Blessings.

So I'm sitting here wondering about how one thing leads to another. We ripped up a piece of carpet and padding in the computer room and found black mold. That led back to a broken dishwasher in the kitchen 18 months ago. The insurance adjuster came and pulled the new dishwasher out from the cabinets and found a lot more mold. He took down a piece of drywall in the computer room and found the base of the wall behind the kitchen black with mold. He lifted the carpet in the living room along the same wall and found more mold. He crawled under the house and found mold on the underside of the floors under the kitchen cabinets and under the adjacent computer room floor.

I've never liked the arrangement of the cabinets in my kitchen. I've always wanted ceramic tile on the floor and a matching ceramic splash guard above the counters. This mess might make it possible. But, it's going to come at a cost. The money isn't the issue. It's the mess and the timing. We're supposed to host Dan's family for Thanksgiving. And, the insurance guy is telling me that once they remove the cabinets and floors, we can't live here. Black mold.

When I was living in Terre Haute in 2007, we had a massive flood. It hit the hardest in an area of town that was not on a flood plain and hadn't seen flooding in the 150 year recorded history of the town. The folks who owned those houses were lower middle class folk, most of them retired and living in houses whose mortgages had been paid off for years. These folks had their houses flooded to the height of window sills. The church I was serving flew into action helping people find temporary housing, organizing work crews from other churches to help us clean up people's homes, helping people put their lives back together.

Work crews were given their task: take everything apart and empty the houses so that we can stop the mold before it starts. Tearing apart the walls was no problem because all that mattered was opening up the walls to get rid of the moisture before mold could form. We used sledge hammers and shoveled everything away into giant dumpsters and trash heaps. We had huge crow bars to lift up hardwood flooring and carpets. Most of their belongings from their main floors and basements were damaged beyond salvage. Furniture was piled on the curbs, food from basement freezers rotted before the water receded. Life long collections of memorabilia was handled by people with N-95 respirator masks and full body protection from the mess. We helped people through the loss -- the shock, the grief, the anger, the numbness, the mindless FEMA paperwork, backlogged adjusters and contractors, and no savings to cover their losses -- not to mention the scammers that such a disaster attracts. And we stayed with the families until they were back into their homes 6, 9, 12, and 15 months later. Those masks and body protection outfits were a barrier between the workers and the mold. They were also a barrier between us and the pain of those home owners.

This is my house. We didn't have a flood. We had (maybe) 30 gallons of water (three loads of dishes in the dishwasher). We're not losing all our belongings; we're only dealing with the inconvenience and mess that's probably no worse than a remodeling job. We have insurance that will cover a large portion of the expense, a bank account to cover the difference, and an adjuster who was in the house within 24 hours of my reporting it, and who was able to take his time and go through the house systematically and thoroughly. We have a list of contractors who are hungry for work instead of being back logged. We'll be back into the house in weeks, not multiple months. We won't be the ones swinging hammers, carrying trash, wearing protective clothing. We're not losing our live-long memorabilia or, frankly, any of our "stuff."

In the midst of all this confusion and mess, I am thankful that I have been blessed with prosperity, with the means to make this happen smoothly. When I complain about the delays and the hassles, I hope I can rejoice that it's not a disaster, the it's only an inconvenience, not a loss. As the kitchen I really wanted to begin with begins to take shape, I hope I will be grateful. And when I'm not, I hope you all will remind me to count my blessings.

Horror

I had an ominous feeling all morning. I really was dreading the trip to Holywell but could not put my finger on why exactly. I was not looking forward to a Roman Catholic Medieval Low Mass for the remembrance of a venerated saint whose head was cut off, rolled down a hill and spouted a well, whose head was reattached and she lived to lead a chaste and charitable life of service to the Church. Add that the mass was to be in Latin and it was less than exciting.

We arrived at the church 30 minutes early. Though we were told that there would be "bus-loads" of people coming from this service and for the marching of the relic from the church to the well, the church was relatively empty. The choir was still rehearsing when we arrived: The choir was indeed the highlight of the service! They were fantastic! Yes, it was all in Latin, but it was wonderful. They sang the Introit and the Collect, the response to the Gospel. It was flawless, the acoustics were perfect, and the 8 voices blended and resonated well.

The scripture was from Matthew, the 10 virgins waiting for the bridegroom. It bore no relation to the rest of the service.....

