We have three cats at our house. We didn’t intend to have three cats, it just worked out that way. I'd long since given up on having pets, because of too many losses on our busy street in New Jersey. In fact, as a young adult, I developed a pretty intense allergic reaction to cats . But on Halloween 2001, a parishioner put an adorable kitten in Sarah’s Halloween bucket when we went to their house. Sneaky, eh? At first, we politely gave him back. But after going home and thinking about it we decided Sarah needed a pet. We had fish, but she couldn't snuggle up with them very well, or play with them. We named our new caramel-colored kitty, Carmel. I took a lot of Benadryl for awhile, until suddenly, strangely, I wasn’t allergic to Carmel anymore.
Carmel has always been a little neurotic. When we first got him, he scratched me up pretty good whenever I tried to hold him. He'd climb over my shoulder and down my back, digging his nails into my skin like a rockclimber with spikes on his feet. He’s the one cat who runs as soon as the doorbell rings, and doesn’t come out until the company is gone. When we have people stay overnight, he lives under our bed and sneaks out during the night for the essentials. He doesn’t like to be picked up, but if you sit still awhile, he will come and settle on your lap. If you’re having a bad day, he’ll even come and snuggle up next to you and purr. He’s a great Comforter. He knows when you need a warm, fuzzy body on your chest. But the relationship is always on his terms.
A year later, we decided Carmel needed some company, especially when we were at work all day. So sure enough, his mother had had another litter, and we got Dobby (named after the house elf in Harry Potter). Carmel took to Dobby immediately, as if he knew they were half-brothers. (Their mother got around a lot) Dobby was so small at 6 weeks old, that we were afraid Carmel might eat him-- but he didn't.
Around the same time, Sarah was taking piano lessons from a woman in Tunkhannock, PA, who suddenly passed away. Jean had four cats. As an attempt to help Sarah with her first real loss of someone she loved, we asked to adopt one of Jean’s cats. Thus we got Scooter, a beautiful, long-haired black 6 year-old Persian cat with yellow-green eyes. Scooter wouldn’t have anything to do with us or the other cats at first. He hid behind the piano for months-- again, sneaking out at night for the essentials. We couldn’t coax him out for anything. We figured he’d just live behind the piano. Until the next spring of 2003, he got out of the house through an open window where the screen wasn’t in tightly. We were all heartbroken, because we couldn’t get him back in. Well, I secretly was relieved. His indifference to our kindness was annoying to me. But I acted like I was heartbroken, for Sarah's sake.
He was outside for three weeks, after which we had pretty much given up on getting him back. But one day, our babysitter managed to grab him while coaxing him to the door with tuna juice (his weakness). Ever since he was back in the house, he was suddenly much more affectionate. He allowed us to pet him. He climbed up on the arm of the chair and stuck out his head for some strokes, and even began to PURR. He’s rather pushy and demanding about affection, actually, and will approach us and push his head against our hand, and if we don’t pay attention, he’ll give us a little nip to get our attention. “Pet me! Now!”
But it wasn’t until this past winter, after we’d had him for over 4 years –during which we forced him to move halfway across the country-- that he started to put one paw on Larry’s lap. Then two. Then the upper half of his body, until finally, Scooter tentatively put his whole body on Larry’s lap. And started to purr. He won't sit on MY lap, mind you, but we still felt this was a major breakthrough. I guess he's still sore that I didn't try harder to get him back in the house.
I didn’t used to like Scooter. We’ve had to get used to each other. But I understand him now. Many people that I love have been through some tough times, including myself—loss of someone we love, or some kind of emotionally trying circumstances—that leave us raw or weakened somehow. Maybe a little less trusting. It takes time for us to get back on our feet again; to reach out again, to trust and feel safe again. God understands that, and gives us time to heal, to grow, to take another step closer, to open our hands a little bit more, until we’re ready to put our whole selves and souls into God’s hands and feel ok again. It may even be awhile before we relax enough to start purring.
