My mind is pretty jumbly. It sometimes helps if I write things down. I could do that in a paper journal — but then I’ve done that eleventy times before. If you need a journal that is nearly empty but for the first 7 or 8 pages, I’m your girl. So, maybe this kind of journaling will be better for me, OR maybe I’ll forget how to log in and leave this journal in the same pattern of the others…
Last week, one of our students stopped by my office while he was on campus. This academic year has been a LOT, and we have learned many things about faith and community, about online learning and worship. But, it has also been plain old sad. We miss each other. So, when Yancy stopped in to talk, I experienced healing right there where two or more were gathered. I asked him if I could join him for worship, and he said they were being extremely careful with distance and masks, and I would be very welcome to join them for noon worship at St. Mark’s Missionary Baptist Church in Bishopville.
This morning, as I drove to St. Mark’s, I thought about showing up in my White skin and my Scandinavian Lutheran ways to an all Black Missionary Baptist church. I suspected there would be styles of singing and praying that might be, if not new to me, still not patterns I’m used to. So, I told myself that whatever it was, I would say yes to it. Everybody’s clapping? Yes, I’ll clap. Preacher asks for an Amen? Yes, I’ll say, “Amen!” Holy Communion in a different practice than I’m used to? Yes, I’ll eat and drink.
Whatever it was, I would say yes.
When I parked, I found excellent signage saying which doors to use, that a mask was required, and that I was welcome. As I opened the door, two women greeted me, took my temperature, and offered me hand sanitizer before I signed in with my name and phone number – in the event there was a case of Covid, and they needed to contact everyone who had been present. I was grateful for such faithful stewardship of the community’s health.
Entering the sanctuary, I was given a sealed, individual-serving of bread and wine. I was looking for a bulletin; I suppose a bulletin would a) be more like my own tradition, and b) give me a road map for the service. There were no bulletins, but there were eyes smiling over face masks and warm greetings of, “Good morning!” and “We’re glad you are here among us today!”
I found a seat somewhere in the middle, wondering if I had taken someone’s usual place in the pew. I’ll never know if I did sit in someone’s seat, or if that is even a thing at St. Mark’s or if I brought that with me from my tradition. I’ll never know anything about sitting in that pew because as soon as Yancy saw me, he waved at me and beckoned me to come to the front, to the chancel area. The service hadn’t started yet, so I just thought he was welcoming me to worship. Instead, I heard him ask, “Will you sit up here with me?”
Huh? What did he mean? Will I sit up where the worship leaders sit when I am here as a visitor? It’s probably good I had a mask on my face, so all he could see of my confused expression was my probably furrowed brows.
Here’s what my brain wanted to say: Oh, thanks Yancy, but I’m fine sitting in the pews. I’ll just make my way back there (and fumble my way through the service without all eyes on me!).
But, Spirit and I had had a conversation in the car on the way there, and we decided I would say yes.
So, my mouth said, “Alright! I’d be honored.” And I went back to the pew to get my purse and communion elements.
When I got back up the chancel, Yancy asked if I would read a piece of scripture during worship.
I said yes.
Now, I didn’t ask him about this after worship, so I’m doing some guessing about this, but I think Yancy saw an ordained pastor in the pews and asked her to the chancel to sit in a place of honor. And since it was unplanned, he quickly looked through the service to find a piece she could lead. She could read the Word for the people gathered.
I have never been welcomed so warmly or immediately in my life as a pastor. And honestly, it would not occur to me to offer the same hospitality to a pastor who was visiting.
I sat on that chancel stage and bore witness to exceptional preaching and faithful leadership.
Let’s take a minute to talk about the task of preaching. Preparing a sermon can take many forms. Some read and write notes and ideas all week long, write a few bullet points on a note card, and preach extemporaneously. (If this preacher did that, she would take twice as long to say half as much.)
Some people read and write all week long, developing a manuscript from which they speak nearly word for word. I’m a pretty mellow preacher, who writes a full manuscript, practices it multiple times, enough times to really know it, but not have it memorized, and sticks to the manuscript during the preaching event.
Neither way is more faithful, though I can attest to the fact that we manuscript preachers are often told we’ll get better at preaching, and someday we’ll be able to preach without a manuscript. (I will never choose this.) People definitely have a preference.
Today, I was wondering what Yancy would do, manuscript? notes? He had a sports drink and a hand towel within reach, so I figured I was in for some lively preaching – and gratefully, I was right. The reverend did not hold back. He opened with the familiar words my own lips shape each time I preach, “Grace and mercy be unto you from God our Father and from our Lord Jesus Christ.” Then, his finger moved to his iPad and swiped up a little at a time as he made his way through his manuscript. But, this was like nothing I had experienced before. A manuscript preacher who whooped as he preached. He had worked out the language of his message in gorgeous, poetic prose. Sprinkling alliteration, rhyme, and repetition at just the right moments. He was reading his manuscript, but he was reading it aloud like I had never heard it done before. Fiery passion, deep love, and vocal ornamentation that became singing at times.
I applauded here and there throughout his sermon. I did that in part because I was saying yes to full participation in St. Mark’s worship today, and others were clapping here and there, but I mostly applauded because I wanted to. It’s what we do when we agree with someone. And here’s what he said that made me jump to my feet: Another person is never the enemy. The devil is the enemy. Another person may be cruel or mean or work to destroy you, but they are not the enemy. They are doing the work of the enemy. They may be caught up in the enemy’s plan, the enemy’s work, but another person is not what you are to fight against. We are, as Paul says in the 6th chapter of Ephesians, struggling against the spiritual forces of evil…not flesh and blood. Black, white, pink, or polka dot, your neighbor is not your enemy. Evil forces are your enemy.
And let me tell you, it was a testament to the faith of those people gathered, those people with Black bodies, whose neighbors so often behave like enemies, to believe and cry out in faith and applaud the words and shout Amen! at the instruction to love your neighbor and recognize their bondage to sin against you is separate from their holiness as a human. What deep love it takes to declare such things!
I didn’t know how to feel about my Whiteness in that moment. I’m still working through that. But, I know exactly how to feel about the proclamation by my brother, Rev. Yancy, and the people of St. Mark’s Missionary Baptist Church. I am humbled by their welcome and awed by their faith.
Good Friday is a holiday where I work. I suppose that is true every year, but my first Good Friday working for Lenoir Rhyne University was about a month into the pandemic. Every last thing was weird, and I was distracted in ways I’ve never experienced, so I guess I didn’t really notice or remember that Good Friday is a holiday at LRU. I’m not used to Good Fridays off; after all, pastors are very “on” during Holy Week.
On Wednesday, someone said, “I’m so glad tomorrow is our Friday!” and I just thought they were off a day. After I heard it a couple of times, I realized we had Friday off. Fantastic!
On Thursday, we were notified that Monday would also be a day off. The university president told us to take Monday off because everyone has worked so diligently through the semester – without a spring break.
And that’s how a four-day weekend got dropped in my lap with no notice.
The “no notice” part is truly important to what I learned about myself this weekend.
