Sunday, November 2, 2014


Leaf hunts. They are keeping me sane while driving me nuts.

It's a good way to kill time in the evening when Matt is gone, the girls are tired, and Jasper is squirrelly. We bundle up and take the stroller out of the garage. While I want Jasper to spend more time on his bike this fall, he usually picks the old trike so I'll push him using the giant handle that comes off the back. While this three-wheeled regression is symbolic of 2014, I'm secretly relieved I can keep them corralled together as we meander the sidewalks and intersections of our neighborhood. 

Jasper is a precise kid. He notices details and defects in each leaf we consider. 
The veins are too spidery.
I don't want it if it's got a lot of holes.
This one is crunchy and not beautiful anymore.
By late fall, it can take an hour to find three leaves worthy of the little trunk on his Radio Flyer. 

These persnickety opinions probably irritate me because he's a lot like me. I like categories and I notice little things. I have strong feelings and I can appear brash while sharing them. But this also means I'm decisive and confident. I'm aware and interested. So I decide to see these things in my leaf hunter, too.

Jasper had a hard time leaving our pumpkins outside again last night. He knows we're not saving them for Halloween anymore, but he's afraid of the havoc squirrels will wreak while he sleeps. He'd rather watch them rot slowly in our entryway.
Are you afraid the pumpkins will die?
No. I'm afraid of their die surprising me.
Like so many before him, he's lusting after the crummy familiar in the face of the unknown. He knows these pumpkins won't last forever, but he needs to see their decline with his own eyeballs. He wants to feel like he's in control during their demise.

Today is All Saints Sunday, which has me thinking about those who only come to church for funerals. They only hear about death and resurrection in the face of an actual death and an unsubstantiated resurrection. They see the church in this really honest paradox of mystery and conviction.

We are certain that baptism joins us to Christ's death and resurrection.
We are confident about God's reputation to deliver and set free.
We are convinced there is good reason to forgive and feast and remember.

But we also wander in the wilderness.
We rebuke greeting cards with chintzy theology.
We are willing to live in the gray - with precarious pumpkins and crunchy leaves.

My desire for precision does not dissipate with time, but it is eased by a faith and vocation that make their home in the gray. God has designed me with precise opinions and ideas, but calls me instead to the murky places where life and beauty are fluid.

Today Jasper found a leaf that was crunchy and filled with veins. Its stem was bent and the brilliant orange was speckled with holes. I reached for it and took a closer look.
You don't want that one, Mommy. It's ugly. 
I don't know, Jasper. I think this leaf looks brave. I think it fed a hungry caterpillar and waved in the breeze and gave us shade from the sun before flying off that tree and coming down to make music under our feet. I think it had a beautiful life and I want to carry it around for a little while.
He looked at me and the maple tree for a few moments while my words bounced around in his head. And then, without examining it himself, opened the trunk of his trike and put my leaf next to the others.

Friday, October 3, 2014


This YouTube clip is totally worth twelve seconds of your life.

I admire her fierce trust. It's clear she is willing to give it a shot without all the information at hand. Why? Because the people around her have her back (though, not her front).

I ask people to trust me all day long. Trust me, even though organized religion has failed you in terrible, hurtful ways. Trust me, even though it's hard to be vulnerable and I've been your pastor for less than three years. Trust me, even though they make iPhones older than me. Trust me, even though I can't tell you what's coming down the pipe. I'm flying blind sometimes, too.

We are embarking on a Capital Appeal process this fall. Two very different projects will come together and get tangled up in the stewardship and dreams of this tiny congregation. Why? Because if a church this size is going to do a Capital Appeal, it needs to unite the young and the old, the new and familiar, the nostalgic and skeptical.

Some would rather just support the explicit and traditional project regarding stained glass window repairs. This project makes perfect sense to our long time members, who are amazed at the cost but not swayed by it.

Others are energized by conversation about a more flexible sanctuary layout. New carpet? A combination of chairs and pews? What if we could face the high altar one season and be curved together more intimately around the Word and Sacraments another season? Can we move the organ and the choir? Where could rocking chairs go?

Nothing has been decided about that second project - it's just the beginning of a conversation about what's possible. But it was enough to make a few sweat bullets and pull away. Please don't change anything. It's beautiful the way it already is. I'm scared about what might happen.

And so I called to invite them together for an afternoon of listening. I have no hidden agenda. I'll just hear your feelings and answer your questions. You have a voice.

This olive branch startled them and they dared to show up. Together we cried and laughed and wondered about why change is so hard. And trust was built. I could feel it rising up around us, keeping us safe and loved despite our differences. They understood why the projects would hang together and were ready to share their unique voices while making unity a priority.

We hugged before they left and something was different - in that moment, the fear was gone.

- - - 

I ask Jasper to trust me everyday, too. I invite his vulnerability, feelings, and words about how much has changed in eight months. He is usually wonderful with the girls and surprises us with his creativity and maturity about two new sisters in our midst. I am proud of the way his is processing much of this.