Scooter reminds me to be patient with myself and with other people. We’re all doing the best that we can, and sometimes just need a little loving patience and gentleness to find our way again in a very tough world. Then we can curl up and sleep peacefully again, trusting that God’s lap is safe and sure around us, providing us a safe place to live and grow and love. And take a good, long nap.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Friday, May 11, 2007
Baking Bread
I am a pastor. I've been a pastor for approximately 17 years, and I'm still trying to figure out what it is I do.
Some people think I'm a Professional Prayer (no pressure there!) or a Professional Christian (hello!) and there are some days I feel like a litterbox for multiple cats. But that's on bad days.
People call me "Pastor Peggy," which used to make me cringe, but I've learned to smile, grind my teeth a little, and take a deep breath. You don't understand? Shall I call you Farmer Bob or Nurse Betty? Then there's Wal-Mart Cashier Sue or Subway Sandwich Maker Kelly. Besides, the thing about being "Pastor Peggy," is that uncomfortable gap that suddenly widens between me and other people when I'm introduced that way. Suddenly the other person doesn't assume that I wake up with bad breath or bedhead just like they do, or that I don't weep when the casualties of war increases or that I don't get afraid when someone else shoots up a school campus.
I'm just saying, my job is a little weird.
Which is why you don't choose to do it (if you are in your right mind) unless you are absolutely convinced that GOD wants you to do it, and therefore you can't really get out of it anyway, even if you tried.
I mean, at the end of the day, it's a little hard to evalate how I did that day. I visit the nursing home. Or the hospital. Did the person I visit seem sufficiently comforted by my visit? How do I know this? The person who came into my office to talk about their pain-- did they feel sufficiently helped when they left? How can we know this? I don't have an "in" and "out" box on my desk to measure my progress. How inspiring was that prayer I prayed to open the Administrative Meeting? Did it shake the earth? Bring tears to eyes and drive people to their knees? That report I had to fill out-- did it make my District Superintendent weep with awe?
I have a weird job. (Did I already say this?) But TV and movies would have you believe that all pastors are always dressed in a suit or collar all the time, always thinking and saying holy things, or in many cases, just looking like bumbling idiots. Oh, and they're usually bald-- or very gray and wrinkly. Unless you're Rev. Camden from "Seventh Heaven" who is too busy managing the lives of his soap-opera-candidate kids and friends to have time to show up at the church or write a decent sermon. And I have never seen a parsonage that huge or luxurious. But maybe in California...
People ask me Bible Trivia questions all the time, as if I have the whole Book memorized. Or they ask me to come up with a "really good verse" to attach to a letter, or newsletter or article-- you know, just off the top of my head.
But don't get me wrong. I love my job. Well, now I do. I didn't always. Because sometimes I have been the litter box for multiple cats or the punching bag for anal-retentive people who have never gotten over the trauma of their childhoods and figured there's no better place to let out your frustration than on "the preacher." Because, hey, preachers HAVE to be nice, no matter what. Unless you're one of those crazy child molesters or the charismatic dynamo who runs off with the secretary or has a serious drinking problem and is in denial.
But sometimes, like in the last two years, I love my job. Because I get to do what I signed up to do 18 years ago-- well, most of the time, anyway. I love preaching. I especially love saying words in the pulpit that nobody expects a preacher to say (not the four-letter ones, c'mon...) or act like a regular human being who's just as confused as the person in the pew, but has a few more books read (and a lot of school debt!) and just happens to know where to go for Bread when you're starving.
I love to baptize babies-- especially when they're bawling in their mother's arms and then I get them, and in my arms, they just shut up and stare at me like "who are YOU and what did you do with my mother?" And then I splash water on their heads and pray God's blessing upon them and wait for the dove from heaven to descend and the voice of God to shake us up. I walk the baby out into the congregation and everyone gets a goofy look on their faces, staring at this fresh new child of God, and for a moment we forget the Iraqi War and terrible prognoses and the chronic pain or our money stresses, because we're looking at a miracle of God. And maybe we remember that we are all miracles too, though a bit roughed up by life. But we come because we believe SOMETHING, even if it's just that there's something in that sanctuary for us-- a chunk of bread dipped in Welch's, or a hug during the Passing of the Peace or our favorite song, or just the safety of the sanctuary and the smell of burning candles. And we believe that if we show up, maybe Jesus will too, and who knows what'll happen? Maybe we'll breathe a little easier or feel less alone. If that's all that happens, that is enough for today.
