For now? Or forever?

A few weeks ago a lot of people were linking to this article by Lydia Netzer about staying married for 15 years. We’re coming up on year 14, so I read it. It’s good. If you haven’t read it, you should. It’s not earth-shattering, and the trick in anything like this is not the reading of it but the doing – the remembering and the committing and the actually doing. 

I collect articles like that for the premarital sessions I do. Gretchen Rubin has a good list of phrases (http://happiness-project.com/happiness_project/2008/01/this-wednesda-2-4/) to help a couple “fight right.” Newspapers often run pieces about things couples wish they had done with their finances before getting married. And while I am able to preside at these blessed weddings, my authority on matters of finance or mediation could use a little bit of back-up. So I was happy to add Netzer’s piece to my file of things to hand to couples to read. 

One of the points that she makes is to stop thinking temporarily. It’s #10 on her list. And so it happened that I was in a meeting where I had to talk with the person next to me, and I found myself talking about this in terms of being a pastor. (Note: I don’t think everything on her list can be translated to the church!) I don’t remember what the initial question was, even, but I realized that I’ve been holding part of my vocational calling back, as in, “Maybe I won’t always be a pastor, and that’s OK.”

But what happens when I do that is that I’m not fully committed to what I’m doing, right now. I’m not entirely present and attentive to being the best possible pastor that I can be, right here, because I have one eye on the job listings, over there.

The conversation has left me thinking, well past the two minutes we had to respond to the long-forgotten question. How would my ministry change if I committed to thinking that I was going to be a pastor, not just for now but forever?  

Watered with Words

In the past week or so I’ve had the amazing experience of being bombarded with words. Not in a childhood game of dodgeball sort of way (though actually, that’s not an entirely bad suggestion, either) but more in the way that a soft spring rain falls and saturates once-parched ground. A description that feels accurate, poetic even, until I realize that makes me the once-parched ground. Ground that was dry. Cracked, even. Not lush or supple or productive.

Parched.

Yearning.

In need.

Lacking.

Oof. I had forgotten what it was like to be surrounded with words – and not feel like I was drowning. I had forgotten what it was like to be immersed and soaked intentionally instead of sprinkled, watered haphazardly.  

I have a number of houseplants, and while I claim to have a green thumb, my plants must be hardy because my attention to them is well, not. There were two ceiling hooks in place when we bought our house and one of the first purchases I made was plants in hanging basket for those hooks.

I look at them occasionally and think, “Wow, you, dear plants, are two years… three years… five years now in my care…”

Usually I just pour a bit of water on them. But that isn’t always enough. So other times I take them down and plop them into the sink drenching their roots, letting them drain, and then doing it again.

Being immersed in that way all the time isn’t good, either – the roots get mushy, the nutrients from the soil get washed away into the water. The plant sends distress signals and eventually will die if not allowed to dry out some. 

But recently I felt the sensation of being drenched, immersed, watered thoroughly. Surrounded by well-spoken, thoughtful words. Writing that gets me lost in a different world. Conversations that remind me why I do what I do. And instead of coming in little after-though dribbles (Oh, I suppose I should water those plants, too.), the word-pool welcomed me with a quiet parting of words and my writing-roots, my word-roots drank thirstily.

When I started ministry almost eight years ago I owned a pair of pink flats. They were a sort of pleather, I'm sure, with a sort of jaunty flower to the side of their rounded toe. I loved them. I wondered whether I could wear them to the office, or if they weren't professional enough. I remember feeling incredibly self-satisfied one day when I dared to wear them.

Earlier this year, I did hospital visits wearing shiny gold cowboy boots.

Those first shoes were clearly the naming source for this blog and while I've worn a whole variety of 'other-than-black' shoes in the meantime, few of them would have had quite the sound of "Pink Shoes int he Pulpit."

I was driving back to the office from a morning gathering yesterday when these words started pouring into my head -- I heard them. Do you hear words before you write them? Or do you write words in order to hear them? Someone told me once that there's a difference, but I can't remember the context or the woman's name who told me this bit of information.

