Dancing Defiance

Exodus 1:8 - 2:10 NRSV Now a new king arose over Egypt, who did not know Joseph. He said to his people, "Look, the Israelite people are more numerous and more powerful than we. Come, let us deal shrewdly with them, or they will increase and, in the event of war, join our enemies and fight against us and escape from the land."

Therefore they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor. They built supply cities, Pithom and Rameses, for Pharaoh. But the more they were oppressed, the more they multiplied and spread, so that the Egyptians came to dread the Israelites. The Egyptians became ruthless in imposing tasks on the Israelites, and made their lives bitter with hard service in mortar and brick and in every kind of field labor. They were ruthless in all the tasks that they imposed on them.

The king of Egypt said to the Hebrew midwives, one of whom was named Shiphrah and the other Puah, "When you act as midwives to the Hebrew women, and see them on the birthstool, if it is a boy, kill him; but if it is a girl, she shall live."

But the midwives feared God; they did not do as the king of Egypt commanded them, but they let the boys live. So the king of Egypt summoned the midwives and said to them, "Why have you done this, and allowed the boys to live?"

The midwives said to Pharaoh, "Because the Hebrew women are not like the Egyptian women; for they are vigorous and give birth before the midwife comes to them." So God dealt well with the midwives; and the people multiplied and became very strong.
And because the midwives feared God, he gave them families.

Then Pharaoh commanded all his people, "Every boy that is born to the Hebrews you shall throw into the Nile, but you shall let every girl live."

Now a man from the house of Levi went and married a Levite woman. The woman conceived and bore a son; and when she saw that he was a fine baby, she hid him three months. When she could hide him no longer she got a papyrus basket for him, and plastered it with bitumen and pitch; she put the child in it and placed it among the reeds on the bank of the river. His sister stood at a distance, to see what would happen to him.

The daughter of Pharaoh came down to bathe at the river, while her attendants walked beside the river. She saw the basket among the reeds and sent her maid to bring it. When she opened it, she saw the child. He was crying, and she took pity on him, "This must be one of the Hebrews' children," she said.

Then his sister said to Pharaoh's daughter, "Shall I go and get you a nurse from the Hebrew women to nurse the child for you?"

Pharaoh's daughter said to her, "Yes." So the girl went and called the child's mother. Pharaoh's daughter said to her, "Take this child and nurse it for me, and I will give you your wages."

So the woman took the child and nursed it. When the child grew up, she brought him to Pharaoh's daughter, and she took him as her son. She named him Moses, "because," she said, "I drew him out of the water."
---------------------------

Two midwives decide to ignore the orders of the great Pharaoh and then lie
to protect their charges -- they LIE to PHARAOH and live!

A mother chooses to hide her child in the weeds rather than risk his
murder... which was to be by drowning... build a basket to defy death.

A daughter of Pharaoh chooses to bring a Hebrew child into the house of her
father. A she-child with no power ultimately undoes her dad.

Miriam brings together two women who are both acting the truth to power.
What a dance of delight.

Each of these women dances to a subversive melody. Each in their own way
acts from the ways of love and relationship, not power and subjugation.

Worshiping the walls

It's a framed award from May 2004. There's a photo of the building with a zillion flags planted in the front lawn. One flag for every soldier that had died in combat at that time. It was Memorial Day. The plaque was given 4 years ago.

They are three awards for outstanding service and generosity. They are simple certificates that thank the congregation for their support of the ministries of our covenantal partners. Three framed, plaques awarded to the congregation in 2008.

It is a picture of a young, vibrant woman. Perhaps her senior picture from high school. It carries with it a poem and her birth and death dates. It hangs on the hook placed under it in 2004.

It is a large wood base with a brass plaque and a ledger size list of names. Over 200 names. It's labeled "25th Anniversary Memorial" but no explanation of who those 200 people are. It hangs there with the dust that's fallen upon it since 1981.

I see dead people.

Why are there so many dead people in this place of worship?

“I love God; it’s his fan club I can’t stand.”

Heather has a tag on her Facebook page that says:
“I love God; it’s his fan club I can’t stand.”

Heather is my husband’s niece. She’s a bright young woman, an English major with wonderful skills in television editing, production, television broadcasting, and she has a knack for “getting the story.”

Her father is an active pastor and both of her grandfathers are retired ministers; and she has an aunt and uncle who are both clergy. Given these realities, her tag line makes me ask, “What story are we missing?”

I attended a conference on “the post-modern and emerging church.” Each person in the group with whom I attended is deeply committed to the United Church of Christ and all of us are struggling with the same issues: why is the church, its mission and its ministry eluding our young people. I don’t mean teen-agers. Teenagers in every generation have rebelled against the values of their parents; it is part of the maturing process. What I’m referring to is the age group between the ages of 18 and 40 who have never come back to our churches. Why are they few in number? Could they feel the same way as my niece? “I love God; it’s his fan club I can’t stand.”

In our gathering, a 30-something year old man of our group said something that caused me to stop and think and I’m still thinking.

He stated, “Everything the church does dis-empowers young people.”

He gave examples that were true of our church as well as his congregation. The only path to spiritual growth in our churches comes through participation in the institution we call the Church. We attend Sunday school as small children, we are confirmed, we grow up and we can sing in the choir, serve as an Elder, a Deacon, or a Trustee. We can become a committee member or team member and we can serve the institution.

But look at what is missing! All of these things serve bricks and mortar and keep the institution going. But this path gives little or no relevance to personal relationships or a faith that makes a difference in lives. I’m not sure this is very empowering to our young people. This, I believe, is the “fan club” my niece was referring to in the context of her signature line.

Are we a fan club for God? What does a fan club do? Think of the “Mouseketeers” of the 40s and 50s, a fan club for Mickey Mouse. The only thing required of Mousketeers was to promote Walt Disney. What about Elvis Presley and his fan club? What was this all about? Young girls swooning over his music and writing love letters to the king?

Fan clubs imagine what it would be like to see their hero(s) in person. Today we can blog with the stars, attend conventions from Star Trek to MASH, or participate in sports clinics with the pros. Fan clubs are not empowering, fulfilling, or relevant any longer; they exist to serve the personalities that have become the object of obsession. In the end, it’s a lot of fluff and meaningless activity that neither challenge us nor deepen our faith in God or our commitment for a better world.

