Eyes Wide Open

(inspired by writing prompt "manifesto" from Sunday Scribblings)

i grew up by the ocean

listening to the rhythm of the waves

ebb, flow

strength of the undertow

pulling at my ankles

little girls

shrieking at the sight of jellyfish

their vomity appearance

threatening to sting their toes

i felt so small

and yet so big

the power of the water moving,

growing somewhere deep inside

at the edge of the water

there was no end

there was more, always

than what my eyes could see

so i learned to trust

the beyond the bigger picture

that i can't always see

i see it in the eyes of a friend

who speaks to me without words

but through a tear, a hug

i hear it in the music

that ignites the soul

that once was dead

but is now alive

i feel it in the prairie winds

that i cannot see

but whose power

cannot be contained

and i know

i believe

that

there is always

hope.

The Guide

i don't know how it happened
but one day i finally decided
i had to step off the road
the one that i'd always taken

it was a good road
a trustworthy path
with all the milemarkers
and signs to lead me forward

but one day it all felt wrong
and i knew i had to get off
or somehow i would die
and so i did

out here it's not so simple
things aren't as clear
the paths not clearly marked
and sometimes I panic

but deep down inside
there is a voice
a spirit, a center
that stops me, stills me

when i trust that voice
i can follow it into the unknown
i can walk into the darkness
trusting my feet will find the path

beautiful things happen!
the colors, the depth, the richness!
carved out of the dark
formed in the anxiety, uncertainty

sometimes i weep
but my tears water the earth
allowing the path to be unfold
toward places i've never been, never imagined

i will trust the inner voice
call it spirit, call it life, call it god
it has brought me safe thus far
and i know it will lead me home.

a little tickle from God

woman weeping
beautiful
tears shinging
like spirit-stars in the dark

you're embarrassed
yet I have to squint
sometimes
at the brightness
of your spirit

woman laughing
giggling
at the absurdity of yourself
me
others
this life

grace-moments
injected into intense living
like a little tickle
from God.

She Remembers

her daughter says
her mind is gone
she can't remember her life

she can't remember
how to feed herself
or use the bathroom

she can't remember
if she has any children
or if her husband is dead

but if you say, "Our Father..."
she will finish the prayer
word for word

she remembers
that God is in heaven
and that God's kingdom is coming

she remembers
that God prepares a table
for her

and she isn't afraid
to walk through the valley
of the shadows

she doesn't fear evil
for her cup runneth over
with assurance

she doesn't remember
who she is
but she remembers

she is not alone.

What A Difference A Day Makes

one day
my new friend

"this is my best friend!"
you announced to a stranger
holding my hand like a prize

joyous, silly
a light in my world

another day
different day

"a mass"
you said
over the phone

a cloud passed through us
you are dying

life-giving
now dying

light-giving
now possessed with darkening shadows

a day
just another square
on the calendar

now is The Day

The Day
I sang you lullabyes
in the dark

The Day
I held your hand
once soft, warm and manicured

now limp
and cold

one day
you smiled at me
the next day
you were gone.

A Note to Caregivers

(I wrote this for my hospice co-workers, imagining what our patients might say to them. It is also to anyone who has cared for the dying.)

In your line of work, you don't always get a "thank you." But that doesn't mean we aren't grateful. maybe we can't talk anymore or express ourselves clearly. Or maybe we are so overcome with gratitude at such grace that we are speechless.

But I want to say "thank you." You saw me when few others wanted to look at me anymore. Many people thought I wasn't all there, that I was just a body parked in the hallway. But you touched me. You touched my body with gentleness. You cleaned it, you lotioned it, you cared for its wounds. I felt every touch. You painted my nails and fixed my hair like I was a princess. You did all these things even when you weren't sure that I even knew you were there. I did.

You were with me at the end of my life. Sometimes you were the only ones other than the facility staff to come see me. Sometimes my own children stopped coming to see me, and often you still believed the best about me. You didn't know my whole story. You didn't know whether or not my kids had good reasons to be resentful. You believed I deserved kindness no matter what I'd been like before. Or maybe you knew me before, and no longer recognized me in the throes of this illness. But you still saw past the disease that made me act like someone else.

I was at your mercy. Sometimes I was angry that I couldn't control anything anymore, much less my own body. Sometimes I lashed out at you with my hands or with words just because you were there. And yet you still came back.

You treated my dying body as if it were beautiful. You never treated it like it was ugly or repulsive. You didn't shy away when I was as helpless as an infant. Others were embarrassed at my lack of control of my body or were sickened by my odors. You weren't. Some people knew me when I was strong and bright and in control, and they're embarrassed and uneasy now to see me this way. But you aren't.

You stayed for hours sometimes, even when you could have been at home. You often tried to mediate between my crazy family members when they fought over what little I had left. You took their abuse when they insisted you be like Jesus and make me rise from that bed and walk. You gave them hugs when they didn't know how to handle what was happening to me.

Sometimes I know it was hard on you when I was a person close to your age. Caring for me reminded you that any of us could get sick, even you, and all of us will die. I know that was hard on you. But still you came. You opened your heart and sometimes fell appropriately in love with me even though it was guaranteed that I would leave you and break your heart. Sometimes I reminded you of someone else that you loved and lost and you felt that grief all over again because of me. You did everything you did because you're one of god's human angels put here to make death a little less frightening and a lot more peaceful. I know you get very tired. I know sometimes you get emotionally drained. I know you get frustrated at the limits of what you can do in the face of death and conflict. I know it would be easier on you to do some other kind of work that doesn't demand so much of you. But I'm glad you're still here. My family will never forget what you've done. I will never forget what you've done and I have all eternity to remember.

So when you're tired, think of me. When you get to wondering if what you do matters at all to anyone, think of me. When you're drowning in paperwork or fighting to stay awake while driving home after a ridiculously long day, think of me.

They say that someone always come to meet us when it's our turn to die and enter eternity. I can't help but think that when it's your turn to come home, I just bet there will be hundreds of people who will be eager to say, "thank you," and "welcome home."

deathbed

poetry and
pictures
the work of your hands
displayed
in memoriam

sassy
you were
in pictures
mini-skirts
and big hair

you read poetry
Omar Khayyam
ancient Persians
you sifted through
dirt and rubble
of archaeology
and ancient writings

searching

questing
fighting
shaking fists in the air

you dared God
to explain
the absurdities
the contradictions
of humankind's bad
representation
of all that is holy

God was silent
and it ticked you off

As you lay dying
I couldn't help you
I couldn't even be
near
as if I reminded you
of all the unanswered
questions

you went down
spitting
declaring your opposition

I would have torn
the mantle around my neck
if I could
if it would have made you see

I understand
I'm ticked too

or that God and I
meet daily
for fierce wrestling
out of which
I emerge a little lame

yet blessed

I wanted
to take your fists
gently pry away the rage
the injustice
the fears
that you were
too smart
for God

I wanted
to tell you
that God is ticked too
at the ones
who use him
use his authority
to maim, curse,
to kill souls

instead
I stood helpless
as you pushed me
and all I represented
to you
away

you ran out of life
before you ran out of questions

but I wanted you
to know

I am not Them
They are not me
and God is not Them

but God
was waiting
to answer
all the questions

that scared
everyone else
and kept your
fists closed

against Love.

blessing

it's hard
being a poet

seeing

so much

that other people
don't notice

beauty and pain
dark and light

i hear the ripple
of the water
as it washes over
the rocks

i see the light
in the shine
of the blackbird's
feathers

i smell the coolness
of a new morning
i see the pain
in that stranger's eyes
as she greets her customers
but tries to hide it

i feel the hurt
the tearing of skin
when lovers part

the rain descending
from God's heart
when a child bullied
takes his life

my body receives
the blows
when people are cruel
violent in word
poisoning the air
with their self-contempt

but i also notice
the radiant blue
of her eyes
as she leads the meeting
(does no one else
see the brilliance
of her light?)

or when his face
relaxes
i hear the crumbling
of the wall
that held in
his heart
see the reflection
on his skin
from grace-glow
and my eyes
tingle
with tears

or the smell
of water
on sun-baked grass
the sudden sweetness
of honeysuckle
traveling on the breeze

i see
i feel
i ache
i rejoice

it is both
blessing
and curse.