But I started to remember those first pink shoes. And then the second pair -- bright, satin flats from Ann Taylor Loft that I wore so often a hole developed in the sole. People remarked whenever I wore them how adorable they were, with almost a giggle, "Oh, look! Pink SHOES!" As if nothing cuter had ever been seen.

I don't currently have a pair of pink flats, not that I need another pair of shoes. But it had me wondering as I zipped along yesterday, about that well of sass that we draw from, and what contributes to it: flattering jeans, fun shoes, a good haircut, an engrossing book to read, a perfect phrase, a finished assignment, an amazing collection of friends?

Seasons Shifting

Sunshine. It makes me feel better and we haven't had nearly enough of it this spring to keep my spirits buoyant. Today is gorgeous and while I feel like it's about a month late in arriving, weather like this gives me some hope. Hope for what, I'm not sure, but it's hope nonetheless.

The sunshine has allowed me to open the windows this afternoon, too. And, because the windows are open the cat is stalking things that move outdoors. She's currently perched on top of a couch and despite her advanced age seems to remember what it feels like to be a kitten. She also seems to think that she could actually go through the screen of the window, which could be problematic on many levels.

I've felt motivated to write some this week, and I've actually acted upon the impulse. The writing muse demands to be answered sometimes, and I'm thankful I've had/taken the time.

Huh.

I just used my blog to see if I could figure out when a particular event happened. I couldn't determine from my vague postings just exactly what I was looking for, but I observed that I felt a pang or six of nostalgia for blogging and all that it meant to me.

I say this a few times a year and then make a half-hearted attempt to return to a regular pattern of blogging. Perhaps this time it will stick, and maybe it won't, but regardless -- I went to the effort to recover passwords and re-familiarize myself with the layout.

And besides, with an hour left before a Good Friday worship, this probably isn't the time to be making such decisions.

Blessings.

asleep

Last night I got to watch the kidlet fall asleep, like really, truly “one minute I’m awake, and the next I’m not anymore” fall asleep. As much as we want him to be able to fall asleep on his own, without one of us sitting in his room watching, these moments are precious and tender: his hands tucked under his chin, clutching the blanket, New-B, eyes fluttering and then not.

I watched his face loosen and calm as he settled into the folds of sleep. I watched as the hold on the blanket became not as fierce. I sat there, longer than I’d intended, watching.

It reminded me a bit of when he was first born, how we would watch him for hours, amazed and fascinated that he was ours, that he was real, that this bundle simply was at all, all of our tenderness summoned into a finger as we traced his ears, the swoop of his nose.

There are times, daily, when he pushes me to points of no return, points of frustration and irritation, when my exhaustion is highlighted and my patience as threadbare as an old quilt, though no less meaningful.

There was poetry in those moments last night when all was quiet save for the music that played. There was a delight of the moment when awake fluttered into asleep, and I dared not trace his ear, the swoop of his ear. So I whispered gently, “Love you, snugglebug. Sleep well,” and stole out of the room, my heart full.

RGBP Friday Five

Friday Five: Winter Olympics Edition

Songbird brings us this week's Friday Five, the first one that I've done in a looooong time. 
1) Which of the Winter Olympic sports is your favorite to watch?
I love the WO, and will watch whatever is on. This year we recorded them, en bloc, and have relished watching them in the evenings. I particularly enjoy Speed Skating and Ski Jumping, and every four years love to watch Curling. 

2) Some of the uniforms have attracted attention this year, such as the US Snowboarders' pseudo-flannel shirts and the Norwegian Curling team's -- ahem -- pants. Who do you think had the best-looking uniforms?
I was smitten by the paisley-appearing orange Russian speed skater uniforms.

3) And Curling. Really? What's up with that?
Really. If your lakes were frozen most of the year, and you loved bocce ball, you'd find a way to play it on ice, too. And if your mom let you, you'd want to flatten the grass like they smooth the ice to make your ball go farther. Couldn't. Stop. Watching.