Like my niece and countless young people and families, I too feel our churches are missing the story. Are we keeping our membership at St. Mark out of loyalty to the land, the building, and the institution? Out of a reverence for the memory of our previous congregations? In honor of our parents and loved ones? Are these things more important to us than our loyalty to God or our commitment to a personal journey of faith?

I am wondering if we’re living the wrong story these days. I am wondering if there is another story that we’ve been missing. What do you think?

Is there REAL faith?

“You know, if you want a church where you can pretend for an hour or two that everything is just fine with you , with your family, and with the world, then we’re probably not for you. But if you want a church where you can tell the truth about how it is an know that it’s okay, maybe you’ll find a home here.”
UCC website

“…religion is something people do because that’s what is expected of them. We are told we must believe in God to go to heaven, so we do it blindly or not sincerely because we are afraid of the consequences….Is there true sincere faith?”
Question left in my church’s offering plate.

Why are we part of a faith community? What do we get out of it? What difference does faith make in our everyday lives?
My question to both of the above.

Here’s the response my faith leads me to give.

• · Some people attend church because they’ve always attended church. Their ancestors before them attended church, so they do too. It’s a habit and a duty.
• · Some people participate in a community of faith because they are looking for answers to life’s questions. They are looking for what will fill emptiness in their lives, trying to satisfy an unidentified hunger. They shop from church to church, faith to faith, looking and looking, and moving on when something offends or challenges them.
• · Some people attend church because they fear the wrath of an angry god. They’ve been told that God will judge harshly those who do not jump the hoops and submit to the anger of an all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-present God.
• · Some are part of a community of faith because it is in relationships with others that they are fed, nourished, challenged to grow, and refreshed in their whole being.
• · Some people don’t attend church because they see people who do as hypocrites and judgmental, but they still have questions, are still looking to fill that emptiness.
• · Some people don’t attend church because they can’t wrap their minds around the whole “motivation by fear” concept.
• · Some people are not part of a faith community because they have no idea what goes on there but have seen and heard in the media what “Christians” are about and they don’t like it.
• · Some people are not part of a faith community because they’ve never been there, their parents didn’t attend, and none of their friends attend. These are spiritual people and the consumer’s market of offerings in the Spirituality section of the bookstores and the internet communities are great places to check things out.

I would propose that participating in a faith community and having faith are not the same. Humans are born with a spirit, a soul that yearns to be connected to something larger and beyond themselves. That yearning is satisfied through faith, but not by faith. Faith is not a solution, but a journey. True, sincere faith is an honest and open trek through life – both the challenges and the joys – growing and reaching toward that “something” beyond and greater than us. In Christianity, that trek is guided by the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth and the writings of his earliest followers. And that “something” is the One Jesus called God.

Yes, my friend, there is true, sincere faith. It is not found in a book or on the internet. It is not found in the media or in anything someone else can give you. It is found by looking within yourself, recognizing the God-shaped hole within you, and seeking honest, open, and challenging ways to fill that void. It is a journey we must share with others who feed, nourish, and challenge us. Easy answers and the status quo of life will not be a part of this journey. It is a journey that will continuously transform, change, and remold you.

Reflections of the changes in life.

Of course, I knew it was going to happen. It happens every year. But I'm never really fully ready when it does.

Oh, I saw it coming. I noted the signs that it was on its way. But now the reality of it strikes; I'm overcome by it.

I used to privately scoff at people who reacted this way. After all, it's a part of life. Deal with it. And deal with it I will. But it doesn't make it anymore pleasant. It just shows me again how my own judgments about other people have come back to haunt me.

So what is "it"? My baby has left to return to college. Okay, "baby" isn't a very good word. He's 4 days short of 20 years old. He's 6'4" tall with a deep, masculine voice and a bright future, a 4.0 GPA taking honors courses at a private college, a girlfriend, and a great handle on the responsibilities and privileges of adult life. He's skilled at money management, time management, and personal relationships. My "baby" is well on his way to independence.

Yet the last weekend of August is always a dreaded time for me. He leaves and drives 8 hours to go to school, to live independently and separately. To lead his own life. I should be exuberant in all his success. I should bask in his achievements. And I am and do. But inside, I am torn -- ripped apart. The child who learned to walk, talk, and think within my care, the young man with whom I've shared so much in these years is rounding the corner from "my baby" to adult son, from one who needs me to one who choses when and how to relate to me. I'm not dealing well with this change -- maybe because it's more profound than the progression of changes that led up to this.

When he stepped onto a school bus for his first day of school, I was excited for him. He would experience learning in a new setting, with new people; he would make friends and his world would expand. He came home and shared his stories, his frustrations, his joys over a snack or the evening meal. When he learned to drive, I was relieved. I no longer would be a taxi driver and he could find some independence and experience a larger slice of the world. But he always told us where he was going and when he'd be back, and then he came home, ate dinner at the family table, and shared his excursions. When he stepped on a plane for a tour of Great Britain I was envious of him. He would see places I've dreamed of seeing. His world expanded beyond my own, but he would still be coming home. And he still called it home. He shared his stories, his photos, and his dreams to go to see the world.

The first year of college, he and I drove to the school in separate cars. He needed my help to find the place, and the space in my car for his belongings. As I left him in the dorm that evening -- my birthday and days from his 18th birthday -- the tears fell: mine and his. I sensed his unfamiliarity with the place, the people, the situation. I cried for him. And for myself. For the first time, the ties that had held us together for 18 years were being dissolved -- the dinner table, the long walks, the conversations. His world separated from mine. His life is his own. Tears fell over the separation and this difficult transition.

And now, two years and two August weekend separations later, those tears fall again. The void, the reality, and success of this cutting of the proverbial umbilical cord mingle in the salty flow from my eyes.

I treasure his companionship, our conversations over breakfast and dinner, our shopping excursions at Goodwill. I revel in his stories of learning to do a new thing, of achieving success with his coworkers, of finding his way to a new spot in town. I enjoy his company when we're reading the newspaper in the evenings, our long walks in the neighborhood after dark. And his humor, dry and sharp, lightens even my heaviest days. I do miss him when he leaves for school every year on the weekend of his and my birthdays, one set of milestones marking yet another.