I guess I am the fire-stoker. I keep the fire going. Sometimes when life is good, people don't show up, or they don't have the need for church, but I'm here. If the floor falls out underneath them or they get kicked in the stomach and show up in the pew, I'll try to have a word of hope for them, a morsel of bread. I try to help people find bread, I guess. Or water. Sometimes this world makes you feel that way, that if you could just have a good warm slice of bread with butter on it, you'd feel better. Jesus understands that. When he'd risen from the dead and he showed up to find his disciples fishing like nothing special had happened or JESUS hadn't happened-- he just cooked them breakfast and invited them in. No hard feelings.
I'm still trying to figure out exactly what my job is, but in the meantime, I'll keep baking bread and gathering cold water.
Some people think I'm a Professional Prayer (no pressure there!) or a Professional Christian (hello!) and there are some days I feel like a litterbox for multiple cats. But that's on bad days.
People call me "Pastor Peggy," which used to make me cringe, but I've learned to smile, grind my teeth a little, and take a deep breath. You don't understand? Shall I call you Farmer Bob or Nurse Betty? Then there's Wal-Mart Cashier Sue or Subway Sandwich Maker Kelly. Besides, the thing about being "Pastor Peggy," is that uncomfortable gap that suddenly widens between me and other people when I'm introduced that way. Suddenly the other person doesn't assume that I wake up with bad breath or bedhead just like they do, or that I don't weep when the casualties of war increases or that I don't get afraid when someone else shoots up a school campus.
I'm just saying, my job is a little weird.
Which is why you don't choose to do it (if you are in your right mind) unless you are absolutely convinced that GOD wants you to do it, and therefore you can't really get out of it anyway, even if you tried.
I mean, at the end of the day, it's a little hard to evalate how I did that day. I visit the nursing home. Or the hospital. Did the person I visit seem sufficiently comforted by my visit? How do I know this? The person who came into my office to talk about their pain-- did they feel sufficiently helped when they left? How can we know this? I don't have an "in" and "out" box on my desk to measure my progress. How inspiring was that prayer I prayed to open the Administrative Meeting? Did it shake the earth? Bring tears to eyes and drive people to their knees? That report I had to fill out-- did it make my District Superintendent weep with awe?
I have a weird job. (Did I already say this?) But TV and movies would have you believe that all pastors are always dressed in a suit or collar all the time, always thinking and saying holy things, or in many cases, just looking like bumbling idiots. Oh, and they're usually bald-- or very gray and wrinkly. Unless you're Rev. Camden from "Seventh Heaven" who is too busy managing the lives of his soap-opera-candidate kids and friends to have time to show up at the church or write a decent sermon. And I have never seen a parsonage that huge or luxurious. But maybe in California...
People ask me Bible Trivia questions all the time, as if I have the whole Book memorized. Or they ask me to come up with a "really good verse" to attach to a letter, or newsletter or article-- you know, just off the top of my head.
But don't get me wrong. I love my job. Well, now I do. I didn't always. Because sometimes I have been the litter box for multiple cats or the punching bag for anal-retentive people who have never gotten over the trauma of their childhoods and figured there's no better place to let out your frustration than on "the preacher." Because, hey, preachers HAVE to be nice, no matter what. Unless you're one of those crazy child molesters or the charismatic dynamo who runs off with the secretary or has a serious drinking problem and is in denial.
But sometimes, like in the last two years, I love my job. Because I get to do what I signed up to do 18 years ago-- well, most of the time, anyway. I love preaching. I especially love saying words in the pulpit that nobody expects a preacher to say (not the four-letter ones, c'mon...) or act like a regular human being who's just as confused as the person in the pew, but has a few more books read (and a lot of school debt!) and just happens to know where to go for Bread when you're starving.
