with power comes responsibility

I'm currently reeling from the news that I was elected to lead the delegation of folks from our Annual Conference to General Conference next spring. I'm not entirely sure what this will mean (and I suspect its many meanings will come into being as we go along), but I'm sure that it feels like a daunting task.

In many ways.

But, before I get to the daunting, I ought to say how honored and flattered I feel. Whatever the reasons people felt compelled to vote for me, I feel honored that they would think me worthy of this role. Even those of us clergy who are given to cynicism about the church are likely to want to send good people to make church policy. We all have to live with church policy.

And, I hope my election is a sign of hope for things to come--in younger generations and in training and trusting new leaders. We don't always have a lot of hope when we talk about General Conference and denominational trends and such.

A lot of young people--and, most definitely, my dear friend Erika--advocated and campaigned toward my election. I don't think any of us really believed it possible until we saw the results of the first ballot.

So I'm hoping that being the person with the right to be on the Conference floor, participating in legislative committee and voting and all, will not be as frustrating as watching the Conference floor was 8 years ago. I don't have great confidence in the chances that things will go as I'd like at General Conference. (I'm too insistent that we need to be truly welcoming of gay and lesbian people, for example.) But I'm open to that possibility.

In the meantime, I have lots of prayerful figuring to do--what committee I'd most like to be on, how I'll relate to the others on the delegation and others in other delegations, whether to dress like others expect for delegates or like I'd prefer, how to balance being taken seriously and being a different, new style that the church might well need.

It's a good thing I have 'til April.

and off again

So many things seem blog-worthy, and then I let them slip by...so here I find myself checking last things and packing for my week away in warm ol' Redlands CA for our Annual Conference meeting. Church meetings in smoggy, hot inland CA. And, yet: I look forward to them. I get to room with dear friends, and share time with folks I don't see often enough. So I stayed up a bit longer than I meant to, making a pie to share.

I've been into making and baking lately. Since my dear husband's parents' apricot tree came into fruit, coincidental with the height of my Eat Local resolve, I've been working apricots into every meal, and experimenting in preservation. So, tonight, it was a batch of apricot salsa and an apricot pie that I thought I might be able to bring to offer to our gathering. Turns out that apricots make a pretty mean salsa... (And are good with carrots, salmon, ice cream, pie, bread, and more.)

Since our last batch of kitchen cabinets came to hang in our house, it's been fun putting things where they might *actually belong* in the kitchen. And then getting used to them. (I am amazed how even bizarre locations for cooking supplies, when they become habit, can seem "right." You'd think I'd adjust more quickly to the new locations. Maybe that's a part of my extra motivation for cooking these days--to re-set my habits in reaching for the right cupboard. It occurs to me that there's likely a good metaphor here somewhere, but I'm not quite ready to make reaching for the olive oil into a spiritual practice...)

Preparing for trips always brings me a mix of excitement, anxiety and pressure (to pack the right things and remember the little stuff. Who am I kidding: to remember the big stuff. I'll not forget to Women's Retreat where I forgot to put my suitcase in the car, but remembered the odd supplies for activities...)

In addition, Conference brings added excitement and anxiety: will the church (my church, and the folks I'm closest to in it) find vision and hope in its gathering? Will we make decisions that will be beautiful? We get to do all those rites of passage: ordination, retirement, memorial service. All of which make me wonder what the church will be like when I get to the latter two.

I hope we'll find ways to move forward boldly, hanging onto the good stuff that gives us life.

Certainly, though, we'll get to share apricots.

a farmer

I've been happy for a while now, knowing that I could go outside, touch some plants, and come back in with hands smelling of tomatoes. But now, oh, life is looking good. The fruits are growing.This afternoon, I drew a labyrinth on our driveway. (It was part of a project in which I'm living out my fantasies of being a graphic artist. A little chalk, a little Adobe Photoshop, some uploading, and life is good.)
While I was drawing the labyrinth (and before I played with Photoshop), a woman stopped to talk to me. She's from Somalia, and wanted to know if I lived in *that* house. I do. She told me I was a farmer, with a warm smile.

So, today I'm grateful for sidewalk chalk, labyrinths, my Mac, tomatoes, and neighbors--she says she just lives over on 50th Street.

friday five for hope

Today seems like a good day to play along on the RevGalPals Friday Five. Here goes:

1. Think back to the time you left High School, what were your hopes visions and dreams for your life/ for the world?
My dream was to leave western Nebraska for the big city (any one with a good art museum would do, but New York would be ideal) to live a life rich with the beautiful things of life. And, of course, to share them with others. (Professionally, this would involved being a director of educational programs at a fabulous museum.) My dream for the world is pretty much the same as now. Vines and fig trees for everyone. No fear. And all the weapons turned into farming tools. (My apologies to Micah.)

2. Have those hopes visions and dreams changed a lot, or are some of them still alive and kicking? (share one if you can)
See the post below.
There's also the matter of the dream that emerged in 3rd grade or so, when I discovered the Beach Boys. It involved California, beaches, palm trees, a swimming pool and a convertible. Now, I'm trying to sell the condo (with a pool) by the beach in San Diego, so I can live more comfortably in the house with a garden a few miles inland. And hopes of a convertible were (at least) put on hold, as houses are a bit pricey out here.

3. Hebrews 11:1 " Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. " Comforting, challenging or frustrating?
Yes. All at the same time.

4. If resources were unlimited, and you had free reign to pursue a vision what would it be?
Perhaps the convertible. Or chickens in the backyard.
And, of course, helping give birth to some kind of cool not-like-church-usually-is community in our neighborhood, where folks with amazing diversities can share together in the body of Christ.

5. Finally with summer upon us- and not to make this too heavy- share your dream holiday....where, when and who with...
There are too many good places. I'm definitely looking forward to trying out backpacking in the Sierras with my beloved this summer. (Our only other attempt at backpacking resulted in head injury, blood loss, fears of flood-induced whitewater rafting on ThermaRests, and little sleep. I guess that's NOT my dream vacation. Though in the end it was a good time and we made some swell friends...) Colorado's Rockies are always nice, too. Oh, and I discovered that the Big Island of Hawaii agrees with me, too. (Beautiful beaches, sea turtles and locally-grown coffee!)

how my (kingdom of god?) garden grows

Last evening, I hung my new collage creation on the fence in the backyard. I've been so delighted by my subconscious choice to plant a vine and a fig tree back there, and how this means I'm living into Micah's vision of the good stuff. Swords into plowshares and all that. No more war. Instead: vines and fig trees.

I used one of the nasty boards from the pile behind the shed--a piece of old trim that we tore out of the house. With all that ModPodge on there, it the grain looks pretty. New life, I suppose.

Now, I'm inspired to make another, but need to figure out what it should say or depict...

In other backyard news, I fashioned a set of four marshmallow roasters, with bent wire and bead decoration on the handles, too. They're hanging on a lovely holder. Now, the next time folks gather around our recycled brick firepit, and we want to make s'mores, we don't have to rummage for more wire hangers. They're already there and waiting.
Last weekend, I tore out most of the things that had been growing through the "cold season." (One has to write "cold season" with a little irony when she lives in San Diego.) So, I have lots of bare soil, waiting for things to sprout through it. But this corner, home to rhubarb, four tomatoes, strawberries growing full-tilt and some carrots I really ought to harvest, is GREEN. In the pot is a "yuca"--manioc. I planted one from the grocery store to see what would happen. It's growing!!
I continue to wait in anticipation for summer tomatoes. (If you remember those newspaper-pot tomatoes of long ago--they've gone back to the soil. But, thankfully, others grow on.)
And, a columbine plant is blooming. The poppies are still lovely. And, happily, the shortage of bees hasn't come to my yard. They're happily pollinating away here.

