunch of cheaters and sinners? Doesn’t he read the bible? Doesn’t he understand the truth?

As Jesus is in the midst of talking to the Pharisees about this, another desperate person finds him, but this time it’s not Jesus who starts the conversation: “my daughter has just died,” says the man, “please come and lay your hand on her, so she will live.” And it’s not the man who does the following this time: it’s Jesus who gets up and follows him, out into the streets and into his grieving. The only piece of truth this man cares about is that his daughter has died and with her, the future he had always imagined. Does he know anything about who Jesus really is? Or does he rely on a few rumors he’s heard that this guy might be able to help? When you’re desperate, who cares? Jesus never asks the man anything – doesn’t ask him to prove his faith, or answer a few questions about his worship attendance, or demonstrate his faithful giving to the synagogue budget. Jesus simply follows him through the streets.

Which is when desperate person number three shows up. A woman, this time, equally as unlucky as the despised tax collector and the grieving father. She is sick, and she has been sick for twelve years. She suffers from hemorrhages, and because of the purity laws – many of which are in the bible, by the way – she is not supposed to be in public around men as long as she is bleeding. She is not only suffering a physical illness, but a social one as well: she is an outcast, and there is nowhere for her to be. She is so desperate that she has convinced herself all she has to do is touch Jesus’ cloak to be made well.

You know what we would call that? Superstition. This is a desperate woman with bad theology. Jesus isn’t a magician, after all. He’s not a superhero with a super cloak that can confer miracles onto whoever touches it – we know that. Except that, if you have ever been really desperate, waiting for a diagnosis or looking for a cure, you will understand this woman’s mindset. That’s what desperation does to you: if someone tells you there is a man in Mexico who can cure you, there might come a day when you will get on a plane and go, against all your better judgments. When you will convince yourself that if you just reach out and touch this man, maybe, just maybe, you will be healed. Everything will be okay.

Jesus does heal this woman. And he does raise the little girl. And he does call Matthew, the tax collector nobody liked. If each of them has a little piece of the truth, the truth they have known so far is this: they are on the outside. They are the people no one wants to deal with, or sit next to, or talk to, or associate with. And if Jesus is the one going around gathering little pieces of that broken mirror, helping people put the truth back together, he seems to start with the most shattered, the most jagged and dangerous pieces he can find. He is going to save people. But his way of doing it is not particularly safe.

At the time, it was thought that the way to be saved was to keep yourself apart from dangerous things, or unclean things, or uncertain things. So there were rules about who could be in the holiest places and when they could be there, about how to spend your time on certain days of the week, about who belonged where and why.

This is really easy to criticize, until we realize how much we do the same thing. To keep ourselves safe, we stay away from people who aren’t safe themselves, or who don’t seem that way: we try to keep the homeless and the hungry out of our neighborhoods; we spend most of our time with people who are basically like us. More than we would like to admit, we still divide ourselves by race or ethnic background, by religion, by education level, by language, by economic status, even by gender or age. A little bit at a time, we keep ourselves apart from people and places and events that don’t feel safe. We have good reasons for this, we tell ourselves. Safety is important. We have kids who need protection. There are a lot of dangers in the world, people who would hurt us or hurt the people we love. If we stay away from them, keep ourselves apart, we will be safe. Or safer, at least.

But Jesus didn’t especially want people to be safe. He wanted them to be saved, which was a whole other thing. When we read in the gospel today the words “made well” – the woman was “made well,” for example – the Greek word is “sozo,” which is also the word, “salvation.” This bleeding woman, and the despised tax collector, and the grieving father – these people were not especially safe. They were sick, and hated, and maybe bad luck. They were not safe, but Jesus does not have much interest in safety. What he wanted for his people was not safety but salvation, and that’s what they receive. Not only healing, but wholeness: their piece of the truth restored to the rest, their isolation turned into reconciliation.