Harvest

small cyclone
of corn husks
in my car's path
blown off the
shaven field

remnants
of the gathered crop
husks of treasures
the meat already gathered

wind whips them
twirling
as if a spirit
passes by

mountains of corn
trucks keep coming
a banner year
transparent skins of kernels
dusting my windshield

I remember
still bear the scars
of barren years
days of wanting

hungry of soul
heart frozen
longing

and here I am
watching the corn mountains
rise

my spirit is light
as the husks
swirling in dance
across my path

I am full
I am enough

the harvest
is plenty.

Essential

I remember sitting by Karen's bed 3 years ago, looking out at the lake just outside her window. The ducks were gliding across the surface, the wind was blowing leaves out into the atmosphere, where they touched down so lightly on the water, it hardly made a dent. They spun, circling each other, bumping into each other. The changing of seasons, preparation of winter.

Karen was just weeks away from death, and as she slept, I thought about all that she was leaving behind. Not just family and friends, the obvious things. She wouldn't see that lake every morning, the ducks on the water. She wouldn't smell the unique autumn smell of leaves on the wind, wood smoke, or the stunningly fresh scent of Nebraska air. I felt sad for her. I couldn't imagine losing these things. Leaving this world and all that's in it, leaving it all behind. I'd never thought about those things before.

"I'm really going to miss you," she said one day. I choked up and returned the feeling. She was going to miss ME? I never thought of the one leaving as being the one who was losing. But it makes sense. We don't know what's next. We have ideas, we have images and hopes, but we don't know anything for sure.

So it got me thinking about my life and what is important to me. In the last few years, it became increasingly urgent to me to live my life the way I truly believe it ought to be lived. I've had enough losses, said enough goodbyes, that I cherish the goodness and refuse to take things for granted.

What is essential to me is to live honestly. I want truth. I want to be in relationships where people are honest with me. When I love someone, I tell them. Why not? If I love them, I consider them lovable, and so they would most likely want to know. Who doesen't want to know that they are lovable??

Another thing that is essential is deep, spiritual, intimate connections with other human beings. I can't live without that. I can't live too long on the surface of things, I get weary of pretentiousness or false talk. Tell me who you are, what you love, what breaks your heart, what stirs your passion and gives you hope. Tell me what gives you joy so deep that your eyes leak. I want to know. I want to see God in your eyes.

Music is essential. Music embraces my every day. I need it. I listen to feed my soul, to give me hope, to remind me of why I get up in the morning. I love honesty in music. The "broken hallelujahs" as well as the praise for the morning. Intertwined with that is poetry and literature. Words that get into the soul and illuminates it. Connects us to God. Reminds us that we are spiritual beings having a human experience.

And of course, my family. My husband, my best friend, my soul-mate in the true sense of the world. My play-mate. The one who makes me laugh, who holds me when I cry, who understands what moves me in a concert without me having to tell him. The one who saved my life with his love, and saves it every day.

My daughter. The child who I helped get to create. The one I fed with my own body. Who gave me hope in hard times just by moving her foot across the inside of my womb occasionally, and then was that still small being that I could care for when the world around me was going crazy. The one who has grown into a passionate, enthusiastic, compassionate, giving, loving, beautiful human being. Who gives me joy.

Creation. I need food for my soul, and I need to live in a place where there is a constant feast for my eyes. I love Nebraska. I love the fact that there's so much space that I can "stretch my eyes," that I can smell, see, and touch such vast beauty, sheltered by the dome of the endless blue sky. That the horizon keeps going. It's like God brought me here to show me that there is no limit to my growth, the possibilities of life and love, and when I arrived, and ever since, God keeps saying, "Welcome home, darlin'! Welcome home."

It is essential that I be myself, that I have ways, like writing, to express myself, to dance with words, to see the beauty, expose it, and celebrate it. I have come to midlife not with crisis, but a strong sense of who I am, what I want from life, and what I will not tolerate. Love is essential. Spirit is essential. Mercy, compassion, open horizons. All of that and more is essential for life. And I now have the courage to claim it.

Words

they're so flexible

and move so smoothly

on the page

on the tongue

man-made inventions

constructions

yet they elicit power

they can bless

or condemn

evoke tears

or a guffaw

(I like that word "guffaw"!)

the truth is

they lied

words do, in fact, hurt

they can be weighed down

with shame

evoke anger

rage

they can haunt

and cause wounds

that make one

slowly

bleed to death

but words

can also open a latch

on a prison door

turn on light

that can flood darkness

words can change

a life

give direction

and power

they can--

spoken rightly

set free

words are fun

to play with

as Ted Giesl well knew

like play dough

we can strethc them

press them

shape them

use them

to create beauty

In the Beginning

in a land before Time

was the Word

a power unshaped

therefore yet free

unencumbered

The Word went crazy

creating

coloring

loving

lighting

shaping

warring

dancing

and no matter how

we try to trap It

fit it into our small minds

It is still

a wild Thing

making life

making beauty

calling us

to divinity.

Flashback

every time

i see a Stop sign

its red octogonal shape

angled edges

abrupt instruction

i remember a nightmare

i had when i was 3 or 4

about flying houses

and Tinkertoys

that came alive

the smell of

wood smoke

and i'm back in pennsylvania

in front of a fireplace

or a campfire in the pocono mountains

when someone in authority

looks over the tops of the glasses

at me

i'm in fourth grade again

standing in front of the

principal's desk

who says

'what the hell were

you thinking?'

and i shrink

when i hear

a seagull

i feel the splintery wood

of the boardwalk

beneath my feet

i feel the stickiness

of cotton candy on my face

taste the grainy

sweetness on my tongue

waves crashing

on the shore

the smell of the ocean

jellyfish washed on the sand

abandoned by the tide

when i smell candlewax

and burnt matches

i'm singing

'kum by yah'

with weeping teenagers

hugging and swaying

with the love of jesus

the beatles are singing

'revolution'

and i feel my feet tingling

from vibrating floorboards

high powered stereos

belching rock music

i smell incense

from down the hall

hear the clacking of beaded curtains

my long haired brother

walks barefoot

down the hall

and lets out his daily primal scream

it's funny

how time works

we're here right now

but a song

a smell

a sound

or the sight of lovers

holding hands

and i leave my body

enter another time

briefly visiting a moment

in the past

feeling the pain

or joy

or peace

from another lifetime

a younger me

and i remember

i am more

than i appear

in this moment

i am all of it

i am a whole world

of experience

First Love

(in response to writing prompt "love" from Sunday Scribblings)

*******

you'd been tucked

in my heart's scrapbook

under "first broken heart"

all those years

but

the other day

i heard

a john denver song

you fill up my senses

like a night in a forest...

follow me where i go

what i do and who i know...

and

i was 15 again

summertime

and the livin' was easy

summer camp

poolside chases

easy flirting

hormones crazy

and demanding

walks by the lake

nighttime kisses

in the chapel

first time kissing

like the french

delirious laughter

even tear-soaked moments

of pure, innocent joy

the astonished wonder

of love

we dreamed

of rocky mountain highs

eagles and hawks

west virginia country roads

and i see it differently now

you gave me

the rapturous experience

of being loved

for the first time

heart fluttering

over love letters

and marathon phone calls

a hand to hold

eyes seeing beauty in me

innocent dreaming

fairy-dust-soaked days

and since then i've learned

that love is bigger

than loss

and love can heal

a broken heart

Clean

imagining myself

a dolphin

at play

spontaneous joy

expressed by

bursting upward

through the surface

arms, legs, lungs

aching

from swimming

swimming

so long

sometimes holding

my breath

sometimes fiercely

treading water

sometimes

drowning

i've wrestled

sea monsters

Leviathan in his

underwater cave

i've let go

ready

to drift

down

away

until a glimpse

of light

sparkled

at the surface

inviting

daring

challenging

stop fighting

so hard

stop battling

ghosts

it's safe

now

you're free

let it go

let it all

fall away

be

clean.

