tangled up in grace

blast from the past

2012-02-13T18:15:00.000-08:00

In high school I set a goal. I wanted to visit all seven continents before I graduated from college. And I did. Australia was the big finale. I went with a January term study abroad group during my senior year, which included many friends and people who became friends. But mostly, there was Molly. I'd known Molly several ways for several years and before we left for this trip, we made plans to stay in New Zealand for an extra week.

If you hate stories people tell about "the most amazing week of their lives" or "how awesome college was", never ask me about my week in New Zealand. I remember pausing countless times on this trip and thinking, "This is the happiest I've ever been". I was in transition in several ways that winter and something about this trip grounded me or set me free. I'm still not sure which.

We slept in hostels and on buses. We played things by ear and rented mopeds in the pouring rain and I went skydiving. We danced to Beyonce's Crazy in Love a billion times and picked up guys with bold faced lies. (There's a Scottish guy somewhere convinced he kissed John Deere's granddaughter.) One of our favorite days was spent river surfing in rapids near Queenstown. We dragged our hostel roommate, John, along even though he promised this wasn't his thing. And it wasn't. But he did take a few pictures and promised to email them. We were in and out of touch for the next several years, but the pictures never surfaced, so scrapbooks were completed without this page.

Until Thursday. They suddenly arrived by email on Thursday. A mere eight years late! Molly and I giggled as the memories rushed back. These shots make us feel pale and old...but so happy for the women we were and the women we've become.

I think it's time to make room in the scrapbook for these two.

fake it 'til you make it

2012-02-04T18:57:00.000-08:00

This cupcake poster pretty much sums up my week. I had glorified plans for last Monday and Tuesday - my miniature Sabbath between jobs. A massage, errands, cleaning, baking and planning for Jasper's birthday party were going to leave me feeling both productive and relaxed before my first day at Zion.

Instead, Jasper got his first ear infection. He was snotty and clingy and up all night. We didn't figure out why he was so miserable until Tuesday morning and by then all my ideas had flown out the window. Instead we cuddled up in our sweatpants and thanked God for antibiotics.

I forgot how exciting and exhausting it is to start a new job. A woman I admire says taking in all the new information is like trying to get a drink of water from a fire hose. The next few days were long, exciting and busy. I came home glad for all the new names and stories I'd learned, but too tired to entertain Jasper while making dinner. Thus, he has now developed an affection for Kix off his highchair tray set on the floor. Yes, I know. It's resembles a doggie dish. But it means he can crawl around, explore, and snack as a free man while dinner gets cooking.

On Friday Matt and I agreed to look for a new daycare option. There are a few good reasons, but one in particular that made Friday hard. It made pulling Jasper out of a place he's known for almost a year feel really crappy because I love our lady...but I love Jasper so much more.

So we have spent the last two days scrambling to find a new plan for Mondays and Tuesdays until Jasper is old enough to attend St. John's Childcare in the fall. And while we've made some progress and we're grateful for the flexibility of our Village, we still don't have a plan. It was in this vulnerable state I attended a baby shower and watched two friends ready to join me in this chaotic and emotional realm that both breaks and strengthens my heart every day.

Later I met Matt and Jasper at the Metrodome for a Gopher baseball game. I was standing in line to get Jasper a pretzel (oh, let's be honest, I wanted the frickin' pretzel) and chatted with a mother and her 4 1/2 year old daughter. The little free spirit had dressed herself and had wild energy to spare. She sang Disney songs and twirled around us. Mom looked tired, embarrassed and about five months pregnant.

Sometimes when I get tired and embarrassed, I cope by showering someone else with the kind of love and humor I'm quietly needing. So I let her have it. I told this stranger how wonderful her daughter was. I told her that she's an amazing mom. I told her that I have a brother five years younger than me and that I remember everything about him being born and growing up. I was a good helper and loved him and he's still one of my best friends. I told her it's going to be great. Her shoulders shook and she reached for my hand. "I needed someone to tell me that today. Thank you." And then we both cried a little bit, sewn together by our fears, our fatigue and the truth about how beautiful we both are. I walked away thinking about my sermon for tomorrow: about the brokenness we all carry around and how admitting our pain in front of God and each other is New Life.

We stayed for a few more innings, Jasper enthralled with the bright lights and the players' pretty girlfriends. And then it was time to change him. We went into a bathroom stall so I could go first, but I'd forgotten that there's one thing about peeing while holding a baby I can't do by myself. Par for the course, I thought.

When we came out of the stall, I saw my soul sister and the Little Mermaid.

Hello again. Would you mind holding my baby while I button up my pants?

The truth is, I am beautiful and I'm a great mom and things are going really well. But I need a little help with the buttons. Some weeks I need a lot of help...like when I start a new job, drop our daycare lady, and have Jasper's snot on all of my clothes. And on those days, I'll ask for that help. I'll cry a little. I'll give thanks. And then I'll fake it 'til I make it.

Spirit Words

2012-01-23T14:22:00.000-08:00

Together with pastors and churches in transition everywhere, I pray for the people of St. John's and the people of Zion and all people beloved by those who serve them, those who say goodbye and say hello.

God of courage, you are brave in working through people like us. You call neighbors and strangers together despite our shortcomings and differences, inviting us to worship and serve for the sake of something much bigger than ourselves. You pull us off our phones and laptops and garmins and things that fool us into thinking life is only about what we want. You give us words to speak in unison and they make us stronger. You give us liturgy that gets inside our bodies, becoming unforgettable, incarnational and transformational. Your are tricky and we are grateful. Lord, in your mercy...

God of grace, you have called us together as the body of Christ so our lives can get tangled up with you and tangled up with each other. You are the reason I see other people. You are the reason I care. You are the reason life is both complicated and wonderful. Thank you for getting me mixed up with your saints at St. John's. They have showed me Christ and helped me believe. Lord, in your mercy...

God of hope, as I pack up my office and make plans to move up the street, my heart is filled with dreams for this congregation I love so much. My prayers for them sound desperate and childish. I might as well end each petition with, "pretty please" because I desire all kinds of life and joy for them in the years ahead. So love them, nourish them, make them bold and help them follow you in brand new ways...pretty please. Lord, in your mercy...

God of trust, you are silly. You know I get all wound up and then I get nervous and then I get confident and then the jokes on me. Every time. Thank you for sending me up the street even though I'm scared and naive and ever so flawed. Thank you for preparing another place for me to serve and learn and grow. Thank you for the people of Zion and their fervent faith. Thank you for teasing me while you equip me, for stretching me while I try to trust. Guide us as we come together for something brand new and plenty of things old, too. Lord, in your mercy...

God of love, I'm no Simon or Andrew. I am too neurotic to drop my nets and follow immediately. Instead I discern slowly and loudly. I get bossy and worried, but then I get around to it. At some point, your call trumps all my stuff. So thank you for sticking around and being stubborn every.single.time. Thank you for chasing me like you chase Jonah and for deciding I'm good for something that has to do with your Good Something. That kind of love turns my debates and discerning into, "Sure. Why not?" Lord, in your mercy...

I commend all of these prayers and so many more into your hands because they do no good buried deep in my heart. They want out. They want to bend your holy ear. They want you to change the world or, at the very least, change me. Amen.

It's the little things.

2012-01-08T18:51:00.000-08:00

I warned you that I would soon post nostalgic musings about my life at St. John's. Well, here it is.

Today was my second to last Sunday there. Next weekend I'll be in Annandale with a bunch of teenagers on our winter youth retreat (God help me) and then my last Sunday is January 22. Yikes.

But today was just the kind of near-goodbye I was hoping for.

I needed someone to speak words of welcome to our new members on behalf of everyone in the pews during worship and the first person I asked agreed joyfully. Our new members showed up early, excited to join and I was able to greet them in the narthex. I remembered to put my lunch in the fridge before worship and ran into two of my favorite women in the restroom. We talked about my upcoming transition and one mentioned her great-grand baby was going to be in worship this morning. They were thinking about having her baptized sometime soon. How perfect on Baptism of Our Lord Sunday!

A second grader helped her mother prepare communion and later asked me why I hold my arms out when I pray behind the table. She's watching. Her sister let me know during the passing of the peace that the hymn boards and bulletin did not agree about which number we were about to sing. She's watching, too. I began my sermon from the pulpit, but I'll admit I saw a few people glazing over. "She's talking about baptism again," they were probably thinking. "Yeah, yeah. New beginnings. I need to remember to pick up toilet bowl cleaner at Target after this..."

So I came down and grabbed the bowl out of the font. I brought it into the aisle and got kids to help me splash people. Some of them woke up. The kids helped me show them that God tore the heavens open for each of us, as if God was saying, "There's no turning back now". God is in change and resolutions and new beginnings. God's spirit is giving us courage at every turn, transforming us and shocking us with grace. I teared up serving communion because sometimes I can tell when someone is having an especially meaningful experience with Christ through the bread and wine. And that moves me.

After worship I met a baby and caught up with a dear member I'll miss terribly. I relished a hug from Ken. It is always a firm handshake that moves into a half hug - a weekly gift from Christ I've come to need. I laughed and teased those I splashed. My stole was wet and it reminded me while I changed that God will be with me in my new beginning, too.

Members newish and old gathered in the lounge to chat with the family who joined minutes earlier. We shared about our first impressions of St. John's, what worship means to us and new connections sprouted from their stories exchanged. Then our little book club met. We talked about our most recent book and members of the group claimed the leadership it needed to continue.

I locked up the church aglow with the ways these people bear Christ to me every week. I believe in the power of church community, the body of Christ gathering weekly, because of the little things like these. They were a welcome distraction from my sick kid at home. I turned on my phone to find upchuck updates from my sorely underpaid baby daddy. I was glad to head home and relieve him, but took a long look at the corner of 49th and Nicollet before I put the car in drive. It was the last Sunday I'll lock up...and the little things made it one I won't soon forget.

New Year, New Gig

2012-01-01T17:45:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about St. John's a lot this fall and winter. I don't know many first call Associate Pastors who truly love where they are after three and a half years. Most of my friends don't get to do a little bit of everything. Parishioners treat them like interns or junior pastors. Dynamics with senior staff can be complex and very competitive.

I had the unique opportunity to come to St. John's knowing I'd only be here for three to four years. I have a good relationship with my colleague. I like the people I serve and, while we haven't moved mountains or doubled in size, there have been many miracles together. (But more about those miracles another time. There will be a nostalgic post or two before the end of the month!)

Since I have always known that 2012 would likely bring a farewell, I started looking for a second call pretty sure about a few wonderful things:

I really love being a pastor. Both internship and first call have given me a well rounded experience that reminds me everyday: I'm so glad I get to wear all these hats. I'm grateful for the interruptions in each day that turn out to be the whole point. I adore the broken church and the glorious gospel.
I really love being a mom who works full time, too. Maternity leave taught me that there are many different kinds of maternal strength and it specified the ones I am sorely lacking. I'm a better mom because of my job. I'm better at my job because I love being a mom. Now I get to spend the next 30 years figuring out what that messy and beautiful balance looks like.
God is calling me to be a solo pastor in a small parish. I don't know what this means for ministry beyond second call, but I look forward to being a generalist with a brand new role.

The call process is tricky, especially in the Twin Cities. Matt loves his job at the U of M so I shared my paperwork with both synods in the metro area before looking anywhere that would mean a move. Would we move? Sure, but we decided to start looking right here. I'm grateful for the many people in this process who have respect for what Matt does and understand his work to be a call as well.

I won't bore you with the details of my interviewing process - the online profile, the awkward first dates, the nerves, the prayers and the background checks of this matchmaking dance - but I fell in love. All while still loving St. John's.

I learned early in this process that interviewing when you're already happy is quite different than when your work environment is unhealthy or without challenge. I knew right away when I wasn't a good fit for a congregation or two. And when I met the call committee for Zion, I was finally torn and terrified and curious and excited. I start February 1st.

Zion has been in the Lyndale community for ages. They're tiny and scrappy and joyful and they love their neighbors with a fierce, hands-on commitment. They can't afford a full time pastor, so we're going to figure out what 3/4 time looks like. Solo. Hmm...

And yet I won't be all alone. I have great colleagues in the Twin Cities. I believe in the power of collaborative partnership between congregations and organizations. I have heard that the people of Zion are do-ers, spiritual leaders and love their pastors dearly. Matt will be supportive and Jasper will meet another village of faithful ones who will root him on as he learns to walk and believe.

Oh yeah. And there's the Holy Spirit. And that's the greatest comfort of all. I remember this when I get overwhelmed by change and fear and results and the reactions of others that I cannot control. It will not be up to me to save Zion or grow Zion or change Zion...just like it wasn't up to me to move mountains at St. John's. The Holy Spirit has gone ahead of me to 33rd and Pillsbury and will stay after me at 49th and Nicollet.

Duh. Whew. I feel better already.

A Love Letter

2011-12-18T18:34:00.000-08:00

Dear Pre-Pregnancy Pants,

I can't stop thinking about you. I used to think you were drab and boring and plain, but I was so wrong! You have been so patient waiting in my closet all these months. I never appreciated you when we were together and now I regret the many ways I took you for granted. Winter is here and I miss you more than ever!

But I have a plan. And for the most part, I'm sticking to that plan. I have already reunited with two of you and I'm coming for the rest of the pile. It's just an uphill battle this time of year...no, I don't mean to make excuses. Those peanut butter and chocolate Santas didn't sneak into my grocery bag - I bought them with my own free will. You're right. It's time and I'm trying. We'll be together again soon. In the meantime, stay where I can see you each morning. Remind me how close I am.

Hang in there, old flames. You are more than a New Years Resolution. You're my Valentine, too.

Love, Meta

It's been awhile.

2011-11-29T18:13:00.001-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving! It's been awhile since my last post and that's becoming the pattern here at tangled up in grace. Work has meant a lot of writing lately and I think stewardship season and preaching are using all of my thoughtful word juice. Since November has come and gone, it's time to catch up. This time, I'll use pictures.

Jasper has outgrown most things about the baby stage. He knows how to manipulate us for attention now. He's scooting and crawling and pulling himself up on stuff. He can hold his own bottle and loves crunchy carbs like his momma. When he's not ready to fall asleep at night, he sits up in his crib and sings to himself, swinging his legs between the bars and twirling his nook in his fingers.

I took a vacation day recently and packed up all the baby stuff. The blessed Bumbo chair is gone. So is the Boppy pillow and most of our other modern baby supplies with silly names. As you can see, I was freakishly organized about his baby clothes. I washed and stored everything by size. The moment he outgrew something in his dresser, it all got packed away and new bins came out. This way, I knew he wore everything at least once and when people asked whether he'd grown into an outfit they gave me 11 months ago, I could answer with confidence instead of staring blankly and wondering, "Wait...which outfit? It's all a blur!"

Jasper wore his first pair of jeans Thanksgiving weekend. They're "skinny jeans" from Target. Yes, Target sells skinny jeans for babies, but I bought them knowing that they'd look like normal jeans on my little beanpole. And, sure enough, they do.

I sent him to daycare yesterday because, after four straight vacation days with the little booger, this momma needed a break from her momma's boy. I got all kinds of cleaning done around the house and ran long, lazy errands holding a coffee cup instead of a diaper bag. I made applesauce, froze more baby food and made these delicious popovers from the December issue of Real Simple. It was divine and picking him up was a happy reunion.

Matt's soccer season is over, so we all get home about the same time most nights. Our tree is lit and decorated with dainty decorations it can handle. We bought this little Norfolk Pine shortly after we got married and it's been our Christmas tree for four years now. I suggested getting a smaller, Charlie Brown tree this year, but Matt can't bear to part with its growth and history and splendor in the corner of our main room. So here it sits, ready to celebrate another year of joy and hope with our little clan.

I am still trying to figure out what to do for our Christmas card picture this year and instead of buying a stocking for Jasper in the next month, I'm giving myself until Christmas 2012 to knit all three of us stockings. I haven't knit anything for 11 years, but it's time to give it a go again.

So that's November in my world. Some things are lovely, like a cute apron and the smell of fresh popovers on an afternoon home alone. Other things are piling up, like baby clothes in Rubbermaids, holiday catalogs and the list of new things I hope to try in 2012. And this time of year, the piles are just as much fun.

the great shuffle

2011-10-26T15:12:00.001-07:00

I looked back at recent posts and realized a lot of my writing lately has been about rhythm. Each morning since Jasper arrived, our chaos is held together by a singular goal - we've got to get out of here on time. Each evening we burst back through the door, my arms filled with baby, groceries, purse and mail. Usually I'm holding something in my teeth or Jasper holds the keys. Today I realized that I've always lived in this rhythm at work, which is why it seems so familiar at home.

Being the pastor in a small urban congregation means I ride two currents each day. I urge my people out the door - go serve, go share, go invite! This place is for a quick rest before heading back into the world. Grab some gospel and get out there!

All the while, I'm inviting strangers inside - come see, come taste, come receive! I know our doors are heavy and our liturgy is high, but there is something here for you. And you have something to share here, too.

Today I attended the Ending Homelessness Together Annual Luncheon downtown. One of our members is a community builder and invited me to sit at her table. We heard stories about Plymouth Church Neighborhood Foundation, projects we've supported and projects just getting started. Half the folks around our table were from St. John's, celebrating their call to go outside our walls and make a difference. It was an hour of my brain and heart celebrating with YES YES YES!

Late this afternoon the phone rang. It was a woman wondering about our worship services and Sunday school. She's looking for a church and lives in the neighborhood. Then, she admitted, she was standing right outside at the bus stop reading our sign. Come inside! It hadn't dawned on her, but her son did need to use the restroom and she was right here. We wandered around the building talking about church and her life and my life and every once in awhile her son would chime in with a comment about this funny building. Soon they left feeling welcome and eager to come back inside on a Sunday morning. It was fifteen minutes of my brain and heart celebrating the other current with YES YES YES!

That's what I do all day, most days. I do my best to inspire movement. I cheerlead. I point to God's commission. I connect people and try to relate with them. I remind myself and others that God is already working in rooms before we enter. I pray for the great shuffle out and in, out and in. And every once in awhile, when it clicks for a moment and I get to watch, I celebrate with YES YES YES!

thank you, autumn

2011-10-18T11:37:00.000-07:00

my favorite things about fall

crunching leaves

the secular world speaks stewardship...
...sometimes even better than the church

the way jasper tugs at the ears on his monkey hat,
causing it to slide further down his face

walking by the river

every sunny day is a gift

scarves, tights, boots, sweaters

apples, sweet potatoes, squash

the earth smells sleepy

my birthday - and this year i felt really special

so much going on at church

coming home to the smell of a hard working crock pot

watching jasper discover wind and crisp air

holding matt's hand and leaning into him for warmth

they were amazed

2011-10-16T16:41:00.000-07:00

Sunday, October 16 ~ Matthew 22:15-22

Ugh. For several chapters now, Jesus has been slamming religious piety and pretentiousness while teaching in the temple and people are getting pissed off. The Pharisees send some of their religious students together with the far more political Herodians into the crowd armed with cheap flattery and an impossible question. You see, there’s no way Jesus could answer their riddle without committing major heresy against the temple or the empire – and they don’t care which way Jesus falls off the fence. They just want to be there when he does.

But Jesus is no fool. He can smell their charade from a mile away. It would be like answering a knock at your door to find John Boehner and Nancy Pelosi standing there hand in hand, smiling and saying, “Well, that’s a great color on you. And you smell so nice! Say, we just have a quick question for you since we care so deeply about the way we represent you personally…”

Gross. Jesus knows they’re hoping he’ll make a huge public gaff and suggest a tax rebellion against Caesar, but he’s not about to fall for it. So just as quickly as their question tries to divide our life into categories of allegiance and importance, Jesus blows their question out of the water with a radical word of unity. And they never see it coming.

The crowd gathered at this scene is not unlike crowds gathering today, anxious and polarized by leaders and issues. The Jews were feeling misrepresented and nervous about their relationship with the Roman Empire because a mortal leader playing god right in front of Yahweh, the one true God. It was a delicate balance everyday – nodding and smiling at the Roman Empire just enough to keep their basic rights to Jewish worship and culture. And everyday they wondered whether they were compromising or selling out.

I wonder if God had these kinds of moments in mind when the Israelites begged for a king of their own back in the book of Judges. God so desperately wanted the people to live set apart, operating differently and experiencing authority in a more radical way than their neighboring nations. But Israel pleaded and nagged God, convinced that having a king would mean more freedom and that it wouldn’t affect their loyalty to God.

The Pharisee and Herodians sound self-righteous, convinced that the answer should be black or white, but even they are living in the grey. One presents a coin with Caesar’s face on it - something no one should possess inside the temple walls and a Pharisee shouldn't have at all. When they show Jesus the denarius, they prove that being faithful isn’t easy – and it isn’t black and white.

And so at first, Jesus’ answer seems simple. Give the emperor what he is due and God what God is due. And if we take his answer at face value, it doesn’t seem very radical at all.

But the gospel says the crowd heard and they went away amazed. And for that reason, we have to take another look. Therefore, give to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.

Without any further explanation of what belongs to either party, Jesus leaves us to consider all the grey stuff about authority and allegiance ourselves. He doesn’t give us the answers or draw a line in the sand. He doesn’t fall off the fence onto one side or another. In fact, he doesn’t divide at all.

Maybe the crowd is amazed because, while the seal of Caesar on coins and doors and decrees and armor, they realize that God’s face is plastered all over creation – on everyone and everything – a testament to God's uniting power in this world.

Maybe the crowd is amazed because Jesus didn’t shun the empire or deem it evil. Sure, this empire will put him to death, but it will also fund new roads, thwart piracy and (accidentally) make it easier for the gospel to travel all over the world for generations to come.

Maybe the crowd is amazed because Jesus had the guts to name the grey places no one else was naming, the tricky space in between that wrestles for our time, our priorities, our checkbooks and our values. In the face of black and white, Jesus’ simple answer points to daily living that isn’t simple – the choices we make about what belongs to God and what that means for our lives.

And maybe that’s I should stop typing because Jesus didn’t lay it all out for the crowd – instead, he entrusted them to worship and life in the Body of Christ where, together, they would find out what belonging to God looks like day after day, week after week. Together, they would form one body with countless expressions of discipleship in the grey, each person experiencing giving to God in a different way and adding to the Great Story that never ends.

You have the face of God all over you – you’re marked with Christ, sealed by the Spirit and the gospel is causing unity in the face of all that divides you. And that's good news! May God bless you in the grey places of this week, guiding your recognition of all that belongs to God.

Hard but Good

2011-10-10T08:35:00.000-07:00

Jasper and I took a quick trip to Chicago this weekend because my cousin Ross was getting married! While the rest of the family drove with our luggage, Jasper and I flew with just a diaper bag. Our trip there was so slick and he impressed all kinds of people with his travel savvy on Saturday morning.

Unfortunately, he was also developing a low grade fever and got passed around a lot. My Aunt Kris was going to babysit during the wedding, but we changed our plans when she had a last minute family emergency. My whole family was so flexible and accommodating - I was still able to enjoy most of the festivities and Jasper got plenty of sleep all day.