Today his room is void of all thing things that make it "Andrew's room." The floor is empty. The closet door and desk drawers closed. Missing are the clothes in the laundry basket and the contents of his desk. Gone are the keys to his car. Gone is the young man I'm proud to call my son and my friend. Today the void is not just in that room. It is also in my own heart.

Maybe I'm just feeling my age. Maybe my changing hormonal balance affects me this way. Maybe it's the humidity or the phase of the moon. Whatever. The bottom line is still that I'll deal with it. His independence is the evidence of our parental success. His burgeoning self-reliance and autonomy are the desired outcome of procreation. My struggle to transition will be won with time. My tears will flow into rivers of joy. Someday. But for today, I think I'll just swim in them. A late August swim.

Spiritual Inventory; Spiritual Garage Sale.
Our garage is filled with the tangible evidence of our living. There are children's desks and bookcases, a wok, computer software, my huge roll top desk, the freezer, soccer balls and basket balls, two bikes, a lawn mower, various kitchen utensils, lots of canning jars and a canner, ... well, you get the idea. The garage is filling up with the stuff that we've outgrown, out used, or just won't have a place for in our new place. It's stuff we have to get rid of.

Some stuff has already been given or sold to others. A small TV with a VHS player to the my church's nursery. A second lawn mower to our neighbor. The basketball hoop to another neighbor. Landscaping tools and some plants to yet another neighbor. My kitchen island to a member of my church. Things we asked others if they could use because we thought they might and because we cared about what happened to them.

As I weed through the stuff in this house and think about what I really need for the next, I keep finding more stuff I really don't need. Why do I have so many sets of twin sheets when I only have one twin bed? Why so many sets of towels? Why so many curtain rods? Where did all these phone cords come from anyway? The more I open boxes and closets, the more stuff that ends up in my garage for the sale. I really don't need most of this stuff. So why did I buy it in the first place? And where has it been hiding all this time?

Some things I take hold of and wonder if I could possibly live without even though they have no practical value. It's all in the sentimental or memory value. The box of letters my mother wrote to me over the years. The tattered and worn table scarf that was Dan's grandmother's. The unity candle from our wedding. These collect dust or sit in a box untouched. Some are too fragile to be handled. Their real value is in the memory, the association to a loved one, the emotional connection. I can't bring myself to throw them away. So into a box they'll go and they'll get moved yet again.

Then there are the things I thought I lost that I'm finding. The keys to my roll top desk and firebox. The box of blank cassette tapes I replaced already. The angel food cake cutter that I bought in a kitchen specialty shop 10 years ago and only used once and lost. Treasures I fretted about losing that now will be sold in the garage sale. Not so valuable after all.

Moving is always a time to "clean house" and "clean out." We don't want so much weight in that moving van because we pay by the pound. This time, however, we're moving to a much smaller space. So, we really must pare down what we own, sort through our stuff and prioritize what is really important to keep and what we throw away, and what we can pass along to others either through this sale or by donating to a charity. We must make choices today that we may regret later -- either because we got rid of something of value or kept something that has no value at the other end of the move.

What would a "spiritual move" do in our lives? What if we intentionally chose to journey from where we so comfortably live now in the faith to a different place -- a new place? What if we explored a different way to express or experience our faith? What would we need to leave behind, or put in our "spiritual garage sale"? What would we pack away into "spiritual storage"? And how much of that would we later unload?

It was a spiritual garage sale that began our journey to this place -- a small town in Maryland where we would start a new faith community. We had to move to a whole new place spiritually to put ourselves where we could be open and ready to do God's new thing, re-imagine the Church for a new generation of people. We brought with us the necessities and a few things we didn't need. We left behind those things that were no longer useful. We had to find new tools and means once we began the new work. We made a move. We can't go back to where we were. We can only go forward to yet a new place.

As we ready ourselves to begin a new leg of our journey, moving on to other ministries in new places, we begin again the sorting and the sifting. This journey begins with divergent paths -- two journeys from one and merging again somewhere beyond the present. What will we need for the journeys? What will we take that we find we no longer need? What will we pass on to others who will find it useful?

Our garage is filled with the evidence of our material living. What is the evidence of our Spiritual living? What have we passed along to others? Given away freely? Offered at a price?
What's in your Spiritual Garage Sale?

Lenten Blessings!

The Journey is Life.

The desktop screen of my displays a picture of a misty woods. The angle of the camera leads the eye to look up the trunks of tall trees but I cannot see the tops. I see the bright white areas where the sky is beyond the and above the tree branches. Around the base, ferns and under growth flourish in the rich soil. As my eyes drift to see beyond, down the well worn path between two trees, my view is blurred by fog. Brightly lit areas on those tall trees trunks tell me the sun is shining behind the photographer. It would seem to be the first light of dawn.

Upon this picture sit the “icons” of the programs and computer tools I use everyday: The Internet web browser, the word processor, the accounting program that keeps my finances straight, the “tune up” software that keeps the computer running well, a folder of frequently used documents, and the “Briefcase” that allows me to synchronize the documents I take back and forth between my computer and the church’s computer. I can merely point to these icons and these work tools open over the desktop photo. These icons don’t interfere with the “view.” They merely sit on top of its edges much like a hiker’s boots might sit along the edge of the path.

The whole desktop screen is for me a metaphor for Christian ministry. You and I are on a journey through the forests of life. Our destination is not in focus because it is the journey that is important; we see but dimly what we will someday know clearly. Glimpses of light lead us further down the path. Each day dawns yet a new opportunity.

As our paths of ministry go in different directions, I encourage you to keep looking forward and walking forward on the journey we call faith. Use the tools along the way never letting them become more than small images and allowing them to run their course after you walk beyond them.

The journey is life. Life it. Love God. And keep on walking toward the Light.

Spiritual Garage Sale

Hi,

Some thoughts as I sip hot tea and I take a break from preparing for our HUGE moving sale that will take place on Saturday. Pull up a chair and pour yourself some of this wonderful Ginger Peach tea.