(Do you think Matt would let me keep a hive? He didn't go for the keeping-chickens plan...)

Thank God for growing things.

locavores

I read Barbara Kingsolver's new book this weekend.

I've loved her writing for years now--ever since "Pigs in Heaven" back in High School. I've also loved the variety in her novels.

This one was different. "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle" is non-fiction, and collaborative, with her husband and daughter. And, it was about gardening and eating locally.

Now I'm contemplating how I can better become a "locavore." (I dig that it has a cool name.)

It's not a new idea--but as her voice is added, it seems more possible. The amount of oil resources we use to ship food around the world is staggering and depressing. And, lest we need to continue to wage immoral wars in countries with significant oil resources...I decided this Memorial Day weekend is as good a time as any to try more diligently to be a locavore.

I planted more things in the yard--corn and eggplants and melons and squash and lettuce, and started searching out more local options for eggs and meat and things. We ate our first zucchini of the season last night, and our first tomato is growing in girth (even if it's still strikingly green).

I admit that SoCal is not a bad place to choose to eat locally--the climate's pretty exciting. (And I won't have to give up bananas entirely.) Now I just have to figure out how to find out where the food in that delightfully cheap produce market on the corner comes from...

(At least parts of Mexico count as "local," right?)

almost famous

It took a fire at my church, but I got my name in the paper again...

This fire, which was accidental and burned a room under our sanctuary, has given me reason to reflect on church buildings. The image of smoke pouring out of the sanctuary is painful. Something about "church" space makes it hard to see destroyed.

Thankfully, it's not destroyed. The sanctuary is being cleaned, and suffered only from the smoke. The downstairs is worse, but things are repairable or replaceable. Even the handmade ones.

But we all know that church isn't buildings. So why does it feel so wrong for church buildings to be damaged?

(Just last week in worship, we were reading from the end of Revelation, where we hear there will be no temple. In the end vision--the world becoming as God intends it--we don't even need churches. God is everywhere.)

I try to see that as true even now--God's presence everywhere. And I guess I'm hoping that this fire, somehow, will remind us that church is much more than its buildings. (Even if they are really incredible buildings.)

the future of ordained ministry

Here's a highlight from today:
A friend told me that her 3-year-old daughter, after having been a part of her baby brother's baptism, has taken to "playing Rev. Molly."


Using am empty plastic bottle to "pour" water on her brother's head, offering shared cups of milk as communion, and praying the Lord's Prayer ReMix ("power and glory hallowed trespasses our father heaven"), she got the part right.

What fun and flattery! My ego soars. And, I'm confident in bold leaders, well into our future.

garden impression

My crafty project for the week was making this concrete casting of a rhubarb leaf. (Not as tasty as pie, but it was fun to make...) I'm hoping it will hold water and be a sort of a birdbath. Plus, I'll always have a nice, big leaf in my garden.
I don't have any deep reflection on it.

I did, however, eat some tasty rainbow chard leaves out of the garden today. Matt first declared, "That isn't awful." Then, changed his opinion of sauteed chard to thinking it'd be fun to eat again.

I looked up the nutritional benefits of chard, and I think that if we eat a cup a day, we can definitely have ice cream, too.

sprouting

In other less-sticky news, I glimpsed sprouting action from the papaya seeds I've been incubating on our stovetop. (I'm glad to have found a constructive way of putting to use the inefficient pilot light on our groovy-but-not-so-energy-wise 1950s stove.) The cherimoyas have sprouted, too. I can almost see the tropical wonderland that will be our backyard...

And, I had coffee with a new friend tonight, who, not knowing it was my yard, was admiring the passion flowers on my fence this week.

I'm enjoying this gardening project.

holy residue

Tonight I discovered a little pastoral crisis I've never had before: congealed healing oil. The glass holders we keep oil in, for our monthly healing prayers at Wednesday Vespers, was one of the gooiest, most disgusting allegedly-holy things I've seen in a long time.

And, of course, I didn't realize this until just before worship.

After I was able to clear out the thickest top layer, revealing hope of something that might be suitable for anointing, it made me think of a Wendell Berry essay I treasure, about a bucket that sat on a nail on a post on a farm for years; in the layers that had collected on it were memories from years and generations past. From lives and lunches, adventures and work. Layers of residue that were the collected history heaped onto the pail.

So, I attempted to imagine such a vision of this oil--the prayers it has shared and the lives whose hopes it has borne.

But now I just want to know what the proper way to clean out holy oil is.

We didn't cover this in my worship class in school.

I just hope I can honor this sticky, viscous residue. Perhaps it's a good thing to clean out prayer oil periodically. Otherwise it gets burdened with thick reminders of the past. All I know is that I've never seen a layer of solid sticky stuff on top of oil before...and I pray for grace from all those who received it today.

why can't it always be like that?

So, Matt and I were in the Bay Area for a wedding this past weekend. On Sunday, I did something (I confess) I don't always do on a Sunday off of preaching: I went to church.

Going to worship at Glide in San Francisco doesn't take so much self-discipline, though. It's not like penance. It's good vacation activity.

Afterwards, we were talking about what we liked. Matt said, "I think that's what church should always be like."

One of the things I liked was that they gave word to what felt true there: they were clear about naming that everyone is welcome. Poor, rich, gay, lesbian, straight, transgendered, Bible-knowing, Bible-ignorant, confused, clear, clean, addicted, of any race, old, young... And, they made it fun to be together. We remembered that it was a special place--that the whole world isn't like that. Which made it sweeter, more precious, and wonderful.

I didn't have to worry that MY experience was isolated: that other people were judging folks who entered. Or that what SEEMED like an embrace of all humanity was just a sort of an odd accident. They said it plain and clear: we're all celebrated.

I sat next to a man who was there for the first time. We didn't talk much, but it was clear he both new the words and the ASL signs for many of the songs we sang. Especially the ones that you might hear on Christian radio. It was also clear that he was experiencing, for the first time, that he was welcome AS HE WAS there--that he didn't have to hide anything. It was pretty beautiful.

On his other side was a friend who kept pulling out his phone. Which really annoyed me 'til I realized he was using it to take notes on the sermon. For real. That made me happy.

And, in a little way, reminded me about what's cool about church (at least, about church as it's supposed to be): it makes you confront little assumptions and judgments within yourself, and connect to something better. Richer. More beautiful.

So there we were, having our little post-worship discussion in the car, and Matt asked a hard question: so what's stopping you from making church like that?

Now, I don't want to complain: I'm pretty in love with a lot of the worship I get to lead. I treasure the community. I thrive on the sense of creative play I get to use. But somehow we come short of the kind of wild, all-inclusive joy that animates Glide. And usually, I let me fear of offending some people get in the way of saying things as clearly as the worship leaders at Glide did.

So, now I've gotta figure some things out...

gardening & revolution

I pass this house on my way to the freeway--just a few blocks away from our house. I'm a fan of the gardening revolution.

Turns out, there's a whole guerrilla gardening movement; rebellious, hopeful souls who dare to plant growing things in the abandoned places of empire.

Gardening is so good. It's relaxing. It connects me to this place. It reminds me of my place in cycles beyond my control. It recommits me to tending and cultivating things of beauty. It means I don't have drive to get my groceries, and no one has to use oil to drive them to the store. It means my food tastes really good. And, I love watching my neighbors stop to look at what's growing. My favorite is watching parents show their kids what vegetables look like in the natural state.