But Sunday was a different story. The poor guy was burning up and uncomfortable all night. I stumbled into the airport on 3 hours of sleep with a fussy boy in the front carrier. I loaded a plane and found my seat surrounded by people avoiding eye contact and leaning away from me and my crabby baby. I got the hairy eyeball from a woman reading a book about the beauty of Catholicism. She, ironically, rolled her eyes at me while reading a page that said, "God comes to us in the most unexpected times and places". I prayed for her mercy to no avail.

This was Jasper's sixth airplane ride and until this moment he'd been a total trooper. I think I'd become a little self-righteous about this fact and melted sheepishly as his wails filled the plane. I was alone and miserable on a precious Sunday "off". I wanted to cry, too.

When we got home, Matt joined us for a family trip to the Urgent Care. He was ready to see a doctor for the same crap. So we loaded the car with a tired mom and her two sick guys. As each hour passed and we moved from waiting room to waiting room, Matt and I exchanged shrugs, bad jokes and empathetic eyes. We had been looking forward to the afternoon for weeks - the rare blank space on our calendars this fall freed for football and relaxing. Oh well. It was good to have the band back together, even if we were spending that time with every sick kid in St. Paul.

While Jasper was sent home with an expensive and prescription-free "let's wait and see", Matt got some drugs and we were home by five thirty. I got Pete and Repeat set up with a bottle and clean diaper before getting back in the car and heading to my goddaughter's house. Time with Liv has fallen through the cracks a lot lately, so I wasn't about to call and back out. I needed time with a family I admire - a family who knows Urgent Care well and always lives to tell the tale.

I fell in love with the Enstads long before I got married and started my own family. I've watched the way Carrie and Chris compromise and find humor in the hard stuff, show the girls love even when they're exhausted and I adore their fierce commitment to juggling it all with honesty and grace.

I arrived to find delicious chili and homemade cake. The girls had painted fall leaves and made cards for me, Matt and Jasper. We decorated the house for Carrie's birthday. Berit brushed my hair and they both danced and had meltdowns during the evening. It was perfect.

It always helps to watch Carrie with her kids. I have such love for her perspective and faith as a working mom. I channel her often when this parenthood thing gets tricky, calling on the strength and grace she's shown me. Toward the end of the night, Liv invited me to watch her play her violin, something I've been eager to hear for months.

But there was a catch. I could not act excited about it. She would not face me while she played and I could not clap when she finished. I remembered my own shyness about success and praise at that age and understood. We headed to the basement where Carrie could accompany her on the piano and I learned a great lesson.

Carrie, too, pretended it was no big deal. She gave Liv all of her attention without pushing any of the buttons that would shut Liv down or make her blush. As Carrie played the piano and guided her gently, something in my own heart clicked. I needed this scene of accompaniment to help me rise out of the day's ashes.

When Liv finished playing, I clapped twice. I'd forgotten the rules and my excitement slipped out for a moment. She's really, really good. And I was really, really proud. But then she shot me a look and I packed it away. No big deal. I'm not excited, but thanks for showing me. And we moved on.

Driving home I thought about Carrie's posture next to Liv. She was coming alongside her, not taking control of too much and letting Liv define her role. That's what the Spirit does with m e and that's what I needed to do with Jasper. I didn't need to fix the fact that he felt like crap. I wasn't a bad parent because his head was hot and he felt crummy. I'm not a doctor or a magician - I'm a mom. And that means I come alongside him, snuggling and kissing and helping him drift off to sleep until things get better. Watching Carrie do that, remembering that God was beside me and believing I could do it for Jasper redeemed my day off, my precious Sabbath day I thought had gone to waste.

When I came home, I crept quietly into Jasper's room and marked his forehead with the sign of the cross. Jasper, I love you very much and so does Jesus. His brow was warm and his light snoring filled the room with peace. I sat down in the rocking chair and closed my heavy eyes for a moment, basking in his breath and the darkness. It was a good place for a tired prayer, simple words and lots of gratitude. Gracious God, today was hard but good. You were there and looking back I can see all the kindness and hope, not just the heavy stuff. Thank you for the dancing and the meltdowns. See you tomorrow. Amen.

Nice Hair

2011-10-01T16:22:00.000-07:00

Dear Jasper,

You are suddenly very busy. You eat oatmeal and fruit in the morning, arms extended like airplane wings and your eyes so focused on the spoon. Your thighs are growing because of these simple solids and they're a perfect spot for raspberry kisses.

You have great hand-eye coordination. It took you awhile to get interested in using your hands for exploring anything other than your mouth, but now you know how to use your thumbs and you can even turn pages in the books we read. You sit up so well and are finally getting antsy to move around. Any day now...

We all get the giggles a lot. You have a sense of humor and think all kinds of things are funny. Rubbing noses, popping out from behind a door, tickling, flipping you upside down and pretend snoring all make you burst into laughter and I love it.

Yesterday we went to Target and I decided to put you in the front of the cart. While I had to turn corners at 2 mph, you did really well balancing and your head whipped around looking at everything. You squealed with joy all the way through the produce section, especially when we picked up speed. I suggested you pace yourself and, sure enough, you were hitting the wall by the time we got to the diapers and wipes aisle.

While Dad was out of town last week, you attended two retreats with Mom. Mormor and Marma helped and we were all impressed with your flexibility. Three different beds in three nights! When we got home on Tuesday, Dad was so excited to see you. It had been too many days and I left you two to play until bedtime. You kept looking at him and shaking with excitement, reaching for his face. Pete and Repeat, you two. It was a happy night.

Believe it or not, you had your first salon haircut with Marma this week and it was prior to this picture of you at Target. Untamed! It has been confirmed by the pros - your hair is "unique" and "tricky". I love it. Every day it's different, as if the weather and your mood decide what stands up. It's sassy when you are serious and serious when you're sassy. I hope that cowlick never gives in.

Jasper, I write this letter in part because I feel guilty. You are so cool and doing so many new things but I haven't pulled your baby book off the shelf in awhile. So I've rambled here before I forget, pausing just long enough to tell the world how wonderful you are before you start growing and changing again. Sleep tight, buddy. See you (and your hair) in the morning!

Love, Mom

Tidbits.

2011-09-28T18:35:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile. Lots of little things to share and instead of choosing one to write about, I'll try to share several in Twitter form:

We started a book club at St. John's. Our second book is a historical piece about Benjamin Franklin's time in France and how he invented American foreign policy as he went along - sounds a lot like ministry and I'm glad to be reading something I never would have tried on my own.

I spent Friday night and Saturday morning in Chaska with really, really generous donors to Luther Seminary. I got to tell them about seminary and first call. I got to hear about their love for the church and came home inspired.

I went to a conference for local pastors and our interim bishop scolded us. It was awesome. He pointed his finger at a room full of pastors and told us to stop preaching from our heels. He told us to preach from our toes, unafraid and trusting the Word. Amen.

I was changing Jasper's diaper the other day and he squished his poopy butt into my engagement ring. The diamonds were covered in poop. What a great metaphor for romance and parenthood.

Matt and I were apart for 5 nights, then back together for one before two more nights apart. Work and life are silly and busy, but last night was great. We laughed a lot and so did Jasper. It was good to be together.

Jasper is at my favorite age so far. (I know, that's so cliche.) But he shakes with excitement when he sees me in the morning. He laughs when I give him a raspberry on the chest, eats all kinds of solids, talks to himself and reaches his arms out when he wants you. He's funny and is the best reason to leave dirty dishes in the sink.

Our washing machine broke. And our furnace needs to be fixed. My phone battery suddenly lasts just three hours. The good news? Crap like this usually comes in threes, so I think we're good for awhile.

Two funerals this weekend. One passed unexpectedly and that's hard. One was 104 years old and that is amazing.

The weather today was perfect! Sumac leaves are starting to change and living near West River Road this time of year is beautiful. Life is good.

Rhythm

2011-08-29T13:32:00.000-07:00

Matt got home late last night after a long trip for work. When we heard Jasper at 6:30am, I got up and tried to find things we could do that don't make too much noise. This is his happiest, most active time of day and my goal was to wear him down within an hour so he'd take an early morning nap. I wanted to go back to bed, too.

At least that's usually my first thought on Monday mornings. I always rise thinking about my day off "Pre-Jasper". Mondays used to be lazy and quiet, but now they begin with a diaper change and making all kinds of noise in the kitchen before 7am.

Jasper was very vocal this morning, so we soon headed outside, both in our PJs, to find all kinds of neighbors out and about. His little cowlick blew in the breeze as we stood on the corner near our house watching traffic file into the high school parking lot. Cars, minivans, trucks and buses joined us slowly at first and then in a steady stream until the first bell rang. Kids walked down the sidewalk carrying new backpacks and clean notebooks and new resolutions for the first day of school.

We walked around outside, barefoot with bedhead, for almost two hours. I told Jasper all about school - the best stories I have from Kindergarten and making new friends and pop quizzes and writing notes to cute boys and locker combinations and spelling bees and the smell of the seats on a school bus.

Soon I forgot about wearing Jasper out and heading back to bed. We were busy watching cars, waving to strangers and giving each other the giggles. Seeing so many people fall back into the rhythm of school made me miss being a student myself. There is something so familiar about new pencils and shoes in the fall and my life could use a hint of routine these days.

When the traffic slowed down Jasper and I returned to our front steps and sat side by side singing songs. I looked down at this little peanut - this kid old enough for oatmeal and haircuts and sitting up with just my hand behind him - and thought about how amazing our chaos has been.

Matt and I both work some evenings and portions of every weekend. Each day begins and ends at a different time and each night we celebrate the small miracle of holding it together one more time. While our rhythm is currently lacking, well...rhythm, we are blessed with plenty of humor, love, good health and Monday mornings I never knew until now.

Later this afternoon I took Jasper to an open house for our first ECFE class together. We explored the room, met our teacher and mingled with other moms and kiddos. By the time we got home, teenagers were pulling away in cars with the stereos turned up. The school year is officially underway.

Maybe this rhythm can be ours, too. Maybe it already is.

Exhale

2011-08-16T13:38:00.000-07:00

Today has been a highly anticipated mental health day. I took Jasper to daycare bright and early. The rest of the day has been filled with get to's instead of have to's.

My only goal today was to read all three Marie Claire magazines that loomed unread on our dining room table this season. They were a sign of leisure lost and today was all about remembering how to relax.

You know you're having a good day when your stereo is pumping really loudly for the first time in ages and you get sweaty dancing around your living room. You know it's a beautiful day when you cancel the massage you had planned because it feels like too much structure and you'd rather be outside.

Today was one big exhale. I needed it and I'm glad I'm surrounded by wonderful people who reminded me to make room for it. Sigh. :)

Yum.

2011-08-01T13:03:00.000-07:00

I rarely cook and when I do, I tend to kill a recipe early by failing to follow instructions carefully. I had never used a food processor until yesterday. But since this baby food adventure began, I've already made fruit smoothies and guacamole. I'm totally hooked.

Now I know I'm supposed to want to make baby food because it's all about the baby. It feels so good to know exactly what's going into your child. True. It's so much cheaper than buying baby food. Sure. It's less wasteful than getting buried in dozens of little glass jars you might never use again. Okay. But none of those reasons got me off my tail and into the kitchen.

Instead, it was this lady!

My lovely sister-in-law squealed with delight as she pureed beets and their explosive purple color made her giggle. Cara adores good cooking, kitchen gear, old cookbooks and The Splendid Table. I could listen to her talk about food all day, describing textures and ingredients with such joy. We spent the afternoon collecting yummy, fresh foods from the Kingfield Farmers' Market and the Seward Co-op before peeling, boiling and pureeing like crazy. It was beautiful work. Jasper thought so, too. He was fascinated by this raw carrot I let him hold. He stared at it with such fierce concentration until the Cuisinart would start whirling and then he'd look up, his eyes wide. That's the sound of your lunch in a few months, kid.

And thank goodness Cara got me into the kitchen because now I know what will keep me there: the sheer hubris of it all. While I can't make anything too impressive for grown ups, people tend to react with such awe when you say you make baby food. If they would just think about it for a minute, I'm sure they'd realize it's not that amazing and it's certainly not hard. But there's no way I'll admit it to their faces. Instead, I'll just smile like a snotty mompetitor, aglow with happy success.

Beets, Carrots, Green Beans, Pears, Spinach

Amazing applesauce not pictured because we ate it all before it made it to the freezer. So, so good.

The Kingdom of Heaven is Weird and Wild.

2011-07-27T09:20:00.000-07:00

Sunday was our third week in the parables of Matthew 13. The kingdom of heaven is like a seed. It's like leaven. It's like a merchant or treasure. It's like a really big net. They are familiar stories, but sometimes when stories are familiar they lose their bite. Sometimes we peel right through them and forget to notice the weird stuff about Jesus and heaven and God's reign. And that's the whole point. I had two things to say about these parables on Sunday:

1. While we usually associate Jesus' parables with abundance, Jesus chooses imagery here that seems unsustainable and fleeting. Weird.

· A mustard bush grows wiry and strong like a weed, but at the end of the season it withers like every other annual, often turning to tumbleweed and dancing away.

· Hiding leaven in three measures of flour sounds sneaky and uses enough to feed 100 people. With that small bit of leaven, she ruins her whole supply instead of making only what she needed…and unless she’s planning a big dinner party we don’t know about, the rest will go to waste.

· The merchant doesn’t think twice about his kids’ college education, his mortgage, his retirement or how to care for his ailing parents when he sells everything for that silly pearl. What will he tell his financial planner…or his wife?

· And this net scoops up everything, taking the good the bad and the ugly before untangling and sorting its contents. But even good fish go bad. Whether they are sold for market price or rot in the sunshine, their goodness in and of itself is not eternal.

So much of what we believe about the kingdom of God declares longevity far, far away. But Jesus uses images that are signs of life and work in this world to show how God’s kingdom can come among us in a flash – that it takes shape in our priorities, our relationships, our jobs and our dreams. It can be recognizable one moment and then, because our context is always changing, it begins to stink and rot when we try to hoard it or forget to use it generously.

2. So while Jesus is calling us to keep our eyes peeled for the kingdom at work right here, this text is not content with a bunch of disciples merely reacting and waiting around feeling faithful. Jesus chose ordinary people and items for these parables because he wants us to know that our lives are filled with glimpses of the kingdom – our hands and feet and hearts are equipped by the Spirit just like this net, seed and merchant. Wild.

Through baptism we have all been claimed by heaven’s bizarre jubilation – a kingdom that breaks into our lives with little respect for our social constructs and it rarely manifests in responsible, frugal ways. God’s love is careless and wasteful and smelly and must be passed around for all to taste quickly before we have time to keep score or get scared or feel lazy. Because while these stories are two thousand years old, the kingdom can take these ancient truths and make them brand new everyday, shoving them in front of our faces so we, too, are inspired to proclaim their passion, urgency and foolish extravagance.

The kingdom of heaven is like an old man who waters and cuts and manages his lawn with meticulous care. And when it is perfectly lush and the envy of the block, he buys a Slip ‘n’ Slide, turns on the sprinkler and invites all the neighborhood kids over for messy, muddy water games.

The kingdom of heaven is like a small congregation that depends heavily on its foundation to stay afloat. And one day a man comes in asking for help with his rent money and instead the congregation uses their foundation funds to buy him a house.

The kingdom of heaven is like a bunch of Lutherans who make simple cardboard signs, each claiming one thing they believe and holding it for all to see on a street corner. Not because it's comfortable or because it's a synod sponsored event or because it will yield measurable results, but because discipleship sends them out to tell the truth to anyone passing by.

The kingdom of heaven is like a crowd of people who trust God so completely, they eat wafers that taste like Styrofoam and cheap wine from bottles with screw top caps week after week, believing with their whole hearts that Jesus is right there – forgiving and redeeming and untangling their good from their bad.

The kingdom of heaven is like a young man whose neighbor moved to a memory care nursing home, so he goes to visit her every weekend, holds her hand and lets her believe that he is the son she never had.

When Jesus finishes this proclamation of parables, he turns to the disciples and asks if they understand everything he’s just taught them.

And they lie. They boldface lie to Jesus with a word, “Yes”.

Jesus knows that every generation of disciples will be tempted to moralize and simplify these stories, forgetting their true purpose: that they reveal God’s spontaneous and backwards kingdom among us, signs of God’s life right here. And Jesus knows they can’t begin to comprehend how weird and wild the kingdom is – that his claim on all of us complicates our lives and our desire to see things as black and white.

But Jesus also looks at them with love, knowing that they say yes because their desire to understand everything is so great. They are hungry for this abundance that comes among them so quickly, that wastes if it is not shared. They long for a kingdom that breaks all the rules and calls them to break some, too. They say yes because each glimpse of God’s untamed adoration for the whole world stirs them up with nervous excitement…even though they do not understand how or why. And we’re right there with them.

Thanks be to God for sending the kingdom among us – heaven that rushes out through the pearly gates and into our lives with merciful demands and a call to spread weird and wild generosity all over the earth.

on the road again

2011-07-26T11:04:00.001-07:00

Things I learned (but already knew)
on this summer's road trip down the west coast:

1. Matt and I plan each summer road trip about nine months in advance. There's a lot of hype leading up to these two weeks away because our work schedules so rarely line up with time off. We both work some evenings. Matt works some Saturdays, I work Sundays. Clearing two weeks to be away together so far in advance makes us feel giddy about the plans we've made and the time we're securing for an adventure together. And that's always worth the hype.

2. We dream of buying a little land on a river or lake someday and having a simple cabin with bunk beds and an outhouse. After staying in yurts on the Oregon coast, we changed our tune. Now we want a yurt! It was a cozy way to spend a few nights. Jasper wore a warm hat and fell asleep early while we enjoyed dinner and an audio book at the picnic table outside. That simple "date" at the end of each day recharged our batteries - priceless!

3. Living out of the car with an infant is hard. He's old enough to get bored sitting in the backseat on longer driving days. His sleeping and pooping got thrown out of whack. He was fussy sometimes and we were tired. But I am in awe of our teamwork on this trip. We did well taking turns without score keeping and waiting for the other to rebound before having a meltdown ourselves. A lot of things went wrong, but we usually got the giggles when things completely unraveled. I found myself watching Matt with Jasper several times each day, so glad that this is my family and that I get to be with a guy this good.

4. Jasper is awesome. This kid is flexible and funny and up for adventure. He loves watching traffic and met some firemen who turned on their lights and sirens just for him. He loves nature. He can be throwing a fit and as soon as we walk outside, he's completely taken by the trees, birds and sunshine. I smiled watching his eyes bug out at the ocean. He was consumed by the breeze on his face and the sound of waves crashing on shore. While so much about this trip was exhausting, he made it worth the trouble. I can't wait for next summer's adventure...and Jasper seems pretty jazzed too.

A Living Lutheran Creed

2011-07-04T14:34:00.000-07:00

More than 350 church leaders are planning to participate and invite others to join in. Spread the word and let me know what you think! Is this something you, your family or your congregation would do? Why or why not?

Lutherans often describe their congregations with words like 'friendly', 'welcoming' or 'hospitable'. Super and probably true, but I consider this to be part of our Lutheran problem. These are lovely but reactionary descriptions of God's people. They all require others to make the first move.

It's hard to initiate - to meet people outside, to tell our story, to be proud proclaimers when our (spiritual) heritage prefers stoicism and quiet humility. But maybe it would be easier and FUN to practice making that first move together.

What if a bunch of Lutherans - I mean a bunch - all make signs stating something we believe in and all stand on corners in our neighborhoods on the same day at the same time? What if church and community leaders got people together with markers and pieces of used cardboard to talk about what we stand for and what our faith means? And what if we all got outside our walls at the same time forming a really, really big creed?

And what if people bump into it? People will drive by, see us and have all kinds of reactions. They might notice that we were holding messages of abundance in spots that usually scream scarcity or that instead of asking for money, we're just saying something that's true. They might be annoyed. Or they might be curious. We might be awkward. Or we might be awakened.

So I'm throwing it out there. Tell your synod office. Put it in your church newsletter. Make it your own - the idea is vague and that's the whole point. This experiment has just two goals:

1) To stretch us. Standing outside inviting other people to notice us because of our faith might feel scary or strange. We might draw a blank when figuring out what to write on our signs...and that might spark important conversations. But if a bunch of us try it together and then share our stories, it could be really really interesting. I'll make sure a blog or Facebook page is born so people can share photos and experiences - perhaps encouraging a second outing.

2) To many non-Lutherans, we are simply potluck people who listen to Garrison Keillor. Showing people driving/walking/biking by that we are more than a culture - we are people of faith - couldn't hurt.

So I propose a date for those who wish to join in. Saturday, September 10th (10am-noon CST). The next morning is Sunday and everyone will be figuring out what to do with the fact that 9/11 happened ten years ago. I can't think of a better way to be 'friendly' and 'welcoming' and 'hospitable' than by meeting people where they are the day before and reminding them that Church is a people and place where we hash this stuff out. Of course, any day will do.

Any takers? I sure hope so.
But if it's just me and my kid standing near a freeway ramp, that's still something.

Good Goo!

2011-07-04T14:19:00.000-07:00

Geez. It's been a month since I've posted and I've got some Lutheran guilt about it. Until I remember that blogging isn't a "should". I write when there's time and while there's still the same amount of time, it's filled differently.

I love this picture of Jasper's first dip in the kiddie pool. That serious, sultry look comes out quite often and I like to think this is the perfect game face for summer. Minnesotans take summer very seriously. Everyone has their weekends booked by April and our sad, pale skin begins to fill with freckles and sun spots by July. We are aggressive about being outside. We talk to compete strangers with passion about the sunshine, proclaiming that each day in the 70s and 80s is just PERFECT and GORGEOUS. Our happiness is laced with anxiety because we know these days are fleeting and we have to drink it in.

So that's what I've been doing. Vacation Bible School and Lake Harriet Worship and long stroller rides and walking from my office to one of the many tempting lunch spots in Tangletown. It's all divine.

This weekend we went to my parents' lake place "up north" for a little R&R. As the weekend progressed, more and more family members appeared ready to eat well, mix drinks, soak in the sun and experience the new tube that gets pulled behind the souped-up pontoon. People, this tube has "ergonomic seating" for 680 lbs. worth of riders. Nearing thirty, I climbed aboard with the same goofballs I shared a much smaller tube with in the 1980s, ready for the drool to fly from my mouth as we were whipped around the lake. That first ride proved that summer is truly here.

We left the little trooper with family for 48 hours while Matt and I returned home to cram a season worth of work into two days. We painted the exterior of our house, killed weeds, cleaned the basement, swept the garage and got organized for our road trip coming up. My shoulders are usually covered in Jasper's saliva, but this weekend they were speckled with sweat and paint.

