Long ago, time stood still. An indelible image. There were shepherds watching sheep. This is how the story the goes. And man surprised by where the road had taken him. Never in a million lives could he dreamed of Bethlehem. At least that is how the story goes. An ordinary girl pregnant with a child. An inn with no room. At least that is how the story goes. Angels singing peace in a night sky illuminated with the brightest star seen in centuries. And I don't know what the wise men saw in the sky. And it was all enough to drive a king mad and slaughter children. And the heartbeat sent straight from heaven was God's great plan for history. Emmanuel. God with us.
And I don't know if Mary knew her baby boy would save us. Did she know that her baby boy had come to make us new? Did Mary know what the incarnation meant? I don't know. We aren't told.
But how to allow the power of the Incarnation to penetrate our lives is the central question of Christmas. It really doesn't matter if shepherds were watching their flocks that night or not, or if angels really sang Glory to God in Highest, or if Jesus was born in a manger with hay or a cave. It really doesn't matter if wise men followed a star across the desert on the backs of camels. It matters not what we believe about the story. What matters is what are we doing with the story.
In a world torn apart by violence, poverty, greed and oppression, we wonder like the prophets, when will God come? And that is the miracle of the incarnation. It is when our lives are most barren, when possibilities are cruelly limited, and despair takes hold, when we most keenly feel the emptiness of life, and when we have used the last scrap of our resources, it is then that God is closest to us.
And so tonight, the longest night of the year, I know that tears are falling and hearts are breaking. I know that in the aftermath of last week, it is hard to believe in Bethlehem. It is hard to believe that God is with us.
And how we need to remember that God wore our fragile skin. And it was the shepherds and the wise men and Mary who believed in miracles before they made sense. And whatever happened in Bethlehem that night long ago is the answer to every tear we cry. That baby whom she called Emmanuel, is with us in our waking and in our sleeping. He is with us in our birthing and our dying. So tonight, I pray for peace to shine on a world that is torn apart. I pray for hope to restore our spirits when the hopers lose their way. I pray for faith to comfort and heal our wounded hearts. And I pray that we remember that in every act of kindness, every prayer whispered, every tear shed in solidarity, every hug given, every kind word spoken and every time you really listen and every time you slow down and see the holiness of the other in front of you, it is then that Christ is born.
May the peace of Advent find a place in your heart this Christmas.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
What a strange way to save the world
Full disclosure. I really go for that cup of coffee. And to eat that bun. And I always imagine how much better it would taste with a big slab of country ham on it. I also love the smell of beeswax. But for me, it really is all about the coffee.
I am talking about the Moravian Love feast. Unless, you are Moravian, or grew up in Winston-Salem or Bethlehem, (PA, not the West Bank), you probably are not familiar. And you may or may not know the history or significance of a Love feast.
The Moravian love feast is a service of song at which a simple meal is severed to the congregation. This meal, usually a bun and coffee, is an act of fellowship. It is not a sacrament, nor a substitute for Communion.
The Love feast, begun by the Moravians in 1727, is a revival of the Agape of the early Christian Church. The service spread with the church throughout the world, and remains an important part of Moravian religious ritual. A love feast is a service dedicated to agape, or Christian love, considered the greatest of virtues. A love feast seeks to remove social barriers and encourage reverence and respect for the legitimate rights of all people.
The largest love feast in the world is held every year in Wait Chapel on the campus of Wake Forest. If you have never been, put it on your bucket list.
The Christmas Love feast traditionally ends with a candlelight service. Beeswax candles trimmed in red tissue paper are passed out to represent Christ, the Light of The World.
To be honest, the professor who taught me the Moravian History would be quite disappointed that I have so simplistically described a love feast and my brother in law who is Moravian would have expected more as well. The service is rich with symbolism and laden with meaning. I suspect I have attended no less than 100 in my lifetime. Traditionally, my husband, son and I always attend the Christmas Eve Love feast at Kernersville Moravian Church.
I love the coffee. Moravian coffee is special and different. And to be even more honest, I would convert right now if they could promise me a cup of that coffee every Sunday morning. My brother in law is one of the coffee makers at his congregation. There is an art to it. And it really can't be replicated in your kitchen at home. Trust me, I have tried. I even own a set of Moravian coffee mugs. The music at a Christmas Love feast usually involves Moravian hymns as well as traditional Protestant carols. And at the end, Morning Star is always sung. A traditional Moravian Hymn that is only sung at the Christmas Love feast. And always, everyone in the congregation holds up a lighted candle trimmed in red to represent Christ the Light of the World. And always, I have taken the candle with me, until today.
So today I had to return the Light of the World. Today I only got to hold the Light of Christ in my hand for about five minutes or as long as it takes a Moravian ensemble to sing Morning Star and the pastor to bless us and send us forth in peace. And there she was taking up the Light of Christ in a basket. And it made me wonder had I known I was going to have to return the Light of the World, would I have held onto more tightly? And as I walked away stunned and wondering exactly what would I trim my scrapbook page representing 12.12.12 with now?
The hospital where I work celebrates three Love Feasts during Advent. There are a couple of reasons why I find that miraculous. First, given the age and times in which we live, and how polarizing religion can be, it amazes me that such a "Christian" celebration is allowed in such a "public" place. It certainly would be forbidden in our schools. And in such lean economic times, (yes I will be honest, I can think of better uses for the money), I am surprised it has survived budget cuts. But given my love for that coffee, I am glad it did. So, every year, for the past twenty years or so, I have attended and I have kept my candle. Until today. Today I had to give it back.
And so did he. I suspect if you have ever had your heart broken, ever felt grief, ever watched your world fall apart or ever had to say goodbye to the very thing or the very one who you thought meant the most, or ever felt the pain of abandonment, or ever suffered through the end of an important relationship, then I suspect you know a thing or two about returning light.
Joseph must have thought more than once that never in a million years would he have dreamed this was to be the way. Brown Bannister put those very thoughts to music.
It can be hard to walk in the dark. It can be difficult at best realize that you have to give the light up. And even if we could see the future and even if we knew when we might be called upon to give the light up, would it make us more present to the times when the Light is so bright? Would it cause us to hold onto the Light more tightly? No, I suspect not and that is how it should be.
And today, with a lump in my throat, and my eyes stinging with tears, (desperately trying not to ruin my makeup - I was at work after all), it occurred me that giving the Light back was the plan all along. It is a strange way to save the world. Only by being willing to lay the Light down, does the dawn ever come. Only by being willing to step into the dark of the night, will you ever see the next morning. And if we never, ever saw the dark...could we really ever know what the light could look like? If we never saw dark, would we ever know how to hope. I suspect not. Joseph was willing to give the Light back. He gave it back so the world could be saved. Strange isn't it? So holding tightly to the Light won't really save anyone (not even ourselves), holding on tightly to the Light won't make the room any brighter, holding on tightly to the Light won't cause the night not to fall, the only thing we gain by holding on tightly to the Light is that we are the only ones who can see.
So, never be afraid to give the Light back. It is the plan after all.
What a strange way to save the world.
All is grace,
moravian coffee
love feast buns
ham
beeswax candles
saying goodbye
endings
beginnings
light
dark
Moravian Stars
our traditions
carols
"What a strange way to save the world"
Christmas Cards
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bL6JfNjTHpg (skip the add, turn off the light and give the light back)
I am talking about the Moravian Love feast. Unless, you are Moravian, or grew up in Winston-Salem or Bethlehem, (PA, not the West Bank), you probably are not familiar. And you may or may not know the history or significance of a Love feast.
The Moravian love feast is a service of song at which a simple meal is severed to the congregation. This meal, usually a bun and coffee, is an act of fellowship. It is not a sacrament, nor a substitute for Communion.
The Love feast, begun by the Moravians in 1727, is a revival of the Agape of the early Christian Church. The service spread with the church throughout the world, and remains an important part of Moravian religious ritual. A love feast is a service dedicated to agape, or Christian love, considered the greatest of virtues. A love feast seeks to remove social barriers and encourage reverence and respect for the legitimate rights of all people.
The largest love feast in the world is held every year in Wait Chapel on the campus of Wake Forest. If you have never been, put it on your bucket list.
The Christmas Love feast traditionally ends with a candlelight service. Beeswax candles trimmed in red tissue paper are passed out to represent Christ, the Light of The World.
To be honest, the professor who taught me the Moravian History would be quite disappointed that I have so simplistically described a love feast and my brother in law who is Moravian would have expected more as well. The service is rich with symbolism and laden with meaning. I suspect I have attended no less than 100 in my lifetime. Traditionally, my husband, son and I always attend the Christmas Eve Love feast at Kernersville Moravian Church.
I love the coffee. Moravian coffee is special and different. And to be even more honest, I would convert right now if they could promise me a cup of that coffee every Sunday morning. My brother in law is one of the coffee makers at his congregation. There is an art to it. And it really can't be replicated in your kitchen at home. Trust me, I have tried. I even own a set of Moravian coffee mugs. The music at a Christmas Love feast usually involves Moravian hymns as well as traditional Protestant carols. And at the end, Morning Star is always sung. A traditional Moravian Hymn that is only sung at the Christmas Love feast. And always, everyone in the congregation holds up a lighted candle trimmed in red to represent Christ the Light of the World. And always, I have taken the candle with me, until today.
So today I had to return the Light of the World. Today I only got to hold the Light of Christ in my hand for about five minutes or as long as it takes a Moravian ensemble to sing Morning Star and the pastor to bless us and send us forth in peace. And there she was taking up the Light of Christ in a basket. And it made me wonder had I known I was going to have to return the Light of the World, would I have held onto more tightly? And as I walked away stunned and wondering exactly what would I trim my scrapbook page representing 12.12.12 with now?
The hospital where I work celebrates three Love Feasts during Advent. There are a couple of reasons why I find that miraculous. First, given the age and times in which we live, and how polarizing religion can be, it amazes me that such a "Christian" celebration is allowed in such a "public" place. It certainly would be forbidden in our schools. And in such lean economic times, (yes I will be honest, I can think of better uses for the money), I am surprised it has survived budget cuts. But given my love for that coffee, I am glad it did. So, every year, for the past twenty years or so, I have attended and I have kept my candle. Until today. Today I had to give it back.
And so did he. I suspect if you have ever had your heart broken, ever felt grief, ever watched your world fall apart or ever had to say goodbye to the very thing or the very one who you thought meant the most, or ever felt the pain of abandonment, or ever suffered through the end of an important relationship, then I suspect you know a thing or two about returning light.
Joseph must have thought more than once that never in a million years would he have dreamed this was to be the way. Brown Bannister put those very thoughts to music.
It can be hard to walk in the dark. It can be difficult at best realize that you have to give the light up. And even if we could see the future and even if we knew when we might be called upon to give the light up, would it make us more present to the times when the Light is so bright? Would it cause us to hold onto the Light more tightly? No, I suspect not and that is how it should be.
