Stupid Human Trick #286

We are proceeding through the maze of bloodwork in fertility testing (I say "we," in the royal sense, because I'm the only one getting the needle for now. This is a bit like saying that "we" had to give a sample for the semen analysis). Step one was the FSH test on cycle day 4. Good results. Step 2 is the progesterone test which needs to be done between days 20-24. I went last week and got the results back on Friday: low levels. The nurse explained that this means I do ovulate, but in some sort of weak fashion. Great, I thought. Of course we're among the - what is it? - 10% or less of couples whose infertility problem is due to both partners. Shit.

And then, last Sunday morning in the shower (sidebar: why do ideas always come to me in the shower? And so often on Sundays when frankly, I am practically in a coma anyway? Odd) I remembered something. I remembered that my period had started on September 9, not September 2. I realized this meant I had gotten ahead of myself somehow and had, therefore, done the progesterone test on the wrong day. Which meant that the poor results were very likely my own stupid fault and perhaps not accurate.

Explaining this to the nurse over the phone on Monday morning was embarrassing ("Hello, I need a new test order because I can't count to 28 correctly") but hopefully, my reprieve. Test results should come tomorrow.

Infertility is such a weird journey. Who knew I would be so glad to realize my own stupidity?

Here If You Need Me

The title of this post is also the title of a book I just finished for book club. The author, Kate Braestrup, tells the story of her work as a chaplain with the Maine Game Warden service (which, as she notes, raises a lot of questions like, "What do you do? Bless the moose?" when, in fact, she works with their search-and-rescue division).

This is a very good book. I wish I could sit and have coffee with her, since I have a lot of questions both about her work and her journey to seminary. The latter is a choice she makes after her husband, whose dream it was to go to seminary when he retired as a state trooper, dies in a car accident. Normally, this would throw up all kinds of red flags for me about transference and grief-avoidance but frankly, this woman comes off as extraordinarily healthy. And you should really read the bits about her refusal to have the funeral home care for her husband's body.

At any rate, the passage which stuck with me most was from her chapter on heaven. She's Unitarian. And she doesn't believe in heaven or any sort of afterlife, which she discusses freely. She talks a bit about this. And then she shares the following conversation with her son (who is about 12 at the time, I think):

My son Zach is the child of Unitarian Universalists, so naturally he didn't know a lot about Jesus. But I heard a lot about Jesus at my Christian seminary, and a lot of it was pretty cool. So one day, I found myself telling Zach about Jesus' life and death, the stories they told about him, what he said to his disciples.

"When Jesus talked about loving," I said, "I think he meant something really radical. I think he was talking about loving as God loves; loving completely, loving with a whole self. He told his disciples to give everything they had, everything they were, to hold nothing back, not money, not time, not even life itself. Everything was to be given over in the service of love."

I went on about this for awhile, sermonizing in a motherly sort of way, and Zach listened carefully, because even as a young boy he was always a careful listener.

"So, Mom," he said at last. "Let's say I decide to become a devoted follower of Jesus Christ."

"What?" I said, startled and alarmed.

"No, but let's say I do."

"Okay," I said cautiously.

"And I die, and because I'm a Christian, I get to go to heaven instead of going to hell."

"Yeah..."

"If I really take Jesus seriously, if I really am willing to give up everything I am and everything I have in the service of love, if I am really a Christian...it seems to me I would have to give my place in heaven to someone else, someone who otherwise wouldn't get to go."

I stared at him.

"I'd have to go to hell, so this other person could be in heaven. Right, Mom?"

That right there. That is why you need to read this book.

Friday Five: Reverendmother's Swan Song

Reverendmother over at RevGals says her (maybe? certainly baby) goodbye to hosting the Friday Five with these questions:

On Endings and Goodbyes:

1. Best ending of a movie/book/TV show

Newhart, hands down. I never watched this show much, but the whole "waking up in bed with the wife from my previous sitcom" was brilliant. Brilliant.

Movie-wise, I still love the ending of Gone With the Wind. I love that we never know what happens to Rhett and Scarlett and so you have to imagine it for yourself. Sequels be damned.

2. Worst ending of a movie/book/TV show

Hmmm. I hated the end of The Piano. As someone who loves to play the piano herself, the idea of losing a finger and the ability to play - and all the emotional release which comes with it - was traumatic to me.

3. Tell about a memorable goodbye you've experienced.

Saying goodbye to my bestest seminary friends was very, very hard. But it reminded me of how hard it was to say goodbye to my college friends - after which I managed to convince myself that, although nothing could ever possibly be as good as college, seminary would be okay. And seminary was even better. So although saying goodbye to seminary friends was hard, I had a better hope that the best was still to come.

4. Is it true that "all good things must come to an end"?

Eventually, yes. That's why I love anticipation even more than the actual event. Eventually, everything ends. (However, see comment on "the best is still coming" above.)

**I am editing this quickly to explain a bit more: as Robert Capon would put it, the only thing you need to be in order for God to resurrect you is dead. Only after things end can they be raised to new life which, after all, is our greatest hope - so I find it a good thing that everything ends. God does love to raise the dead, after all...

5. "Everything I ever let go of has claw marks on it." --Anne Lamott
Discuss.

This is one among the thousands of reasons I love Anne Lamott. Personally, I can hardly let go in the first place.

Bonus: "It isn't over until the fat lady sings." I've never loved this expression. So propose an alternative: "It isn't over until the coffee pot is empty." How very Lutheran of me.

And, by the way - thanks, Reverendmother, for so many great Friday Fives. Blessings on your way!

Something Else the Lectionary People Don't Think About

About 90% of the time, I really like and appreciate the lectionary. I like the fact that it prevents me from choosing my favorites. I like that we are reading together with many congregations, in a tiny glimpse of the unity of the church. I like the pattern of seasons.

And then there's this month in Year C. Which is the homiletical equivalent of driving along down the freeway and suddenly hitting a dirt road filled with potholes.

But the challenge today has not been the trajectory of the sermon (it's only Tuesday, for heaven's sake) - it's been trying to find a hymn to go with this rich-man-stuck-in-the-flames-of-hell thing. Not to mention last week's frantic attempt to find something to sing after preaching on the dishonest-manager-whom-Jesus-praises extravaganza.

It reminds me of a worship committee meeting a few years ago when, in a search for a hymn to go after the sermon on 'John the Baptist Gets Beheaded Sunday,' one of the committee members suggested O Sacred Head Now Wounded.

Where art thou, O Lectionary People, when it comes time to choose the hymn of the day? Huh?

