Hello?

My husband recently got a fancy new phone, you know, a "smartphone" that allows him to check email and send things on a qwerty keypad. It's nice and when he's driving, I use it to check things online and to send an occasional update or email. Mine is a standard flip phone, and it works just fine. However, as I find myself being out of the office more and more, on the road or simply away to places without (free) business centers or even a computer, I dream of being able to check in without having to go home or to the office. It seems silly in some ways to me, but in other ways it's a good use of resources... some might even say in this line of work, that it's good stewardship.

This morning he handed me the fancyschmancy device and said, "read this." Under the banner headline of "Smartphones Now Ringing for Women," the New York Times reported on the trend of women increasingly wanting smartphones -- iphone, blacberry, etc. He hadn't read more than the opening sentences, but as I've lusted after his phone he thought I might find it of interest.

Interesting, yes. Slightly enraging? Yep.

With quotes such as, "Women have been using them for years in business, of course, but many are finding that the phones can also help manage their families’ hectic schedules and keep them in touch with friends" Ms. Holson proceeded to illustrate that women can use a phone (and it doesn't have to be pink! WHAT?! Shock of all shocks!) to keep every bit of their life in order. You know, on top of all of the things that they do in the office. And, better still, it's not seen as "geeky" anymore to be connected. Perhaps if she'd left out the phrase "of course" that particular quote wouldn't have perturbed me quite so much. As if women had just realized that they could use a planner to schedule everything else -- and not. just. work.

Because look -- women can operate technology, too!

(Just for the record: I have nothing against the pink phone. I would happily use one if given the opportunity.)

Weepy

I finished a book tonight, and toward the end, I got all weepy. OK, by the time I closed the cover, I was wiping hot tears from my cheeks. The book wasn't a literary masterpiece, by any means, but it was touching and sad.

As I was chiding myself for the tears over a silly book, I thought about the other times that I've cried recently -- a movie, a song on the radio. And then I remembered a pattern I've developed. I don't nap, even Sunday afternoons; instead I plow through the day and whatever exhaustion I'm feeling. When evening comes, after dinner and often with a glass of wine, I'll watch Ty's makeover home show. You know the one. We call it the weepy home show -- because I cry. Every. Week. It took me awhile to realize that this emotional release was helpful, necessary, whatever -- but that it is an emotional release.

So it was with the book, the movie, the song. In the many ways that I'm strong in many places, the emotions sneak up on me and I'm discreetly trying to wipe away the wetness on my cheeks before I reach my next destination, or turn the aisle in the store after looking at a particularly touching card.

When I sat down to write this, I thought, "I'm tired. It's been a long weekend." But that statement stretched into a question of week? couple off weeks? month? And so I found myself weeping tonight, tears that slid off the side of my face as I finished my book.

Honored Roads

It’s a long ways, she said. I know it’s a lot to ask. And when I sat down with her today, she handed me a map, copied from a standard atlas. Roads and highways that I’ve come to know, numbers and directions that are being written on my heart in ways that I never would have expected. Stapled to the back of that sheet, which would be available to anyone, was another map. Closer in detail, and seemingly hand-drawn, though that would surprise me, the map showed acreage and owners, creeks (or cricks) and stands of trees.

I would be honored to stand at the graveside, to pour dirt on the casket, to pray for commendation, and to be present as you say your farewells. I would be honored to walk with you, my heels sinking into the rich dirt of this corner set aside for a place of remembrance and holiness. I would be honored to sit and hear you tell stories, to hear your laughter and see your tears, to learn about this man whom you loved, whom you still, will always love, to discover anew what he was all about – service and people, reaching out to those whom he did not know, making a difference with all he knew.

This thing that we do, as pastors, is exhausting and untimely. It’s messy and yucky, and we try to move between bedside and baseball game and babies’ first cries seamlessly. Sometimes that works, and we’re able to slide here and there, filling our wells to drain them into someone else’s. I speak in metaphor and idea; I ponder and reflect and ask “good questions” and at the end of the day, the quiet of the night, with only the tip-tip-clack of nails on keyboard, I wonder if any of it matters. If any of it makes a difference. And I know, really, that it does. That this is belief and faith; that this life (mine, that of a pastor, yours) is all about moving from this thing to that one, about shifting from one to the other and being honored to simply be part.