And today, with a lump in my throat, and my eyes stinging with tears, (desperately trying not to ruin my makeup - I was at work after all), it occurred me that giving the Light back was the plan all along. It is a strange way to save the world. Only by being willing to lay the Light down, does the dawn ever come. Only by being willing to step into the dark of the night, will you ever see the next morning. And if we never, ever saw the dark...could we really ever know what the light could look like? If we never saw dark, would we ever know how to hope. I suspect not. Joseph was willing to give the Light back. He gave it back so the world could be saved. Strange isn't it? So holding tightly to the Light won't really save anyone (not even ourselves), holding on tightly to the Light won't make the room any brighter, holding on tightly to the Light won't cause the night not to fall, the only thing we gain by holding on tightly to the Light is that we are the only ones who can see.
So, never be afraid to give the Light back. It is the plan after all.
What a strange way to save the world.
All is grace,
moravian coffee
love feast buns
ham
beeswax candles
saying goodbye
endings
beginnings
light
dark
Moravian Stars
our traditions
carols
"What a strange way to save the world"
Christmas Cards
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bL6JfNjTHpg (skip the add, turn off the light and give the light back)
Friday, December 7, 2012
What hope really looks like
Sometimes waiting is the only hope you can muster. Advent always makes me think of what could be and what is, more than any other season. Advent shows me more than any other time of the year just how cold, how lost, how barren, how broken, how hopeless our world can seem. I sometimes think that spiritually we are living in times parallel to those written about by the prophet Malachi. Malachi was the last the last prophet to speak before we ever hear John the Baptist preaching in the wilderness. Malachi ends by telling God's people to remember and believe. Malachi put down his pen and for the next 400 years God is silent. Not one word from God. No miracles. No prophets. Nothing but darkness. God did not utter as much as syllable. Those were some of the darkest days in Israel's history. Israel had never known such poverty, such powerlessness, such persecution. God quite simply ceased to speak. Malachi told them that despite the apparent hopelessness of the situation, despite the feeling of absolute powerlessness, despite the feeling of abandonment, they were never to forget God. They were to remember what God had done for them and to believe that God would not abandon and God would rescue them.
She said as much to me today and I didn't have a good answer. She said, "I don't know, I just think God doesn't hear me anymore. I just don't believe God listens or cares." I knew where she had been the last three months and I had I pretty good idea of what lay ahead of her. I knew where she had come from and she nor I knew where she might be going. But both of us could imagine. It appeared pretty hopeless. It appeared pretty dark. I don't have a good answer for suffering. Except that it exists. I have heard all the theological answers and to be honest they just don't hold much comfort for me. I suspect not for her either. And for whatever reason, Advent makes the darkness seem all the more real to me.
Many would tell me that is the point. And to some extent I agree, but I am fairly confident I would not have made a good Elizabeth, a good Mary and I am fairly confident that I would have ignored the prophet Malachi and chosen not to remember. Not to hope.
The harsh realities of the world that run parallel to twinkling lights, Christmas tree lots, packages tied up with bows, children laughing, the smell of cookies, the dancing reindeer and a jolly old elf dancing in a red suit can leave me in despair at times. Part of that is an occupational hazard, part of that is due to my introverted nature, part of that is due to my over exercised sensitivities and part is reality based. Poverty has always existed alongside wealth. Health and sickness have always walked side by side. Sorrow precedes joy. I just have never been able to ignore the truths that live alongside side wreaths and decked out halls.
It can be important to remember that the theological definition for hope is the willingness to live without closure, without resolution, and still be content and maybe even happy because we know that our source for life is beyond ourselves. The expectancy of Advent comes from knowing that Christ has come into our past. Christ has come into our own private dramas and struggles. Christ is present in the midst of our lives now. And Christ will come in our futures. Advent hope is not some perfect, selfish fantasy. Advent hope is seen in a baby born in a manager who grew up to suffer and die. Advent hope is not a pretty package. Advent hope reminds us that before angels sang songs of joy there was much sorrow. Before peace on earth there will be much conflict. Before you heal, you will hurt. Before the Light of the world there was great darkness. And before the Word became flesh and dwelt among us...remember God was silent.
She said as much to me today and I didn't have a good answer. She said, "I don't know, I just think God doesn't hear me anymore. I just don't believe God listens or cares." I knew where she had been the last three months and I had I pretty good idea of what lay ahead of her. I knew where she had come from and she nor I knew where she might be going. But both of us could imagine. It appeared pretty hopeless. It appeared pretty dark. I don't have a good answer for suffering. Except that it exists. I have heard all the theological answers and to be honest they just don't hold much comfort for me. I suspect not for her either. And for whatever reason, Advent makes the darkness seem all the more real to me.
Many would tell me that is the point. And to some extent I agree, but I am fairly confident I would not have made a good Elizabeth, a good Mary and I am fairly confident that I would have ignored the prophet Malachi and chosen not to remember. Not to hope.
The harsh realities of the world that run parallel to twinkling lights, Christmas tree lots, packages tied up with bows, children laughing, the smell of cookies, the dancing reindeer and a jolly old elf dancing in a red suit can leave me in despair at times. Part of that is an occupational hazard, part of that is due to my introverted nature, part of that is due to my over exercised sensitivities and part is reality based. Poverty has always existed alongside wealth. Health and sickness have always walked side by side. Sorrow precedes joy. I just have never been able to ignore the truths that live alongside side wreaths and decked out halls.
It can be important to remember that the theological definition for hope is the willingness to live without closure, without resolution, and still be content and maybe even happy because we know that our source for life is beyond ourselves. The expectancy of Advent comes from knowing that Christ has come into our past. Christ has come into our own private dramas and struggles. Christ is present in the midst of our lives now. And Christ will come in our futures. Advent hope is not some perfect, selfish fantasy. Advent hope is seen in a baby born in a manager who grew up to suffer and die. Advent hope is not a pretty package. Advent hope reminds us that before angels sang songs of joy there was much sorrow. Before peace on earth there will be much conflict. Before you heal, you will hurt. Before the Light of the world there was great darkness. And before the Word became flesh and dwelt among us...remember God was silent.
.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Grow old along with me
True story. I wish I could intelligently describe to anyone what it is exactly I do at work. I just can not just yet. I call it the confidence of the ignorant. Part of what I do, (I think), is I read medical records and listen and look and investigate and read between the lines as to what exactly is wrong with the patient and then I try to interpret that into ICD 9 coding language, (which BTW, apparently, physicians don't understand, much less me), and then ask questions of the physician to see if I can help them translate symptoms into diagnostic code. There are many barriers to this process. First, physicians chart in symptoms. Always have and probably always will. Second, to a nurse, this makes complete and utter sense. I see the symptom and in my head I can connect that to a diagnosis. And so to me the medical record makes perfect sense. But not in the coding world. So I am a translator of sorts. And I don't as of yet speak the language fluently.
Take today for instance. Doctors are getting younger and younger. Most residents can not remember a day when cell phones, Apple, google, the Internet did not exist. When they chart it looks as if they are tweeting. They use acronyms I have never seen. So yesterday, when I read on a chart, patient currently in ALF, I thought what is that? So I googled it. ALF can (and the operative word here is can), mean acute liver failure. Now, not only did the patient not have physical symptoms of liver failure, not only was that NOT why they were in the hospital in the first place, they didn't meet diagnostic criteria either. Fortunately, for me and you, diagnosing is outside my scope of practice. The Board of Nursing does not give me permission to diagnosis. However, part of my job is translating and I really did need to know if that was a current working diagnosis on the patient. I don't know what exactly told me to wait and see. It certainly wasn't my very, very limited working knowledge on liver failure. And it certainly wasn't my my stellar competence at my job. I think it was the voice of God. And I mean that in all sincerity. So, today, when I read the chart, guess what it said? (And I am so grateful I didn't call a doctor out of the OR to clarify ALF.) Patient currently resides in ALF, commonly known as assisted living facility. One word changed that whole chart. I can only imagine how I would have explained to a busy physician why I desperately needed to know the patient's living arrangements. I guess I could have said I was putting my Christmas card list together and just wanted to share the love.
That little story will probably only strike you as humorous if you happen to work in health care. But I am sure we all could tell tales of I am so embarrassed I might die. And I am so grateful that I have been a nurse long enough and have enough grey and white hair and have made enough errors and had my pride wounded enough that I can finally laugh at myself. There was a time when I couldn't have. There was a time when I never would have shared that story. It is good to age.
"Getting old is part of getting past whatever illusion we have about ourselves. It is part of getting free." -Rich Mullins
I know I am not quite over "myself" yet. I hope I am not so naive as to think that people have not spotted some conceit, arrogance or false pride in me. I know it is there and that I am not humble enough to squelch it or even clever enough to hide it. A person can overcome it though, through prayer and service. But no amount of praying or fasting or serving will ever hold a candle to aging. It is the beauty of living. If we live long enough, we get old.
I was awful at being young. As a teenager I carried around complexes, had crushes that thankfully never flourished, (although at the time I thought I needed them), and I wrote really bad poetry. I still write bad poetry. Age hasn't helped that. My twenties were turbulent and ended very quietly. Finally at thirty, I no longer had to be "young and foolish"- I wasn't old yet, but I wasn't young either. And God who is always good through whatever age had graced me with joy, peace and even prosperity.
I think I wasted my youth by being too eccentric and far too concerned about what others thought. And pride consumed a great deal of my young and middle adulthood. And thankfully, "God being good still, is doing what He has always done best and what I will never be able to do, and that is to undo what I have done".
I think I am just beginning to realize as I age gratefully into the end of middle adulthood, that God lets us all struggle and succeed. It is true we all don't struggle and succeed the same, be everyone does both to some degree. And when we have done enough to create a false sense of pride and security, God allows us to age. We do things slower and are less driven. I still can embarrass myself, but I won't die from it and finally realize I am far more likely to die from natural causes or disease. And finally, I am beginning to see the wisdom in aging- we begin to become free of self-doubt, illusions about ourselves, irrational thoughts, false security, misguided perceptions, displaced love. And as we grow older, we begin to see exactly how free we are. We grow free. Free to finally love as we are meant to love. Free to really laugh. And most of all free to forgive. So, let me grow old.
All is grace and growing old is a grace,
Kathleen
Take today for instance. Doctors are getting younger and younger. Most residents can not remember a day when cell phones, Apple, google, the Internet did not exist. When they chart it looks as if they are tweeting. They use acronyms I have never seen. So yesterday, when I read on a chart, patient currently in ALF, I thought what is that? So I googled it. ALF can (and the operative word here is can), mean acute liver failure. Now, not only did the patient not have physical symptoms of liver failure, not only was that NOT why they were in the hospital in the first place, they didn't meet diagnostic criteria either. Fortunately, for me and you, diagnosing is outside my scope of practice. The Board of Nursing does not give me permission to diagnosis. However, part of my job is translating and I really did need to know if that was a current working diagnosis on the patient. I don't know what exactly told me to wait and see. It certainly wasn't my very, very limited working knowledge on liver failure. And it certainly wasn't my my stellar competence at my job. I think it was the voice of God. And I mean that in all sincerity. So, today, when I read the chart, guess what it said? (And I am so grateful I didn't call a doctor out of the OR to clarify ALF.) Patient currently resides in ALF, commonly known as assisted living facility. One word changed that whole chart. I can only imagine how I would have explained to a busy physician why I desperately needed to know the patient's living arrangements. I guess I could have said I was putting my Christmas card list together and just wanted to share the love.
