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.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, February 19, 2010
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?
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?
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
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..."
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..."
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
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!
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
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....
Monday, July 28, 2008
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'.
Because when you do?
There's absolutely no freaking way that I'll help you.
I'm just sayin'.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, June 16, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
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.)
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.
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.
Monday, June 02, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
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.
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.
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