Will Smama writes, Greetings friends! It's been awhile since I've contributed to the posts here at the revgalblogpals website, but I agreed to step into the Fifth Friday of the Month Friday Five slot. So here I be.
As I zip around the webring it is quite clear that we are getting BUSY. "Tis the season" when clergy and laypeople alike walk the highwire from Fall programming to Christmas carrying their balancing pole with family/rest on the one side and turkey shelters/advent wreaths on the other.
And so I offer this Friday Five with 5 quick hit questions... and a bonus: 1) Your work day is done and the brain is fried, what do you do?
Go home, cook dinner, watch some tv (if brain is completely fried) or read (if brain is still able to comprehend the written word). On cold fall days, there's nothing better than a bowl of french onion soup, crusty bread, and a glass of red wine.
2) Your work week is done and the brain is fried (for some Friday, others Sunday afternoon), what do you do?
I used to take a post-church nap on Sundays, but I haven't done that for awhile. The first thing I do when I get home is rip off my Clergy Gear (most especially the heels, if I'm wearing them) and change into Super Comfy Knitwear of Some Kind Which Hopefully Does Not Have Holes, But I'm Not Making Any Promises. I often watch football. Probably because that's what my dad did on Sunday afternoons (and Beloved does the same). Beloved is in charge of dinner on Sundays, so I get to lay around a bit.
Lately, I have to gear myself back up to teach a Sunday evening class. Not a good decision on my part. Moving it to Thursdays in January.
And the cherry on the top of my Sunday evenings: The Simpsons. Season premiere this week, people.
3) Like most of us, I often keep myself busy even while programs are on the tv. I stop to watch The Office and 30 Rock on Thursday nights. Do you have 'stop everything' tv programming or books or events or projects that are totally 'for you' moments?
Beloved and I are still hooked on Grey's Anatomy, even though it's not as good as it once was. And we are eagerly looking forward to the continuing saga of Lost. Lost is the only show during which I cannot do any of my other normal tv-watching activities (knitting, cooking, glancing through magazines). That show requires absolute attention. And even then, I have no idea what the hell is going on.
But the premiere I am most eagerly anticipating this fall is, without a doubt, the new James Bond film, Quantum of Solace. No idea what the title means. Don't care. LOVE James Bond. Daniel Craig is FANTASTIC. 4) When was the last time you laughed, really laughed? What was so funny?
With some seminary friends at a conference a few weeks ago. You know how there are some friends, even if you don't see them for months or even years at a time, that you can just pick up with as if you never left off? That's those people. Our only problem is that we visited a friend who had recently had surgery, and we had to rein ourselves in because making her laugh caused pain. At which time I realized how much of our friend-time we spend laughing. It was really hard to be serious for a whole hour. 5) What is a fairly common item that some people are willing to go cheap on, but you are not.
Breakfast cereal. I hate generic breakfast cereal.
And hair products. Naturally curly hair requires the good products. No matter how you cut it, cheap products = crap hair. I have finally come to this conclusion.
Bonus: It's become trite but is also true that we often benefit the most when we give. Go ahead, toot your own horn. When was the last time you gave until it felt good?
When Beloved was going through his hard time with anxiety a few months ago, I found myself alternately exhausted and empowered by being his 'caregiver,' if only for a short time. I really admire and respect people who are caregivers on a long-term basis. But even when he was driving me nuts, I felt really good about being able to help him through that. (He's doing great, by the way.)
Choralgirl tagged me for a fabulous meme: identify hymns that have shaped, or which reveal, my theology. She puts it so perfectly that I'll just quote her thoughts here:
Selecting a hymn for my community to sing can happen for so many reasons...because it fits with the texts; because it fits the liturgical season; because it fits our particular context at the moment; because they love it or because it will challenge them; because it's theologically sound; because we need to remember that "me and Jesus" isn't the whole story, or because we need to remember that Jesus loves each of us intimately; because it has a tune that will live in their hearts and embed the text in their consciousness; because it prays; because it praises; because it laments; because it thanks; because it celebrates the gifts all around and within us.
It drives me nuts when the conversation is reduced to "I like (or, often, don't like) that one," or "Hey, that was catchy." That's too impoverished, too auto-pilot. It misses out on the richness.
And so, I got to thinking. If I could choose ten hymns that together have truly shaped me, that speak to me, that comprise my theology, what would they be?
Oh, this was fun. And a fabulous Thursday break from the sermon, which is stuck about halfway through (not bad for a Thursday). I tried to keep it to ten, but I ended up with eleven. Here goes.
1. Lift High the Cross (Crucifer)
This was always my favorite hymn as a child. And then my parents went and ruined it by choosing it for my grandfather's funeral, which happened when I was 14. For years after that, I tried to avoid singing it, because I assumed that once you associate a hymn with a death, you've ruined the hymn. This turns out not to be the case (although it is tough to sing it for awhile, for sure). Instead, that memory enriched the hymn and the hymn itself enriched my memories of my grandfather. Like many hymns, the lyrics have some trouble spots - a bit more military imagery than I'd prefer these days. And yet...