It definitely makes switching out "yard" for "garden" worthwhile. Of course, this place didn't even have "yard" when we moved in. It just had "pavement..."

Today, our first fruits of the season. (I'm being technical about this, and going for "fruit." This is a juicy and sweet switch-up from the lettuce, chinese cabbage, broccoli and chard that have been growing...)
They were the tastiest strawberries I've had in a long while. And no one had to work in miserable conditions for too little pay which being exposed to toxic pesticides to grow 'em.

Hooray for these five strawberries.

What a glorious alternative to concrete.

numbers

Praying in memory of those killed at Virginia Tech today, at the long litany of names of those whose lives ended too early, I got overwhelmed.

Not just by those 32 names, but by the 183 killed in Iraq today.

Learning details of the precious lives lost in Virginia, celebrating their particularities, I felt pangs of guilt: I know nothing of the lives of the 183.

I remember the number, because I was looking at numbers: the 153 fish miraculously caught when Jesus told his disciples to cast their net on the other side of the boat, when he visited them at the seashore after his resurrection.

I was typing "153" into the Google search bar, which I noticed a similar number in the yahoo headlines. But instead of being a reminder of God's good abundance, or of the rich ways God provides for us, it was a reminder of the ugliness of human violence. And, 183 is even more than 153.

Turns out that 153 has all sort of mathematical significance. In sequences, it's remarkable: the sum of the first 17 integers. Also, the sum of 1 through 5 factorial. According to Wikipedia, it's the biggest commonly-known number.

And so I pray for the lives of a even greater number of people. I pray in thanksgiving for their rich particularities, which I know nothing of. I pray for my own ignorance.

I pray for peace, and for sensibility for our national leadership. I pray for an end to violence, everywhere.

atonality

I just got back from the Opera. It was Wozzeck, a modern opera--a wild 90 minutes in an atonal universe. I studied composers like Alban Berg in college, in heady course on non-objective painters like Mondrian and Kandinsky and the atonal music of Schoenberg and Webern (with a few shout-outs to Berg...) Technically, atonal music is known as such because it lacks a tonal center. It's not in any key. It doesn't land or come back to anything familiar, regular, or melodic. Sometimes it feels like speak-singing. Other times, it feels like the music was generated in a truly random way--as if Berg rolled a 12-sided die to figure out which note would go next.

Oddly destabilizing. Exhausting, when I think about how nice it would be for a rousing melody to hum along to. And yet, evocative. Raw. Even, perhaps, honest and pure.

And, afterwards, I felt strangely optimistic. Which strikes me as unlikely, given that the story thrives on brokenness and, ultimately, jealousy that leads to murder.

In the line at Starbucks, where I waited for the mocha that would bring validation for free parking, the man in front of me smiled and seemed friendly. Then he asked me, in Russian, if I spoke Russian. Then he spoke in fluent, slang-filled English to his friends. The cashier engaged in me in a long story about her day, and taxes. And, as I parked in front of our house, a man who I've seen in the neighborhood wanted to start a conversation (and get bus fare). We ended up talking a lot longer than I'd imagined, and made me uncomfortable in bits and pieces.

Conversation felt refreshingly easy, after emerging from the atonal universe. And yet, all of it feels like it lacks a center (tonal or otherwise). Nothing seemed to quite be what I expected or knew how to respond to.

So, I'm pondering what it might be like to move through a world that was centered in a particular key. Would everyone have to hear it or just me? And what would it mean missing?

Maybe I just need more sleep.

joys and concerns

It's been a while since I posted.

Some things have been good since I last wrote. I got the Resurrection playlist together, and the Easter Vigil it was set in was way cool. I think my favorite part was watching people really engage the activities we'd designed on this easter "pilgrimage"--and watching those who'd designed the event shine with healthy pride and share the power of easter stories. Our campus felt steeped in "holy." That a photo from it ended up on the front page of our San Diego paper was bonus cool.

Since Easter, I've been attempting pastoral de-compression. It seems like it shouldn't be this hard: it's the same story every year, after all. It should be less shocking to us than it was to Mary on that morning when she took spices for a dead body. I need to remember that the BIG work of Easter is taken care of by that wily Holy Spirit...

Somehow, though, making it relevant and hip and making sure we don't screw things up in worship takes a lot of energy.

So, after intense church-things-obsession, I got to enjoy a week focused on home.

Unfortunately, so did the person who broke into our house Thursday night.

They didn't take so much. I guess it helps that I own jewelry with little cash value. I mean, I think it's cool, but it's not gonna sell quick on the street. (In a perverse way, it feels a little insulting--that my things weren't worth stealing... I guess I can find solace that they chose MY laptop to steal. Apparently, they have some good taste. Mac, not PC.) But they did break a window. And run out the back door.

Mostly, I'm sleeping well since then. I still feel funny when I come home at night, alone. I don't want to discover that it's happened again.

So I decided to prove to my house that I haven't waned in my affection for her or our choice of neighborhood by working in the garden again. Things are blooming and sprouting. The sprinkler system is fixed, and the stepping stones are in place. Even the japanese maple, which maintained its "dead stick" look longer than anything else in the yard has beautiful young leaves. One of my joys is watching neighbors walking past our yard stop, to point and look at things growing in our garden. One neighbor brought cuttings from her own yard; she's given up on trying to grow new things, but was more than happy to run home and return, so she could share from the ones that are well-rooted there.

And, a week or two late by liturgical standards, my Passionflower vine has opened its first blooms. I'm told it was named for that distinctive bloom, which 15th Century Spanish missionaries though held reminders of the crucifixion.

Then, today, there's news of this horrific shooting at Virginia Tech, and I'm back to contemplating how to celebrate the Easter season in the midst of death.

I pray that the world will stop, turn, and find ways to cherish life.

resurrection playlist

Ok...so one of my fun puzzles of the week is building a playlist for the "resurrection" stations in our Easter Vigil Prayer Pilgrimage at church. What tracks would you add?

So far, I just have Bruce Springsteen's "The Rising."

stalled

I realize it's been a long while since I last wrote.

My tomato seedlings stalled, too. They happily, quickly put out their first 2 leaves. Then, just as signs of the first real leaves began to emerge...they stalled. Nothing. Same for the peppers next to them.

I started more seeds, weeks after the first. They quickly bypassed the first, so-hopeful seeds. They're in the ground outside now, on their way to bearing real tomatoes.

So I've been wondering what did in those first sprouts. I hope it wasn't their recycled packaging. I'm excited about seed staring in old newspaper pots. I don't know what did it. I'm puzzled.

Two weeks ago, I took them out of their little pots, and put them in new (reused) plastic containers. (They have none of the charm...) The peppers have shown real signs of recovery--their little leaves move with the day's sun, and are reaching ever upward. The tomatoes, though...we'll I haven't totally given up on them, but they're still not doing much.

(Neither have they keeled over, though, which I take as hopeful.)

Problem is, failure really discourages me. I don't like to be wrong, and I don't like to fail. If I'd done something I KNEW was wrong--say, forgotten to water for a week because I was too busy tending to the world's needs--that'd be fine. I'd deal. But now I'm left in uncertainty.

I suppose that's a good spiritual discipline for this week.

continuing the tomato dreams

The dear little seeds of my tomatoes-to-be have all sprouted, and are enjoying the light of our dining room window.