That little story will probably only strike you as humorous if you happen to work in health care. But I am sure we all could tell tales of I am so embarrassed I might die. And I am so grateful that I have been a nurse long enough and have enough grey and white hair and have made enough errors and had my pride wounded enough that I can finally laugh at myself. There was a time when I couldn't have. There was a time when I never would have shared that story. It is good to age.
"Getting old is part of getting past whatever illusion we have about ourselves. It is part of getting free." -Rich Mullins
I know I am not quite over "myself" yet. I hope I am not so naive as to think that people have not spotted some conceit, arrogance or false pride in me. I know it is there and that I am not humble enough to squelch it or even clever enough to hide it. A person can overcome it though, through prayer and service. But no amount of praying or fasting or serving will ever hold a candle to aging. It is the beauty of living. If we live long enough, we get old.
I was awful at being young. As a teenager I carried around complexes, had crushes that thankfully never flourished, (although at the time I thought I needed them), and I wrote really bad poetry. I still write bad poetry. Age hasn't helped that. My twenties were turbulent and ended very quietly. Finally at thirty, I no longer had to be "young and foolish"- I wasn't old yet, but I wasn't young either. And God who is always good through whatever age had graced me with joy, peace and even prosperity.
I think I wasted my youth by being too eccentric and far too concerned about what others thought. And pride consumed a great deal of my young and middle adulthood. And thankfully, "God being good still, is doing what He has always done best and what I will never be able to do, and that is to undo what I have done".
I think I am just beginning to realize as I age gratefully into the end of middle adulthood, that God lets us all struggle and succeed. It is true we all don't struggle and succeed the same, be everyone does both to some degree. And when we have done enough to create a false sense of pride and security, God allows us to age. We do things slower and are less driven. I still can embarrass myself, but I won't die from it and finally realize I am far more likely to die from natural causes or disease. And finally, I am beginning to see the wisdom in aging- we begin to become free of self-doubt, illusions about ourselves, irrational thoughts, false security, misguided perceptions, displaced love. And as we grow older, we begin to see exactly how free we are. We grow free. Free to finally love as we are meant to love. Free to really laugh. And most of all free to forgive. So, let me grow old.
All is grace and growing old is a grace,
Kathleen
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Why eating at Krispy Kreme is good for your soul
Hot and now. Just thinking the words make me salivate and to have to drive past the sign when it is flashing- it is almost torture not to stop. And to be honest, I never have NOT seen the hot and now sign NOT flashing on Stratford Road. I could eat half a dozen, hot and now, Krispy Kreme doughnuts in one single sitting and still have coffee left over. Once on a dare, I dried to stuff three in my mouth all at one time to prove that they really do melt in your mouth. Um, they don't exactly and as I remember the story, I ended up with someone slapping me hard between the shoulder blades, and yelling, "Kathleen, are you ok? Can you breathe?" Now I love me some Krispy Kreme doughnuts, especially the hot and now. You can just feel the love. What says love better yeast, butter and sugar deep fried in oil and drizzled with icing. Talk about love in a box. Personally, I am also quite fond of the chocolate cream filled and Vance loves the lemon filled. Davis just the hot and now. None of us care too much for Dunken Doughnuts though. So about three times a week during rounds, someone brings love to us in a green, red and white box. Three dozen are gone before rounds are complete. One physician brings them every weekend he is on call and passes them out to his patients. It almost makes me want to get admitted. Almost.
When I was a little girl I loved to go to the Krispy Kreme store and watch the doughnuts being made. I would imagine how hot that oil was and in my mind it was hotter than the sun. I thought they brought the sugar straight from the cane fields in Jamaica. It was a very exotic place to me. Once, I got to back and actually see it up close, the doughnut machine. I was awed.
But the Krispy Kreme doughnut tells alot about ourselves and how we see things. There is a hole in the middle. Right in the middle where there could have been more dough to eat, there is part missing. The hole. Sometimes our hearts are like that. Missing a piece and I keep losing the keys and time and bits of my busy mind and it’s hard to keep company with Jesus when you are losing your sanctification over piles laundry in the floor and unmopped kitchen floor. I look at the hole my undone housework presents to me daily and I can forgot and lose Jesus by not thanking him for the house at all. That dirt reminds me that we live here, love here, laugh here and eat doughnuts here.
All of life is messy just like Krispy Kreme doughnuts and it presents us with grace over and over again. The kind of grace you want to lick right off your fingers. And the response to grace is gratitude. Grateful for it all, the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful, the messy, the joy, the sorrow, the pain, the release, it is all grace. Time to eat the doughnuts.
When I was a little girl I loved to go to the Krispy Kreme store and watch the doughnuts being made. I would imagine how hot that oil was and in my mind it was hotter than the sun. I thought they brought the sugar straight from the cane fields in Jamaica. It was a very exotic place to me. Once, I got to back and actually see it up close, the doughnut machine. I was awed.
But the Krispy Kreme doughnut tells alot about ourselves and how we see things. There is a hole in the middle. Right in the middle where there could have been more dough to eat, there is part missing. The hole. Sometimes our hearts are like that. Missing a piece and I keep losing the keys and time and bits of my busy mind and it’s hard to keep company with Jesus when you are losing your sanctification over piles laundry in the floor and unmopped kitchen floor. I look at the hole my undone housework presents to me daily and I can forgot and lose Jesus by not thanking him for the house at all. That dirt reminds me that we live here, love here, laugh here and eat doughnuts here.
All of life is messy just like Krispy Kreme doughnuts and it presents us with grace over and over again. The kind of grace you want to lick right off your fingers. And the response to grace is gratitude. Grateful for it all, the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful, the messy, the joy, the sorrow, the pain, the release, it is all grace. Time to eat the doughnuts.
Friday, November 23, 2012
It is all about the food
And I don’t know why I don’t make that more than once a year. My sausage and wild rice dressing. Davis finally decided this year he actually liked it. It might have had something to do with the fact that I will eat it cold out of the bowl as I am mixing it, or that it has rice in it, or that my brother has to have it a Thanksgiving. or perhaps it is just that good. To be truthful and not boastful, it is pretty darn good. It is the kind of dish that will make you want to stand up and slap your mamma. And what’s not to love: butter, wild rice, fresh bread crumbs, sausage and more sausage and more sausage, pecans, onions, celery, dried cherries. While it is not complicated to make, it is time consuming. And maybe that’s why I only make it once a year. The recipe has evolved over time. It started out as a recipe I copied years ago from an old Gourmet magazine. I have tweaked and added and taken away, and to be honest I probably never really make it the same way twice. I don’t have the recipe written down and probably should. I make it in the same bowl my grandmother, (my namesake), made her dressing in. I only use that bowl once a year. It is an old white Pyrex bowl with an aqua design on the side. They were produced in the 1950s. This year my sister in law about fell out of her chair when she learned exactly how much butter and how much cream I put in my mashed potatoes and you don't want to know.
I was sitting in rounds Wednesday morning when it occurred to me. The attending physician started rounds by asking – “So, what dishes does your family have to have at Thanksgiving? And how many generations old are the recipes?” At first the interns and residents thought it a trick question. It is an odd question to start morning rounds with. Most of the time the questions are more along the lines of, “Please tell the group the hallmark features of Wernike’s encephalopathy, the incidence, morbidity and mortality rates, as well as the treatment plan.” They just all kind of stared at the attending and held their collective breaths to see what it was he really meant. To be honest, on the day before a major holiday, when the hospital is full and staffing is skeletal at best, it was kind of a nice change of pace. I do have to admit, I was a little taken aback too. My initial thought was, “ I really am feeling the love right now, but we have a lot to do today, and maybe now isn’t the best time for sharing.”
There are things we only do once a year. And there are foods we only eat once a year. There are places we only go once a year. And there are people that we only see once a year. And that is what holds families together. Those thin places where past, present and future all stand side by side. Where joy and sorrow meet. Where we are grateful for each hand we hold and blessed that we are even able. Where we are grateful for what is understood, what is forgiven. And it is here that we learn that you end up loving because you gave. And it is here that you learn that time is precious and none of us know how much of it we even have and it seems like only yesterday we were doing the things we only do once a year.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
The Blessing
Happy Thanksgiving to all...
Every year at my house, we sing a hymn and say a blessing...it changes every year....This is the one for this year and to all my friends I give thanks. You are my greatest grace.
For daily food and drink, for home and family, and friends, those present now and those in spirit,
*We thank you Lord
For a mind to think, and a heart to love, and hands to serve,
*We thank you Lord
For health and strength to work, and leisure to play and rest,
*We thank you Lord
For the brave and courageous, who are patient and faith in suffering and adversity
*We thank you Lord
For all the vailiant seekers after truth, liberty and justice,
*We thank you Lord
For the communion of saints, in all times and places,
*We thank you Lord
In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, who is now and evermore shall be. Amen.
*Adapted for The Divine Hours, Phyllis Tickle
All is grace,
Kathleen
Every year at my house, we sing a hymn and say a blessing...it changes every year....This is the one for this year and to all my friends I give thanks. You are my greatest grace.
Let us give thanks to God our Father for all gifts so freely bestowed on us
For the beauty and wonder of creation, in earth and sky and sea,
*We thank you Lord
For all the graciousness in the lives and men and women, revealing the image of Christ,
*We thank you LordFor daily food and drink, for home and family, and friends, those present now and those in spirit,
*We thank you Lord
For a mind to think, and a heart to love, and hands to serve,
*We thank you Lord
For health and strength to work, and leisure to play and rest,
*We thank you Lord
For the brave and courageous, who are patient and faith in suffering and adversity
*We thank you Lord
For all the vailiant seekers after truth, liberty and justice,
*We thank you Lord
For the communion of saints, in all times and places,
*We thank you Lord
In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, who is now and evermore shall be. Amen.
*Adapted for The Divine Hours, Phyllis Tickle
All is grace,
Kathleen
Thursday, November 1, 2012
The most dangerous place on earth
It’s All Saints Day. The sun splits the sky open this morning in a brilliant pink. The crisp leaves crackle against my feet. The wind blows cool. He smiled as he handed me my tea and she spoke of her sadness over her friend and I could see the loss in her eyes and I wondered do I try to tell her how I see this as sacrament...that the laundry, the endless lists, the liturgy, the cooking, the crying, the hoping, the praying, the cleaning, the working, the loving, the losing, the beholding...all is holy?
Today, I want to take you by the hand. I want to guide you through the the old carved, heavy oak doors and down the cool, grey slate floors. When we reach the oak railing and look through the colored glass showing the brilliance of autumn and see the whisper of cold rain shower stains, I will show where hands aged with prayer and work have carefully woven threads to tell a story older than time and how the first light pierced the darkness, where the table that is never quite empty sits. I will push the door open and let you go first. I will make the sign of the cross between us and whisper simply trust. It is the only way. Maybe you won't see me or hear me, maybe you will just "know." You will hear the creaking of the floor and see the flicker of the flame and you will inhale the silence. I will whisper again...it speaks a language we don't know, but I have learned if you listen to it long enough, you will understand something of the meaning.