So shall our song of triumph ever be: Praise to the Crucified for victory!
It is, after all, lift high the cross - not lift high the power, or glory, or mighty outstretched arm. My own deep love for Luther's theology of the cross might well have started here.
And, on a personal note, it developed into such a meaningful hymn for me that we chose this as the processional hymn for our wedding. As it should be: crucifer first, then everyone else. (Clarifying note: the clip below is not from our wedding. Just thought you should know.)
2. The Church's One Foundation (Aurelia)
I chose this one because we sang it at Current Congregation last Sunday, and then got into a big discussion the following Tuesday about whether the words are truly horrible or not. Problems: kinda sexist ("She is his new creation"). And kinda elitist ("elect from every nation"). But you know what? I still love this hymn, and I even love its old-school words. I could do without the girl-church metaphor, but I have to admit that I didn't hear the same elitism that others did. To me, this hymn speaks about the church's unity, and its struggles, and its hopes.
Yet saints their watch are keeping; their cry goes up: "How long?" And soon the night of weeping shall be the morn of song.
I love the reminder that the church is not about me, and I am not the whole church - and we, in this sanctuary, are and yet are not the whole church - and we have a fractured, bitter, sometimes-ugly history, and yet...there is hope to come.
3. Rise, Shine You People (Wojtkiewiecz) (holy mackerel, what a tune title.)
Some songs I love because of the tune, or because of the whole experience. And some have one perfect line or phrase which shapes and reveals my theology. I love this one for the music. But most of all, I love this one for this line:
Rise, shine, you people! Christ the Lord has entered Our human story; God in him is centered
There's my Trinitarian doctrine in five words: "God in him is centered." Do I know completely what that means? No. Do I need to? No. Does it say all I can, so far, figure out about the Trinity? You bet.
4. Will You Let Me Be Your Servant (The Servant Song)
Some songs shape your thinking about your relationship to God, and some shape your thinking about your relationships to one another. This one so perfectly encapsulates the church's greatest gift and its greatest dilemma:
Will you let me be your servant, let me be as Christ to you? Pray that I may have the grace to let you be my servant too.
Servants to one another. Sometimes the servant, sometimes the served. Both require such grace. Both can be so hard. And so hopeful.
This was our post-sermon wedding hymn, by the way.
5. Have No Fear Little Flock (Little Flock)
This one I remember from childhood. I associate it with lots of good kid-church memories. And also with my current love for preaching and teaching that first phrase: "have no fear." I was afraid of the dark as a kid. And I don't know that I ever sang this hymn to myself at night, but I do know that hymns like this shaped my childhood faith in such a way that I learned that the fear of God is not the same as being afraid of God. Our world runs largely on fear. I hope that the church can be a sign of a different way.
6. Of the Father's Love Begotten (Divinum Mysterium)
Gorgeous tune. Amazing words.
Of the Father's love begotten Ere the worlds began to be He is Alpha and Omega He the source, the ending he Of the things that are, that have been And that future years shall see, Evermore and evermore.
Such a vision of the wholeness, the breadth of God's love for us and for the world. Amen.
The clip below is a song called, "Hope for Resolution," which intertwines this hymn with an African tune. It's a six minute clip, but believe me: it will be among the best six minutes of your day. Crank it up.
7. Listen! You Nations
I'm not sure if any non-Lutherans will know this one: it's a canticle from the Lutheran Book of Worship. We used to sing these regularly in church when I was young. And this one I especially loved as a kid because of this verse:
Young women will dance for joy, and men young and old will make merry. Like a garden refreshed by the rain, they will never be in want again.
There aren't a lot of hymns in which "young women" can find themselves described. This one gets at a bit of the diversity of God's people, and it's chock full of joy.
8. Canticle of the Turning (Star of County Down)
I always have to get past my initial "aargh, matey, it's a grand old hymn" feeling about this one. It's a bit pirate-y. But man, the words ROCK.
My soul cries out with a joyful shout that the God of my heart is great, and my spirit sings of the wondrous things that you bring to the ones who wait. You fixed your sight on your servant's plight, and my weakness you did not spurn, so from east to west shall my name be blest. Could the world be about to turn? My heart shall sing of the day you bring. Let the fires of your justice burn. Wipe away all tears, for the dawn draws near, and the world is about to turn.
Oh, it's too good for just one verse. One more.
From the halls of pow'r to the fortress tow'r, not a stone will be left on stone. Let the king beware for your justice tears every tyrant from his throne. The hungry poor shall weep no more, for the food they can never earn; there are tables spread, ev'ry mouth be fed, for the world is about to turn.
God turns everything upside down. For personal reference, see: every sermon I have ever preached. Pretty much.
9. O Sacred Head Now Wounded (Herzlich Tut Mich Verlangen)
No good Lutheran can complete this list without some kind of Bach reference, and a hymn sung during Lent.