Sure, we missed him. But it was exciting to hear how well he was doing surrounded by family members who love him dearly and read his cues so well. And without the little bugger around, Matt and found new energy to check things off the list before ordering pizza and eating it out of the box with sticky, messy hands.

He's due back in about an hour and I can't wait to see him. His room has been quiet and I'm eager for an evening to reconnect. I'm ready to trade in my sweaty, paint-covered shoulders for his spit up and drool. Good goo, indeed.

The Bag Lady

2011-05-28T09:58:00.000-07:00

This is the luggage I pack on a light day. If I'm working out, there's an additional bag of clothes. If I stop for groceries on the way home, there's even more to lug inside. Plus a kid. I am a bag lady.

I just finished listening to Tina Fey's Bossypants on audiobook and I can now relate to a story she tells about childhood with her dad: the legendary Don Fey. She remembers making a simple Saturday afternoon exponentially frustrating for him and couldn't understand why until she was a working parent herself. Having a productive Saturday afternoon can help me feel like a million bucks - like I have it all together and under control. That's the kind of facade I'm enjoying today.

You see, Matt doesn't work Saturdays for the next few months. Instead he played with Jasper when I went back to sleep at 6:30am. He mowed the lawn, went through his mail pile and admired his new rain barrel (ask him about it - he's smitten). I enjoyed a short walk with the Nugget and cleaned out our kitchen cupboards. He napped while I updated his baby book and wrapped wedding gifts. Today has me feeling victorious.

But most attempts to seem in control look more like Thursday night. I washed our hardwood floors for the first time since Jasper was born. It was a slow process - I would move furniture out of one room, mop and wait for it to dry before starting another. Jasper was sleeping in his room while I waited to the last section to dry. I admired my work while curled up on the couch paroosing Real Simple magazine, pretending my whole life was organized and delicious and freshly mopped. Until he wailed. And I never made it back to the couch that night.

The next morning the sun poured in through the open door and I noticed footprints all over my clean floor - my footprints. Back and forth, back and forth.

Sounds about right. Life does not always wait for my floors to dry. I smiled and gathered up my bags like a coat tree on the move. It was time to get going.

Splish, Splash!

2011-05-04T18:13:00.000-07:00

Sunday was May Day and the second Sunday in the Easter season. What a beautiful day for baptism! Some family gathered for pictures before the service. The font was, ironically, empty so my brothers and their ladies propped him up inside its marble frame. Jasper complied with this priceless expression. I don't know what it's like to be a PK, but I imagine it to feel just like that.

Matt wore a suit and the blue hairs thought he cleaned up nice. Jasper wore the baptismal outfit my brother Gabe wore. I wore a linen dress and sat up front until the baptism was over, Then I slipped into the sacristy and into my pastor duds. I had the classic Sunday-after-Easter text to work with: Thomas wants to see and feel the resurrection for himself. And while we really burn through this story hearing it every single year, I'm so glad Jasper's baptism is tangled up with this story. And here's some of what I had to say about that:

Jesus doesn’t razz Thomas and his demands because Thomas is aching for exactly what the others have already received: a sudden encounter with Jesus. Thomas has been longing for Jesus to come and find him. He is desperate for Jesus to show him what this resurrection means and that’s exactly what Jesus does.
He breaks through the locked doors and into this hiding place to find a vulnerable Thomas who thinks he’s missed the good news. And then Jesus holds out his hands and asks Thomas to touch. With a sudden presence, a word of peace and the invitation to see and feel what’s real, Jesus pulls Thomas back into community and back into the Great Story. Thomas was met by the God who comes to us – the God who finds us when we’re lonely and taking cover because we’re scared.

We have seven weeks of Easter because we need time for news of the resurrection to sink in. We need to hear stories about the disciples and the early church trying to figure out what new life in Christ means for our everyday lives. We need this whole season because it draws us together in worship, constantly reminding us that we didn’t earn this gift, nor do we have to track it down ourselves. Christ comes to us – he finds us and shows us what’s true again and again.

That’s one reason I’m so glad we’ve witnessed a baptism today. The promises spoken over the waters pulled us out of our own stuff – the things we’re trying to control, the things we loose sleep over and the things that isolate us. The service of baptism is rich with stories about God keeping promises since they very beginning – tales of God coming all the way to wherever we are (on the ark, in the desert, but also in depression and addiction, loneliness and anger). Here God finds us and redeems us with breath and water causing new life.

Jasper is not the only one who received these promises today. We have all been renewed by hearing them again, remembering that they are for us, too. We have all been restored by welcoming another sheep to the fold - another child showered with free promises and eternal love. We have all been revived by speaking our faith together, our voices rising up together as one body. God is here, drawing us out of our own stuff and back together into the Great Story – gathering us around the font and the table to touch with our own hands and see with our own eyes that the resurrection is real.

Jasper Wade – you will have your Thomas moments. You will feel left out and want proof and hide in fear sometimes. But that doesn’t mean you are weak in faith or mistrusting God’s gift. It means you are human and you need a Savior who comes to find you wherever you are. It means you will need a village that shares the story and believes in the everyday restoration of baptism. It means you will need to be reminded with each Easter season that the resurrection is bizarre and wonderful and real and for you…even though you didn’t earn it.

There is a cake downstairs that says, “Jasper Wade, you are saved by grace…whether you like it or not!” That’s the truth for this little one and for Thomas and for everyone washed clean in baptism. It’s the story of a love so powerful, it cannot be locked out or hidden from. It’s the story of a God who finds us when we’re lost and brings us back together – back into community and worship so we might be strengthened by seeing and feeling for ourselves.

And together we remember what is true – that God has already done all the difficult things – all the things that demand perfection. And so like Mary, Thomas and all the disciples, we are suddenly free to go and tell that Christ has risen! He has risen indeed.

And then there was cake. And people held him and others wanted to hold him and some pointed out that they hadn't yet held him. And people felt for themselves that new life was real. They remembered that resurrection and birth happen all the time...but sometimes we have to touch it to believe that it's right here in our midst - that Jesus comes to us in water, bread, wine and through each other. And then we thanked God for this little one we have all promised to show and tell the story to. Again and again and again.

WHY?

2011-04-22T08:14:00.000-07:00

I’ve noticed that some of our youngest friends at St. John’s are in the WHY stage. They are curious about everything and demand a reason for tying their shoes or taking only one donut or holding Dad’s hand before crossing the street. This stage can demand a hefty amount of patience from their parents, but most of these WHY questions do have a reasonable answer.

It’s just that when several WHY questions are strung together, we continue backing up and backing up until there are only a few universal answers. The two I hear most often are because I said so and because I love you.

Tonight we hear God telling people to do some pretty peculiar things and I can’t help but furrow my brow and wonder WHY?

In Exodus, the Israelites receive really specific orders about choosing a lamb and how to eat it. They have to get their neighbors and calendars and kitchens involved before following yet another set of instructions about a trip – packing lunches and a suitcase.

But WHY does the lamb have to be a year old and male? WHY do we have to burn the leftovers? WHY do we need to scarf it down? WHY does God pass over some houses, but not others? These instructions for Passover elicit all kinds of WHY questions.

And then in Corinthians, Paul gives us the first biblical account of the Last Supper. Jesus tells his followers to eat bread…but that it’s no ordinary bread. It’s also his body and they should do it to remember him. Then he passes a cup of wine around and tells them that it is also his blood, together a tradition that will remind them of Jesus’ presence in the days and weeks and years ahead. But Jesus, what exactly are we remembering about you and WHY do we need to eat this stuff to do it?

And as if these weren’t enough strange instructions for tonight – enough random routines and objects and words tied together into rituals that beg the question WHY – we have the servant Jesus in John’s gospel. The disciples have just started to wrap their heads around the majesty and holiness of Jesus when he trades his robe for an apron and sits on the floor in front of their feet. Their dirty, smelly, sticky feet. He takes a bowl of water in his hands. His soft, clean, for-eating-only hands. And then he makes their dirty feet clean by getting his clean hands dirty.

Peter is appalled. He would rather keep his dirt and vulnerability out of Jesus’ hands thank-you-very-much. He not only wants to know WHY Jesus would offer something so strange, he flat out refuses the gift. That profound touch is too much to bear and too close for comfort.

Feet still carry this offensive stigma. When I would pick my brother up from high school soccer practice, I made him put his shin guards and socks in the trunk because the stench was so terrible driving home. On the day Saddam Hussein was executed, the media showed pictures of Iraqi citizens slapping their shoes against posters of his image, a symbol of profound disgust and hatred. Even today, it’s clear that Jesus is crossing a line and making moves that have us asking WHY.

Maundy Thursday tells of Israelites hurrying to put their shoes on and disciples hesitant to take their shoes off. It's about a people hurrying to keep up with God and a people slowing down to relish their last meal with God. We hear about the very first Passover with an innocent baby lamb and the night God transformed Passover with the innocent Lamb of God. They are complex stories God has given to us along with a solitary command: remember me.

WHY all these rituals and traditions and details?

Because when God describes something just so, he draws us in to see the delicate and specific ways he is always present at the pivotal moments in our history.

WHY?

Because by remembering where we come from and walking through the stories with scripture, food and other believers, we end up learning about where we are going.

WHY?

Because God doesn’t throw out promises that could get picked up by a breeze and swept away before they reach us. God ties his promises to things we can see and hear and taste and smell and feel. He gives them weight, like when he ties the promises of baptism to water and the promises of communion to bread and wine. He creates experiences around these promises that ensure we’re not alone. And he calls us together because together it's easier to remember.

There are so many answers to these WHY questions – so many ways God is moving ahead of us like that pillar of cloud and fire through the wilderness. But when we chase those WHYs all the way back to the very beginning, through all of God’s gracious and wise and love-soaked replies, we are left with the two answers every patient and kind parent knows by heart:

Do this in remembrance of me…because I said so and because I love you.

Playdates and Posers

2011-04-06T15:04:00.000-07:00

Sometimes moms can't help themselves.

Sometimes babies can't either.

Getting Our Feet Wet

2011-03-25T19:37:00.000-07:00

At five weeks, Jasper and I boarded a plane for fun in the sun. Life is still hazy, but we decided to take our gong show on the road to Sanibel, Florida for a few days with family.

He did so well on the plane, but once boarded I realized it wouldn't have mattered if he screamed for all four hours. A flight to Ft. Myers during spring break season is jam packed with noisy and smelly children all screaming and wiggling the whole way. What's one more?

It felt good to sink my feet into the sand. I am an ocean child raised on the beaches of San Diego, so time at the beach feels more "coming home" than "getting away". We spent the first night standing with our faces into the sun waiting for the green flash with hundreds of other beach bums. I marveled at our numbers and was reminded of our deep need for ritual. The crowds hushed as the ball of orange sank and a collective breath was held as it disappeared. At the end of a day lived simply, everyone had gathered to see something true - to be together while watching for something they could count on. I closed my eyes and imagined pews in the sand as people resumed conversations and wandered off to find dinner.

Jasper spent plenty of time with aunties and uncles, which left me free to walk the beach. I was grateful for the salty wind in my hair and the shells that littered my path. I kept my eyes peeled for one that reminded me of him - something I could put in his baby book as a reminder of this first trip south filled with so many other firsts.

I walked away from the condo feeling relief and glad for a brief break from motherhood. I filled my head with other thoughts - friends and love and work and play and dreams and...well, everything except Nuks and breastfeeding. It felt good to put space between me and the barnacle for a little while.

And that's when I saw this shell. I smiled and scratched at the sea-wart that clung so tightly to it's ridges. Yup, I thought. This is us. I let the ocean spray wash over it and gripped it in my palm. I stopped for a few minutes and looked around before deciding that this was all the space I needed. And then I turned back toward the condo and motherhood and long nights and loud cries and stubborn burps and laundry loads and my precious barnacle. I kind of missed him.

Besides. It was time to get his feet wet in the most literal sense. Baptism is coming and what better preview than the shoreline? I couldn't wait to bring him down to where the sand turns soggy - where we straddle land and sea and get a little sloppy trying to navigate the two.

Baby Steps

2011-03-04T15:10:00.001-08:00

I'm getting a little bit more sleep. I'm gaining confidence in what I know and how to love this kid everyday. I'm biting my tongue when people share advice that feels condescending. I'm grateful for the cloud of witnesses listening to him and learning from him so they can help him grow. I'm proud of the way Matt and I are working together to make room for another life in this family.

Some days I'm lucky. Laundry and dishes happen. I get a chance to go through the mail or answer emails. Other days packages addressed to Jasper sit on the porch unopened because the whole day is consumed by this little person - his fits and his cuddling alike. Oh, who am I kidding? Those are lucky days, too.

These eight weeks at home with Jasper are flying by, but I take comfort in everything I've learned and the deep bond we already share. The thank you notes and vacuuming can certainly wait. Then again, if I wait for an unlucky day to do all those things they'll never happen. What a lovely predicament for this sleepy, happy momma.

Now I Know.

2011-02-20T11:57:00.000-08:00

It has been one week and one day since we welcomed Jasper to this world. When they plunked him on my chest, I was overwhelmed by how familiar he looked. Yes, this was the person I had been feeding and holding and loving for months. This was the person who had been kicking my ribs and sticking his skinny little kneecap into my side since the weather turned cold in November. He even looked familiar.

I am humbled by how much I don't know about this baby thing, but I am also proud of the lessons I've already learned since last weekend. Here are a few of the things I now know. They make me feel stronger than ever.

1. Labor. Everyone says you just know when you've gone into labor. Not only can your body rise to the occasion, but it invites your brain along for the ride, giving you wisdom and confidence for the whole nine yards. I spent Thursday night and Friday tuned into my contractions, noting how they crept closer together and became more aggressive by evening. Every fiber of my being knew I would give birth the next day. Still, our first trip the hospital ended when I didn't dilate at all in two hours. I couldn't walk the halls and was doubled over with back labor pain, but they sent me home. I didn't speak up, but I knew that was a bad idea. My body knew better than they did.

2. Epidurals. Some people avoid pain medicine during labor because they want to be fully present. I spent only three hours at home that night before calling out to Matt from the bathroom floor and bouncing over potholes back down Lake Street. We arrived to find that I had dilated more than 5cm while at home and there were only a few minutes for an epidural. I mustered all the interactive social skills I had at that point to sign the consent form and in a few minutes, my labor experience was transformed. The pain in my back melted away and I saw Matt for the first time in hours. Oh, hello there. I was like a feral dog successfully re-socialized. I understand that they aren't for everyone, but my epidural was fantastic. I could still feel the pressure of my contractions, but I was able to recover before it was time to push and could hear (with grateful ears) Matt supporting me until Jasper arrived. Instead of making me less present, the epidural welcomed me back into the process and helped me feel so strong.

3. Sleep. Everyone says to sleep and rest. This is true, but it's also annoying. Contractions kept me up on Thursday night. Going to and from the hospital kept me up on Friday night. Saturday and Sunday nights in the hospital were more educational than restful. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to sleep deeply. Matt would send me down to the basement for a nap in the afternoon and I would jolt awake after twenty minutes, too tired to relax and disappointed in myself that I wasn't achieving what everyone made sound so simple: Sleep when baby sleeps. Instead, I started taking time for myself - reading a magazine, listening to music and just resting with no expectations. Eventually I found sleep again, but it didn't happen right away and that's okay.

4. Feeding. Waiting for my milk to come in was discouraging. I didn't expect the first few days to be so bad - to dread his hungry cry and to hurt so intensely - but I also didn't expect the tide to turn so quickly. On Wednesday night I finally broke down and had a good cry. I couldn't tell if he was getting anything substantial and I was exhausted. Matt and I sat in front of the bouncy chair watching Jasper break it in. He looked around suspiciously before quickly barfing all over himself. Just like that, my tears turned to uncontrollable and joyful laughter. Look at everything I was making! He was getting enough! Suddenly, it became a privilege to meet someone's needs so completely. I've become proud of that time we have together and my ability to fill him up with good stuff that's making him grow.

And it's just been a week. I wonder what next week will teach me...

Velkommen til verden, Jasper!

2011-02-16T16:38:00.001-08:00

Jasper Wade Carlson
February 12, 2011 at 12:58pm
7 pounds, 6 ounces
19 3/4 inches

Can't Hurry Love

2011-02-10T13:30:00.000-08:00

Last week Matt and I bought the biggest bag of clementines I’d ever seen. We let them spill all over our kitchenette table and wondered how we’d ever eat them all. “By the time we finish this bag, we’ll be parents!” But once that assumption was made, I noticed we were both eating two or three clementines a day. Now there are just two left and I’m about to peel one of them.

Last week I was begging this baby to stay put until a funeral was over. We celebrated new life last Wednesday with a beautiful service and confident hymns. Since then, I have been waiting for a different celebration of new life – one that does not have an official time and date to print in the paper. Each day further convinces me that I’m terrible at “real life Advent”, the intense waiting and watching and wondering moments in life.

I have distracted myself with wives’ tales about inducing labor all week, but have instead checked dozens of tricks off the list as defunct. Yesterday was my due date and I have decided instead to make lots of plans for the next few days in hopes that they will all need to be canceled and replaced with one, grand un-planned event.

Each day I show up to work I am greeted with exasperated looks. It’s both entertaining and discouraging to have so many people surprised and disappointed to see you. Today a funeral director asked me when I’m due and I got to respond with a smirk (as I squatted to get something off a low bookshelf), “Yesterday”. My uterus is like a rent controlled apartment on the upper east side – awesome and hard to leave.

I got to sit in a back pew for the service today since Pastor Mark was up to bat. My eyes welled with tears as grandchildren took turns telling stories about their grandmother – the races she ran until age 86, her delicious cooking and her love that shined brightly through dementia. I watched her three grown children play their clarinets to Just a Closer Walk with Thee and How Great Thou Art. My heart filled with their gratitude and memories.

I cried watching this sister and her two brothers make beautiful music for God and everyone in the sanctuary. I gave thanks for my brothers and the friendship we share. I don’t think we’ll ever form a clarinet trio, but our bond and genes and humor and adoration for each other feels a lot like good music.

Every family tends to gloss over the hard or unfavorable stuff at funerals and this family is probably no exception. But in the end, people come together to remember the best things they will continue to treasure. They speak of deep relationships, solid values and the way love highlights the good stuff.

I left the sanctuary today convinced that we celebrate the beginning of life like we end it – focused on the beautiful things, showing gratitude for each other and making really good music together. We don’t get to know when or how it will happen, but when it does we come together in celebration of the good stuff.

Death and Life are Messy

2011-01-30T16:56:00.000-08:00

My swollen belly has cast a spell on the men in my life. I've been receiving multiple calls, texts and emails each day. How do you feel? Have that baby - I want to meet it! Hurry up already. They send me articles about inducing labor naturally and beg me to reveal the magic moment...as if I have a hidden time line I'm keeping from them. My dad, my brothers and my husband are excited. This new beginning is transforming each of them in magnificent ways and I'm honored to have a front row seat.

My walk has turned to a waddle in January, but things are still getting done. The house is quiet and clean. The nursery is ready to be pooped on. My desk is organized and lists are checked at work. So we wait.

Two weeks ago I started having real, painful contractions. Since Matt was out of town, Gabe took me to the hospital to be monitored for awhile. I blushed at his proud chest and his eager leadership that morning. He was so glad to be helpful and asked questions that prove he takes becoming an uncle very seriously. These pre-labor signs upped the level of impatience and excitement that surrounds me and I spend a lot of time smiling at these men, giving thanks for their silly love. Something about their stirring makes me very quiet and calm.

Today I found out that a saint in our congregation passed away this weekend and my excitement about this baby's birth took the back burner. I want to be able to write a sermon and do her funeral and celebrate her life with this congregation on Wednesday. I want to speak truth about new life while wearing an alb before I live the truth of new life wearing a hospital gown.

But that's just me being a control freak. That's just me wishing that death and life could be tidy and organized and chronological. And since it's not - since 2 Corinthians 5:17 is sneaky and spontaneous - I will draft a sermon proclaiming resurrection for a 94 year old and her loved ones while being poked and prodded by this little life on its way. And I'll hope it gets preached on Wednesday, giving thanks for the beautiful mess either way.

Making Room

2011-01-11T18:35:00.000-08:00

I think this room used to be a dining room. Six years ago, Matt closed off the wall that connected to the kitchen to make it a proper bedroom. Since then he's had three tenants live in this little space - his cousin, my best friend and my brother. Since I moved in, it's been home to a couch that barely fit through the doorway and served as a cozy spot for reading, napping and sermon writing.

But when I started growing, my hormones selected a disturbingly bright yellow for the walls and furniture slowly moved out. Today, it's almost ready for a new tenant - one we won't charge rent. Signs of new life fill the room now that his or her arrival is less than a month away. Sometimes, when I'm wide awake at 4:30am, I wander in and turn on the night light. I sit in the rocker and enjoy the silence, anticipating the hours I will spend in this room and enjoying the decor that's already turning this space into a little barnehage.

I can't bring myself to disassemble this diaper cake quite yet. Strom did a great job creating this little tower of baby supplies and it will sit on the dresser until a little toosh needs one of these. There is a stuffed moose in a Norwegian sweater, a beautiful baby book that demands my best penmanship, a scrapbook for the baby's first year, a cream colored homemade afghan sent with love from Boston and a dala horse pillow that begot this cheesy Scandinavian theme.

Matt's graduate assistant, Tara, made a crafty growth chart that hangs on one wall. If this kid loves competition and being measured half as much as Mom and Dad, this gift is sure to be a hit.

I'm glad the nursery window faces our bird feeder. Matt loves watching the birds and I can already see him showing our baby the action just outside this window, speaking softly about sparrows and our favorite cardinal.

I've been collecting family photos for this family tree that hangs above the crib. Our niece, nephew, siblings, parents, grandparents and great grandparents hang from the twigs of this branch Cara, Olivia and I found on the trails down by the Mississippi in October.

Fisherman John and Anton both came over from Scandinavia as young boys. I catch myself inspecting these photographs often and placed them next to each other for good company.

For now, this room is peaceful and clean. No one has pooped all over the gingham sheets or barfed on the suede rocker or drooled on the curtains from Anthropologie. For now, it is simply expectant space making room for new things to come.

Boxing Day

2010-12-28T07:36:00.000-08:00

I don't have many Christmas traditions that are set in stone. When I was in grade school, we spent many years as a nuclear family running around the beach in sweatpants and filling our hair with the smell of salt before a picnic or presents. When we moved back to the Midwest, we traded the beach for ice skating on the back pond and sledding down hills before bedtime. When I reached adolescence, some of my Christmases were spent far from family in Bangladesh or Antarctica. All of these memories are good, tying me more closely to the reason for the season than to something specific my family invented along the way. Christmas was mobile, fluid and always faithful.

My Christmases in Bangladesh have given Boxing Day special meaning. After such communal joy on the 25th, I've noticed that I often get quiet and pensive the next day. The 26th makes me attentive and vulnerable because I have sensed Emmanuel most deeply in the wake of Christmas.