It’s a hard question to ask ourselves: safety or salvation? What is it we seek? Jesus spent his time with all the wrong people – the tax collectors, the sinners, the poor, the women, the children, the ill and the broken and even the dead. Over and over again, he put them together, one piece at a time. To us, he gives the task of continuing that healing work. For the church to be about healing does not necessarily mean that we need to tap people on the head and tell them to stand up from wheelchairs, or that if we all get together and pray really hard, everyone in our church will be cured from cancer. When it comes to healing, Jesus has a wider vision than this.

One way of being healed is to have your illness cured. For reasons we cannot always understand, that does not always happen on this side of the grave. But the gospel is that God heals us even when a cure does not come. God heals when we are brought in from being on the outside, when we are welcomed. God heals when we stop treating each other as dangerous and start looking for the pieces of the truth in each person. God heals when we have place to bring all our brokenness and be heard, and cared for, and loved. God heals when we, in all our differences, focus instead on our unity. And we, in turn, can help heal the world when we stop worrying about keeping safe and start instead to share the joy of salvation.

(1) Story told in December 2007 on NPR series Speaking of Faith, linked here. My thanks to Choralgirl for sending me the link.

Friday Five: The View from Here

Sally offers this Friday Five over at Rev Gals:

This week I took some time out to stop and walk and take in the view; my son Chris is studying in one of the most beautiful parts of the country, too often we simply drive up there, turn around and come home! This time Tim and I took time out to take in the view. It occurs to me that we need to do that more in life....

With that in mind I offer you this weeks Friday Five:

1. How important is the "big picture" to you, do you need a glimpse of the possibilities or are you a details person?

I would like to think of myself as a combination of the two. After serving on a "vision team" for our local Lutheran camp a few years ago, however, I discovered that I am much more of a details person. The whole "cast a big vision" thing turned out to be enormously frustrating for me. Not sure if this is a good thing for a pastor to admit, but there you go.


2. If the big picture is important to you how do you hold onto it in the nitty gritty details of life?

I'm reversing this question: since I'm more into details, how do I remember the big picture? Ummm...I'm working on this. Mostly it involves taking a lot of deep breaths and trying to slow down.


3. Name a book, poem, psalm, piece of music that transports to to another dimension ( one....what am I thinking....)

It is hard to narrow it down. But for the sake of brevity (and the sermon I should be working on), I'll mention one of my very, very favorite pieces of music: Appalachian Spring, by Aaron Copeland. Love, love, love that work.


4.Thinking of physical views, is there somewhere that inspires you, somewhere that you breathe more easily?

Holden Village. If you can't slow down and breathe and be inspired there, then you must be dead.


5. A picture opportunity...


In case you doubt my words about Holden, here's a peek at its surroundings. And yes, I totally stole this from their website here. If you have never been there, you need to go. Check out their Partners in Ministry program for a low-cost visit offered to clergy.

No, they do not pay me to say this.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH

To the several older folk who have, in that peculiarly attempting-to-be-kind-yet-in-fact-totally-passive-aggressive-manner common among older Lutherans in my experience, noted that "the new pastor talks too fast":

I am doing my best to speak more slowly.

Perhaps you ought to listen quicker.

Or turn up your hearing aids.

And also, I am now informed. Please stop mentioning it to me. I'll say this slowly:

I

AM

WORKING

ON

IT.

Thank you. Carry on.

smelly, slimy waiting room

Almost six years ago, my then-colleague, the Senior Pastor of the congregation, was diagnosed with a malignant, inoperable brain tumor. He was 45 years old at the time. He had been having a bit of trouble remembering names and words, and I think he went in for tests because his mother had a disease much like early-onset Alzheimer's, and he was worried about that. A tumor was not on anyone's radar screen.