The the priest stood up to speak. I assume he is a bishop or higher because of his regalia and the fact that all the other priests kissed his hand over and over earlier in the service. He removed his triveca hat and blessed himself with it. A deacon placed the manuscript in front of him. I thought he would preach in Latin. That would have been a blessing. Instead, he began a rant against the evils of the split of the east from Rome, the scandal of the Reformation that began the scourge of secularism, the plot is Islam to take over Europe, and the evils of Modernism. The hate that spewed from this man's mouth! I was at the end of a pew against the wall with 20 people between me and the aisle. I was trapped there! Two of my classmates stood up to leave. Our professor stood up to leave -- but all these were in the pew in front of me and on the end! When spew got unbearable and I could take no more, I too stood up and walked on the kneelers to get out of the pew. I walked down the aisle and out of the church.

When I reached the sidewalk in front of the church my blood was boiling. I was so angry! I caught up to my classmates and professor. We got to the end of the street and wondered what to do. We looked back and 5 more of our class were walking out of the church. All of us who left but one are US Americans. The one Brit who left is a Roman Catholic! The US Episcopals and Church of England folks all stayed in the service.

We who left walked down to the well. We spent some time around the well, washing our hands. We made a circle and prayed. Some of us cried. Some of us stomped our feet. Then we waited, wondering what to do.

When the procession came down the hill with the relic and hour later, we stood beyond the gate where the procession would enter the area of the well and sang, "They'll know we are Christians by our love" over and over and over. It was very spontaneous. We had been just standing there. We received glares from the priest and one woman scolded us. But we continued to sing until the procession was through the gate and at the well.

Folks, I've been angry in my life many times. But this was so very different. Never have I heard such hatred spewed from the mouth of one in the regalia and vestature of the Church. There are people who will follow this man's words as truth. He spoke lies! He is misleading people into a gospel of hatred, distrust, fear. I remain appalled. Yet I am helpless to do anything about it.

No Veritas!! Kyrie Eleison.

--
"I am not here attacking Christianity, but only the institutional mantle that cloaks it." ~ Pierre Berton

Pilgrimage

The theme for today was Pilgrimage. We traveled to some ancient sites now covered by more recent builds. These were primarily sites of ancient Irish and Welsh "saints" who established monasteries. I've posted photos on my facebook page for your perusal. (http://tinyurl.com/momsbm) I will post more complete descriptions at another time.

My "pilgrimage" today has been back and forth to the Loo. All day. Something I ate yesterday caused one of my proverbial "flare ups". I spent much of the night "worshiping the porcelain god." Today I've learned where and how to ask for toilets politely in obscure places. This evening I was still unable to eat dinner (having had tea for breakfast, a ginger "bisquit" for lunch (which did not stay in me)). I've taken yet another benedryl and am eating "calcium caplets" (Tums). I will survive. But it has not been a comfortable. day.

I will post this before my battery dies, but look for a longer note either late tonight (for you) or when you get up in the morning.

Peace out...

Day 2 of the Great Excursion

On this side of the pond it's already Thursday. I've been up for about 2 hours because the cook did not realize there is MILK used as a "filler" for sausage. I ate only one bite of the sausage that was wrapped in a chicken breast at dinner last evening, and spent most of the night in the bathroom as a result. I guess I need to quiz him more carefully about food. I thought this was a non issue...but... I'll be eating only crackers and tea today....
Anyway, here's the blurb I wrote last evening before I went to bed....

They say it rains a lot in July in Wales. I think they mean it too. It was raining when I arrived. It was raining when I awoke this morning. It rained through my reading and writing for class this morning. It seemed to have let up a bit at lunch time, so my classmate, Laura, and I decided to walk down to a local tearoom for lunch. The chaplain at St. Deiniols for this month (they rotate much like Chatuakwah [sp?] in New York does), a retired Episcopal priest from Bucks County PA, decided to join us. (Andrew, thanks for buying my lunch today. I still have about L3 left of what you left at the house -- lunch tomorrow, no doubt!) Then Laura and I decided the weather might hold out and we set off on a walk to the castle in the middle of Hawarden (pronounced Harden). It was a lovely walk and the rain did hold off. Unfortunately, it had rained more than 2" in the previous 24 hours and everything was coated with MUD... And, I didn't remember to bring my camera!!