My Resurrection Year

As I drive home from work these days, I often look out at the endless fields of corn and soy beans, look up at the intricate cloud patterns in the dome-sky that shelters me. And I am overcome with gratitude so much so that I weep.

I do a lot of driving in my new job, and it gives me a lot of time to think. My heart is nourished by the sight of the rolling hills and buttes of the land north and west. Sometimes I see real cowboys herding their cattle. Or unsupervised cows just chillin' in a pond cooling off or sharing the latest gossip. Kamikaze birds fly across my car's path, barely missing collision, as if on a dare from one of their friends. I see majestic hawks with terrific wingspans and occasionally I spot the elusive eagle.

These days are narrowing into the tunnel of my First Year Out of the Ministry. In grief work, we often talk about that intense year full of firsts after a death. The first birthday, anniversary, Family Reunion, Christmas, Easter, etc. Every event becomes a potential trigger of intense grief. Of course that is true for the years following, too, but that first year is the introduction to Life Without...

And so, I am coming to the end of my First Year of Life Outside the Pastoral Ministry. September 22 is the anniversary of our moving into our first house. September 27th is the anniversary of my Last Day in the Pulpit. And October 6th. The Day I Handed In My Ordination Papers and cut my ties to The United Methodist Church.

You may not think of that as a death, but it is. I was a United Methodist for 44 years. I was born into it, raised in it. The rhythm of my life was to the beat of the Church Year. I grew up going to Annual Conference in Ocean City, New Jersey. I was inspired by preachers at St. Peter's United Methodist Church and the sound of 1,000 or so Methodists singing at the same time. I went forward at an altar call one year to re-dedicate my life to Christ. I looked for my favorite pastors on the boardwalk at night, whom I knew from summer camp. I stayed in a cottage with my parents and two other clergy couples and we played Rook and Scrabble at night. My life was turned upside down when I heard a preacher from Missouri.

I went to church every Sunday all my life, and one time when I slept in as a kid, I felt so guilty that I missed church that I read the Bible all day for penance. I went to youth group and had a crush on the associate pastors. I waited with my mother every spring to hear if the District Superintendent would call my father and tell him he was moving this year. We made Advent wreaths at church every Sunday after Thanksgiving, and I can still smell the mixed scent of pine branches and candle wax every Advent season. I dropped out of confirmation class because I knew everything already and the other kids were too rowdy. I went to summer camp every summer for four years and got on a religious high. I fell in love for the first time there, got my heart broken, recovered, and tried things that brought me out of my introverted shell.

I went to a super-religious college that told me United Methodists were going to hell because they ordained women. It was like insulting my family, and I wrestled with my faith, learned about other denominations, and came back always to United Methodism, my spiritual hometown. I went to seminary, learned all about the Wesleys and pledged my allegiance to the Book of Discipline. My parents handed down to me a Wesley Teapot. I was proud of my religious heritage and its history, which is a history of people that wanted MORE from Church. Wesley was a rebel, and he stood up to the church bureaucracy, preached in the streets, and believed in grace. Sure, he was somewhat of a failure in personal relationships, but I believed in him.

My calendar year began at the beginning of Advent and ended with Christ the King Sunday. I loved the drama and intensity of Lent, and the coming into the Light of Easter. I've struggled with a lot of darkness in my own heart, and every Easter was a chance to begin again, walk out into the Light again. Dying, rebirth. Darkness, Light. Death, Resurrection. It was the cycle of seasons, and the cycle of my own spiritual life.

I could never have foreseen leaving the United Methodist Church. And it does feel like a death. Death sucks. But sometimes death needs to happen in order for life to come forth. A year ago I was in a very bad place. I had been for a couple of years, struggling against a lot of forces. I felt trapped. I felt like I was dying spiritually-- sometimes being choked to death. I lost hope. I tried to get people to listen to me, to hear that I was in trouble. But they wouldn't listen.

But I am still standing. I can breathe. I can laugh. I can sing. I feel lighter. I have the capacity for great joy and deep, deep gratitude, and I feel the intensity and height of that capacity as I drive alone through the Sandhills or simply drive to work past all the miles of cornfields. My new job gives me room to try new things, to develop new gifts I didn't know I had, to discover that there's more to me than I thought. It connects me to some of the most beautiful people I've ever met, in whom I see the face of God. I have wept with them, laughed hysterically with them, learned with them and from them, and been blessed by them. I feel a richer, deeper sense of God's love in me and through me than I ever dreamed possible. I sense God at work in me every day. I see God at work all around me, and see the Spirit in the eyes of those I get to work with. Not only am I healing, but I am thriving. I am in awe most days.

There are mixed feelings as I approach these landmark days. There is still some sadness for some of the people I left behind and for those who didn't seem to feel they could continue our friendship after I "left." But mostly I am grateful to be alive. I am grateful for New Life. I am astonished at the power of God to give life, to heal, and to empower. Today I am grateful for the crazy, winding, painful, exhilarating journey God has put me on and for the precious people who have walked with me.

Life is good.

Rose

This morning I was sitting out on my little side porch reading poetry. It's a gorgeous day, except for the pollen that is viciously attacking my vulnerable sinuses. Anyway, I saw the woman walking across the street. I've seen her many times, always walking to the store and back. Or sometimes just walking. Her hair looks like she just got out of bed, just wild, going in all directions. She walks a little humped over, and she always wears mismatched clothes. Today she wore a black and red sweater with bright purple pants. Her breasts swing freely under her clothes, clearly unbridled. Her face is very wrinkled, her chin jutting out as if taking the lead. She always walks alone. I saw her at the 4th of July parade, just walking on the outer edges of the crowd, as if invisible, unseen by the people lining the road.

Today she saw me on the porch and crossed over to my side of the street. And kept coming. "Hey!" she said with bunched lips, behind which were few if any teeth.

We got to talking.

Her name is Rose. She has seven children, and none of them talk to her, though they all live in Nebraska. Her husband died a long time ago, but if he'd lived, they'd have been married for 40 years. He "beat on her alot," so it was a good thing he was dead. She lived in the white house with the green trim, just a few doors down from the corner, I could see it from where I sat. Pays $400 a month.

Larry walked by, in the midst of hauling garden remains to the dump. She nodded. "I bet he gives you a lot of grief, huh?"

I laughed. "Maybe a little, not much," I said, "he's a good guy." She looked at me as if she didn't believe me. I suspect she figured all men "beat on" their wives.

She asked me where I was from, and I told her, New Jersey. "Hmmm..." she said. "Jersey." She said, "yeah, New Jersey really just is a continued state off of New York, that if you look at the New Jersey shoreline at night, it runs right into New York, and it all looks just like one place."

"You've been to New Jersey?" I said, just a little bit -- ok, a LOT-- surprised.

"Oh sure, I went there a lot when I was truckin'..." she said, matter of factly.

"You were a trucker..." I said, chuckling.

She proceeded to tell me that she was a trucker for many years, kept a Colt 45 in the glove compartment of her rig but never had to use it. She told me about the time a "cowboy" tried to treat her "like a whore," so she "beat the crap out of him." It was in a bar where he approached her and she kicked him "between the legs, hit him in the stomach, and got him in the face" a few times.

"I said to him, I said, 'you ain't gonna treat me like no whore, you
mother-f@#%*r!' and I let him have it, the whole bar was laughing," she said, chuckling herself.

She asked me what I was reading, which happened to be a book of poems by Garrison Keillor, and she said, "oh, I like that Lake Wobegon, that's good." I agreed.