You see, my brain is scattery. It’s really hard, actually. I don’t know how other people’s scattery brains work, but mine makes for a scattery house, too. On any given day there is laundry waiting in baskets and papers all over the dining room table. My car often feels like a storage unit, full of things I intended to take out and put away later…but forgot. I buy things I already own because I can’t remember that I own them…because I can’t remember where I put them. The phrase “out of sight, out of mind” could be the title of my memoir. And ironically, something that is in my sight for too long kind of disappears. If the vacuum sits in the corner of the living room (not far from the TV I watch most nights) for long enough, I won’t really see it anymore and go looking for it upstairs. I scrub toilets and counter tops and vacuum regularly; my house is not dirty. But it is not tidy.
I know a tidy home is centered as desirable in our world.
I know this in my bones because it’s the thing about which I am most often drenched in shame. I’m deeply grateful we no longer drop by people’s homes unannounced because I would be devastated to open my door to you on any given day.
All of this is why every weekend, and especially every long weekend, I make grand plans to get my life together and gain control of my scattered stuff, which makes my scattered brain feel like it can rest a while. I tell myself that Saturday is reserved for housework, so Sunday is a day of rest. And seriously, any healthy, mobile person should be able to clean their house in a day, right? I mean, if you time the tasks (which I’ve done), they are so.incredibly.manageable. Swiffer the hard wood floors? 10 minutes tops. Vacuum the four carpeted rooms? 20 minutes, I suppose. Unload the dishwasher, 3 minutes. Load the dishwasher, 5 minutes. Wipe down counters, seriously like 2 minutes! Cycle laundry all the while, not hard or very time consuming.
But, Saturday comes and goes, and some of it is done – but never all of it.
Because while I was clearing the papers from the table, I found and reread a card from a friend, which made me go grab a card to write a quick note and get it in the mail. But, the address I need is in my phone…which has Facebook, so…
And so goes the day, in and out of productivity. In and out of shame.
This weekend was different, and I could not have planned it. Because if you told me ahead of time that I had 4 straight days, I would have perceived that as the gift of time to do a big project (plus my regular weekend housework). Planning out a four day weekend would include cleaning out the garage and car. It would mean putting back in order the mask-making-factory I have scattered around my upstairs craft room.
But, with no notice, four days stretched themselves out in front of me, and I used them the same way I use regular weekends – but this time there was space for the distractions.
The long and glorious weekend is over now, and looking back on the days, I am in love with them.
I scrubbed my bathroom and washed my sheets and comforter. Vacuumed everything and cleaned the kitchen. Every single sweater and fine washable that has been sitting in a basket for weeks and months is clean. I moved dozens of baby plants inside for a night of freeze and put them back in the bright sun during the day – twice. I even did my darned taxes! But, it’s the in-between-ness that was holy for me.
While I was cleaning the kitchen, I moved some spice jars from the counter back to the spice drawer. I remembered I was very low on my favorite Penzey’s spice blend called Chicago Steak Seasoning, and I opened my laptop to put it in my Penzey’s cart. But, then I realized, looking at the ingredients in the nearly empty jar in my hand, that I have all those individual spices from Penzey’s (the best spice company ever). So often, I have jars of spices for longer than they are likely still fresh, so maybe I should use them to make a steak seasoning blend.
This made me search for a steak seasoning blend recipe and mix it up. After making that seasoning blend, I decided to make an Italian Herb Seasoning blend, as I had all the single herbs for that, too. The one I found had all the spices/herbs found in the Penzey’s blend, plus crushed red pepper. Now, I don’t like much spice, but I liked that idea, so I reached for the red pepper powder my brother, James, had sent me from peppers he grew and processed last summer. It’s a mild red pepper, and I love it in small doses. As I measured a bit into the bowl with the basil, oregano, rosemary, etc., it occurred to me to send James a picture of it and tell him his red pepper powder has me thinking of him way far away in Southern California. I did so. He responded, and our short exchange made us happy. While doing each of these tasks, I wished I had a mortar and pestle for the dried rosemary. I have wished that before, so I returned to my laptop and searched for a mortar and pestle with good reviews – and I ordered it for myself for my birthday.
I cleaned up all the spice blending mess, labeled the freshly blended herbs and spices, and returned the spice jars to their drawer…where I saw the jar of candied ginger nibs I’ve been meaning to use up before they’ve been around too long. I decided to make Epicurious’ ginger/molasses cookies with candied ginger nibs in them (to die for!). After you mix them up, they have to sit in the fridge for at least an hour before baking, so I returned to my housework for a while.
Had I done all that spice blending and cookie baking (and cleaning back up!) on a normal Saturday, I would not have completed the housework I had planned. And I would have failed again.
But, this weekend, there was another day, and another.
So, maybe I don’t fail every Saturday.
Maybe I’m cramming creativity and productivity (another day we’ll talk about creativity actually BEING productivity) into the same space, and it’s too crowded. Maybe I’m not making room for my God-given scattery-ness which leads to a card in the mail to a friend, texting connection to my big brother, creating in the kitchen, buying myself a gift, and other random good things.
This scattery brain is mine. And I am the Lord’s. Amen.
If you don’t want to read about large breasts as a medical condition, keep scrolling.
If you do want to read about large breasts as a medical condition because you think it is sexy, keep scrolling.
If you’ve known Sage since she was a little girl, and it makes you uncomfortable to read about her breast reduction because she’ll always be your little Sage, then you need to let her grow up in your mind and be a 22-year-old woman who is making choices about her body.
Let’s back up a bit, shall we?
Sage got a bra before nearly all her friends did. At first, it was the thrill most adolescent girls feel at the visible development of womanhood. But, it quickly became something she worked at hiding. Her modesty is such that if you have known her a long time, you might be skeptical that she even needed a breast reduction. You see, my girl figured out pretty quickly that avoiding the kind of attention large breasts bring was her goal.
She wore t-shirts over bathing suits, the neck of her shirts was hardly ever a V-neck because her cleavage would draw more attention than she wanted.
Sunday mornings, she carefully chose her clothing knowing she would be kneeling at a railing and those serving communion would be looking down at her. She told me she didn’t want to be a distraction to people while they worshiped.
As a student teacher, she also carefully chose her wardrobe, so leaning over a desk to help a student wouldn’t mean exposing her breasts.
In her teenage years, we would make our way past the cute little bralettes at Victoria’s Secret, past the sports bras with thin straps, back to the section with bras that could support her breasts and keep her from spilling out the top and sides of the bra. These were the bras I wore. Middle aged woman bras. My 15 year old had few choices, and they were not cute or sexy; they covered and supported. (At her consultation, when her surgeon asked what size bra Sage wears, Sage looked at me as we both shrugged. She’d been measured many times at Victoria’s Secret, but no bra she had ever bought really fit. So, we guessed DDD, but we thought it was more like E…at least.)
By the time she was 17 or so, her back was hurting. Chronically. She reported this repeatedly to her doctor and nurse practitioner. They sent her to physical therapy, but the exercises didn’t abate the pain.
When she went to the gym, she wore two incredibly tight sports bras, one over the other, in order to bind her breasts enough that they wouldn’t hurt – or just be in the way.
She wore a backless dress. Once.
She made a bra of sorts by duct taping her breasts together and hoped her sweat wouldn’t release the tape during the wedding she was attending. I took pictures of her before she left for the evening, and in every single picture she’s holding her arms in front of her chest.