Sunday's Sermon: A Study in Irony

Below is the sermon for Sunday. Here's the irony (which I also mentioned in a footnote at the end, a practice which helps me remember to whom I am indebted for various thoughts and quotes) - I owe the entire second half of a sermon on forgiveness to someone else (Sarah Dylan Breuer is my hero today), and hopefully she will forgive my use of her brilliant analysis.

The confession of ignorance in part one, however, is entirely my own.

Peace to all for Sunday.

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

If you’re anything like me, your first reaction to today’s parable can be summed up in one word: What? It sounds like Jesus is praising a guy who lied about his master’s income and went behind his back to try and save his own skin, and then you get to the part where Jesus says, “I tell you, make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth,” which really doesn’t sound like much of a Jesus thing to say, and frankly, this is about the strangest parable we’ve ever heard. Which it is. It’s such an odd story that I think we ought to hear it again, but in a slightly different version. This is how the parable appears in The Message, a modern paraphrase of the bible:

Jesus said to his disciples, “There was once a rich man who had a manager. He got reports that the manager had been taking advantage of his position by running up huge personal expenses on his business account. So he called him into his office and said, “What’s this I hear about you? I want a complete audit of your books. And, by the way – you’re fired.”

The manager said to himself, “now what will I do? I’ve lost my job. I’m not strong enough to work in manual labor, and I’m too proud to beg. Wait: I’ve got a plan. Here’s what I’ll do…I’ll make sure that the people who owe money to my boss owe me a favor instead. I’ll become their best friend. Then, when I’m finally discovered and turned out into the streets, those people will welcome me into their homes.”

So he went at it. One by one, he called in the people who were in debt to his master. He said to the first, “how much do you owe him?” And the man replied, “a hundred jugs of olive oil.” The manager said, “Here; take your bill, quickly now, and cross out 100 and write 50.”

When the next debtor came in, the manager asked the same thing: “What do you owe?” And the man answered, “A hundred sacks of wheat.” “Okay,” said the manager, “take your bill, cross out 100, and write 80.”

Now here’s the surprise: when the master heard about this, he praised the manager! Why? Because he knew how to look after himself. Streetwise people are smarter in this regard than law-abiding citizens, because they’re on constant alert, looking for a new angle, surviving by their wits. I want you to be smart in the same way, but for what is right – by using every adversity to stimulate you to creative survival, to concentrate your attention on the bare essentials, so that you’ll really live, and not just get by on your good behavior. (1)

That version is a little more straightforward, but frankly, it still doesn’t take the edge off the story. No matter how you translate the words or mix them around, what you get in the end is still Jesus praising a dishonest person who saved his own skin by lying and survived it only because the master took the shocking action of not throwing him into jail. There’s no getting around it: this is a weird parable.

Most of the time we would all consider it my job to get up here and explain to you what this means. This is, after all, at least part of what you pay me to do: to read and research and think and research again, and finally to come to you on Sunday with some sort of meaningful, sensible explanation.

But we all run into parts of scripture which baffle us utterly, and I confess freely to you that this passage stumps me. I did find one particular writer whose take on this parable opened it up for me in a new way, and I am going to share that with you in a moment, but there is still something very important about the fact that scripture can sometimes puzzle us beyond belief. You can go along verse after verse, chapter after chapter, doing just fine – you read hard things from Jesus, certainly, but the hard part of them is often doing as he says, not understanding what it means. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” is not hard to grasp. It’s just hard to put into action.

Perhaps Jesus tells a few of these particularly troubling parables just to remind us that we can never really get our hands or our minds around the whole complexity of God. Just when you think you’ve got it figured out, whatever “it” is – life, marriage, faith, politics, even a parable – it can slip out of your hands like sand, and suddenly you have to start over again. Catherine LaCugna, a theologian, once wrote, “We find God because we have been found by God. Anything we could find on our own would not be God.” A difficult parable like this one reminds us that we cannot find God on our own: sometimes we cannot even figure out a parable on our own. We cannot hold onto God for long, and too often we end up worshipping our ideas about God instead of the living, complex, mighty, vulnerable, merciful and extraordinary God about whom the scriptures can only begin to teach us.

But somehow, ending a sermon with the phrase, “I have no idea what this means,” didn’t seem all that satisfactory to me. So I share with you a very insightful word from Sarah Dylan Breuer, who writes a regular commentary on the lectionary passages. (2)

Here’s the problem that all readers of this parable must face: what the manager does is clearly dishonest. From a basic capitalist perspective, he’s guilty of embezzlement: he takes the landlord’s property as if it were his own and forgives debts that aren’t his to forgive. Even after he is fired, he keeps doing this even though it is, in no way, his job any longer.

"Think about that for a moment. What, exactly, is it that the manager does, even without authorization and with a great deal of deception?

He forgives. He forgives debts."

Let’s go back to the word originally used in the gospel for this man: the steward. He is the steward, the caretaker, of another person’s property. And he takes care of it by forgiving debts that do not belong to him. “He forgives things that he had no right to forgive. He forgives for all the wrong reasons: for personal gain, to compensate for past misconduct, to get ahead, to save his own skin. His motivations are poor, to say the least.” But in spite of that, in spite of the fact that he forgives for all the wrong reasons, in spite of the fact that he should rightfully have been thrown into jail for losing money that wasn’t his in the first place, the landlord forgives him. There it is again: totally inappropriate, wildly bizarre, and utterly unexpected…forgiveness.

This story appears only in the gospel of Luke. And it may be no accident that, when Luke tells the story of Jesus teaching us how to pray, he uses a very specific word in that prayer: “Forgive us our debts, as we forgive those in debt to us.” The Greek word Luke uses for “debt” is a word only used in monetary circles, a word that accountants would write down in column A: so Luke isn’t just talking about forgiving sins, or forgiving general wrongs done to us, but very specifically about forgiving financial debts. What that forgiveness might look like is the very subject of this parable, the moral of which seems to be: “Forgive. Forgive it all. Forgive it now. Forgive it for any reason you want, or for no reason at all.”

“Why forgive someone who’s sinned against us, or against our sense of what is right? You don’t have to do it out of love for the other person, if you don’t have that love quite yet. You could forgive them because you pray to do that every Sunday, and because you’d like to be forgiven yourself when the time comes. Or you could forgive because it’s really no fun to hang onto a grudge anyway, and you’ve learned that refusing to forgive because you don’t want the other person to benefit is like eating rat poison hoping that it will hurt the rat. You could forgive because you want to be in touch with Jesus’ power to forgive sinners and we want to be more like him. Or you could forgive because you think it will improve your chances of winning the lottery.