A few days before he went in for his biopsy surgery, the bishop came and prayed with him. The day before his surgery, my colleague told me that the bishop had given him an image to consider as he prepared for the anesthetic: to think of himself as entering the belly of the whale. To think of himself as Jonah, being carried safely through the waters - in a less-than desirable waiting area, to be sure, but nevertheless safe. Waiting, said the bishop, rarely happens in comfort. Think of the Israelites wandering in the wilderness, or Noah on the ark, or Jesus in the desert - or Jonah in the belly of the whale, on hold in his smelly, slimy waiting room.

The truth is, I hate waiting. Unless the object of my so-called patience is something guaranteed to happen, like Christmas or the opening of an anticipated movie, waiting is no fun. Having been to the doctor a few times lately, it occurs to me that we like to dress up our waiting areas to make the actual reason we are there less anxiety-producing: we fill them with magazines and semi-comfortable chairs, toys for kids and coffee for the adults, piped-in, soothing music and muted colors. But waiting sucks, no matter how comfortable the room is. No matter how well-decorated and visually soothing, no matter how crisp the magazines are and how good the coffee is, it always feels like a slimy, smelly whale belly in there. It might be that you have to hang out there for awhile to get to where you're going, but let's at least stop pretending that it's anything more than a big whale gut.

Today's episode of The Writer's Almanac featured a great poem by Dan Albergotti, called "Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale." You can find it here (I'm linking rather than quoting in full since I'm not sure if there are some copyright issues here and I'd much rather use any extra money I have for lattes rather than paying fines).

The line I needed to hear today was this one:

Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait.

"Swallowed with all hope." Because the belly of the whale can feel so discouraging, so dark and sometimes nauseating, because you can't see where you're going from in there, it's easy to forget that the reason for being swallowed in the first place was to save you from the storm. Sometimes waiting is like this. It's not a cool, calm, professional office where you can sip your drink and wait for your name to be called; it's not always wandering around where you can at least see the sand dunes and have a bit of warning before the clouds close in on you.

Sometimes you just have to hang out in the whale's belly, swallowed with all hope, where you can rest and wait. Thanks, Poet Albergotti, for the reminder.

update

Well, Beloved interviewed on Friday and felt okay about the experience, though he didn't make the final cut for the position. He was disappointed, but bounced back very quickly and has already applied for a number of other teaching positions in the area. Thanks for the prayers!

I saw Sex and the City: The Movie yesterday, with a friend who drove over from Old City specifically so we could see it together. After reading mediocre reviews (and after the fairly disappointing experience of Indiana Jones a few weeks ago) I didn't expect much, but hey - I really liked it. Sure, it's really only for fans of the show; sure, the materialistic angle is rampant (but damn, there are some great shoes); sure, the women's lifestyles are still TOTALLY unrealistic and it's basically a rehashing of all the same romantic dramas they went through on the series - but I didn't care. It was fun and summery and enjoyable and I had two cosmopolitans beforehand, so that probably contributed to the success of the day.

Nothing theologically pertinent today. Just a Tuesday. Rainy, rainy, rainy. Off to work on the sermon...

repeat to self: "Today's trouble is enough for today."

How is it that good news can make me so worried? Aargh.

Good news #1: the house inspection went through, the buyers signed off on it without requesting any fixes (whoo hoo!) and now we just need to wait until closing on June 30. Because they are paying cash, we don't need to worry about the state of their financing: fantastic. And yet I worry...

And good news #2 (culminating in prayer request #426 on this blog): Beloved has a job interview tomorrow! It's for a good job which I think he'd enjoy and for which he has great, pertinent experience. It's within decent driving distance. He's excited about it. If you could pray for him today and tomorrow at, say, 2:00pm Pacific Time, I'd really, really appreciate it. Might as well pray for me too, since all this good news sends me into yet even more worry...

Repeat to self:
Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? So why do you worry about tomorrow? Tomorrow will bring worries of its own (preach it, Jesus). Today's trouble is enough for today.

Deep breath.

Amen.

Daily Dose of Procrastination

I should be working on something more important, undoubtedly, but I got really curious after reading the meme below on J's blog. So I blame her. (Not really.)