It took years for her to get approval for her breast reduction to be covered by health insurance. Years of reporting chronic pain, going to physical therapy, and reporting other health issues that come with large breasts. There was a laundry list of requisites for such approval, some of which were:
Large dents in the shoulders from years of wear from bra straps holding up heavy breasts.
Nipples that are at least 10 inches below the collar bone.
The surgeon must take out at least a pound of breast tissue from each breast.
Chronic eczema/rashes under the breasts.
The size of the breasts get in the way of normal daily activities.
Sage had been such an advocate for herself with physicians over the years, making the case that she was a candidate for breast reduction surgery, that finally in early January her insurance approved it.
Her relief spilled down her cheeks as she told me she had been approved.
She prepared for surgery mostly by vigilantly quarantining, so Covid-19 would not derail or reschedule her plan.
She also bought a necklace.
Sage never wore necklaces because necklaces draw attention to one’s chest. Anticipating average sized breasts, she chose a necklace she would like to wear around her neck after the surgery.
Surgery in the time of Covid-19 meant I couldn’t go with her. While it was still dark, I dropped her at the curb, and she marched into that surgery center, readier than ready. She texted me pictures along the way, as she dressed in the gown and donned her yellow grippy socks. Then, a final text to say she was heading into surgery. And this mama prayed for her surgeon’s steady hands and focused eyes.
When they called me to say I could pick her up, I dashed over to the surgery center and was led back to my beaming daughter. She was sweet and funny as she shook off the anesthesia. The nurse taught us how to manage the drainage tubes coming out the side of her breasts and made sure we understood about bathing and lifting and resting. Then, we piled her into my car and got her home to her cats – who were, of course, the very best medicine.
After the first few days of sleeping and healing in the post-surgical bra that kept her bound up, she got to change to a sports bra – she only needed one. The deep wounds of body dysmorphia and self-judgment she had suffered since she was a middle schooler mean it is not only her flesh that is healing.
We are currently working on normalizing things in our public lives. There are intentions to normalize mental health care; people are talking about their diagnoses, therapy, medications. We are normalizing talking about trauma (when it is safe to do so), rather than whispering about it, like it is something of which to be ashamed. Breast feeding. The spectrums of sexuality and gender. The various body types and shapes. We are working to normalize things about which we used to keep quiet.
So, I have a question:
Shall we normalize preventive care? Is it cool if we talk about mammograms and prostate exams and colonoscopies?
Spring of 2019, my doctor looked at my chart and said apologetically, “Oh. You’ve turned 50. Time for a full physical and colonoscopy.” Now, colon cancer is one of the health risks in my mother’s family, so I’m not messing around with it. I expect to watch my son parent his son, Timmy, and I expect to have a friendship with Sage much like what I have with my mother. I’m not leaving early because I refused to manage preventive care.
My physician referred me to a gastroenterologist, and we set up the appointment. Since my whole life flipped upside-down last summer, my colonoscopy appointment had to be canceled because I was moving to South Carolina.
And, whereas I’m not always so quick to find a new doctor in a new town – until I need one. I didn’t have a doctor when Covid-19 hit, so that complicated and slowed things down quite a bit once I did try to get in to see a (fantastic) nurse practitioner. At my new patient appointment, she looked at my chart and said, “Oh! You’re 51. Have you had a colonoscopy yet?” We set up an appointment for mid-July.
My incredibly healthy mother takes seriously the health risk of colon cancer in her family, so I knew I could ask her what to expect with the prep one must do before a colonoscopy. But, Dear Reader, I wonder if you have such a person. It occurs to me to write such a blog post because my high school and college friends are my age. The friends I’ve made because our children are friends are about my age. It’s about time for all of us to be checking on our colon health. And that only sounds weird because it’s about poop and our backsides. It’s not strange to talk about dental health or heart health, but we don’t talk much about our colons. Frankly, I don’t need to talk much about them either, but I don’t think they should be so taboo.
If I promise not to be gross and detailed about colonoscopy prep, will you promise to read on if you are putting off this important test because it gives you the squeebs?
My appointment was on a Friday.
A week before, I bought the supplies I would need:
Dulcolax pills (laxative)
Miralax powder (laxative)
Every single flavor of Gatorade that is not red or purple.
I don’t generally drink Gatorade, and I knew I had to drink a lot of it, quite possibly when I didn’t feel like it during the prep process. So, I wanted to know which flavor(s) I liked the very best. I drank some every day and decided the flavors I liked. (Red and purple are not options because the dye in them may be mistaken for blood during the exam.) Winners: Cool Blue and Glacier Cherry
Let’s talk (de)hydration: The process of emptying your digestive tract is the process of dehydrating oneself. So, if you are not a person who usually drinks a lot of fluids every day, I’d suggest drinking a lot every day of the week before your colonoscopy. It’s probably best to begin the process properly hydrated.
Having decided on the flavors I liked best, I bought two 32-ounce bottles of the flavors I’d chosen.
Wednesday, I didn’t eat any foods that like to stick to the sides or in nooks and crannies of our digestive tracks: nuts, seeds, popcorn, etc.
Thursday (day before exam), I was only to drink a liquid diet. I had popsicles, jello, beef broth, Gatorade, water, and a soda. I thought I would be so hungry I’d be aching. I wasn’t. That morning, as instructed on the paper they give you, I mixed the whole bottle of Miralax powder into the two 32-ounce bottles of Gatorade and put it in the fridge for the day.
When I got home from work that evening, my amazing daughter had arrived. You see, you can’t drive yourself to a colonoscopy. You can’t take an Uber or bus, either. Your driver must stay with you, and in the days of Covid-19, that means staying in the parking lot with you’re A/C running for a couple hours (with deep apologies to the planet). I have local friends who would have taken me to the doctor’s office that day, waited for me, driven me home, made sure I was safe, and a couple of them did offer. But, for this first time, not really knowing what to expect, I wanted Sage. And she came. Because she’s magic like that.
Thursday evening at 6pm, I took the Dulcolax pills as directed, and I went about doing laundry and unloading the dishwasher and such. I also set up my bathroom for my sustained use of it that evening. I brought in a small side table and a tabletop tripod for my phone, for watching many episodes of The Crown. I made sure to have the best toilet paper, too. My table was also where I kept my mask (Sage and I had not quarantined prior to her trip here, so we were masked when we were in the same room.) and my Miralax-laced Gatorade.
In maybe an hour or so, I had to poop. It was just regular poop. (Seriously, I have thought about the ways to talk about this: poop, bowel movement, number 2, and others. We’re using poop. It’s settled.)
As instructed, at 8 pm, I opened the first Miralax/Gatorade bottle and took a drink, expecting it to be disgusting – or at least have an odd consistency. After all, there was half a bottle of powder in there. Nope! It tasted/felt exactly like Gatorade. I was so relieved! I could do this!
It took a while for it to take effect. And during that time, Sage and I just chatted in the living room. It was so nice to have her with me. (side note: If you live alone and have a dog that needs to be walked/let outside to relieve itself, you may need a friend around during prep. There are many hours you cannot leave the bathroom. Some of those hours, you cannot stand up from the toilet. You’ll think you can, but you will be wrong.)