On December 26, 1998 I stayed back from dinner and dancing at LAMB Hospital in Dinajpur, Bangladesh. I felt funny and thought I needed a nap. Flu-like symptoms crept over me as I waved goodbye to the group and I was glad for solitude once the door closed behind them. I don't like to be sick and didn't want others to see how crummy I really felt.

It took less than an hour to start fading in and out of consciousness, spike a fever and hallucinate. I remember what felt like hours alone, curled up on my hands and knees beside a filthy squatter toilet. I talked to bugs and shook uncontrollably.

I heard the group return later and remember that my behavior frightened some of them. I couldn't make sense or hold myself up. Our team nurse called a doctor and they moved me to a cot, trying to hold me still. I have never been so sick or so frightened, so when the doctor arrived, I had high hopes for his diagnosis and treatment plan. Instead, he pulled up a chair and laid hands on me. He prayed long and beautiful prayers that further confused me. And then I realized that prayers were not an afterthought in this hospital or a cute accessory to modern medicine. It was the middle of the night in a rural, third world nation. Care was basic and limited, so prayer was the only place they ever started.

When I remember my weeks and months of Dengue Fever, I first recall how cold his hands felt because my flesh was roasting with a temperature above 104 degrees. I remember his calm words and gentle grip on my flailing arms. I remember him being there until I fell asleep.

I slept for days and barely recall the journey to southern Bangladesh, which required hours in a small and stuffy van, treacherous ferry crossings and a short plane ride. When I was strong enough to participate again, we were in a little village called Dumki. Here, I received some care from a female doctor. She addressed the lesions that covered my mouth and throat, finding creative ways for me to eat and regain strength. But first, there was always prayer and healing touch.

This was twelve years ago, but I think about it often. Once a bubbly extrovert, Bangladesh made me a vulnerable and quiet observer for a few weeks. I noticed things, prayed things and believed things I never would have without Dengue. Boxing Day changed me.

Six years later, I returned to Bangladesh with a new group that included my father. It felt good to be back in Dumki with healthy energy. On Boxing Day, we went to a village I'd visited years earlier. Women had powerful stories to tell about their economic savings groups - the ways working together was changing their communities and helping them become valuable leaders in their families.

At the end of the visit, I wandered off with the kids. We made animal noises, played tag and laughed a lot. I fell in love with a little boy named Reuben. Our interpreter said he'd run home to change when he saw us coming and his red sweater vest was for special occasions. His hair was slick and he tried out several of his best English phrases on me. Every time I replied to his question or comment, proof that I could understand him, the gaggle of kids would hoot and holler with laughter. Before we left, our interpreter told me that most of these kids were delivered by c-section at LHCB, the Dumki hospital we support and were visiting. Most of them were delivered by the doctor who had cared for me six years earlier. And most of them were about six years old.

This news hit me hard. These beautiful faces and feet on the other side of the world had been held and prayed for by the same doctor as me. Reuben's bright eyes danced with mine in conversation and play today because we were both cherished and loved. We were both here, healthy and strong, thanks to the same hands and the same God. I wept quietly all the way back to Dumki, imagining their brave mothers with round bellies bumping up and down in rickshaws for the two hour journey from village to hospital six years ago. They were all Marys. And they were all blessed, full of grace.

It took days to learn that the earth rumbling gently beneath us that morning had shaken the whole world - that the earthquake so far away had caused waves of destruction everywhere but there. And thank God not there. Bangladesh is already flooded most of the time and Dumki would have been washed away before receiving any warning. We would have been washed away if the waves could have mustered strength in the shallow Bay of Bengal - me, my father, Reuben and all the prayers that had carried us this far.

Back in Dhaka, we watched a lot of Sky News. My friend Katherine was with me for both Boxing Days and the Tsunami had both of us dumbfounded. We sat on our beds in the hostel watching images of Asia tormented by waves and water, images that could have been our reality. Again, Boxing Day changed me.

This year Boxing Day meant celebrating the First Sunday of Christmas with lots of light. It meant white paraments and red plants and candles everywhere. It meant songs filled with promises that are not so separate from bright eyes and healthy boys in sweater vests on the other side of the world.

Christians in Bangladesh decorate by putting big red stars on the roof of their houses and in their worship spaces. I might not have a lot of Christmas traditions that are set in stone, but a red star has become one of them. Red paper ornaments I bought in Dhaka long ago adorn our little tree at home. And on clear winter nights I look up at the stars that seem yellow here, trusting that they still burn red above the doctors who pray and Reuben while he sleeps.

Happy Boxing Day.

Stillness and Planning

2010-12-06T13:13:00.000-08:00

I’m a planner. I like to dream and scheme about things down the road. We moved a few times when I was younger and I would always sketch out my future bedroom the night we closed on a new house, eager to imagine the layout and get things organized.

These days, the liturgical calendar allows me a similar privilege. I can be steeped in one season, but am always thinking ahead. While the sanctuary is filled with evergreen and light, I am also wondering about Lent, repentance and springtime. There is always something new to wonder about as we plod through the same seasons and stories year after year. There is always something new to unfold or proclaim or digest. And I love that.

Ever since that first stick had two pink lines and the second stick had two pink lines and the third stick read a definitive, digital YES, I have tried to live more in the moment than usual. I have tried to learn about what is happening each week and to appreciate each stage of this journey. I have tried to make good time for my relationship with Matt that has nothing to do with pregnancy or a tiny person coming home with us next year. I have tried to live in season.

But as summer yawns turned to autumn energy and then to winter cankles, it has been difficult to stay put or bask solely in the now. Checklists, doctor’s appointments and nursery ideas have infiltrated my plans for Zen and peaceful appreciation. I cold call people about childcare openings, make preparations at work for maternity leave and speak a new language that includes crib mattress regulations and brain development. It’s weird. Way beyond thinking about Lent during Advent weird.

But on Saturday, we found a little piece of that stillness. A friend took maternity photos of us at the Minneapolis Photo Center in Northeast. We got to enjoy what it means to be 31 weeks pregnant and together all afternoon. We ate dinner at the Craftsman and got lost in the flavors of cheese, potatoes, root vegetables, kale, fish and pheasant. And then we curled up on the couch for a few episodes of Pillars of the Earth, a television mini series based on the Ken Follett book Matt read a few years ago.

We laughed about how well I could follow the plot. When Matt loves a book, he paraphrases it to me, chapter by chapter. He reads whole pages aloud and wonders about where the characters are going after putting it down for the night. This means I often put my book down and listen from the edge of the story – partly because it’s endearing and partly because his enthusiasm is too loud for two readers in the same room.

Tonight we’ll finish the series and then we’ll probably go back to reading before bed, enjoying that late night stillness while we still have it – while it’s just the two of us. But every once in awhile, a kick to my ribs will break into that stillness and remind me that we are already more than just two. It will remind me that while we are dwelling deeply in Advent and life as Meta and Matt, there is something pulling us forward into a new season. And that's worth planning for.

It's a lot to take in.

2010-11-07T17:02:00.001-08:00

Andrew didn't grow up in the church. Saying grace, scenes in stained glass, Bible stories and liturgy are all converging to form a new language he is learning each week at St. John's.

Andrew wandered into St. John's because his girlfriend was planning her grandmother's funeral. In death, he heard the truth about life and started asking questions about what we believe and what it all means.

Watching Andrew worship is worshipful. His joyful curiosity is contagious and you can see the radical message that seems familiar to many washing over him with power and mystery. I stand in the pulpit telling people that God knows all of who they are - the good, the bad and the ugly - and desperately loves us anyway. I say it to a lot of people who have heard it a million times. They look at me and listen as quiet transformation trembles. Andrew looks at me like this is the best news he's heard all week and it's performing all kinds of demolition and reconstruction in his heart and mind. He looks at me like it's a brand new promise and he might actually tell someone about it.

He's been attending Casserole Club and brings all kinds of unabashed wisdom to our conversation, noticing the little things about scripture I've failed to recognize as awesome or the things I've never noticed at all. Instead of clamming up because he's new to the language, he speaks with confidence that the gospel is for him to receive, digest and share.

Andrew came to my office on Friday afternoon so we could talk about his baptism. This will be the first adult baptism I've seen at St. John's and I can't wait. His questions were wonderful. We talked about the service, the theology and all the beautiful promises. And every now and then he would lean back in his chair and pause before saying, "I'm sorry. It's a lot to take in." His slight smile was proof that this was all very, very good news.

When we finished, I could tell that he was still wonderfully overwhelmed. So I said, "You don't have to be able to wrap your head around this before your baptism. This theology - this good news about God's gift of new life and salvation and forgiveness in Christ - will continue to unfold in all kinds of bold and subtle ways to come. You'll learn something new about God's love every day and now you're part of a community that wants to wonder about all this stuff together with you."

This morning Andrew wore a robe and sang in the choir. I watched him pass the peace and could see that he really believed God's peace was getting passed from saint to saint. And that, too, is a lot to take in.

Control the Controllables

2010-11-02T09:14:00.001-07:00

This is my view. From my perspective, I no longer have toes. My belly is 38" around, mostly in front, but I'm sure my addiction to ice cream drumsticks will eventually settle in wherever it likes. I'm technically in the beginning of my third trimester now, but still confused about how 'they' divide that up. The first is 12 weeks, the second is 13 weeks and the third is 15 weeks?

I've also felt pretty invincible lately. I've been able to work long days, don't need naps and haven't had to pay for stretching myself. We had a nasty storm last week and I chased our patio umbrella around the yard before wrestling it into the garage. That was dumb, but I felt fine.

This week, things are a little different. We had two funerals and Reformation Sunday was also our stewardship celebration. Friday was a long day of errands and phone calls and writing that had my whole torso tense and shaking. My body was begging me to slow down and put my feet up, but I couldn't. I thought I'd been doing a good job finding a new pace, but I hadn't really been challenged yet. Friday was spent trying to do everything and doing a really mediocre, dissatisfying job as I checked each item of the list.

I didn't sleep well on Friday night, caught between the things I think I'm capable of and what I can actually handle. As I put on my alb before the funeral service on Saturday morning and tied my cincture, I looked down. Suddenly, my body spoke volumes, convicting me of a pace I couldn't keep and calling me to readjust my expectations. My bump was literally in the way of my feet and my speed. I sat down for a few minutes and took deep breaths, trying to look at the service and the day ahead in new ways.

It is good to serve in a place filled with people who really know and look out for each other. I received words of grace and "go home" from several of our funeral reception volunteers. They keep an eye on me like I keep an eye on them. And while there was plenty to do to prepare for our stewardship celebration the next day, I decided to leave everything in my office. It would get done. Things would go well. And if they didn't, it wouldn't be because of the things I'd put down. The controllables were checked off the list and it was time to let go.

These last 14 weeks - or however many I have before Baby C debuts - will be a big stretch for me. Yes, literally. But also emotionally and professionally. I like doing things my way. I like letting my feet lead. I like being the last one out of the building. But this belly is giving me new perspective, teaching me to look around my office before I go home and choosing to put the things down I don't really need until tomorrow. It's teaching me to make fewer trips up to the sanctuary for service preparation. It's teaching me to not carry all of my groceries at once from the car to the house.

I'm growing.

Chalk. It. Up.

2010-09-30T16:04:00.000-07:00

Sunday was one of those Sundays for the books. But it was memorable in a sneaky way. You could almost miss it and I would hate for you to miss it. So here are a few reasons I will always remember September 26, 2010 at St. John's.

Two young couples joined our ranks. One is getting married in December and I'm doing their wedding. The other helped plan a grandparent's funeral here last spring and it has felt like home ever since. I love new people and watching others gather around getting to know them and showering them with welcome. One of these newbies has not yet been baptized. I look forward to splashing him with holy promises and new life in Christ.
It was Pack the Church Sunday. We tried this last year and our worship attendance increased by 80%! This year our worship attendance wasn't much higher than usual, but just about everyone brought a visitor. It was fun to meet the friends, family and neighbors who came and hear what they loved. One had been excluded from his home congregation's communion table for a long time. It was an honor to place bread in his hands. Another was overwhelmed by the noise of children helping, making music and crawling up the aisle. She teared up sharing what those young faces meant to her.
We took a noisy offering. Our 10th graders were in charge of this offering, which they collected in noisy tin cans. People dropped their loose change in trying to make as much noise as possible. It was a great way to include visitors who might normally feel anxious about this part of the liturgy. They were all told in advance and came with baggies and socks of change. The noise had everyone giggling and it all added up to $335.96 for hunger ministries through Second Harvest Heartland.
The construction dust was flying. Our narthex expansion and kitchen update projects have begun! St. John's is 127 years old, so new and tangible projects that everyone participates in and remembers bridges old members with new members. We all stood in awe of how our space is changing and slowing becoming more welcoming.
So many people were involved. This is my third fall at St. John's and - boy- are we waking up! People say YES and participate and offer to lead and get others involved and believe that being part of things is stewardship and discipleship and life giving and bearing good fruit.

I could go on and on. I love these people. I love this call. I love the ways we are living into the growth they knew they were made for when they asked me to join them a few years ago.

Two Tablespoons of Gudrun

2010-09-27T15:38:00.000-07:00

I have a lot of wild aunties in my life. One of them is a tall and generous woman named Gudrun. She sprinkles her speech and storytelling with Norwegian phrases that warm your soul and snaps her fingers when she forgets the next word. She gets tipsy at family weddings and teaches old people the electric slide, busting so many joyful moves that she needs a Cortizone shot in her knee the next day. When her life changed with the removal of her reproductive organs, she gave them ceremony and burial while rejoicing for the children they helped make. She lives out loud, naming things that are lovely or hard and, often, both.

Gudrun lives on Lake Superior. Her backyard unfolds into a sandy beach and you can find her there walking with her dog and handsome husband. She's the one with wind whipped hair and arms filled with trash she picks up along the way. She's the one you see and think yourself I'll bet she is worth knowing well. And she is.

I am blessed to be welcoming a new sister into my life this year. Gabe is getting married next summer and Cara is quite the family acquisition! I love this woman for her wisdom and words, thoughtfulness and humor. Cara is worth knowing well, too.

Gabe and Cara have decided to make kransekake for their wedding reception, a Norwegian wedding favorite. In order to learn (and to lap up a weekend of maternal love and care on the north shore) Cara and I spent last weekend at Gudrun's house baking and laughing. Gudrun's daughter Laura came over and the kitchen filled with estrogen, our conversations nourishing each other.

Gudrun is the first person who has asked to hold my growing belly and burst out in songful melody. When she was done with the ditty, I looked down at my unborn and sent a silent message: That was Gudrun - I'll explain her later. This kid doesn't know it yet, but soon its photograph will adorn her refrigerator that operates like a string of prayer beads, filled with images of people and places that Gudrun holds in her heart. It's a good place to be.

Cara and I drove home in agreement the next day. The simple visit filled us up. Sure, we were full of chili and vaffler and delicious tea and the extra kransekake dough. But we were also filled with the love of a wild woman who took time to shower us with celebration and wisdom. As we rounded a cloverleaf on the highway just south of Duluth, I felt the child within me do a complete 360.

There were lots of reasons to leap and flip for joy on Saturday. I have no doubt that our dose of Gudrun was one of them.

Retro Stewardship Posts

2010-08-31T20:47:00.000-07:00

I told Erica I would repost these two pieces.

Money and More: The "M" Words

Everyone Has a Stewardship Story

The first was written shortly before graduation in 2008. Jerry later included it in the Stewardship Newsletter resource. I include the link from this page because I think it provides two lessons: the first is my take on the M words. The second is don't wear pigtails on your first day of seminary. I already looked young - I didn't need to look like an escaped Wee Care kid on my ID card for four years and neither do you. You're welcome.

The second is something I wrote after this same Financial Coaching event last fall. It was exciting to hear Nathan Dungan's enthusiasm and see so many students interested in the coaching program. It gave me energy for our stewardship season at St. John's.

Oh, I just found one more from last fall, too. It seems I was on a soapbox about financial pledging and why I hope my generation can get on board with this valuable tradition.

I hope they're helpful.

First Week

2010-08-31T20:25:00.000-07:00

It’s First Week at Luther Seminary. New students are being inundated with information about campus, classes, candidacy and everything they need to know as the crazy journey begins. I remember getting a parking ticket the first day of First Week six years ago. Maybe that irritating $35 fee played into my decision to sign up for a financial coach that day – I know several things did.

I’d never taken a loan out or balanced my checkbook for more than a few months at a time. I had spent the whole summer applying for scholarships and grants, but needed to buckle down and organize the responses I was getting. I was several steps away from forming a realistic budget and didn’t even know if I'd have the gumption to stick to it.

I signed up for short-sighted and personal reasons. I wanted to become a money person according to my own definition – I wanted to be wise and generous and self aware and confident when I left seminary a few years later. While working with a coach helped me achieve these goals, my new skills also translated to my professional life. My new found identity as a money person naturally wandered beyond my own wallet as I dreamed about my leadership style in the parish.

Jerry invited me up to share my story, which is always a slippery slope. I could talk all day long about the ways stewardship quietly permeates every class and conversation at seminary. I could share about the ways becoming a stewardship leader has been good for my personal relationship with money, my marriage and my imagination for St. John’s. But instead, I settled for this: If you decide to get a coach, make that learning and relationship a priority. Trust that the uncomfortable places you go and the hard questions you ask will bear good fruit long after you leave Luther. You'll get out of it what you put into it.

Before I left, I told Jerry that I would devote my next few entries to stewardship and seminary. He could point students and/or coaches here to read and discuss ways to live as good stewards during these strange and wonderful years. So use the comments section. Leave your thoughts, ideas, fears and hopes. They’ll inspire what I share next.

The Lord be with you.

2010-08-27T08:29:00.000-07:00

We've been preaching familiar tales from the Old Testament during August. On Sunday we hear about David and Goliath. I write my sermons even later in the week when they are not based on the lectionary. It is a blessing to wander outside the structure I am used to - choosing stories I like and texts that interest me - but it is also a strange curse because my mind and heart tug the sermon in so many different directions, it takes awhile to get legs and move. On these weeks my sermon preparation mirrors the children's book If You Give A Mouse A Cookie, finding new tangents and distractions around every corner. But that wandering is one of my favorite things about life and scripture, so today I'm taking you with me.

The first thing I noticed about this tale is that David approaches the battlefield and his brothers as an unwelcome runt. They hear him yapping that Goliath is no match for the living God. His comments make them defensive and David continues his naive and adorable take on the situation by volunteering himself. King Saul catches wind of this and, after trying to talk David out of it, simply says The Lord go with you. These are valuable words in David's ears - God's presence is the only reason David thinks he can defeat the giant! And while the soldiers of Israel watch a small shepherd boy approach the enemy, David knows he is much more than an army of one.

Then I was taken by the jealousy David's older brothers feel. As an oldest sibling, I can relate to that envy. Gabe would get swept away in rip currents when we'd play at the beach. He was so carefree and unaware by the time I would reach him and remind him to stay between the flags. I remember pushing him off the monkey bars one afternoon because I wished I were brave enough to jump off the top. He, of course, landed on his feet like a cat, giggling and ready to take another fearless dive. I wished for that ignorance and confidence that Gabe and David knew.

Next I could picture King Saul dressing David before battle, giving him fine armor and a heavy helmet for protection. Little David tried to walk, but he couldn't move! So he took the pieces off and stepped out as himself, totally vulnerable and possessing only the gifts he'd been given: a slingshot, good aim and a voice that proclaimed the true God. David wasn't a soldier and didn't need to look like one to stand up for himself, his people and his God. He just needed to stand up.

And when I imagine David walking toward the beastly Philistine holding just a staff and slingshot, I lift up a prayer for the people of St. John's and for all our churches. May the promised presence from God that Saul spoke so simply give us courage to be ourselves, to know our gifts and to stand up for the things God can do in this world. Imagine what our congregations and communities could be capable of if we trusted in whose we are and what God thinks we can do instead of banking on what we produce and who the world tells us to be.

And then I pray that we start trusting the value of our own gifts enough to call other people out on theirs, promising God's presence and creativity to our neighbors at Holy Communion and the grocery store alike. Because the world could use another optimistic runt or two.

It is Friday and the words I keep coming back to have titled this post. I have dwelled deeply in the text and wondered a lot about what God has to say this week. Who knows were Sunday will end up? That's what the Holy Spirit is for. And it's used to working with me, my crooked staff and my no-frills slingshot to preach great news.

These are my favorite people under 40 lbs.

2010-08-14T19:12:00.000-07:00

This was last winter, so they're bigger now. And even cuter, believe it or not. I stopped over to see my goddaughter and her equally fantastic little sister today. They knew I had a "baby in my belly" and when they didn't see a huge bump, their disappointment was palpable. We caught them sneaking glances at my stomach during lunch, probably hoping it would be bigger and more impressive by the time I left.

B had a question right away, "Meta what's your baby's name?" We brainstormed for a little bit and after considering our three names they decided on "Baby Shortcake". I like it.

L asked if I could feel it kicking yet. "Nope, but when I do, I'll come over so you can feel it." Then we colored and she helped me shop through her beautiful momma's maternity clothes. "Meta, I like this tank top on you. It's cute. Try on the capri pants again!" I got some good stuff and I made a mental note to be a reference for L's first retail interview down the road.

But the kicker melted my heart while we were using big-girl-glue to put googly eyes on wooden stick dolls:

"Meta, when you're at our house, it's like you're in our family."

"Oh, thank you, L. Can I be in your family even when I'm not at your house?"

"Um...yes. I think you definitely are."

Technically that means Baby Shortcake will be in their family, too. Lucky.

Great. Tell me about it.

2010-08-12T08:26:00.000-07:00

I officiate a lot of weddings. I love the adrenaline rush when there are lots of details to get just right. I love to speak words of value on their big day. I also enjoy the counseling sessions that proceed the chaotic event, although I've noticed that the same conversation seems to begin most of our sessions.

“And we wanted a pastor to do the service because we were both raised in the church and, I mean, we are still very spiritual. We definitely believe in God and a higher power and want that represented in the ceremony, but I wouldn’t say we’re actively religious. I guess we haven’t talked much about our spirituality – it’s more of a personal thing – but we are both definitely spiritual.”

Great, I reply. Tell me about your spirituality.

This is the depressing part. It would be one thing if couples consistently convinced me that their personal spirituality is satisfying and shaping their everyday lives in radical ways...but they don’t. They seem apologetic, sheepish or defensive when it comes to articulating what they believe and why. Most try to explain that it’s something they’ve been meaning to get around to, like taking up yoga or cleaning out the garage. This pastor doesn’t buy it, though. Their tone, their ambiguity and the way this conversation about spirituality hangs separately from the rest of their life has me convinced: Moralistic Theraputic Deism is trendy, but it’s not actually workin’ for people.