Our garage is filled with the tangible evidence of our living. There are children's desks and bookcases, a wok, computer software, my huge roll top desk, the freezer, soccer balls and basket balls, two bikes, a lawn mower, various kitchen utensils, lots of canning jars and a canner, ... well, you get the idea. The garage is filling up with the stuff that we've outgrown, out used, or just won't have a place for in either of our apartments. It's stuff we have to get rid of.

Some stuff has already been given or sold to others. A small TV with a VHS player to the my church's nursery. A second lawn mower to our neighbor. The basketball hoop to another neighbor. Landscaping tools and some plants to yet another neighbor. My kitchen island to a member of my church. Things we asked others if they could use because we thought they might and because we cared about what happened to them.

As I weed through the stuff in this house and think about what I really need for the next, I keep finding more stuff I really don't need. Why do I have so many sets of twin sheets when I only have one twin bed? Why so many sets of towels? Why so many curtain rods? Where did all these phone cords come from anyway? The more I open boxes and closets, the more stuff that ends up in my garage for the sale. I really don't need most of this stuff. So why did I buy it in the first place? And where has it been hiding all this time?

Some things I take hold of and wonder if I could possibly live without even though they have no practical value. It's all in the sentimental or memory value. The box of letters my mother wrote to me over the years. The tattered and worn table scarf that was Dan's grandmother's. The unity candle from our wedding. These collect dust or sit in a box untouched. Some are too fragile to be handled. Their real value is in the memory, the association to a loved one, the emotional connection. I can't bring myself to throw them away. So into a box they'll go and they'll get moved yet again.

Then there are the things I thought I lost that I'm finding. The keys to my roll top desk and firebox. The box of blank cassette tapes I replaced already. The angel food cake cutter that I bought in a kitchen specialty shop 10 years ago and only used once and lost. Treasures I fretted about losing that now will be sold in the garage sale. Not so valuable after all.

Moving is always a time to "clean house" and "clean out." We don't want so much weight in that moving van because we pay by the pound. This time, however, we're moving to a much smaller space -- Two small apartments in different corners of different states that don't add up the same space we have now in one place. And, eventually (in 9 - 10 months), all the stuff we move to both places will have to fit into just one space again -- Dan's apartment which is only 1/3 the size of where we live now. So, we really must pare down what we own, sort through our stuff and prioritize what is really important to keep and what we throw away, and what we can pass along to others either through this sale or by donating to a charity. We must make choices today that we may regret later -- either because we got rid of something of value or kept something that has no value at the other end of the move.
What would a "spiritual move" do in our lives? What if we intentionally chose to journey from where we so comfortably live now in the faith to a different place -- a new place? What if we explored a different way to express or experience our faith? What would we need to leave behind, or put in our "spiritual garage sale"? What would we pack away into "spiritual storage"? And how much of that would we later unload?

It was a spiritual garage sale that began our journey to this place -- a small town in Maryland where we would start a new faith community. We had to move to a whole new place spiritually to put ourselves where we could be open and ready to do God's new thing, re-imagine the Church for a new generation of people. We brought with us the necessities and a few things we didn't need. We left behind those things that were no longer useful. We had to find new tools and means once we began the new work. We made a move. We can't go back to where we were. We can only go forward to yet a new place.

As we ready ourselves to begin a new leg of our journey, moving on to other ministries in new places, we begin again the sorting and the sifting. This journey begins with divergent paths -- two journeys from one and merging again somewhere beyond the present. What will we need for the journeys? What will we take that we find we no longer need? What will we pass on to others who will find it useful?

Our garage is filled with the evidence of our material living. What is the evidence of our Spiritual living? What have we passed along to others? Given away freely? Offered at a price?

What's in your Spiritual Garage Sale?


Thanks for sharing a cup of tea with me. It's time for me to get back to work. The hours are winding down quickly.

Blessings,
Carly
9 September 2003

Haiku #3

Silence shouts “Betrayal!”

Covenant disregarded

Trust forsaken Lost

Colleagues withdraw mute

Their silence screams “Abandoned!”

Cronyism wins

Costly honesty

Evil Vengeance Snakely slime

Silence screams “Condoned!”

Abandoned Forsaken Sole

Shipwrecked Beached in starless night

Christ’s body fouled

Haiku #2

Life’s work continues

those who inflict pain abort

dreams, vision, hope, faith

Mourning rains must flow

Red rage and black despair

Spring, flood, gushing forth

Through Sophia’s child

Man’s folly will be revealed

The child will rejoice

She’ll turn my mourning

into jubilant dancing

sackcloth into joy

Silence shattered by song

Giving thanks to the One God

Who resurrected reigns

Darkness will retreat

Return dreams hope faith visions

Shine into this pit

Haiku

Dream Vision Faith Hope

Conception Expectant

A Spirit of Joy

Vision Faith Hope Work

Endeavor Joyous groundwork

A Spirit of Joy

Apprehension Test

Dark shadows darken joy’s spirit

Looming Raining Threats

Storm passes Relief

Impediments overcome

Dream Pray Vision Hope

Quickening! Hiccups!

Pregnant Potential! Praise! Joy!

Dream Vision Faith Hope

Vision Labor Sweat

Joyous footwork to prepare

A Spirit of Joy!

Cold steal tears open

Hemorrhaging Life poured out

Forced abortion: Death

Wounded Empty Void

Hope stolen Vision deceased

Annulled Canceled Void

There is no Spirit

No joy No hope No Vision

No Spirit of Joy

Mouse House

We enjoyed a lovely long drive from Maryland to Illinois and back this past weekend. It was good to see family and visit. Andrew had a chance to add to his "behind the wheel" hours required by the state of Maryland. It was a good trip with plenty of laughs and a few surprises.

The funniest surprise was that we picked up a hitchhiker along the way. Yeah, I know, this is never a safe idea. But we didn't mean too pick her up. She crawled into the car somewhere between Kewanee, IL and Columbus, OH. She made herself at home, and we just didn't realize she was there. If that's not a statement about the amount of stuff in the van, nothing could be! We never saw her. Really!