Once it started to work, I went to the bathroom and, well, made myself comfortable for a while. I watched The Crown and drank my Gatorade while my body got rid of everything in my intestines. By the time the process is finished, I was passing only water. Yep, it sounded like I was peeing, but…I was not.
Pro-tip 1: If you are short, and your feet only touch the floor when you are on the toilet because you are pointing your toes a bit (like me), then you will want a small platform under your feet. I simply rolled up a bath towel in such a way that it was maybe 3 inches high and rested my feet on it. This relieved the pressure on the back of my legs.
Pro-tip 2: Even if it is summer in the South, when your body is behaving like it is sick (when else do you have severe diarrhea?), you might feel cold and shivery. It wasn’t bad, but I grabbed my bathrobe and wore it backward like a Snuggie.
Pro-tip 3: Start earlier. This first time, I did it just like I was instructed. I had explained the instructions to my mother, and she said, “You might want to start earlier than 8 pm. It can take a while, many hours.” Here’s the thing about my mom: she’s right a lot. This time was no exception. I was up until 3:00 a.m. On the toilet. Next time, I’m leaving work early and starting mid-afternoon.
Pro-tip 4: Even if you’ve finished your 64 ounces of Gatorade, keep drinking some water. Nothing to drink past midnight, an empty intestinal tract, and an appointment not until 11:00 a.m. meant I was quite thirsty.
Sage brought me to the appointment at 11:00 and stayed in the parking lot waiting for me.
I checked in at the front door with a Covid-19 symptom and temperature check.
Some papers to sign.
Then, I was called back to an area with lots of small rooms which were curtained off. My very capable and kind nurse, Jill, took my vitals, asked about meds and allergies, made sure I had done the prep as prescribed. She left while I changed into the hospital gown (open in the back! ) Then, she put an IV port in the vein on the back of my hand and started some fluids, just for hydration.
The nurse anesthetist came in and asked some questions about meds and allergies, told me the procedure would take about 20-30 minutes, and I would be sedated for it.
My bed was wheeled into the procedure room, where my doctor was waiting. We talked a bit, and then the nurse anesthetist asked me to lay on my side with my top knee bent up a bit. She held up two syringes or vials or something and said, “This first one is (I can’t remember what she said it was for.), and this next one will put you to sleep. It should take about 30 seconds.” She was wildly exaggerating because within 3 seconds, my face was tingling, and that’s all I remember until I woke in that same little curtained room I had started in.
My doctor popped in to say he’d taken one polyp out, he’d call next week with the results of a biopsy, but everything looked clean and the polyp doesn’t seem like anything to worry about. They called Sage on the phone to drive around to the discharge door, and the doctor went out to speak with her about whatever care instructions he had for me. The nurse walked me to Sage’s car, and we went home.
Here are the key take-aways:
At no point did anyone touch my butt in any way at all while I was awake. There was zero embarrassment factor.
I had no pain at all. I wasn’t uncomfortable later in the day as a result of the procedure. I was tired – from being sedated and getting to bed at 3:00 am.
The day of the procedure itself is seriously like a doctor’s visit combined with a solid 30-minute nap.
Depending on your health risks, you will be advised to repeat this process every 5 or 10 years. If they find pre-cancerous cells or anything that appears dangerous, then I suppose you are asked to repeat it and start on treatments. But, honestly, if there are pre-cancerous cells in your colon, you really want to know. ASAP.
Hey, friends who are my age, make the appointment. Do the thing. It really is okay. You’ll survive a colonoscopy, I guarantee it. I cannot say the same about colon cancer. I love you, and I want you around. Make the appointment. And then call me if you want to laugh awhile.
I’m a pastor in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA), and many of us have taken on the Lenten discipline of fasting from single-use plastics.
I used to be a teacher, and there’s a teaching method called frontloading we could use here. Frontloading is that thing your teacher did when, before you read a story together, they taught you the words in the story you might not know, but need to know for the story to make sense. Let’s frontload, shall we?
Lent is a time in the church year that begins 40 days (not including Sundays because every Sunday is a small Easter for us, so they don’t count in our days of Lenten focus) before Easter Sunday. Lent is a stretch of days when we look inward at our lives and outward at the world, recognizing all the ways we need a savior. One very common practice is to give something up for Lent, to fast from that thing. The intention is that every time we crave that particular thing, we are refocused on the sacrifice Jesus made for us. Not doing a thing for a while, offers us an opportunity to notice how much we rely on some things ~ and hopefully, it helps us to remember to rely on God.
#NoPlasticsForLent is a practice encouraged by the Young Adult Ministries of the ELCA. We meet up on Facebook Live each week for some tips and encouragement as we move through these weeks paying attention to our use of single-use plastics – and fasting from them.
That’s a lot of frontloading. You still with me?
Okay, so I kind of wondered how hard this was going to be. I figured it would take some intention, but not that much. I’ve been reducing my plastic use for years, now. I bring my re-usable bags to the grocery store. I bring a fork from my kitchen drawer instead of using a plastic one for my lunch at work. Here’s a picture of what I pack for showers when I travel. I use my plastic razor handle because I already own it and purchased a couple dozen razor heads on clearance long ago. If I tossed it out and got a bamboo handled razor – the plastic one would be in the landfill. So, I’ll use this as long as I can. That broken up bar of soap is a very gentle soap I love. And it works for my whole body, including my face and hair. The soap travels with me in a plastic container – but it’s far from “single use” plastic.
When I have purchased a drink in a plastic bottle, I reuse it again and again for my tea. I drink lots of tea, and I make a couple gallons each week. At home, I keep it in jars with reusable straws. I prep many bottles of tea-to-go each week using the plastic bottles I’ve purchased, usually when traveling.
I use a bar of dish soap instead of a bottle, and I hardly ever use paper towels anymore except for something very greasy – or maybe an Eleanor Accident.
So, I thought I’d do this Lenten discipline with my ELCA friends because it would help me pay closer attention to my plastic use. As Ash Wednesday (the first day of Lent) approached, I knew I needed to have some rules for this discipline. It is actually impossible not to use plastics in this American life. I mean, I can’t buy rubbing alcohol in anything but a plastic bottle. I can’t buy medicine or vitamins in anything but a plastic bottle. And “single-use” was complicated, too. Tupperware bowls in my cupboard are definitely not single-use. I’ve been using them for 20 years. But, a ketchup bottle isn’t going to be get reused in my house, so is that single-use? Even if it takes me months to use up?
It turned out this plastic-use is so slippery I didn’t know how to make rules about it. So, I decided I would be very intentional about fasting from convenience-use and pay close attention to learn more about myself and my relationship to plastic.
And here’s some of what happened:
I was traveling for work and discerned we needed more snacks (it’s a spiritual gift of mine). I didn’t have my car, so I didn’t have my canvas shopping bags. And I didn’t think twice when the cashier loaded up my junk food in the worst, most heinous thing in the actual world (not including COVID 19)…plastic bags. I just said, “Thanks!” and put it all in the car. I am clearly the best as fasting. When I realized it, I took a picture of those damned bags all lumped up on the table. Ugh.
On that same trip, we stopped for fast food. I was prepared for this. I had cans of soda (very, very recyclable) in the car and skipped ordering a drink which would have a plastic straw and lid. And then, I just ripped this ketchup packet right open without thinking about it…
When I got back from that trip, I thought – Well, traveling is hard. I don’t have as much control as when I’m home. So, this will be better.