I kept looking at her. She had a hooked nose and a pointed chin that had a few stray gray hairs sticking out from it randomly. Her eyes were a cloudy blue, set back amidst a complicated design of wrinkles. She said she walked a lot, especially when it was so nice out. She sneezed, always turning away, because she said, "I don't wanna sneeze on you, that would be very rude." I appreciated it.

"Well, I gotta go do some housework, I 'spose," she said and started walking away, still talking without looking back, "I'll talk to you later!"

I watched her hunched-over back and her eye-catching purple pants as she limped away across my overgrown grass. Her name is Rose. Now she has a face and a name. And a story. She was about 5'5", but I could imagine her "beating on" that cowboy in a bar. She wasn't someone to be messed with. And she was living now about three doors down from my porch.

What a wild world.

Why I Get Up In the Morning

I remember many times in my life where I lost hope. They are never far from my memory. But I believe that it is those times that feed my faith. Can we know what hope is if we've never known hopelessness? I don't think so.

Of course, when my life was immersed in the Church, my definition of faith was that of the institution. Faith is trust in Christ, in God. Faith is belief in Christ as the Son of God. Faith was the belief that God made the Church to be a vehicle of that faith. A messenger, a container. But in the last couple of years, I have lost faith in the Church. I think that's a good thing; I wasn't meant to have faith in the Church, the Church is/was only a means of faith, not the thing to have faith in. Maybe I needed to learn that. Losing faith in the Church, having been painfully disillusioned and having experienced a sense of betrayal at the hands of the Church just about knocked me out. What is faith without the Church? Is there such a thing?

For me, the answer is yes. Everything that supported and held my faith together was blown apart this past year. I had to sit in the rubble for awhile. I see now, that even in the midst of that, I had faith. Faith that it would and could only get better! Faith that there was something more out there for me. Faith that God --whoever He/She/It is-- had not abandoned me, and that God is not the Church, nor is God any human being that claimed authority over me. The Bishop, I believe, had come to believe that she is God in my life and in the life of pastors "beneath her." That I could not accept. No human being is God. When one believes that they are, all hell breaks loose.

I have faith that is changing shape, changing "containers." I have faith that when I pray, Someone is listening. I have faith that the world is not supposed to be the way it is now, and that human beings are given a part to play in making it better. I have faith that Love is the Answer and that Hate Destroys. I have faith that God has plans for the future of this earth and of its inhabitants, and it is a future of redemption, transformation, and resurrection. I have faith that God has given me gifts to share. That's what got me out of the rubble of despair. I believed that the end of my relationship to the Church was not the end of me or of my relationship with God. My faith has grown deeper in the last few months, because I couldn't hide behind the printed word or a creed or a denominational book of laws. I had to figure out what gives me life. What gives me hope. Why do I get up in the morning? I've been to that place many times when I didn't see any good reason to get out of bed. So I didn't. But I've made it past that time. I now have a reason to get up in the morning. That reason is that I've been put here to love, to give hope to others when I can, to offer grace in a graceless world, to use my gifts to be a presence to others, an image of the Christ of love.

I have faith that this is not all there is. If it is, I'd go back to bed!! I have faith that God has more grace than we ever will. I have faith that there is another reality, just a breath away from this one, that is eternal and good and is Life. That vision keeps me going, keeps me hoping, keeps me breathing.

I have faith that my life has meaning, and that the lives around me do too. So I look deep, and I try to connect with others who see something deeper and more beautiful than what is most obvious. We are eternal beings. Someone said we are spiritual beings having a human experience. I believe that.

And so I can go on.

Bumpy Road Ahead

I'm reading a book about being a "highly sensitive person" in this world. We kind of joke about it around here, "oh, it's because you're a 'highly sensitive person,' my husband will say when I get overdramatically upset about something inconsequential. I joke about it because it's true. Being a sensitive person, highly or not, can be hell in this world. I learned it can be the death of you in the Church-- I wish someone had told me this-- but perhaps I did what I was supposed to do for a time, and then got out to save my soul.

It's a dangerous world for people with passion and heart. Maybe that's why I love Elvis so much, and others like him who got eaten alive by the world. I've often felt like I found myself in someone's jaws just in time to get the hell out of there. When I gave birth to my daughter, I had this overwhelming sense then and ever since, that my heart was now outside of me, vulnerable to the world. It gets worse as she grows up, learns to drive and has a life away from me. Thank God she hasn't fallen in love yet! That could be the death of me! I "fell in love" for the first time at 15, and whereas now I see it as the first taste of the delicious feeling of loving and being giddy in love, at the time I felt like my heart was run over by a semi. The thought of watching my daughter get her heart broken for the first time sometimes terrifies me. Hopefully someone will remind me at that time that I survived my first broken heart and a few others and lived to tell about it.

Sometimes, when I've gotten hurt, I've said that I felt like I was walking around with several open cuts in a world full of rubbing alcohol. It's a tough world for us sensitive types. Others say sensitivity is a gift, but it's a gift with a price. I'm better at what I do: writing, caring for the hurting and the dying, comforting the bereaved, even preaching when I did it-- precisely because I am sensitive. But it also opens me up to severe pain and hemorraging. People can be rough, even mean. Meanness is not just for elementary or high school anymore. It's everywhere. That whole bit about playing nice, sharing, hold hands when you cross the street, and stick up for the underdog were lessons for little kids. Us grown-ups have a hard time listening to those lessons anymore, it's for kids. Just like "Love one another," "Treat each other like you'd like to be treated," and all that mamby pampy stuff Jesus talks about; we just don't take that seriously anymore. It's good Sunday School stuff, but it doesn't work for Board meetings or for Monday morning at the office.

But I can't help it, there's something in me that still holds out for love and kindness, even though I know I'm setting myself up for pain. I grew up with Jesus, and so I still think he wanted us to listen to what he said about how to live and act. He did mention, of course, that it would be dangerous, and he didn't shelter us from the fact that that kind of teaching and living got him killed, and would again if he were here in person. But I can't change the fact that I and my daughter are "highly sensitive people" and therefore we'll get creamed a time or two along the way. But I also know that in the midst of the danger, I catch glimpses of heaven on earth. My heart is stirred when it deeply connects to another human being, even though it opens me up to getting hurt again. It's what makes life worth living, this love stuff. Giving. Reaching out. Telling someone who doesn't know it that they're beautiful. Sure, there's the risk that they'll think you're nuts or "gay" or liberal or some other inflammatory term, but there's also the risk that you'll catch a glimpse of heaven on earth or make a friend that will love you well into eternity.

You never know. But proceed with caution.

Road Trip

I just got back from a two-week road trip with Larry and Sarah. Sarah is one of those odd teenagers that still enjoys hanging out with her parents, and even spending 24/7 for two weeks on the road! I am grateful. It doesn't matter where we went, because we have the most fun just getting there.

If you must know, we went to Pennsylvania, to "Happy Valley," as it is known to Penn State fans, to see Larry's side of the family, and to eat at all our favorite places near where we used to live at the beginning of the new millenium. It doesn't take much to entertain us! On the road, we have time to talk. Sarah and I read voraciously while Larry enjoys driving and thinking. We sing along to the radio. We eat at restaurants we don't have in Nebraska, and stay at hotels with swimming pools and hot tubs. We simply enjoy being together, with endless uninterrupted time to talk, laugh, and create memories and private jokes.

We went to a minor league baseball game in Moosic, PA, where the Red Barons used to play, and now the farm team to the Yankees play. We ate stadium hot dogs despite the recent study on the news about how unsafe stadium food often is. We stood and sang "Take Me Out to The BallGame" when they told us to, watched grown men and women do silly antics on the field, and little children compete in strange competitions to win a T-shirt. We ducked when fly balls went foul and gasped when one of those balls hit a fan in the side of the head (he was ok). We laughed at a big blue furry mascot with yellow horns on his head as he led cheers for the Yankees. We brought along Bill, an old friend of Larry's from his church there, who doesn't get out much anymore, but loves a good baseball game. Bill always thought of Sarah as his "little buddy," even though she's not so little anymore. Bill heard that Sarah is crazy about Elvis so he told his daughter who went digging through her closet and found three original tin movie posters of Elvis, and gave them to Sarah as a gift. Bill could not know what a precious gift that was, or how it made Sarah's whole vacation to receive it.