The words are good. But what I love best about this hymn is that it's in a minor key. That's theology of the cross in musical form: sometimes life happens in the minor key. Or, as Barbara Brown Taylor has put it, "you can never fall further than God can catch you. Sadly, you cannot always be specific about where the catch will be. Sometimes it comes on the other side of the grave." Easter is coming, and you can't forget that when you sing this hymn. But sometimes we all need to walk out of the room with the minor key ringing in our ears. That's life.
10. We are Baptized in Christ Jesus (Ouimette)
Also a newer one. Theologically, two big high points: that the title is, "We Are Baptized," not, "We Were Baptized." Important distinction. Baptism is a way of life.
And two: the second verse.
In the water and the witness, in the breaking of the bread, in the waiting arms of Jesus who is risen from the dead, God has made a new beginning from the ashes of our past; in the losing and the winning we hold fast.
And, finally...
11. Joyous Light of Heavenly Glory (Joyous Light)
Because if I could only sing one liturgy for the rest of my life, Holden Evening Prayer would be the one. Because it makes me cry every time. And because I can imagine no greater joy in heaven than singing this with every person I have ever loved.
Joyous light of heavenly glory, loving glow of God's own face, you who sing creation's story, shine on every land and race. Now as evening falls around us, we shall raise our songs to you. God of daybreak, God of shadows, come and light our hearts anew.
In the stars that grace the darkness, in the blazing sun of dawn, in the light of peace and wisdom, we can hear your quiet song. Love that fills the night with wonder, love that warms the weary soul, love that bursts all chains asunder, set us free and make us whole.
You who made the heaven's splendor, ev'ry dancing star of night, make us shine with gentle justice, let us each reflect your light. Mighty God of all creation, gentle Christ who lights our way, loving Spirit of salvation, lead us on to endless day.
Chorus was asking about slow-cooker recipes for those nights when you either 1.) don't want to cook or, 2.) really don't want to decide what to cook, which then leads you back to 1.) don't want to cook.
I'm still working on gathering good crockpot literature. I have plenty of options which involve Cream of Mushroom soup, but I'd like to move beyond that.
The recipe below, however, is our household's magic default answer to, "What's for dinner?" Easy, quick, and makes great leftovers for lunch. It's not my recipe: it came from Cooking Light, about four years ago. Skip the chicken, use veggie broth, and feel free to add tofu for a vegetarian option. Enjoy!
1. Shave carrot lengthwise into thin strips using vegetable peeler. (Edit: this looks cool but is kind of a pain. I just grate the carrot.) 2. Combine 1/3 cup broth, peanut butter, ginger, soy sauce, honey, red pepper, and garlic in small saucepan. Stir with whisk until smooth. Do not heat up until all other ingredients are ready. 3. Place chicken in large saucepan, add remaining broth. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat, and simmer 4 minutes or until chicken is done. Remove from heat; let stand 20 minutes. Drain; cut chicken into small pieces. Combine carrot, peanut sauce, chicken, and noodles in large bowl. Heat sauce until warm, stirring constantly; do not boil. Pour sauce over noodles and toss to coat. Sprinkle with onions and peanuts. Serves 4-6.
*Technically, this is called "Spicy Soba Noodles with Chicken in Peanut Sauce." For one, we prefer rice noodles, so the name doesn't work for us. And we just call it "Thai Chicken Pasta," because "Spicy Soba Noodles with Chicken in Peanut Sauce" does not really roll off the tongue, if you know what I mean.
Also, I confess that I do not always use the low-fat, low-sodium, unsalted, reduced-fat items. I uses what I gots. If that's regular peanut butter, so goes it. Never seems to make much of a taste or texture difference.
I know, I know, you think I'm kidding. But seriously. Look at this face.
See? Cutest girl ever. And Aunt Shalom is very, very happy to be with her. (Even considering the Massive Diaper Blowout which occurred slightly before above photo was taken.)
Well, besides driving the senior citizens group to the Center of a Different Faith (see post below), it turns out there's something else you probably shouldn't do while hopped up on fertility drugs.
When your amazing sister-in-law gives birth to your very first niece after 47 hours of labor without any pain medication (no shit, people; that is a superhuman effort as far as I'm concerned), you might not want to think that you're fine and walk into the room 15 minutes after the baby is born. Because when you see your brother and his wife, a woman who is still trembling and sweating with the effort of having given birth - and you see your beautiful niece laying on her mother's chest, still squinting even at the little bit of light in the room, still adjusting to her first few minutes of life in the outside world - when you see all this, your first reaction might surprise you. You thought you were fine. You've been fine for nine whole months. Even the little twinge of jealousy that cropped up like a weed when they announced her pregnancy disappeared as quickly as it came. And the little moments of longing every once in awhile when you've seen her were nothing unusual, nothing overwhelming.