I’m so glad Christian Smith (author of Soul Searching) came up with a label for this trend within the inactive Christian community. While 75% of Americans identify as Christian, I’m afraid most of them do so because there hasn’t been a name for what they now ascribe to – a watered down, politically correct, individualistic version of modern monotheism. Smith says this creed of beliefs includes:

Faith in a God who created everything.
God wants people to be good, nice and fair.
The central goal of life is to be happy and feel good about yourself.
God is not involved in everyday life except when I need God to solve a problem.
Good people go to heaven when they die.

Moralistic Theraputic Deism (MTD) would be just fine if the people I knew subscribing to it seemed fulfilled by its doctrine or practices. MTD would be just fine if the church were better at proclaiming how Christianity is more radical, grace-filled and life giving than this. MTD would be just fine if we all called it that instead of Christianity because Jesus did not have to die or rise for any of these bullet points above.

It turns out, we’re not a Christian nation anymore. Christendom is over and 30 years from now, I might be serving a church that doesn’t have synods or pensions or global relief funds or buildings because we forgot how to tell the story of Jesus to each other and the stranger. We might look back on 2010 and wonder what we were preaching and teaching if it wasn’t God’s truth, forgiveness and a faith that isn't trendy.

MTD is the hardest thing about weddings, but it is also my greatest motivating factor. If a couple asks me to do their wedding outside or in a public space, they are inviting me to put on my collar and tell the truth. They are giving me 150 of their closest friends and a microphone. And that’s reason enough for me to say yes.

I like to stick around after the ceremony because wedding guests with MTD often prove me right and approach me. They introduce themselves and their faith story. They don't tell me about the last few years of Sunday brunches with friends and the New York Times or finding God in nature on the 18th green. Instead, they tell me what they remember about church and pastors and the Lord’s Prayer and what kind of liturgy has been woven into their being by hymnals, Sunday school, table grace and grandmothers. They thank me for being there and for speaking words that really resonated with them.

And this is the moment that gives me great hope. They cannot articulate their spirituality or their personal creed of wandering, but they can speak fluently and firmly about their memories of faith in the church. They can tell me what it meant to be in Christian community long ago. They light up while they share - suddenly remembering where they come from.

And that’s when I always, always invite them back.

I do not recommend morning sickness on a moped…

2010-08-04T08:12:00.000-07:00

…or ten minutes before worship on a Sunday you’re preaching. Or at your husband’s favorite fish restaurant in Skagway, Alaska. But sometimes that stuff happens. And all you can do is take deep breaths, be quick on your feet to the bathroom and laugh about it.

It turns out I’m pregnant. We found out a few days before my brother was proposing to his beautiful girlfriend and just a few weeks before my mom got really, really sick. So we kept it quiet, enjoying our secret and waiting for the right time to tell our families about the little fetus I’m baking.

The first few weeks we knew, I thought I would explode. I wanted to spray the good news all over random strangers and thought I felt it dribbling down my chin in front of friends and family. But instead of buying billboard space or making t-shirts that said FEB 9! in enormous font, we would come home at the end of each day and talk about it with each other. We would research its growth and what I shouldn’t eat online. We would exchange naïve smiles, blissfully unaware of how much our life will soon change.

It was hard to keep quiet while my mom was in the ICU. Her brain was bleeding and we weren’t getting the answers we so desperately wanted. I would stand by her bed and hold her hand, wishing to crawl in alongside her because I, too, was tired and nauseas. When my matriarchs would call and ask how I was doing, I refused to cry. I was doing as well as a busy pastor with a sick mom and a worried dad could be doing…while carrying a clandestine zygote.

But Friday made all the waiting worth it. We were back from our vacation in Alaska and my family didn’t suspect a thing. Matt made a DVD of some of our photos and videos to show them before dinner and half way through, they were blown away when Matt referred to me as pregnant. Squealing ensued. It felt good to let it out and to be surrounded by their love!

I don’t know much about this fetus, but I do know a few things. We fell out of a hammock – hard – the day we found out about it and it kept clinging anyway. I climbed mountains and hiked the Chilkoot Trail in 2.5 days and it stuck with us. It really liked beef jerky for awhile and now it’s not so interested. When the ultrasound technician tried to make it roll over, the little alien threw defiant jabs and kicks. It’s now the size of a peach and will soon retire most of my pants.

These are the things I will share and yet there are so many more things that I will continue to write down elsewhere, hidden for just my new little family to know. And I guess that’s the most exciting part of all.

This is how I cope.

2010-06-30T12:28:00.000-07:00

My mom's brain was bleeding last week. It was scary and painful and has meant too many days in two different ICUs before doctors decided it was a clot and blood thinners might slowly break it up.

My mom is the hub in our family's communication wheel, so without her gift of gab and trusty cell phone, we have scrambled to provide information to our loved ones. On the evening I was most frightened and stressed, I created a Caring Bridge page. I hoped it would mean less time spent on the phone discussing all the maybes and I don't knows that drive me batty. It was a functional way to channel information to caring people while showing gratitude. It was a sneaky way I was able to steer clear of so many conversations that tugged at my heart strings and dared me to break down sobbing. (I'm Nordic. Sometimes we like to keep it inside until we know what's going on outside.)

Whenever you enter a town and its people welcome you, eat what is set before you; cure the sick who are there and say to them, "The kingdom of God has come near you." - Luke 10

This week I am living with Sunday's text about hospitality. Jesus has set his face toward Jerusalem and equipped seventy servants of the gospel to go into far places without toiletries or wallets or shoes. They are to proclaim, "Peace" and "The kingdom of God has come near!" to those they meet. Some will hear these words as good news and others will sense judgment - their job is simply to proclaim the truth.

They are to eat what is put in front of them and heal those who are sick. This means they are to share humble and grateful hearts in the ordinary moments of dinner together and the extraordinary moments of illness defeated. They are to be aerobic and generous and wild with their hospitality, showing people that the kingdom of God is weird and different and really good.

This text seeps into my thoughts and limbs as I thank people for their generous offers of food, time and prayer. It dwells in the dark hospital room while my mother naps or tries to keep food down. It gives me legs for what news may come tomorrow and the updates I will type and the shift schedule I will create for when she needs care at home.

Hospitality is much more than opening the doors and hoping people will come inside. It is mobile and active and communicative and patient and risky. It is about being brave enough to be vulnerable. It's about letting your daughter change your hospital gown and letting other people pick up the slack. It's about telling the truth and being uncomfortable and finding satisfaction in our plain old relationships. Because you never know when sharing a meal will turn into illness defeated.

And so when I get scared, I picture my mom and her appetite on Saturday evening. She sat before a tray of chicken pot pie and mashed potatoes and steamed carrots. And after five aggressive bites, my eyes filled with tears. It was good to see her hungry and eating. Her blood pressure monitor beeped because her enthusiasm or the food had changed her readings. But without hesitation, she ripped off her blood pressure cuff and dug back in. She was going to eat what they put before her, damn it!

Thanks be to God for my little, brave mom and the truth we are called to proclaim: The kingdom of God is right here, creeping into our everyday lives and surprising us with reasons to celebrate.

Cause for Celebration 6.0

2010-05-12T11:01:00.000-07:00

Uff da.

Pastor Mark took this Sunday off, so he missed out on the heart-racing hilarity before worship today. Ten minutes before worship began, the sound system wasn't working and communion was not prepared. I had enlisted our sole eighth grader to be my assisting minister, but she hadn't been able to practice with a microphone. People asked me if so-and-so was doing okay. I had no idea and threw her on the list of prayers anyway.

These ministry moments are both entirely draining and energizing because there are two choices. I can wear the anxiety like an alb and freak everyone else out or I can invite them into the chaotic backstage of worshiping God, lightening the load and finding the humor together.

Larry and Bob became detectives and tracked down the missing key to the sound system. Within minutes, it was up and running.

Kari arrived with the bread and found Gladys, who was already in her pew and had forgotten about preparing communion. Together with another recruit, they filled cups and trays in record time.

I looked at my eighth grade assistant and shrugged. Sometimes it looks like this. She smiled and I knew she was up for the challenge, willing to fly by the seat of her pants...er...robe.

And then the Prelude begins. The candles are lit and people assemble. Suddenly, it turns into worship again. We sang Alleluias and I splashed kids at the font. My sidekick's prayers were loud and clear. I preached about this in between place - living out of the story of Paul and Lydia, living into Revelation's vision of the Lamb as our temple. We prayed our hearts out for one who may or may not be ill and consumed sourdough forgiveness. Perfect peace.

And then we were sent back out where sound systems will continue to fail and folks will forget the little things and we often don't get a dry run. But it is also where good things come from; detectives and helpers and young women willing to wing it.

Cause for Celebration 5.0

2010-05-05T10:47:00.000-07:00

The fifth week of Easter was less about worship at St. John’s and more about my grandmother’s last days. At 92.5, my grandmother finally said something entirely vulnerable to me. Watching her set her stubborn independence aside, she peered up at me through her fingers that guarded the window’s light from her tired eyes and said, “I just want to stay here. I don’t think there’s anything the hospital can do for me.”

I was really proud of her. This old nurse and her young granddaughter with chaplain tendencies sat engulfed by this life’s only guarantee. Death was coming. And something even better than fighting pain, fragility and boredom lay on the other side. That day and the next were some of the best moments I ever had with her. Too tired to worry or provide pessimistic commentary, she was funny and relaxed in her wakeful moments. It was surprisingly good to watch her let go and I dreamed about her twenty two years of widowhood ending, her sight and strength returning, her back straightening and her joy overflowing in the moments after breath and beating here on earth.

When she was rarely conscious a few days later, I sat with her and held her hand. Grandma could no longer swallow and struggled to take in air, but her heart continued to reign, beating in defiance of her own wishes and the hospice life. When I was sure she couldn’t hear me, I said what I needed to say for my own resurrection. I whispered words from one stubborn Herrick to another and knew there would be grace.

“Grandma, I was really mad and hurt when you wouldn’t come to my wedding. It broke my heart to see all four of Matt’s grandparents there and to know that you were just a few miles away, too stubborn to get in a wheelchair for safety and sanity’s sake. And while I still don’t understand it, I forgive you. I’m sorry that you weren’t there to celebrate, but I will choose to remember how much you love me instead.”

I said other things, but this was the heaviest and hardest to put down. She died a day later and, though I waited for the reality of her absence to hit me, I could not cry. In fact, I found myself dancing around the house that first evening singing, “Barbra Herrick is ris’n today! Alleluia!” It felt like Easter and that hymn was the only thing I could muster.

The memorial service was lovely and while my eyes welled and my voice shook that morning, the tears would not drop and my shoulders would not shake. I lapped up stories and dinner invitations from her friends. I was grateful to see her descendents gathered together.

Her apartment still smelled like her when I went to help clean stuff out a few days later. I took jewelry and pictures that meant the world to me, signs of the grandma I am much like and will miss often. Her rings reminded me of the way they would slip around her fingers. She would point that out often, fishing for compliments about how thin she looked while simultaneously pilfering dining hall cookies into her purse. It felt strange to put those rings on my fingers – to see them on young hands. The photograph of her as a toddler always hung next to one of me because we looked so similar. It is the only reason I think I look like a Herrick and was glad for the evidence collected.

I took sentimental and valuable items, but I also took her face lotion and Saran wrap. I even wanted the cheap AM radio she used to listen to Twins games. She wouldn’t want the simple things to be wasted and neither did I. Placing the box in my car, I resigned myself to this strange and tearless goodbye.

A few days later, I found myself running errands near a jeweler I trust and hesitantly entered with items I had not yet made decisions about. Carefully, I showed her my grandmother’s locket and rings, touching them and lost in thought about how to clean them and whether to resize them. The woman was gruff, or at least she seemed that way. “Well, just tell me what your grandmother wants with them.” I can’t.

She slowed to my pace and together we made decisions about the memories I held in my hands. And then, she held out her palm as if to ask for the rings on my finger. They were going into an envelope and on to another jeweler for further care. Looking down at the diamond, I finally started to cry. These rings aren’t supposed to be on my fingers, let alone into your hands and shipped to someone I don’t know.

There, in a small jewelry store with an emotionally detached saleswoman, I my shoulders finally shook. And it felt really good. The belated tears and snot and sobs didn’t make my Easter hymn the day she died any less true. In fact, I think this was just the next stanza.

Old Baggage

2010-04-25T14:38:00.001-07:00

I remember the day I found this bag. I carried it around the store for more the an hour, waiting for a long conversation with an old friend to end before I approached the register. I had my cell phone in one hand, the bag in the other as I shared the big news - I was moving to Arizona for pastoral internship.

I browsed clothing racks while confessing that I wasn't too sure about this whole "pastor" thing. I'd come to seminary hoping to study theology while avoiding pulpits and clerical collars. Suddenly, two years were almost over and I'd been matched with an internship site I was actually excited about.

I bought this red bag on one of the last days of class. It came with me to every day of CPE at Fairview Ridges in Burnsville that summer. It held my occasional services book, pastoral care resources and my smallest leather bound Bible while I moved from room to room, patient to patient. The bag came with me while I learned how powerful it is to represent God's loving presence to another. It came with me when my pager would go off in the middle of the night and when I would meet families in waiting rooms.

My red baggage got plenty of use in Arizona. It held my books and church keys. I brought it with me on bike rides and even kept bear spray in it during hikes to appease my supervisor. (He'd had 24 interns and none of them were eaten by bears - why start now?) The bag is big with plenty of pockets so I would find old post-it note prayers and little gifts from parishioners weeks and months later. I reached for this bag all 50 weeks of internship - 50 weeks of finally falling in love with God's call.

The bag has been tearing here and there since it became my backpack during senior year and my purse during this first call. Now it peels, leaving little red crumbs around our house and my office. It's been ready for a replacement, but I've been hesitant to say goodbye.

Call it idolatry. Tell me I have attachment issues or that I need a pet. Still, I'm feeling sentimental as I toss the tattered bag that saw me through so much discernment and ministry.

Bye bye, baggage. Thanks for tagging along through big, beautiful years.

Cause for Celebration 4.0

2010-04-25T14:19:00.000-07:00

Newcomers brought their coffee into the lounge to learn more about St. John's today. One couple brought their small children and I chuckled watching them eat donuts. Like so many of our youngest Sunday schoolers, they chewed the frosting off the top of the doughnut and then handed the leftovers to a parent. Mouths colored with sprinkles make me happy.

Each visitor shared their St. John's story - how they came upon the church and what keeps them coming back to find out more. It was good to learn what they need and notice. Hooray for new members of the Body! When the building was finally empty, I locked the door and headed into the overcast day wearing a frosted sprinkle, hope-filled smile.

Cause for Celebration 3.0

2010-04-20T16:46:00.000-07:00

We have a lot of Alleluias to sing and a lot of candles to light during the Easter season. I make a lot of dumb jokes to the acolytes because they a) make funny faces that suggest they're mostly unimpressed b) have nowhere to hide from my comedy routine during the prelude c) need to know that what they do is a big deal.

More than two dozen candles await them and, this morning, James took his time making sure they all found flames. He came back into the narthex pleased with himself, but I later noticed that one never took. A wall of fire was missing one, small light.

And I kind of like it that way. In a church of imperfect people singing glory to God, that dormant candle reminded that God still chooses this quirky, lovely worship over no worship at all...and that each Alleluia that reached a high D was perfect in God's ears, even if my high D is far from pleasant.

Cause for Celebration 2.0

2010-04-11T16:40:00.000-07:00

Today I stood outside the Sunday school area as class was coming to an end. Engaged in conversation with a parent, his son approached with a coloring sheet. Hoping up and down, desperate to interrupt, he finally got our attention.

"Dad, he was in there, but now he's not there anymore. It was empty. When they looked in there, Dad, it was empty!"

The coloring sheet was waved in front of us like an Easter parament or a resurrection flag. We nodded and rejoiced and affirmed his proclamation, but it wasn't enough for him.

Again he interrupted to tell the story that was captivating his little mind and heart. He mom soon appeared and his witness had a new audience. With the same urgency, he told her the truth he couldn't hold in. Mom said the coloring sheet isn't going in the recycling bin anytime soon.

It's a banner of faith and, on this less spirited, less attended Easter Two, I'm glad he waved it wildly for all to see.

Is there a pastor here I could talk to?

2010-04-09T09:52:00.001-07:00

When I hear these words from outside my office door, I put down my sermon or book and turn to see The Stranger.

The cynic in me prepares for an embellished story about a relative's funeral in South Dakota and how they need gas money to get there and how they've tried all the social services in town and no one can help. (Some even add a frosted layer on top of their story like, "The other pastor has helped me when I've come here before" or, "I just thought the church would be the place to turn since you guys are in the business of helping widows and orphans".)

Today, it was a big, bleary-eyed fella who had hard work spelled into his hands and face. He wanted to see a pastor because he is piecing is life back together after a break up and a few weeks of sobriety. He doesn't believe in much of anything and couldn't quite explain why he'd dared to come inside this limestone fortress.

He wasn't after the tangibles: a bus ticket or gas card or diapers.
He was in search of the big answers: faith and hope and love.

These are the people who sit down in my office and ask if they can close the door a crack. Then they unload their sins, waiting for me to look appalled or to tell them that grace does not apply in these circumstances. They name their shame and loneliness. They speak of lost dreams and the way each day teeters between sobriety and letting it all go to hell.

His phone rang twice and then he had to go back to work. His lunch break was over. I invited him back next week and before he left, I gave him God's promise:

There is nothing you could walk in here and tell me that would make God write you off. Every time you've run to a dark place, God has both already been there and followed you - ever present and waiting for you to come home. You mentioned several times that you have given up on God, but if you can remember one thing about today, remember that I looked you in the eye and told you this: God has never and will never give up on you. You don't have to believe it yet, but you do have to look at me while I say it, okay?

If he comes back next week, I'll tell him again. And if he comes back four months from now deeper in darkness and further off his hopeful path than today, I'll tell him then, too. All I can do is keep my promise to pray for him until he comes back.

Gracious God, may the people who dwell most deeply in the law know witnesses of gospel. Make these voices prominent in the face of sin and things that separate them from feeling worthy of your love. Amen.

Cause for Celebration 1.0

2010-04-04T19:33:00.000-07:00

I've decided to note seven reasons I love celebrating resurrection at St. John's, one for each week of the Easter season. Here we go...

The sanctuary was filled with 260 people this morning. I do my best delegating on busy mornings like this, inviting people to participate and lead well in advance so I can roam around chatting and preparing for worship. Today's egg hunt had several saints behind it. Anne stuffed the eggs last week before heading out of town. Val supervised the herd of youth hiding them for the little ones. And Maria, a very responsible ninth grader, was given my camera to take pictures while the smallest kidlits went on the prowl for pastel plastic and sugar.

Sitting in front of my computer a few hours later, I uploaded the photos to have a look at the action I'd missed while dressing for worship. There, in the corner of Maria's pictures were some of the most grace-filled moments I've seen at St. John's. A prayer partner connected with her shy seventh grade match, handing her a gift bag and causing the teen to blush with joy. Older siblings helped little ones fetch eggs from behind bushes and then placed them delicately in the basket instead of stealing them. Friends helped friends with allergies sort peanuts, chocolate and hard candy. New members were laughing with old ones.

In the background of nearly every photograph, I saw new life. And that's what today is all about.

Yesterday

2010-03-26T08:22:00.000-07:00

Two friends asked me yesterday what I love about being a pastor. They wanted to know what I do all day and why I am nourished by work in a small congregation. These questions are my conversational gateway drugs. I start talking faster and faster, smiling wider and wider as I tell about the beauty of being a generalist in ministry. I ooze gratitude for the lessons I'm learning and the people who whisper their sacred sorrows and joys in my ear.

Yesterday, for instance, was an ordinary day. I put the key in the door to my office expecting to do a few particular things, assuming I would not get to others and waiting for the "interruptions" that always call me into true ministry.

I read and prayed and scribbled sermon ideas for Palm Sunday. I wandered through the sanctuary, preparing the space for worship. I read the children's book "Benjamin's Box: The Story of the Resurrection Eggs" to get a sense of the Sunday school project this week. I answered emails.

Then I drove to a lunch meeting where we discussed Luther Seminary's role in preparing healthy stewardship leaders for congregations across the country. A member of the team's car broke down and I took her home. Our conversation had more time to grow and it was a worthy digression from my day.

I finished my afternoon visits sitting with a brave and beautiful and stubborn woman getting used to the idea of comfort care and saying goodbyes. She told me things about her prayer life that sounded naked and vulnerable, as though they had never been given words until now. We held hands and prayed.

It is an honor to serve people communion by name, to remember their baptisms and to listen to the complexity of their job searches or the hymns their mother loved as we plan a funeral together. It is a lovely thing to be invited into the home of a widow who has never managed money or technology and now must fax her late husband's will. It's a beautiful victory to show her weathered fingers something new and to see her strong smile when she hits "send".

I am grateful for the Valentines I receive from Sunday school students, covered in glitter and made with love. I am grateful for the stale cookies I am offered during home visits and they way they soften in my mouth with the help of dark coffee. Yesterday was a good day and, as I put the key in my office door this morning, I got the feeling today will be filled with blessings, too.

Dust to Dust

2010-02-17T22:47:00.000-08:00

The season of Lent begins with a dimly lit sanctuary and Psalm 51. The remements of last year's palms are mixed with oil and lodge under my fingernails as I paint them on the foreheads of my fellow sinners. The mark of our faith is often traced with water, oil or just a finger itself. Tonight we make our humanity visible in the ashes, signs of this life as creatures of God.

Tonight was especially worshipful as I watched the people of St. John's welcome my favorite season with all of their strength and gifts.

When Brian and Kevin realized that we didn't have any ushers, that offering baskets had been placed near the perimeter, they convened in back to debate how they could help during the communion liturgy. Their leadership is part of how they worship and I smiled with gratitude during their summit.

Deborah and Sarah acted faithfully when they noticed how slowly we were moving through communion without the help of an acolyte. They came alongside us with quiet grace because their leadership is part of how they worship and I smiled with gratitude as they handed each other trays.

The most sacred moment about the service was breaking bread. The loaf that we share most often during worship is a hard, crusty bread. In order to break it (without using my knee!) I have to dig my thumbs deep into the center and rip it with all of my strength. Crumbs fly everywhere and only the very center is soft and fleshy.

On nights like tonight, this bread showed all of my senses what a violent and radical gift we have in Christ's perfect body. The loaf's golden hue, it's crunching as I ripped and pulled, the sweet smell of each piece and the way it felt both rough and tender in my hand - I placed a piece of this body in each pair of hands, watching them taste its truth and grace.

Sometimes it's easy to miss the details or forget the power of these holy moments. When the lights dim causing new reflection, the ashes smell faintly of green spring and the body sprays crumbling flesh all over the table, I suddenly remember. And being present in worship with other believers makes that a beautiful thing.

Because nothing beats remembering together.

glitten up the gray

2010-01-08T21:21:00.000-08:00

Christmas brought snow. The new year brought ice. Epiphany brought a deep chill that has settled over much of the country, pressing down on us during the short days and dark nights. These are the things of winter gray and they can make us do silly things.