We also attended the one-day-only nationwide showing of "Elvis On Tour," in celebration of 75 years since Elvis' birth. We were crammed into the theatre with a full house of middle aged and elderly fans, some sporting Elvis T-shirts, who knew all the words to all the songs. We clapped at the end, and no one laughed when someone was heard to say, "We love you, Elvis," because we all felt the same way. That's why we were there.

We took our granddaughter Mackenzie to HersheyPark, and rode the ride through Chocolate World and listened to the whole schpiel of how they make chocolate as if we hadn't heard it many times before. We hugged chocolate bars that roamed the park, and Sarah and I rode rides that turned us upside down, right and left, and upside down again. My step-daughter Jennifer and her boyfriend Mark took me on a ride that shot out of the gate going 0-75 in 3 seconds and then proceeded to tumble us, spin us, and roll us all over. I laughed. And laughed! Like someone was tickling me and wouldn't stop!

We stayed in Larry's hometown of Lewistown and discovered that you really can't go home again. That things change, not always for the better, and it's hard to see something and some people that you love not live up to its potential. Sometimes it's best to just remember how it was and move on.

We ate at DaVinci's Pizza, which is now across the road from where it used to be but still has the best Italian food. Every chance we could we drank coffee and ate donuts at Dunkin' Donuts because Nebraska does NOT run on Dunkin' and sometimes we wish it did. We went back to Mountaintop which was a hard place for us, and went to the Dunkin' Donuts there where we often drowned our sorrows in coffee and Coolattas. We remembered the people we fell in love with there, in the midst of painful times, and remembered again that nothing is all good or all bad. We drove through Lake Winola, my favorite place in PA, a place on the side of a mountain, a place that gave me hope and healing during a tough time of my life. The people there have a very special place in my heart for reasons I can't really put into words. You know how you go through something hard or wonderful or profound with someone and those experiences bind you? That's how it is. We had many of those experiences together, not least of which was 9/11. We cried together, we prayed together, we tried new things together, and we celebrated together. Those four years were the most memorable and gracious of my ministry.

We went to the Falls Church and ignored the "No Trespassing" signs and climbed through the trees and over the rocks and fallen trees to find the Buttermilk Falls. It was a hidden gift. A place of peace and solitude. A place of incredible beauty. Hidden in the trees.

When we turned our car West again, we were all ready to come home. It was good to get away, to get a break from work, but we all agreed, finally, that there really is no place like home. And particularly no place like Nebraska. We all ached to be back in the flatland, to see the corn, the wide open sky, flat, straight roads, and to wave to strangers on the way. Being on the road gives you time to get perspective on your life. The stuff that stressed us out before seemed so silly suddenly. As we talked about our lives to others faraway, we realized just how much we love our lives, our jobs, our little family and home. And we are grateful. We couldn't wait to get back! To hug our friends, to go back to work with our awesome co-workers, to sleep in our wonderful little home that belongs to us. To harvest our little garden, can the produce, and even mow the lawn. Simple pleasures that make our lives so precious....

There's no place like home.

In the Beginning

When I was halfway through my seminary education, I had to find a ministry placement, a kind of internship, to work in while I continued in my classes. The most logical option at the time was to be appointed to a student position to fulfill that requirement. So in June of 1991, I was appointed by Larry's District Superintendent to serve as an associate to a four-point charge. They were four small churches within commutable distance of our home in Ceresco, NE, where Larry was then serving. Since I was in class in Kansas City all week, I was basically supposed to preach in two of the churches each Sunday, alternating with the other pastor. The other pastor's name was Doug, and he was a first-time pastor, serving the churches there full-time. He didn't go to seminary, but had a college education and had gone through the one week of Licensing School in Nebraska.

Doug and I got along ok at the beginning. We didn't have to interact with each other much, since we preached in different churches every week, and I was in school during the week. I knew he was much more conservative than me, but again, that didn't affect me. I knew also that as a pastor that would begin the Course of Study route of education for ministry and become a Local Pastor and not seek ordination, he didn't think a seminary education was necessary.

I enjoyed preaching at the little churches on the weekends, seeing my name on the church boards out front as one of the pastors for the first time. I have pictures of all four of those church boards with me standing proudly nearby. All four churches were in little towns, some of which required travel on gravel roads, which was new to me, being from New Jersey. The little church in Denton, NE was a beautiful little white church, beautifully maintained by a huge endowment fund. Traveling on the gravel road to get there, I swerved to miss snakes and turtles every time, as they basked in the hot Nebraska sun-- right in my way. Another church was in the town of Pleasant Dale, which I thought was a wonderful name for a time. And it was pleasant. A sweet little town with many trees and a small neighborhood for kids to ride bikes safely and adults to go for a walk at night. Malcolm was a small town that was known to have a bar that served the best steak. The church itself was on top of a steep hill, with steps leading up that steep hill-- a challenge for myself to climb, much less the elderly membership of the church. There was on and off campaigns in the history of the church to build a new church, one that was handicap and elder-accessible, but the ones who were members forvever did not want to give on the old building. Even if their health or age prohibited them from attending the church as it was. Change never comes easy in the church world.... no matter how necessary.

The fourth church was in Raymond, another tiny town that was near a beautiful state park. We got our bait in the town of Raymond to attempt an afternoon of fishing.

The people responded well to me, my preaching, and my leading of worship. They helped me gain confidence in my gifts for ministry. The summer went smoothly, I was able to attend meetings on weeknights since I was out of school for summer break. I was able to attend other church functions that met during the week. When September came and I had to go back to school, that's when the tension started. Doug didn't think it was fair that I got paid for just showing up on Sundays and preaching. He tried to insist that I add to the list of responsibilities already agreed upon by the District Superintendent. But it was drilled in me that school came first, and most weekends I was deep in the books, writing papers, or studying for tests. One Sunday Doug's wife and kids showed up at one of my services. I felt I was being "checked out." Apparently some parishioners had told Doug that I was a good preacher, I know one older man suggested Doug might learn something from me. That is never good.

Doug's kids really liked my sermon and children's sermon and told me so after church. One weekend soon after, we had to meet with the Pastor-Parish Relations Committee to decide salaries, which meant basically they decided whether to give the pastors raises or not. I was sent out of the room for their discussion of me, but the walls were thin and I didn't trust Doug. And for good reason. I overheard him trying to convince them that I did not do my job and that he wanted them to cut my already meager student pastor salary and give what they cut to him on top of what he made. They considered it. They brought me back in to discuss it to see if there was more I could do for them to earn what they'd already agreed to give me.

I called the District Superintendent and asked to meet with him. I told him what happened. He did nothing. I called him again when they agreed to cut my salary and give it to Doug. The District Superintendent said he'd look into it, and did not. I'd heard that Doug was bad-mouthing me to parishioners behind my back, trying to lessen my credibility. I called the District Superintendent for help, he said he'd talk to Doug. He did not. I was stressed out. I could not get my D.S. to listen, much less be the advocate that he was supposed to be. It was hurting my grades as the stress interfered with my studies.

I called a special Staff-Parish Relations Committee meeting, as pastors are allowed to do, and I asked the D.S. to come. I'd written a letter to the committee that I read out loud in their presence, stating the events that had happened, my efforts to resolve it, and the lack of response. Therefore, I stated, I was leaving the position, effective immediately.