4) Define Nordic Combined. Don't look it up. Take a guess if you must. 
Ski jumping and cross-country skiing. This was the first time the US had ever won a medal. Spillane won a silver medal in all events; DeMong won gold in large hill. Jump first, ski second, starting in the order of longest jump first.   

(There will be a prize for the best answer, but be aware, this is a judged sport.)

 5) If you could be a Winter Olympics Champion just by wishing for it, which sport would you choose for winning your Gold Medal?
Downhill skiing.

not sleeping

My insomnia doesn't come these days during the first part of the evening. In fact, I've been drifting off to sleep while reading a book, my head snapping up as the book falls to the side. I fight this sleep, actually, wanting to stay awake and be lost in the pages of a fiction-world, a documentary-world, a memoir of someone's fascinatingly ordinary life. Last night I went to bed to read, lusting after that wee-hours reading that I've been known for since childhood. And, while I read a bit, it was nowhere near the bleary-eyed ending I'd imagined.

No, these days it's the morning portion that haunts me. It's not chronic or cyclical, this insomnia. I'm not even particularly concerned about it, except in that way that everything concerns me and I acknowledge the weight, the heaviness of the days. Instead, as happened this dark-morning-night, after returning the kidlet to his own bed, I realized that it was only a bit before 3, a completely decent hour to fall back to sleep. Except it wasn't.

So, I prayed. I meditated on my toes and my ankles and my knees. I flipped pillows and went to the bathroom. Finally, I put socks on my feet and ventured into the living room, eyes still heavy, body still aching to be asleep. Snuggled in beneath the ancient quilt and with the puggle snoring in the bend of my knees, I caught up on some things from the DV-R.

It's a tricky endeavor, this dwelling in the in-between of night and morning. The dog will sleep as long as we do, but once we're awake he likes to be fed and let out, to be let back in moments later. I understand. I rather like those things first thing in the morning, too. He returns to his spot quickly, though, content to have someone watch him sleep. But it's also a time when I don't want to wake the rest of the house, and I hope upon hope that I'll fall back to sleep, and so don't want to engage in a task -- like the dishes or the bills or the taxes.

Mostly this morning, honestly, I was thankful for the few hours of solitude, the quiet only broken by the sound of an occasional snow plow, the darkness illumined by the flashing orange lights. My time alone like this is rare, especially unencumbered of expectations of productivity. The day feels different when I'm the first one to stir, when I'm the one to break the seal of the sleep cocoon, and to see the first rays of sunshine glowing behind the blinds. 

kisses

"You can hug me all you want forever, Mama," he said, standing tall on the kitchen stool. "But I get to decide about the kisses."

He smiled at me because he knew he was getting away with something. I said, "Ok, that sounds like a deal." And then I hugged him because he let me, and because I'll never get enough of that feeling of him in my arms and how it brings back holding a not-even-eight-pound bundle.

But last night, as I peeked on him before bed, straightening his blankets and repositioning his snuggles, I kissed him, once, twice, three times. I smiled, thinking that I still get to decide about some of them, and when he's sleeping, I steal all the kisses I want from the top of his head.

Looking forward

I'm not especially good at things like "setting goals." In fact, I rather bristle at the idea of them. It's not that I don't like to get things done, because I do -- but more often than not, I feel that all I'm doing is setting myself up for failure. Perhaps I'm good at the goal, and not so good at the follow-through, the steps that support the goal.

Or maybe I need to be gentler with myself and more realistic in my goal-setting.

Ash Wednesday I thought, "I should blog again. Maybe that's what I'll do for Lent. I'll write every day. That would be good. It would re-establish the habit." And then Thursday came and went without a word being set down upon the blog. I also thought things like, "Maybe I should use Lent as a time to re-discover my passions about music ... cooking ... wine ... self-care..."

Or maybe I need to be a little less scattered with my goals... "Squirrel!"