And, just when I thought I was spending too much time dreaming of tomatoes, I ended up next to someone at a dinner party who graced me with inspiring tomato talk. After his home burned in the Cedar Fire, and his garden was destroyed, he spread some of the old garden soil on his new plot. Volunteer tomatoes sprouted, and have been growing for the past year-and-a-half. He'd just picked some of the fruits that day.

Which is making me both delight in the resilience of seeds, and wonder why I worry so much about taking care of these little seedlings.

In other delightful news, our irises are beginning to unfurl their purple splendor. A bit bold for Lent--but at least they're in liturgically correct colors.

savoring possibility

Today, I'm enjoying the particular dreams I've been harboring about my garden. Four of my six little recycled newspaper starting pots have sprouted, and I can almost taste the tomatoes.

Matt and I have been falling in love with recipes that can been almost entirely made of things that will (hopefully) grow in my garden this summer. I just have to wait...

I'm liking having plants into which I can channel hope and a bit of work. They make me rest on God's grace, 'cause I can't make tomatoes on my own.

sleeping, well...

i wish i could replicate Thursday's nights sleep
because last night,
under the same blankets,
in the same trailer on the same worksite,
with the same person i love,
under the same (slightly enlarged) moonlight,
the wind kept me in wake and worry,
as imagined all sorts of things being lifted and displaced.

everything is more easily borne on wind in my
(not quite) sleeping imagination.

sleeping well

I slept last night
under a pile of blankets:

A quilt of old t-shirt memories,
printed, stenciled, and drawn mementos
stretching back through my life,
stitched together with borders
of Grandma's old chenille
bedspreads, which were torn into pieces
of padding
when we packed her china
that cold Thanksgiving morning
after she died

The down comforter I sent to Iraq,
wrapped in its patchwork
which we trusted would enfold him
in the love of the whole family
(bearing Dad's trail map,
drawings of rebar for the house we've come up here to build,
and Grandpa's handprints)
We'd never gotten to share it before

And a plain green blanket I ended up with,
from who knows where.

When we'd arrived
we were startled to find a much larger
blanket of snow on so much of the ground,
which made us more grateful for our nighttime coverings.

How well we slept:
blanketed by nearly-full moonlight,
under covers of our lives,
up high in the mountains,
where we look forward
to memories to come
and countless full moons together
in this home that we're building.

i'd never make it as an ascetic

I have been hungry for the last 3 days. Not want-to-rip-someone's-head-off hungry, but could-eat-more hungry.

I blame it on this retreat I took: themed around "feasting during the fast," it directed my attention toward all the ways food embodies hospitality, and breaking break knits community together.

The retreat center food was fine--and delightful in that way that it's nice to have full plates of food that someone else cooked, but nothing special in the sense of culinary delight. Our retreat sessions, though, were full of little tastes of truly exquisite things: a variety of rich butters, vine-ripened tomatoes, good cheese, fresh bread. These things made it quite worth wanting to always eat a little bit more.

Matt says it's because we're vegetarians for Lent that we're always hungry.

Whatever the reason, I'm trying to like it: I'm always ready to break bread with anyone who might be willing, and always ready for another exquisite morsel of God's good (edible) creation.

few words

i am
tired,
but that beautiful kind of tired
that makes me glad
for this
whole
day

(especially
the moments it
felt
eternal)

writing with pictures

still paying attention to the little details.

i'm thankful for the delightful things blooming in my yard today.

blooming

I noticed my first iris bloom of the season today. It's stunning, if I do say so myself. Plus, our California poppies are starting to bloom, so that orange makes the iris's purple even more beautiful.

We starting putting our old chunks of concrete back in the ground, as stepping stones, this afternoon. Our garden is starting to look more, well, garden-y. (The gnome helps.) I love the things that are growing.

I keep trying to look at my yard with an outsider's eyes, but never really succeed. I have the same problem with our house.

Probably, to someone passing by, both still look pretty ragged. But I see all this progress that we've made. Even some of the bits that seem to look messier than when we started--like our lack of trim on windows and doorways, or the bits of missing siding where we re-plumbed the kitchen sink--are signs to me of progress we're making. Making this house our home is a long, messy process. And I'm proud of our ragged attempts at progress. (My messy garden is SO much better than the concrete that was there!)

Which seems like an apt image for lent; certainly, for Ash Wednesday. To get to Easter, first we cover ourselves with messy ashes. This probably makes us look a lot worse off than we seemed on Mardi Gras, but the ashes mark a pretty important and big step.

I only participated in morning-time Ash Wednesday worship once or twice, so I'm not sure how I feel about wearing my ashes around town all day, announcing to the world that I need repentance.

But I'm definitely going to try to get more details from anyone who looks ragged or messy. They might just need congratulations for making it a good, long way toward being whole.

More little things

I'm not generally good at mornings, so it wasn't altogether surprising that I had to drag myself out of bed and rally to get to the the weekly Bible study I lead in a shelter program downtown this morning. Lately, it seems like changes in the community of residents there has meant difficult and disjointed conversation about whatever passages we're reading.

Which makes the conversations I got to be a part of today seem even more wonderful.

In the midst of talk about a bunch of other things, one woman told about her childhood--about words a neighbor shared with her on the porch of her house. In faithful detail, she recalled the message that had been shared with her: an invitation to a better life in God. A God who has dreams for our lives.

She said she'd never thought about there being anything other than the world she knew--anything beyond drinking all day. As a child, this neighbor's words opened new possibilities. And even though it would be years before she really chose to follow God's dreams, she remembers beginning to know of their possibilities on that afternoon on the porch.

I wonder how many kids this neighbor might have said such things to. And I wonder if she has any idea what powerful memory she was creating in this then-young girl.

I suspect we all have more effect on one another that we're aware of.

Lenten practices

So, it's Ash Wednesday, and I get to bask in the memory of worship on my favorite church holiday.

This year, I decided, I like that it's repentance we do together.

Too often, we waste too much time pointing out personal sins. (Our own, and others...) On Ash Wednesday, though, we all take on ashes.

It's making me feel better--even a little bit hopeful--in the midst of too much that's going wrong. (According to Matt, the world's going to hell in a handbasket.) If we're all willing to take on ashes together, in church, maybe we can begin to think about what it would look like to repent of the things we do together, sometimes without even really meaning to: starting wars and continuing them, denying the worth and humanity of children of God, persisting in systems that perpetuate sexism. And racism.

Maybe reconciliation can be possible.

It always feels really weird, putting ashes on other people's foreheads. First off, there's the worry about getting the right amount on your finger, so it makes a mark that's sufficiently visible to seem truly repentant, without showering their nose with little bits of ash.

Then, there's the awkward way the ashes make us confront our mortality. "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." The same words to everyone.

In my mind, they're words of comfort: we are all of the same "stuff," and, ultimately, it's not even what makes "us" "us." Dust.

And, remembering that we're all dust somehow makes all the little stuff more meaningful--the dust of the earth matters, since it's what we are.

All of which Ellen Ott Marshall said so beautifully in her talk at church tonight, as she invited us to practice hope this Lent. Hope in attentiveness to the little stuff, even as it sits in tension with so much that's wrong and difficult and hard.

SO, I'm resolving to accept the Lenten challenge Karen gave me: to write. And I'm gonna try to be attentive to the dust and other little stuff that gives me hope.

in the kitchen

We've been home from our spectacular vacation for just over a week now. Since we got back, I don't think Matt has taken a break. In fact, he's re-routing some plumbing to the kitchen sink as I type.

Neither of us really understood how much work this house would be. The excitement of little triumphs, however, is keeping us going. Here, I am going to inflict some of the adventure on you.