My D.S. was furious. I expected that. I called him on what he'd done, or rather, didn't do. He insisted I leave immediately, which I did. I was a nervous wreck. I had just moved halfway across the country months before to attend seminary in Kansas City, I'd gotten married in June, and was in my second semester of a new seminary with completely different expectations than my first one. Larry was with me, as he didn't want me to face the Big Man alone, and he took me for a drive. When we got home, there was furious message from the DS, demanding a meeting the next day. At that meeting, he gave me a dressing down, told me I'd had no right to do that. I made him look bad. I told him I couldn't get him to listen or address the problem, he'd ignored all my pleas for help. He was red in the face. He threatened me that this would reflect badly on me on future appointments. We were dismissed.

That was my first experience of the United Methodist appointive system.

I decided not to ask for another appointment while I was in seminary, I needed to focus on school. I'd gone through enough stress to get to Kansas City, to attend a school that I believed would better prepare me for local church ministry. I didn't need the added stress. A pastor from a large church in Lincoln who had been assigned to be my mentor, called me to meet. Being a woman, I hoped she'd be helpful. She, too, scolded me and defended the District Superintendent's actions and reminded me that if I was seeking eventual ordination, I would have to obey the System. What I heard was, "...no matter what." I understood early on that you don't question the System without a good slap in the face.

For my internship, Larry presented the idea to his own church board to hire me as an intern. There I preached once a month, helped start a Young Adult Group, start a Church Choir, and assist Larry with worship every week. I did that for two years, and we had a good time. I learned a lot. We started a Church Choir and it brought out gifts in me that I didn't know I had. We got a Young Adult Group started, did melodramas, got Gene Lowry to come and do a concert, and did a lot of creative things in worship. It was a good decision that resulted in good ministry for the church, and a time of healing for me. Ceresco (and Valparaiso) was good to us. They loved us as a newlywed couple, gave us a home, appreciated our gifts and were very kind to us. We had a good time, and I hated to leave when I graduated, which necessitated a move for both of us. They will always hold a special place in my heart....

There Are Days

there are days

i'm walking on flower petals

gentle underneath my toes

and uncrushed



fragrance of tulips, lilacs

colors of rainbows

so vivid

my eyes are moist

and anything

anything is possible



there are days

my skin tingles

with anticipation

and beauty radiates

in the eyes of another

and they don't even realize it



it's as if

all the filters are removed

from my senses

and the holy

permeates everything



and I giggle

because no one else

seems to know

and i've been privy

to a miraculous secret

while others go on

cursing at burnt toast

traffic jams

or kids throwing hissy fits in Wal-Mart

Rollo

I never quite know how to shop for cards for Father's Day. My father tends to be in a category all his own. He doesn't fish, he doesn't like sports, he wasn't the kind to bounce us on his knee or teach us how to ride a bike. He lectured me on Freud, Rogers, Maslow and May growing up. I knew about the Trauma of Birth and Penis Envy before I knew about the Revolutionary War or the Ten Commandments. Mine was a bit of a strange childhood.

Rollo was born and raised in a small town near Bombay (what is now Mumbai) India. He was a British subject in what was then a British-occupied country. He grew up with mango trees outside his window and servants that attended to his every need. He was the youngest of children, several of whom died in early childhood. His own father died when he was 14. I know very little about him or my grandmother, who stayed in India till she died in her late 80s. I never met her. I don't know much about my father's childhood-- he never spoke of it much. I knew he was anxious to leave India, especially when India gained her independence from Britain. He came to the United States in 1949, sponsored by a U.S. missionary from Kentucky, a Mr. Skelton. Rollo came to Asbury College in Louisville, KY, where my mother says he was ushered in ahead of the line like some British royalty. However, her disgust did not last long, and they fell in love.

Dad was never the Michael Landon type of father. Of course, where he came from, female prodigy were often quietly disposed of, so I cut him some slack. He read a lot of books, mostly on psychology and theology, and he liked to lecture on what he'd read. When I was in college, my friends were fascinated by him. They literally would sit at his feet while he spoke and ask him all kinds of questions. He'd start philosophical conversations at the dinner table, sometimes frightening my brothers' girlfriends, and I knew never to bring home a boy to dinner. Actually, dating was difficult for me, as my father would psychoanalyze each prospect that came into my life, and had them summed up and rejected before they would have taken their first bite.

In the mornings, after asking us questions that were too intense or deep for our brains to compute at such an early hour, he'd go to the door, pause with the doorknob in his hand and say with great drama, "I go to prove my soul." I think he felt a great responsibility each day to do something magnanimous, and it was a great burden.

I remember on Saturdays we'd never take any trips too far from home because my father had to mentally and emotionally prepare for Sunday. It was an all-day endeavor, and to be away from home would have thrown him off. He sat at his desk in his bedroom, gesturing, whispering, preparing the great drama that would unfold in the pulpit the next morning. Every Sunday afternoon he was so exhausted he had to take a nap. So we didn't go anywhere on Sundays either. In the pulpit, he was intense. His grip was fierce, from all those years of hand-gesturing in the pulpit. His sermons were a dramatic event, a course in human potential, a calling forth to wholeness. People were taken up in his grip and in awe. He was never Rollo to his parishioners, but he was "Dr. Michael." In their eyes, he stood apart and above. In Erma, NJ, the UMC there named their fellowship hall after him, Michael Hall. They threw him a "This Is Your Life Rollo" event that made the area papers, flew his mother in from India, and showered him with gifts. Another church gave him his own trip to India and a Tiffany lamp.

So my father was a huge presence in my life, kind of towering and other-worldly. He spent many of his off hours in his green vinyl recliner, either watching the Evening News or meditating. We were not to disturb him when he was meditating.

The memories I have of him as a Dad include the time he attempted to build me a treehouse in the pine tree out back. Unfortunately, he didn't realize that the branch on which he intended to build was dead. It snapped at some point, and I remember walking out of the back door of our house just as my father's ladder came toppling over, dumping him mercifully in the soft bed of pine needles below. He left all the wood up in the tree... and abandoned the project. Another time, he told the assistant pastor that he needed to take a picture of him for the newspaper, when in actuality, he was taking the picture for me, as I was deliriously in love with the assistant pastor. Stu Dangler. 25 years old, long hair, dark glasses. The first love of my 11 year old life. I truly believed he'd wait for me. Alas, he did not.

He hasn't been the kind of Dad that took me on his knee, got all teary-eyed when he saw me in my prom dress, or ran behind my bike as I learned to ride. There were other men in my life that fulfilled those roles along the way. My father taught me to devour books, to think deeply, to ask big questions, and to relate to God on a mystical level. He taught me to learn as much as I can. And all those years watching him and listening to him in the pulpit probably made me a better preacher, infusing some of the drama and intensity. These days Dad is long retired in Mississippi where his wife, my mother, finally convinced him to move. He loves eating at Cracker Barrel--he sneaks in a hamburger when my mother's not looking--and he still teaches Sunday School and preaches a sermon when it's needed at my mother's home church. He's still perplexed at southern culture, but in his own way, he analyzes it and tries to understand what he will probably never truly understand. He's self-conscious, I think, sticking out with his British accent in a world of strong southern accents, but many people still find his "otherness" fascinating. When I think of my father, I remember a man who was always telling me what books I ought to read or what subject I ought to write a paper on, just for "fun." And I have to smile. NOBODY, I'm sure, has a father like mine.

Little Church on the Prairie

My father used to say "sometimes you have to go back in order to go forward..." And I'm finding these days that as I make many new beginnings in my life and get ready to celebrate my 45th year on this earth, I keep wanting to fall on my knees and say "thank you." Sometimes it isn't until you put the load down finally that you realize how heavy it really was. It isn't until you've left until you can see things more clearly and honestly. And sometimes you just have to be amazed that you made it this far.