That is, until Dan reached for a tissue for me while I was driving. We had just had lunch at the Olive Garden in Frederick. We still needed to stop for gas before we drove the last 18 miles to home. Dan opened the glove compartment and reached for the tissues. Strangely, the stack of paper tissues was out of place, rumpled, and, well, shredded. From the back of the glove compartment to the front, shredded paper and cardboard (from the box of hand wipes) was spewing all over the van floor. It wasn't like this when I had reached in on Saturday evening to get Dan an Extra Strength Tums to calm his Post-Pizza-Hut-Pizza-stomach. In the hotel parking lot in Chillicothe, IL things were just fine. But now, oddly enough, the whole glove compartment was churning disorder.

I took one look across the front seat and I knew the probably source. It took Dan a little longer to figure it out. I calmly told him to close the glove compartment door. He couldn't figure out why. I repeated it calmly. "Close the glove compartment, Dan. Now." He didn't get it. So I reached across yelling something less than calm about a critter nest and tried, unsuccessfully, to slam the glove compartment door closed.

Chances are you've ever seen Dan react to unexpected critters. But let me tell you it's a real laugh. Unless you're driving! The poor guy slammed the glove box door closed. And when it bounced back open from the force of it, he was out of the seat belt and on his feet in a flash. He's not a small man, but he sure made quick to remove himself from the vicinity of that glove compartment. Over the arm of the captain seat, through the narrow space between the two front seats, over the cooler between those seats, and to the back. In just the snap of fingers. No noise. Just motion. Dan moved very quickly to the back of the van. I didn't remember that he could move so fast in such limited space.

By now, Andrew and Aaron are in stitches. Dan's sitting on the floor of the back of the van -- the two extra seats were folded down as foot rests for the boys and their "stuff." The van was still in the left lane of MD 85 heading toward Market Street in the middle of traffic. I couldn't stop. But the van was shaking with our laughter.

When we stopped to get gas, (a Sheetz gas station) I emptied the glove compartment and found the identifying "evidence" that the hitch hiker is a mouse. A nesting mouse. I cleaned up the mess as best I could but found no live being. There's a small hole in the top of the compartment where one can access the light to change it. The point of escape. She was in the dash board somewhere enjoying relative safety from her human home wreckers.

We replaced the tissues and napkins with service station blue paper towels because the hand wipe I used left the glove compartment floor and walls damp. When we arrived home, we made sure all the food crumbs and litter were removed from the car. Then we sat around the house wondering how to excise this creature. I'm all for the mouse poison. Andrew and Dan are adamant that it must be removed alive. I'm willing to do a snap- trap. They want the "poor little mousie" released into the storm pond/field beside the house.

The "poison" is large doses of "Cumadin" the human blood thinner laced into some "mousie kibble." The mouse ingests it and it gets into the blood stream. As soon the mouse gets active, any slight bruise or bump will cause massive bleeding internally. The mouse will then go out looking for water because the bleeding leaves them very thirsty. So, they go out looking for a drink, leaving the van, the garage, and my space in peace.

But Andrew and Dan want to be humane to our little hitch hiker. Internal bleeding might be painful. Or the "poor Little Mousie" might get stuck inside the van and stink it up. A sticky trap is just as inhumane because it limits the "poor little mousie's" freedom. And there's no point even asking about the snap traps... they're viscous.

We did not come to any productive conclusion. By evening yesterday, the blue paper was in tact and we all privately hoped the mouse was adding some Illinois diversity to the gene pool in the storm pond beside our house. But it was not to be.

This morning Dan and Andrew went to the gym at 5:00. When they returned, they brought news that the mouse was still in the glove compartment. But she didn't like the lovely blue paper towels. She had "redecorated" with the green fiberglass firewall material from the back of the dashboard. Lots of it. The glove compartment was heaping full of shredded green with hints of blue here and there. And I do mean full. It tumbled to the floor when I opened it up to clean it out.

Yes, I again had to clean it out. So much for a "shared responsibility marriage." Dan wouldn't go within 3 feet of it. He stood at the garage door, his head peaking out from behind it while he stood in the safety of the laundry room, while I cleaned out the shredded décor and cleaned out the glove compartment with anti- bacterial wipes. He removed himself from sight when I closed the van door and placed the bag of "mouse house" into the garbage can beside the door. Dan may clean cat boxes, but forget about cleaning mouse houses. It's just not in his repertoire.

So after the boys left for school, I went to Ace Hardware to get supplies. Dan insisted upon going with me, however. We had a few moments of marital strain in the "Pest Control" aisle before we reached a compromise. I bought "live traps" to try first. If they are not effective, I'll back them up with the poison. However, Dan will not agree to empty the live traps. He wouldn't even set them. "The Poor Mousie...." (Eyes rolling over the back of my head.)

Have you ever seen a "Have a Heart" live trap for a woodchuck? Well, these look NOTHING like those. These are little plastic boxes, the size of match boxes, open at only one end with a "SeeSaw" in the middle of the bottom. When the mouse upsets the SeeSaw, the door over the front closes and locks.

The only problem is that they are designed to exist on a kitchen counter or under a sink. Not in a vehicle where the whole thing moves all the time. All it takes is closing the glove compartment to set it off. Or, closing the van door. There's no hope of driving down the driveway without snapping the trap closed.

I loaded the things down with peanut butter -- the only thing that would work to hold them in the correct position. Then I gently placed them in the glove compartment with a stack of McDonalds napkins and gingerly closed the door.

How it's going to ever work is a real mystery to me. But for Dan's and Andrew's sake, I've left it in the glove box with ORDERS to not drive the van, not to touch the van, not to breath near the van. If there's no "Poor little Mousie" in those boxes by tomorrow evening, I'm replacing the live traps with the box of poison and parking the van on the street. I don't want a dead "Poor Little Mousie" stuck between the dashboard the the frame of the van because that could really be unpleasant in the summer heat, but I'm not willing to have a family of "poor little mousies" in my van either.

It's all wrong, you know. That an Illinois mouse would find it's way into a Maryland van. I'm sure that somewhere in the blue laws there must be something about it being immoral and illegal to carry a live mouse in your gloves. Or perhaps it's an offense to interbreed an Illinois Farmer with a Maryland Suburbanite. If it's not, well I think we need a new law on the books! <>

If you have any creative and effective ways to excise Illinois mouse from a Maryland van, I'm all ears. I'll nibble at anything that might work at this point.