With our base cabinets ready to install, it was finally time to tear out all the last bits of the kitchen: the walls and the sink. So, last Sunday, Matt and his friend, Andrew, got out their pry bars and went at it. (I took my obligatory Sunday nap. Believe me--it's better for us all.)



We figured that now's a good time to switch out the nasty old window (not old enough to be really cool--just cheap and old) for a new one. When the crappy old window was installed, some creative and not very effective plumbing was done--making the vent pipe an imaginary vent pipe through the window. Someone just severed it, installed a new window, and called it good.



We also discovered, in removing the wallboard, that the wall was mostly gone, thanks to old termite damage and what appears to have been several floods under the kitchen sink. So, a bit of re-framing was in order. Here's Matt with the wall really gone, and a new view of the street.



Building the new wall took us well past dark. By dark, we called in for reinforcements. But doesn't the new wall look, well...stable?



That was on Monday. On Tuesday, wallboard went up. Then Matt's dad came over to install the beautiful cabinets he built (out of reclaimed lumber!). Electricity and some paint and a new dishwasher and temporary countertops...and, finally, a sink!

Here's the kitchen as it's currently assembled. We're looking forward to being able to enjoy. And Matt's started building the forms for the new concrete countertop.

Someday, before too long, we hope we'll be able to be better dinner hosts. And have more time to spend with our friends (doing something other than construction work).

letting the aloha live

We're just back from a splendid, luxurious TWO WEEK vacation in Hawaii. The length, the ocean, the pineapples and the company were all splendid.

Growing up in Nebraska, my sense of Hawaii lacked nuance. It just enchanted me with dreamy pictures of swaying palm trees and tropical ocean scenery.

Now, I can distinguish the difference between Waikiki's urbanized and developed strip of hotels and the rural coffee fields of the big island.

In disbelief at the number of ABC convenience stores in Waikiki, Matt and I decided to count them on our walk back from dinner one night. It was a pleasant stroll--less than a mile. And, we passed 11 ABC stores (plus, one that was about to open in a new shopping mall). More incredible to us, though, was that we passed 3 Coach stores. (And knew that if we walked further, we'd find another one a block later.) We picked Coach to count, but there were other choices for fine handbag purchasing... It occurred to me, in one unfolding walk, that many people must vacation with purposes other than seeing swaying palm trees. But I'm still incredulous that THAT many people buy expensive handbags on vacation.

As for me, I'm especially grateful for some sea turtles, 2 whales off the big island coast, spectacular waves on the North Shore, and one exquisite sunset (which we enjoyed from an indulgent Waikiki hotel beach cafe). And for my dear husband, and his family, who we got to hang with during our time away from Oahu.

the exquisite sunset

the turtles

our family portrait at volcanoes national park

I bought no Coach handbags.

I did, however, feel a growing sense of connection between my Nebraska roots and the Hawaiian soil. My favorite local big island station played songs that, while also borrowing from reggae and using more ukelele, felt distinctively like country music. Turns out, there've been cowboys on Hawaii for years. And folks who go "big pig hunting," and sing songs about it.

Who knew?

sort-of like walking on water

When Matt and I were back in Nebraska this week, celebrating Christmas, we went canoeing on Mom and Dad's lake. (Dad steered and egged on.) We thought it was less frozen than it really was. (Thin layers of melted water on top of ice can be deceiving.) There's a lesson in this somewhere, but I'm on vacation and I haven't figured it out yet.

















It sure was pretty, though, watching the sunset colors reflect off the narrow channel the canoe cut through the ice...


In other news, Grand Island, Nebraska now, apparently, has a Starbucks. (We didn't visit.) And Wal-Mart's litter can be found even in out-of-town cornfields. There's a commentary in this somewhere, and I think you can figure it out yourself.












Now, we're leaving the ice and canoes behind for some pineapples and tropical breezes...

the hokey pokey isn't what christmas is all about

With apologies to Karen for stealin' her idea, I wanted to share this with you:


Merry Christmas.

a long night

And a confession: I thought that tonight is the longest night of the year. But, it turns out, tomorrow night is a smidgen longer.

At least, tomorrow's daylight is 2 seconds shorter than today's.

Tonight, at our Vespers worship, I said it was the longest night.

What I didn't notice, at all, is that there's a new moon tonight. (And, really, how's one to notice a new moon? Especially when there are so many giant inflatable snow creatures around, basking under palm trees?!?) A new moon makes things feel extra dark, and long. Maybe it's the "darkest night..."

However...I marvel at the information available online. Sunrises and sunsets, daylight hours, tides and moon phases.

Seems funny to me that we can measure the change in season--the solstice--in 2 second increments. I wonder if change happens that way in my life more often. If I've passed tipping points, but hardly noticed, because 2 seconds are so, well, small.

And I think that perhaps Christmas is that way. God's love is incarnate in a new, wonderful, full (if physically small) way, and it barely registers (other than for that group of shepherds, some angels and a small entourage of magi.)

This year, when I'm aware of so many broken, hurting, violence-filled places and lives, I'm hanging on to those 2 seconds.

home for the holidays

Matt has this lovely salt water aquarium in our living room, and in it live two clown fish. They're actually our friend Ryan's fish, but they live at our house.

From "Finding Nemo," I know that clown fish are supposed to live in anemones. We don't have any anemones.

To my endless delight, our two clown fish are attempting to take up residence in two nearby corals.

Corals are not nearly as delightful to live in as anemones, I think; one has wavy arm things that might be fun to swim through, but no inner chamber in which to take refuge. The other coral... Well, it just seems to scream "sub-standard" housing to me. It's got nothin' much going for it, other than that it's pretty. No place to get inside, nothing to swim through.

But, day after day, Jackie and Nighty, the clown fish, loyally, hopefully stand by their homes. As if to guard them, and to show them off the world of our living room.

They give me hope that we can make "home" out of just about anything, if we have eyes to see.

(Not, of course, that this is any reason to stop working to make sure everyone has a decent place to live...)

ever since those angels sang "alleluia"...

Today's RevGalPals Friday Five has me singin'. And thinking: why don't we have much other "seasonal" music? I mean, sure, JCSuperstar comes out Holy Week...but I've got no other collection of music that I pull out for a month of the year. What fun!

1. A favorite 'secular' Christmas song.
"Baby, It's Cold Outside" charms me, though I worry when I stop to think about the lyrics much. (manipulative male convincing sweet, wanting-to-please-other-people woman into staying at his place?!?) It makes me think of that song, "To Make You Feel My Love;" when sung by Garth Brooks to accompany Harry Connick's love in "Hope Floats," it was sweet. In Bob Dylan's voice, it just sounded, well, predatory...

2. Christmas song that chokes you up (maybe even in spite of yourself--the cheesier the better)
My heart belongs to John Denver and those Muppets. I can't avoid getting choked up "When the River Meets the Sea," as little Robin's pure voice sings out a vision of God's kingdom.

3. Christmas song that makes you want to stuff your ears with chestnuts roasted on an open fire.
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, especially the Mannheim Steamroller version. (Sorry, Mom; couldn't resist.)

4. The Twelve Days of Christmas: is there *any* redeeming value to that song? Discuss.
Again, with the Muppets, it's all beautiful. Piggy even makes appropriate mockery of greed with her "5 Golden Rings." Beautiful.


