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.

Too something

It's too cliche to say that I've been busy.
More like, I have these half-posts in my head, sort of formulated, and relatively lovely, until I try to write them down at which point they come out clunky, like a toddler wearing heels.

Circling

One day last week I spent the afternoon without access to the internet (OK, it was all day, but I was out of the office in the morning), and I realized that I *can* do things without a messaging, and checking various news sites, and and and, though I don't really want to. It took me awhile to find my groove that afternoon and to return phone calls, write checks, stare blankly out the window and realize that's OK, every once in awhile. Though, please, powers-that-be, don't let it be too often.

In the midst of this I discovered the desire to cut things us and paste them on more paper. Some cal it collage. Some call it mixed media. I call it a mild and cheap form of therapy. But I don't keep many supplies in my office -- a circle template, some folders that I repurpose after they've held committee reports and council statements and education proposals from pastors gone by, and some official magazines that I'm getting better at letting go of. I pulled out the file and grabbed a couple of magazines and sat down -- fighting the urge to read, again, the articles, and instead grabbing images -- faces, poetry, words, fonts. Lifting style and vision from the pages with scissor, with tear, with another purpose not yet realized.

Why was I holding this particular issue, I wondered. Over two years old now, and with a cover author that I didn't know (and still don't), it had sat on my shelf, been transferred at least twice from container to container, and still I held onto it, the large ampersand on the cover curling about itself, standout yellow on gray. On the pages were dreams, I realized, some of my dreams from before, from long ago, from yesteryear, from back then. Not realized, those offers and programs called forth from the page, come here, go there, low-residency, top folks, study with the best.

I got part way through the magazine before I started to feel that twinge, that pull, that things that said, this is why you've saved me -- because within these pages there is something more than script on paper, there is something more than programs and offers, there is something other than today or yesterday or even tomorrow -- hope, vision, dream. With that in hand, I wrote this all down, then turned to face the paper again -- scissors and glue, circle and promise, together to create a new vision from old dreams.

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.