But, the remains of this castle are really just the outer walls and a watch tower for the real castle which is about 2 miles down the road. Where we walked was through a pompous gate (very similar to the cemetery gate in Hinsdale but with HUGE wooden doors) and into a rather large hilly field. The field was full of sheep. And the sheep left lots of "fertilizer" along the path we were walking!! Laura is NY City born and raised and this was quite upsetting to her! But she soon forgot what she was stepping in and over when she saw all those adorable little lambs. And they were indeed cute.
We walked over a hill and down into a valley along an old road that at one time was paved in stones and bricks. It's now quite washed out and muddy. When we got to the watch tower and climbed up the hill to get to it, we discovered it was behind a locked gate and a second wall with signs every where warning "No Trespassing. Motion Detection Cameras in Use." So we respected the signs and walked back down the hill to the path we were walking.
The path is a designated walking path for those who hold "permits." We had such a permit that the Library had given to us. So we were indeed legal. We followed it down the hill and through a wooded area. At the bottom of the hill, in the middle of the woods there was an old stone bridge over what was once the "valleam" or mote around the property. We actually crossed this mote 3 times before we were done, each time on ancient stone bridges. The walk turned out to be just under 3 miles (by my pedometer, anyway). It ran through the north end of the walled property and then back to town along the outside of the wall on a path above the mote. The original estate was a fiefdom dating back more than 1000 years. It was most recently owned by the Gladstone family. W.E. Gladstone was a 4 time Prime Minister of the UK. He was instrumental in the politics of the Baltics prior to WW1 in saving one of the peoples there from extermination (don't ask me which tribe of Eastern Europeans at this late hour of the day!!).
It was W.E. Gladstone that founded this library called St. Deiniol's where I am both staying and studying. In our orientation this afternoon, we were given the history of this place before our first set of lectures. It seems the Sir Gladstone had always felt called to ministry in the Anglican Church but was pressured by family to follow his male ancestors into politics. He was also very fond of reading and by the time he was in his 40's and PM of the UK he had acquired and read over 30,000 books -- primarily on theology, church, and world history. When a friend of his died, he over heard the family discussing what to do with that man's "extensive library" of a couple hundred books. That family chose to donate them to Oxford. Gladstone decided Oxford had enough books without his, London had enough books without his, and poor little Hawarden had no public library. So he and his daughter moved his 30K books to a large "tin barn" on property in the center of the village. He set up the library for anyone with a hunger to learn to do so affordably. In his will, he willed that instead of the state setting up a memorial to him, they build a permanent building for his public library (which by then had grown to over 100K books). His family then matched the funds and built a residence attached to the new library that would serve for residential guests who used the library from other areas. So, the library, still catalogued according to Gladstone's numbering system (which is logical but not universal by any stretch) now sits in the original building plus an annex with 4X as many books on sliding cases (which Gladstone supposedly invented and sold the patent to).
The library itself is beautiful. It was built in the late 1800's (Gladstone would have been 200 years old this year). The exterior is brown stone, three stories high. The interior is all intricately carved wood pillars and roof rafters, with the second floor open to the first through a large balcony over the first floor and all the way around it. The bookshelves are also intricately carved and stand back to back with a third bookcase on the ends. The area is really well lit with natural light through the windows.

The 30 residence rooms are tiny -- much like monks cells -- with just enough room for a bed, sink, and desk. The women are on the third floor under the rafters -- yes, we have to "mind" our heads as we walk down the corridors because the buttress beams are low. I suspect that at one time these were servants' quarters! But... it's a bed and desk.
The lecturer this afternoon and evening was Ian Bradley, who wrote one of the texts we've read for the course. The first lecture on "What is Celtic Christianity" was interesting; the second was a repeat of much of what is in his book...

There are 17 people in this course. Probably 10 of us are from the States. Several are Anglican Vicars, a few are British Presbyterians. Of the US folks, 3 of us are UCC, 3 are United Methodists, 3 are Episcopal Priests, and one is Roman Catholic (Laura). Of the whole group, 9 are women.

Tomorrow we will be out of the library and on "excursion" to ancient sites. We'll go to Gwynedd to visit Clynnog Fawr, Caenarfon, Penmon, and Beaumaris. Yes, I'll remember to bring my camera! Then after walking around ancient sites of monasteries and churches all day, we have an 8 p.m. lecture by Ian Bradley.... this after a full dinner at 6:45... can you see me sleeping through this????


That's the news from this side of the pond......

Travel across the Pond

I made the trip across the pond. Well, it was uneventful, yet not so. Let's just say I arrived in one piece and with my luggage and passport. But...

The flight from Evansville to Memphis was without problems or highlights (no pun intended). As I walked through the Memphis airport things looked vaguely familiar from other flights through there. There's some cool "jazz" artwork on the walls as you walk from the "smaller" gates (turboprops) to the larger gates. I came into the last gate on the "smaller" area -- we had to walk from the plane to the terminal by walking in front of other parked planes. No big deal.