So this moment was going to be fine too. The woman was in labor for two freaking days. How can you not want that to come to an end, and for the baby to finally arrive? How can you not be delighted for her, and for them, and for your parents, who will meet their first grandchild?
How can it be, that when you walk into the birthing center and the midwife says, "She'd like all the mothers to come in now" - how can it be that you know, right then, that you are not going to be okay, but you ignore that warning and tell yourself to suck it up. Because your stupid drug-addled, infertility-warped mind thinks, right off the bat, I can't go in then, because I'm not a mother, and maybe I never will be.
But you will ignore this, because you are a grown-up and you know perfectly well that these drugs are effing you up, and this is a big important moment for your family, so you need to get over it already and deal with it. So when the midwife comes back out and says, "oh, actually, all the women can come in," and you walk in and you see that new mom and dad, you really thought it would be okay, it's been fine for nine damn months now, and instead, the only thing you can think is this:
That might never be me. Never. Never. Never.
And, no matter how hard you try, you can't get that out of your mind, and your sister-in-law's sister (possibly the most self-centered woman in the world) keeps going on and on about the miracle of motherhood and how amazing it is and isn't this wonderful and wow, you're so amazing, and you think, "I am going to kick her ass if she doesn't shut up right now," which is not really the thought you want to have in a room where someone has just been born.
And it feels almost profane to be there, in that room, because there are too many people there, too many women jostling to see the baby, and you wish there could just be time for one person at a time, one little moment for each visit. You want your parents to see their granddaughter without all the effusive commenting from That One, who won't shut up. And you know you would probably be okay with seeing her for a few moments on your own, but all of a sudden it's just too much, and your sister-in-law looks like a combination of the mother of Jesus and a women who just got the shit kicked out of her - holy and beat up at the same time - and you know, right then, that you have to leave. RIGHT NOW.
So you duck out, hoping that the guys hanging around the door will mistake your tears for tears of joy, and you go find your husband in the waiting room, and you fall completely apart, at which point your parents come in and find you crying, and then you feel really horrible because you ruined their first night with their first grandchild. (Well, you didn't ruin it. You know this. But the drugs will tell you that anyway. They're powerful little suckers.)
So you leave, and cry all the way home, and even when your dear Beloved tells you, "of course you're upset, how could you not be? It's perfectly normal," and you know he is right, the drugs still tell you you're a freak, you're an idiot and a jerk for being this way, how could you be so unbelievably self-centered, why is it all about you?
You know the drugs are wrong. You know that three years of wishing, trying, hoping, and praying to be that holy, beat-up woman in the bed are bound to back up on you every once in awhile. You know that this is just normal, and very soon you will be back to yourself and eager to see your niece and delighted by every sound she makes. You know this will be true, but it's not true yet.
But the good news is that, when you get up in the morning, you feel a lot better. After all, you only have to take these drugs for two more days. You decide that it's better to stay away from the new niece for the weekend, not because you don't want to see her, but mostly because your sister-in-law's family is in town and they won't have as much time with her on a daily basis as you do, so they ought to have the weekend. And also, a little bit because you might need 48 hours to let everything settle down in your emotional self (and you'll be done with the drugs tomorrow, so that will help).
You look forward to Monday, when you'll be able to see the baby one-on-one. You drink a small cup of coffee with your breakfast. You get to work and sit down at the computer and look across at the bulletin board, where a few months you posted a prayer by Walter Brueggemann that ends like this:
we wait and receive and we thank... because you are the only Lord of the Future, you are the one who births at the eleventh hour, you are the one who comes to barrenness and makes new, you promise like the stars for number while we count according to the old math.
If you, as a pastor, ever find yourself on fertility drugs which, let's say, speed up your hormonal reactions to things (and especially enhance your ability to get cranky REAL FAST), then it would be wise not to volunteer to be a driver for the senior citizens' group trip to the Center of a Different Faith, wherein you will be required to listen patiently not only to the speaker who represents said Different Faith (who did a very nice job), but, more importantly, where you will be forced to listen to Old Lady Who Never Shuts Up in the Van AND I MEAN NEVER, MY GOD PUT A CORK IN IT.
If you find this situation unavoidable, and additionally notched up a bit by the fact that you are also in the midst of giving up coffee (THIS DOES NOT HELP), then I have found the best way to deal with it, besides gritting your teeth in such a manner as to probably give you TMJ instantly, is to get into your office, shut the door, breathe deeply, and eat a whole box of Dots candy.
Having read the description, I'd say it's mostly correct.
Except for the actual use of the word "architect." I cannot overemphasize how much I suck at spatial skills. Oddly enough, though, "architect" is always what I choose when people ask "if you could be anything in the world, regardless of your abilities or gifts, what would you choose?"
I should be working on other things. Do they have a "reserved procrastinator" category? Because that would fit perfectly.
This is one of those days when anonymity comes in handy.