My first day back at work, I needed to refill the copy machine with copy paper…but first, I had to take the plastic wrapping off. Yes, I know you can buy paper not wrapped in plastic. 1. I don’t purchase our paper. 2. It gets so humid in our building for many months each year that the paper that’s stored is affected, and our IT guy says it even jams up the copier. I’m guessing that’s why we buy this kind of paper.
Okay, well I don’t control that, either. So, I’ll just be sure to be very intentional in my life in my own apartment! Eleanor Rigby and I can just be very serious about this.
And it worked great! Except when it didn’t.
Because I bought some chicken. I spent more and got the kind without styrofoam, which is really evil stuff. But, instead, I got a plastic tray wrapped in plastic wrap.
And I finished my B12 vitamins
And I finished the blue cheese.
And couldn’t buy paper towels that weren’t wrapped in plastic.
And there are things that make the single life much easier and better. Little cups of avocado mash from Costco belong in that category. It’s the perfect size for one person, and it doesn’t rot when you look the other way like fresh avocados do. The ingredients are: avocado, lemon juice, salt, pepper. It’s actually a perfect food…but it comes in plastic cups with plastic peel-off lids. And I had some in the fridge before I started this Lenten practice, so not eating them while they are still good means throwing both the food and the container away as waste. Not gonna do it.
That was how it went for the first couple of weeks.
And then the coronavirus took our safety and my attention.
I felt so vulnerable.
I went to Costco to pick up the heartburn meds they carry for cheap. I was out of them, and I would also grab some caramel and cheddar popcorn they carry. We weren’t in full-quarantine mode yet, but people had carts FULL of paper towels and water and such. That made me decide to shop a little for some food for me if had to be quarantined.
I picked up this salad, which I knew would be several meals for me, and I put it back down because it is just more plastic. But, I was starting to worry and feel unsafe, and I decided I wanted this more than I wanted to maintain my Lenten discipline – and I picked it back up.
And Spirit whispered to me right there in Costco something about how vulnerability helps you prioritize yourself, your safety. And while I stood there with the spinach salad in a plastic shell with smaller plastic cups with lids inside with dressing and chopped onions in them…Spirit gave me a sure and certain lesson about those who break rules to protect themselves and their families.
40 days plus Sundays.
Practice fasting from single-use plastic.
That’s all that was required of me.
And I couldn’t do it because I got scared.
So, now I’m thinking about what it means to your life when you aren’t a single white woman who lives in relative safety. When your children are still living in your home. When your home is dangerous, not because there’s a virus on the loose that may or may not get you, but because war is on the loose which will definitely get you.
Or famine is on the loose, and it is presently getting you in its slow, evil way.
Or the drug cartels are on the loose, and they are running the damn show.
If my priorities shift when I mightbe in danger, then let me see more clearly with the eyes of Christ my neighbor who is actually in danger.
Today, as two first-year students and two staff members gathered for evening prayer (our pattern for Lent), I named something I recognized.
Besides the student who had planned and was leading the service, our organist, and me, who was the cantor, one student came to prayer this evening. It has been raining for what I am certain is 700 days at this point, students are busy, Dr. Shore is away on business (or she would be there), and there are surely other reasons for such low attendance. (Like, seriously, we worship at 11:30 a.m. Mon-Thur all year long…except during Lent, we are gathering for Morning and Evening Prayer on Thursdays, so simply forgetting is easily possible.)
I was grateful for the precious and intimate time we four shared as we prayed ancient words and asked for mercy on our aching world. I really was grateful. And also, I told those two students about times in the parish when one or none showed up. I planned a two-hour Holy Saturday prayer vigil the worship committee had asked me to do. This included asking for prayer petitions in the bulletin for weeks prior, gathering those petitions and writing some prayers around their concerns, setting out candles, and imagining who might come, for whom it might be their first time at a prayer vigil and how I might help them feel comfortable. The day came. The hour came. And I sat in the sanctuary alone for more than an hour before I decided no one was coming.
One December, I planned a Longest Night service. Because Advent is such a busy time for our musicians, I learned to play the hymns we’d be singing, so our organist wouldn’t have to commit to one more service. I crafted a service, printed a bulletin, created a gentle space with candles and such. One person came: a retired pastor who was a member of our congregation. We set the bulletins aside and spent time together talking about our lives – and ended our time with prayer.
I told those stories after worship this evening because what happened in our chapel will likely happen to them in the parish. Even this is formation for ministry. It may not be a worship service. It may be a Sunday school class or a service project, and practicing “where two or more are gathered” is something that takes some getting used to. So, I am, at once, grateful for the gift of Brandy, James, Jim, and Jennifer around the organ this evening and thinking about why worship attendance is often so low – even at a seminary.
This is not news. I was a student here a decade ago, and we were asking the same question. We don’t make chapel attendance compulsory because, I suppose, that makes it a chore rather than a choice. And that doesn’t feel right somehow.
The argument could be made that chapel is a class, I suppose. Monday through Thursday, we explore various forms of worship from various hymnals and prayer books. At the end of last semester, I counted up all the hours one would be in worship if one never missed chapel during the semester. Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, chapel is about 30 minutes long; Wednesday we have Holy Communion, and the service is more like 45 minutes long. Meeting for 2 hours and 15 minutes each week is nearly as much as a 3 credit hour class. It’s the equivalent of 30 hours of practicum.
Those who have attended worship daily have been exposed to the United Methodist
Hymnal, This Far by Faith, Evangelical Lutheran Worship, With One Voice, Taize, Lectio Divina, Campfire Worship, Common Prayerbook, and various other patterns of worship.
They have heard scripture from the Revised Common Lectionary for Sundays, as well as the daily lectionary texts.
They have received communion around the altar, in a line, and in their pews – intinction, common cup, and individual cups.
They have watched as other seminarians lead, seeing what seems comfortable and what doesn’t, how people handle it when they mistakenly jump over a part of the service or ask the assembly to turn to the wrong page.
They have heard sermons from seminary seniors, staff, faculty, and visiting preachers.
Since we are an ecumenical seminary, those who attend chapel daily have experienced the leadership of Baptist, Lutheran, United Methodist, AME Zion, Presbyterian (and more) students. This also means they have experienced the worship leadership of students from religious traditions rooted in congregations of people of African Descent, Asian Descent, and European Descent.
If a student were to worship daily in Christ Chapel for the 2 or 3 years they study here (Master of Arts in Christian Ministry and Master of Theological Studies are 2 year programs. Master of Divinity is a 3 year program.), they could have 120 or 180 hours of worship practicum apart from the worship course which
equips them with the proper names of communion vessels, the patterns of prayer the church often follows (how to write them and where to find them), the practice of learning how to preside at the Table, and other matters of worship leadership.
The student who is rarely in chapel misses out on lots of opportunities for learning.
But, of course, chapel is not just a class.