But it's hard when slobbery babies touch your stuff. It annoying when their naps determine where you play and how loudly. It's frustrating when your mom takes you to Target and all she gets is $134.72 worth of formula and baby food before steering the cart right past every awesome toy you don't yet own.

These inconveniences are producing epic tantrums that are well calculated and designed by a bright, beautiful boy. Most of my parenting strategies for these moments rise and fall within a week or so, but inviting trust always remains.

Trust my arms that ache to hold you before you are ready.
Trust my promises to wait while you work out big things.
Trust my warnings that offer good choices and mantras.
Trust my consequences,
  for you have seen Ninja Turtle Go-gurt thrown out the back door.
Trust my patient love, which will outlast every weary fight.
Trust my fingers that wipe away tears of every emotion you blare.
Trust my calm voice, my safe lap, my smooth lips on your head.
Trust my fierce love that never flinches in the face of your volume.

Trust my joy
  when I catch you doing brilliant, funny, thoughtful things.
Trust my awe
  when I watch your face changing as you grow.
Trust my interest
  in what you create, learn, feel, wonder, ask, play, sing.
Trust my gratitude
  for you every night as I tuck you into bed smiling.

For I love you for every reason under the sun, but also for weathering this massive change with me. You embody all kinds of things I feel when the choices are too few, the fatigue is too great, the babies are too loud, and the days are too short. This too shall pass, Jasper. But you will always be mine and I will always work hard for your trust.

God, give me the patience, wisdom, and strength to be trusted by many. By those I lead and serve, by those who give their fragile hearts to my care, and by those who live inside me though they walk about the earth. And may my trust be tangled up in your holy peace, so that I can fall forward with confidence. Amen.

Sunday, September 14, 2014


I don't think pastors mean to hyper-function in the fall, but we do. It spills over into programming and ambition that demands the attention of everyone in the pews and on the mailing list: Rally Day! Big events! Special Sundays! Capital appeals! Aggressive fellowship! Sunday School Revamp! Every summer I mean to avoid this sprint into autumn…and every September I realize I'm already 50 meters in.

I have told you about Zion's tired leaders. We don't need more to do and so the big experiments are happening in place of things that are dying or stagnate already:

Third Sunday Bible Studies are now a collaboratively hosted confirmation program for all ages. Competition, Lutherisms, and baptismal promises rediscovered - but mostly story telling, faith sharing, and eating soup together. Some might come from Bethlehem and I will only be leading a few sessions.

Only one or two of our Sunday School kids can attend on Sunday mornings this fall. So what if "Sunday School" is on Wednesday evenings before the community dinner? What if parents have the option to hang out during it? What if older kids help and neighbor kids wander in?

After three years of polka on Rally Day, we decided to invite the MN Adult & Teen Challenge Choir to lead worship with us this morning. They shared stories and sang for us - we shared communion and a good word about Abraham's blessing. I could hear them resonating with the Recovery Worship elements that were present in the service. Some live just a few blocks away and I know they'll be back.

Several of us hosted a space at Nicollet Open Streets this afternoon. Jasper provided warm hospitality to everyone under 40" in height while we helped kids make bracelets, apply fake tattoos, and told them about the little church just 2 blocks away.  Together we created a prayer garland filled with hopes, dreams, and peace. It adored the ugly shed and fence behind our table, an eyesore that has always longed for TLC. After a few hours, I stepped back and just watched - the people of Zion are so good at loving their neighbors without a hidden agenda or motivation. 

I am trying to step back more often these days. As I bless leaders releasing their dutiful burdens at Zion, I am watching them rediscover what excites them. They bumble while asking for permission to do the most beautiful, spirit-led things. And then I do my best to say YES! OF COURSE! without stepping any closer. I am weaning from so much doing and finally learning to lead.

* * *

Sometimes when I come home late in the day, the girls don't want to nap. Instead, they want to be held on each hip and smothered in kisses while they bury their milky mouths in my neck. I can feel their fatigue through the giggles, but they do not give in. Cuddling takes priority.

So my aching body held them all evening - while directing train table traffic with Jasper, while microwaving another mediocre dinner, while talking to Matt as he sat in the Michigan airport, while singing grace, while watering the grass seed. 

It was uncomfortable holding their wiggly bodies to my chest because I am weaning them as well. I am retiring from the dairy business this weekend, which is emotional but welcome. It has been a privilege to feed people - to nourish them with my body. Everything about carrying and laboring and feeding these girls has been intense compared to Jasper and life before babies. Stepping away from that causes me to ache - mostly because life in hours and ounces has been my habitat and vocation for so long. But also because I will never share my body like this again and there is great grief in letting go.

I put them to bed and then lay down on the living room floor, my back relieved by the clock and the silence. Laundry! Dishes! Trash! Unpack the van! Roll up the hose! Mail pile! Wash bottles! Pump!

The list echoed in my head, but I decided to stay on the ground until I could hear my own body and the inner voice I'd been missing. So I listened for a rhythm beyond hours and ounces that used to guide me through the day. I took deep breaths when the list got loud and waited patiently for my body to tell me something - anything - I'd been ignoring for all these months. I cried a lot. And then I heard her:

Thank you for listening.
Welcome back.
Did you know you have to pee?
Also, there are ice cream sandwiches in the freezer.