Perhaps you’ll look up so long you won’t look down again and maybe you can't even look around the room or even look up from your chest where your heart is wildly beating and you have forgotten to breathe. Then you will see the table at the front and it will be lit by candles and the wax isn't melting and the linens are crisp white. And then you will notice them. All the people whom you have met in this life and those you have remembered and those you have forgotten. You will see the ones you have been angered with, the ones you have loved well and not so well and even the ones you have hated. Perhaps the only one you lock eyes with is the one who hurt you the most and you have never quite opened your heart again. They will be your people. And there will be people that you and I hold in common. And there will people that all people hold in common. The table is full because it is always full. You will take a seat in the middle amongst all the guests and given a full plate. Someone will pour you a glass of water, maybe some wine or maybe iced tea. Next to you will be the person that has loved you more than you could have ever imagined, more than you will ever understand. And the person across the table will be the one you often hated and now you can't remember why. The person on your left will be the person you have loved more than they ever could have imagined and probably never knew. You will see the person who you most often disagreed with and you can't even feel the anger.
You will see an older woman with deep eyes quoting John's gospel. You will see a young man clinging to the Book of Common Prayer. You will see a man and a woman dressed in brocade and silk and raising their hands towards heaven and chanting a language you don't quite understand. An aged man standing between them speaks quietly and hands them a pipe and a olive branch and they smile. A child jumps up on a mother's lap and asks for more. You will hear words spoken that King David spoke. You will hear the same song Peter and Paul sang. You will hear the same prayer Jesus prayed and taught us how to pray. You will hear the same words that men and women said some two millenia ago. This we believe. Some of the words spoken disagree but everyone holds hands and sings thanks to God who created it all. Soft words begin to be spoken and there is some disagreement but never about how the words began and soon it is all forgotten. You'll get your turn too. To speak of your hurts, your deeply held beliefs, your opinions on the matter. You’ll have your chance, too, to sort out your grievances. A very astute child brings all the printed books and sings the songs and shows the pictures you need to prove your argument. You pause and speak to the one who loves you so much beside you and then someone who has not been given a seat shows up and somone pulls up a chair and passes him a loaf of bread. The argument continues softly and you say the thing that needs saying and when you are done and you realize how that some things always remain true and they are the old things. They never change. The old and true things. And when you have hugged the last one, shared the last laugh, touched the hand of the one you were so angry with, passed bread to the one you hated. When you have all but forgotten the pain, the hurt, the loss and when a deep river of peace washes over you, it is time to leave. But we can't leave before we see it...if only for a moment. You and I may see different things.
Do you see wine or grape juice or water? Is it in a heavy chalice, a piece of old pottery or a tiny plasitc cup? Is the bread broken on a napkin or held high in a silver dish? Do you see a thin wafer stamped with the cross or a cracker? Is it a man or a woman passing all of this to you? Or do you see Christ himself ? Did you eat supper, a memorial meal, or the Eucharist? Were you in a cathedral surrounded by colored glass, a plain white walled meeting house or in a small church with beaded board walls or a home dusty with the lives of children? And for a moment you realize that all of that does not matter because the whole of it is the Body of Christ, even the disagreement, the anger and the hate. And for a moment you look around and you know deep in the marrow of your bones that we share the same food, depend on the same source for our daily bread.
You are in the place where all that needs to be said can be and will be said. You are in the place where the broken is made whole, the hungry are fed, the poor are made rich, the mourners have their tears wiped away and the blind see and lame walk. You are in the place where the peace of Christ dwells. You are in the only place that we really dwell in safety. You are in the place where the darkness is overcome. Everyone you have ever loved, will ever loved and those you have not are here too.
You will be told that you are always welcome back.
You will be told that the table is always a place to be fed.
You will be told that this table was made, in part, for you.
Today.
Today, I want to take you by the hand.
Today I want to take you to door behind which all the saints live.
Today I want to remember with you all the saints...the ones living, the ones no longer with us here in body and the ones not yet born. The ones remembered, the ones forgotten. The saints we have loved. The saints we have hated.
Because here-the most dangerous place on earth- here is where it all begins and ends. Here love dwells and love is the ultimate trump card.
Because the old oak door behind which it all began—never quite shuts.
And may mercy, peace and love be yours in abundance,
Kathleen
You will see an older woman with deep eyes quoting John's gospel. You will see a young man clinging to the Book of Common Prayer. You will see a man and a woman dressed in brocade and silk and raising their hands towards heaven and chanting a language you don't quite understand. An aged man standing between them speaks quietly and hands them a pipe and a olive branch and they smile. A child jumps up on a mother's lap and asks for more. You will hear words spoken that King David spoke. You will hear the same song Peter and Paul sang. You will hear the same prayer Jesus prayed and taught us how to pray. You will hear the same words that men and women said some two millenia ago. This we believe. Some of the words spoken disagree but everyone holds hands and sings thanks to God who created it all. Soft words begin to be spoken and there is some disagreement but never about how the words began and soon it is all forgotten. You'll get your turn too. To speak of your hurts, your deeply held beliefs, your opinions on the matter. You’ll have your chance, too, to sort out your grievances. A very astute child brings all the printed books and sings the songs and shows the pictures you need to prove your argument. You pause and speak to the one who loves you so much beside you and then someone who has not been given a seat shows up and somone pulls up a chair and passes him a loaf of bread. The argument continues softly and you say the thing that needs saying and when you are done and you realize how that some things always remain true and they are the old things. They never change. The old and true things. And when you have hugged the last one, shared the last laugh, touched the hand of the one you were so angry with, passed bread to the one you hated. When you have all but forgotten the pain, the hurt, the loss and when a deep river of peace washes over you, it is time to leave. But we can't leave before we see it...if only for a moment. You and I may see different things.
Do you see wine or grape juice or water? Is it in a heavy chalice, a piece of old pottery or a tiny plasitc cup? Is the bread broken on a napkin or held high in a silver dish? Do you see a thin wafer stamped with the cross or a cracker? Is it a man or a woman passing all of this to you? Or do you see Christ himself ? Did you eat supper, a memorial meal, or the Eucharist? Were you in a cathedral surrounded by colored glass, a plain white walled meeting house or in a small church with beaded board walls or a home dusty with the lives of children? And for a moment you realize that all of that does not matter because the whole of it is the Body of Christ, even the disagreement, the anger and the hate. And for a moment you look around and you know deep in the marrow of your bones that we share the same food, depend on the same source for our daily bread.
You are in the place where all that needs to be said can be and will be said. You are in the place where the broken is made whole, the hungry are fed, the poor are made rich, the mourners have their tears wiped away and the blind see and lame walk. You are in the place where the peace of Christ dwells. You are in the only place that we really dwell in safety. You are in the place where the darkness is overcome. Everyone you have ever loved, will ever loved and those you have not are here too.
You will be told that you are always welcome back.
You will be told that the table is always a place to be fed.
You will be told that this table was made, in part, for you.
Today.
Today, I want to take you by the hand.
Today I want to take you to door behind which all the saints live.
Today I want to remember with you all the saints...the ones living, the ones no longer with us here in body and the ones not yet born. The ones remembered, the ones forgotten. The saints we have loved. The saints we have hated.
Because here-the most dangerous place on earth- here is where it all begins and ends. Here love dwells and love is the ultimate trump card.
Because the old oak door behind which it all began—never quite shuts.
And may mercy, peace and love be yours in abundance,
Kathleen
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
I get on my knees
There are days, more often than not that I believe the best of me is yet to come and there are days, far too few that I feel that I am letting go and I am I know I am exactly in the right place at the right time doing the right thing ( oh -and my hair looks great and I have my favorite white blouse and great black shoes on). Today was a more often than not day but it didn't start out that way or end that way.
And so after ten years, I still do. Because in the beginning I didn't know how and still don't on most days. In the beginning I just wanted to make sense of it all and to master it. It is a mystery to me and everyone else I suspect. And I would be willing to hazard a guess that you feel as if you fail at it most of the time. And I would be willing to bet that on more than one occasion you wondered - does this really matter? And so after I saw a movie about Martin Luther, who is said to have prayed the Psalms so often, he had them all committed to memory, thought I would try. And I thought maybe by the time I was 90, I would have them committed to memory too.
The Book of Psalms is an incredible gift of God to the Church. Regularly singing the entire book of Psalms is the spiritual practice I would stake my life on. Their uniqueness lies in while most of Scripture portrays the history of Israel from either a God’s-eye or birds-eye view, the Psalm give us the inside perspective of how Israel experienced their life before God, and simultaneously invites us into the personal experience of that very Story.
Even as far back as the Desert Fathers and Mothers (4th century), it was common for a monk to pray the entire book of Psalms every single day. As St. Benedict established in the sixth century, it became standard practice for the Psalms to be recited once per week. I’ll tell you, that when I did it the first time, I discovered how completely unfamiliar I was with the Psalms. Many passages, I felt like I had never heard or read before.
The Psalms are rather strange in the light of contemporary Christianity. The Psalms represent to us the most concrete and expansive expression of a truly Biblical Spirituality and it was the prayer book Jesus used. In all likelihood, he had the entire book of Psalms memorized as well from youth. The Spirituality of the Psalms is not an “I’ll retreat into my inner life because there nothing in the world matters” but rather a much more risky partnership with the compassionate God. A God who comes very close to us on this earth that is full of calamity but imbibed with meaning by the virtue of God who created it and continues to redeem it. This spirituality, though very much full of hope (and indeed precisely because it is), never allows us to “soar above the vale of tears” but again and again brings us into a suffering resistance to the violence, evil, injustice and death that so marks our age. I don't know about you - but that is the only God I can live with. There is not a human experience that is not mentioned in the Psalms. They are full of feeling and the human experience. Its pain and joy. The Psalmists seem to engage a God who welcomes dialogue and they seem to demand answers.
And that is why I still do- ten years later. Because I don't know how but there's power but it is on your knees. I don't know how God gives the power but it is on your knees. I don't why but the love that changes you is on your knees.
And so every now and again I will join people in Evening Prayer or Evensong. And admist walls washed as white as wool, admist candles burning, admist the color streaming in from the setting sun as it shone through the stained glass, in front of a simple wooden cross, the four or five of us recited words that Jesus recited. Words that were prayed by every disciple. Words that were prayed by the first century church. We prayed that ancient Greek hymn Phos Hilaron, that is dated to the second century. We said a creed that is dated before the Nicene Creed. Ancient words, eternal meaning.
I was not raised Anglican and I had never held a Book of Common Prayer until ten years ago. I had only prayed Rite II before tonight and was not familiar with the Cranmer way but there is power on your knees. And I was reminded that by falling to your knees is the only way to rescue the fallen. And when you meet someone at the level of prayer you meet them for all eternity.
And ten years later, even though I don't understand, even though I have NOT memorized the entire book of Psalms yet, even though I don't often feel God near, even though it can seem foreign to me at times, even though people look at me strange when I mention it, it continues to save me. And I always need prayers wiser than my own...
.
And so after ten years, I still do. Because in the beginning I didn't know how and still don't on most days. In the beginning I just wanted to make sense of it all and to master it. It is a mystery to me and everyone else I suspect. And I would be willing to hazard a guess that you feel as if you fail at it most of the time. And I would be willing to bet that on more than one occasion you wondered - does this really matter? And so after I saw a movie about Martin Luther, who is said to have prayed the Psalms so often, he had them all committed to memory, thought I would try. And I thought maybe by the time I was 90, I would have them committed to memory too.
