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.

Doubt

Doubt is not the opposite of faith; it is its partner. Doubt and faith challenge one another. Without doubt, faith cannot grow and mature.

Doubt and faith are seeds planted, nourished by questions, fertilized by seeking, blooming with each generation of answers. Doubt comes and nourishes faith.

Tree Stumps

In the park beside my home there is an elm tree. It stands beside the road, tall and valiant. It’s limbs and branches divide into innumerable twigs and leaves that reach toward the heavens in leaves of praise. It’s shape, though not perfect, is glorious. The shade it gives is dense and cool. It is an admirable tree.

It bears the marks of time… scars where branches have been carefully trimmed, stubs where windstorms have stolen its weaker arms. The side away from the road has fewer branches at the bottom; the branches above more than compensate for the inadequacy It has weathered the blight of Elm trees… the dreaded Elm Disease. It remains, however, strong and tall. It stands victorious over all its history. It is a triumphant tree.

Beyond the tree, amidst the bramble weed and brush away from the road, there stands the ruins of a stump. It too was once an elm tree. It too once stood with limbs and branches divided into twigs and leaves of praise. It too once was a glorious admirable tree. It too weathered storms. As saplings, the two had formed an inviting form, a promising configuration. From a distance they formed a single profile, each complementing the other in a shared silhouette.

The stump, however, is a defeated tree. A grounds keeper saw that one tree was tall, broad and strong. The smaller tree’s trunk was strong but its branches at the top were weaker. So the grounds keeper cut away the smaller tree giving the larger more room to grow. Amidst the bramble and scrub weeds, the trunk feeds the decomposers, adding nutrients to the soil, feeding and supporting the pulsating roots beneath it. In ruin and submission, it provides for the needs of the other, unseen.

I am that stump.

Too Young to be Real

I was a very young girl when I first heard it: “You’re too little to do that. You have to wait until you’re older.” I was always too little or too young. I was the youngest. All the big kids reminded me of what I couldn’t do that they could do on a regular basis. I had to follow them, not walk beside them in life.

When I first heard it, I was probably less than 2… I was too young to go on vacation with the rest of my family. I got left with a family friend for 2 weeks while the rest of the clan spent their days at the beach and in our Cape Cod cottage. I was 3 when they said I was too small to climb up on the garage roof with them; I tried anyway and stepped on a nest of yellow jackets. I was 6 when they said I was too small for first grade, but they had to let me in anyway because I could already read and do my brother’s second grade math; I sat under the table and laughed at all the kids who couldn’t read. I was 9 when the teacher told me I was too young to be reading with the 6^th graders; the 6^th graders picked on me because I was too small to be in their fastest reading circle. I gave up trying when I was 12 because no one would take me seriously… I was too young to be so smart. I was a 13 year old punk when a family friend told me I was too young to be such a loser. I was 14 when the local pastor told me I was too young to be selling drugs. I was 16 when I cleaned up and tried to change social groups; but I was too immature (another word for too young!) for most people I tried to be friends with. I was always too young, too small, too inexperienced. I always figured that when I was older, no one would say it any more. Surely I would age like cheese and I could be a part of the flavor of things.

But getting older didn’t change it. I was “just a young thing” and $14K in college debt when I got my first degree. One had to have experience in order to get the job… but how do you get experience if not in a job? One had to be “older” and more experienced to expect to be paid like a professional. “Take this lesser position and get some experience” they told me. So I did. But it didn’t change things. People always said I was wise beyond my years, mature beyond my experience, too young to be so old. Too assertive to be female. Too much energy, too little experience.

Oh I’ve followed all the rules. I’ve done all the steps. I’ve taken the lesser jobs to get the experience. Of course, it was easier for my husband to get a church, so I got the secular job that paid the bills. Then there was the part time youth ministry with kids whose last youth minister sexually abused them – but not an ordained position; that would have to wait until the degree was finished, but the bills still had to be paid. So there was the AIDS work, but again, not ordained. Next it was, “Oh yes, come here and be the minister’s wife… work for us without pay!” Then the little church in the country that no ordained person would take and who’d been abused by non-denominational clergy – yes, we’ll license you, but you really need to finish that degree and get ordained… yes, we’ll support you… take the little church part time until you’re ordained. Then, stay there and gain the experience. Now it’s “Your experience isn’t adequate for a church of any size, Let your husband find a church on his own and you follow him and find a church later.”

I’ve been the supporter and the team player. But unless you’ve been the main dog full time, it doesn’t count. And you can’t get a full time church that pays enough to support your family if you’ve only been a part time pastor and a licensed lay pastor…any where. Why? The same old thing: You don’t have the experience, You’re too green. You’re not seasoned enough.