Sunday, August 24, 2014


Today the air is heavy and moist. I walked by the river all morning. The flowers are changing this week…not that I'm a master gardener. But each August, the hydrangeas turn green, the tiger lilies dry up, and the black-eyed Susans erupt. Summer is almost over! it screams to ensure I don't blink and miss it. The parkway smells like wet earth. It reminds me of early mornings at a campsite when everything is damp, but the oatmeal and flannel shirt warm you up.

Later this afternoon, once the kids were safely in the hands of grandparents, I drove 226 miles west. Matt usually drives my Corolla these days, so the car and I were like old friends reunited. Music blared and the warm wind whipped in and out of my hair. Chaska. Glencoe. Olivia. Marshall. I slowed down in each, taking in the old signs and friendly faces.

I have deep memories of these roads that lead through southwest Minnesota. We spent many summer weekends in Cottonwood when I was growing up. Street dances and corn feeds were magical events. I remember chiggers stuck to my legs after a lake swim and hours tossing water balloons. Cousins I now call friends seemed light-years older than me. I wrote my name on the chalkboard inside the Little Red Schoolhouse every summer, in awe of my own addition to the infinite memories that place held for my family.

The wind farms just east of Tyler were beautiful. The clouds rolled above us, stirring my songs and my memories. They propelled me across the boarder somewhere brand new.

And then I checked into my hotel. Though the rich yellows and greens of the plains know my heart and my ancestry, I was still a tired City Mouse without children underfoot(!)  So I fell into a king-sized bed of pillows and fluff. I buried my head in the covers and disappeared for 8 hours.

Alone. At peace. Completely still. And maybe (just a little) lonely.

This is only the second time I've had so much sleep in a full year. My body and mind are always carrying more than themselves - and have been for quite awhile. But, for a night, it was just me and the plains and a bed to myself. I did not listen for whimpers or crying. I did not write sermons or do dishes or vacuum or take phone calls. And I did not rise until I was ready.

From this place of restoration, I ironed my clerical wear and my alb, signs of just one of my calls. I dressed for the ordination of a friend and spent the morning listening to his promises, his gifts, and his willingness. It made me feel grateful and glad.

And then I drove 226 miles back through open fields and small towns, into the warm and wet heat of the city. And there I gathered beloved babies into my arms. They giggled to each other and nestled into my neck. They did not know how far I'd gone, but they were so glad to have me back. Before dark we walked through the yard with them, pointing out the verdant hydrangeas, the wrinkled tiger lilies, and the joyful black-eyed Susans. Don't blink, girls, or you'll miss it.

Sunday, August 3, 2014


Solveig and Tove,

Last Sunday was beautiful. It was a clash of worlds in the best kind of way.

Baptism is one of those moments when the universal and the abstract become acutely personal and tangible. We gathered for worship on the lawn with stones in hand at 10:00am. These stones represented the heavy, sinful, and worrisome things we carried with us that morning. And then, during the confession, we let them sink into the font. Water rushed over them and the Promise defeated their power. They rested below as I splashed you and people vowed to support you in faith.

Sacraments are supposed to be both mysterious and simple, but sometimes they are just plain confusing instead. So I want to be clear about why you were baptized on Sunday July 27, 2014.

Solveig with a disapproving look. Too bad, honey. God chooses you!

Tove is surprised and whimpers until her hair is dry again. Glamour first.
We care about your sense of self getting tangled up with the Holy Story. You are bound to ask the four big questions: Who am I? Where do I belong? What's my purpose? Where do I find hope? You will find friends, hobbies, and clubs along the way. This is different. Baptism declares your deep belovedness over and over, forever and ever.

We care about your sense of community getting tangled up with Jesus. The fastest growing demographic in America is people who have never experienced genuine community before. Many in our generation are aching for something they've never known and don't know how to describe. The same will be true of you and your peers. And so we are introducing you to the community Jesus creates  across time and space. Your Godparents have made your family a little bigger, signs of the way Christ knits us together as the Body. This community is good, Dear Ones. You don't need to wait to choose it later on - God is already choosing you and that's the whole point. You will find belonging and purpose here from the very beginning.

We care about your sense of God becoming scriptural, not just skeptical. People say all kinds of things about God - usually without being in relationship with God. So we will teach you the story and you will become familiar with God's reputation for coming down, startling systems, and saving us all the time. You will know that God always chooses working with us over efficiency. God finishes things we can't and trumps things we fear. That's a God worth knowing and proclaiming.

Baptism will not remove the obstacles or pain that awaits you in this life. But it does cover you with strength and grace to move through it. It does promise that you are never alone, forever tangled up with a holy identity, home, purpose, and mission. It does mean you are surrounded by voices and hands and hearts that will challenge and champion you. It does declare God's dying and rising love for you - universal and abstract, but also intensely personal and tangible.

You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever. (Whether you like it or not.)  Thank God!

Love, Rev. Mom