I’m tired today, and that’s OK. These days have been full of the things that make up life – games and conversations, hands reached out over tables and across chairs in family waiting rooms, heads bowed in prayer and thrown back in laughter. The sun has shone down, making hair warm and brows sweaty, stirring seeds deep in the earth, calling, “Come out! Come out!”

In a couple of days I will drive a couple of hours, probably more with construction and traffic, and when I get there, it will be holy ground: green studded with marble and granite, surrounded by those open-country sounds of early summer, cows and tractors, big trucks and cars on dirt roads. These are not roads I have traveled before, but in the ways of heritage, they are already written in my heart. We will open the earth, speak words and read prayers, we will lift our hearts and commend, and it won’t be far at all.

Traveling

Every summer we try to "go home." Living hours upon hours away from family has advantages, but we do try to make the pilgrimage each summer, and again sometime in the winter. It's sort of the deal we struck moving so far away. We grumble about it every time, and it's hard to spend time with family in such an intense way, seeing everyone in a short, compact amount of time, trying to make sure that everyone feels like they've had their fair share of us. Of course everyone wishes that there was more time, more days, more moments.

This summer, for a variety of reasons, we don't have anything on the calendar except a lot of times that won't work. In fact, we don't have any sort of non-work related travel on the calendar at all, until October. Perhaps that should change. It might help my outlook on the world, to know that there would be time away.

Lorenzo

I'm the type of person who can watch the same movie over and over and over. Of course not every movie is worthy of such a watching, a casual playing while I do something else, or an intentional burrowing on the couch, blankets and snacks around.

Lorenzo's Oil was one of them. I watched it several times, crying each and every time, awed by the strength of the parents, the dedication and the intensity.

The inspiration for the movie died yesterday at age 30. May he rest in peace.

Hanging

So much hangs in that moment between question and answer.

Truth? Maybe. Comfort? Probably. Laughter? Possibly.

Full-up

I'm all full-up, as my kidlet used to say, from this past week. All brimming with inspiration, of speakers and brushes with fame. I'm satiated with friends and connections, new and old. I'm a bit sloshy with the life, and drunk on conversation and idea.
And now I'm back, drawn again to word and immersed in a sacramental life. I'm asking questions again, of myself, my place, my calling, searching for clarity and synchronicity, trying to answer that which I asked others. I'm looking for that yearning bit and trying to stand apart.
It's not easy, this calling, and it's been good to have a break, to realize that no one else lives an especially easy life, either. That there are always obligations and questions, irritations and frustrations.

Trying to find a word.

The place, the people, the time:
Amazing, sacred, full, intense, delightful, unexpected.
Stunning, gracious, good-natured, laughing.
Divine. Quotidian.

Grand Tour Friday Five

From Songbird over at the RevGals:
One of our original ring members, jo(e), wrote yesterday about a trip she and her sisters are taking overseas with their parents, to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. Many other RevGals are headed for the Festival of Homiletics in the coming week (click here for information on a RevGals meetup!!).
In honor of these upcoming trips, herewith your Grand Tour Friday Five.

Name five places that fall into the following categories:
1) Favorite Destination -- someplace you've visited once or often and would gladly go again
There are so many!! As someone who loves to travel, there are many places I would gladly go again, so I'll list five in honor of the Friday Five:
Baltimore and Washington DC -- I would gladly go again to explore more than the Inner Harbor, and to simply explore more of the history. (Ok, I know that's two, but I'm considering that it could be done in one visit!)

Hawaii -- I've done the historical and touristy things, but I'd love to go with no other purpose than sitting in the sun and listening to the ocean.

Texas -- for good friends.

Montana -- if for no other reason than to lay on my back and gaze at the stars in Big Sky country.