I love to baptize babies-- especially when they're bawling in their mother's arms and then I get them, and in my arms, they just shut up and stare at me like "who are YOU and what did you do with my mother?" And then I splash water on their heads and pray God's blessing upon them and wait for the dove from heaven to descend and the voice of God to shake us up. I walk the baby out into the congregation and everyone gets a goofy look on their faces, staring at this fresh new child of God, and for a moment we forget the Iraqi War and terrible prognoses and the chronic pain or our money stresses, because we're looking at a miracle of God. And maybe we remember that we are all miracles too, though a bit roughed up by life. But we come because we believe SOMETHING, even if it's just that there's something in that sanctuary for us-- a chunk of bread dipped in Welch's, or a hug during the Passing of the Peace or our favorite song, or just the safety of the sanctuary and the smell of burning candles. And we believe that if we show up, maybe Jesus will too, and who knows what'll happen? Maybe we'll breathe a little easier or feel less alone. If that's all that happens, that is enough for today.
I guess I am the fire-stoker. I keep the fire going. Sometimes when life is good, people don't show up, or they don't have the need for church, but I'm here. If the floor falls out underneath them or they get kicked in the stomach and show up in the pew, I'll try to have a word of hope for them, a morsel of bread. I try to help people find bread, I guess. Or water. Sometimes this world makes you feel that way, that if you could just have a good warm slice of bread with butter on it, you'd feel better. Jesus understands that. When he'd risen from the dead and he showed up to find his disciples fishing like nothing special had happened or JESUS hadn't happened-- he just cooked them breakfast and invited them in. No hard feelings.
I'm still trying to figure out exactly what my job is, but in the meantime, I'll keep baking bread and gathering cold water.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Color Me Beautiful
Last week my daughter Sarah and I went to the concert at the Recital Hall at UNK, as part of the Concert on the Platte series. Yang Liu, an extraordinary and world-renowned violinist, was the featured artist, and I’d taken Sarah to his open lesson that afternoon. I was very tired, and it would have been much easier to stay home, but I promised Sarah that we’d go.
Wow.
He played with a colleague of his, who accompanied him on piano, and they were both magnificent. My emotions ran the gamut throughout the performance. Some music was sadly stirring, other pieces were lively and upbeat. Liu played with such intensity that he was dripping with sweat, he was moving his whole body, and he even had to get a new bow at one point, because he’d played some of the horsehairs loose on his bow. It was beautiful. Sometimes I felt lulled into a sense of peace, other moments I felt pinned to my seat, drawn into the overwhelming intensity of the music. I looked around the recital hall and there was a wide variety of people. A woman in front of us had a yin-yang tattoo on her neck and was wearing a tank stop, sitting with her young daughter who was knitting. Her bald (purposely) husband kept time with the music by bobbing his head and tapping the seat in front of him. The daughter spontaneously hugged her mother’s bare arms during especially intense musical moments, and leaned her head on her shoulder. There were college students in sweat pants and T-shirts, a row of older women dressed in their Sunday best, and yet another row of serious-looking, professionally dressed, perhaps music majors. There were young couples with funky hairstyles and girls with stiletto heels. We were all there to hear this accomplished violinist who had been performing very difficult classical pieces in recital halls such as this since he was 10 years old.
It was a nice break from the rest of the world. For two hours, Sarah and I got away from radio and TV coverage of how the Virginia Tech students are coping, or how the gunmen’s family has to have police protection as they grieve this horror. We got away from all the things that challenge our hope and joy. And we participated in Beauty. We shared this wonderful moment of beauty with a room full of total strangers. We were all different, some of us from different ethnic backgrounds, different taste in clothes, and different positions in life. But we were drawn together by our love of beauty, of music, of the unique capacity of music to heal and bless our souls.
We need beauty so desperately. As I write this, it is very dark and dreary outside, with the severe thunderstorms raging and flooding outside. We’ve had some significant losses in my own community already in 2007, and there are many among us struggle with various crises in their individual lives. Rarely a Sunday goes by in church when we are not praying over more than one prayer blanket to give away.