It’s all gotten me no where

It’s not fair. We call ourselves the Church. We work for justice and lift up the oppressed. Yet our very system oppresses us and keeps us “in our place.” And it’s not the folks in the pews who are doing the oppressing; the local church was very affirming and very supportive It’s the folks who insist that you must incur tens of thousands of dollars in debts to be about “full ministry.” And any thing you do before then doesn’t count. It doesn’t get figured into your experience because it wasn’t “full ministry.” Nothing about my ministry changed when they laid their hands upon me; nothing changed except my net worth. And everything I did before that time is of no value. I still have no experience. I’m still too unseasoned. I’m still too female.

So now I’m going to have yet another birthday next week. And I still am too “unseasoned” to do what I’m called to do. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been doing it for years. I’m still too green. Just what does it take to be seasoned? And just what can I do about the fact that I’m female?

I’m ready to just quit it all. To hell with God and this call. Nothing I’ve done is worth anything. I still can’t get paid enough to pay off all the debt I incurred following this thing. I’m still to green, too young, too inexperienced. I’m still too young to know so much.

And so I’m back to square one…. I have to walk behind rather than beside my husband. I have no choice but to take the lesser position. I’m still too little to be a real person.

Illusion and delusion.

I have lived my life in illusion and delusion.
My mother repeatedly told each of her children that we could do anything we set our minds to doing. My brother once objected when I said I was going to be president of the United States – “You can’t be! You’re a girl!” My mother remained strong. “Just because there’s never been a woman president doesn’t mean there will never be one.”
You can do anything you set your mind to doing. I believed it. I was intelligent and able. I could do anything.
But it isn’t true. I may be bright and able. I may have “wisdom beyond my years.” But there are limits to what I can do.
Some limits are physically imposed. I cannot father a child. I cannot move large, heavy boxes. I cannot drive a wedge through a stone with a sledge hammer. I cannot eat food with small seeds and expect to be pain free. I cannot survive being stung by a bee without immediate medical intervention. I am limited by the confines of my own body. But I can make adjustments and arrangements to live and grow despite these limitations.
I am limited by the confines of my mind. I cannot comprehend the expanse called eternity. I cannot understand the logic of God’s grace. I cannot understand why my cannot differentiate between my clothes and those of my son. The extent of my knowledge and understanding is limited. But I can make adjustments and arrangements to live and grow despite these limitations.
I am limited by the free will of others. I cannot make my son like broccoli. I cannot force my opinions to be accepted by others. I cannot change how someone feels. And if that someone feels women cannot do this or be that, I cannot force that someone to change their mind. Their free will will affect what I am able to do because they will not hire me, will not hear a call from God to listen to my wisdom, will not invite me to be their pastor, teacher or friend.
I have lived my life in illusion and delusion.

Discrimination

Experiencing discrimination is like a child’s nightmare Christmas. There’s all kinds of anticipation about Christmas morning. When it finally comes, in the nightmare, the beautifully gifts are removed from under the tree and handed out, one at a time.

You’re sitting beside your brother and you watch him unwrap a gorgeously wrapped box. He looks under the flap and starts describing what the gift looks like. It sounds like a dream gift. It’s just what you’d like.

So you look at your own package. It’s also wrapped, but the paper is not as colorful. Oh well, you tell yourself. The wrapping is just part of the mystery. You carefully remove the tape and unwrap the gift. The gift inside is nothing like the one your brother received. It’s small and old, and it’s been used. Worse, you have no idea how to use it. You are devastated.

This is the experience I’ve had opening letters from conference ministers. Brothers in ministry with the same number of years in ministry and similar experience get letters recommending they apply to large and respected congregations in metropolitan areas as the senior pastor. The churches are active and interesting. My mail brings to me recommendations for associate positions (doing Christian Ed, of course) or small congregations who are offering part time or yoked ministry and are far from metropolitan areas. These congregations are struggling to survive. The only significant difference between us is gender. The gender of the denominational official or placement staff usually doesn’t matter. The region of the country doesn’t matter. It’s happened to me in nearly every region I've applied. There is discrimination in our regional offices.

Making Change

Lately, it may seem that “normal” is only a setting on your washing machine. There’s been change in the air, and some are still asking, “What’s happened?” “How come?” or, “What’s next?”

Change is a part of life. Something that is no longer changing is either dead or never had life. The seed changes into a germinated sprout, a seedling, a sapling, and then a fruit bearing tree. If it stops changing, it will die. Everyday our bodies change as cells die and are replaced by new ones. Not even the sky stays the same – if it did we would have no seasons. Change is the only constant in life. Sometimes change is good. Sometimes change hurts. And when change hurts, we have to make an intentional decision to grow amidst the change.

Change has already happened, and will continue to happen at Bethany Church. So it’s the job of an “Interim Pastor” to help everyone deal with the changes positively and to help each person and the whole congregation make it work toward growth. I want to make these changes like money in your pockets – a useful tool to help this congregation grow. This is my long-term goal for my time amongst you.