It boils down to the same thing: deluded or sane, ridiculous or wise, selfish or unselfish, there is no bad reason to forgive.” Forgiving debts of every kind – sins and wrongs and money and grudges and even ourselves – only puts us more in touch with God’s grace, and over time, that forgiveness itself will change you, no matter why you started doing it in the first place. There is no bad reason to forgive. In this case, your motivation doesn’t matter: you could even be a dishonest steward trying desperately to hang onto a job you’ve already lost and escaping jail by the skin of your teeth. You could be a man hanging on a cross, dying slowly and painfully, forgiving your executors with your last breath. You could be a mighty nation who decides to free the poorest of the poor by letting go of all your IOU’s and throwing them into the ocean.

Or you could be us, with all our mixed motivations, in all our confusion, knowing barely anything except this: that God has found us, and forgiven us, so that we can laugh all way to the kingdom, forgiving like it’s going out of style. It’s the first step in a life of stewardship, of moving our whole selves and everything we have into God’s way of life. When you forgive, you do not change the past. But you absolutely, no question about it, change the future. (3)

Amen.

Notes:
(1) I'm paraphrasing The Message. Paraphrasing a paraphrase. I'm paraparaphrasing. And also inventing my own words, apparently.
(2) All quotes that follow, unless otherwise noted, and the general gist of this interpretation are entirely thanks to Sarah Dylan Breuer at this post. To whom, ironically, I am deeply indebted.
(3) The last two sentences are a quote on forgiveness from Quotes for the Journey, Wisdom for the Way, by Gordon Jackson. NAV Press, 2000.

Friday Five: De-cluttering edition

Sally is asking about our stuff. Short answer: we have too much.

With Jo, Jon and Chris all moving to college and University accommodation there has been a big clear up going on in the Coleman household. We have been sorting and trying hard not just to junk stuff, but actually to get it to where it can be useful. On a brighter note we have used Freecycle ( check it out) to provide the twins with pots and pans etc that other folk were clearing out.

Making the most of our resources is important, I have been challenged this week by the amount of stuff we accumulate, I'd love to live a simpler lifestyle, it would be good for me, and for the environment I think...

With that in mind I bring you this Friday 5;

1. Are you a hoarder or a minimalist?

Somwhere in-between. I keep important things, but I have semi-yearly fits of organization and throw out/recycle/give away stuff regularly. I tend more toward the mimimalist. Some famous British person wrote, "never own anything you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful." Or something like that. I agree.

2. Name one important object ( could be an heirloom) that you will never part with.

I have two pieces by a Jewish artist that I love more than you should love a material thing. Those two and a small painting of Banff we bought on our honeymoon. So I'm cheating: three things (but in one category).
Though in a fire, the first thing I would probably grab would be photos.

3. What is the oldest item in your closet? Does it still fit???
I have a sweater fetish, and one of them in my closet is from high school. Yes, it fits.

4.Yard sales- love 'em or hate 'em ?
Eh...I can do without them. My father-in-law loves them and gets good deals. The ones I go to always seem to have about 95% crap.

5. Name a recycling habit you really want to get into.
I just bought re-usable grocery bags at Safeway the other day. I really want to use those instead of plastic bags (though I do recycle the plastic bags, in case Al Gore happens to read my blog).

Bonus point...
We are not environmentally perfect by any stretch (I commute 70 miles round trip every day...) but we do compost. And love it. Try it! It's super easy, and you will have the best. garden. dirt. ever.

Viva La Revolucion

A few months ago, our congregation switched to the new hymnal. For Lutherans, this is a very big deal. Very big. With the exception of a few supplemental books here and there, we haven't switched for 30 years (meaning that, the last time a new hymnal was introduced, I was in the cherub choir). So it was time.

For the most part, we've done very well. The fact that this switch brought us from two hymnals to one made a lot of people happy; fewer things to juggle during worship on Sundays. We like the red cover. It has neat art. The print is a little small, but we put so much of it in the bulletin that this hardly matters anyway. There are lots of great hymns (about 900 in all). We even managed to slide into using the "new" version of the Apostles' Creed without much fuss.

But then there's the Lord's Prayer. And lo, there is much weeping and gnashing of teeth.

You would think I had actually demanded that they gouge out their eyes or chop off their hands, given the fervor with which some people approach this change. I overstate a little; in fact, most people have been fine with it. Or, at least, they've kept their not-fineness to themselves, and sighed about how things change, and moved on. I really expected it to be a bigger deal than it was. But a few people seem to think that the version we've been praying was the actual original, the one Jesus prayed his very own self, and my pointing out that it's actually quite different in the gospels (not to mention that Jesus himself was more of an Aramaic speaker than we tend to be) has not taken the edge off it.

(My mother-in-law particularly detests this new version. I love my mother-in-law. And she is not a member of my congregation. so it doesn't particularly bother me that she mumbles the old version to herself during worship on Sundays. I did finally tell her, only half-jokingly, that she needed to complain to her own pastor about it because I had enough grumblings to deal with on my own. She hasn't mentioned it since.)

But I digress. A few months ago, I wrote about a staff situation which was creating some conflict in our congregation. Short version: we changed from multiple part-time music positions to one full-time position, and two of the part-time people took this personally. Their leaving was quite ugly, mostly by their own actions. The choir director and her parents, in particular, left in a huff. Interestingly, the choir director's younger sister and her family remain. Let's call her husband Rick.

During one of the "All About Worship" classes I taught last spring in preparation for the new hymnal, we discussed some of the changes we would be making when it arrived. New liturgies: fine. New version of creed: okay. New hymns: great. New Lord's Prayer: thou art kidding, no? Rick, in particular, was unhappy about this change. Not in a mean way, and not truly angry, but simply wistful - wishing that we wouldn't change just that one thing. Certainly he wasn't the only one; his wife felt the same way, but many others did too. They understood intellectually all the good reasons I gave, but emotionally, it's a different thing. And, believe it or not, I understand that too. I know that "Our Father who art in heaven" will always be my default version. On my deathbed, that's probably how I'll pray it.

Rick and his wife were in church on Sunday after some weeks of absence, during which I had begun to wonder if they had joined the rest of their family in another congregation. But it was great to see them, and we chatted for awhile, and they talked about how much they liked our new music director, and all seemed well. Worship that day went without a hitch: confession and forgiveness, music, prayer, scripture, sermon, creed, prayers, peace...time for communion.