There were good times and bad times. My first church appointment was in South Central Nebraska, and I do mean SOUTH. You couldn't go much south-er than where we lived and still be in Nebraska. I was appointed to three churches and Larry served two. My closest church was 25 miles across the prairie. They weren't too happy that I wasn't living in their parsonage, and they never did get over that. It was a little tiny town that was pretty much a ghost town. There were a couple of small cafe's, a bar, and a school that kept defying the powers to stay open. I did manage to draw a crowd of 60 people in that church on Sunday, and I earned kudos when a beloved member of the community died suddenly in his garden and I had his funeral. Some people began to think I might be alright. Others still held their ground-- their empty parsonage a sore spot that never healed. My other congregation had a whopping crowd of 9 people on Sunday, and an outhouse in the back that hadn't been used for years. Unfortunately I was forced to use it since I got pregnant that year, and when you gotta go, you gotta go.

In that church, there were peacocks in a neighboring yard, and a rooster that always chose to cry out right during the Silent Prayer after the Lord's Prayer. I always brought a travel cup of 7 Up to quell my morning sickness during the sermon-- which only made it more necessary for me to use the god-awful outhouse. It was a long way home....

The third congregation was my favorite. They only met once a month because the 10 remaining members were all over 70, lived several miles away from the church, and it was getting harder for them to keep the church open. It was a little white clapboard church out in the middle of the prairie, and on the Willa Cather Historical Tour. Some claimed she worshipped there, but no one remembered for sure. It had no running water in the church, and yes, there were not one, but two outhouses out back-- one for men and one for women. One had to travel 7 miles on a dirt (not gravel, but dirt) road to reach the church. My first Sunday preaching there, I had my 13-year old stepson Michael with me, and it had rained two inches over the weekend. The road was a sloppy mess! I endured the 7 miles of mud in my F150 rear-wheeled drive pick-up which a lot of anxiety and maybe even a few cuss words. When I arrived at the church, the men were all standing on the front step of the church laughing. One of them said, "Usually when we get this much rain, we cancel church. But we all wanted to see how this preacher lady from New Jersey drove that pick-up in this mess!"

Thanks, guys.

Michael proceeded to tell them that I would be willing to drive out there in ANY kind of weather.

At that church, they set out a huge potluck dinner on wooden planks set across the old, wooden, attached seats in the church. The women brought jugs of water from home, and we all ate a homemade feast. Afterward, we had church. The 5 men sat on one side, and the 5 women sat on the other. Most of them fell asleep before I was through. They'd told me when I came that it was best to keep it short.

I didn't stay in that appointment for more than one year. The people who were mad at me for not living in their house never got over it, and so they collected all the complaints they could on me one day and ambushed me at a meeting. They didn't like that I was pregnant. Who was going to take care of the baby? Would my baby take time away from my ministry? And who was going to pay for that Sunday I missed church because I was bleeding and the doctor ordered me to bedrest in case I was having a miscarriage? There were people who supported me, but they kept silent, as often happens. At my farewell party which was also a baby shower, one man got up and scolded the crowd for driving me away and told them they should be ashamed of themselves. Then we had cake and opened presents.

My best memory of that year was the little church on the prairie at the end of a muddy road. Before I was done, they decided it was time to close its doors for good. They were all getting too old to keep the church going. So we invited everyone that ever loved that little church, and the building was full-to-bursting on that day. We even had a baptism for a grandchild, and the offering plate was overflowing with bills to pay for the building's upkeep. And of course, we had a lot of good food to eat! Just weeks after its closing, one of the members died-- the youngest one, at the age of 70. We had a moving farewell for him, in his home church. I often wondered if it just broke his heart beyond repair to see it close.

In the midst of death, there is life. Three days before we moved out, I went into labor and gave birth to my beloved daughter Sarah Gene. I came home from the hospital Sunday afternoon to a baby shower at Larry's church (I look a bit pale in the pictures), and Monday morning we moved. I don't recommend it, but somehow, like many more things ahead, we survived it. And life went on. Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do. And so we did.

Bein' Mama

What I celebrate most this Mother's Day is the gift of BEING a mother. Nothing in my lifetime experience has impacted my sense of God more than becoming a mother. I knew when I became pregnant-- I could feel it within me that something was different, even before the test... that something new had come to life within me. It was a difficult year, as I was in my first year of ministry and the folks there were pretty hostile. But that sense of life growing within me continued to give me hope, and a reason to keep trying.

I'll never forget the first time I felt movement in my womb. I was sitting in the recliner in the living room when I felt Sarah move inside me. Weird! Wonderful! I remember seeing a foot move across the inside of my skin. I was participating in creation, the creation of a life was going on inside me and that never ceased to create awe in me.

We were in the midst of moving when I went into labor, two weeks ahead of my due date. We were in Grand Island to take my parents out to dinner at Dresbech's-- 90 minutes away from home. Just as the salads came to the table my water broke! What a funky sensation! My mom ushered me off to the bathroom while Larry negotiated to pay for our uneaten salads with the waitress, who upon hearing that my water broke, proceeded to drop the tray of rolls that she was carrying and started to push him out the door! He let her know that I was still in the bathroom and he wasn't quite ready to leave yet! We never did have to pay, by the way.

It was a long night of labor at the Brodstone Memorial hospital back in Superior, NE. Larry stood up most of the night, massaging my lower back as I tried to remember how to breate. My doctor didn't believe in epidurals (what is there not to believe?)-- so all I had was a little medication to relax me. Ha! Right.... Sarah was born at 9:43 a.m. the next morning, and they put her, all gray and slimy, on my belly, tensed up with crying and rage (it's cold out here!), and I was amazed that that beautiful thing had been living inside of me. Wow.

Three days later we moved to Tilden, NE, which helped my status in the eyes of all the women in the churches. They thought I was Wonder Woman! I didn't feel like Wonder Woman. But having a newborn baby is a good way to get people to accept you, let me tell you!

Sarah was always my main focus. She has been a source of inspiration to me, a reminder of hope and joy and unconditional love. When days were bad, she'd grab me by the hand and say, "Dance, Mommy!" Then there were late nights with the croup, singing to her, soothing her. Even nursing was a spiritual experience: offering my body to her for nourishment, a kind of communion if you think about it. All of it was embraced with a sense of God's love, surrounding, sheltering, empowering, even in the midst of many storms. I got to immerse myself in the worlds of Pooh, Toy Story, Lion King, Gullah Gullah Island, Little Bear, etc. and to slow down. I got to remember simplicity. Simple, cuddling love. It gave me strength to deal with everything else.

I remember watching her learn to play soccer, and every time she actually kicked the ball or did something she hadn't done before, I was filled with such pride, gratitude and love. I remember thinking that this must be how God feels when God sees us grow, learn, overcome. Just those moments of DELIGHTING in my child, her simple goodness and beauty, gave me a sense of how God must often feel... even about me.

Sarah is almost 16. People warned me about this. Of course they warned me about 12, 13, and the teenage years in general. So far, none of their warnings have been accurate. Sarah and I are really close. We still dance in the kitchen, boogie in the car to Elvis, go to town for a movie or a Diet Dr. Pepper and enjoy simple times together. We cuddle at night to read together before bed, and Larry gives us that time, because he knows it is our sacrament. They have their own Father-Daughter sacraments, too. But Sarah is the reason I kept on trying when things got to be pretty bad at times, and she still reminds me of the simple blessings of life each and every day. She gives me laughter, music, dancing, silliness, and more love than I could ever imagine coming my way.

Today I give thanks for the gift of being a Mother, and for the one who lets me be that to her, even now.... I love you, girl!

Moving Ahead

It's been 7 months since I handed in my ordination papers. I've been waiting for the regret, the anguish, the doubt. It hasn't come.

I live across the street from the Baptist parsonage. I had a very collegial relationship with the last Baptist pastor. He was here for 6 years. He's a good guy. A little strange, I always ran into him in the Hastings bookstore. He was always looking at the comic books-- my daughter got locked out of our house one day and his wife brought her to their house and she told me his office at home was filled with comic book characters. We worked together on several occasions when I was a pastor, and we got along well. He was always very funny. He was a good pastor, he loved his people and visited them faithfully.