The Book of Psalms is an incredible gift of God to the Church. Regularly singing the entire book of Psalms is the spiritual practice I would stake my life on. Their uniqueness lies in while most of Scripture portrays the history of Israel from either a God’s-eye or birds-eye view, the Psalm give us the inside perspective of how Israel experienced their life before God, and simultaneously invites us into the personal experience of that very Story.
Even as far back as the Desert Fathers and Mothers (4th century), it was common for a monk to pray the entire book of Psalms every single day. As St. Benedict established in the sixth century, it became standard practice for the Psalms to be recited once per week. I’ll tell you, that when I did it the first time, I discovered how completely unfamiliar I was with the Psalms. Many passages, I felt like I had never heard or read before.
The Psalms are rather strange in the light of contemporary Christianity. The Psalms represent to us the most concrete and expansive expression of a truly Biblical Spirituality and it was the prayer book Jesus used. In all likelihood, he had the entire book of Psalms memorized as well from youth. The Spirituality of the Psalms is not an “I’ll retreat into my inner life because there nothing in the world matters” but rather a much more risky partnership with the compassionate God. A God who comes very close to us on this earth that is full of calamity but imbibed with meaning by the virtue of God who created it and continues to redeem it. This spirituality, though very much full of hope (and indeed precisely because it is), never allows us to “soar above the vale of tears” but again and again brings us into a suffering resistance to the violence, evil, injustice and death that so marks our age. I don't know about you - but that is the only God I can live with. There is not a human experience that is not mentioned in the Psalms. They are full of feeling and the human experience. Its pain and joy. The Psalmists seem to engage a God who welcomes dialogue and they seem to demand answers.
And that is why I still do- ten years later. Because I don't know how but there's power but it is on your knees. I don't know how God gives the power but it is on your knees. I don't why but the love that changes you is on your knees.
And so every now and again I will join people in Evening Prayer or Evensong. And admist walls washed as white as wool, admist candles burning, admist the color streaming in from the setting sun as it shone through the stained glass, in front of a simple wooden cross, the four or five of us recited words that Jesus recited. Words that were prayed by every disciple. Words that were prayed by the first century church. We prayed that ancient Greek hymn Phos Hilaron, that is dated to the second century. We said a creed that is dated before the Nicene Creed. Ancient words, eternal meaning.
I was not raised Anglican and I had never held a Book of Common Prayer until ten years ago. I had only prayed Rite II before tonight and was not familiar with the Cranmer way but there is power on your knees. And I was reminded that by falling to your knees is the only way to rescue the fallen. And when you meet someone at the level of prayer you meet them for all eternity.
And ten years later, even though I don't understand, even though I have NOT memorized the entire book of Psalms yet, even though I don't often feel God near, even though it can seem foreign to me at times, even though people look at me strange when I mention it, it continues to save me. And I always need prayers wiser than my own...
.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Living a life they will write about someday
I am the eldest sibling. I have met many of brothers' friends who have often remarked, "I never knew Bobby or Brian had a sister." I guess I should mention that my brothers and I live in the same town within 5 miles of each other. I guess I should mention that our children attend the same school and some are in the same class. I guess I should mention that they knew my husband before I did. I guess I should mention that despite our geographical closeness, we probably only see each other about 6 times a year. My brother Brian and I talk on the phone twice a year, we call each other on our birthdays. Bobby plays war games with Davis and occasionally I talk to Bobby through Davis on Xbox. I am probably not a very good older sister. I do cook Thanksgiving dinner for them and have been known to host Easter. Brian loves my stuffing. I make it every year just for him. Bobby likes to tease me about my cooking, not because I can't cook, but because I can. Each of them is brilliant in their own right. Bobby can write code for anything, design an app for you and make a movie. Brian can sing (I can't), according to my Dad is a good shot, still plays basketball, (he is over 40), lay hardwood floors and travels literally across the world routinely. Oh, he can make small bombs and probably if you needed him to, could demolish your house in a single bang.
So, I don't think they mind having a big sister. Like I said, I am probably not good at it.
I think I was about 14. I was left in charge that day. Brian was playing in the woods behind our house. He was fascinated with he TV show The Wild, Wild West and James Bond. Our dad kept things like gunpowder around. To be honest, when he came screaming into the house and locked himself in the bathroom, I had no idea what had happened. I just knew I had better figure it out and fix it, or mom was going to kill me. When he opened the bathroom door, the first thing I noticed was that he did not have eyelashes or eyebrows anymore. He looked like Wiley Coyote after he stumbled onto the TNT left by the Roadrunner. It was comical. Apparently, he was trying to create a dam in the little creek behind our house to trap crayfish. I use the term crayfish loosely because this creek was actually a storm drain run off. I don't exactly what type of crustacean they were. Brian and Bobby just caught them, built a fire and roasted and ate them or so I am told. I personally never saw this. I have just heard the story.
So Brian and his friend Luke, (obviously not a physician), had taken gunpowder from the house, packed it into some small square container, added a piece a string and lit it. Brian waited and waited for it to explode. It didn't. He walked over, fiddled with it and lit it again. It still didn't explode. So he stooped down to pick it up and it blew up in his face. According to my dad, he had used enough gunpowder to level the house and the only reason he didn't die or loose limbs or suffer third degree burns, was what he used for a fuse wasn't that flammable. But it was combustible enough to implode and burn all the hair off his face. I don't remember if this required an emergency room visit and I don't remember what if any punishment was handed out, but we did live to tell about it.
Once, a flying squirrel got caught in the vent above our stove. I don't remember why Bobby cut the vent on that day, just that the mess- well it was bad. Real bad. Once a six foot black snake was laying in the ceiling light in our basement. I personally thought Bobby handled it brilliantly. He called the fire department and those nice men came and removed that very large snake and charged my dad about 150 dollars. My mom and dad weren't home that day either.
And I guess I should mention my fear of pressure cookers. They are death traps. Once, my mom was cooking a ham in one. My mother will cook anything and I mean anything in a pressure cooker. Our kitchen was small. Maybe 8X8. She asked me to go check and see if the jiggler thingy had started to jiggle. As I was approaching the kitchen, the lid blew off and the jiggler thingy was impaled in the ceiling. Even after the ceiling replaced, the oil stain remained. It was like a poltergeist or something. Do you know what my mother gave me for a wedding gift? A pressure cooker. She still thinks everybody should have one. I won't use the damn thing. It can kill. I prefer to bake my hams.
My brothers and I fought too. Like cats and dogs. The thing about three children, is that two will always gang up on the one and the teams always change. It just isn't easy being a sibling.
Today we celebrate the feast of St. James, the Just. He was the brother of Jesus. Tomes have been written on just where James was on the family tree. It can not have been easy growing up as the younger brother of Jesus. First, who can compete with intellectual brilliance? Second, when your brother heals the sick, raises the dead, and feeds the multitudes with crumbs, it could be easy to develop insecurity. Not to mention, that angels showed up at Jesus' birth and sang Gloria and rich men on camels traveled across a desert for about three years to bring him baby gifts. And there was a star (most likely a comet), that showed up in the night sky at Jesus' birth and overshadowed Orion and Pleiades. And then there is the king who was so scared about his birth, that he goes on a killing rampage. And who wouldn't be just a tad bit jealous of the fame and power? And who wouldn't have an identity crisis if their sibling was a prophet, obviously spoke directly to God and God talked back.
Scripture and history tell us that James was not a coward and quite certainly a visionary in his own right. He was the Bishop of Jerusalem and the non-canonical gospel of Thomas gave him the description of just. Paul tells us he was among the first of the apostles to hang out with the Gentiles. He was stoned to death, probably a political murder plotted by the high priest Annas. History tells us that what probably killed him was a blow to the head while he on his knees praying for his killers. I suppose James could have carried a chip on his shoulder. I suppose he could have resented Jesus and aged into a bitter person who claims to "have never gotten a break." I suppose he could have never dealt with the tension of living and growing up in someone's shadow. I suppose that he could have chosen not to identify with Jesus. He could have chosen many things. But James, chose to be enough. Just enough. He chose to be himself, not Jesus or live up to Jesus. And his story reminds me that each of us have circumstances that prevent us from recognizing who we are in God.
I suspect you are alot like me. Far too often we worry will we be enough? We don't always know if we belong or not. We don't know if our hair is okay-if our clothes are right-if our weight is right-if anyone will like you-if we will say the right thing or not and what if people could really see our insides-would they still like you?
So we could all take a lesson from the life of James on just being who we are and applauding God for making each of us a wonder and miracle in our own unique way. Don't strive and work so hard- just rest in God. Don't compete with others- just care about others. And James- well he didn't seem to want anything apart from holiness- which actually means "wholeness" not perfection. Affirm yourself in the certainity of the grace of God and identify yourself with the love of Christ- not your circumstances, your lineage, your struggles, your past, your imperfections. And as the writer of Hebrews (who may have been James-no one knows for sure) said in the daily office today: and these words are as true today as in the first century:
Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint, but rather be healed.
Pursue peace with everyone, and the holiness without which no one will see the Lord.
So, I don't think they mind having a big sister. Like I said, I am probably not good at it.
I think I was about 14. I was left in charge that day. Brian was playing in the woods behind our house. He was fascinated with he TV show The Wild, Wild West and James Bond. Our dad kept things like gunpowder around. To be honest, when he came screaming into the house and locked himself in the bathroom, I had no idea what had happened. I just knew I had better figure it out and fix it, or mom was going to kill me. When he opened the bathroom door, the first thing I noticed was that he did not have eyelashes or eyebrows anymore. He looked like Wiley Coyote after he stumbled onto the TNT left by the Roadrunner. It was comical. Apparently, he was trying to create a dam in the little creek behind our house to trap crayfish. I use the term crayfish loosely because this creek was actually a storm drain run off. I don't exactly what type of crustacean they were. Brian and Bobby just caught them, built a fire and roasted and ate them or so I am told. I personally never saw this. I have just heard the story.
So Brian and his friend Luke, (obviously not a physician), had taken gunpowder from the house, packed it into some small square container, added a piece a string and lit it. Brian waited and waited for it to explode. It didn't. He walked over, fiddled with it and lit it again. It still didn't explode. So he stooped down to pick it up and it blew up in his face. According to my dad, he had used enough gunpowder to level the house and the only reason he didn't die or loose limbs or suffer third degree burns, was what he used for a fuse wasn't that flammable. But it was combustible enough to implode and burn all the hair off his face. I don't remember if this required an emergency room visit and I don't remember what if any punishment was handed out, but we did live to tell about it.
Once, a flying squirrel got caught in the vent above our stove. I don't remember why Bobby cut the vent on that day, just that the mess- well it was bad. Real bad. Once a six foot black snake was laying in the ceiling light in our basement. I personally thought Bobby handled it brilliantly. He called the fire department and those nice men came and removed that very large snake and charged my dad about 150 dollars. My mom and dad weren't home that day either.