I found the gate assignment for the flight to Amsterdam. It was, of course, at the farthest end of the most distant terminal. But I found my way there just as they were calling up the first passengers (45 minutes prior to departure). I have an Elite Membership (NW Air's frequent flier program) and so was allowed to board with the first and business class folks even though my seat was neither. I was the sole female in a section of 20+ men who all knew one another and were on their way back to work in Saudia Arabia in the oil fields... a herd of Texas long horns who've been home with their women for a month and returning to work for the next month. I put on my headphones and turned up my mp3 player and took a benedryl. Somewhere over New York State I fell asleep and woke up to the sound of the dissonance of the gaggle of long horns snoring. But the sky outside the plane was bright with sunshine and they were serving breakfast, so I must have slept at least 6 hours. We did a 20 minute holding pattern over the North Sea while waiting for a thunderstorm to pass the Amsterdam airport, then landed in the smoothest landing I've ever been in. I never felt the wheels hit the runway. Very impressive.

I had no trouble getting through the Amsterdam airport. The "Cityhopper" flight from there to Manchester was out of a gate and onto a bus that took us across the airport to a smaller set of runways on a smaller plane. Not as small as the plane from E-ville to Memphis, though! When I arrived in Manchester, things deteriorated.

There was a thunder storm between Amsterdam and Manchester, so we had to circumvent it. This put us into Manchester about 15 minutes late. Then, once on the ground, there was construction on the runways, so taxiing to the gate was another 20 minutes. Customs was no problem. When I got into the main arrival area, I cashed out my US$$ for L... But, I could not find the "car" that was to pick me up. I looked at my e-mail and found the phone number. I was to call them and they would tell me where they were waiting. I found a "red box" and put in 40 pence (thanks, Andrew!) and dialed the number. The number was not recognized. The phone number was missing a digit. So I called St. Deiniol's Library. I got a recording saying the office was closed. So I went back to my computer and e-mailed the person who sent the information about the "car" reservation. But, I could not get an internet connection.

After 2 hours of wandering through the "car park" (parking garage) looking for a "car" service from Hawarden, I went back into the terminal. A scruffy looking guy walked up to me and asked if I was Mrs. Stucklen. I laughed! Who on earth with a cockney accent would be looking for my mother?!!! Of course it was the driver who didn't get my name correct. But we laughed and he walked me to the "car" -- a small bus, really. And I was the only passenger. From the parking fee, I knew he'd been waiting less than an hour.

He got me to the "library" and I turned to pay him. He didn't take a credit card. Cash only. So.... I looked into that magic wallet and found only L20. The fee was L40. So I walked into the village to Lloyds of London and pulled out that trusty ATM card the Credit Union ASSURED me would work in the UK. But there's no ATM machine, or "hole in the wall" as they call it. So I gave my card and passport to the teller and asked if perhaps she could make it work. She did. I have no idea what the exchange rate is,but I think that the 40 minute trip from the airport cost me over $120. There's got to be a less expensive way to get back there!!!

I walked back to the "library" and the driver had left. I left the cash with the receptionist and she assured me he'd be back with other students in the morning and she'd pay him then. Okay.... taken care of. But I was wet and tired.

I crashed for a couple of hours before dinner (6:45). Eating dinner was a bit like eating in Mother's house -- lots of food, many people, and it's all served from the kitchen. The food was, well, British. No seasoning. Just boiled carrots, boiled potatoes, boiled pork(?), and boiled broccoli. I didn't venture to dessert since it looked like a milky pudding.

I will write more about "the library" tomorrow.... for now I'll leave that to your imaginations.

My friend Laura (a classmate from Drew University) and I talked until it was nearly dark (10p.m.). It's chilly. I've put on long sleeves under my sweater, and I've got on full length knee socks and shoes. They all say it was a lovely warm day.... I guess the midwest "heat and humidity" is still inside my bones because I'm anything but warm. They also say it does not get completely dark here. I'm looking out the window into the clouds and still see light behind them.... But morning comes early. So it's time to retire.

There's no internet access in my room (which is a little smaller than Harry Potter's under the stairs room). I have to walk my laptop down two flights of stairs to sit under the wireless router. I'll do that in the morning.

--
"I am not here attacking Christianity, but only the institutional mantle that cloaks it." ~ Pierre Berton

Addictions

Remember that TV ad for Lays Potato Chips?