LTSS Chapel worship is the gathering of women and men at the foot of the cross of Christ, who are about the work of teaching, forming, and nurturing one another to be faithful ministers of God’s word. When I am serving holy communion, and I get to look you in the eye, say the ancient words, place in your hands a piece of God, and see you through that lens, I am taught, formed, and nurtured by you…and maybe you by me. When we kneel shoulder to shoulder to confess our sins, we are what we need: the broken body of Christ. When the organ carries our voices like incense unto God who loves us in ways we don’t deserve, we experience what we need: the mystery of God’s presence among us. When we gather, two or more, we join the chorus of multitudes around the throne of the Lamb of God, singing, Holy, holy, holy!
How great a gift it is to dwell in this place with these people in the name of Jesus.
There are parts of this that are a little too much, and I never really know how much to share…but then, I remember how healing it is to have company in pain and joy and wondering. So, maybe you’ll join me.
Early this morning, my generous daughter got up suuuuuper early and drove me to the airport, so I could catch a flight to Milwaukee for the Church-wide Assembly of my denomination, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. I’m one of 927 voting members who are gathered to elect leaders, discuss and vote on various resolutions, and conduct the business of our church body. I love the ELCA. I’m proud of the work we do, the social justice initiatives we employ – I love the way we follow Jesus – not perfectly, for sure, but intentionally and with wide open arms. So, that early flight wasn’t a burden; I was happy to fly to Milwaukee.
As I stood in line to have my big, pink suitcase weighed and put on the conveyer belt, things got a little blurry when I realized the last time I took that big, pink suitcase to Milwaukee it was filled to the brim with some of Ken’s precious belongings I thought his family would want. And my carryon held a container of Ken’s ashes. He had requested that some of him would always reside at the summer camp where he worked when he was young.
Landing in Milwaukee brought the odd feeling of coming home to a place that…isn’t. Ken was born and raised here. With Ken I traveled “home” for holidays. I’ve been here many times, enough times that I have a favorite place to buy my cheese curds, but, I don’t travel here anymore. I grabbed my big, pink suitcase from the carousel and caught a shuttle across the city to my hotel. Turns out that hotel was “home” today. It was FILLED with my people. Some wore Live Generously (Thrivent) t-shirts, others had an ELCA backpack or wore their synod t-shirt. Inside, I was giddy, so grateful to have come “home” this way in this city. Hugs and sweet faces with expressions of, “So good to see you!” on every elevator, in every corner of the lobby was the family I love – and needed.
Ken loved Jesus.
He loved the ELCA, too. He would have loved to be here, in his city, with his people, about the work of the church. It would have all been too much for him. And I guess I actually mean that because more than once today I wondered if the height of this event would have triggered a mania for him. Grief is that way: one minute you are remembering fondly and imagining his delight – and the next you are fighting the guilt that comes splashing in when the sweet glow of imagining him so happy reminds you that you are glad you don’t have to live on that edge on which you balanced when you wondered if regular old joy was going to shift into mania. (This writing is difficult. That last sentence is clumsy, but I can’t seem to change it. So, there it sits…all awkward and scratchy.)
Ken went to worship with me today in a ballroom of a hotel where more than a thousand Lutherans gathered to praise the One who insists on love every time.
And you know who we sat by? Kai and Jessie.
And you know who we needed? Kai and Jessie.
Kai is a faithful leader in the church. He pours himself out for the sake of the young people God loves. He is gentle and funny, and he tells the truth. I am always glad when I get to draw near to Kai.
Jessie is a kid I just met. (Jessie is 100% not a kid. He is in his 20s. But, so are my kids…) Spirit tossed us together a month ago at a synod meeting, and we hit it off. He is funny and honest and God’s call on his life is strong and true. Also, this kid can sing. We grabbed some harmony lines during the many hymns we sang today during worship – bliss! The entrance hymn was All Creatures Worship God Most High, and we were singing it like 1,000+ Lutherans can sing while trumpets and percussion and organ do their thing. It. Was. Glorious.
And then we got to verse five. And the musicians cut out, leaving us to pray these words with one collective unaccompanied voice…a thousand people who are my home, two faithful young men on my left and right, and Ken’s widow sang:
And you, most gentle sister death, waiting to hush our final breath: Alleluia! Alleluia! Since Christ our light has pierced your gloom, fair is the night that leads us home. Alleluia.
1,000 siblings held me up. I actually love them. I’m so grateful they flew from the reaches of our country to stand in that ballroom sanctuary and sing when I couldn’t. It’s actually what we do. We hold each other up.
Then, we shared the Meal that joins us in Christ, and since I am persuaded to believe that not even death can separate us from Jesus, Ken was at the Meal with us, too.
Oh, and I forgot to mention that when I looked up during the sermon, the photo on the screen was of the gorgeous sanctuary of Christ Lutheran in Pacific Beach, CA, the congregation where I met Ken and where we married at the foot of the cross from which flows the river of life. It was all a bit much, Spirit. No need to work so hard tomorrow. I’ll notice you, I promise.
As I prepare to leave my first call, I am desperate to do it faithfully.
In the ELCA, there are rules in place for every pastor who leaves every congregational call, and those rules all really boil down to one thing: You are no longer the pastor of that congregation, and God is calling someone else to be their pastor.
In the days when my dad was a pastor, while it may have been emotionally difficult to sever ties with a congregation, it happened much more smoothly than it does today. We would pack up our things and move to a new city, get a new (land line) phone number, and Dad would begin serving a new congregation with very little contact from his former one. He didn’t have a cell phone number he kept when he moved from city to city. He didn’t have an email address for people to keep using. There weren’t social media platforms he had to make decisions about with regard to these relationships. We moved, and we would occasionally get Christmas cards from some folks in former congregations, but it was a fairly simple leave-taking.
Today, things are blurrier.
The reasoning behind a pastor really, truly moving on, moving away from the congregation is still the same: That pastor is no longer the pastor of that congregation, and God is calling someone else to be their pastor. How will people develop relationships of trust and vulnerability with their new pastor if they are still looking to their former pastor for that?
In Sunday school this morning, we were talking about it, and Heather said something like, “It’s really a matter of hospitality, isn’t it? How do we best welcome this new pastor into our faith community? Not by continuing to count on a different pastor. How do we honor the work of the Holy Spirit in bringing this particular leader into our congregation? Not by acting like we want our former pastor to still be our pastor.”
And I completely agree.
Y’know what? I agree with T.J., too. When we were talking this morning, I explained that if he texted me in a few years and invited me to attend his college graduation, like I just attended his high school graduation a few weeks ago, I would have to tell him I am proud of him, but I am not his pastor…and I would suggest that he invite his current pastor. T.J. said that sounded mean. So, I said, “What if Pastors Sue and Tim stayed connected to you, and a few weeks ago, you had invited them to your graduation, but not me?” He looked up and said, “Oh. It seems mean, but it’s not mean.”
Yes, T.J., you are spot on.
Tim and Sue Gamelin were the pastors of Emmanuel before I came (with the exception of David, a great interim pastor). When they left Emmanuel, they still lived one town over, and they easily could have remained in community with the people of Emmanuel. But Tim and Sue offered me such grace in their leave-taking. They told me they prayed for me, encouraged me whenever I saw them, and stayed away. They never once told someone, “Sure, I’d be glad to do your mom’s funeral…if it’s okay with Pastor Jennifer.” You know how I know they never did that? Because I never once got a call from a congregation member putting me in the position of seeming jealous and saying no…or relinquishing my pastoral position and saying yes. If anyone asked them, they must have said something like, “I’m sorry to hear about your mother’s death, and I will pray for you, but Pastor Jennifer is your (and your mom’s) pastor now.”