But first we must deal with the hurt – because pain is not “small change”. Ignoring it can be very expensive. We need to voice the pain, and we need to listen to one another. We need to talk honestly and openly together. Communication is the key to making change work for us and not against us.

I plan to actively listen to each of you as I visit you in your homes and as I gather with you in meetings and classes. I will ask each of you to share your reflections of what’s gone on and what Bethany’s future holds. I will encourage each of you to not bury the dirt, but to air it and let it be fertile soil for new seeds to grow.

One of my favorite hymns is In the Bulb there is a Flower. It was written in 1986 by Natalie Sleeth as her husband was dying. The second stanza says:

There’s a song in every silence, seeking word and melody.

There’s a dawn for every darkness, bringing hope to you and me.

From the past will come the future, what it holds a mystery,

Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.

© 1986 by the Hope Publishing Company

Natalie Sleeth held fast to the faith that even amidst the pain of the change in her life, God was present and along side of her in her pain as well as in her joy. She held fast to the hope that change could bring the hope and dawn of a future that would unfold before her.

Let’s choose to make change together.

Thoughts

I don’t always like the human nature. It would seem that sometimes we human folk are so tied up in looking inside ourselves that we assume that everyone else is looking inside us too. That everyone else is as critical of me as I am of myself. In my more rational moments I realize that this simply can’t be true. If I’m so busy looking at my own faults, surely others are too busy looking at their own faults to see mine.

In less rational moments, especially when I’m feeling insecure and as though my world is caving in, I read criticism into every word spoken or written to me. A passing comment about a child, the work place, or even someone else’s home is taken as a stabbing and painful criticism me, my child, my workplace, my home. I mull over the words looking for hidden meanings. I interpolate and extrapolate every phrase.

Of course what I’m really doing is examining my own doubts, insecurities and imperfections. The ones I know best. The ones others probably don’t see but I assume they do. I assume they not only see them, but that they spend as much time and energy worrying about them, talking about them, mulling over them as I do.

It’s a paranoia, really. Paranoia that feeds on my self hatred. Paranoia that is fueled by my need to be self-critical. Paranoia that is self sustaining and spiral in effect. The more I doubt myself, the more critical I am. The more critical, the more I read into others comments and the less secure I feel. It plunges when I strike out at others and further isolate myself from them with my scathing words in defense of my weak self-esteem. The more isolated I am, the more self-critical I become. It is a set up for loneliness. A game plan for depression.

How to end the spiral effect I don’t know. I do know that the only way out of the basement is to climb the stairs or crawl out a window. Reversing the downward climb means reversing the trend. Looking for the positive in everything. Being more like Norman Vincent Peale and less like the fear mongers. More like Emma Bombeck and less like Willa Cather. Not that I’d want to emulate either Bombeck or Peale. I can’t be someone I’m not. But the first step is to turn away from the negativist tendency. The second step is to find things in myself that are likeable and good.

Dish Towels and Churches

 They were perfectly fine for me. Those towels had been a wedding shower gift from Dan’s grandmother. She died over ten years ago. And those towels have wiped a lot of dishes and even more hands. I like my towels.

When a friend helped me out last spring, she noticed that my dish towels were “tired” and thin. So for my birthday, she gave me a new dish towels. She meant well. But I couldn’t bring myself to admit that the towels Dan’s grandmother gave me so long ago were no longer adequate.

We get attached to things. We don’t like to get used to new things. Yet in the lives of many of us, things change rapidly around us. We can cook dinner in seconds, thanks to microwaves. We drive cars that are more computer than automobile. Televisions allow us to watch three shows at once. And computers give us instant communication with people half the world away.

The world is constantly changing around us. Normal is only a setting on our washing machines. The world changes every nanno-second. But we resist change in the things that are most dear to us..... especially our churches.

My towels look fine to me. But to my friend, they are thread-bare and inadequate. She didn’t know them when they were new. She didn’t know who gave them to me or why. She only knew what she saw..... towels so thin you can see through them. And she couldn’t find any value in them.

The same thing is happening in our churches. Younger people who didn’t grow up in the church — or who left it a time ago — see what happens in our churches as thread-bare and not of much use. The music is so very old. Things happen so very slowly — especially to those who live with computers and watch MTV for entertainment. There’s a bobbing head behind the pulpit and the scene doesn’t change. They don’t understand the meaning of it. It’s not spoken in their dialect. And they can’t find any value in it.

I’ve not thrown out my old dish towels. They still work for me. I use them along side of the new ones. But someday they will fall apart and die. Hopefully by then, the new ones will be familiar friends with stories of their own. And they can carry out the work.

We don’t want to throw out our way of being the church either. It still works for us. But we must learn to adapt to a new generation of seekers, to be open to new ways of being Christ’s church. Because someday we will die. And by then, new generations need to be friends of Jesus with their own faith journeys.

And they will carry out Christ’s work.