I always bring my bulletin with me to the altar when I preside, because a number of the prayers change seasonally. But when it comes time for the actual communion bit, I use the altar book. The print is big, for one. But mostly, I prefer the heft and weight and significance of a book. Bulletins feel a little flimsy for the moment, for what we are really doing at that point. Everything was going fine. Then I invited the congregation, as I always do: "gathered into one by the Holy Spirit, let us pray as Jesus taught."

I began: "Our Father in heaven..."

And the congregation began, "Our Father, who art in heaven..."

You have never heard a congregation pray anything with as much verve and power and determination as they prayed the old version of the Lord's Prayer. It took me about 2 seconds to realize this was happening. Here is an approximation of the monologue in my head which followed:

"Is that the old version? Are they actually doing this? What happened? Why are they so loud? [Editorial note: seriously. They were almost shouting it.] Do they really hate the old version so much? And why can I hear Rick so well? Is is possible...did he and his wife...did they actually convince people to pray the old version? Is this some sort of bloodless coup? Oh, God. Oh, it is. Oh, they hate this prayer and they hate me and during coffee hour they totally decided, 'SCREW THE PASTOR, we hate this prayer, let's just do it the old way.' I cannot believe this is happening. How could they do this to me? What am I going to do? I can't force them to pray a certain way if they don't want to, right? Oh, God. What am I going to do? HOW COULD THEY DO THIS? I'm going to have to leave. That's it. I'll have to take another call. Oh, God. Oh, no."

I kid you not. In the, oh, forty seconds it takes to pray this prayer (not that I was actually praying, obviously), I concocted an entire revolution in which the whole congregation had conspired to overthrow my liturgical changes and reinstate the traditional version of the Lord's Prayer, all potentially led by a couple who had remained in the congregation not - as I thought - because they disagreed with their family's departure but as covert spies just waiting for their moment to strike. Liturgical Shock and Awe.

And then I looked at the bulletin to check and see which version of "Lamb of God" we would be singing during distribution.

And I noticed, for the first time, that the secretary had accidentally printed the old version of the Lord's Prayer.

They were just reading it.

Somebody find Woody Allen. It's time for a feature film on the world's most neurotic pastor, and I've got his star right here.

Viva la revolucion. Let them eat wafers.

I'll Take It

Good news from the doctor today: my first set of bloodwork came back with good results. They want to see an FSH level below 14, and I'm at 9; which, long story short, means that my egg quality is good and IVF is still an option for us. (So is donor sperm, but Beloved is not quite sure about that, and I don't blame him.)

Take the good news when you can get it. I'll take this.

Friday Five: Meetings, Meetings...

This is my first Friday Five in quite awhile. I've been stuck in meetings! (Okay, not really. But that would have been a very timely excuse, no?)

ReverendMother writes, In honor of a couple of marathon meetings I attended this week:

1. What's your view of meetings? Choose one or more, or make up your own:
a) When they're good, they're good. I love the feeling of people working well together on a common goal.
b) I don't seek them out, but I recognize them as a necessary part of life.
c) The only good meeting is a canceled meeting.
I'm going to chicken out and say that I really could say any of the three, depending on the meeting. I like to get things done, so the meetings that irritate me are the ones where we spend most of the time socializing or discussing way-off-topic stuff. Or where one person (unless it's me, of course, in all my brilliance) dominates the whole thing. If I had to choose one of the above, I'm probably consistently a 'b'.

2. Do you like some amount of community building or conversation, or are you all business?
Sort of answered this one above. I like to socialize, but my preference is to get the work done first and then have the option of hanging around. Some of us want to go home. On the other hand, especially in a new group, you need a certain amount of community building included in order for people to trust one another. So, I guess I like purposeful socializing. I dislike a lot of distract-y gossiping.

3. How do you feel about leading meetings? Share any particular strengths or weaknesses you have in this area.
I like leading meetings because I can get things done. (Can you sense a theme here?) I suppose that my business-like demeanor could be a weakness as well. Maybe. I'm not convinced of this. I think the church generally needs a kick in the butt more than it needs another easy-going committee member. Or my church does, anyway.

4. Have you ever participated in a virtual meeting? (conference call, IM, chat, etc.) What do you think of this format? Conference call. Not a fan. I know it's a necessary evil, but I really miss the body-language bit. I'd rather do email or IM than a conference call, but I'm no giant fan of those either. Nothing replaces the in-person experience.

5. Share a story of a memorable meeting you attended.
Okay, none of my answers above were all that interesting; in fact, I stayed in this particular Friday Five just to be able to answer this one. This is in my top-five favorite moments of ministry, this meeting. And it has everything to do with the lovely image below. Thanks, despair.com.

So we were starting our capital campaign to retire the mortgage. We needed to raise about $320,000 (we can have a separate discussion about why retiring your mortgage is or is not a good idea, but suffice it to say that it wasn't really my choice to make at the time). One of the early steps in the process is to establish an "Advance Gifts" committee, which solicits large or significant gifts before the official kick-off of the campaign, basically so you can announce all this success on the very first day. Sort of like making a list of all the things you have to do this weekend and starting with two or three things you've already done, so you can cross them off and feel good about yourself before you begin (this is a hint from my mother, and it really works).

On this committee were a bunch of guys in the congregation I hardly knew. I knew many of their wives better, and some of their kids. Several were professionals (doctors, lawyers, architects) and several were retired. About a dozen in all. And we had our first meeting with - as he shall be called - Consultant Guy, on a Monday evening. Consultant Guy was one of those particularly smug, slick money-raisers who's probably pretty successful at it, but who makes you want to take a quick shower after spending any amount of time with him. (Fortunately he was only our auxiliary guy and we only had this one meeting with him.)

There's a much longer story behind my previous interactions with Consultant Guy, but that's really for another time. Nothing terrible or inappropriate, just...you know. Icky. So imagine the slickest guy you know and - bing! That's this guy. Consultant Guy wanted to break the ice by having everyone introduce themselves and then tell us what we were doing at 10:00 this morning. "Won't this be fun," he suggests in his peculiarly slimy/jolly manner.

Everyone obliges and we go around the room: someone was mowing the lawn, someone was working, someone was in traffic, someone was on the phone. Etc. Until we get to a man whose family I knew quite well, but who, as an individual, I had spend virtually no time with. This man is a doctor. And he is also the kind of person (as I discovered) who has a very astute slick-detector. He could see right through Consultant Guy. Here is what followed.