Seriously. Some hymns and/or liturgies do not belong on the organ. Because when you play them on the organ, it sounds like the World's Worst Carnival has come to town, and that's never good, especially on a Sunday when there happen to be a massive number of visitors for no explicable reason, and there is nothing that can kill a piano liturgy faster than an organ (digital, my friends, a heart-pain no matter what). And I have to smile up in the front and pretend like everything is fine, because everyone can see me, so if I let on in even the smallest way that I am HORRIFIED by the music I'm hearing - well, that's not fair.
But inside, TRUST ME, I am screaming like a banshee. JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN PLAY IT ON THE ORGAN DOES NOT MEAN YOU SHOULD.
I love a good pipe organ. Really, love. I could listen to Bach preludes all day long. I play the organ. The organ rocks. Best. Instrument. Ever. I know something about being a church musician, too. It's harder than it looks and people are never, ever satisfied. I get that.
But, just like you can't play Toccata and Fugue on a piano and expect it to sound like it should, you can't play this particular liturgy on the organ and not feel like the circus clowns are coming to get you.
And, after all, there's nothing scarier than a clown.
Dude. This organ music is making the rodeo clown sad. THAT'S NOT A GOOD SIGN.
Every once in awhile someone comes into my office with a story so horrific, or unbearable, that I wonder how they are still standing up and walking around. (Generally, they wonder that too.) This happened this morning. The details of the conversation don't belong even on an anonymous blog, but suffice it to say that this woman has endured more than any one person ought to, and it hurt just to listen to it. People don't always tell the truth, of course, and even when they do the truth you hear is their version of events, but - if even half of what she said is true, then that would be more than enough.
After those conversations, I usually have two reactions.
One: to wonder, again, why a good God allows such events, especially when one person seems to be living through more than their fair share of them. This is where all my decent theology about "God isn't fair, which really benefits all of us because 'fair' would leave us in the ashes anyway," or; "God is present in our suffering," or; "your questioning and lamenting is a prayer and a form of faithfulness just as it is," really hits the wall. I believe all these things. I really do. They are the only way I can wrap my mind around a world where things that are and the things that should be are so far apart. I realize she wasn't really looking for answers, so I don't feel the pressure anymore that I used to when I first started this gig, to be God's receptionist and try to answer all questions about where he's been lately. So that's good. But I still have to face the fact that theology can't solve everything. This is where 'ministry of presence' had better be okay with the good Lord, because that's all I've got.
My second reaction: to be grateful for my own life. Isn't that perverse? "Wow, your life really sucks right now and damn, I can hardly imagine what you're going through. Thank God I don't have to deal with that." (Note that I do not say that out loud. Ever.)
I have that reaction after visiting people in the hospital too. Walking out to the parking lot, I often find myself focused on the particular body part that landed my visitee in the hospital: if it's a broken hip or replaced knee, I feel the strength in my legs; if it's pneumonia, I breathe deeply; a stroke victim makes me think about my thinking. (This experience would be troubling if I were visiting, let's say, a colonoscopy patient. So I don't always do this. But it's a fair generalization.)
On the one hand, I know my reaction is perfectly normal. We all do this. Read about a car accident which killed a child, and you want to hug the first child you know and love. Hear about a horrible divorce, and you go home and kiss your partner and rejoice. Listen to someone complain about their terrible parents, and you call yours just to hear their voices. C'est la vie.
There is something perverse, though, about the fact that it so often takes someone else's tragedy to remind me to be grateful for my life. To look honestly at what is good, right now, and to notice it, and pay attention to it, and not let it pass you by, because it won't last forever.
I'm going to quit before this turns too Oprah-style "live out your gratitude." It's just an odd experience, is what I really wanted to say.
Teacher: "Tonight we're going to talk about testimony."*
Very Sweet, Hard of Hearing Older Woman: "What did she say?"
Teacher: "Testimony."
Very Sweet, Hard of Hearing Older Woman: "Sex Warning?"
Teacher: "TESTIMONY."
Very Sweet, Hard of Hearing Older Woman: "SEX TESTIMONY?"
Oh.
My.
Good.
Lord.
Help me.
Not fall over laughing.
Amen.
*(Note: "Testimony" is the chapter we're studying in Dorothy Bass's excellent book, Practicing Our Faith. In case you think I have gone off my mainline/Lutheran rocker.)
It's the perfect Friday Five for me, because I've been on a business trip since last Sunday afternoon, heading home tomorrow - a week of continuing education at Alma Mater Seminary. As my laptop is hopelessly out of date and depressingly slow, I haven't been on the computer much (just as well, given the news websites I would otherwise be visiting).
Back to the Five. Mother Laura writes,
So for today's Friday Five, you're invited to share your experiences with the exciting, challenging world of business travel....
1. Does your job ever call for travel? Is this a joy or a burden?
I really hate flying, but I've gotten better about it over the years (now I only scream in my head when we take off, as opposed to out loud). And once we're in the air, I actually enjoy some of the freedom. If it's for a conference or church-based reason, I wouldn't call the travel itself a joy, but the destination usually is. And I count myself very blessed to have served in two congregations which unquestioningly support regular continuing education. I would have withered on the vine long ago without it.