I love the tundra because it is never too much for the seasoned veteran. Once you agree to plan ahead and put fashion aside, you are warm enough - even on days like today. One of my favorite pieces of winter equipment? A pair of glittens - that's glove|mittens. Every pair I own are colorful with a hoodie for my fingertips when the wind starts to whip or I'm scraping my windshield. They are stuffed into pockets, purses and glove boxes, worn so often that my parishoners have started to notice my manus flair.

Today I was visiting a beautiful woman I see often. She loves to tell stories and I listen, wondering if I only care about each random collection of tales because I care so deeply about her. Some were new and some were the old favorites I hear each visit. I played with my glittens as she talked and somehow they were back on my hands before we reached for each other to pray. I started to take them off again, but she stopped me. "Keep them on - they're beautiful and cozy and I want to touch them while we pray." And so she rubbed my fingers through the soft wool, smiling as we declared Amen together.

Before I left, I snooped around the curtain that divided her room. I like to check on roommates at nursing homes for all kinds of nosey and well-intentioned reasons. Sometimes they are sawing logs or crabby, but usually they're curious and lonely. While this curious stranger didn't speak much English, she was glad I had stopped over and offered me a seat on her bed. She reached for my glittens and I let her hold my hands. She traced the colors with her long fingernails, then gestured toward the curtain. "You are her family? You listen to her stories?"

Come to think of it, yes. It's what we all do. It's a simple and beautiful thing that breaks through the gray and all the layers of winter.

R 'n' R

2009-12-13T13:50:00.000-08:00

Today is the Third Sunday in the season of Advent. It is also Santa Lucia Day. We hear scripture that calls us to repent and rejoice. It is a day of celebration during a dark and anxious season.

Repenting might not sound very celebratory, but it is the best way to begin rejoicing, worship and a new relationship. We begin our services with confession and forgiveness for this very reason - we come inside God's house and put all the heavy and shameful stuff down before moving toward joy and praise. Because we confess these things, corporately and personally, God releases us from their weight with rich and holy forgiveness.

Repentance might sound like a drag unless we believe and experience the freedom that comes from divine forgiveness. John the Baptizer knew that repenting was necessary for true joy in God, so he preached confession as he prepared the way for Christ's coming. He urged the people to put down the heavy secrets they carried so their hands would be free for godly things and authentic praise.

Today there are plenty of reasons to be afraid and hopeless, but John comes to declare the bright light of faith that taunts the darkness with it's trust in things to come. He announces the one who will echo old prophets and rejoicing angels with strong words: Do not be afraid.

December 13 is also my baptism birthday, which sent me on a scavenger hunt for my baptism candle. I found it at the bottom of my keepsake box, its length proof that there has been no ceremonial lighting since 1981. Today I lit it from the tall Christ candle that stands by our font at St. John's and watched the flame dance. Although it took 28 years to light this candle again, it's flame never really went out. My baptism has called me to repent and rejoice for almost three decades, to move from my own life to the world's needs again and again. That is proof that hope is in the smallest places; water and word poured over an infant invited my small life into God's grand scheme, causing purpose for now and hope for things to come.

Today is a day of light and life, repentance and rejoicing. May the three flames atop the Advent wreath inspire excitement about the things to come and may the flame that dances out of your own baptism burn brightly.

Five Reasons to Pledge

2009-11-23T10:48:00.000-08:00

In the season of stewardship, I'm reminded how important it is to promise our generous hearts again and again. Revisiting what we value and what we can share is at the core of discipleship and spiritual growth. I'm a big fan of this habit and here are five reasons you can be, too:

1. Taking the Time. Reflecting about and discussing your gifts as a household or congregation is an important way to witness the way your life changes over time. It happens in a more stoic way when you fill out tax forms: you watch your education, income, investments and liabilities change with each passing year. Taking time to consider these responsibilities from a spiritual perspective can change the way you experience writing checks, paying bills and sharing your gifts.

2. Sharing, not Losing. Whenever I sit in the pews and see the offering plate coming, I fumble through my wallet. It's an awkward moment while I hope for a bill that is "enough", but "not too much". I'll admit that tossing that crumpled bill into the plate feels more like losing than sharing. Giving sporadically and last minute doesn't usually feel generous and that's because it comes from a moment of pressure that does not make time for the reflection I mentioned above. Planning to give connects us to the ritual in a thoughtful and joyful way that can transform our stewardship theology.

3. Worthy gifts. Many people don't pledge because they don't think the amount they share is worthy of being proclaimed and promised ahead of time. Yikes! Whether you commit to sharing $1 or $1,000 a week, it matters and it makes a difference. Whatever you have to give is worthy of being shared.

4. Word and deed. Making a promise and acting on it again and again is a physical lesson about God's love for us. Every time God forgives us and renews us through our baptism, God is keeping that big promise made through Jesus Christ. With each grace-filled act in relationship with us, God recalls the promise and it becomes new again. Pledging is a bold and simple way to respond to God's promise and action in our lives.

5. Body of Christ. Have you ever watched pledge cards pile up in a basket or offering plate? Those promises add up to do miraculous things in the name of God. Committing to share your gifts means standing together with your Christian brothers and sisters in ministry and mission for a purpose beyond yourself. It means trusting that together our gifts are divine abundance, more than enough to change the world.

Lord, blessings abound in you. Teach us to trust that what you provide is more than enough. Open our hands and satisfy our hearts. Amen.

And two shall become one. It's fool proof!

2009-11-16T08:59:00.000-08:00

I asked Berit to be my wedding coordinator for several reasons. Our moms are identical twin sisters and sometimes we can be so in sync, it's startling. Being on the same page in the height of chaos would be important.

Berit works in early childhood with families, small children and toddlers. That means she deals with boundary and ownership issues all day and can definitely handle the big personalities, a rowdy bridesmaid or a mother who thinks it's all about her. I also knew she would take the responsibility seriously, finding ways to go above and beyond the job description.

Each wedding taught has us new ways to be more efficient or flexible and we learned from every mistake made behind the scenes. I also watched Berit really enjoy each couple - I saw her crouch down with the tiny flower girls and ring bearers, cheering them down the 90 ft. aisle from her discreet niche in the narthex. I watched her find a bride who wandered off and teach ushers the ropes.

As I preached about becoming one flesh and the power of marriage, Berit and I were also becoming one. Our last wedding of the season was this weekend and it was anything but stressful. Each event has taught us something about time management and organization. Coming up with creative communication strategies earned a subtle, genetic victory dance and the phrase, "It's fool proof!". As the season progressed, we had to check in with each other less often and things became second nature. I don't want to brag, but we were awesome. Seriously. I'm glad you weren't there because you would have regretted not having us at your own wedding.

And really. Who wouldn't want these two in charge of their special day?

Cleaning for Company

2009-10-30T16:04:00.000-07:00

It was late afternoon and the sunlight pouring through the stained glass was enough to brighten the chancel while I worked. There are two worship environment saints named Marj and Lori who usually get to change the paraments, but today I had the honor.

The silence was soothing as I folded the woven green that usually hangs on the lectern and pulpit. I pulled out boxes and opened closets in the sacristy making sure I was choosing the appropriate set of white for All Saints Day.

In the busyness of ministry and life, it was good to do something slowly. Paying attention to the smallest details and deciding not to rush was calming and the simple task of preparing a space became entirely holy. As I ironed the crease in the altar linen and stood back among the pews to admire the chancel, I felt gratitude for the beauty at work in cleaning for company and the eagerness I felt for Sunday's celebration of saints before us, among us and beyond us.

Merry as a Wedding Bell

2009-09-30T13:51:00.000-07:00

Steve dropped me off at the little church on Juddville Road and promised to come back for me. I walked up the steps, imagining her wedding here in case of wind and rain. Stry asked me to officiate her wedding months ago and I was thrilled to agree. But fall in Door County can mean an outdoor wedding is either beautiful or vulnerable…or both. If the ceremony couldn’t be on the beach with a wide view of the lake, it would be here in this quaint, country church. I was preparing for the worst and the worst wasn’t looking so bad.

The narthex was small and led straight into a petite sanctuary with pews for an intimate Sunday. A portrait of Swedish Jesus hung behind the organ, adorned with its own lighting and a handcrafted frame. I wandered into the chancel and found the red, eternal flame to have a power chord. My fingers played with it gently, flipping it on and off.

The sacristy seemed to double as an office and was empty, so I searched for basement stairs and my appointment. “Hello?” I sang as I descended into the fellowship hall. A friendly-looking man came into view as I got my bearings and I asked if he had seen the pastor that morning. “I don’t know that he’s here yet. Are you going to help us this morning?” It seemed I’d arrived just in time to help fold the monthly newsletter.

“I’m not, actually,” and gave a sheepish smile. “I might be doing a wedding here on Sunday if the weather is grim, so I’m supposed to meet the pastor today and learn the ropes…but I’d love to help with the newsletter, too. My ride might not be back for awhile.” He continued with a firm handshake and introduced himself as Fred. Then he took my coffee cup I’d traveled in with and proceeded to fill it up for the first of many times.

When I found the pastor, it was clear that this was a place of welcome. He told me everything I needed to know about the space, lighting, sound and security. Shame on me, but soon I was hoping for rain.

Since the tour took far less time than I’d anticipated, I headed back downstairs to be useful and to find a refill. “We used to have a third helper and it was much easier that way. I’m so glad you’re here today!” Fred confessed. Jana took the pages from the copier and folded while Fred attached the white circle that seals it closed. I labeled each copy with a recipient and noted the geographical stretch of this little place.

“Is your church very big?”

“Do you have a lot of volunteers at your church?”

“What is worship like there?”

And so a conversation began about membership and what bold stewardship can mean for small congregations. We had plenty in common and shared passions for the communities of faith we hold dear. I learned much from these disciples who believe in their vocations.

The next evening the wind whipped us inside the little church and we celebrated the covenant of marriage with Swedish Jesus looking on. It was beautiful. When the ceremony was over, the doors were opened wide and the wild wind of fall blew inside. The recessional brought waves of music from the string quartet out into the churchyard, showering the graves and fallen leaves with joy.

And as people walked back out into the beautiful and vulnerable weather that is autumn, I reached for the church bell, ringing it with my whole body and all of my delight. A wedding guest approached me later and said, “Have you ever heard the phrase merry as a wedding bell? Because that’s what you are!”

Perhaps that's because the wonders of new people and new vows live on long after you switch off the electric eternal flame and lock up a church that has graced you with its welcome.

Everyone has a Stewardship Story

2009-09-01T18:37:00.000-07:00

Tonight I was at the seminary for a stewardship event that welcomed new students and introduced them to the concept of financial coaches. I come home grateful.

I didn't balance my check book or keep my receipts. I didn't know what my credit score was or how to take out a loan. But I did come to seminary debt free and paid all my bills on time. I did know how to ask for help and knew that I'd need to learn something about personal finance and stewardship if I wanted to create healthy money habits in my personal and, eventually, my public life.

In 2004, eight of us signed up for a financial coach. I remember sitting down to lunch with Tom for the first time and handing over the truth: I don't have any debt yet, but I do have some scholarships. I'd like to think I'm thrifty, but I've never really stuck to a budget. Help me figure this out and hold me accountable. I don't think of myself as a money person - I don't think anyone thinks of me like that - so I'll need some validation along the way.

Our conversations were simple but fruitful. Here, in the presence of a stranger who did not judge my actions or let me off the hook, we formed the stewardship identity I wanted. Together we shaped the way I would relate my values and resources during seminary and beyond.

Internship gave me an opportunity to budget on a more fixed income and to practice the ups and downs of a financial year. I saved for flights home and future tuition payments. I shared with my congregation and causes close to my heart. I spent wisely and it felt good.

Senior year I worked in the Seminary Relations office. My job was to thank people. Seriously. 12-20 hours each week I wrote letters, called people and shared my gratitude at donor events. I was saturated with thankfulness and an appreciation for the simple joy of giving. I will always remember Dorothy Lee's words at the Women in Philanthropy Tea: I was confused when I learned that the seminary was calling me a woman in philanthropy, but I'm also tickled because if I can be a philanthropist, anyone can! And that day I decided to believe her.

Matt and I got married about a month after graduation. We sat down to talk about our finances, wanting to start with our gift to the church because we were taught to share the first fruits. We were quiet for a few minutes and then admitted that we didn't know what the first fruits would be! I was starting my first call later that summer and he was still in school, working his tail off for a stipend and paying off loans of his own. Then Matt said, I don't know what the numbers are going to look like, but I think we should give more to church than we do to Comcast. I hate Comcast and still shell out $105 for cable and internet each month. So let's start there and pledge that no matter the numbers, we're giving more to the church, something we actually like and believe in, than to the bill I begrudgingly pay each month.

We crunched the numbers and by September we were giving three times what we paid to Comcast. This was a joyful place to start and from here we began the journey of working toward a tithe. All year we have logged our income and payments on a simple excel program we store and share via Google Documents. This keeps the lines of communication open about our sharing, spending and saving and keep us on the same page - literally. Matt and I make plenty of mistakes and don't always see eye to eye about our financial choices, but our values align and that makes all the difference. I've come a long way from occasionally checking my account balances online.

Matt and I will never make millions of dollars in our professions, but it will be more than enough. We're flying high on good communication, healthy habits and the pride we take in our two year plan to be student debt free. The recession is woven into my prayer life everyday, but I am not swept away by the chaos and mania of scarcity that the media provides. The system I started to discover five years ago with a financial coach includes controlling what's controllable and believing in God's abundance.

The best news of all? Having a financial coach sparked a series of events that has led me to a congregation hungry for the gospel of stewardship and the true message of satisfaction in a world that preaches never enough. Stewardship became an important part of my public identity. I went from being a 23 year old girl who didn't think she was a money person to a woman and pastor who is brave enough to talk about money. And I urge you to take up the conversation. It's a worthy journey and an invaluable gift.

I'm grateful, Tom and Luther Seminary. I'm still writing my stewardship story, but this first draft is thanks to you.

Heartbreaking and Hopeful

2009-08-21T16:07:00.000-07:00

I have known this vote was coming since I was discerning which seminary to attend six years ago. I have tried to be patient and I’ve tried to listen more than I speak. Being a rostered leader means my words and actions represent the ELCA. Serving a particular congregation means I walk at their tempo and I represent them publicly.

These responsibilities have caused some of my personal passions, beliefs and opinions to be sidelined on occasion – an important exercise for a zealous extrovert like me. But as participants in the ELCA Churchwide Assembly come from across the country and gather in my neighborhood, I am overwhelmed by the biblical theology and emotional systematics dovetailing in my heart and throwing up onto this blog.

1. I am both heartbroken and hopeful every time I have a conversation about sexuality and the church. It is discouraging that this debate is the only thing the media covers and that one decisive action from this broad and powerful assembly advertises us as a divisive body instead of the faithfully united one I know and love. I wish the Star Tribune would report on the HIV/AIDS strategy funding or the exciting stories of mission starts and emergent church bodies bearing the fruit of the Spirit. I wish judgmental spectators could know about the other valuable social and sexual issues we care so deeply about.

But it is encouraging to hear people talk truthfully about what it means to be church to all people – to welcome them in as they are and as we have been welcomed in. I am hopeful when I hear people admit that doing it is harder than simply talking about it. I am hopeful when I see others committed to living in the grey while we figure out what that looks like together.

2. I am both heartbroken and hopeful watching the live stream online, listening to the debates we have been having for thirty years about the GLBT community and their place in the church. I am heartbroken when I hear wonderful people described as an issue with words like “animalistic” or “barbaric”, but I am hopeful when I hear members step to the microphone and share a brief story about someone they’ve met at the assembly with a different view and a different vote. They speak with new clarity and compassion, and that gives me hope that we will not fall apart just yet.

I am related to people who say they will leave the ELCA if the vote is confirmed and I am related to people who say they will leave if it does not pass, but my prayer is that they all remain. I moved forward through the gauntlet of candidacy with some straight people who might have been called, but were mediocre preachers or uncomfortable giving pastoral care. I watched others become tangled up in candidacy because they refused to hide their sexual orientation, confident that God is calling all of who they are. These folks are ensnared in rules, but I get goose bumps thinking about their preaching, their compassion and their obvious vocation as ordained leaders in the church. This is not a black or white issue in my heart, my life, or my scriptural study.

3. I am appalled by the self-appointed prophets who deem Wednesday’s weather to be direct judgment from God, but I am impressed by the droves of people who are brave enough to explore the ambiguity of what it means to be both sinners and saints, saved by the cross of Christ. It is a far easier thing live on one end of the spectrum, affirming yourself and those like you while pointing out the specks in the eyes of others down the line.

I choose to live in the grey because I’m pretty sure Jesus lives there. He was in the mucky middle every time he touched someone or invited someone to break bread. That’s where I’ve got to be if I’m going to run into him doing miraculous things. I choose to live in the grey because ambiguity is not always a bad thing. It means admitting that, even when steeped in scripture, I don’t know everything and that some things will be decided beyond my intelligence and according to God’s perfect will. I choose to live in the grey because I cannot bear to read only some texts or to digest them in only one way – none of us take the scriptures literally unless we are reading them in their original language in the original contexts. We are all interpreters of scripture and I will not be thought less biblically faithful because I am willing to admit that.

It’s here in the grey we can admit that this stuff is really hard and that God’s plan for reconciliation might be much bigger than our restrictions on who can commune with us or our definitions of “life abundant”. It might even be bigger than sexual orientation in the pulpit (and by the way, the pulpit happens to be the most sexless place I can think of, but we’ve put it there anyway).

I write this without knowing how the fourth resolution turns out, but confident that I will, of course, remain in the ELCA tomorrow regardless of the outcome. With or without these resolutions, it is my call and duty to make sure all people know that Christ came for them and that divine reconciliation is a radical thing that lives even beyond the argument about whether homosexuality is a sin, the limited expectations of celibacy, the fear of the unfamiliar and this divisive discord.

Even beyond all of these things.

I’m just sure of it.

In fact, this sinner is betting her life on it.

Walk On

2009-07-24T08:45:00.000-07:00

Every 4th of July my family plays golf together and sometimes it gets competitive or overly analytical. The morning of the scramble tournament is filled with adrenaline and team theme music. Sometimes the excitement turns tense, but we don't play for the love of trash talk or for pride alone. We play because we have all been taught to love the wildly complicated game of golf and it marks the years in a language we all speak.

When you strip away the messy things about our tournament and the hubris of competition, you will find 11 people who have a simple love for the game. We will speak about the sweet ping of a solid tee shot or the bond created by teammates lining up a crucial put together. This was the first year I haven't played in...forever and it was strange. But the game of golf lives beyond the family tournament. It lives anywhere I can buy a Nutroll and stick extra tees in my ponytail. It lives anywhere I can pull second ball from my bag when that first chip gets away from me and it lives in my heart, which tells me to play and score the first, more miserable shot.

This video speaks to the way golf can capture your heart as a dialect of life and an obsession - not with being perfect or even good - but with moving forward. If you love the game or you love someone who does, take twelve minutes and watch someone fueled by a simple love to move forward. And if your eyes start to water, don't worry. The air was dusty when I watched, too.

Chesed-filled

2009-06-28T20:47:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we celebrated our one year anniversary. All year we've worn these precious bands engraved with three, simple letters. Together they form the Hebrew word chesed, which is translated several ways.

It's God's steadfast love and the mercy that lasts forever. It's the patient faithfulness at work in God's promises to us. Chesed is the way God intends for us to live in the covenant of marriage.

It's good to see these three, loaded letters on my finger every day. They preach marriage in the everyday law and gospel of being together. Chesed is a good reminder to fight fair and communicate well. It reminds me about the length of God's promise to us and the journey that our promise will become in time.

This first anniversary makes me especially grateful for the marriages we have witnessed growing up. We are blessed to know parents who share power and love fiercely. They argued in front of us and we got to watch them work it out, learning that discord can be healthy and normal. They've handled their marriages with great care, speaking well of each other and living with mercy. I'm sure that our marriage is stronger for the way they practice God's loving faithfulness in their own marital promises.

Whatever you celebrate and cherish this summer - whatever promises you have made and strive to keep - be inspired by the divine example of God's perfect covenant with us. May it teach us steadfast love in all the ways we are called to be faithful people.

I hold you in my heart.

2009-06-13T14:41:00.000-07:00

I rarely open the Book of Occasional Services in my ministry. While it means well, I've found the pages too formal for the grief I encounter among solemn strangers or new parishioners. The liturgy is too high for small hospital rooms or quaint living rooms filled with antiques and family photos.

Still, I clutch it when I am called into the unfair and unfortunate places. It brings me comfort to know that others have also held it while they wish for the right words or patience during the long silences of sorrow. And though I rarely open it, the book is usually there.

I found it in my hands the other day and opened it to the black bookmark - the consolation of the dying - before going to see someone I am going to miss. Out tumbled scraps of paper and post-it notes filled with names, illnesses, hopes and idiosyncrasies. I sat down on the floor in my office and read through them one by one.

While I cannot connect some of their faces with their names, I remember how holding the hand of a dead person first felt or the holiness of gathering family around a bed to share their love and say goodbye. I remember baptizing a dwarfed and stillborn baby named Jose - not because it was theologically correct, but because it sealed his broken mother with new promises and affirmed her role as Life Giver. I remember walking out to my car in the monsoon rains one night and sobbing in my humid car with the death of a saint aching within me. I remember painting the fingernails of a swollen stroke victim who needed to feel beautiful before she passed. I remember burying people without knowing much about them at all.

While some of these notes are only a name or room number, they are filled with promises from God and moments that have sealed the unfamiliar and acquaintance in my depths. And so I could not discard John, Ruth, Jose or the phone numbers of families I met with to plan funerals. They remain in the book where I will find them written, occasionally or rarely, though I always hold them in my heart.

Good Memories, Better Dreams

2009-05-28T18:25:00.000-07:00

As I drove down to Northfield again for Bror's graduation on Sunday, I was filled with happy nostalgia. It's been five years since my own graduation and approaching the hill on a sunny afternoon brought back all the best memories of campus.

I winded through side roads to a parking spot near the football field and looked up at the buildings that hold the stories of many. Mine live in those walls, too, and I smiled thinking about the ways I grew and changed here. Campus was filled with old friends saying hello and young friends saying goodbye. Each bench under a shady tree and every stretch of sidewalk live on as beloved places in my history.

But the thing that made me most joyful about the trip down memory lane was the surprise I felt remembering the women my dearest friends use to be five years ago. I realized that I think about them all in the present tense these days - who they are and where they are today - instead of living in the memories college. While many of us don't see each other often and none of us live together anymore, we are good about staying in touch about today and tomorrow, choosing to recall the past fondly now and then.

Wandering around the hill showed me countless ways the strong and beautiful women I call my friends were shaped and formed by this place. I remembered our ex-boyfriends, relationships that ended but did not fail because we learned something from each one. I walked the long path down from Thorson Hall and up to Old Main thinking about the cold mornings Helen trekked to her Hispanic studies classes, slowly becoming the advocate for peace and learning Bolivia now holds dear.