There are resources that exist to help me with all of these things, including changing that inner monologue that "shoulds" all over the place... and instead gives me permission to accomplish things or even permission not to accomplish them. Because it's Friday and I'm writing, not because I should, or because it's my discipline, but because I want to, and simply because I am.

There are a lot of things I have to do, daily events that could just as easily be classified as chores, except I don't get an allowance for making my child breakfast or returning phone calls at the office (paycheck not withstanding). I also don't get a reward for the other things that help me to be whole -- meeting with my mentor, observing my sabbath, keeping my time holy, caring for myself -- and yet those are the pieces that often get lumped in with a litany of shoulds and a sense of failure because I don't.

I usually throw marketing materials and board reports into my recycling bin, simply because I don't really care. For some reason I opened one other other day and it was fascinating. It was more marketing that report, and every page had a goal under the headline, "Where we're going" followed by a paragraph or so of "How we're getting there."

So I've been thinking about that as I look forward. Where am I going? And how am I getting there?

Dirty Hands

It's Ash Wednesday. You know, that day when we get dirty on our foreheads and we pray the prayer of confession that acknowledges that we did all this by our fault, our own fault, our own most grievous fault. It's that line that gets me every year -- that causes me to pause in a way that most other parts of the liturgy don't. Maybe it's because I'm kneeling at that point, and all the words are in front of me so I don't have to be thinking ahead about worship and my role in leading it and whether or not I'm on the right page instead of leading the people astray down a confession or a proper preface that they're scrambling to find.

I made peace with the beautiful notion that each year I impose ashes upon people's foreheads who are quite close to returning to the dust, and also to those foreheads that are practically still wet from the waters I placed there during their baptisms. I'll get a little weepy still when I notice these beautiful people of God kneeling at the rail, and I bend over a bit to make that sign, that crumbly dusty sign of mortality upon their brows. But every year I make peace with it, usually over my morning cup of coffee, as I stand in the kitchen warming my hands around the mug, thinking about the day ahead of me. And so the tears that well up in my eyes are ones of deep love and care, not of trouble and distress.

Some years I preach and some years I preside. This is a presiding year -- a year when on Ash Wednesday I move from leading the confession to dipping my thumb into the small cup of ashes to standing behind the table to lift the bread and wine. We stop at the small table and swirl our hands in the soapy water there as a way station, a nod to cleanliness, and it strikes me that some year I'd like to put soap in the baptismal bowl and wash my hands there, for the whole congregation to see, instead of tucked in an alcove and using a dish towel.

But it never all comes off right away, those ashes mixed with a little bit of oil that we use. And so we move to the table lifting the bread with the remnants of ash worn into the grooves of my fingerprints and wedged beneath my nails. My hands are dirty on this day as I stand at the Lord's Table, and as I share the body of Christ with the faithful. The body of Christ, given for you.

Broken Glass

I broke a glass in my office a couple of months ago. It was part of the random collection of things I love that dots my shelves and catches my eye on those days when I stare, praying for a sermon to hop down and preach itself.
This glass was an old one -- an antique, or at least part of the vintage kitsch that speaks to me. Frosted white glass with green polka dots, Fire King, if that means anything, a tall tumbler. I have one with red dots, too, but that one was treated unmercifully to a dishwasher's abrasion and the dots are more orange than the red they were created to be. That one, however, rests at home, on a top shelf, far away from my bumbling hands and dropsy days.
When the green-dotted glass broke I was reaching for a book to share with someone -- reaching carelessly, really, because I could have easily moved the glass to a different shelf. The glass fell and bounced, shattering upon impact, though retaining much of its shape. I placed the larger pieces of glass into the remaining form and tucked the smaller shards into a paper envelope before discarding them. But I couldn't bring myself to throw the rest away, and so it sits.
These days, when I gaze at my commentaries or my preaching books or poertry or the pictures that are tucked between, hoping for inspiration to float on over to my desk, my vision is caught by the sharp, pointed glass -- a contrast to the smooth edges of the dots and opaque, frosted glass.
I suppose, theologically, there is the reminder of this being a broken world, of God's restoration, of there being beauty in the midst of despair -- most of which are too melodramatic, even for me.
Someday I'll throw it away, I imagine, though I'd rather find a way to dull the edges and craft something pretty if not useful out of it. In the meantime, though, there's broken glass on my shelf -- right there in front of theology and commentary.