2. How about that of your spouse or partner?
Not much business travel for him. Them teachers tend to stay put.
3. What was the best business trip you ever took?
A few great conferences over the years come to mind. "Best" is hard to choose, but for the sake of brevity, I'll go with a trip to Canada, several years ago. Spectacular scenery, good program, wonderful friends. What more can you ask?
4. ...and the worst, of course?
Nothing horrible. But, being a West-Coaster, I do hate traveling to the East Coast and having to get up day one for an early meeting. I'm not a morning person anyway, and that three-hour time difference is a killer.
5. What would make your next business trip perfect?
Anyplace I can go with the seminary friends is perfect for me.
Beloved got great news today - he's been moved from a non-continuing contract (teacher-speak for, "you might have a job next year, you might not, good luck with that") to a continuing contract - after only one month of school! We were crossing our fingers that a continuing contract might come his way after Christmas break, so it's fantastic to get the offer so early. He's gotten great feedback from the principal and, even better, he's really enjoying the work.
Of all the nerve-wracking things we did during our move, his giving up an 18-year continuing contract in Old City to take a one-year-only contract here was top of the list. Thanks, God, for making it all worthwhile.
Grief is such a strange thing, and so personal. All Kubler-Ross wisdom aside, how each of us manages our way through a loss will never be duplicated, even by ourselves at another time. I have found this to be true in my own life, though the other truth is that - so far - I have not yet navigated a loss which snatched the whole world away from me.
There is grief in infertility, of course. Grieving what has not yet been, or fearing what may never be, is a real thing. Different than grieving a miscarriage or stillbirth, yes. But a thing which has not yet been can still be nearly as real, nearly, as things which are. A yearning to be something (a mother) and to love someone (a child) comes with its own grief, as unique as any other.
I have walked with others through the loss of a born child. Not an infant, not yet, and if I am the luckiest girl in the world, perhaps not ever. My first pastoral experience with this came when a mother called the church on a Sunday morning before worship to tell me her son had been found in the woods, with a shotgun next to his body and a six-pack of beer, empty, in the truck bed. It's a long story. It always is. But they changed, those parents, in that day. In one way, their son's death freed them from twenty years of holding secret his mental illness; "I keep telling myself, 'the truth will set you free,'" said his mother on the phone that day. But in many other ways, his death diminished her, and her husband, and their daughters, forever. Permanently.
Of all the interviews I have seen in the past few days with Paul Newman, the best by far is the moment Barbara Walters asked him how he felt about the death of his son, some ten years later. "It gets different," he said to her. "Not better, but different." I have not known that pain myself. But I have no doubt he is right.
Loss, of course, is not something you can create - not loss-by-death, anyway. If I have not experienced it personally very much, I can't do much about that, except be grateful. And yet I wonder at times how that might diminish my understanding as pastor. I know how I felt when my grandfather died of Alzheimer's, but I was fourteen at the time, so it's been awhile. And I know how I felt when my grandmother died during my first year of ministry, but again, the fact is that your grandparents are supposed to die before you are, so even when you mourn them with all your being, it's not precisely out of the norm to do so.
Grief is so intensely personal and private that it's rare to hear an honest accounting of it. A few weeks ago, I checked with RevGals to read that one of our bloggers had lost her son, and that is how I found her blog, Search the Sea. (Isn't that a stupid phrase, by the way? "Lost" her son? Good God, it's not like he was wandering around in the frozen food aisle and she accidentally walked out the door. It almost puts the onus of the loss onto the one left behind: well, you lost him. Didn't you hold on tight enough? I may have to stop using that phrase altogether.)
So I have been reading her words now, since her son's death. This has been both enormously gratifying, and yet feels almost wrong, as if I were driving through a neighborhood at night peering through windows, and saw something meant to be entirely private because someone forgot to close their windows. I know that the writer realizes her blog is public. If she didn't want to write these things down, if it didn't feel like it might, maybe help someday, she probably wouldn't do it. But still, the loss is so great that her words feel like glass, like they could shatter at any moment. Like if I read them too often, they'll fall apart in front of me. Fragile. And precious. And sharp.
I have not posted on her blog, other than one initial word of consolation, because I do not know her. I will not link this post to her, because perhaps her own writing is exposure enough. But still, I want to thank her. For letting us in. For telling her own story. For being honest. For getting up in the morning.
She wrote early on that the phrase, "I can't imagine what you're going through," is not helpful. It may be true, but it just doesn't help. But here's the thing: I can't imagine it. I don't know that grief. I hope with every fiber of my being that I never do. She is in my prayers and I don't even know what to pray for, really, except to say her name and hope that God knows what to do from here. (I pray more and more like this, now. A two word prayer: your turn.)