And I guess I should mention my fear of pressure cookers. They are death traps. Once, my mom was cooking a ham in one. My mother will cook anything and I mean anything in a pressure cooker. Our kitchen was small. Maybe 8X8. She asked me to go check and see if the jiggler thingy had started to jiggle. As I was approaching the kitchen, the lid blew off and the jiggler thingy was impaled in the ceiling. Even after the ceiling replaced, the oil stain remained. It was like a poltergeist or something. Do you know what my mother gave me for a wedding gift? A pressure cooker. She still thinks everybody should have one. I won't use the damn thing. It can kill. I prefer to bake my hams.
My brothers and I fought too. Like cats and dogs. The thing about three children, is that two will always gang up on the one and the teams always change. It just isn't easy being a sibling.
Today we celebrate the feast of St. James, the Just. He was the brother of Jesus. Tomes have been written on just where James was on the family tree. It can not have been easy growing up as the younger brother of Jesus. First, who can compete with intellectual brilliance? Second, when your brother heals the sick, raises the dead, and feeds the multitudes with crumbs, it could be easy to develop insecurity. Not to mention, that angels showed up at Jesus' birth and sang Gloria and rich men on camels traveled across a desert for about three years to bring him baby gifts. And there was a star (most likely a comet), that showed up in the night sky at Jesus' birth and overshadowed Orion and Pleiades. And then there is the king who was so scared about his birth, that he goes on a killing rampage. And who wouldn't be just a tad bit jealous of the fame and power? And who wouldn't have an identity crisis if their sibling was a prophet, obviously spoke directly to God and God talked back.
Scripture and history tell us that James was not a coward and quite certainly a visionary in his own right. He was the Bishop of Jerusalem and the non-canonical gospel of Thomas gave him the description of just. Paul tells us he was among the first of the apostles to hang out with the Gentiles. He was stoned to death, probably a political murder plotted by the high priest Annas. History tells us that what probably killed him was a blow to the head while he on his knees praying for his killers. I suppose James could have carried a chip on his shoulder. I suppose he could have resented Jesus and aged into a bitter person who claims to "have never gotten a break." I suppose he could have never dealt with the tension of living and growing up in someone's shadow. I suppose that he could have chosen not to identify with Jesus. He could have chosen many things. But James, chose to be enough. Just enough. He chose to be himself, not Jesus or live up to Jesus. And his story reminds me that each of us have circumstances that prevent us from recognizing who we are in God.
I suspect you are alot like me. Far too often we worry will we be enough? We don't always know if we belong or not. We don't know if our hair is okay-if our clothes are right-if our weight is right-if anyone will like you-if we will say the right thing or not and what if people could really see our insides-would they still like you?
So we could all take a lesson from the life of James on just being who we are and applauding God for making each of us a wonder and miracle in our own unique way. Don't strive and work so hard- just rest in God. Don't compete with others- just care about others. And James- well he didn't seem to want anything apart from holiness- which actually means "wholeness" not perfection. Affirm yourself in the certainity of the grace of God and identify yourself with the love of Christ- not your circumstances, your lineage, your struggles, your past, your imperfections. And as the writer of Hebrews (who may have been James-no one knows for sure) said in the daily office today: and these words are as true today as in the first century:
Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint, but rather be healed.
Pursue peace with everyone, and the holiness without which no one will see the Lord.
Monday, October 22, 2012
When I get where I am going
He turned and faced Jerusalem. That is what the writer of Luke's gospel tells us. Jesus turned toward Jerusalem. He knew where he was going. Sometimes, I forget where I am going. And that is what we read this evening in the little chapel at St. Timothy's at evening prayer. We read that Jesus knew where he was going and he faced it. And it made me think of how hard it can be to know where it is you are going and how to get there. And you have to be brave. Because going somewhere usually involves leaving and leaving can be a lot like dying. And as I looked out the windows of the chapel, I saw how the maple trees were making dying look beautiful. And I remembered that Jesus relinquished all his glory and stood bare on a cross to get where he was going.
And she was holding the big, black book in her frail hands and it was hard for me to understand. But between the thees, the Verilys, the thous and it came to pass, I watched her live the truth in front of me. And I stopped hard when I saw her on her knees asking Jesus to be the keeper of our lives. And he has been true to his word. Jesus has kept our life.
And he was holding the big, black, worn book in his big hands and I was amazed at the pages, how worn, how used, how tear stained. And he told me how he is finding more and more truth in the words written in red. And he raised his hands and he bowed his head and he gave thanks for it all.
When I get where I am going, I am going to touch moon. I am going to catch a raindrop. I am going to walk with my grandmother and match her step for step and tell her how Jesus kept us all. When I get where I am going, I am going to sit down with him and talk way into the morning. When I get where I am going, I am going to ask Abraham how did he know about the ram? When I get where I am going, I am going to ask Moses were those sandals really comfortable? When I get where I am going I going to dance a little more. When I get where I am going I am going to laugh a little more. When I get where I am going, there will only be happy tears. I will shed all the sin and struggle that I have had down here. But while I am here, I will love with my heart wide open and without fear till I get where I am going.
All is grace and counting joys
the leaves in their glorious fall color
the falling of the leaves like golden red rain
the cool night air with clear skies that show slivers of the moon
the orange pumpkins
warm apple pie fresh from the oven
grilled asparagus with goat cheese
chili
The Giants getting to Game 7
Reading the Daily Office at St. Timothys
8 strike outs in a game and 4 for 6 at the plate last game of the season
wool sweaters
hands that are worn with time and prayer
faces that show the grace of God
When I get where I am going, there will be only happy tears. I will shed the sin and struggle that I have carried all these years.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Laying down
Again today, too much for me to write but let me share words better than my own:
Joy, it comes in the morning…
Joy, it comes not in the gaining but in the giving, not in being someone but in being a sacrifice, not in laying up treasures, but in laying down self.
Joy, it comes in the mother who doesn’t think twice to do the unthinkable, to do the unlikely, the unlovely, the unheard of — who lives the Gospel.
It comes in the woman who loves the kid who has no one, the man who isn’t thinking about winning on earth but in heaven, the kids who cheer for the hurting- Ann Voskamp
Next week I hope to catch up and write about this month- some of my favorite Saints were celebrated this month. St. Francis. St. Teresa. Thomas Aquinas. St. Catherine.
I am most excited about my new app- The Daily Office. Now, I have no excuse no to pray.
Joy, it comes in the morning…
Joy, it comes not in the gaining but in the giving, not in being someone but in being a sacrifice, not in laying up treasures, but in laying down self.
Joy, it comes in the mother who doesn’t think twice to do the unthinkable, to do the unlikely, the unlovely, the unheard of — who lives the Gospel.
It comes in the woman who loves the kid who has no one, the man who isn’t thinking about winning on earth but in heaven, the kids who cheer for the hurting- Ann Voskamp
Next week I hope to catch up and write about this month- some of my favorite Saints were celebrated this month. St. Francis. St. Teresa. Thomas Aquinas. St. Catherine.
I am most excited about my new app- The Daily Office. Now, I have no excuse no to pray.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Pursuing Joy
I have been a bit overwhelmed of late, way more than my normal. Seeing old ghosts. Changing job roles. Parenting a high schooler and trying to remind my frazzled mother nerves that he will be ok. Watching friends hearts' break. Attempting to reconcile the past. Practicing assertiveness training. Buying a new data plan. Reading CMS guidelines, coding clinics and best practice guidelines. Writing what to my small world amounts to a thesis. Learning that vindictiveness has the same root as vindicate. Finding a lost voice. Practicing loving my spouse and I need to practice as if I was pitching the seventh game of the world series. Keeping up with a teenager's schedule. Making friends. Watching baseball. Getting new glasses. Bloodwork again. Finding a math tutor (and not for me this time!). Cleaning out closets. And I forgot in the midst of all this turmoil and change to look for joy. And so today, in the midst of all my chaos and noise I was reminded again by one of my favorite writers. I may not share all of her theology but no one writes about joy and grace and the point of it all better. So I am sharing her thoughts with you and when my noise quites a little and I expect it will by Friday...I will write.
But today just to remind us all why we are here and why pursue Joy:
"How can grace get a hold of you when the past won’t let go of you? How do you leave a legacy different than the one you’ve been left? That’s what I’ve got to gnaw through to. How do mangle the ones you love most?
“Sor…ry… Mama… didn’t… mean… to make you… cry.” And he’s the one who can’t stop.
And I kneel down and let go of his arm. And I hold his face. That’s what I should have done, done right at the beginning. What would happen in a world where anger was your flag to reach out and cup a face?
He looks so scared and wrung and thin — every child’s a thin place. I see God.
And that’s what comes:
If you don’t fight for joy, it’s your children who lose.
What do I want my children to remember — my joy in clean floors, made beds and ironed shirts — or my joy of the Lord?
You will be most remembered — by what brought you most joy.
The joy of the Lord is your strength and the person of Christ is your unassailable joy – and the battle for joy is nothing less than fighting the good fight of faith.
His cheeks in my palms, they’re so white, so wet.
It’s his eyes — if you’ve put the fear of yourself into a child, how is there room for the joy of the Lord? Joy isn’t an optional feature to the Christian life — it’s the vital feature of the Christian life.
Battle for joy or lose your life. Or other’s lose theirs.
And I whisper sorry. I tell the boy I know nothing yet, nothing.
Every ungracious moment means someone doesn’t understand grace.
And the boy crumbles into me and I hold onto him and a forgiveness I’ll never deserve and there’s a grace that can hold us, that can mold us, the way joy can bend you soft at all the joints.
And I murmur it into the thick of his hair, that even now He can still make us like Him.
The boy touches my cheek like a flag waving yes." Ann Voskamp
But today just to remind us all why we are here and why pursue Joy:
"How can grace get a hold of you when the past won’t let go of you? How do you leave a legacy different than the one you’ve been left? That’s what I’ve got to gnaw through to. How do mangle the ones you love most?
“Sor…ry… Mama… didn’t… mean… to make you… cry.” And he’s the one who can’t stop.
And I kneel down and let go of his arm. And I hold his face. That’s what I should have done, done right at the beginning. What would happen in a world where anger was your flag to reach out and cup a face?
He looks so scared and wrung and thin — every child’s a thin place. I see God.
And that’s what comes:
If you don’t fight for joy, it’s your children who lose.
What do I want my children to remember — my joy in clean floors, made beds and ironed shirts — or my joy of the Lord?
You will be most remembered — by what brought you most joy.
The joy of the Lord is your strength and the person of Christ is your unassailable joy – and the battle for joy is nothing less than fighting the good fight of faith.
His cheeks in my palms, they’re so white, so wet.
It’s his eyes — if you’ve put the fear of yourself into a child, how is there room for the joy of the Lord? Joy isn’t an optional feature to the Christian life — it’s the vital feature of the Christian life.
Battle for joy or lose your life. Or other’s lose theirs.
And I whisper sorry. I tell the boy I know nothing yet, nothing.
Every ungracious moment means someone doesn’t understand grace.
And the boy crumbles into me and I hold onto him and a forgiveness I’ll never deserve and there’s a grace that can hold us, that can mold us, the way joy can bend you soft at all the joints.
And I murmur it into the thick of his hair, that even now He can still make us like Him.
The boy touches my cheek like a flag waving yes." Ann Voskamp
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Excuse me, could you repeat that please.
