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.