Grandma's farm -- to lift dirt from the edge of the field and know that there is peace within that heritage of soil.

2) Unfavorite Destination -- someplace you wish you had never been (and why)
Bountiful, Utah -- we drove around there for a very. long. time. before realizing how lost we really were.

3) Fantasy Destination -- someplace to visit if cost and/or time did not matter
New York City, to which I've never been. Of course, I'd also love to visit Greece and have ample time to do both the historical AND the fantasy of a place by the sea and nothing to do but read and enjoy good food.

4) Fictional Destination -- someplace from a book or movie or other art or media form you would love to visit, although it exists only in imagination
I just finished reading The Pajama Girls of Lambert Square by Rosina Lippi, and if for no other reason than to spend a day in the shop Coccoon, I'd love to go there.

5) Funny Destination -- the funniest place name you've ever visited or want to visit
I've got nothin' for this one. Though the name of my hometown is pretty funny, so perhaps I'm sensitive to the funny-named town!

Signs

I've chronicled the Saga of My Unwashed Coffee Cups here before.

I washed the collection this morning, and realized that it's one of the tangible signs that I'm getting ready to go away for a bit. I wash my coffee cups. Some people clean their home. I wash cups.

Next week? I do believe it's called room service.

Better than the crossword puzzle

I never realize how entrenched I am in the little routines of my life until I change them. Obvious, perhaps, and yet.... perhaps I should change more than one of them in any given day.

This morning I had to stop and walk myself through the shampoo/rinse/condition/wash/rinse cycle because I'd moved my shampoo.

And this afternoon? I nearly just threw my chewed gum on the carpet of my office because I moved my garbage can.

Laughing?
Try it.

Words

You remind me of words

I said long ago

Words that I'd forgotten

and scenarios 

I had scrubbed clean away. 

You make me laugh

and somehow sad, 

not knowing what

this is all about. 

I scanned over some

pieces today

that represented 

more than the black and white

on the page, 

and that conjured up places

I'd allowed to gather dust. 

Tile by tile

Piece by piece

Creating a bit of 

wholeness. 

From the dirt

I raked 10 brown yard bags full of old mulch, leaves I'd banked around trees in the fall, crusted bed toppings that hadn't been tended to in years (?). It felt renewing to uncover the ground and see where things that had been left behind had turned the ground deep and rich, dark and cool. I plunked down some new bulbs and a path and some ridiculous cubic footage of fresh mulch, and visioned a little sitting area, if not for me for the birds. We live on a corner that's busy, though I prefer bustling, it seems to have better resale value though I know it's just semantics. And I love how the kids walk by from school and the neighbors honk and stop to tell me that I'm making them look bad with all I'm doing out there. 

It was cold, but after wielding my rake and the clippers and wearing the gardening gloves, I wiped the sweat away, leaving dark brown streaks across my forehead, remember that you are dirt, and to dirt you shall return. There was life among the decay that had happened over the winter, new leaves on things I thought had died, fresh shoots of things I wish had not survived, tendrils peeking through the ground looking bold and tender. I stood and visioned all sorts of foliage, creating the beds into a mishmash of color and bloom, of green, of life, ridding the corners of their barren brown. A frost warning prevented me from rushing out to stimulate the economy with my garden dreams, but last night a woman said to me, come to my yard, wander about to see what I have, there are lots of shoots, bleeding hearts and cup-plants, and .... and my vision took root again, and I want my hands to retain a speck or three of black beneath the nail, a reminder of the dirt from which I come. 

Wanting to know

I run and walk in these beautiful circles of people of faith, and sometimes I wish I didn't. Not in a way that says I want to throw it all away, but in a way that I dream of some perspective. How do people not affiliated with the church, any church, see the church -- and not even folks who are hostile or disenchanted, but folks who are just sort of ambivalent, who are churched in culture but not theology. 