"Betcha can't eat just one!"

And the challenge is set.

The only thing is, there's no winning it. Lays knew that when they put the ad out. No one can eat just one because fat, salt, and sugar (carbs) are so very addictive.

This all came together for me as I was walking through the grocery store this afternoon. Well, it began before that. As I was parking (in that space that is as far from the store door as I can possibly get), the radio was playing an ad for McD.'s You've heard it, I'd bet.

"This is economics 101. Value is defined as .... as proof, there are McDonald's Value Meals on your desks..... 'I LOVE economics.'.... Mouth watering french fries.... add a cool, creamy hot fudge sundae for just $1.00"


You get the idea. So those are playing in the shadow narratives of my mind. I walk into the store to be greeted by a large display of potato chips and, my weakness, Fritos. "God, save me from myself. I've lost 15 lbs and I will NOT succumb to the fatty salt gimmick... if only You'll help me!"

I walked by. I got to the produce and found a lovely seedless watermelon. Much better. Then a display of lovely local peaches; I picked out ten and placed them into a sack. So far so good.

I pushed the cart past the deli case of rotisserie chicken (I've eaten a whole one by myself in the past), and am confronted with another display of Fritos.

"Come on!! This is too much!"

I pushed on past them to the dairy case. Half a gallon of low fat soy milk goes into the cart. Pushing on past the sour cream and chip dip (yummy -- sour cream on those Fritos!!) and into the coffee/tea aisle. Two boxes of cold brew ice tea bags, a box of flavored Splenda packets. I'm getting closer to the end.

At the end of the aisle there it is again: Potato chips and Fritos display. The same one I saw as I walked in but this time from the back side. Hmm... so very tempting. I think of the scale in my bathroom and push on ahead.

"Wow, this holiday weekend stuff is going too far. I should have eaten some lunch today... my stomach is growling."

Down the soft drink aisle to its end where the plastic wrap and GladWare bowls are stocked. A pack of two large bowls (for the watermelon) go into my cart. Almost home. I round the corner and pick out a quart of yolkless eggs from the cooler and turn left. Here it is: the home stretch. If I can make it down this aisle, I'll be in the free and clear.

I push the cart down the aisle of freezer doors behind which sits fat, sugar, and salt. Some may call it prepared food and ice cream. But since most of it contains either milk or too much fat and salt for me to safely eat, I prefer to tell my brain it's pure fat, sugar and salt. The milk will land me for days in the bathroom. The fat will coat my veins and arteries and shut them down. The salt will push the water content of my blood into the hypertension range. Heart attack #2 stacked nicely behind the glass doors of the freezers.... must walk by... must walk by.

The folks in the aisle look at me strangely -- as they rightly should. I'm talking to myself at this point.

"Fat, salt, sugar. Fat, salt, sugar. Fat, salt, sugar." I'm almost to the end. Almost there.

Then someone calls my name. I turn around. Strolling down the aisle behind me is a 5.0 ounce, 800 calorie bag of Fritos holding in its hands a hot, juicy rotisserie chicken and a Snickers bar. Really! I'm a pastor; I don't lie!! This bag is walking toward me calling my name, offering to give me the Snickers and the chicken if I can eat just one Frito.

"Eat just one and walk away and the Snickers and chicken are yours. And you will know as much as God knows." (oops, wrong story.)

"Must resist. Must resist. Must resist."

The guy with the cart full of beer and potato chips giggles at me. "Crazy lady talking to herself." I KNOW that's what he's thinking. Doesn't he SEE that bag walking down the aisle? What's wrong with him?

I'd better turn and run. So I push the cart faster down the aisle. "Fat, salt, sugar. Fat, salt, sug..."

It's no use. The big bag caught up to me and jumped into my cart. I told it to get out! I don't want it. And wouldn't you know it. It starts to cry. It feels rejected. Big pouty lips....

.....

I made home in one piece. I ate a leg and thigh of the rotisserie chicken for supper. I can honestly say I put the Snickers on the rack at the checkouts, and that not one Frito passed my lips. Not one.

I think I'd better go walk ten miles now.

Tossing Kittens

I was on my way to the office this morning, driving along listening mindlessly to the local morning DJ duo. From beneath the semi in the lane to my right what looks like a white grocery bag rolls/blows around first in my lane then behind the semi. Then, I realize it's a kitten. O My! I slowed down so I wouldn't hit it if it rolled into my lane. It got up on its feet and darted toward the other edge of the road, then turned as if dizzy and ran back into the road. The car behind me swerved and avoided it, and I watched in my rear view mirror as it ran into the grass.