Falling Walls, Cracked Soul

The wall fell. It was a wall of protection, a dyke to hold back the ocean of chaos. A sea wall to keep the ocean at bay while I swam in its murky waters and dove to find the sources of the murk. It was a solid barrier between the sea and me, between the ever changing tidal pools and the examiner of those depths. The wall was my means of transportation from one bay to the next, the pathway that made easy my travels from one chaotic crisis to the next.

The wall fell. A sea wall stands only if there is adequate support on the dry side, only if there is enough counter pressure to hold the wall against the sea. The importance of the wall is it the separation it provides between ocean and safety, between chaos and order, between my work and my feelings.

The wall fell. There was no support on the back side. No counter pressure upon which I could brace myself. I fought with all I had to hold back the wall, but I could not do it alone, without the support of those who have helped in the past. I turned to the sea to uphold me, to lift me from the floodwaters. I rested upon its waves, and was embraced by that which I’d always remained withdrawn and unattached.

The wall fell. It wasn’t an intentional taking down of the wall. It just tumbled down and the floodgates opened. The sea has flowed into my pathway, my safety. The waters have marked my very being. I’ve grown accustomed to the buoyancy it offers. Dare I say it? I have grown to love the water – the very response the wall was assembled to thwart.

The wall fell. But the cycle of the tide does not stop; the water must recede from the shore. So now begins the painful work to separate the sea and the land. Now begins the anguish of removal.

The tide rescinds. A new wall must be built. And I dread the separation. I loathe the approaching anguish.

This has been my reason for this wall. It keeps out the pain of separation. It holds a bay my falling in love with the sea. I am at once longing for the wall and dreading the separation. Torn, tattered, branches flowing away with the tide, I wonder if I’ll ever want to swim in the depths again.

What a Web we Weave?

The spider in the window of my office, a basement window well, spins her web with intricate detail. She walks delicately up and drops down from the window leaving behind her a trail of fine silken web. She’s careful and she’s determined. She has in mind a vision of what the web will look like. She maybe even salivates about the insects she’ll have for dinner.

But the neighborhood cat has other ideas. She likes to sleep on cold nights in the window well. She drops herself into the well and sleeps against the warmth of the window. And in so doing, she upsets the spider’s web. Ms. Spider is undaunted. She just starts again and renews the broken strands.

I feel sometimes like the spider. I spin and spin with a vision in mind. I think things are going a long well. And while I’m least expecting it, something comes along and spoils the web. I’ve spun and spun and am left with nothing. I lack the spider’s tenacity. Or, maybe I’m not as hungry as she is.

The problem is I’m not a spider. Ms. Spider can do it all alone. I can try, but ultimately the vision will only come to reality if we have many undaunted spinners. That means finding others who have the gifts to make the vision become reality. That means finding workers who can make the silk and are willing to catch others who will work to make the vision a reality.

Building a church is not for everyone. It’s for entrepreneurs and risk takers. It’s for people who can live with an idea – a vision -- not full service church. It’s for people who are willing to risk their family’s comfort, their Sunday morning comfort, and their weekday boundaries. It’s for the folks who can leap beyond the comfort zone of their own journey and invite others to walk with them. It’s for people who can stick with it for the long haul and make due without.

Maybe church building isn’t for me. Or, maybe my expectations for church builders is too high. I need others to be as committed as I am. I need others who will take the risk I’ve taken. I need others who are as willing as I am to walk out of the box and into the unknown. I need others who will invite everyone they know, everyone they meet, and then go further and meet people intentionally to invite them. Invite to the banquet those who don’t yet know that party’s being held for them.

The spider spins her web despite it’s regular destruction. I wonder how many times the vision will be thrown away by others before I too will let it go as a dream I cannot fulfill.

Drought, Rain, and New Life.

It rained here this week. The ground has been bone dry since November. So dry there can't be any septic perk tests run. So dry the winter wheat isn't green. So dry that the soil turned last winter has been windblown across the yard like dust dancing in the sunlight. It's been very dry.

It was a slow, soaking rain. Three days worth. Not enough to catch up all the rain we're behind, but enough to remind us of the sound of rain falling upon the roof. Enough to bring the daffodils out of their buds. Enough to swell the buds at the ends of the trees twigs. Enough to show off the colors of the rainbow in the west sky this morning. Enough to let the ground taste hope again. It was a good rain.

It's been a dry winter for my soul too. I've questioned and doubted, fussed and whined. It was a winter cold with loneliness and adjustment. A dark chill swept through me and left me stiff and immobile.

But Spring rain has fallen on me too. A gentle rain of hope and assurance. Enough to dampen the dustiness of my faith and awaken my thirst for more. God’s Spring showers new life, new energy, new awareness of all the blessings that have come my way: The rain of people praying for us, for this new endeavor we call Spirit of Joy Community. A shower of cards and calls and e-mail that bring hope. God’s gentleness rains upon me and glows with the colors of anticipation and expectation: Of a new faith community budding out from a mere twig. Of joy finding its way through the questions and doubts I’ve thrown at the wind. Of the relationships yet to be formed.

Natalie Sleeth wrote a resurrection anthem whose verses call out:

There’ll be joy in the morning, there’ll be joy on that day.

In the light of dawn the dark is gone.

There’ll be joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.

There’ll be peace and contentment evermore

Every heart, every voice on that day will rejoice

There’ll be joy, joy, joy, joy, joy

And glory, glory, glory of the Lord will Shine

And glory, glory, glory of the Lord will bring the truth divine.

There’ll be joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.

Easter is the hope that God’s glory does shine and bring the dawn of joy to those who live in the midst of darkness. Easter is the dawn of God’s truth divine offers to us peace and contentment. Easter shines God’s assurance upon our parched hearts so that we might rejoice and feel the joy again.

God shines upon us. There is joy in the morning. There will be joy on this day. Let us rejoice!

Yes, Mother, I Know

"Yes, Mother, I know."

It was my usual response when she'd try to tell me something obvious. "You've got to be careful with boys. Girls your age don't need to be sick or pregnant".
"Yes, Mother, I know."