Doctor: So you want to know what we were doing at 10:00 this morning?
CG: Yes, that would be great (insert slick chuckle here).
Doctor: Are you sure about that?
CG: (with increased chuckle) Why, yes! Certainly. Of course.
Doctor: Well, I had my head up some guy's ass.

LONG PAUSE.

Then, RAUCOUS LAUGHTER. I thought I was going to bust an internal organ. Doctor continued, "Because I was doing a colonoscopy." More laughter. "So," he continues, "seriously. Up his ass."

Consultant Guy was summarily deflated. And this is still my favorite meeting of all time.

This Side of Heartbreak

A woman came into my office today to think out loud about the direction she ought to take in life. This is fine. This is the sort of thing I ought to be doing, and generally enjoy doing, and feel okay at, and think is helpful and meaningful for people. I can listen pretty well (I don't always, of course, but I can if I try).

Either ministry is strengthened by one's own weaknesses and heartbreak, or it is compromised. Maybe even extinguished. Though I haven't read it, I suspect this is something of what Henri Nouwen suggests in The Wounded Healer - which is, after all, the only sort of healer any of us can ever be. We are all wounded in one way or another, or many, and either we will become strong at the broken places, or we will break altogether and perhaps shatter others along the way.

It's like listening to someone from underwater. As if you are holding your breath, deep down in the pool, watching the blurry forms of people on the surface and hearing the echoes of their voices, but only in the most imprecise way, only in fits and starts of sound.

Boy, I really wanted to tell her to shut up a few times. MY LORD, lady, SUCK IT UP and MAKE A DECISION and MOVE ON because I CANNOT LISTEN to YOU talk about how life is UNFAIR and not tell you RIGHT NOW HOW VERY, VERY, VERY UNFAIR IT IS but I have to sit here and LISTEN and if ONE MORE PERSON tells me that they are trying to follow God's will for their life I will start SCREAMING about how I'm TOTALLY UNCONVINCED at the moment that a lot of things have anything at all to do with GOD'S SUPPOSED WILL and if you say that one more time I will LOSE IT right here in my office.

My goodness. That was a lot of rage, right there.

Yesterday I was in a great deal of despair. Last night I discovered, again, the extraordinary man I married and his grace and love and patience under pressure. So today, on the other side of heartbreak, it is time to start moving on. For some of the day, I have been just fine. For some of the day, I am relieved to know the truth and begin to figure out exactly what we will do from here.

But for some more of the day, I am stuck at the bottom of that pool, holding my breath, hearing only murmurs and echoes and frankly, I am not paying that much attention. The thing about real heartbreak is that you never really get to the other side. It becomes a part of who you are from then on. Either it poisons you or something saves you, redeems you.

I went back to a book my dear blogging friend recommended: Free of Charge, by Miroslav Volf. I went back to find this bit of his own story. Because he knows what yesterday was like, and what it's like to live with that yesterday forever.

Then it dawned on me: Fertility would have robbed me of my boys. From my present vantage point, that would have been a disaster - the disaster of not having what I so passionately love. Infertility was the condition for the possibility of these two indescribable gifts. And understanding that changed my attitude about infertility. Since it gave me what I now can't imagine living without, poison was transmuted into a gift, God's strange gift. The pain of it remains, of course. But the poison is gone. Nine years of desperate trying was like one long painful childbirth, the purpose of which was to give us Nathanael and Aaron. True, had we had biological children of our own, I would have loved and wanted them, and I would have been spared the pain. But that's what would have happened. It didn't. I have Nathanael and Aaron. It's them that I love. It's them that I want. And it's they who redeem the arduous path that led to having them.

Perhaps we will name our first child Nathanael. Or Aaron. Or Miroslav. Someday.

(Okay, okay. Not Miroslav.)

Best. Distraction. Ever.

I have no shame in saying this: I am a huge Simpsons' fan. Huge. As in, can quote hundreds of lines from tons of episodes and love doing so (especially during confirmation).

So, I was very excited to find 'Simpsonize Me,' through the good graces of Real Live Preacher (thanks, Gordon). And thus I proudly present myself, Simpsonized (sadly, clergy gear was not an option).

Please note that in real life I wear cuter shoes. Thank you for your attention. Carry on.

Two Prayers for Today

One I read yesterday afternoon - familiar, but just what I needed:

All shall be well,
and all shall be well,
and all manner of thing shall be well. - Julian of Norwich

And one which came from my parents today:
Everything will be okay in the end.
If it's not okay, that's because it's not the end.

Amen to both.

Punched in the Gut

I put off this doctor's appointment for a long time. I told myself that abnormal sperm analysis results were not the end of the world, that people still have children, that miracles happen. I told myself that we would be fine.

Until the doctor told me today that we would not.

We have a 2-3% chance of ever conceiving a child on our own. And no, that's not nothing - but if someone told you that you had a 2-3% chance of surviving a disease or a surgery, you'd feel like you were punched in the gut. Like you could scream to the skies about how unfair this is, how wrong, how very very very very stupid this all is, how unreal, and none of it would make a difference. None of it would change the numbers. Numbers don't lie.

He wasn't mean, the doctor. But he was realistic. I didn't cry in his office, though I know he could tell my eyes were brighter than they should be. I kept it together until I was in the elevator, and then I lost it. Because I walked in there thinking I could still be a mother just like other people, in the same way other people can, like a normal person, and I walked out knowing that I can't. I won't. I can still be a mother, but it won't be normal. It won't be a surprise. It won't be cheap. It won't be easy.

I've been using movie or television allusions a lot in this blog lately, which could mean a lot of things. But today I have had a scene from Four Weddings and a Funeral in my head. You know, after the guy dies at the wedding, and Hugh Grant and the girl who secretly loves him and their friends have to drag him into a side room while he's having his heart attack, and across the room his lover is completely unaware of the whole thing, totally, blissfully ignorant that his life, as he knows it, is slowly ending on the other side of the party. And then afterward, how Hugh Grant has to walk across that long, long room to tell him, and you see him, the widower, laughing gently at a joke being told, and you know - the way you know what is going to happen to Jackie Kennedy's pink suit in Dallas, the way you know that plane really is going to hit that building six years ago yesterday - you know what is coming. You know, but he doesn't. And you can see in his face that he doesn't, and that it's not real, it hasn't happened for him, until Hugh Grant has to tell him.

And then he does.