No sooner did I look in front of me than ANOTHER kitten fell or jumped from the underside of the semi and started rolling in the road. This is a 4 lane "expressway" (said with quotes because it has stop lights up and down it -- the Lloyd for you E-ville-ites). And it's 7:30 in the morning as people are on their way to work. This kitten didn't get out of the way of the truck's back wheels and it was hit. In my rear view mirror I see it flopping around in the road behind me.

I cautiously slowed down. Does this guy know he's dropping kittens on the road? I pull up immediately behind him and I straddle two lanes so no one can get by me. Then I slowed down. This really ticked off the people behind me, but if this truck was going to drop kittens on the road, I was going to try to make sure they didn't get run over.

Sure enough-- two more kittens fell from the truck before it turned into a shopping plaza. Both made it to the side of the road.

I followed the truck as it wove to the back of a grocery store. When the driver stopped behind the store, I got out of my car wondering what I was going to say to him. I was livid. I took my tall cup of iced coffee with me and took a long sip before I walked up to his door. I knocked on the door of the cab. He hesitantly looked out of the window then opened the door slightly. I told him what I'd seen.

The man turned sheet white. "Four white and gray kittens? About 3 months old?" There was panic in his voice.

"Yes."

He quickly turned around and looked in the "bunk" back of the cab. He wailed. He pounded the steering wheel.

His sister had given him the kittens to bring home to his daughter. He didn't realize they could get out of the bunk window. His daughter was expecting the kittens that evening.

So if you see a guy in a Keebler Cookie truck crying, you know why.

I'm not sure who I feel more sorry for -- the man or the kittens.

Company is Coming!

I don’t know about you, but three words can turn my house into a frenzy of activity:

Company is coming.

That’s all it takes for the vacuum cleaner to fly out of the closet, the dust cloths spring into motion, window cleaner starts spraying, and Dan starts tossing things out.

“Company is coming” are three very powerful words! They are loaded with meaning, innuendo, and layers of implications. We want to make a good impression on people. So we hide away those things that might say something negative about us, we clean up all the dirt, and organize the clutter. All the counter tops get a fresh wiping, the lampshades get dusted, and the glass end tables and coffee table get the kitty paw prints washed off. The bathroom gets a special cleaning, the soap dispenser gets filled, the extra shampoo bottles get tucked beneath the sink, spare rolls of toilet tissue are put in the cabinet, and the guest hand towels get placed on the towel rack. We want “company” to find our home clean and comfortable. We want guests to be impressed.

“Company is coming” usually means planning a special meal, or at least a special set of snacks and beverages. We probably will make a menu and go shopping for the favorite foods of our guests. We might chill a bottle of wine. We’ll put a table cloth on the table and carefully fold the cloth napkins. All the details of the meal will be carefully plotted out: the time to put things in the oven, what serving spoons are needed, whether dessert will be eaten at the table or with tea and coffee in the living room. Hospitality is important: it tells people we care enough about them to sit and share food and our lives with them.

When we’re expecting “company,” it usually means the family is coming to visit. And company, since they come from a great distance, usually spend at least a night or two with us. Planning where people will sleep, considering their schedule and how tired they will be from their travels, planning options for entertaining them over their visit (do we take them to Mesker Park Zoo, Blue Grass Wildlife Refuge, or to a concert?). How we spend our time with “company” will dictate how much sharing we’re able to do together, how much we can refresh and renew our relationships with one another.

Our Churches ares expecting company! Specifically, we’re expecting new family members!! Are you ready? Does your church home look like you’re expecting company? Will your new family know you were expecting them? Have you got everything planned out?

As you come to worship and Sunday School, or to the church of a meeting or a fellowship group, take a look around through the eyes of someone who has never been to your building before. Ask yourself how a new person might see the things you look at all the time. Does the space invite people to come in? Is there order and cleanliness to the rooms and corridors? Is there clutter anywhere? Are there things “hanging around” that are no longer useful or needed? Will your new family be impressed with your church home? Are you doing everything you can to help them feel expected and welcomed?

Hospitality is important because it tells another that we care enough about their comfort to work hard to achieve it. And, it’s important to make a good impression.

May we see with new eyes all that God is doing amongst us and with us.

Shedding Season

If then there is any

encouragement in Christ,
any consolation from love,
any sharing in the Spirit,
any compassion and sympathy,

make my joy complete:

be of the same mind,

having the same love,

being in full accord

and of one mind.