Those were the days when I knew it all, had all the answers, and surely didn't need someone 40 years my elder telling me the facts of life. And why did she think I did? I was, after all, 17 years old. If I didn't know by then what the monthly cycle was, she probably would have known about its absence. Did she think I wouldn't tell her if it hadn't happened?

We were in the laundry room. She was moving clothes from the washer, where she'd wrung them out by hand so she could re-use the rinse water for the next wash load, to the drier. I was hanging around trying to look busy by looking for matches in the box of single socks.

"You know, Carla, you're going to start having periods pretty soon."

"What?"

"You’re becoming a young lady."

"And?"

"Well, you're old enough now to have periods. That's all."

"Mom, I starting having periods three years ago."

"Oh. I didn't know. I guess I missed that"

Yes, Mother, I know.

It wasn't that she missed it. It was that as I was reaching puberty, so much else was going on. With siblings: Tisha's marriage was rocky. Ricky's wife died, his kids moved in with us and then out to his house again. Then he got re-married. Emily had a baby. Kenny got married and they had a new baby. Paul got married. Wayne went off to the Air Force. Marcia went off to college. Cindy was engaged to be married and moved out. Glenn was dating.

With all that going on, how could she have noticed me, the youngest.

The youngest and the last. Beneath her radar scope. The one who at three years old got left at the lake after swimming. The one whose baptism was forgotten about. The one who wore all the hand-me-down shoes and dresses. The one who had heard all the rules repeated to all the others so many times they didn't need to be repeated again.

Yes, Mother, I know.

-----

So much time has slipped through the fingers of life since. So much has changed. I stopped knowing everything somewhere along the line. I'd call Mother and ask for her custard pudding or some other recipe.

"I don't know what's so special about it. It just comes out of the Betty Crocker Cookbook."

"But your edition is different than the ones they print now. Mine has the recipe using cornstarch and yours with flour is so much better."

So she'd write it out on the back of an index card in tiny but perfect handwriting. Then she'd write a note on one end of the other side. She'd put a stamp in the corner and my address on the bottom and mail it to me. It's signed in the corner "Love, Mother."

So many recipes she sent me. Or dictated to me over the phone. She'd wait less than patiently while I wrote down her every word. "Isn't this going to cost you a lot of money? Can you afford to call me for a recipe? Why don't you just save your money and buy a good cookbook?"

But it wasn't just her recipes I called for. Or even her suggestions on how to do this or that. It was the piece of ground she gave to me when I called. Her calm voice and her motherly wisdom could steady the ground under me when everything else was slipping away. I could depend on her to look at any situation for it's literal reality. That's what she understood best.

----

Her voice was calm still last April. I'd gone to Florida to help her get ready for the trip back to Cape Cod for the summer. She was on oxygen most of the time. With only one lung left and it full of the cancer that took the other, her energy was low. But her wisdom remained. That wisdom was the ground that steadied me amidst the realization that I might never see her again. She patiently gave me instructions as I washed down the walls with bleach water to prevent summer mold. As I put Borax around the sills to keep the bugs out. As I emptied the cupboards and closets the contractors would need to get into to replace the plumbing and the floors after we left. As I planned meals that would use up all their left over food. As I tightly packed their bags so that everything Dad wanted to take would fit along side the clothes. As I closed up the home she would never see again.

So many instructions. How would I remember them all when she was no longer there to call? Who would I call then? Who would steady the ground beneath my quaking feet?

----

It was a terrible transition. Both of us changing jobs--career focus even. Changing homes. Moving to another state. The boys were changing schools for the first time in their memory. I had surgery in the midst of it all.

And then there was Mother.

The week between leaving our old home and moving into our new one, we spent with Mother. The boys spent time riding their bikes on the flat Cape Cod terrain, or walking the salt flats at low tide. I spent mine with her. Feeding her little bits of tapioca pudding and creamy yogurt. Sitting at the end of the couch with her feet on my lap. Rubbing her feet. Holding her hand. Giving her frequent hugs. She was getting weaker. But she still gave me instructions on how to cook for my father. I couldn't bring myself to say, "Yes Mother, I know." I wanted to hear those directions. Write them in indelible pen in my memory. The ground under me was slipping away. Her voice was my calm. Her wisdom steadied me.

The night before we left, as I tucked her into her bed, she hugged me firmly.

"I love you, Mom."

"I love you, too."

"Yes, Mother, I know."

----

As I scrape the leftover dinner from its dish, her voice rings in my ears. "That will be good in soup."

"Yes, Mother, I know"

As I rinse dishes to put them into the dish washer she whispers, "You could wash them by hand and not waste the electricity."

"Yes, Mother, I know."

As I toss into the recycling bin an empty margarine tub with its lid, her wisdom echoes, "You could use that for keeping leftovers."

"Yes, Mother, I know."

As I rub my arthritic knuckles her advice is still there. "You need to keep those hands moving or they'll get stiff."

"Yes, Mother, I know."

As I stir the bubbling milk, sugar, and flour and ready the beaten egg, her steady voice remains. "Stir some of the hot liquid to the egg first and warm it up. Then add the mixture back into the hot liquid. It won't make lumpy pudding that way."

"Yes, Mother, I know."

I know because you've taught me well. I know because you showed me how to save every penny and how to skimp to get by. I know because you dared to teach me-- a girl--that I could do anything I put my mind to doing, and do it well. I know because you never took my knowing for granted. I am who I am because in me at least some your wisdom lives on. It steadies the ground under me while everything else is slipping away.

Yes, Mother, I know you loved me.

In honor of my Mother,

Evelyn Myrle Camp Stucklen

d. August 31, 2001

Advent, 2001

There is only one window in our house that faces east. It is a misfit window -- smaller than all the others even though it is of the same manufacturer. Why the builder choose to put a window there -- just south of the peak of the garage roof -- has always annoyed me. No other house in the subdivision has a window there. But, no other house has this wall facing east.

This morning as I lay in bed I realized why. The light of the nearing winter solstice shone through that window long before the sun rose. I watched the sun rise as I was getting ready to leave. It was so beautiful. There were colors flowing through the sky along the horizon as though someone were painting on the outside of my window panes. I watched as it turned lighter and I could see the roofs of the houses across the way. The colors were most brilliant just before the sun reached the horizon. Once its white light burst its celestial prison, the colors began to fade, replaced by the brilliance of the winter sun.