I thought about long dinners in the cafeteria and trying to sneak a mid-morning bagel out past the lady who guarded the exit. There were lazy Saturdays that meant waking up slowly, one at a time, and piecing together the events and hilarity of the night before once everyone was gathered. We would curl up together in laughter, embracing our bedhead and wiping at our smudged eye makeup in the weekend calm.

But these are not the ways I remember my dearest women on most days. Usually they live in my heart as businesswomen and coaches, educators and visionaries who have been around the block once or twice. They've been to graduate school, moved away or worked hard enough to notice that there are now younger, more inexperienced versions of ourselves in the office and its time to decide what kind of mentor and boss we want to be.

Even though I cherish the women I remember from our own day of caps and gowns, I am most grateful for the women they've become - the women this place prepared them all to be. So when it was time to go, I found myself feeling the same happy nostalgia driving away from campus, confident that there are many cap and gown days ahead no matter where I go.

The scent of Golf.

2009-05-06T20:51:00.001-07:00

On Monday I cruised down to Northfield for some quality time with my younger-younger brother. He was a happy camper after a successful performance during his last collegiate tournament. Our round was filled with stories he had saved for our time together. Some spanned two or three holes, pausing as we separated to walk to our shots and then resuming over the sweet clinking of our clubs as we continued toward the green.

This was my first time on the course this spring and my game was predictable: one great shot, one awkward but playable shot and then one embarrassing blooper. But the smell of my golf glove and the quiet moment before each back swing made up for each ball tipped into the woods. I stored my tees atop my ponytail and squinted into the twilight sun to find the pin while we talked about slope, wind and distance.

Much of the week leading up to this visit was spent discussing with eagerness our plans to dine at Chapati. We were heartbroken to find a "Closed on Mondays" sign and stood moping in front of the Archer House for several minutes before Bror proposed an alternative. While "Kurry Kabob" sounded like a second rate option, I indulged him and we soon found ourselves knee deep in more Indian food than we could handle in one sitting. We left with four doggie bags and set out for Bror's abode.

"I'm not going to apologize for how messy and gross this is going to be because it's pretty much always this bad."

"That's okay. My expectations are really low." Nine college seniors and two dogs under one roof looks about how you're picturing it. But I've had a tetanus shot recently and the stench retreated as spring air moved through open windows. Instead, I remembered how wonderful it can be to live in such close quarters with your best friends at 22. You share things, eat together, stay up way too late and host parties with unusual and laughable themes. It's a good time to be sharing dirt and bathtub scum.

Before I left, we walked the dogs around the block and I watched the lights from the Hill shine sweetly over those taking a night run and a few ambling home from the library. These are precious days and it's good to see my brother embracing them with such joy and appreciation. I drove away grateful for these hours and the scent of Golf on my hands.

(Im)perfect Church

2009-04-23T13:56:00.000-07:00

It is always the season of Easter when I find myself wandering aimlessly through the book of Acts. While it sounds like a good idea – learning about the early church while participating in the season of new life and resurrection here in the 21^st century – it is messier than I remember.

Last week I preached on the lectionary texts that included Acts 4:32-35. This snippet of the early church seems to describe a hippie commune or socialism at its very best(?). Everyone is getting along and living in harmony. They share possessions and property, giving to all who are in need…for four verses.

Many church starts find that they are so busy with the big picture and becoming stable and steady that there isn’t time or energy to argue about the little things. Disagreements and division come later and the good ol’ days never last very long. By chapter five of Acts, drama erupts about land being sold. Peter is shouting about Satan and calling someone a liar before he drops dead and everyone watching silently freaks out. The four verse harmony in Acts short lived. And it is both beautiful and discouraging to a young, optimistic pastor of today's church.

The good news about Easter is certainly happening the morning we celebrate resurrection in all its glory. People pour into pews they haven’t graced since Christmas and hear about the miracle that is bigger than one Sunday or one worship service. Then I hold my breath for folks to return in celebration of the Easter season, hoping others are hungry to know what an empty tomb means for tomorrow and the next day.

I could write about the two endings in Mark’s gospel and why I love the first one all day long. But there is something grand about the second, longer ending to his account. When Jesus appears to the disciples – the ones who never quite understood his teachings, the ones who betrayed him the day he died, the ones who hid in fear after the crucifixion – Jesus has two words for them. He gives them both law and gospel.

Later he appeared to the eleven themselves as they were sitting at the table; and he upbraided them for their lack of faith and stubbornness, because they had not believed those who saw him after he had risen. And he said to them, “Go into all the world and proclaim the good news to the whole creation.” - Mark 16:14-15

Hey, kids. I stopped by to let you know that hiding behind these locked doors isn't doing anyone any good. You’re doing a crappy job being my followers right now and your faith is pretty shaky. But that doesn’t mean I’m done with you. It doesn’t mean I can’t use you. So even though you are not perfect – even though you get in the way sometimes or let confusion and fear overwhelm – I’m calling you into this mission because I love and choose you. I am here because I claim you and give you power in my name. I am sending you to tell of my kingdom boldly and to participate in the miracle I have created for the sake of the world.

God does not require perfection, but finds ways to weave his righteousness into our silly and messy lives. And it takes a wonderful God to do things the slow, tricky and creative way by calling us into participation. It takes a God who can tell it how it is and then invite us along. It takes a God who never gives up, who keeps promises and who makes things new with a Word every Easter day.

Finally. The Rising.

2009-04-21T20:52:00.000-07:00

Easter morning was a fabulous blur. I arrived early and collected my thoughts for worship. Then I flitted around during the pancake breakfast with no real duties, just connecting people and greeting family members in town for the weekend.

People poured into the sanctuary, laughing and greeting each other. The pews were packed and I was overjoyed seeing so many people at worship. The banners streaked across the high ceiling, drawing our attention to the front window: a cross and a glorious Jesus promising to be with us always. I believe you.

When I got home, I noticed the tulips planted this fall poking through. It sounds small and cliche - new life, rebirth - but this is the first time I've ever seen something I've planted breaking through death and coming alive with green shoots. Spring is truly here and the signs are all around us. May your Easter season be filled with banners bright and green shoots - signs of hope everlasting!

That's True.

2009-04-11T10:32:00.000-07:00

I had to focus on the Words of Institution as I looked out at their eager faces. Six of our young people were about to receive their First Communion. One pressed his palms against the pew ahead and hoisted himself high off the ground to see better. Others looked around for each other with big smiles or made a serious effort to follow along in the bulletin. For a moment, they were all looking at the bread and wine, hungry and thirsty. What a privilege to serve this meal.

During our First Communion class, I pulled out a beautiful quilt made by loving members of my internship church. Each patch tells a different story through soft fabric patterns – the garden, the grains of wheat, Jacob’s ladder, the Star of David – and when it covers me, I am draped in the story that saves.

We talked about how worship is much like my quilt. Everything we do helps to tell the story – our stained glass windows, our hymns, the scripture read, prayers spoken and peace shared. “If there were a center patch in my quilt, it would be Holy Communion. Some people think the sermon is the most important part of the service, but it’s not.” And then we talked about the bread and wine. I gave them a tour of the sacristy and we walked through the morning routine of filling wine cups and placing the elements in the rear of the nave. “So we can see it when we walk in?” That’s true.

One brilliant girl asked why we never use banana bread. A beloved boy made the connection that we can’t see Jesus when he comes with the meal, but we can taste him. That’s true. They all double checked that the grape juice is white, not purple, and were swept up in the mystery of Jesus telling us to do this even two thousand years later.

And so, on this Maundy Thursday at dusk, I watched holy and innocent faith hold out its hands. Some smiled wildly and others contained their glee with a mask of reverence. But after the service, they all danced with joy on the courtyard lawn. We tore the rest of the bread into little pieces and, with the same glad respect they had at the altar, returned the extra bread to creation and fed the birds. “The best part is, we get to take communion again this Sunday…and every Sunday!” That’s true.

A watched pot boils all day.

2009-03-29T19:27:00.000-07:00

Every spring, my girlfriends and I head to the Northwoods of Wisconsin for a ritual we've all grown to cherish. Our dear Strom is a woman of the woods and her parents still live in a beautiful log cabin they built on the river 25 years ago. As the waters thaw and the trees come alive, it is time to sap Maple Syrup and stand together in fellowship while it boils all day and night.

We play a very minor role in this tradition and are mostly sedentary over a brunch complete with blueberry pancakes or in lawn chairs near the fire. Some even dare to brave the river in canoes, though I have refused to make amends with the first bend since I tipped over three years ago and sat clinging to a log in my icy float jacket! I am still mocked for my superstition - that only this river has it out for me. So I held Strom's dog, Leinie, back as they loaded canoes. She was eager to join them and only causing tippy chaos with her 3 year old enthusiasm.

We wander through the woods, through trees tapped and draped with sap bags like catheters. It's time apart from the city and the weekend errands that usually plague Saturdays. Time with Strom's parents is an annual prescription for sanity. I stood in the kitchen with Lynn and we talked while she made a salad with wild rice from this land and fresh fruit that looked crisp. She has known me since I moved in with her daughter on our first day of college. Lynn has known of every major considered, boy dated, and house rented over the years, so the conversation is easy and appreciated. Nine years later, there is married life and a career to inquire about.

Outside Papa Phil is giving a tour of his work shed, anticipating rice season with satisfaction and pride. He's got rules about how close we can stand to the fire and thinks everyone should have another hot dog, giving us ample opportunity to tease and test him like good daughters. And he loves it. When I get him good, he comes back with a dare to brave the river this year. Maybe next year, I concede.

Today the temperature has the sap frozen in the bags and our usual task of hauling it up the hill is cancelled. It is just cold enough to choose red wine over beer, and we pass the Tostitos with lime back and forth, useless stumps. As I cuddle with a friend to keep warm, good conversation and fresh air wash over us. What Holy Communion.

These photos were stolen maliciously from Maren's Facebook page. Thanks, Mars.

Suddenly...Nothing Happened

2009-03-25T15:37:00.000-07:00

The day flew by and I was lost in the rhythm of chaos. What? Chaos doesn't have a rhythm? It does when you do it for a few days in a row. With the rain pouring down outside, I was keeping busy at church and getting very organized for spring and summer.

The rain fell harder by dinner and I found shelter in my car. Traffic inched slowly north as I headed to Pastor Mark's house for a meeting. The sweet probability that his wife, Jody, would serve wine kept me alert and entertained as I migrated slowly from the city.

My CD player changed and my favorite song came on. I'd never heard it until my brother put it on a "Christmas Hit List" he made me this year and it is the ultimate comfort as I drive through this dulling recession, an aggressive winter and the day's general ambiguity. The song is my prayer for anyone holding her breath and waiting for life to increase, calm down or brighten up. I mysteriously tear up when I hear these lyrics and think about those waiting for a job interview or news about a new chance at a dream. Take a minute and listen. I'm curious about whether it says anything to you.

Click Here to Listen to Colin Hay Band's "Waiting for my Real Life to Begin"

Church Basement Ladies - The 2009 Edition

2009-03-21T16:32:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago I went to Bangladesh with 12 other teenagers. Today, I made brunch for three of them, the women I lovingly refer to as my fellow Church Basement Ladies. We all grew up actively involved at Normandale throughout adolescents and young adulthood. Though I didn't attend high school with them, some of my favorite memories stem from our time together on the other side of the world or leading senior high groups since then.

Annie was the first one to find me when I got sick in Dinajpur. I went to college with Sarah and later, we attended seminary together for a year. Sarah and Katherine and I worked at Bible camp together, forming new summertime bonds. Katherine was by my side in 2004 when we returned to Bangladesh, fell in love again, and wiped tears as we said goodbye to a place that holds our hearts. I sang in the choir at Annie's dad's funeral and still think of him during Lent and when I hear the hymn Day by Day.

A small part of me is grateful for the recession and the push it gives women my age to invite people over for affordable, homemade time together instead of meeting out for drink$ or dinner. It was good to have these spiritual sisters in my home, sharing and laughing over good food. We talked work, love, gossip and (of course) Church. In this new age of America and faith, thank God for great traditions plugging on in new form and new bodies. The Church Basement Ladies live on!

Groupie

2009-03-18T21:09:00.000-07:00

I've never been so excited about Texas. The happy recipient of a free flight and free lodging, I've spent the past few days in Fort Worth with the Gophers Baseball Team on their spring break, playing in the sunshine.

Our hotel room doubles as the training room, where athletes come to get electronic stimulation or ultra sound. Matt stretches them and checks in with their rehab care on our bed. Meeting these guys in such...intimate circumstances means learning more about Matt's 33 illegitimate children - the athletes who come to him with their head colds and muscle tears. Before their weight lifting afternoons or evening games, I get to watch Matt work. It's hard to describe the pride I feel while he works patiently with each player. He knows the whiners from the tough guys, how to prevent injury and how to help them bounce back from it. They seem to adore him.

When he wasn't working, we wandered the stockyards of Fort Worth or sat in the sun. He vented and bragged and now it was much easier to empathize and celebrate. Once his afternoon duties began, I would relish the alone time - little bits of solitude and vacation. At night I would brave the metroplex traffic and bring extra clothing into the stadium. As the sun set, I would slowly add a layer or find a hot dog for dinner while cheering on the Gophers with parents and fans. I would watch one player's grandparents in their lovely ritual - he would give her his windbreaker for extra warmth while she sat and he would pace below, too excited (and cold?) to sit down, but still close enough to talk to his beloved between innings.

Matt would turn and smile every now and then, as if to make sure I was really there. And I was. - cheering and yelling plenty. After the game, I would meet Matt back at the "training room" with a pint of ice cream and a few minutes to ourselves. Then the players would come, bringing their scraps and aches before bed.

I head home thinking about how different our jobs are, but how similar our vocations are: listening, healing, helping, connecting and hoping. It was good to be off duty for a few days and to watch him be "on".

I have a green ball.

2009-03-11T10:40:00.000-07:00

It's funny working in the same building as an energetic child care center. Kids are everywhere, marching up and down stairs, playing in the fellowship hall/gym and stinking up the copy room hallway by late afternoon.

One of these tiny toddlers was the first to welcome me for my first interview last March. I had come through a thick snowfall and opened the dark doors, shaking the snowflakes from my hair. Inside, a train of little people were holding hands and walking from one room to another. A black-haired little girl broke rank and walked right up to me, in awe of the snowy day that blew by as the door closed behind me. "Well, hello there!" she said with pure happiness and welcome in her voice.

Well, hello. I still see her around and she makes me smile - the first of many signs that St. John's would welcome me inside.

This morning I walked through the fellowship hall/gym when the smallest kids were making forts and pretending to be animals. They had their teachers laughing hysterically as they roared like lions. Coming back from my errand, a little one toddled up, pulled up his shirt and pointed to his belly button with proud satisfaction. His words were a pre-English blurb I couldn't decode until a little girl came up beside him. "And I have one too, but yours IS big!" More gibberish followed. "My dad is like is same grandpa too." So cute...but huh?

Others joined, coming out of their forts to check me out. "I have a green ball," one would declare. Then another would approach with their own prop. "My ball purple!" Soon, they were all playing catch with me at once and I laughed, trying to keep up. When my day gets long or I need a smile, I know that these belly buttons have the power to cheer anyone up with a roar or a green ball. So I listen for them coming in the hallways, testing the echo and squealing with joy.

Seeking the Story

2009-03-05T12:39:00.000-08:00

Depression Breakfast - Sugar Cookies and Coffee

By clicking on the link above, you'll find Depression Cooking, a YouTube subscription that features a 93 year old woman in her kitchen making low budget dishes from her past and sharing stories about life in the 1930s. Clara's first episode in 2007 has been watched by more than 200,000 fans.

Ten years ago, people my age might not have shown interest in Clara's ingenuity and sharp memories, but today viewers post thoughtful comments about how funny and sweet she is to share. Something about our current climate and context has linked young people with her, causing us to look to Clara and her generation for wisdom and comfort.

More people have been coming through the doors of churches lately, perhaps fueled by a similar nostalgia and curiosity. Where do I come from? What is my story? They ask important questions and are willing to wait while the bread cools or while Clara opens a can of peas. Then she sits on her sofa with an old photo album, pointing to black and white photographs that fuel her tales and invite us into the story.

Here are the photographs that prove we survived and grew stronger. Here are the people who wandered the Great Depression's wilderness and found faith in the little things.

May Clara graft you into her story and may the church to the same, calling you into the Lenten journey and through the darkness into Promise.

The Miracle

2009-02-17T22:26:00.000-08:00

In theory, I would find a way to worship most Sundays apart from St. John's at congregations offering services around my worship schedule. Serving in a metropolitan area offers these perks: collegiality, collaboration and the opportunity to worship in the pews.

As coffee hour slowed, I locked up and headed northeast to El Milagro, a Spanish-speaking Lutheran church in Minneapolis. My cousin is in town and I'd been meaning to explore this place with her. I drive by El Milagro (The Miracle) every day and seeing it reminds me of the times I have worshiped in a language I don't understand. A Xhosa church in South Africa had me beating my hand on a percussion pad and trying to make my mouth click as we sang hymns with melodies I must have known in another life. Bangladeshi Christians had me dancing on Christmas Eve and rocking to the rhythm of what felt like the Lord's Prayer.

The sound of tambourines met us as we entered and we followed our noses to incense in the sanctuary. My cousin understood much more than I could translate, but the liturgy's grace kept me in tune. I had preached that morning and knew the texts well enough to hear words like "wash" and "seven" and "compassion". Our leprosy was being healed.

During the prayers we were instructed to turn to our neighbor and grace her with the sign of the cross on her forehead. We were to pray for resurrection in each other's lives. It was easy, but so difficult. I traced Berit's baptism on her skin and spoke words I meant, that could not be released without the teary eyes of a big sister/cousin. Oh, how I love you. And how I love this miracle of resurrection. And how I love that you are tangled up in that miracle with me because of this cross we paint on each other. These are the words I thought as I held her face and professed my prayer.

The meal was an enormous chunk of soft wheat bread that took three bites - three swallows for my body to believe in Jesus' body - his promise and presence for me. The sending hymn had us all in the aisle, singing and clapping and holding hands with brothers and sisters. A miracle indeed.

Fresh Air

2009-02-13T11:27:00.000-08:00

There are certain times during the day I avoid the grocery store because it is crowded and crabby, but Wednesday night was not one of them. There were so few of us that we actually saw each other. I watched a teenage boy hoist a gallon of milk into an old woman's cart for her. A grubby man in fingerless gloves smelled the oranges carefully, one by one, undisturbed by other shoppers.

Something about my faith permeates these moments. I watched those tempted by the bakery decided whether they needed late night donut and wondered about the woman buying more cat food than human food.

When I have time, I like to get in the longest check out line and read the latest tabloid magazine while I wait. I glossed over photos of Chris Brown and Rihanna, heroic Capt. Sully, and the new mom of octuplets. When it was time to load my groceries onto the belt, I noticed the drama unfolding in front of me. A toothless woman in a blaze orange hoodie was near tears, trying to explain the injustice in her life to the cashier and was making frantic gestures toward the bag boy. I had to drive four hours down here and they want to know about insurance but you you don't think about insurance when you find out your son has colon cancer and I don't know what I'll do because I can't even afford the stuff I'm buying here and my food stamps are all gone...

While every bone in my body wanted to hug and hold the woman to keep her from flailing and justifying her suffering, I held back and watched how others stepped forward. The cashier made wise, deescalating comments. The woman in line between us rubbed her back gently. The bag boy filled her cart quickly and efficiently.

Even after receiving her receipt and becoming somewhat obsolete, she stayed, desperate for someone to really hear her. She moved close to the bag boy, who did not have the mental and social skills to deal with her intensity and looked like he might break down with her...or at her. I watched his anxious eyes, deciding whether he should stay and bag as his job requires, or find the safe space his parents and teachers have probably taught him to seek.

Why don't you take a breather outside while we bag our groceries? I'll find you out there when I'm done and we're all gone. Then you can come back and have a fresh start and room to do a great job.

So a stranger and I bagged each other's groceries while nodding at the broken woman and asking about her son. We stood there sorting cans between our carts until she could breathe again. My comrade drove her cart with one hand and continued to rub the woman's back as she guided her out to the parking lot. I found the boy leaning against a strong column rubbing his eyes.

We stood in the fresh air for a moment, watching the dirty snow on the sidewalk and listening to buses pull away from their stops. I'll go back now, he said. And he did. I waited there a moment, listening to the automatic doors open for the boy and looking for the blaze of orange in the parking lot. A breath of fresh air and then diaspora.

I drove home thinking, Lady, I know we have trouble seeing you and hearing you the way you want to be known. But someone does it perfectly and constantly. There is one who feels what you feel when you are driving four hours, when you are buying cans of beans, when you are scattered from the people you just found the strength to tell.

Sustain Us

2009-02-01T16:24:00.000-08:00

I've been wading through the first few chapters of Mark a lot lately. This year, most of our gospel readings come from this author and our Wednesday night bible study is also living in his account's urgent secrecy.

Each gospel author finds a unique way to move from Jesus' baptism into the wonder and danger of his ministry. Mark tells us that Jesus commissions the disciples and sends them out with the power to heal. Lest we believe these miracles are received with pure jubilation and awe, he then tells about the beheading of John the Baptist. This Word is not for the faint of heart. There will be consequences and the fear ripples through crowds.

But Mark doesn't leave us in the fear. In fact, he doesn't leave us anywhere for very long. We don't have time to digest the gruesome news before Jesus is with the disciples in a deserted place, surrounded by the curious and the faithful. They have followed out to this field and wait, like sheep without a shepherd.

The disciples are concerned that they'll grow hungry and suggests they be shooed away to get food in the nearest town. Instead, Jesus surveys the pasture filled with hundreds of people who do no know what they hunger for. He sees a pasture filled with proof - he needed to come for this very reason. He can feed them.

The bread and fish are nothing fancy. Jesus does not use them with the intent to stuff everyone silly. But with grace and gratitude, he looks to heaven and breaks it, offering enough for all. And as they take and eat, each person becomes part of something great and bigger than his and her own story. Sanctified.

This week, the Feeding of the Five Thousand reminds me of this view in rural Iceland. The pasture was expansive and standing by the waterfall had me looking around with gratitude. This place was formed by a god who knows what we need and finds subversive ways to feed us. In that moment, it was a deserted place and the mist of rushing water on my face. It was the bright sun of a long summer day and the satisfaction of a granola bar squished in my backpack.

Ruby Gets a Bath

2009-01-22T12:00:00.000-08:00

My car used to be red. Then January came with her snow and whipping wind. She sent temperatures diving and no one washed their cars, wore much make up or bothered to brush their hair. Or maybe that was just me. Deep cold is one of the reasons Minnesotans live according to the motto: Low expectations are always exceeded. In the moments of frigid tundra, we abandon style and grace for an extra blanket on the bed.