My Life as a Soundtrack

The Rules:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle.
3. Press play.
4. For every question, type the song that's playing.
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button.
6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool.

Opening Credits: Rhapsody for Jazz Ensemble (sorry, no composer on this one - it's from a recording by my alma mater music program at the opening of the new music building on campus. Great song.)

First Day At School: Music, Maestro, Please (Harry Connick Jr)

Falling In Love: My Funny Valentine (Miles Davis) (I am not making this up - good choice, ipod.)

Breaking Up: Rejoice, Greatly, O Daughter of Zion (Handel’s Messiah) (This is my favorite. Unusual choice, certainly, but still - "Rejoice Greatly, O Daughter of Zion! Thy horrible boyfriend hast been smoted!" Or whatever.)

1st date: Spring is Here (Nat King Cole)

Prom: You Learn (Alanis Morissette)

Life's OK: Don’t Be That Way (Benny Goodman)

Driving: Death of the First Born, from Prince of Egypt (Hans Zimmer) (I do listen to a lot of soundtracks. And I do like to sing along to a few Prince of Egypt tunes in the car. Probably not this one, though.)

Flashback: Too Young (Natalie Cole)

Getting Back Together: Forgotten (Storyhill)

Wedding: Can’t Run But (Paul Simon)

Final Battle: Why Georgia (John Mayer)

Death Scene: Mudd Island Chase from The Firm (Dave Grusin)

Funeral Song: Jimi Thing (Dave Matthews Band)

End Credits: How We Operate (Gomez)

in which Chorus tags me for a meme

Before this, I was a meme-tagged virgin: so thanks, Chorus, for being the first. (Now that I read that sentence, it sounds kind of creepy. Not intended that way. Still post-high-school-retreat-tired.)

Rules:
The rules of the game get posted at the beginning.
Each player answers the questions about himself or herself.
At the end of the post, the player then tags five people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog.
Yadayadayada

Ten years ago:
I was finishing up my year-long internship year of seminary, oddly enough in a town only about ten miles away from where I'm serving today. I was single, living in an apartment furnished in a very refugee-fleeing-my-homeland sort of way, and starting to adjust to pastoral life. I had such a great internship - a huge blessing.

Five things on today's "to do" list:
1. Work out a basic outline of the sermon.
2. Call our real estate agent to set up house visits for this weekend when Beloved is here.
3. Buy a train ticket to visit Beloved for a few days in a nearby city where he'll be coaching kids in the state tennis tournament.
4. Write a 'congratulations' card to one of my very, very favorite high schoolers from my previous congregation who sent me a graduation announcement yesterday.
5. Lead the bible study for retired folks in - oh, about eight minutes.

Things I'd do if I was a billionaire:
Buy a house here in New City.
Pay off student loans.
Fix whatever the hell is ailing the Seattle Mariners (though I fear money will not accomplish this...)
Do whatever is medically necessary for us to have a baby.

Three bad habits:
1. I am addicted to coffee.
2. I read the People magazine website. Still.
3. I swear at bad drivers in the car. A lot.

Five places I've lived:
Seattle
Minneapolis
Iserlohn, Germany (for a summer)
Tacoma
Spokane

Five jobs I've had:
Pastor
Catering Manager (in college)
Library page
Grocery store bag lady ("can I carry those out for you?")
Barista (everyone in Seattle has to do this job at some point. It's in the city code.)

Five People I'm Tagging
MoreCows
Nachfolge
The Kitchen Door
Swandive
Rebel Without a Pew

in between the times

Only time for a quick update this morning:

- returned from a tiring but wonderful youth retreat this weekend and finding that it really does take longer to recuperate from those at age 35 than it did ten years ago...

- the inspection on our (hopefully) former home is tomorrow and we're eagerly waiting for the conclusion of the ten-day in-between period shortly afterward...