I would...

Sometimes I think in terms of the things I would do "if I could..." You know the line of "if-thinking" -- if I could only do what I wanted, I would do these things -- play in the dirt every day, stay up reading until my eyelids fell together or the book was finished, travel around the country and the world, at whim... If I could, I would...

It's that kind of thinking that often spirals me deep into a place of "I can't... do this, or that, or..." and eventually, I can't do anything except sit in one place and breathe. It's a frustrating place to be, and perhaps moreso, a frustrating place to watch myself go as if I can't truly control it or turn myself around.

I have moments and times when I feel especially gifted at asking good questions of other people -- of being able to say quietly, and gently, "What would happen if we looked at this another way?"Of asking, "Does it have to be this way, and if not, how can we change it?" I am rarely that gentle with myself, and therefore am not often able to change my own perspective.

Today I sat down and thought, "If I could, I would play in the dirt every day..." and a little voice said, "Why can't you...?" and the thought continued, dancing through my mind, to say not just "Why not?" but to say, "How could that be possible, and what would it take?"

I suppose that if I could, I would want to have such clarity all the time -- I would want to stop the spiral before it began. For now, though, I'm grateful that I had a moment of thought-shift ... for my dirt-playing, world-traveling, late-night reading indulgences. I'm holding these questions gently so that I can ask them as other dreams float to the surface and instead of saying, "If only..." I can ask, "How..."

Spring

My hands are dirty and my feet are tired.
We're watching baseball and the hockey's still going.
We've celebrated birthdays and taken a little trip.

The walls are still standing and the paycheck's still coming.

Some days that's enough.

Affirmation

I know that I'm tired today. Yesterday was a marathon day of voting and meetings and being "on" and more meetings and counseling and phone calls and more meetings. Oh, and the election, and the returns and the races and the speeches and the tears and the amazement.

But knowing that I'm tired and being rational about it? Two different things.

However, in the midst of the crap I was able to distill a need of mine -- I need to hear that we're doing good ministry here. I know I should be able to see it and sense it on my own, but I'd really love to hear someone else give some indication that we're not messing up entirely.

And really, there are little things -- the thank you card we got from a confirmand, the ability to talk about giving with faith, the encouragement from a curmudgeon to take care of ourselves during this stressful time.

Like I said, knowledge and rationality appear to be on opposite ends of my spectrum. Maybe I need a nap.

Dippity

I've posted about cooking before. The process is usually an adventure as I think to myself, "Self, we need to bring a dish!" or "Self, we need to eat!" and then the rummaging and scrounging begins. I also become convinced during this time that we will make do with what we have on hand and will. not. go. to. the. store. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. 

Yesterday we needed to bring a dish, I wasn't going to the store, and I had it in my mind that we should bring a dip. 

Fortunately we had on hand: 

2 packages (blocks) of cream cheese

1 smallish - mediumish wedge of bleu cheese

1/2 cup or so remnant of plain non-fat yogurt

1 small jar of marinated artichoke hearts

I mixed it together, added some salt and crushed pepper, let it chill and served it with crackers. It was good. However, I would try to heat it next time. I think it would be tasty if baked. 

Other options that I considered and vetoed: 

Decorating the edges with almonds (too putzy for travel)

Mixing in walnuts (no walnuts in the house)

Adding marinated mushrooms (thought they'd compete poorly with the artichokes)

Sprinkling with craisins (might do this next time; it would have been good color)

If you happen to have these ingredients on hand, or aren't opposed to going to the store, enjoy! 

Expenses

Not a day goes by without someone calling, stopping by, to see if they can get some assistance. Word spreads like wildfire that there is assistance here, and that, as one person told me, “You’ve got a kind heart, Pastor; my friend said you’re kind.”