His parsonage is empty now, and I can't help but think, "another one bites the dust." He didn't leave the ministry. He was voted out by his parishioners (Bapstists can do that, Methodists are stuck and their only option is to torture the pastor they don't like until the Bishop has mercy and moves them). He's now serving a tiny church down in Kansas somewhere, but I think he'll be ok. He likes the small church, the intimacy of small community. But there was a sadness, a weariness to his posture when we last spoke in my kitchen.

I don't miss the pastorate. Getting out and looking back I remember more and more of the abuse that I put up with in many churches. I remember having my self-esteem pounded regularly by petty criticisms, impossible demands, childish fights between parishioners and the ever-present battle for control. I can't believe I lasted as long as I did. But the Church structure also made us believe that no one else would want us anyway, so we really had no choice. They beat us down into submission, sucked out any self-esteem we might have left, constantly reminded us that we were the cause of the Church's overall decline, and then of course reminded us that they owned us forever.

No, I don't miss it.

I do miss some of the people. I'm already starting to hear about former parishioners who passed away, and I felt that grief at not being able to be there for them. I trust that someone else was, however. I don't miss teaching confirmation to students that I'd never seen in church and would never see again, but whose parents insisted they had to get "done." I don't miss conducting weddings with people who didn't know how to respect the church and who sometimes came to rehearsals slightly inebriated, or whose wedding party had a six-pack out in the parking lot. But they had to have a church wedding because, well, it's what you do. Like baptize your baby or confirm your 12 year old, even if you have no intention of being a part of the church.

I don't miss having to lie. Like every year at the Clergy Session when we have to go through the John Wesley questions (from the 19th century) again that we answered at our ordination. "Are you in debt as to embarrass yourself in your work?" Of course, most of us were, but we were supposed to lie.

"No."

"Do you expect to reach perfection in love in this life." (Uh, no.)

"Yes."

These days I feel like I'm in recovery. I feel like I'm striving to get my dignity, self-worth, and relationship to God back. I feel like someone that crawled out of a car wreck and is still somewhat tramatized, still nervous riding in a car. I gave everything I could to my calling, I gave so much of myself, and in the end it felt like the Church gave me a good hard punch in the mouth and threw me out the front door. "Go in peace."

I've had to remind myself that the Church is not God. The Bishop certainly is not God. I am a child of God, beloved, cherished, embraced by the loving, gentle spirit of God. All that the Church said in the end is not the final word on me or my value. God is bigger than the Church. For so long, of course, the Church was the mouthpiece of God for me in my life. But that can't be true anymore. It's like continuing to allow an abusive parent be the mouthpiece of God or of Love in you life. The Church has lost that privilege in my life.

My relationship with God is alive, healing, growing, changing, expanding-- and in a way it has become too large for the confines of the Church. In my work now I get to deal with real people with incredible honesty, trust, and finally hope that we share with each other. We couldn't be truly honest in the Church. We brought only our best selves to church because our dark secrets, our hurts, our doubts, our rages, our struggles were too dirty for the Church. We didn't trust each other there. Death seems to bring out incredible honesty in people, and I must say it's refreshing. There is no longer any reason to hide anything when you face death; your own or that of your loved one. There is mercy, there is grace, and in the midst of us, there is God, holding us all.

I wouldn't go back for anything. It's time to move forward.

Pet Therapy

We have three cats. I don't know how this happened. I didn't anticipate this years ago, especially since I had a strong allergy toward cats, which I found out about one weekend during college when I was visiting a former roommate who had a cat and I rubbed my eye and I ended up in the emergency room with an eye so swollen my contact lense popped out.

But I can't imagine my life without these guys. Scooter is almost 14 years old, and I feel about this in a similar way as one who watches the aging of a parent or close friend and it makes one a little nervous. One day, I realize, he will die. He's slowing down. He slips a little when he jumps up on the bed or the windowsill, and my daughter is even suggesting getting him some of those steps to put up against the bed to help him get up there. This is a difficult reality, one that I never anticipated.

We each have our own "favorite"-- so no one is really left out. Scooter, the old guy, is Larry's buddy. Larry took to him more quickly than we did (he came to us as an adult-- Scooter,-- well, Larry too...) He defended him when Scooter wouldn't come out from behind the piano when we first got him. He believed that someday Scooter would come to love us, and he has. He defends him when it is Scooter's hair that spots the carpet, when it's Scooter's hairballs that we discover in the corner of the living room, and when it's Scooter who scratches the furniture (we know this because he's the only one who isn't de-clawed) Larry is the one who Scooter trusts and will climb up on his lap and nudge his hand, demanding a head-rub.

Carmel is Sarah's favorite. He was the first one to move in with us when we thought it was time that Sarah had a pet; something more cuddly than an aquarium of fish that had the tendency to die often. (On a side note, we did have one of those "googly-eyed" fish that we named Lazarus because he was always floating on his side at the top of the tank and then would mysteriously come back to life when we came at him with the net...) Carmel was a farm cat, son of a mother who "got around", and the owners were so ready to get rid of all her offspring that they put him into Sarah's plastic pumpkin when she came to their house trick-or-treating. Slick move. After Sarah had him in her bucket, she fell in love. Who were we to rip him out of her adoring arms?

But Dobby is my buddy. I got to name him, and he's named after the severely co-dependent house elf in the Harry Potter series. He is Carmel's half-brother, born to the litter that came after Carmel (like I said, Mama "got around." Nobody ever talked to her about birth control) We got him when he was six weeks old, so tiny you could fit him in the palm of your hand. He was so tiny we were afraid that Carmel or Scooter would eat him, so I carried him around most of the time those first few weeks, and I think that's when we truly bonded. After awhile, as any good mother, I had to let him have a little room to breathe and trust that he would, in fact, not get eaten. Turns out that Carmel's "maternal" or brotherly instincts kicked in with Dobby's arrival. I think he sensed that they were somehow related, or maybe he just felt sorry for the squirt. But if Carmel had a wing, he would have sheltered his little brother under it. He was always by Dobby's side, snuggling up to him, watching out for him.

Now that Dobby is bigger than his big brother, they still hang out together, chase each other through he house, and swat at each other with their claw-less paws. They're quite entertaining to watch. But Dobby and I have our ritual. When it's time to go to bed, I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Dobby knows. He comes to the door of the bathroom and waits outside for me to finish. Sometimes he gets confused. If I go to the bathroom early in the evening, he still comes to the door, thinking it must be time for bed. When he realizes it's too early, he'll go back and take a short nap on the bed until I go to the bathroom again. When it's time, he waits outside the bathroom door, and when I come out, he joyfully trots off to the bedroom, looking back to make sure I'm behind him and takes a frolicsome leap onto the bed, falls down and rolls over onto his back, waiting for his nightly belly rub. He is so darn cute, you just can't resist! When I crawl into bed and read my book, Dobby walks up alongside my body and nudges my book to get my attention. He falls down again, in the space under my armpit and snuggles down. Sometimes he looks at the book himself and we discuss the plot. After awhile, he gets a bit bored and so he gets up and gives me a chest massage. He is very focused in this activity, and I haven't figured out what the point is, but he doesn't like to be interrupted or he walks off in a huff.

When I'm done with my book and ready to turn in finally, I spend a little time rubbing Dobby's neck for awhile, which he thanks me for by rubbing up against my face and nuzzles for a bit. When I turn out the light, he settles down by my leg in a ball and breaks out into a loud and meditative purr. I fall asleep to the sound of his contented motor.

My cats are very participatory members of our family. They endured all those moves we made between 2003 and 2005. They made their displeasure known. They expressed their opinions on the various houses we lived in. They are good at making their displeasure and discomfort heard. We learned they don't like to travel in the car, especially over the long distance from Pennsylvania to Nebraska-- we were worried that Carmel might not survive that trip, he was literally CATatonic for three days, and we weren't sure he'd snap out of it. But he is ok now, and doesn't seem to bear any residual trauma from that event.

After a long day at work, there is nothing so soothing as curling up with my Dobby and accepting his unconditional love and adoration. Life is good.