- and you know how sometimes the gospel reading for a particular Sunday seems to have been written just for you, just for your exact moment in life right now? "Do you think that by worrying you can add a single hour to your span of life?" Ah. Good point. I will be repeating that as my mantra this week.

- and last, I'm housesitting this week for a dear couple at church who are, as we speak, in China meeting their adopted daughter for the first time. They'll bring her home next Thursday. So much fun to help that happen, even in a small way.

adventures in real estate

So...

...after hours of discussion, debating how much our house is worth in this particular market, and the value of a bird in the hand...

...after a very long night in which Beloved wanted to "sleep on it" but in which neither one of us got much actual sleep...

...after a few choruses sung in my head of, "The More You Love Someone, the More You Want to Kill Them"... (a gem of a song from the Broadway show Avenue Q)

...and after a WHOLE LOT of prayer...


...we signed the offer this morning. It's a little less than we really wanted, but it's enough to help us move on. It will be official in 10 days, after their inspection (about which we're fairly confident, having bought the house only two years ago after a thorough inspection then).

Thank you for your prayers! You know, if I never have to sell another house again, I'll be delighted. But for now, it's looking good.

please pray...

Our real estate agent called this morning to say that we are getting an offer on our house this evening.

Please, God, may it be good enough to say yes to...

And if you have an extra second in your day, please pray for us!

in which this pastor gets totally flummoxed

Just hung up from having the following phone conversation:

Me: "Can I help you?"

Caller: "Yes, well, I wanted to talk to a pastor about something."

Me: "Okay. What would you like to talk about?"

Caller: "Well, I grew up Lutheran and I was wondering - do you think it would be a sin for me to marry a Hindu?"

LONG PAUSE.

[Here, let me insert that I do not think this would be a sin. At all. But let me also say that having this sort of conversation in the abstract - say, when a seminary professor tells you that this sort of thing might one day come up in the parish and you imagine all the thoughtful, intelligent, gracious and profound things you will say - this is totally different than when someone calls you at 4:15 on a Wednesday and you are trying to send a email about confirmation, contact your husband about a showing of your house because if he goes home he'll run into these people and WHY ISN'T HE ANSWERING HIS CELL PHONE OF ALL BLOODY DAYS NOT TO ANSWER and fielding questions about how to recognize the Sunday School teachers without offending people by not naming all of them...

...all that profound shit just flies right out of your head. Gone, baby, gone.]

So, we did have a good conversation about honoring each other's differences and finding the similiarities, and about how God might work through many different religions. It was the sort of conversation you actually dream about having as a pastor, where someone is asking the big questions of life - and yet these happen so relatively seldom that when they do occur, it's like you can't remember how to think beyond your own nose.

Anyway. Back to the Sunday School teachers...

folic acid, given for you

As of today, I have only six pre-natal vitamins left in my economy-size bottle. I started with 225 pills.

Actually, I started two bottles ago. Which means I have consumed nearly 600 pre-natal vitamins over the past 29 months: two economy-sized bottles, one smaller bottle, and many days of "screw this, why even take these damn things." 600 pre-natal vitamins and no natal condition to show for it. On the plus side, my fingernails are exceptionally strong.

I've just finished reading Take This Bread, an amazing and wonderful story of faith from Sara Miles. I'll be out of town next Monday, completely unable to access a computer, so I'm really sad to miss the discussion on the book at Rev Gals - and especially a chance to 'meet' the author during that time.

But, largely because of the book, and also because I just helped lead a confirmation retreat on the sacraments, I've been thinking sacramentally quite a lot lately. It's Miles' theology that God, present in the meal of communion, is equally present whenever we eat with one another - and particularly whenver our tables are filled with the hungry, the outcast, the ignored, and the generally-overlooked. I don't think this is Miles' position alone, of course. It's biblical in a million ways. Eating is an act of community, and of generosity, and of dependence. When we cook for one another we are expressing real care for real human bodies. We are engaging creation when we eat well: when we consider how deeply connected we are to one another and to the earth.