How apt. The rising sun is much like the Advent season. We stand in awe of what is unfolding before us. The colors of possibilities amaze us. Even when the clouds come, they add texture to the ever-evolving scene before us. We go about our way, busy in our waiting, and waiting amidst our busyness. Christmas -- the season when the church color is white -- replaces the colors of this season with a brilliance that will fade our time of waiting.

How apt. The rising sun, and with it Advent, are also like the birthing of this faith community. The rising sun or the season of waiting, like the birth of a new faith community reminds me that this is a new day--a day filled with new possibilities. This is what church planting is all about. Its about hope, its about anticipation, its about the astounding grace that God gives us. Maybe the small misfit window at the South peak of my garage is God's astounding grace for me, enabling me to look into the heart of God and see the glory of this new day.

Happy Sunrises!

Peaceful Advent!

Merry Christmas!

The problem with memory.

It's just been one of THOSE times. If it's supposed to be on, it's off. If it could be right, it's not obvious. You know what I mean?

I mean this: It's December and it's 70 degrees outside. It should be the season of snow blowers, not lawn mowers. I flat out refuse to mow the lawn in December. Not only does it take 2 hours, it's too hot today -- in DECEMBER!! If it could be right, it's not obvious. I just don't get it.

I mean this: God's sent me to this far away land to plant a new church but nothing works here the way it does in our places of "former existence." It’s December and I should be doing Advent things – discussing with people why we’re not singing Christmas carols in Advent, gathering people for special music and skits, enjoying a church’s transformation into a place of holiday decorations. I'm a preacher without a pulpit -- sort of like a fish out of water -- and it's a lot harder than God ever told us it would be to be without a congregation. If it could be right, it's not obvious. I just don't get it.

Probably the root of my problem is memory. I remember those Decembers in years gone when we had 3 feet of snow by Christmas. I remember sledding down the steep hill on the path to the barn when my body was much more limber. I remember how satiny smooth the icicles hanging off the barn roof felt, and the steamy breath of the cows as they lumbered into the barn. I remember too many things for this 70 degree December day to seem right. I can't help but remember how it used to be and use that as a measure of what today should be.

Yes. The problem is my memory. I remember so many comfortable, normal Advent seasons.  I remember Advent Bible studies and caroling when lots of people wanted to be a part of things. I remember being a part of communities that had traditions and memories of how things are supposed to be this time of year. I long for what was -- it was comfortable, warm, friendly, and -- ah so familiar that this foreign land and new role does not feel right. I want so much to use what used to be as a measure of what should be today and isn't.

Yes, my memory is the root of the problem. You see, I remember, too, that today is my mother's birthday. Tuesday will by my brother Glenn's birthday. I remember these dates, and I remember celebrating them on days gone by. I remember just as I'm about to pick up the phone and call Mom that she's not there to answer and that Glenn won’t be answering my phone call either. The problem is with my memory.

When Israel was exiled in Babylon, they looked around them through their memories of what they had known. Their beloved temple was gone. They were living in a foreign land and longed for things to be as they remembered. They called out to God:

Alongside Babylon’s rivers we sat on the banks; we cried and cried,
remembering the good old days in Zion.

Alongside the quaking Aspens we stacked our unplayed harps; that’s where our captors demanded songs, sarcastic and mocking: “Sing us a happy Zion song!”

Oh, how could we ever sing God’s song in this wasteland?

If I ever forget you, Jerusalem, let my fingers wither and fall off like leaves.

Let my tongue swell and turn black if I fail to remember you,

If I fail, Oh dear Jerusalem, to honor you as my greatest.

Psalm 137:1-6

The rest of the Psalm cries for revenge upon those who destroyed what was. God’s people cried for and longed for what was no more. In anger the Psalmist wanted to smash on the rocks the heads of the ones who brought this change. A longing for the past brought a desire for destruction in the present.

Isn't that the danger of holding on to our memories? We long to crawl back into the comfort of what was. We long for what we've known in times gone by. We miss what was. And we cry to God that it isn't fair! We even call out for revenge on the ones -- or One -- who brought this change. “Make it like it was!!” we cry.

But, if Israel had not been exiled in Babylon, we would not have the Bible as we have it today. They wanted so much to remember what was that they wrote it down for their children to remember by, and to live by. They wrote and compiled the stories and the laws. The past became the building block of their future.

If Israel had not been exiled in Babylon, worship in local churches would not exist as we know it. In their efforts to re-create what was gone, they developed the ritual of worshiping God in their homes and in small congregations away from the Temple. They used what they knew to create a new way of being God’s children in the present situation.

If we it were possible to relive our memories, we would not live our present or our futures. If we were able to undo what has been done, so could our very births be undone. Our longing for the past can lead to our destruction.

As I look at all the old photos and re-read old letters; as I remember those snowy sled rides, cold icicles, and warm cows’ breath; as I reach for the phone to call, I remember and am consumed by the memories. I am both comforted, and frozen in stillness that keeps me from moving forward.

And that is the problem.

The problem is not with my memory, but with my motives for remembering. My remembering has become a means of not moving forward, not looking up and out into the present and living fully and faithfully in the NOW. In my comparing the past with the present, I have neglected what God is doing today, now, in this very moment – the same moment that will be the building block of what is to come. My longing for what is past keeps me from becoming what God will have me become.

And in the meantime, I’m missing out a on glorious, sunshine - warmed day. I’m neglecting the beauty of the forsythias who thought it was spring and the song birds who are celebrating the re-emergence of insects. I’ve missed the celebration in my energy bill being SO much lower! I’ve looked so deeply into my memories for an ounce of reliving them that I’ve neglected the gifts God has set before me.

In honor of my mother’s birthday, I’ll take off my shoes and walk in the warmed grass. I’ll eat her favorite ice cream, Maple Walnut, and then I’ll remember to clean my teeth. And I’ll open the windows so that God’s warmth will bring heat into my home. And on this warm December day, I’ll greet all who I meet and bring them the news of God’s love, care and warmth even in the gloomy seasons of our lives.