I intend to give that same gift to whoever comes after me.
But, it’s not as simple as just declining invitations to preside at weddings, funerals, baptisms, and such. With social media as prevalent as it is, how does a pastor unplug from a congregation? Because I don’t even have a land line, everyone at Emmanuel has my cell phone number. If they text me after I leave, what do I do? How do I not seem mean? The only way possible to do this is to talk about it now, show people the reasons for the rules.
Oh, and here’s another thing! Somehow, we can tend to think that WE’LL be the exception to the rule, that WE’LL figure out the perfect blend of loving relationship and faithful relinquishing of the pastoral role in the lives of the people we have loved deeply for years – while leaving lots of space for them to develop the loving, trusting relationship they should have with their new pastor. Well, I know that I am not the exception. I am not more clever or more faithful or more anything than others. So, I will abide by the boundaries set in place by the ELCA – even when it’s difficult.
Here are the boundaries as they are set by the ELCA.
When a pastor accepts a call to a congregation, a sacred covenant is established between that pastor and the people of God in that place. In order that the ministry might be strong and effective, it is important for that relationship to be strengthened and nurtured until God calls that pastor to another sector of ministry. When a pastor resigns/retires, that covenant ends. How does a pastor relate appropriately to members of congregations where one has previously served? We provide the following guidelines, with the hope that it will give direction so that good choices are made which do not negatively impact the ministry of the people of God.
Pastoral Ethics: For Pastors Resigning
1. It is your responsibility as a former pastor to decline invitations to conduct pastoral acts in any former parish. It is important that you do not pass the burden of such decisions back to the pastor who currently holds that call. If asked to function in a pastoral role, the best response is “because I am no longer your pastor it would not be appropriate for me to do that,” perhaps followed by “I will pray for you and would be happy to attend as a friend. Do not say “you will have to consult the current pastor.” That puts the current pastor in the no-win situation of either relinquishing the pastoral role to you, or appearing to be jealous and uncaring.
2. It is your responsibility as a former pastor to be supportive of your successor, even when that is difficult to do. If your ministry was appreciated, then you have great power to affect your successor’s ministry. If you can’t say good things, say nothing, and do it graciously. 3. While the above statements are addressed to pastors, spouses of pastors should consider the same factors, and also respect the recommendations made above.
Not quite 100 of us gathered at Lutheridge this weekend for the Create In Me retreat. Not quite 10 of us were men. This blog is about women.
As I schlepped my stuff to my car this morning, I met a woman doing the same. She shook her head a bit and said, “This is the sad part.” I didn’t know what to say. I suppose I nodded and said, “Yah,” or something deeply pastoral like that. I wasn’t feeling sad, and it hadn’t occurred to me that others would be gloomy about leaving this morning.
A few minutes later, we gathered for worship on the porch of the Faith Center. People were kind of quiet as more of us arrived, offering hugs and admiring the fountain Mary (our retreat leader) and her team had crafted on the altar they had fashioned on the porch. I noticed a tenderness there on that patio, a clinging I suppose.
Let me pause here to say in seminary we were taught that one of the greatest gifts pastors can bring to a community is being a “non-anxious presence” for those who are in crisis of any sort. When tensions are high for any reason, standing in the middle of the tension and not bringing any of your own – provides the situation with a groundedness, a place to find a bit of balance when things are shifting.
Pastor Mary Canniff-Kuhn has this gift. She brings it everywhere she goes. And she brought it to the porch this morning when the anxiety of leaving such a sacred place was building. When people began to feel a little short of breath, Mary stood there being the non-anxious oxygen they needed.
In order to have a sense of why they might be sad to leave this morning, let me offer you a glimpse of our weekend together.
We came to be creative, and creativity requires vulnerability. For three days, we moved through time and space together dipping brushes in paint and pinching clay between our fingers. Each room we entered was set up for creativity, some with a resident artist ready to teach us a hands-on lesson about sculpture or fanciful lettering or fabric embellishment, some with drop-in stations with materials and directions there on the table…and the opportunity to experiment and create. Because creativity is not only about art we can see and touch, there were workshops on meditation and the art of having faithful, difficult conversations.
Each thing we tried was deemed worthy of being in the gallery. Ours was not a gallery of perfection, but a gallery of exploration and creativity.
We sang, we danced, we laughed, we tried new things, we ate exquisite food and gathered regularly for prayer and worship. We were nourished in every way God nourishes people.
So, when it all was coming to an end, there was a shift in the way people moved, spoke, stood together. And I looked around the circle on that porch and wondered about the women there. I didn’t know most of them before this weekend, and unless I sat at an art table with them and chatted, I don’t know much about their lives back home. So, this next part is fiction. Except it’s not. I don’t know which woman might fit which description, but I’d wager mightily that a group like ours holds all of these and more.
One of my sisters spent a whole weekend never once getting yelled at. She came and went as she pleased, and no one berated her for being too slow or too sloppy or too anything-at-all.
One of my sisters spent a whole weekend using the parts of her brain she shelved when she discovered making art for a living is risky and not a sure thing. Her job pays the bills, but it does not call upon the vast and varied gifts she often forgets she has tucked away in her gorgeous self.
One of my sisters spent a whole weekend being cared for – rather than being a caregiver. She didn’t know how tired she was until she fell into bed Thursday night and nobody needed her, not even once, in the middle of the night. She woke up Friday morning and made her way to the dining hall where a huge breakfast buffet was waiting there for her. She ate her fill and looked around to see where to put her dirty dishes, and she was told to just leave it on the table. It would be cleared for her; maybe she would like to grab a cup of coffee on her way out? Clean mugs, coffee, and all the fixings were available to her all weekend. The only medication she managed all weekend was her own multivitamin and her low dose of a cholesterol med.
One of my sisters spent a whole weekend on her own schedule – rather than running a household with school-aged children. She didn’t carpool on Friday morning or pack lunches or remind anyone at all that she would be back to pick them up for their orthodontist appointment after 2nd period. She moved from station to station enjoying her time, remembering the art she used to make. It took her most of Friday to let go of the ever-present-responsibility she carries around. She went to the Jams and Jellies workshop and didn’t worry about little hands near the boiling sugar.
One of my sisters is sick. Her physical health is an everyday struggle. She doesn’t always sign up for church events or retreats because she knows it will just be one more time when she has to say, “you go on without me” on that hike or across the campus or back to the car. This weekend, she got her body to one huge room filled with light and laughter and art supplies. She sat at one table for as long as she liked, then she walked a few feet to another opportunity to learn something new. If her bladder called her to the bathroom every 30 minutes, fine. If her ankle hurt and needed to be propped on a chair, fine. If sitting was hard, and she needed to walk around while the Bible study leader was teaching, fine. If she got too tired, and she needed to back to her room for a nap, fine.