Let’s not forget the power of beautiful things to bless our souls and the souls of others, to nourish and renew. Let’s pursue beauty and share it. When we were little, we would draw a picture for someone we loved and present it to them as a gift. We’re not too old to think of something beautiful to give or to do for someone to light up their world, to add music to their silences, and color to their black and white days. Take time for beauty. Indulge in beauty. Soak it up, eat it up with your eyes, your senses. It is not easy to be bearers of beauty—it makes us vulnerable, and sometimes just plain weird! But don’t be fooled, we all need it, we all hunger for it. Jesus was weary and sad as he faced his impending death when a nameless woman came to him and poured expensive perfume over his head, soothing, blessing him, and filling the room with a precious aroma. When his friends were shocked at her questionable behavior, he said, “Leave her alone, she has done a beautiful thing for me, and what she has done will be told wherever the gospel is proclaimed…. (Mark 9) Jesus himself is an image of beauty—his presence, his words, his depth of love, his power to love and heal—in a world that had grown hard and cynical.
Let’s be beautiful. Let’s add color to our corner of the world, and shine light in the dark corners! Imagine the light we can radiate when we get together in the spirit of the Resurrected One!
Wow.
He played with a colleague of his, who accompanied him on piano, and they were both magnificent. My emotions ran the gamut throughout the performance. Some music was sadly stirring, other pieces were lively and upbeat. Liu played with such intensity that he was dripping with sweat, he was moving his whole body, and he even had to get a new bow at one point, because he’d played some of the horsehairs loose on his bow. It was beautiful. Sometimes I felt lulled into a sense of peace, other moments I felt pinned to my seat, drawn into the overwhelming intensity of the music. I looked around the recital hall and there was a wide variety of people. A woman in front of us had a yin-yang tattoo on her neck and was wearing a tank stop, sitting with her young daughter who was knitting. Her bald (purposely) husband kept time with the music by bobbing his head and tapping the seat in front of him. The daughter spontaneously hugged her mother’s bare arms during especially intense musical moments, and leaned her head on her shoulder. There were college students in sweat pants and T-shirts, a row of older women dressed in their Sunday best, and yet another row of serious-looking, professionally dressed, perhaps music majors. There were young couples with funky hairstyles and girls with stiletto heels. We were all there to hear this accomplished violinist who had been performing very difficult classical pieces in recital halls such as this since he was 10 years old.
It was a nice break from the rest of the world. For two hours, Sarah and I got away from radio and TV coverage of how the Virginia Tech students are coping, or how the gunmen’s family has to have police protection as they grieve this horror. We got away from all the things that challenge our hope and joy. And we participated in Beauty. We shared this wonderful moment of beauty with a room full of total strangers. We were all different, some of us from different ethnic backgrounds, different taste in clothes, and different positions in life. But we were drawn together by our love of beauty, of music, of the unique capacity of music to heal and bless our souls.
We need beauty so desperately. As I write this, it is very dark and dreary outside, with the severe thunderstorms raging and flooding outside. We’ve had some significant losses in my own community already in 2007, and there are many among us struggle with various crises in their individual lives. Rarely a Sunday goes by in church when we are not praying over more than one prayer blanket to give away.
Let’s not forget the power of beautiful things to bless our souls and the souls of others, to nourish and renew. Let’s pursue beauty and share it. When we were little, we would draw a picture for someone we loved and present it to them as a gift. We’re not too old to think of something beautiful to give or to do for someone to light up their world, to add music to their silences, and color to their black and white days. Take time for beauty. Indulge in beauty. Soak it up, eat it up with your eyes, your senses. It is not easy to be bearers of beauty—it makes us vulnerable, and sometimes just plain weird! But don’t be fooled, we all need it, we all hunger for it. Jesus was weary and sad as he faced his impending death when a nameless woman came to him and poured expensive perfume over his head, soothing, blessing him, and filling the room with a precious aroma. When his friends were shocked at her questionable behavior, he said, “Leave her alone, she has done a beautiful thing for me, and what she has done will be told wherever the gospel is proclaimed…. (Mark 9) Jesus himself is an image of beauty—his presence, his words, his depth of love, his power to love and heal—in a world that had grown hard and cynical.
Let’s be beautiful. Let’s add color to our corner of the world, and shine light in the dark corners! Imagine the light we can radiate when we get together in the spirit of the Resurrected One!
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