Do nothing from

selfish ambition or conceit,

but in humility

regard others as better than yourselves.

Let each of you look

not to your own interests,

but to the interests of others.

Philippians 2:1-4

In my younger years, I owned a horse; I was always amazed at how ugly she looked in the Spring as she shed that winter coat. She would have clumps here and there of that not-yet-shed winter coat, and areas where the undercoat of summer was healthy, shiny, and beautiful. The Church of Jesus Christ is also in the middle of a shedding season. In this new era, we too are called to shed our old weather coats.

Just before the trees shed their leaves, we are amazed at the glory of their Fall colors. Once those leaves fall, we are frustrated by the amount of work it takes to clean up the mess!

Not all things shed gracefully. Certainly my horse didn’t! One of my cats inevitably turns up raw, oozing sores when he sheds because he tries to hurry the process along by over-licking himself.

Faith communities are also less than attractive when we shed: we want to cling to our cold weather coats — our familiar ways of doing and being the church — long after the heat of summer has shown itself. Change does not come easy to us. We put on this coat, and we’re really comfortable wearing it, and we don't want to take it off.

Only when things begin to get uncomfortable do we begin to rethink things. We might adjust a thing or two — take off a sleeve, or maybe roll it up — but certainly not look in the mirror to see just how unattractive we’ve become. And, we’ve grown accustomed to our coat and we're not comfortable exposing the body beneath the coat!

We get not very attractive when change is in the air. We've all met people who feel like they own this coat! And they have earned the right to wear it. They pay their dues and work hard to keep it up. How dare anyone ask them for their coat?! They can't imagine life without it!

But alas, the season is changing around us and beyond our control. We can try to keep the space around us cool so we’ll be comfortable in our coat; but it takes more and more energy to run the cooler, to maintain the status quo. And there are fewer and fewer of us who love the coat so much. You can blame it on global warming, but that doesn’t change the fact that we are no longer engaged in the world around us. No one else wants to put on our coat!

Jesus came that we might have life, and have it abundantly in the Realm of God. Not in the world of our own making, not in the coat of our own sewing, not in the comfort of our climate controlled institutions and organizations. We are called to live into God’s Kingdom. And that has nothing to do with us and everything to do with how we reach out to others.

The challenge of our generation is to ready others for the Realm of God. That means divesting of our human made coats and living as the Body of Christ.

May we journey together toward this end.

Uncle Lee's Tea

About 9 years ago, Darlene (Georgia's lovely sister in law) introduced me to the best Chai I've ever had. I lived in Cincinnati at the time and finding this gem at Susan's Natural World on Beechmont Avenue was ever so simple.

Then I moved to the east coast. I was introduced to Trader Joe's there, but they didn't carry Uncle Lee's Teas. I found numerous natural food stores, but only one carried anything close -- a tiny store in Taneytown Maryland carried Traditional Medicinals Chai -- a close-but-not-quite-there substitute.

At the time, I checked the internet for sources of my brew, and found none. Online stores were not well stocked then. I resigned myself to rationing my stash and hoped for a miracle.

So whenever I traveled through Cincinnati, I stopped at Susan's Natural World and purchased the contents of her shelf of Uncle Lee's Chai. The last time I stopped, Susan's wasn't open. Then I dropped Andrew off at college and I have no further reason to travel by way of Beechmont Avenue. That was five years ago. I've carried my stash with me from place to place through the many moves since I left there...and this morning I opened my last box (Can tea be good 6 years after it was purchased?).

My miracle has happened.

I just found my "goods" on line.... Uncle Lee's Green Tea with Lemon.

You must try this!

A page from the cooking preacher

I fell in love in Panna Cotta the first time I had it. It's light and rich, and so full of milkfat that even a calf would gain a pound eating it. But it is worth it. Very worth it. And it's sinfully simple to make.

I've yet to figure out how to adapt this for my now milk-intolerant system. But I offer it for the rest of the crowd at my Christmas Dinner.

Holiday Panna Cotta
1 packet of Knox Plain gelatin.
3 TBS of cold water
4 cups of heavy cream
1.25 cups of sour cream
2/3 cup of sugar (try raw sugar, oh so yummy!)
1/4 teaspoon of salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg (please, don't use the stuff in the plastic jars....try the real thing)
1 teaspoon vanilla

1. Prepare 8 cup size ramakins or jello molds. Be sure you have a way to cover these securely since anything this full of milk will take on the flavor of your refrigerator very quickly.
2. Pour the cold water over the gelatin and let it set for 15 - 20 minutes. It needs to "bloom" fully.
   