Beloved does not know what the doctor told me, because he was teaching all day and this is not the kind of thing you share over the phone. So all day, I am walking across that Scottish wedding reception, looking at his face - his blissfully ignorant face - and knowing that I have to tell him this, I have to tell him that we can't have a child the way most people do, and that the reason for this is because of him. I don't blame him. None of this is his fault. What happens to one of us happens to both of us, and I love him and I wouldn't trade him for a guy who could get me pregnant every nine months for ten years. (Good God, what a nightmare that would be.)

But this is hell to tell someone, and hell to hear, and I can hardly bear the fact that pretty soon I will have to leave work and drive home and all the way I will be walking across that room. And tomorrow we will have had this conversation, this horrible conversation, and we will not be the same as we are, as we were when I was waiting in that doctor's office this morning. And nothing I can say will solve it or take away from the fact that he is not fine. He is not okay. I am. He is not. I just don't want that to be the only thing he hears.

Surely this is a nightmare and I will wake up. All babies are miracles. I just never thought that ours would have to be a medical one.

Now it's getting interesting.

One of my favorite television shows of all time is Mad About You. I think Paul Reiser is hilarious, and I always loved the relationship he and Helen Hunt had on the show. Their marriage was the one I wanted, especially on those long days of singledom when it seemed like everyone was paired up and just Bridget Jones and I were on our own.

I loved the show so much that I even bought the soundtrack which, to my delight, was filled not only with really great songs (including one that never fails to make me cry - The Things We've Handed Down, by Marc Cohn) but also with clips of dialogue from the show. When Beloved and I were putting together the bulletin for our marriage service, I dreamt of including little words of wisdom about marriage here and there, like clip art, and if I had been able to pull that off and if the word "crap" was not - well, a little inappropriate for worship - then I would have included this gem from the show:

Jamie: I just don't know why this is always so hard!
Paul: What?
Jamie: This...everything! Marriage...it's supposed to be different than this.
Paul: Says who?
Jamie: Everyone!
Paul: Well, they're wrong. It's just like this. It's exactly like this.
Jamie: According to WHO?
Paul: Everybody. I asked around.
Look, there's always going to be...stuff, you know? But I put up with your crap, and you put up with my crap.
Jamie: That's marriage?
Paul: This is what I'm thinking.

It's been a little Mad About You (which is different than Mad At You) in our house this week. I put up with your crap and you put up with mine - and some days, that's marriage. But most of all, it's been a week of "I thought it was supposed to different than this - easier than this." And it's not.

Don't get me wrong: it's been a good marriage week in our house, but a hard one. The idea of moving has usurped almost all other discussion topics. And we have had some hard, emotional, complicated, teary conversations about it. At the end of the day, we both had to make some confessions to each other: primarily, that this is a lot harder than you think going in. It's one thing to imagine that you might have this conversation one day; it's a whole other thing actually to have it, and to face the hard facts of I-want-one-thing and I-want-another, and figure out how to land somewhere inbetween. When there really is no inbetween: there's one thing or the other, and you can't have them both.

I don't know what will happen. I know that for the first time ever in the relatively short life of our marriage (not quite three years), I actually thought to myself in the darkest moment, "maybe this isn't going to work out. Maybe we won't make it." And that scared the shit out of me. We got through that place and to a much better one, and for that I am tremendously thankful - to the good Lord for watching over us, and to my astonishingly patient husband who can remain calm when I am, well, not.

I do know we are facing this together. I do know that there are a lot more hard conversations to come. I do know that I am still really, really loving my yoga class and that its emphasis on calm, peace, and breathing is exactly what I need right now.

I do know that my very favorite prayer is the one that I will hang onto:

Lord God, you have called us, your servants, to ventures of which we cannot see the ending, by paths as yet untrodden, through perils unknown. Give us faith to go out with good courage, not knowing where we go, but only that your hand is leading us and your love supporting us, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Amen, maranatha, Amen.

Of Changes and Yoga.

Beloved and I had another conversation last night about this new call possibility. I think he is coming more around to the idea in general - even if this particular situation doesn't work out - of moving someplace else for awhile. Which I could tell by the fact that his sentences changed from solely, "but what about this...what if we couldn't afford that..." to "if we moved..." That was a big step for him. We had had a long discussion about some of the details he had asked me to research, and then there was a long pause, and then we started cooking dinner, and right in the middle of slicing the tomatoes he said, "If we moved over there, I would have a greenhouse." (He loves gardening.)

I have never, ever heard him say the phrase, "If we moved over there." So that was huge.

Then I left him with the dishes because last night I went to my very first yoga class. A friend and I had walked past this little yoga studio just a block from my house a few months ago, but I had summarily forgotten its existence until a few weeks ago when someone else was talking about how much they enjoy yoga, and I thought, "Hey! Yoga! That studio!"

To make a long story short, I used to do Pilates before we were married, with a teacher I really liked at a gym near my house. When I moved into Beloved's house 30 miles away, that gym was no longer a reasonable option, and I never did find another Pilates class. But I missed it a lot (which is saying something because frankly, I really hate exercising).

But last night was really great, and very hard. It's about 85 degrees in there, and yoga is just as hard as it looks. Harder, actually. It's an introductory class, so there were a lot of us with puzzled looks on our faces trying to make our bodies do things they haven't done since we were in diapers.

Early on, the teacher talked about the importance of breathing well. I can't remember her words exactly, but a paraphrase would go something like this: "your body will be doing all kinds of difficult and strenuous things. You need to learn how to breathe calmly so that you can keep your focus and not be overwhelmed by the physical demands you will put on yourself. Breathing deeply will help you do this."

Now there's a good lesson for this particular week in my life. Breathe. Breathe deeply. Do not become overwhelmed by your circumstances. Breathe. Breathe again.

I am sore today in places I didn't even think had muscles of their own. But I am breathing. And will try to continue.

Update to Yesterday's Surprising Phone Call

I think you could describe my current state of mind as the perfect balance of thrilled and terrified.

So I went home last night to discuss with my beloved the idea of this new call. Let me be clear: Beloved has very, very little desire to leave our current location. He likes this city, and there are some very legitimate reasons for that. He has a good job with seniority. His family is here, especially his three nieces and nephew, whom he adores (I quite like them myself). He likes the climate. The family cabin is here. He has tons of friends here. The cost of living here is very reasonable. All of these are legitimate reasons to stay.

And, while he was definitely skeptical about the possibility of going elsewhere, he did not rule it out as entirely as I had feared. My greatest fear in this situation - or any future call possibility which might come my way - is that I will feel absolutely called to go, and he will refuse to leave, and I will then resent him. And I told him that last night, in the most honest but gentle way I could.