5. A favorite Christmas album
Has to be "A Christmas Together." John Denver AND the Muppets! What could be better?!?!?

sacraments AND advent light

I know we're not to "joy" Sunday yet (and, don't worry: the pink candle remains unlit) BUT I'm grateful for the joy of the Lord tonight. Tonight, I got to serve Communion to a whole bunch of families, including a lot of little kids. I'm not quite sure how to explain how it is that the body and blood of Christ can be so good to share, but it sure felt good to share this sacrament of our church, up at the altar in our dramatic sanctuary, with lots of little people. With big eyes, and tenuous hands, they reached out for those wafers, and got a taste of this sign of God's grace. Watching mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers (and many assorted honorary aunties and uncles) share in this holy meal was incredible. The sense of expectation, the joy, the tangible, mysterious holiness--this is why I love communion.

And, I kept thinking about the little girl whose funeral I'm to lead tomorrow. The life of each of those children seemed so precious and wonderful. I'm intensely grateful to get to share this sign of God with all those kids tonight. Not that I think communion is necessary for salvation. It's just awfully beautiful.

advent light

So, in an odd side-bar comment during our staff meeting today, I became intrigued with how the pink candle got to be in our Advent wreaths. (And, I have to say, my curiosity was encouraged by the RevGalPals Friday Five contest last week, to give a new reason for the odd pink candle. I didn't post, but my best idea, I think, was that it stands as a sort of "minority report," insisting that we don't all think/look/believe the same. There's no expectation that the lone pink candle will become purple, but it still has a clear place in the wreath. But I digress...)

From a bit of internet searching, I found 2 possibilities intriguing:

-The whole Advent wreath thing has its roots in pre-Christian (read: pagan) Germany. A getting-ready-of-the-solstice ritual of lighting more candles, to get us through this darkness until that day when the night will begin to grow shorter.

-The pink color probably snuck in through Lent and the Pope. Several sites claim this. Apparently, purple went with Lent before it went with Advent (back in the day, when Lent was the only real liturgical "season." And, during that long season of penitence, folks still wanted to remember that even the suffering of crucifixion isn't horrible. (After all, it led to resurrection!) So, on the third (or fourth) Sunday, folks were supposed to give up the fast for a day of feasting. And, the Pope would give a rose to a citizen on that day. The rose inspired priests to start wearing pink. Then, when purple was applied to Advent (which used to have a lot more penitenece and considerably less shopping), the pink came along, too, on Sunday 3.

Now, we just get the joy (without too much penitence). But as far as I've experienced, we don't get so much feasting during Lent...

In other advent news, I've been thinking about the lights on trees in the middle of El Cajon Boulevard near our house. Someone too the care to wrap the lower limbs of a whole bunch of trees in strings of white lights. Trouble is, at least 3/4 of the bulbs are not working. Which makes the effort my current favorite Advent display. Finally, someone got it right--just a few twinkling lights, holding out what may seem like futile hope that God will come to the world and it will mean everything.

sacraments

I spent part of this afternoon with a young mother at a funeral home, as she spent time with her would-be six-year-old daughter, who was killed in a car accident last week.

She had questions for me about baptism: her daughter hadn't been baptized, and she was concerned.

I told her that we didn't baptize people after death, but that we believe God's grace is present even without baptism. Not being baptized is not going to keep her daughter away from being received into God's eternal love.

Then, her family showed up, and it was clear that they were much more worried about her unbaptized state. (They had not been, however, worried enough to show up much while she was alive.)

All of which made me think that our sacrament of baptism has become so enmeshed with doctrines and policies that we've missed at least part of the point of what God's Spirit and water are able to accomplish. This Sunday, as we read about John the Baptist in our Advent preparations, we're invited to be repent, and be baptized. But I don't think he was talking about the same thing that worried those family members. I think he was inviting us to something much more radical.

The child's mother, however, continued to share the kind of love that is lived out in a million, tiny details. She painted her daughter's fingernails a shade of a shiny pink that would have delighted her.

Which seemed, somehow, to convey the amazing and beautiful qualities of God's love in a richly sacramental way.

grassroots

So, yesterday, while working in my garden, attempting to keep the deeply-rooted bermuda grass out of my fence, I was musing on just how tough grass roots can be.

They're impossible to get rid of entirely.

I guess I hadn't really contemplated the stubborn, resilient, impossible-to-kill nature of grass roots. "Grassroots" meant something more like "from the common people" in my mind, rather than "uncontrollable." I like the idea of grassroots organizing even better today.

I still, however, wish the bermuda grass weren't in my fence.

In other hopeful news, I planted a root-y stick in my garden today. The man at the City Farmer nursery tells me it will grow into an unruly raspberry plant before I know it. And I planted some odd-looking asparagus roots, and a meek rhubarb plant. It was a day of rooting. Here's hoping these tasty things are as resilient as grass roots!

i didn't really mean to buy anything today...

Today's RevGalPal Friday Five seemed just right for now. I just had a BLAST a Home Depot, in spite of it making me mad, and am now realizing that I bought something on Buy Nothing Day, even though I didn't really mean to. Does it count if it's just shingles for a family house that you're rebuilding afer a wildfire burns yours down?

1. Would you ever/have you ever stood in line for something--tickets, good deals on electronics, Tickle Me Elmo?
I'd stand in line for u2 tix, and am very grateful to have a sister-in-law who did that for me last year! ;) And I wished my folks would stand in line for a Cabbage Patch Kid once, but that was a long time ago.

2. Do you enjoy shopping as a recreational activity?
Tonight, I had a blast shopping, but there were a lot of extinuating circumstances.

My husband and I, plus his siblings and parents, got back from a day of working on the house in Julian. The guys intended to go to Home Depot to fetch the 20 more bundles of shingles that we need. A "man" errand. But they got distracted in the workshop garage, and weren't going to make it. So, Shannon and I convinced them that we could run the errand. And, as grace would have it, we ran into Emily as we pulled out of the long driveway, and convinced her to come on our girly mission. With just 20 minutes 'til closing time, we sprinted through the store, begging for forklift assistance and dragging a half ton--literally, a half ton--of shingles to the checkout. It was more fun than I know how to convey, and the odd looks of those who were in disbelief that these 3 girls could handle or want a half ton of shingles were priceless. The pathetic service only served to buoy our own sense of accomplisment.

3. Your favorite place to browse without necessarily buying anything.
the internet and the garden store

4. Gift cards: handy gifts for the loved one who has everything, or cold impersonal symbol of all that is wrong in our culture?
depends entirely on the situation. And while gift registries (another thing entirely) can feel like obligations rising out of materialism and commercialism at their worst, I also love the image of a community coming together to get the things a couple or new parents will need for their life. What a beautiful way to embody our belonging together than to have a house full of the things you use every day, or even on special occasions of hospitality, that are also tokens of the love and support that come from their givers. I think giftcards sometimes function this way--they let people buy the stuff they really need, and honor that there can be a blessing in being able to contribute to that.