Recently I've had the privilege of being back in touch with a college friend, and I've been able to start to formulate some questions, to say, "when we're able to be together, can we talk about these things?" Because I'm curious, not because I want to promote my agenda (as if I had one) or because I want to sell something, or whatever. But because I want to know. 

Because right now, I'm feeling like I don't know much. 

Available for an afternoon respite:

One, non-napping, slightly sassy, incredibly adorable toddler. Prone to runny noses, but very durable when it comes to falls. Currently struggling with pneumonia, but not letting that get in the way of his trip-planning (must include tractors, fire trucks, trains, and garbage trucks), thomas-watching, dvd-player manipulating, chicken-eating ways. At this very moment, despite repeated attempts for resting, he's in the big blue chair behind me, "reading," with feeling and emphasis, green eggs and ham. Exhausted mama will pack bag before opening wine, she promises. 

Easter Shoes

Enough said. 

Holy

I've often written and invited people into a holy exhaustion during this season -- come and worship, I've invited, feel the emotions that heighten and peak, and experience the glorious delight, the fear and joy that come with the resurrection.

I feel that holy exhaustion in a new way today, after having a funeral this morning with the sanctuary still smelling sticky sweet with Easter flowers, the cross still adorned with life and green, the alleluias still ringing in my ears. I feel that ache in my bones and that cloudy, hungover sense that makes me wonder what words are coming out of my mouth, as if I inhabit a different body. The deaths have lined up, one, two, three, and while the other two I will only mourn in my own way, not in the way of a leader, they are still present, and I struggle as always with the grief in the midst of sure knowledge of resurrection and everlasting life. It makes for a good sermon, but with it there is an exhaustion. Some might even say, a holy exhaustion.

Winter, still

It would sit on the ice in the middle of the river for months. People would buy tickets to guess when the ice below it would eventually give way and as the weather began to warm, each time we crossed the bridge -- which we did several times a day -- I would look to see if it was still there. 

I don't remember that my parents ever bought a ticket. I would guess they didn't. But watching the old junked car there was part of my childhood, pondering when the weather would warm enough and the river would run fast enough to break the ice free. 

I don't know how it got there, or how it was retrieved from the water after it went down, but it's one of those images imprinted on my mind. 

Today, I'm not above pondering just when the weather will warm enough to make it feel like spring is pending. Folks at church yesterday said, "By Wednesday, maybe Thursday," and I desperately want to believe them. I'd be thrilled with simply some sunshine, but I certainly won't turn down warmer weather. 

It's been a long winter, and I'm tired. 

And on a lighter note...

Some random tidbits from the world around me: 

* A few of the women whose blogs I read are pregnant. I'm excited for these births, even though I rarely (if ever) comment on their blogs. 

* I think chocolate is an acceptable food group for breakfast. Particularly with coffee. 

* I was sick last week. I hate being sick. 

* The whole personal pep talk thing? It should probably be a daily event, if not more. 

* My dog is sleeping very cutely right now. It makes me wonder why he's crazy-dog sometimes. 

* I had a "still, small voice" moment last night that I'm not sure what to make of. One of those times when I hear something in my head so very clearly, but so completely unexpectedly. 

*We're going to a fancy-schmancy dinner and dance this weekend. I'm particularly excited about the dancing option. 

* It's my birthday month. Soon it will be my birthday week. I need to figure out what I want to do for this celebration of my life. 

* If I could stay home and bake and cook all the time, I just might. Of course I know I would go batty and unproductive after about day three, but it's a good fantasy to have in the middle of a meeting. 

Let it

I just keep thinking, I have to let it go. And I do. Which isn't to say that I will, or that I have. Only that I recognize that I have to. Ugh. I hate that feeling. 

My mentor and I talked at length about this tendency to hold onto things and obsess about them, to let myself have the grace that I would give to someone else, to see that I deserve/need/am worthy of/do indeed receive grace even when I don't usually afford it to myself. 

Why can I preach about God's grace, but I have such a hard time feeling it myself? Maybe I'm OK with God's grace, it's grace for myself that I somehow am too stingy about? 

Let it go, let it go, let it go.