Today is somewhat mild. I did not line my jacket with layers of fleece and down. I left the socks that boast of scientific advantages in my drawer. Here in the hustle I realize that I've let things slide in January! I began with a car wash. The basic Blue Wash was $2.99 and, in this economy, it sounded free. I pulled my muddy, salty self into the wash and waited for the hurricane of brushes to bounce over me, releasing the scent of Clean Car and Winter Joy.

The CD changed and a new song came on, beating with the bath and singing, "All we can do is keep breathing". So I breathed, smelling the car soap wash away cold streets and lazy commutes. When the door came up and I was asked to pull forward, it became clear that a $2.99 wash doesn't include fans or that mysterious wax cycle. But Ruby was red again and she pulled out into the road dripping playfully.

Winter is far from over, but the smallest things can make it seem new and palatable. The fresh crunch of snow can send you looking for skis and a chilly house can entice to you search for your favorite sweatshirt that must be hiding in a box somewhere. All we can do is keep breathing, and pray that these little pleasures are not overlooked.

Reconnecting

2009-01-19T15:09:00.000-08:00

I still live a few miles from Luther Seminary, but last week was an exciting homecoming. The Mid-Winter Convocation welcomed Walter Brueggemann, Terry Fretheim and a sold out crowd for three days of lectures and workshops. Many of my classmates were back in town from first call and we welcomed the opportunity to share stories and catch up.

Some serve in small towns and live in a parsonage near the church. Others are far from home and learning about new cultures and what it means to be a solo pastor. Seminary doesn't teach us much about business, balancing the books, or what to do when a member of your congregation calls you with her kitchen plumbing problems. People shared their embarrassments and victories.

It was good to hear these stories.

The keynote speakers captivated the crowd by bringing to life stories about Noah and the flood, Exodus and Pharaoh, Daniel and his stubborn identity. I could hear the revelation in the large sanctuary as we heard each of these stories with new ears and new authority for today's struggles.

Whether I know it or not, I wander into scripture with open wounds. Each time I hear these stories, they react with the aches and pains I face in daily life - friends unemployed, a national recession, general apathy, and the pressure that rides on hope and tomorrow. I carried these things into Mid-Winter Convocation and felt vulnerable as the presenters showed me the surprisingly relevant ways God's ancient stories live today. It felt good - like the truth you've always known but is suddenly and wonderfully tangible.

The flood has a word to say about God's covenant with us and the deeply emotional way God chooses to be with us in disaster and suffering. The exodus has a word to say to workaholics and our modern definitions for success, achievement and freedom. Daniel has a word to say about our baptismal identity that cannot be bullied away or ignored.

It was good to hear these stories, too.

Now, in the days since convocation, the stories have blurred and blended. First call, new adventures, laughter and hugs were balm for open wounds, just as the Living Word provided relief from my cultural leprosy. The burdens I'd been carrying got tangled up with the good news and I was sent home with renewed energy and hope.

Drinking and Dancing

2009-01-10T18:03:00.001-08:00

I was looking forward to this visit because she was a pastor and has a great spiritual curiosity I expected to keep us entertained. I unwrapped my layers and curled up in a dining room chair while she put the water on and eagerly shared about the tea we would drink. "We'll use wine glasses so we can watch them unfold." Our flowers were each unique and spilled out into the water like a beautiful lilly pad or a lagoon's secret corner. We wrapped our hands around the glass for warmth and talked all afternoon. The simple scent was healing.

A few days later, Matt and I went to my goddaughter's house for dinner. The little blond had energy to burn and danced wildly to her cd while we (shamelessly) laughed. Three year olds have trouble distinguishing between laughing with you and laughing at you when they're having too much fun to care. Don't we all? While most of her moves consisted of small, circular jogs, her hips moved every once in awhile. Her arms flailed and she through in a somersaults for good measure. Her body moved with a carefree energy that exists before we learn to be self-conscious and I envied her silly liberty.

One of THOSE weeks followed these sacred events. Every project took longer than expected and I always seemed to be sitting in traffic. There weren't enough hours in each day and I longed for my cozy bed each night, exhausted. When the stress of the day or the winter muck on my shoes had me discouraged, my thoughts went to these memories of drinking and dancing, good tea and wild moves. Two little gracelits were enough to get me through dozens of bad moods. More proof that there is strength in the good.

To Be Fed

2009-01-05T14:23:00.000-08:00

Sundays can be busy. For a few brief hours, I try to touch base with hundreds of people with countless stories to share. During worship I'm in liturgical conversation with people, passing grace and mercy around the sanctuary like a giant beach ball from pew to pew. I get to tell people the plain truth - that , though our lives can be messy, our sins are forgiven and that this bread and wine is the body and blood of Christ given for you.

After worship I do a quick "costume change" and then bounce from table to table in fellowship hall. One group needs several copies of a list I've made for their informal meeting. Another needs a picture taken for an upcoming event. I hustle upstairs to open Sunday School with a tidbit and prayer. I come back to find my coffee cup and a few minutes to seek out visitors, to thank those who helped with worship and to hug those who need to know they're not alone.

Yesterday I watched the building slow down and gathered my things before heading to the home of a parishioner. It was time for a simple visit, an opportunity to share the love and hope I'd received all morning with a couple unable to come to worship for months. Bringing church to those at home is one of my favorite things about my job.

Their tiny dog hounded me and guarded against me until I took my coat off and sat down. This was the first time I'd dressed in my collar at their home and we laughed that once the little guy saw my "clergy badge", he calmed down and hopped into my lap. A pious pooch.

We talked about anything and everything. I unpacked communion and watched the way it made them both vulnerable and brave. Their faith was palpable and serious while I spoke words of Christ's truth. It had been awhile. And then it was back to the small talk and friendly chatter. Before I left, they gave me a bag filled with coupons to bring to the church and a sack of unwashed potatoes to bring home.

They had been fed by Christ and these dirty spuds were a way to feed and thank me for a mid-winter visit. My pleasure.

Stewardship and Karma

2008-12-29T11:41:00.000-08:00

I was at REI for a few last minute Christmas gifts last week and noticed an advertisement on the front door. It read: Stewardship - Just a fancy word for Karma. The words danced over a man hiking in beautiful scenery. He seemed to enjoy the view from his perch in a high forest.

As I wandered through the store looking for gloves and a book, I wondered about that comparison. Is it fair to dumb down a word like stewardship? We hardly use it and rarely understand its broad compassion. Like any brave responsibility that is also a privilege, stewardship is both grave and joyful.

While Karma preaches a message of interconnectedness and harmony, it is also motivated by plain old self interest. We wish to do well for the sake of rewards and promotions in the next life, taking care of others because failing to do so will result in frightening consequences.

We are good at speaking about environmental stewardship as a "should". We can debate the legality of caring for God's earth and all the resources we've been entrusted with. Most of the conversations I hear in the media are about duty and sound fear based. Here, the church has an opportunity to stand up and proclaim the other side of the Stewardship/Karma coin. In Genesis God called us into the grand design as co-creators, workers in the kingdom and stewards of gifts entrusted.

Yes, it is our responsibility to use less and save more, to reuse and carefully consider how our choices impact the whole community on earth. But we are motivated by more than a good lecture and fear of what future generations will call us if we neglect or reject this duty. Stewardship is also a joyful privilege, a call to this challenge by God in the garden and again by each other in 2009. We get to participate and grow in grace by striving to care for something bigger than ourselves.

Instead of dumbing down loaded words like Stewardship and Karma, let's make room for the conversation necessary to become a humankind taught the need for unity by the law and freed to make a different through the power of the gospel.

Winter Wonderland

2008-12-16T19:28:00.001-08:00

It's a deep freeze week in Minnesota. My husband is glued to the weather forecast each night before bed and watches the Weather Channel each morning before work, anticipating the cold darkness of December with childlike enthusiasm. Clearly he's a native.

On Saturday we finally bought our Christmas tree, a strapping three-foot Norfolk Pine. It's potted so we can watch it grow during the year and, perhaps, decorate it again next winter. She's a beaut! We spent the afternoon wrapping presents and pulling out ornaments to adorn our little friend. Outside, the air grew cold and harsh.

Sunday gathered all kinds of people for worship despite the frigid rain. The kids' Christmas play was after the service and we huddled downstairs to see them proclaim the incarnation. And though St. John's is a grand building in the big city, there was something intimate about the church basement. It felt like the warm family of a small country church. The set was hand-painted, the costumes homemade and the lines prompted by a parent kneeling in front. They whispered their lines with bashful excitement and belted out the Christmas carols sprinkled throughout. All rejoiced for the room's chaos and energy as they left the stage. We drank coffee to defrost before heading back into the slush.

On Monday I celebrated Sabbath, which grants welcome permission to wander the city in layers of sweats with greasy hair stuffed under my hat and fur-lined boots to keep the sidewalk's chill at bay. I bounced between the gym and a coffee shop. I shoveled the walk and asked an equally disheveled old man where to find pimento at the grocery store. The cold was no match for my sloppy bundle and list of errands.

But today was different. I braved the day in real work clothes, missing my casual layers and wishing I my toes would warm. The windshield wipers left only small and sporadic streaks of clarity and the snow from atop the car blew to cover most of the back window. We all navigated the slick streets with caution. I listened to Martin Sexton all day, finding patience in his lyrics and the happiness you can hear in his voice. At stoplights I watched the snowflakes gather on the tree limbs and street signs, enjoying the blurry view from inside my car.

Tonight I am covered in fleece and blankets, typing as my husband hangs on every word of Dave Dahl's forecast, expectant about tomorrow's gifts of winter. Our little tree is proudly lit and it's time for hot tea to warm my toes. In a season of "in here" and "out there", I am glad to be "in here" for the night. Thank God for the "in here"!

Light in the Darkness

2008-12-10T14:53:00.000-08:00

I came home mid-afternoon last week hoping to rest and lie down before evening vespers. I didn’t feel quite right and soon it was clear that I wouldn’t be preaching, let alone driving to church. A stomach virus held me captive and it was days before I could open my eyes and peel myself away from my trusty puke pot.

There’s nothing fun about being sick, especially when it wipes out all your energy and clears your calendar. Just calling in sick took strength I didn’t have and I spent most of my time in the silent living room. My big event each evening was trying to get vertical at dusk to turn on the porch light for Matt. The sound of television commercials and the sight of a computer screen made my stomach churn, so I sank into the darkness of Advent and drifted between sleep and wake.

So much for keeping watch during the season of anticipation and waiting! I was less concerned about the time lost for shopping and finding a Christmas tree. I didn’t miss the advertisements and the snowy roads. But I did miss two worship services during my favorite season and the hymns that fill these dark days of beginning. I missed two opportunities to dress in the beautiful stole my brothers bought me, a sign of winters together as goofy siblings.

So I would snuggle deeply into my blankets and remember all the times I came back to Normandale for Advent Vespers during college. Gabe and Bror would flank either side of me like unsteady pillars and try to make me laugh and snort while they sang in falsettos and character voices. They would lean over and point to the words in my hymnal like the bouncing Disney ball, patronizing me. They would rub my back and cuddle awkwardly in the pews until I couldn’t ignore them anymore. Their antics were incredibly subtle, but fail proof. Tears would form in my eyes from holding in the Advent joy and I’d elbow their sides like a good older sister.

Advent reminds me of those winter days and coming home to a place where the songful evening prayer promises something grand to come. Even in sickness and darkness, we have that promise.

Dr. Seuss

2008-11-29T17:17:00.001-08:00

I've never kept a plant alive longer than a year. They wilt, lose leaves, and even the succulents develop strange growths or seem to cave in. I'd all but given up hope of keeping anything alive: a plant, a pet, a child. The only thing I am capable of nurturing is mold in the shower, but I'm too much of a neat freak to let that happen.

I married my opposite in many ways and, fortunately, he happens to be a green thumb. He adopted all the plants I was failing in Arizona and now they happily thrive. Even this China Doll plant my roommates and I neglected and left for dead is perky and reaching for the sky. We call him Dr. Seuss because he's gawky and scraggly, growing in one direction and then changing his mind.

Most of our plants are funny looking because they have died and been resurrected, veering from their original size and shape to become something new and strange in a second life. With the weather turning colder, all the plants have found their way in from the porch. They sit in sunny corners of our small house, peaking toward windows and bringing a bit of summer to our winter igloo.

I'm grateful for these funny looking plants because they are daily reminders of second chances and new life. As we wait this Advent, a new beginning, may you stretch and peak into the sunlight wide awake in anticipation. God is about to send new life into the winter cold and the cozy corners of our homes, exceeding all expectations.

Lil' Techie

2008-11-25T19:06:00.000-08:00

Today our new, updated church website went live!

It's been a fun project this fall. Taking pictures, writing content, and helping the webist design the layout was a great way to gage what I'm learning about my new congregation - our people, our community, and God's mission for us.

There are a few more things to do before it's complete and all the links work, but it's up and running with lots of information.

Check it out! www.stjohnsmpls.org

Rest, huh?

2008-11-24T15:08:00.000-08:00

On Mondays I rest and celebrate being only sometimes useful to God. I step away from my professional role and trust that life and church continue without me for 24 hours. It feels good.

I do a variety of uninteresting things with my day. This morning I went to the gym and did my no-nonsense-thirty-minute-lift workout. Later I stopped by my parents' house and picked up my dad for a few hours of fun. He's cooped up recovering from knee surgery and likes to get out and about when there's a willing driver and some time to spare.

He spent last Monday asking me if I had anywhere else to be, concerned that my day would be more hectic or less efficient because of him. I would just smile and try to explain that Mondays have nothing to do with stress or efficiency.

Normally, I relish Mondays and the relief they bring. I wander and nap, graze and enjoy the quiet of a day alone. But today is the first time I'm having difficulty separating myself from the tasks of Pastor and Church. This holiday week brings much to do and few days for work. Being new and excited about everything on the horizon makes it even harder to tune out for a day!

So I publicly confess to you that tonight I will be making Advent Calendars for my Sunday school kids, but I'll be crafting in front of very trashy reality television. I will draft a stewardship letter, but I will do so in sweatpants while enjoying a cup of hot chocolate while my husband studies in the next room.

While these things should and can wait for tomorrow, I will thank God for gifting me a vocation and sending me to a congregation I adore. I will be grateful for work that challenges and puzzles me. And I will listen to God convict me with his laughter as I try to justify my antsy, Type A, sabbath passion to myself and to you. :)

Nooks

2008-11-10T15:50:00.000-08:00

When I'm in the right mood. When I have my eyes opened to the details of familiar places. When I'm defeated. When I need my faith bolstered by another. In these moments I notice the nooks in life that bring great hope and happiness to my day.

Earlier this fall, I noticed this bench along the parkway. Unlike others overlooking the river, this one has been adorned with sweet signs of fall and it draws people in. Whether I'm driving or running by, I watch people gravitate towards it's beauty and the view it offers. They sit and take a break from the plan, the route, the day. A pumpkin, fall berries, and a stalk of corn created unsuspected beauty for all to share.

Those blessed to stumble by this nook approach the bench as though the experience itself contains great value. What a simple thing! As the holiday season approaches, I wish for little nooks that bring true and simple joy. Malls will fill and decorations will surround, but my prayer is that we can note the nooks that bring clarity amid the rush. And may we remember to create these places for others along the way as well.

Rise Up, O Saints of God

2008-11-02T19:51:00.000-08:00

Two years ago, I woke up in Arizona to find the sky filled with hot air balloons. It was All Saints Sunday, but a local balloon festival was preaching resurrection well before I arrived at church. That image is hard to forget, colors rising and people slowing to stare at the heavens in awe.

This morning we awoke with an extra hour of sleep to sunny skies and fall colors that refuse to fade into winter just yet. I slipped under a chasuble for the first time, blanketed in white and prepared to read the names of those we have lost this year. There was much to do before the service and, for the first time since arriving at St. John's, I didn't think to wish for filled pews and new faces.

I couldn't stop smiling during worship because the kids poured up front for the children's sermon and the choir boasted a few more voices than usual. There were a lot of people here! Was it the extra sleep or the warm weather that brought these saints? Or was it the Spirit, visiting us in our dreams and blowing through autumn?

The crowd was a dear reminder that, regardless of the number in the pews each week, our voices join with all the saints across space and time. Sometimes we feel small, but we are part of something vast and dynamic in the world. Made whole in the Body of Christ, our prayers rise like desert balloons, colored brightly and dancing together.

Sometimes It's That Simple

2008-10-27T14:09:00.000-07:00

I fell into bed on Saturday night listening to the wind howl outside. It was chilly and the yard sounded restless. We both read in bed for some time before falling asleep, enjoying the silence inside that brought wild noises to our attention: cat fights and trees swaying. It sounded cold out there.

One of my favorite Garrison Keillor stories about Lake Wobegon marks this peculiar transition that happens when the weather gets cold in Minnesota. Suddenly we spend less time on our hair because it’s bound to be smushed by a hat or blown into a rat’s nest. We skimp on the make up because pale skin is too blatant to hide and deep freezes will leave snot-sicles you’ll have to wipe off anyway. In the cold of Minnesota, life is simplified to an animal instinct: we are either out there or in here.

When we’re out there we walk with our heads down into the wind, determined to get in here. And once we are in here, we’re just plain grateful. The little things don’t seem to bother us much because we are warm and safe, surviving and existing.

Last year I lived with my cousin, Haakon, and we listened to that story several times during the winter. He would crawl in his sleeping bag on the couch and I would bury my body in sweatpants, curled up in a chair with hot tea. We would relish the goodness of being in here. That Garrison Keillor story was on my mind on Sunday as the front doors flew open after church and people poured out into the sleet and mush. I was warm, standing in the narthex and draped with my alb. I was glad to be in here.

I drove out to camp for our Oktoberfest celebration, less than excited about being out there on the roads. The slush had everyone driving defensively and I was disappointed that a fall festival would send us inside. I parked and trudged up a hill, into the wind, to find the lodge. I squinted to see the lake blowing and leaves both turning and falling in all directions. How beautiful this place must be in all seasons - and how wonderful that I will be back find out!

I pulled open the door to the lodge and met the warmth. A table with hot cider and hot chocolate met me and kids ran by squealing. Families set up board games, people watched football, and children played ping pong in the basement. It was cozy in here, appreciated all the more by the journey out there. I fell into bed on Sunday night like I had the night before, listening for the wind and grateful for the winter to come and all the things it will simplify. It always does.

Image borrowed from www.creativethursday.com

Long-fellowship

2008-10-24T12:27:00.000-07:00

I found my way to the corner booth at Longfellow Grill during the lunch rush. I was surrounded by four other women, new to ministry in the Twin Cities and fellow students with me at Luther Seminary. We have been planning to come together for weeks now.

Soon we noticed that another group of pastors was sitting a few tables from us with two classmates we recognized and greeted. Later, two priests came in, wearing clerical shirts, and were greeted by our laughter and introductions. There we were, more than a dozen ministers sprinkled about the small restaurant, mixing Sunday with Thursday and saying grace over sweet potato fries.

We laughed and shared stories about being new to ministry and the worship blunders we’ve made thus far. We confided about anxieties and joys, pondered the economic crisis and its effects during stewardship season, and talked about the blurred line between Generation X and the Millennial Generation.

Instead of trying to find the official year in history this shifted, I suggested that there is a sociological barometer that makes plain a distinction to me. Years ago, parents had no patience for boredom. The moment the word fell from a child’s lips, the little one was scooted out the door, locked out, and expected to “make play” or “keep busy” outside, curing the boredom herself. Toys did not include instructions for how they were to be played with and kids created games with rules, systems, and props all their own.

Somewhere along the way, technology changed play and parents found (good) reasons to fear sending their kids out until the dinner bell rang. Now we hear, “I’m bored,” as though someone or something is supposed to come along and fix it – entertain and do the creating for them. I remember blocking off the street with orange cones and playing soccer or hockey until dark. I remember inventing imaginary adventure games that didn’t need batteries – or toys for that matter. Are those my age the end of an era?

The word entitlement came up several times, which then reminded me that I’m not above or beyond this Millennial Generation. I remember trying to talk my dad into giving me allowance “just because”, though I knew I hadn’t earned it that week. I remember wanting certain things and thinking I deserved them just because my friends had them.

Maybe I can’t be pigeon-holed into a generational definition and neither can you. Maybe each generation is made up all kinds of personalities, work ethics, parenting styles, learning methods, pros, and cons. I looked around the restaurant at strong and capable Christian leaders of all ages, using their unique gifts to partner with those who compliment and challenge them for the sake of God’s world. It made me want to say grace all over again.

Saint Teresa

2008-10-15T17:36:00.000-07:00

I share October 15 with Saint Teresa of Avila, my self-designated patron saint.

I love her because she was a sassy Spaniard born just as the Reformation was taking hold in Europe. She ran away from home to become a nun and, while sick later in life, started experiencing ecstasy and visions. Teresa was the first woman to be named a Doctor in the Church and dedicated her life to caring for the poor. Her bare feet were signs of service among those with no shoes. My saint’s writings are clever and sarcastic, often referencing her casual conversations with God the Creator and Jesus.

Her story has dark corners and strange twists, which continue to remind me that even the Church’s saints are children of a fallen humanity and entirely relatable. She never lived as though her faith confined her, but instead with great freedom and bold passion.

I knew nothing of Teresa until I spent a week at the hermitage in St. Francis, MN three years ago. Each cottage is named after a saint and the small table inside contains information about that life and service. I learned that her day on the church calendar is my birthday. I learned that she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind to God or wrestle with the strangeness of life in two kingdoms. I learned something about the patience she so often speaks of, being in silence and tranquility for 48 hours.

So I cannot help but think of her today – so many are celebrating her with the same fondness I do – and I’m honored to share today with a woman I so admire.

Pumpkin Par-tay

2008-10-14T22:30:00.000-07:00

Harvest time! I spent yesterday’s drizzly afternoon at the “pumpkin patch” in my neighborhood, a city garden shop just a few blocks away. We hoisted many onto the scale before choosing six for the wagon. They found a home in the trunk of my car until we could carve them at my parents’ house tonight.

The garage was draped in newspaper and pumpkin guts. We spent happy hour drinking beer and playfully competing as we carved each masterpiece. Matt and Bror used designs to create wolves howling at the moon and a crow in a tree. Spooky. Gabe free-handed a creepy face that reminded me of his toddler temper-tantrum stage. Cara took so much off the top from scooping it out that her little stem had to be worn to the side as a beret. Resourceful.

My dad’s pumpkin was finished within minutes and then he waited impatiently for us to finish so he could start the grill and dinner. The face he carved looked like the same face he carved on each annual pumpkin when I was little. Don’t mess with a good thing, I guess! Mom found candles and we lit them all up, admiring our work.

At dinner we talked fall: flannel sheets, crisp air, no more bugs, back to school, leaves changing, layers of fleece, and all our favorite things autumn. We all overate and Bror had to “have a lie down on the couch until things settled”. My birthday isn’t until tomorrow, but today is quite the present.