I've thought about writing this post for awhile, and I didn't because mentioning it felt like I was pointing out a particularly interesting zoo exhibit. ("Look, kids! A grieving mother! Let's see what we can learn, shall we?") That's not it, of course. But what her writing does for me is give a glimpse, a tiny peek, into her own story of grief. I am grateful for that, as someone who peeks into grief on a regular basis, because somehow each story enriches the whole body. Makes our individual responses less crazy, less lonely, more real.
Not wardrobe malfunction issues, a la Janet Jackson (save us all from that, good Lord), but wardrobe issues. More specifically, clergy shirt issues.
Until recently, most clergy shirts for women trespassed on one of the following shirt-specific sins: 1. They have puffed sleeves (unless you are Anne of Green Gables, and aged about twelve, this is not a good look). 2. They are some shade of pastel, in the manner of Easter eggs. 3. They have darts to give them "shape" (which does not work). 4. Did I mention the puffed sleeves? And the pastels? They're worth a second offense.
I have a few really nice clergy shirts, most of which came from WomenSpirit, a company which makes a number of reasonably attractive clergy shirts in non-pastel colors, without puffed sleeves, and dart-free. They're not cheap, but then again, the pink-puffy shirts aren't cheap either.
The very ingenious writer of Collar This! has chronicled her attempts to transform regular shirts into clergy-collar shirts, and while I admire her very much, that is the sort of transfiguration I think I should leave to the professionals. I only wear clergy shirts on Sundays, or to weddings or funerals, so it's not like I need a ton of these things. But, since I got into this gig nearly ten years ago, I have coveted one particular shirt - or, to be accurate, one specific color. I want a red clergy shirt.
This might be traced to my group of wonderful seminary friends and our love for liturgically-appropriate underwear. (Color, I mean. I'm not sure how else you could make your underwear liturgical. Many bad thoughts in head now. Moving on.) A few of us bought red lacy undergarments for seminary graduation, which happened to be on Pentecost, as a randomly fun inside (no kidding) joke. And since then, I've really wanted a red clergy shirt to wear on Reformation and Pentecost Sundays. But no one makes them. Only pink. And light blue. And maybe grey, or seafoam green, or yellow. But no red.
And then, a few weeks ago, I found this shirt at WomenSpirit. (That's not me in the picture, but isn't her hair great? If I can go grey like that, sign me up.) Unfortunately, however, it only came in the long-sleeved version. And, while I've bought a few long-sleeved clergy shirts over the years in great colors, what I've learned the hard way is that they're usually just too warm. Add the robe and the stole and 500 people in worship, and it's too much. Even in the winter.
So, I wrote to the good people at WomenSpirit and asked if they would make the red shirt in short sleeves. And yesterday, I received my beautiful garnet red, short-sleeved, non-pastel, puff-and-dart-free clergy shirt. Thanks, WomenSpirit! You rock.
Sometimes you have to find joy in the little things.
I'm having an "off" day. The kind of day where nothing specific is wrong, nothing is terrible, there's no crisis, there's no tragedy - and yet you just feel...off. Off-balance, maybe, or off-focus, or just off.
I had a frustrating session last night with the 9th graders in confirmation: I don't think they would have talked if I had paid them. Silence and sullen looks are not my favorite way to spend an evening. I had another encounter during that session with Mr. Acolyte Boot Camp, who seemed intent on undermining my attempts at group conversation. I really dislike the feeling of disliking a kid. I decided last night that I need to pray for him and for myself, because I'm not quite sure what to do with this one.
And today my colleague, Senior Pastor, whom I like very much, was in the office on his day off - again. I think he's here almost every one of his days off, if only for a few minutes. It irritates me. I think it sets up an expectation that the pastor will be here every day, and frankly, that's a pattern I just don't buy into. I think I'll need to talk with him about it next week and just voice my own concerns about what "day off" really means (to me, anyway - he can do as he chooses). And then a woman who is involved with almost every group at church - the kind of person you run into a lot in congregations, who needs to be needed in a profound way - responded with a snippy retort when she asked me where Senior Pastor was, and I said, "well, it's his day off," and she said, snorting, "well, I KNOW it's his day off, but he's HERE." "I haven't seen him," I said. "Well, he's here," and huffed off.
Off. One of those days where I just want to crawl back in bed and start over. There are days in this new call (not so new now, nearly eight months in) where I feel all over again that I'm brand new, and that I don't belong here. That they don't know me. And that they never will. And that I'll never know them. And that we won't find real friends. And that if one more person asks me how many children I have, I will go insane.
I feel unfocused and pointless here today. What am I doing? Writing in an anonymous blog? I have no sermon to finish this week, only one class to prepare. No one's in the hospital. No one is calling. I feel completely and utterly, redundantly useless. I should be glad for the rest, and put it to good use. And instead, I just feel off.
These days come and go. Tomorrow will be better, I'm sure. It's grey and rainy today, which doesn't help. I think I just miss my other life today, the life I had before. That's natural. It gets better. But it's funny how that sort of grief pops up when you're least expecting it.