I know he understands, in theory, that I probably cannot spend my entire working life here. There are not many options for me. He, on the other hand, could probably work another ten years and then retire from his current job - though he'd have to work somewhere or it's Top Ramen for us. When we started dating, I was in the midst of discussions similar to this one, with another congregation in the same area. And he said he just couldn't go, couldn't leave then. And I felt more called to pursue a life with him than I did a life with that congregation, so I pulled the plug on that conversation and have never looked back.

But this is different. We had a good talk. He has a lot of questions. He is also the kind of person who does a lot of research and who needs a lot of information before making a decision (it took him two years to pick out a barbeque. Seriously. It's a wonder he married me as quickly as he did). So I think now is the time to let him think for himself for awhile.

But I did call the pastor back today, and got both some answers to Beloved's questions (the man didn't teach economics for nothing) and a very lovely word. To paraphrase the conversation:

Mystery Pastor: "If it's okay, I'd like to give you a little advice as you discern this."

Me: "That would be great. Sure."

MP: "I hear in your voice a little bit of, well, fear. And I tend to be that way when I make decisions myself, to focus on all the obstacles because I'm comfortable where I am, and if I can throw up a lot of obstacles and reasons NOT to go, then I can stay. But I encourage you, in the midst of figuring out the obstacles, also to do some dreaming and visioning about what could be. If you want to come here and it's the right thing for all of us, we will make it work. We will figure out all that other stuff."

That was a great word for me. He just kept saying that last bit in different versions: "we will figure it out. We will be creative. We want you, and we will figure it out."

I'm not used to that. It's obviously quite flattering, for one, but I think he might actually mean it. And that congregation is in a financial position to make the economic part happen, I believe.

So now I will go home to a little more conversation. And a whole lot of prayer. Thanks for yours. Keep em' coming - we'll need them. For the obstacles, but also for the dreams.

Huh. Didn't see that coming.

In the middle of the potluck today, I answered the phone (since the secretary is off today at her husband's surgery). And it was a pastor I have never met, calling from a large and growing congregation, to say that my name had been mentioned to him - twice - as a possibility for associate pastor.

Huh.

I've been trying to discern how to leave for awhile now, and I haven't been very good at it. Maybe because this is my first call, and though I've been here for eight years, it's still difficult to know when to go. I've asked the good Lord, from time to time, to be more direct, but the good Lord has largely not obliged me in this, which is understandable.

But at this call (which I moved upstairs, away from the parishioners, to field more appropriately), my heart did this little leaping thing that it hasn't done about church for awhile. This little skipped beat, like a spark. I wonder if that's something to pay attention to.

What made my heart leap even higher was how he finished this sentence: "this congregation is theologically..." and I was waiting for "conservative," because although I happen to know the city where this congregation is, I don't know anything about this church, and what I know about its location might lead toward - well, more red than blue, if you get my drift.

But - oh, miracle of miracles - he said, "...progressive." Which made me smile. And then he said, "in fact we are the only church in our area which is Reconciled in Christ," which, if you are Lutheran or know the lingo, means it is openly a welcoming place for gay and lesbian folk. Which really made me smile. Because trust me, that attitude ain't happenin' where I am in the foreseeable future.

So now I will need to go home and talk with my beloved about this. Which should be interesting (and I mean this in the way that Midwestern people use this word, like, "That tattooed, pierced boyfriend my daughter brought home sure is interesting"). My beloved is quite attached to our current geographical location. And I am too, to be honest. But my possibilities for new call around here are very limited. And he knows that too. It's not the best time to be thinking about moving from the perspective of his job. And I know that too.

See, good Lord? Here I am, still asking for something more direct than an actual phone call. I might be getting close to "too demanding," I think.

Huh. Some thinking and praying to do. If you read this and have time to pray for me and my beloved, I would appreciate it very much.

Friday Five: Seasons Change...

From Rev Gals...

It's Labor Day weekend here in the United States, also known as Summer's Last Hurrah. So let's say goodbye to summer and hello to the autumn.

1. Share a highlight from this summer. (If you please, don't just say "our vacation to the Canadian Rockies." Give us a little detail or image. Help us live vicariously through you!)
We had a fantastic time visiting my brother and sister-in-law in New York. To live vicariously, see my post below on that trip. Two highlights: one, seeing Avenue Q on Broadway - Funniest. Show. Ever. And two, spending time with my brother and his wife. I realized during the trip that this is the most time I have ever spent with him as an adult; after I left for college 16 years ago, when he was 12, our lives have been in different cities and the time we've spent together has been with other family around. It was so great to see his life and his marriage and how amazing he is as a grown-up.

2. Are you glad to see this summer end? Why or why not?
I'm always glad to see summer end, mostly because fall is my favorite season. I'm not really a hot-weather girl, though I have adapted to it over the the past eight years of living in a location with a real summer (as opposed to my childhood in Seattle, where summer is a pretty sporadic thing).

3. Name one or two things you're looking forward to this fall.
My two standards: cooking and sweaters. Honestly. I'm so sick of grilling things - I want to make soups and casseroles and roasts and breads and all those yummy oven-required recipes that make the kitchen way too freaking hot in the summer. And I have a sweater fetish (only slightly surpassed by my inordinate love for shoes and purses). I am sick of shorts and t-shirts. Time to move on.

4. Do you have any special preparations or activities to mark the transition from one season to another? (Cleaning of house, putting away summer clothes, one last trip to the beach)
In October, I switch some home-decorating things: wool pillow covers in the living room, different duvet covers in the bedrooms, leaves and candles and gourds replace flowers in vases. I put t-shirts away and bring out the sweaters. Buy mums and put them on the porch. Fall stuff.

5. I'll know that fall is really here when __________________________________.
I'm wearing a sweater and cooking spaghetti sauce and we turn the pilot light back on for the gas fireplace. Can hardly wait.

A Random Post About Advent

More Cows' thoughts about the ancient "Why can't we sing Christmas carols during Advent" dilemma - which must have started immediately after Paul stopped writing to the early church because frankly, it's a tug-of-war which feels about that old - got me thinking about the reasons why I am an unabashed Advent nazi. I am willing to bend pretty far on a lot of things, but this is not one of them. And, in an attempt to explain 'why' to my congregation, I wrote the following newsletter article a few years ago. It preceded one particular Advent when we didn't (insert horrified gasp here) put up the Christmas tree in the sanctuary until Christmas Eve.

This is not quite as random as you might otherwise think, given that the Worship Committee is starting to plan our Advent season in a few weeks. But I freely admit that it's a topic about which I have some passionate opinions, and I'll take just about any opportunity to spout them off. Thus, the following...