On the other hand, I still have a $50 gift card from Tiffany & Co that was a wedding present. Touching, but not my style. And you can't buy a darn thing at Tiffany's for $50... :)

5. Discuss the spiritual and theological issues inherent in people coming to blows over a Playstation 3.
that's just sad.

five things i'm still grateful for on monday

ok, so the revgal pal assignment was from last friday, but i had this crazy cold, and my head wasn't working.

here's what i'm grateful for today:
1. a loving husband who checks in on me, and when he can't get me on the phone, comes by in person
2. lettuce that's growing in my front yard garden, in spite of my ignorance about gardening
3. curiosity--today manifest in tangential online exploration only vaguely related to sermon preparation (Did you know that "Christ the King" Sunday didn't exist 'til Pope Pius XI made it a feast day in 1925? 1925, like when Mussolini was just in power...interesting time for Christ to be true King...)
4. friends, both far and near--especially the ones who are still fabulous to be with, even tho' our visits are way too few and far apart
5. my family, the folks i was born with and the ones i married into and the ones i chose who are as-good-as
(6. grace)

those are in no particular order. and i figure that if i'm late, i might as well blow the assignment and include a 6th.

gotta learn spanish

Tonight, I walked to my friendly neighborhood mercado. They have a fabulous deli/lunch counter. And tortilla chips to die for. Matt swears by their carne asada burritos. Says they're better than Hilberto's. That's pretty incredible. So, when I got home from work and Matt was starving, I headed over there.

I decided it was a pollo night. So I attempted to order two ("dos," I know) pollo asado burritos. And I was utterly unable to convey that to the woman working the counter. She had to get, no kidding, help from about 5 other people. My Nebraska-style pronunciations just aren't cuttin' it.

I felt ashamed. I am totally unable to do really basic things. I gotta learn Spanish.

on conservatives and liberals

I heard Peter Beinart, recent author of The Good Fight: how liberals--and only liberals--can win the war on terror and make america great again, speak at a local event yesterday.

I haven't read his book yet, and am not ready to wade into the debate about whether or not he's a good spokesperson for the kind of liberalism that I love.

I have, however, been intrigued by what seems to me to be an ironic mis-paring between the conservative politics he describes and the conservative Christianity that so often support them.

He defined conservatives as folks who think USAmerica's problem is that we don't believe enough in ourself. By advocating the strength of America, a good and virtuous nation which has accomplished democracy and ought to spread it around the world, conservatives gain momentum.

He defined liberals as those who see USAmerica, like any human endeavor, as a nation in continual need of shaping, as we seek to become virtuous but deal with the reality that we are subject to the same flaws as all human institutions. Our strength is in our down doubt--our own commitment to ensuring that no one within our nation has too much power, and that our foreign policy is shaped in concert with less-powerful nations. They will keep us honest, and just.

What strikes me as ironic is how much this definition of "liberalism" shares in common with the basic theological anthropology that evangelical Christianity espouses--it begins with the sinful nature of humanity. Our "fallen" condition. (We liberal Christians tend to focus on this a bit less, though we're still glad to find redemption and grace!)

I would think that liberalism--acknowledgement of our own failures and inadequacy--would resonate with evangelical Christinaity.

Of course, I write this as Yahoo headlines tell about a leader of USAmerican evangelicalism, Ted Haggard, who is accused of meth use and of having hired another man to have sex with him. I'm not yet sure what to think about this. It reminds me again of how our understanding of sexuality is broken, in the church; perhaps Haggard was yet another victim of the sort of spiritual violence that convinces gay and lesbian people that they are unacceptable in God's eyes.

Somehow, though, it feels to me like it's time for an invitation to acknowledge our own brokenness: as a nation whose foreign policy is far from righetous, as Christians who--though we are practicing at getting better--are not yet perfect, as humans in need of each other and God to be reconciled.

burying talents and bulbs

I've been feeling pressure to get bulbs planted lately, so much so that I got myself a blisted in the middle of my palm. I've planted a bunch, am excited and hopeful about what the spring may bring.

This past Saturday, as I was trying to dig some holes in the Julian soil--having sworn that I would never again attempt to move a shovel through it after we finish the foundation on this darn building project--I was thinking of commentary on the Parable of the Talents I read once. As I recall, it was by Ched Myers and someone else. (I couldn't find it online when I looked just now. The Other Side has ceased to exist online, and that makes me sad.) In it, they offered a fresh view of the parable. The man who buried his talent in the ground, they suggest, may actually be the hero of this story, told to working-class folk. They'd see the clever pun--and know the difference between the kind of amazing things that are able to multiply when buried and the things that just rust. (They have a whole commentary about how the rich man who gave out the talents must be a greedy rich man, and how the little guy saw through that.)

But the piece that feels fun to me, as I think about the parable, is how desperate I now feel about getting these things buried.

The bulbs I have now are ones that my sisters-in-law and I dug up in Julian. They'd been planted by Matt's grandmother years ago, and multiplied themselves into a bounty of springtime yellow. And though the Cedar Fire destroyed the house, the next spring, those bulbs burst forth into life again.

It still amazes me that a fire that could melt cast iron skillets did not destroy bulbs. It gives me hope.

SO, the problem is that the new house we're building went right on top of where most of the bulbs were. So, one day late in that spring, we drove up to try to dig as many bulbs as we could. Now, I'm no expert in these things, but my understanding is that bulbs need to keep their leaves as longs as posslble so they can shift from giving out their blooms to storing up food for the next year's season. And we most certainly cut that process short.

These bulbs already have a lot against them--a too-short life cycle, and, now, they've been out of the ground through one whole year's cycle.

I feel like, if they're gonna go on living, they need to get in the ground this year. Which leads me to my blister-inducing activities.

And it all feels very bold and daring--getting something buried so it has a chance at living.

Happy Warholidays?

I read today in the NYTimes that Warhol is hip this year. A marketing genius, all these years after his early death.

"'But Andy wasn’t pseudohip,' Mr. Doonan said. 'He is the primordial mulch from which all cool in Manhattan sprang.'"

Somehow, combined with the YahooNews that Weird Al is "kind of a pop culture icon at this point," it feels like our world may be folding in on its own mockery of itself.

And this all comes as I'm contemplating what an "alternative" Christmas Eve service might look like.

I think it should be not so original: same story as every year, same songs, candle light for "Silent Night," and communion. Just what it needs to be.

I do not mean to suggest that Weird Al and Andy Warhol will tell me how to worship, but maybe they're reminding me that there's something rich about repetition, about redoing old things.

stolen beauty

Since we moved into our house, I believe that 3 things have been stolen from us:
our mailbox
a geranium off the front porch
and
blossoms of my new passionflower vine

I have no idea why the mailbox went missing. And, technically, it happened before we moved in. Now we have an ugly, duct-taped-on box.

But the other 2 things have my puzzled and searching for the right internal response.

They were things of beauty, which I don't feel like I can possess on my own.

The geranium grew from a cutting I took from Matt's parents' house--part of a proliferation of a rapid-growing plant. It easily took root in a new pot, and graciously offered new blooms. Who am I to own it? And, if someone wanted a bit of beauty for their front porch, I guess I can be happy to share.

The same goes for the passionflower blooms. I am struck by their bold beauty, and can't blame anyone who wanted one. I just wish they were still attached to the growing plant.

I guess I'm sort of excited that someone noticed their beauty.

But I miss them.

I hope they continue to spread an appreciation for the beauty of this world.

i am not alone!

this blog-o-world is crazy. with just a click of a button, i discovered that there are MORE THAN FORTY people willing to list "Rubin and Ed" as a favorite movie.

shear insanity.

but, somehow, the world feels warmier, friendly, cozier.

job as advocate

This morning, reading Job with women at the Rescue Mission, I finally realized how wonderful Job is, as advocate for all those whose lives are hard. As a reminder, against judgemental people, that it's not the case that we deserve the hard stuff we get.

I don't think we, the Rescue Mission women and I, have ever moved as easily between our own contexts and biblical contexts--we shifted back and forth through the poetic metaphors that seemed to thick when I read them in college. Job's "friends" are all those people who try to tell us that if we just repent, our lives will get easy. We'll have nice homes (and will always have our rent money on time), and will regain custody of the kids the CPS took away, and will be free from addictions.