One of the challenges of changing job roles is remembering. Right now, my brain is saturated. I can’t remember the last time it was this saturated. Memory can be defined as the ability to acquire, process, store, and retrieve information. Memory is indispensable for learning, adaptation, and survival of every living organism. In humans, the remembering process has acquired great flexibility and complexity, reaching close links with other mental functions, such as thinking and emotions.
It is also a tad bit frightening to me that part of my orientation involves a weekly support group for the next 3 months. I might become even more concerned if a critical incident debriefing team walks through the door. Often, when one orients to a new job, jokes are made about at least you didn’t run out the door the first day. To be honest that did happen to me once. I didn’t run out the door, the person I was orienting did.
I was a case manager for a local hospice. My job was to visit my patients in their homes weekly (or daily as sometimes was the case), devise and implement a plan of care. Sometimes this involved complex dressing changes, treatments or medication administration. Sometimes I put a load of laundry in. Sometimes I cooked lunch. Always I listened. Many times I was the referee for family disputes.
Once someone asked me to sing hymns over their deceased loved one. Singing from the Baptist Hymnal is not covered in nursing school. Fortunately for me, my dad was a worship leader. So, I was raised singing old hymns. I know the tunes to most. Unfortunately for the family and me, I can’t carry a tune. Not wanting to disappoint and hoping they would join in or suddenly an angel of the Lord would appear singing “Glory to God in the Highest,” I opened the hymnal and the first hymn I saw, “Rescue the Perishing.” To this day, I cannot believe I started singing that hymn over a dead body. I am quite sure at every single family get together, that family re-tells the story of that nurse who sang “Rescue the Perishing” when momma died.
A short time later, a woman asked me to put a thong with Santa on it on her deceased husband before his body left the house. I learned to rephrase the question, “Is there any I can do?” I also dropped the question, “What can I do that would help right now?”
Back to the nurse that ran out on me during her orientation. It was a normal day a hospice. Whatever that may look like. We saw three patients that morning. At noon, I told her to take a break, get something to eat and meet me back at my car at 1:30. At 12:30, the director of nursing called and asked, “What did you do to her? She just left my office and she is not coming back.” To this day, I have no idea. I didn’t sing or put underwear on anyone. It just sort of became the office joke, that perhaps one way to help people see if this job was for them, was to see if they could survive a morning with me.
I am now into my fourth week of orientation and I haven’t thought of running out the door yet and I guess if I do, my support group leader will seek me out and debrief me. But as far as remembering everything, that only comes with repetition, repetition, repetition. And while humans are hard wire to remember, we struggle.
They have been called glimpses, tickles, whispers, bumps or thin places. That piece of God that sometimes interrupts our lives in a brief instant and we touch the eternal God. Personally, I can be quite dense and need a shout.
The reading from the Psalms today is Psalm 78. If you read the Daily Office daily, you will read this psalm about every month or so. Let’s just say, I am not a fan of the 78th. If I were a monk, I would probably being asking my spiritual director why I don’t like it or the abbot would catch me skimming it at morning prayer and make me pray it 78 times a day for 78 days. I guess you could say I am glad I am not a monk. But today, it caught my attention and caused me to remember and to think and to ponder and to wonder and to step into that thin place for a moment.
Psalm 78 is an instructive psalm as well as a history lesson. It depicts Israel failed to appreciate the graciousness of God and as a result were punished. I am not entirely convinced that God did the punishing as much as failure to recognize grace will always lead to a destruction of the gift offered. But it was not so much the theology behind the Psalm that gave me pause. It was the memory it evoked. And it was odd that last night, I was encountered that same memory and it gave me pause. And that would be whisper of God.
I often forget and often need to be reminded that the same hands that created the oceans, hold the mountains, sustain the world, those same loving hands hold me. And that is why we need to read the Psalms over and over. That is why people will sit through the same lecture over and over and over again. We are forgetful. But imagine this-the hands that buried Moses, carry you. And try to remember every day those hands.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Eternal God it will take an eterniity to know you-thank God time is of little consequence to you
After the storm settled and the wind calmed down and the rain stopped pouring, she remembered to give thanks. She had used up all of her youth, and she felt wrung out everywhere. Spent. It was after that many years of storm, she stood looking at the blue sky that was crisp, perfect. Cool. She watched her dreams float by in the clouds. She had had dreams. Dreams as big as clouds. But she didn’t know that things can come true in the most unlikely ways.
Sometimes the crashing waves don’t wash you away, but wash you alive. Ann Voskamp
She still stood. And she really didn’t know how. Half her life was behind her now if she lived to see 90. Half her summers, half her autumns, half her firsts, half of it all behind. It made her hurt and smile because it is only in the leaving behind can a woman’s real beauty come to the front. She had learned that we live in the midst of the dying. And she learned that God strangely blesses us when we are estranged from him. And she had learned sometimes you have to rebreak in order to heal. And it is doing the small thing again and again that becomes the great thing that heals. It is in giving thanks again and again and again and again. The small things that remind us that He loves us.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
When you need a different perspective
So, today, of all days, I decided to be healthy, support local farmers, buy organic, lessen my carbon footprint and be green. Clearly, I should have re-thought that whole decision. And clearly, being a middle aged, married, mother of a teenage son, who never has her collective crap together and can fall too quickly into the comparison trap; but does have great shoes, more than enough white blouses and perfect little black dresses and thinks it OK to wear pearls with jeans: I need to get out more. (And I do so love run on sentences and how they annoy grammar snobs). And given, that in my professional career, I have just about seen it all and seen it more than once, (literally and figuratively), one would think that today's little episode would not have surprised me in least.
I quickly ran into the farmer's market that sets up in the parking deck every Thursday to buy tomatoes. I just wanted some tomatoes. That's all. I should mention, that I occasionally get a little grumpy, OK- a lot grumpy because this little farmer's market takes up an entire level of an already overcrowded parking. And this morning was an exceptional grumpy morning because I had to be in a meeting by 7:55 am and they locked the doors if you were late. So, I was over anxious to find a parking space. Circling the parking deck twelve times to locate a parking space normally doesn't bother me at all. Today, it did.
That being said, I still decided to support the farmer's market. I walked to the first table that had a tomato on it. Wishing now I would have been a more particular shopper. I picked out about 8 lbs of tomatoes. The very normal looking, middle aged farmer asked me what I planned to do with them. My answer- BLTs. The very pleasant middle aged farmer, who in no way resembled anyone you would necessarily warn your children to run away from, suggested I might want to make a salad. I might add that he had dirty fingers, was wearing a straw hat, shorts with white tube socks and work boots. He proceeded to tell me he had some very fresh romaine, arugula and butternut lettuce. (The key word here is fresh...and not in the spring air sense either). I, being overcome by guilt because I had not even had one serving of anything this week that resembled a vegetable and the only vegetable my son had been fed in a week was a pea, decided that was a great idea. NOT. Normal looking farmer proceeds to ask me if I had a herb garden. (Well, once again, I fell head first into that comparison trap). I replied, "I sure do." And I really do. I just haven't bothered to use them in the kitchen since late June.
He begins to show me all these little bags of lovely herbs. (I know what you are thinking- the illegal kind). Thai basil. Lemon basil. Lemon thyme. Purple basil. Italian oregano as opposed to Greek oregano. French lavender. Globular basil. English thyme. Tarragon, french and Mexican. He lets me sniff each bag. And then he says, "Don't you find that basil sexy?" I replied, "Not exactly what I was thinking. In fact, I could come up with ten adjectives to describe basil and sexy would never make the list." He continues, "But it is so sensual." And here is when I thought, (and if my friend Freda were with me she would have had a witty come back), "Dude, even if you looked George Clooney or David Beckham, that so would not work for me. And BTW, has that line ever worked for you? Really?" The only answer I could choke out was, "How much did you say those tomatoes were?" I am not sure if I should be flattered or not, but my 8lbs of tomatoes only cost $3.50. I am also fairly confident that it really was basil in those bags and no some illegal medicinal herb. I gave him $5.00, told him to keep the change and ran. I thoroughly scrubbed those tomatoes. Apparently, I need a new perspective on the powers of basil. Maybe I don't see basil for what it really is. Maybe I need to experience basil in a new way.
This of course started me thinking and calling girlfriends and then of course and why am I not surprised, I was reminded of this month's readings in the Daily Office. This month the Old Testament readings have been from Job. Someone once said to me that they read Job once a year to keep life in perspective. Sage advice. The book of Job pulls away our illusions and presents life as it really is. Nothing is more valuable than a valid perspective. One of the most painful - but essential - blessings is the stripping away of our delusions and erroneous presuppositions. An innocent man suffers? Impossible says conventional theology. Job tenaciously holds onto to both sides of the dilemma and wonders..."Is God just? How does a good God allow the innocent to suffer?" Job even has the courage to place God's justice and goodness on trial. Job was willing to risk everything in order to know God. Job holds onto the unexplainable until he experiences the transcendent truth that reconciles his experience. His friends knew everything about God but Job engaged the mystery long enough to actually know God.
Job concludes his wrestling with God with these words: "I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you." Knowing God and knowing about God are vastly different things. Knowing about God is the context for vast theological disputes that having been ongoing since time began. But knowing God -- "now my eye sees you" -- moves us into silence. We have no words to describe knowing God. None.
I confess this story does not bring me comfort. How can restoring a new family make up for the lost family? Does this story really make sense in the end? Is God truly just? Does the universe make sense? Can you even trust it? I don't seem to have the same satisfaction at the end of Job's story as Job does. And maybe that is the point. Maybe the experience of God can not be translated or given to one person from another. It is not enough to just to talk about God. It is not enough to know hear about other people's encounter with God. I think we must also be able to say..."I have heard about you with my ears...but now my eyes see you..." And maybe it is that slight change in perspective that brings us closer to God and it can't being given...it has to be experienced.
I quickly ran into the farmer's market that sets up in the parking deck every Thursday to buy tomatoes. I just wanted some tomatoes. That's all. I should mention, that I occasionally get a little grumpy, OK- a lot grumpy because this little farmer's market takes up an entire level of an already overcrowded parking. And this morning was an exceptional grumpy morning because I had to be in a meeting by 7:55 am and they locked the doors if you were late. So, I was over anxious to find a parking space. Circling the parking deck twelve times to locate a parking space normally doesn't bother me at all. Today, it did.
That being said, I still decided to support the farmer's market. I walked to the first table that had a tomato on it. Wishing now I would have been a more particular shopper. I picked out about 8 lbs of tomatoes. The very normal looking, middle aged farmer asked me what I planned to do with them. My answer- BLTs. The very pleasant middle aged farmer, who in no way resembled anyone you would necessarily warn your children to run away from, suggested I might want to make a salad. I might add that he had dirty fingers, was wearing a straw hat, shorts with white tube socks and work boots. He proceeded to tell me he had some very fresh romaine, arugula and butternut lettuce. (The key word here is fresh...and not in the spring air sense either). I, being overcome by guilt because I had not even had one serving of anything this week that resembled a vegetable and the only vegetable my son had been fed in a week was a pea, decided that was a great idea. NOT. Normal looking farmer proceeds to ask me if I had a herb garden. (Well, once again, I fell head first into that comparison trap). I replied, "I sure do." And I really do. I just haven't bothered to use them in the kitchen since late June.
