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.