August 11. That’s the first day I noticed Christmas merchandise for sale. Every year it finds its way into stores just a little earlier, pouncing on you when you’ve turned the corner from the toiletries aisle or the pet food. Trees! Elves! Dancing Santas! Icicle lights and neon sleds! And by September, news broadcasts already start to anticipate whether retailers expect a good holiday season. By Christmas itself, the whole thing may start to feel like it’s been dragging on forever.

Make no mistake: Christmas is an economic reality. Christmas is big business in lots of places, and the church is not entirely an exception. Church budgets tend to run in certain patterns: lower giving during January and the summer months, higher giving during Lent, Easter, and Christmas. And yet we know that the truest Word about Christmas has nothing to do with money. How do we reconcile these two realities? How do we manage lives which pressure us to spend a lot, to earn a lot, to be successful, and yet live from a faith which tells us that we are called to be a light to the nations?

“Practice, practice, practice,” parents tell their children. Practice the piano, your spelling list, sports skills, vocabulary flashcards, math problems. Practice makes…if not perfect, at least improvement. Advent is our time to practice waiting. And waiting, for most of us, is a skill which requires some deep and thoughtful practice. The church year follows patterns of all kinds, including patterns of color: Advent submerges us in blues, purples, and pinks, colors which remind us of the night sky over Bethlehem, the richness of royal robes, the hint of sunrise. Advent is a season of waiting, of anticipation, of hope.

For children, the four weeks of Advent may feel like an eternity; when I was a child, time itself seemed to slow down during December, days stretching out like months before us, always leading to the Christmas celebration. But that kind of anticipation can make the celebration itself even more joyful. Our Advent worship needs to create a space, a time, music and word for us to practice that anticipation. We live, after all, in joyful expectation of Jesus’ return, and Advent gives us four weeks to rehearse our skills in patience.

Which brings us to the question you may well have during Advent at Trinity: where’s the tree? As part of our focus on waiting and anticipation, this year the worship committee has decided not to put a Christmas tree in the sanctuary until the Christmas celebration itself. If that seems a bit drastic, consider these words: “would you place a birthday cake on your dining room table weeks before your child’s birthday? Would you expect a new bride to walk around wearing her wedding dress three weeks before the wedding? Out of strong desires for our churches to feel like our homes, and out of convenience, we rob the season of Advent of its purpose when we place the very strong symbol of a Christmas tree in our worship space before the Christmas season begins.” These words come from a worship resource called Sundays and Seasons, used by many Lutheran churches, including our own. And, perhaps, it is right! Perhaps we are not good at waiting because we so seldom practice it. But in our rush to get to the celebration, we miss the joy of anticipating it.

So there will be no Christmas tree in our sanctuary (though there will be one in the narthex) until Christmas Eve. Perhaps this will feel strange, disconcerting, even a bit uncomfortable to you. It probably should. And when it feels odd, remember Mary, a teenage girl pregnant with God’s own Son, waiting for her child’s birth. Remember the words of John the Baptist, announcing Jesus’ ministry: “Prepare the way of the Lord!” Remember Simeon and Anna, two elderly servants of the Lord who had waited all their lives to see and touch the Messiah, and who held the baby Jesus in their arms. Remember those who waited, waited, waited, and us who still wait for Jesus’ return, trusting in God’s promise that one day, the whole world will be made new.

Practice your waiting. Practice, practice, practice. We are a people born of this waiting, and when we lose sight of the One for whom we wait, we lose our hope as well. Most of us will have Christmas trees in our homes sometime before Christmas Eve; there will be Christmas concerts and television specials and carols on the radio. But in the sanctuary, we will practice waiting. We will hear words about hope and expectation. We will sing “O come, O come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel.” And we will pray:
In the mighty name of God,
In the saving name of Jesus,
In the strong name of the Spirit,
we come
we cry
we watch
we wait
we long
for you.

Back in the Saddle

Well, my vacation is over. We had a great time - lots of fun, lots of relaxation, a few house projects finished (yippee!) - and now it's time to be serious again.

I'm still in the vacation frame of mind, partly because my brain is still switching back over to the pacific time zone after seven days on the east coast, and partly because the glow of vacation is a bit like the afternoon of Christmas Day: you just have to sit and marvel for awhile that you have had this lovely experience, and you can't quite peel yourself off the couch. Not quite yet.

We started with some days at home, which I always appreciate. Time to read (a whole stack from the library in less than a week - oh, the joy). Time to relax with a cup of coffee and the newspaper in the morning. Time to attend worship without having to do anything but listen. Time to work in the backyard and help put a fence together and paint the porch railing, which I have been meaning to do since we moved in a year ago, and deadhead my roses, and eat ice cream sandwiches in the afternoon, and drink lemonade, and sleep in.

And then seven days in New York City, just about as far from home as we can get and still stay in the country. Where we did lots of kitchsy-touristy things: the Empire State Building (where I discovered my beloved's heretofore unknown mild fear of heights), Rockefeller Center, the United Nations, Ground Zero (since the last time I was in NYC I went to the top of those buildings), a Reuben sandwich at Katz's Deli (home of a scene in When Harry Met Sally), amazing soul food in Harlem (check out Amy Ruth's restaurant here).

And a Broadway show, which requires its own little paragraph. I've wanted to see Avenue Q for years, since I read about it one day in Newsweek. And if Sesame Street has ever been a part of your life, as it has been in mine, then this is the show for you. As they state repeatedly: it's not for kids. (Nor could any show be with songs like Everyone's a Little Bit Racist and It Sucks to be Me). One song in particular is begging for its own post, so I'll work on that for later. But oh - to laugh until you cry, that's good vacation.

It was good to get out of dodge, but after 10 days of "huh...I thought I packed more clean shirts. And where is my last pair of underwear?" living, we were also ready to get back home. Back to work for both of us; back to life.

Hopefully also, a small step for me back to vitality and energy and out of, well, not depression exactly, but certainly sluggishness. Ennui. A certain apathy. (Thesaurus, anyone?) After my last post about prayer, I have started to feel something growing again, some small buds of hope and reconnection to God. I am only a few steps along what I believe will be a long road. I need to make some commitments of my own, to prayer and scripture reading. But to be honest, I also need God to make some steps toward me - or, in more accurate theological language, to make God's already-closeness more known. I am hoping for that. I am ready for that. I might even be praying for it.

Vacation is good. Life is good. Time to work.