He begins to show me all these little bags of lovely herbs. (I know what you are thinking- the illegal kind). Thai basil. Lemon basil. Lemon thyme. Purple basil. Italian oregano as opposed to Greek oregano. French lavender. Globular basil. English thyme. Tarragon, french and Mexican. He lets me sniff each bag. And then he says, "Don't you find that basil sexy?" I replied, "Not exactly what I was thinking. In fact, I could come up with ten adjectives to describe basil and sexy would never make the list." He continues, "But it is so sensual." And here is when I thought, (and if my friend Freda were with me she would have had a witty come back), "Dude, even if you looked George Clooney or David Beckham, that so would not work for me. And BTW, has that line ever worked for you? Really?" The only answer I could choke out was, "How much did you say those tomatoes were?" I am not sure if I should be flattered or not, but my 8lbs of tomatoes only cost $3.50. I am also fairly confident that it really was basil in those bags and no some illegal medicinal herb. I gave him $5.00, told him to keep the change and ran. I thoroughly scrubbed those tomatoes. Apparently, I need a new perspective on the powers of basil. Maybe I don't see basil for what it really is. Maybe I need to experience basil in a new way.
This of course started me thinking and calling girlfriends and then of course and why am I not surprised, I was reminded of this month's readings in the Daily Office. This month the Old Testament readings have been from Job. Someone once said to me that they read Job once a year to keep life in perspective. Sage advice. The book of Job pulls away our illusions and presents life as it really is. Nothing is more valuable than a valid perspective. One of the most painful - but essential - blessings is the stripping away of our delusions and erroneous presuppositions. An innocent man suffers? Impossible says conventional theology. Job tenaciously holds onto to both sides of the dilemma and wonders..."Is God just? How does a good God allow the innocent to suffer?" Job even has the courage to place God's justice and goodness on trial. Job was willing to risk everything in order to know God. Job holds onto the unexplainable until he experiences the transcendent truth that reconciles his experience. His friends knew everything about God but Job engaged the mystery long enough to actually know God.
Job concludes his wrestling with God with these words: "I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you." Knowing God and knowing about God are vastly different things. Knowing about God is the context for vast theological disputes that having been ongoing since time began. But knowing God -- "now my eye sees you" -- moves us into silence. We have no words to describe knowing God. None.
I confess this story does not bring me comfort. How can restoring a new family make up for the lost family? Does this story really make sense in the end? Is God truly just? Does the universe make sense? Can you even trust it? I don't seem to have the same satisfaction at the end of Job's story as Job does. And maybe that is the point. Maybe the experience of God can not be translated or given to one person from another. It is not enough to just to talk about God. It is not enough to know hear about other people's encounter with God. I think we must also be able to say..."I have heard about you with my ears...but now my eyes see you..." And maybe it is that slight change in perspective that brings us closer to God and it can't being given...it has to be experienced.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
The only rock we eat
This is my 99th post. Apparently to be successful at this whole blogging thing, you have to write everyday. Apparently you have to understand all the statistics, what they mean, how to impact readers, find your own "writer's voice", care about "hits" and loosing "followers". I guess it is a good thing I don't even know what my "writer's voice", sounds like or how to read my blog's statistics page. I do have a vague idea of which three posts were read the most, but it is only very vague and totally dependent on how I, (and that is a scary thought), interpret the data. Oh, and you have to be very careful and edit, edit, edit and worry, worry, worry about things like spelling, correct grammar and sentence structure. Clearly, I fail at that. I actually laugh when spelling or grammatical errors are pointed out to me. I have always wanted to respond, "Thanks, I am looking for a full time editor. Would you like the job?" I also have had to explain more than once that type font changes, size of font changes, fragmented sentences are actually a literary device. My only unmet expectation of this endeavor was I had hoped and imagined more posted comments. I had dreamed of stimulating deep conversation. I know, I know; very, very unrealistic. And given that my other writing project at the moment is consuming a tremendous amount of time (another type of voice), and learning how to write in yet a completely different voice professionally, I can't commit to my fun "blog" writing daily. So, how could I expect to build a "following."
And that is the funny thing about Jesus. I often think his presence was the key to his deep inner sense of peace and why people were attracted to him in the first place. His grace was so practical, vibrant, deep and sacramental. Handed over daily without effort, like passing the salt around the dinner table. And that is what the gospels suggested on Sunday, that we be salt. Salt has a very interesting history.
Salt is the only rock directly consumed by man. It corrodes but preserves, desiccates but is wrested from the water. It has fascinated man for thousands of years not only as a substance he prized and was willing to labour to obtain, but also as a generator of poetic and of mythic meaning. The contradictions it embodies only intensify its power and its links with experience of the sacred. And Jesus told his disciples to be the salt of the world. But the Morton Salt Co. did not exist back in the first century. When they mined salt from the quarry or pit it was never completely pure.
Occasionally the salt they gathered was so impure that it was not very salty at all.
When that happened they would cast it out the door to harden the pathway that led to their home. What Jesus is saying in these verses is that if we as His followers are going to change the world we have to be pure salt, we have to be the real deal.
Jesus believed that real, authentic presence could change the world.
Our lives cannot be a mixture of impurities. We have to be un-compromised, pure, and authentic. “How do you know how to best invest your life? How do you know what’s wisest and where’s wisest and who’s neediest and who needs salt? And then I read this parable and it made me think.
Salt is the only rock directly consumed by man. It corrodes but preserves, desiccates but is wrested from the water. It has fascinated man for thousands of years not only as a substance he prized and was willing to labour to obtain, but also as a generator of poetic and of mythic meaning. The contradictions it embodies only intensify its power and its links with experience of the sacred. And Jesus told his disciples to be the salt of the world. But the Morton Salt Co. did not exist back in the first century. When they mined salt from the quarry or pit it was never completely pure.
Occasionally the salt they gathered was so impure that it was not very salty at all.
When that happened they would cast it out the door to harden the pathway that led to their home. What Jesus is saying in these verses is that if we as His followers are going to change the world we have to be pure salt, we have to be the real deal.
Jesus believed that real, authentic presence could change the world.
Our lives cannot be a mixture of impurities. We have to be un-compromised, pure, and authentic. “How do you know how to best invest your life? How do you know what’s wisest and where’s wisest and who’s neediest and who needs salt? And then I read this parable and it made me think.
There are four Americans digging in the rubble in Hati after the earthquake. “So in this parable, the Christians start digging. And after several hours, they get out three Haitians: one dies of cholera, one straight up takes off without time for Jesus or thank you ma’am or nothing and only one’s kneeled down to help.”
“So then the parable has all the American Christians stop digging and have a meeting. Reasses. Are we doing this wrong? Are we being wise stewards here? Maybe we jumped in here too fast and need a better plan?”
“So the Christians have all this talk of stewardship and timing and plans and politics — all amidst the cries of people who are actually dying under the rubble…”
So sometimes it is the waiting to decide what to do that prevents anything from being done. Saving the world isn't all that hard I think. Jesus left twelve fishermen who were dysfunctional at best and not exactly loyal to be salt. Just twelve. So being a little salt is easy. Just decide who needs your love most right now. Who needs to lay a burden down. Who needs a hug? The world is full of hurting people and we can fix it by passing around a little salt. Pass the salt please.Then one American Christian bends down and begins the work again of freeing those who are trapped. He works frantically with energy, passion and tears.The others look at him for a moment and then one asks him, “Brother, where have you found this energy for the task? Are you sure you know what you are doing?”“Don’t you see, loved ones? My heart is trapped beneath this rubble, too. We are all in danger if we do not respond to this need. We are all in grave danger – those who are below the rubble and those who stand above….My witness before the throne of Jesus lies beneath this rubble.”
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Here's mud in your eye
I began a new job this week. Full disclosure: Not since my first nursing job have I felt this overwhelmed and I doubt that I have ever had this much of a “deer in the headlights” look. First, there is the new vocabulary. Thankfully, I love words. There are two new software systems I need to master. Thankfully, all of my new colleagues are learning one of the two at the same time as I. I need to set up a new office. Since my last office was my car, I feel a little pressure to get the look right. I did have my own office about 8 years ago and for some reason “space” just wasn’t that important to me at the time. I have transitioned back to full time. Gratefully, I have done this a couple of times before. I am back again to dressing is street clothes as nurses call them. That means I have to take a little more time on personal grooming in the mornings. I have done this too. (Taking time to dress before I leave the house). Scrubs do have an advantage. But I love change. Change energizes me. I love mastering knew information. Learning energizes me. I heard someone say today, “If you don’t learn something new every day, you just didn’t try.” How true. New medical term for the day, (and actually I learned about 100 today, this is just the only one I can recall), moyamoya disease. If you are dying to know what that is and how it can possibly kill you, text me. Yes, it is rare and typically has a chromosomal component. No, none of my readers known to me are at serious risk. I am also for the first time in my career actually getting paid to find the deeper story and write about it. And I love a story, especially a deep, complex layered one. I have always been the nurse who “knew the rest of the story,” but have never really actually been financially compensated for it.
Healing people has always fascinated me. I suppose I am one of those people who believe healing is far more miraculous and far more dependent on God than the Westernized, modern, highly technical world wants to give it. And though this means people are living longer, although not necessarily healthier lives, healing is still a mystery.
Today, in the Daily Office, we read about my favorite healing miracle. It is the craziest thing. Jesus uses mud and spit to restore blind man’s sight. I have no idea why the gospel writer chose to tell this particular healing miracle. We are given details of about 35 healing miracles in the canonical gospels, although the gospel writer of John seems to imply there were countless more. So, I don’t think Jesus was trying to prove the efficacy of mud and spit. I don’t think Jesus was trying to provoke the religious cultural leaders of the day. Making mud and healing on the Sabbath are forbidden. Although he did. I don’t think Jesus was trying to prove he was sent by God. Who else uses mud and spit to heal? And I don’t think Jesus was trying to model a compassionate response. And certainly we need to remind about compassion again and again and again. I wonder sometimes if Jesus wasn’t trying to teach us again and again and again how the most disabling force in the entire world is our own limiting beliefs. The greatest disability in the world isn’t blindness, deafness, cancer or even a terminal illness. It is not believing that your ordinary life can make a significant difference in the world.
Spit and love have a lot in common. Everybody can make dirt into mud by spitting and everybody can love. You don’t need dirt to love. Everybody can love. Love is the greatest healing force in the world. The greatest people in the world were all disabled in one way or another. What they had in common was their ability to love to use that love to change the world.
Love on purpose and it will rock your world. Love the person you don’t think you can. Love the person who doesn’t love you back. Love the person who isn’t going to thank you, praise you or even need you. Love the person who doesn’t even know you love them. Love sacrificially. If mud and spit restores sight, love will heal your world. The good news, the gospel message is this a a qutie simply this: We all can love and therefore we can all heal. That was what Jesus was saying. Loving is a simple as spitting in the dirt.
All is grace and grateful and joyful and thankful for September blessings…
The space between goodbye
Rooms cool enough for sweaters
Rain upon rain upon rain
New beginnings
Smiles
New books
Watching movies with friends
The mysterious space of intimacy
The space between friends
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