So apparently Nicole Kidman is gushing to celebrity magazines that she "fell pregnant" after swimming in some magical Australian fertility waters.
This would have been good to know before undergoing a relatively minor but nonetheless not-exactly-painless surgery last week. Hmmm...general anesthesia, or trip to the Outback? Door number two, please.
Part of me says this is a harmless story about a woman who is delighted to be a mother, and who has a relatively unscientific but sweetly innocent theory on her pregnancy.
And another part of me says this is yet another deceitful attempt to hide something which no one needs to be ashamed of, but which seems like something shameful precisely because you are unwilling to acknowledge it. How do all these 41-year old Hollywood moms get pregnant so easily? How is it that they so often have twins? I guess it runs in the family.
I know they have every right to privacy. They don't have to talk about their sex lives, or their fertility, to a magazine any more than I have to reveal that same sort of information to my congregation.
But you know, just for once, I would love to read about a famous woman who tried for years to have kids, went through treatments, was frustrated and sad and scared and tired, and says flat out, "this fucking sucks, and it's not fair, and I have all the money in the world to deal with it, and it still fucking sucks."
Not, "Oh, I went swimming in the magical Australian waters of fertility, and I fell pregnant at age 41. Imagine!"
On the other hand, I wouldn't mind a trip to Australia.
Last week, we had acolyte training at church. I'm assuming most people are familiar with the basic duties of an acolyte: light the candles, hand the offering plates to the ushers, help with communion - that kind of stuff. We have 4th and 5th graders do this, because they think that being an acolyte is the COOLEST THING EVER (whereas junior high kids sigh with boredom and wish they were dead rather than get up in front of everyone in a dumb white robe).
I was really excited and impressed that one of our junior high kids wanted to help with the training. I don't really know this kid; I know his dad a little bit, and his mom a little less. He's clearly very smart and mature, and I thought the fact that he volunteered to help teach this class was really wonderful. He said he would take the kids through the routine of a Sunday, while I was to give a basic intro and closing, and answer questions.
So. We had ten kids show up. Ten happy, excited, a-little-too-interested-in-the-candlelighter kids who were eager to acolyte and help on Sunday morning.
By the time we were done, we had nine nervous, worried, over-informed, FREAKING OUT graduates of Acolyte Boot Camp (one dropped out as soon as the training was over, nearly crying: "I don't want to do this," he said in a trembling voice). It turns out that Eager Junior High Volunteer would probably thrive in a career as a prosecutor, army general, or IRS agent. Now I am in a rather strange position.
How do you tell a junior high kid that he is not a good fit for helping train acolytes? Because he's not. He made them turn counter-clockwise at the altar (he stopped and made them do it over if they turned the wrong way, and let's face it - kids with digital clocks don't know what the hell "counter-clockwise" is anyway). When one girl asked nervously what she should wear, he answered, "church clothes." "What about shoes?" she asked. "Well, I usually wear church shoes," he said sternly, "do you have church shoes?" "No," she said quietly. "Well, you should probably get some," he retorted, and then moved on to the next question.
The church is full of people with control issues. This we all know. But they usually show up a bit later in life. If you have any helpful tips about how to deal with Mr. Boot Camp, please let me know.
Meanwhile, I'm hoping he's not acolyting this Sunday, because if I turn the wrong way, I'm pretty sure I might get hit on the head with a candlelighter.
Yesterday I started producing my very first Powerpoint (which should come with a little person who jumps out of your computer and answers your every question, of which there are MANY). I find to be very true what a friend of mine says: "Power corrupts; and PowerPoint corrupts absolutely." That thing is a black hole of time. But I'm having fun.
I met with my doctor today for one last appointment before minor surgery next week (an outpatient deal I am thinking of as Baby Promoting Procedure). I'm not worried about it, but it will be nice to have it over with. Also, and happily, it will end the Summer of Birth Control, which is also known as Very Bizarre Experience for Someone Trying to Get Pregnant.
Every year I think early September cannot possibly get more busy than this year. And every year I am wrong. And also tired.
In yesterday's mail I found an advertisement from a local fundagelical church promoting its latest adult forum series: three classes entitled, in this order, "Porn and Pancakes," "Porn and Pastries," and "Porn and Parents." (These are also helpfully filed on their website under "XXX Church Events.") I'm all over churches talking about difficult, complicated issues. But this is just a little over the creepy line for me.
It's amazing how a few days of solid, reliable sunshine really makes you feel good.
Right now I have three baby sweaters to be knitting. I need to find a new pattern.
If you are someone frustrated by the choice of Sarah Palin (even if you are, like me, someone who was never going to vote for McCain in the first place), you should most definitely read Anna Quindlen's take on the choice in this week's issue of Newsweek. I've read some good articles about Palin, but this one says it best. Well done, Anna.
Back to the PowerPoint. And the sermon, at some point.
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.
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."
(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.
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.
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.
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?
(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.)
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?
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.
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.
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.
(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.
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.
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.
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.