3. Meanwhile in a sauce pan, heat the cream, sugar, salt, and nutmeg until the sugar dissolves and the cream is very hot. But... do NOT boil it.
4. Using a wire whisk, quickly stir in the bloomed gelatin. Whisk until gelatin is completely dissolved and imbedded.
   
5. Whisk in the vanilla and sour cream.
6. Pour into mold(s) and cover tightly. Refigerate until set -- at least 6 hours.
7. Serve with fresh fruit or a drizzle of caramel. Yummy
8. Walk 5 miles to burn off the calories. LOL

Now, if I could just figure out a way to make this taste this good but use soy or rice milk....sigh.

Petty Politics

Petty minds and petty politics are the root of most division in the church. Power is the name of this game. Where there is power envy, there will be dissent and division.

She is his wife. He has a problem with women in positions of authority. Including his wife. He rips the posters off the wall of the room where I teach confirmation. He has disparaging words about me whenever my back is turned. I have named his need for power and control. I have reined him in on too many occasions: twice. I allow him a lot of slack; I refuse to argue over things of no consequence to the future or well being of the church. It's simply not worth my energy. As the janitor of the church, a voluntary position, he refuses to clean the offices or even empty the trash there. He does not sit in worship; he remains outside the doors in the gathering area and chats through the worship service with 3 other guys whose wives attend.

He is her husband. Her third husband, to be exact. She buried the other two. She is the Treasurer of the church and, currently, the temporary bookkeeper. She refuses to pay the capital expenditures from borrowed money. She's paid them from general fund. There's no longer any money in the general fund, so she cannot pay the regular bills; specifically, she cannot pay the pastor's salary, pension, reimbursements (including the items purchased by request of the governing board), or mileage. There's $50K in the credit line for the capital expenditures, but since these things are not capital expenditures, she refuses to transfer the funds.

The larger issue is control. The larger issue is power. The larger issue is going to destroy the morale of the congregation and close the church.

So I continue to do what I do best: kill the source with kindness. Suffocate the strangler with recognition and laud for the positive things they do. Emphasize the positive. Quietly work the ropes to counter the negative.

Jesus asked whose face was on the coin. Give to Caesar what is Caesar's. Give to God what is God's. Today, we give to abusers what is theirs: their methods, their negativity, their demise. We praise God for the power of love.

The Shack

The image of God is one that will both comfort and stretch you: a black woman.
The image of Jesus is shallow and predictable, but familiar and comfortable: Sallman's Jesus but in carpenter clothes.
The image of the Spirit is exciting from HER very name.

The hows and whys are not always deep. I found the forgiveness between father and son to be shallow and a forgery.... there simply wasn't enough to it: Cheap B Movie material.
But the forgiveness between daughter and father, father and murderer was better handled with the real pain and agony of it shown clearly.

The Plot left a lot to be desired. But, the theology contained therein was worth it.

Unfortunately, when a movie comes out, it will be more like "touched by an angel" than like Joan of Arcadia.

Here's a link to an interview with the author on Oregon Public Broadcasting's Thinking Out Loud. http://tinyurl.com/3j5wz4

Stealing Dead Sheep

A certain pastor has repeatedly become entwined with members of other congregations following the death of a loved one. He works part time for the local funeral home, offers to do the funeral and then works to sever all ties between the church and the family. His wife owns a wedding coordinating service in the area. So whether it's a Match or Dispatch, this man has his fingers in the pie for the sake of evangelizing the "heathens."

This afternoon I learned that this happened yet again, this time with a longtime member whom I've been visiting with for the last year; I buried her daughter in the first month I was in this church. My elders have been visiting on a weekly basis. When she called in hospice to help, I helped her plan her funeral. The woman died on her 100th birthday. The funeral home never called the church, though they listed her church membership in the obituary. The niece who was present through the hospice process was not able to convince the son from out of town (who grew up in the church) that his mother had made plans.

And just how does a pastor respond to this? A nondenominational church has no system of accountability for such unethical behavior. There is no one to whom to report him. His congregation has a vested interest because they can only afford his salary because he supplements it this way.

Frankly, I don't have the "free time" to do a funeral this week. But I would have made the time because I honor the woman, her wishes, and the relationships she had within the congregation. I mourn for these, for the relationships this pastor will sever in his vision of evangelism, and for the reputation of the Gospel because of his ill-will.

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