And Job had some really quick, cutting come-backs to the smooth and easy religious cliches those friends try to lay on him.

I want him on my advocacy team.

pancakes

This morning, Matt and I made pancakes on our new, old stove. My stove-with-an-old-griddle fantasies began to be fulfilled, and it was good.

Our kitchen is still a long ways from, well, being fully functional. But the little victories are sweet.

It's hard to compare the delight of griddle-made pancakes to the convenience of a fridge that's indoors, so I'll just say the goodness continues to grow.

hope

i decided that my counter-apocalyptic activity of the day would be planting bulbs.
(for more on the counter-apocalyptic, see catherine keller's "apocalypse now and then: a feminist guide to the end of the world.")

it felt good.

i'm liking having soil to garden in.

the cosmos is telling me that we need a new administration

I like to think that I'm a pretty politically active person. And, I like to fancy that my politics should be obvious, given what I talk about around church. (Of course, I think my political beliefs flow pretty naturally from my view of God--like that we should care about poor people and that we should be careful to protect people who live on the margins of our communities and that we should care about the earth. I think it's pretty obvious.)

Lately, though, I keep getting messages that I need to be clearer. Or more explicit.

I've been encountering people who are uncertain about whether there's a place for the in the church, as a political liberal. Some of them even come to church.

I certainly don't say right-wing things. Are they imagining them? Do we expect them as Christians in USAmerica? When I say "Jesus," do I automatically take on the baggage of America's Christian Right?

Today someone came by the office who sees a much broader conspiracy at work in our current administration. 9/11, this war in Iraq, our sidelining of those living in poverty today, the accumulation of greater wealth in the hands of fewer people. Apocalyptic, prophetic conspiracy, quoting from Daniel and Habbakuk and Revelation.

And, though not being one given to the anxiety of apocalyptic conspiracies, I thought he had some points. Among them that we churches need to be more vocal.

So I'm pondering what degree of vocal-ness I'm called to.

And praying for a new administration.

is 30 too young to be introspective about my career?

My 30th birthday, which happens to be today, is prompting a bit of self-reflection.

It seems incredible that I've been in ministry in the same place for over 5 years now. That's since I was 24. That's, like, 1/6 of my life. (That's so many years of my youth!!)

The reflection all started at the workshop on the new pensions system, I suppose--as I contemplated my 35 more years 'til retirement. Sure, it's more than a lifetime that's left, but it's also a significant chunk of life I've now lived as a pastor.

Which makes me ask myself: have I done the pastoral and prophetic things that I hoped to? Have I figured out how to be the person I feel called to be?

It's so easy to feel caught in the day-to-day; submitting sermon titles and confirming what scripture I'll preach on, sifting through email messages, filling out forms that attempt to document my ministry, noticing anniversaries of events in the lives of my congregation members. And it's easy to notice that we haven't arrived and God's kin-dom yet. (Though I'm still building for the revolution...)

How do I measure my life as a pastor?

(I feel a song from Rent coming on.)

Perhaps tomorrow I'll pretend to be "cleaning" my desk (a task that no one would try to disuade me from), and look through that pile of nice notes and cards that folks have shared with me through my years. It is so good to take time to remember some of the steps along the way--times when my role as pastor intersected with others in a way that was life-giving. What a gift it's been to be a part of God inspiring wondrous things in the lives of real people...

A friend asked recently about what the joys in pastoral life are. (A sobering reminder of how much quicker I tend to be at sharing hardships...) It seems funny to begin to share them. In part, I think, because I know they're not my own. And they'd probably make me sound pretty smug and pompous. I mean, the times when I've been at my best, I know it's that wily holy Spirit working through me...and it feels awfully funny to take anything resembling credit for that.

But it has been good--wonderful, even--to feel myself put in a place where I could be something like midwife for the Spirit's work. And an honor to be trusted by the church to do that (at 24, no less!). And to see the church grow in their trust of me, as I grow in my trust of the community.

I'm not sure where all this going, but I think it's becoming excitement about what the next years will bring.

Thank God for these first 30 years!

(No disrespect to Tim McGraw intended.)

sacraments

The holiest place I've been lately would have to be the west end of the dining hall at Camp Cedar Glen.

The mountains usually feel holy to me, but offering communion on the last day of a retreat for adults with HIV/AIDS took holy to a new place.

I'm not entirely comfortable with thinking that I have a firm grasp of what happens at the communion table. Or how Jesus' blood becomes life for us all. But, somehow, offering that cup of salvation to a room full of people living with a disease carried in their blood felt more life-giving than most of what I do. Somehow, it met the hunger of my heart, and seemed to meet the hunger of others who gathered.

There was the man who'd told me he didn't believe he could have a relationship with God anymore. But who found God at the retreat, in the community that gathered.

There was the man who'd given up singing when he was diagnosed with HIV as his career was taking off, who gave voice to the most glorious music setting of St. Francis's prayer.

There was the woman whose search for a community where she can worship the God she's known at the retreat, whose love and authority isn't limited to heterosexual men, and whose sacraments are open to all, has led her to leave the church where she'd first known God.

There were so many.

And we shared in a holy meal, under the same roof where we'd shared other meals all week. (And, I saw then, every one of them had been holy.)

In this moment, for me, it was so good to name the sacramental meal--and to know that we were not alone on that mountain. Our sacrament was the same that has been shared for millenia (making space for the millenias' worth of ways we've fallen short of the glory of the feast...).

What a funny bunch of people we are--the church. Not at all the people who have it figure out. Unless, I suppose, figuring "it" out is just realizing that we're loved by a God who calls us to try to love each other.

all (well, many) things made new

One of my highlights of last week:
Watching as the planer in Matt's dad's garage took 80 years of paint and gunk off a piece wood that had been baseboard in our new house--and revealed the beautiful grain of wood underneath.

80 years ago, folks were cutting down some nice trees to build the houses in City Heights. I'm not celebrating that some fine, old-growth trees were felled to build our house, but... It's exciting to me to get to reclaim some of that wood--tired though it may have seemed--and uncover its beauty.

Good stuff.

institutional sexism

Matt's been on a search for work gloves for my sisters and me, to use in Julian. According to the tag on the "subcontractor" gloves that he finds so useful and wonderful, they come in women's sizes. No one, either in San Diego or on the internet, seems to carry them, though.

So, he was forced to buy us "gardening" gloves. Similar, and likely to be much more wonderful than the lame gloves we've been using, but nonetheless "gardening" gloves and not "subcontractor" gloves.

What gives?

de/construction

On Saturday, as I attempted to pound yet another wooden stake into the impossibly dense and rocky Julian soil, I was pondering those years and years of education. "This is why I got a Master's Degree," I said to my brother, Phil.

Just lately, it seems like life is full of construction. And deconstruction. (Er, I guess they call that demolition...) We're in our new home, and Matt's been busy tearing out old stuff and preparing for some new. We're still slogging away at this house in Julian.

But, then, nothing balances me quite like some good, physical work. That actually makes stuff. It's satisfying in a different way than most pastoral work--the results are immediate. And, usually, a good whack with a hammer can make just about anything work out.

[Please note that I am in no way endorsing whacking church people with hammers.]

And it leaves signs: sore muscles for days to follow.

Today, I totally impressed some 60-year-old plumber who was also looking for copper pipe fittings in Home Depot. Apparently, I didn't look like his idea of a normal copper pipe consumer. That was fun.

I can only wonder what fun will be ahead.