Miles writes about her own conversion experience, which came at the communion table and shocked her to the core. She writes this about her growing sense of what that meal means:

I didn't deserve communion myself now. I wasn't getting it because I was good. I wasn't getting it because I was special. I certainly didn't get to pick who else was good enough, holy enough, deserving enough, to share it. It wasn't a private meal. The bread on that Table had to be shared with everyone in order for me to really taste it. And sharing it meant I was going to be touching Christ's body at St. Gregory's, through Donald and Rick and the angry older deacon with the clenched jaw. Looking into Christ's eyes outside of church, through the cheery athiest yuppie with the sports car and the veiled Muslim clerk at Walgreens. Listening to Christ's voice in other churches, through the middle-aged woman with the annoying nasal whine, and the self-righteous homophobic radio evangelist, and the conservative African bishop. I was not going to get to sit by myself and think loftily about how much Jesus loved me in particular. I was not going to get to have dinner, eternally, with people just like me. I was going to get communion, whether I wanted it or not, with people I didn't necessarily like. People I didn't choose. People such as my parents or the strangers who fed me: the people God chose for me.
Then she writes this:

Conversion, isn't, after all, a moment: it's a process, and it keeps happening, with cycles of acceptance and resistance, epiphany and doubt.

What I loved about this book, besides the great writing and her wide-open view of communion, was the encouragment I found to think sacramentally, even beyond the sacraments themselves. I tried to express this a bit to the confirmation students at our retreat: that, in addition to all the other great things we receive during communion and baptism, perhaps God is also trying to give us another way to see the world. A way in which all things are gifts and God can work through the most ordinary of moments, events, people, and things. That if we practice seeing God in bread, wine, and water, perhaps after awhile we will be able to see God at work in other meals and other waters - and then in other places altogether. In books, in random conversations over coffee, in strangers at the airport, in parents waiting to adopt a child. Everywhere.

In 600 pre-natal vitamins.

In addition to everything else communion is, it's a meal of hope. We get a foretaste of the feast to come: a small, sometimes infitessimal, glimpse of the kingdom feasts Jesus envisions in the gospels. Everyone around the table, full of good things, without regard for economic status or education level or bad deeds or good deeds or deeds of any kind.

I take a pre-natal vitamin every day not because I think I might be pregnant, or even because I have any real reason to hope that pregnancy might happen naturally for us. In fact, I take that vitamin (nearly) every day in spite of the reality that a surprise pregnancy is simply not in the cards for us. And I do this not out of my inherant Scandinavian stubbornness, or unrealistic idealism, but as a sort of sacrament. I take that vitamin because, when I swallow it, I am acting out of hope rather than reality, out of the future rather than the past. Out of wholeness instead of brokenness.

Is it foolish to prepare your body for something that may never happen? Damn right it is. Sacramental foolishness. Holy imprudence. As foolish as it is to trust that a tiny, tasteless wafer and a small sip of fairly-cheap wine has anything to do with the very body of God or the presence of the divine in the world. But to think sacramentally, I believe, is to act more out of what we hope for than out of what we are told to expect. It is sheer idiocy to do this, except that it might also be the only way to flourish, when all is said and done.

This is why I am going to buy another bottle of pre-natal vitamins on my way home today. I am going to stand in the pharmacy aisle and close my eyes and remember the taste of the bread and the smell of the wine and the feel of a cross made of water on my head, and I am going to pick up that bottle of generic vitamins and trust in that which I cannot yet see.

Communion, conversion, and hope are, as Miles might say, all about process, and they keep happening, with cycles of acceptance and resistance, epiphany and doubt. Every time I eat that bread, drink that wine, see a beloved child splashed with that water, I participate in a way of life breaking into the world, telling us all that the table is so much bigger than we thought, and that the host simply can't stop inviting people to come and eat. Take in hope, right into your stomach and veins and muscles. You are what you eat, right?

In which case, I'm getting the biggest bottle they have.