If only they knew, I often think, if only they knew that I sit muttering in my office, trying to gain the strength to face another person in need – another young woman with a baby, another addict trying to stay clean, another man who used to be somebody, another kid who should be in college but instead is trying to find a place to take a shower. “You’ve got a kind heart, Reverend.” Those words nearly haunt me as I go about my day.

I was about to leave the office for a minute this afternoon – grab a cup of overpriced coffee to get me through the day and evening, breathe some fresh air, take a break from my computer and to-do list, when my phone rang. “There’s someone here to see you about getting some assistance,” she said. I responded that I’d be there in a minute, and I heard the man take a seat. I sighed loudly in the privacy of my office, and prayed a not very holy prayer.

When I stepped into the hall he was sitting on the stool with one of the devotionals we have available, papers clutched in his hand. “Good afternoon, what can I do for you?” I asked briskly, my mind on my future latte. I recognized him from a previous visit, though I couldn’t remember what I’d helped him with before.

“We were here a few months ago,” he said. “And you helped us out. Well, my wife, well, she passed, and I have to bury her.” His words poured out and he didn’t cry; he spoke as if all of his tears were gone. He unfolded the paper from the mortuary company and explained that this was the cheapest he could find, that she would be cremated, and he had a portion of what they were asking him to pay.

“When did she pass,” I asked him, using the vernacular that he had used, buying myself time to breathe; this was a new request. “Last Tuesday, ma’am; the funeral is Friday,” he said, pointing to the line on the paper. “I can help,” I said, and turned back to my office to prepare the check.

Burial expenses, I thought, feeding the check through the printer. I shook my head and ran my fingers over the itemized list from the funeral home – Type of container: Cardboard box.

This story isn’t about me and my reticence and frustration. Now in the privacy of my office I cry the tears that he didn’t cry when he asked me for help. Mostly they’re tears of gratitude because I am able to help – that I am able to be the means of God’s grace and the face of generosity of God’s people.

I sent him on his way with a handshake and a check and a blessing of God’s peace to be with him. It didn’t seem like enough when he’s about to bury his wife. It hardly seemed like enough at all.

Some thoughts of randomness

I'm not writing enough to get much traffic anymore. 

I'd like to cook more, and start making bread, in that artisan-five-minutes-a-day way. 

Visiting relatives make me want to clean my house. Both because some are amazingly great home-makers, and also because some, well, aren't. Clutter purge ahead! 

On my list of things to do again, hopefully soon: kayak, run, and race. Ok, some of those are new, but still on the list. 

I know the answer and I get it, but why is it so much harder to create a vision for myself than for others or an organization? I know, I know.... 

Really?

If you make changes to a check that I've written to help you, and it gets caught, causing me to file a police report and spend much time and anxiety trying to right the wrong that you created, please don't ever call looking for assistance again.

Because when you do?

There's absolutely no freaking way that I'll help you.

I'm just sayin'.

Remarkable

The 101-year-old greeter met me at the door in her wheel chair.
Good afternoon, she said. How are you?
Good, I responded, leaning in toward her to shake her hand. And how are you?
Never better, she said with a laugh.
I laughed back and said I was always happy when I was wearing sassy shoes, and so I lifted my leg to show off my blue patent flats and she admired them with a cluck of her tongue and a shake of her head. I’m sure she didn’t think I was anyone’s pastor.

I made my way to his room where he and his wife of 63 years wait for me, smiling as I went. This visiting, after all, while I struggle to make the appointments and even some days to look forward to it, breathes new life into what I do.

I don’t know if they’ll see 64 years together. They might, but they might not.

She’s a remarkable woman, he says to me, looking at her, his eyes filling with tears.
Oh, I don’t know about that, she responds with a modest giggle.

I think you’re both pretty remarkable, I say. And when I think about the truth of that statement – of what they’ve seen and the way they’ve lived and the delight they still take in a life that has changed so drastically the past couple of years – my own eyes fill with tears.
I think you’re both pretty remarkable.