One of my sisters spent a whole weekend feeling loved in the way she loves others, but doesn’t always receive. When she turned the key and opened the door to her room, she found a sweet note of welcome and a gift basket. When she arrived in the Faith Center, she was told right away that the markers and paper on the table were for her use – and that she was welcome to use them while people were speaking and teaching if she likes to draw and listen. She made a cup of tea from the counter with coffee and tea people had prepared for her. When she went to the restroom for the first time, she saw they had even provided a basket of things she may need during the weekend: cough drops, mouthwash, hand lotion, feminine hygiene products, and such! On the second day, she saw a note on the counter where the coffee is kept. It said, “In case your roommate snores,” and accompanied a container of ear plugs! Our sister who always thinks of others…felt cared for.
One of my sisters spent a whole weekend not worrying about money. Everything she needed was provided. The delectable food Chef Cliff prepared for each meal all felt like she was eating in a fantastic restaurant – which she never does. The art supplies at every single table were just there to be used! She could create one thing at each table…or more if she wanted, no cost to consider. There was fresh fruit over on a table all day, every day. Each afternoon and evening, someone would set out fun snacks to nibble. There was an offering at worship. She may have put some money in the plate; I don’t know or care.
One of my sisters spent a whole weekend feeling understood. She’s an artist. She creates things. The people in her life think that’s cute, but they don’t really “get” her, that she NEEDS to create things, that her intention and money and time is spent creating. And, y’know, her art isn’t the kind that every immediately loves. It’s not rainbows and butterflies and nice clean lines and the like. It’s dark sometimes, and it’s always layered, and people often look at it with furrowed brows. They don’t get it. So, they don’t get her. This weekend, when she grabbed the supplies intended for one thing and created something altogether her, her sisters said things like, “How did you do that!?” and “Did you wait between coats to get that effect?” and “Will you show me?”
One of my sisters spent a whole weekend with her nose 10 inches from an art project and (for the most part) laid aside how much she misses her late husband. She wasn’t at home where his empty chair sits in the damn corner mocking her. When it was time for a meal, she didn’t have to decide what to make – and remember to only make one portion instead of two. His after shave wasn’t sitting on the counter top in her Lutheridge room. She didn’t take the chipped plate out of the cupboard, remembering when he lost his grip on it, landing it in the sink. He was present with her during worship; he always is. But, for long stretches at the art tables, her grief wasn’t quite so heavy.
One of my sisters spent a whole weekend not thinking, talking, reading, or arguing about politics. Her attention was on color and texture and pattern and technique. Her opinions were about those things, too. It was a relief to stop checking her phone and reading the latest news.
So, my sisters were teary this morning. Damn right they were. Driving down the mountain back into the fray is hard. The Sabbath is holy, the retreat is nourishing, and the time away so important. But, in some ways, time away manages to underscore the ways we are tired, worried, scared, and invisible.
A prayer for us as we re-enter our lives down the mountain: May the ways we have been nourished and nurtured during the Create In Me retreat stick to us like Mod Podge, make us sparkle like glitter, stitch us together like the hook and fingers that crochet. May we be granted courage to remember Who and Whose we are, created creatures who co-create with God. May we mark our calendars for next year, declaring our intention to carve out space to be seen and loved…and see and love others…right as we are. And until next year, may God grant us peace in the chaos. Amen.
~ make yourself at my home, tell me where you been ~ Flo Rida
Many months ago, I registered for a conference led by Rachel Held Evans and Sarah Bessey at a beautiful conference center in the Blue Ridge Mountains. My wonderful congregation affords me a week for continuing education each year, and I knew that I wanted to spend three of those days with two authors that have formed my own faith in the last few years.
Their gentle invitation was something like: If you are a doubter who believes or a believer who doubts, if you have been hurt by the church or just can’t make sense of some things, if you are deconstructing unhealthy faith patterns or reconstructing healthy ones, come to the mountains with us and explore what it means to be living out an evolving faith. Thus was born the conference called Evolving Faith 2018.
I’ve been looking forward to this for months. I’ve been reading the books written by many of the presenters (click that link above and see the list of speakers). Some of my sweetest-friends-who-are-also-my-colleagues were going to be there, too!
So, it caught me off guard two days before the event when I got very nervous, and my normally positive self – who loves to gather with people and learn new things – started to feel a bit of…dread? Was it dread? If so, then why?
I asked my daughter to talk through some of my odd feelings as I packed my suitcase. And in the end, I discovered that I was feeling…
You see, the organizers of this event created a Facebook page where those who were registered for the event could get to know each other, find roommates for housing, etc. So, for months, I had been getting to know some of the folks who would be gathering on the mountain with me.
One person posted this question: Anyone else nervous about coming because you carry so much pain about church you aren’t sure you can handle hearing people talk about it?
Dozens of people responded with their own expressions of fear. And if dozens of people commented on the thread, were there actually hundreds of anxious, worried, hurting people coming to the mountain afraid that the truth will be too loud or sharp or icy?
I cannot overstate how kind all these people are. Seriously. They were offering to carpool with each other, be roommates with strangers, share expenses, and all other manner of favors and encouragement. 900 people with only this conference in common became a community of vulnerability out there in cyberspace – and soon we would inhabit the same physical space, we would be the incarnation of the thing we longed for: real community.
So, to learn how much pain people were bringing with them made me feel a lot of feels. A. Lot.
Firstly, they were all coming to North Carolina. They were flying from Canada and all over the United States (one woman came from Somaliland!) to come to our home. It made me feel like a bit of a hostess. You can tell me that’s ridiculous because I was not on the planning team, nor do I work at the retreat center. You can say that, but that doesn’t change the fact that I was feeling it. And Flo Rida was singing, “Welcome to my house…” in my ears whether it was reasonable or not.
Secondly, and way more importantly, I am currently a pastor, a leader in the Church (specifically, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America). Many of the people traveling toward “my house” when this sense of responsibility was settling over me had been hurt – really hurt – by people who had been leaders in the Church. I’m a member of this cohort of clergy that crosses denominational lines, and I benefit from the respect generally afforded clergy. I cannot point over there to some other group of people who have (and often abuse) authority over the spiritual spaces where people gather to worship, study, and pray. I’m IN that group. Clergy are “my people” and my people have steamrolled over far too many precious lives. And those steamrolled lives…steamroll over others. The generational reach of our manipulation and spiritual abuse cannot be measured.
When I was packed and ready to leave the next day, I laid in bed feeling heartsick.
The next morning, I went to my local store that only stocks goods made in North Carolina. I got small bags of Blister Fried Bertie County peanuts, small bottles of lotions made and bottled in Raleigh, muscadine flavored hard candies and peppermint puff candies made in Lexington, Chapel Hill toffee, and Moravian cookies from Winston-Salem. I didn’t really know what I was going to do with them. I mean, there were maybe 50 items in my bag, and there were over a thousand people registered for the event. But, I packed them into my backpack because…I guess because I needed to do something.
As I drove to Montreat, I tried to figure out why I had bought all that stuff and what in the world I was going to do with it. And I decided that I would simply walk up to a stranger and say, “I’m a pastor in North Carolina, and I’m glad you are here. Here’s a little gift made in North Carolina.” It promised to be awkward, and I guess it was.
Today, I had several of those short conversations as I handed out little gifts. The recipients were kind and funny, and there in Anderson Auditorium, with the incarnational gifts of eye contact, laughter, awkward stumbling sentences, and the physical gifts of candies, peanuts, cookies, and lotion, Spirit had her way with me.