Why finding a church home is a lot a bad blind date...

First he poked me and then he leaned over and is very, very quite hushed whisper of a voice said, "I think she might be crazy."  Before I could even whisper back because frankly I was speechless and (I know all of my friends find that hard to believe), he says, "I know, 'Bless her heart and Pray for her.' "  At that moment I could  not think of anything better to say except whisper, "If I tell you to dive under the pew...DIVE!"  I am have been a nurse 25 years, half my life. This little experience has reminded me that really people shock the heck out me on a daily basis. This was one of those people and one of those days.

Looking for a church home I have discovered is a lot like finding the perfect guy after divorce or anytime for that matter.  One probably  needs therapy to survive both and you are going to have to go on a lot of bad dates.  I have found great shoes help in both cases.  And always, always have an exit strategy in both situations, you just never know.  And stay prayed up.  Stay prayed up.

So, back to the story.  We had been dating this church for about 3 weeks and I just can't come up with a better verb.   It was on the third date we met her.  First there were a couple of small red flags that this probably was not a match made in heaven but she definitely sealed the deal.  The little tiny red flag that bothered my recovering fundamentalist brain was drinking Starbucks during the worship service in the sanctuary.  Just a bit.  But I was willing to that go.  OK and the whole coming and going and coming and going during worship service to get more coffee and bagels really played with my lapsed Methodist heart but I really was trying not to judge.  (It was only a 90 min. service - surely one can go without caffeine for that long).

OK back to her.  She very nicely raised her hand in the middle of the service (and my Wesley scholar friend knows that played with head!).   It was not in the order of service and  it was not open prayer request time. We had already prayed the Lord's prayer which was nicely projected behind the altar.  It was right before the sermon.  She asked if she could come forward and share a testimony.  Well, of course the pastor said yes.  I guessing about five minutes into it, he had wished he had said um, "maybe at the next fellowship meal."  I am real sure about 10 minutes into the testimony he was either praying or trying to think of a graceful way to make her sit down or he was utterly speechless like me.  I am guessing since she finished her testimony (and I use that term VERY LOOSELY), he was speechless. 

So, she had a really great jacket on and looked very professional.  And I have enough Baptist in my blood to know what a testimony is.  She reads this very distressing passage from Psalms about God smiting the enemy and going down to Sheol and all that.  I thought,well THIS IS DIFFERENT. My experience had taught me that testimony were about God doing good things and deliverance and praising God. Clearly, I had been mistaken.   She begins by saying that God called her to this church to work and serve and she really did not want to come at all.  In fact she said she had been at this church for 15 years and had hated every minute of it.  She said she felt everyone judged her, that no one included her, that they were staring at her during praise and worship and thinking horrible things about her. Did I mention she was on staff?  Yep. She was.  She said every morning she came to work at the church she told God how much she hated it.  She said she couldn't understand why others were so happy there and enjoyed the fellowship and were growing.  She said she couldn't even understand what about the church attracted others and how anybody grew there.  She said she begged God to tell her to leave.  She said God kept telling her to stay.  

OK, I have to pause here and say my psych rotation in nursing school taught me one thing and one thing only,  besides we are all a little crazy.   And it is this.  You really only need to fear the crazy people who SAY GOD IS TELLING THEM TO DO SOMETHING.  If they think they are talking to aliens, dead people, trees or whatever they are not going to become violent.  BUT, religious fanatics that is a whole different ball game. 

It was at this point I began to see if it was at all possible she had a gun under that very nice jacket or perhaps a bomb hidden in that very pretty Bible.  Frankly, if I were the pastor I would have probably tackled her.  This tirade went on for about 15 minutes.  She finished it by saying she was fighting with God and she was going to win.  She also said she still hated it and had been suicidal over the whole ordeal but she wasn't moving.  She warned everyone to beware of fighting with God.

So, you are probably wondering at what point did we run out the back door.  Well, we stayed for the sermon. I mean what else could top that?  And besides I really thought we were going to like hold hands and pray over her or something or perhaps they cast demons out at this church. And I really wanted to see that. She was sitting in the front of the sanctuary so I could keep my eye on her for any sudden movements.  I really can not recall what the sermon topic was, just that it wasn't from the lectionary.  As if that should have surprised my high Protestant worship style.  I really can't recall what the pastor said after she sat down.  I did consider briefly telling her after the service that mental health professionals could help and I would be happy to assist her in finding help particularly with the whole suicidal ideation thing.  But I decided to run with my family in tow, out the back door.  We didn't even look over our shoulders in case the pillar of salt warning was in effect. 

We get in the car.  My husband can be the master of understatement and he rarely comments on anything spiritual.  So I fell over laughing when he said, "Well God might not be telling her to leave but I know He is telling us never to come back."  My son said, "Does she really believe she is going to win a fight with God?  Really?!?" 

So where is the moment of grace in all of this.  Well it was thus far the worst of our church dates.  We still are searching for a church home.  And no, I did not make this up.  It really  happened. 

I have learned  a lot  about Mother Church on our sojourn.  There are no wounds like church wounds and nothing cuts any deeper. And you are not meant to live the spiritual life alone.  The spiritual life is meant to be lived in community.   Mother Church is a place of refuge, healing and peace BUT sadly many church goers would rather defend the building, defend the programs, defend ink on a page, defend themselves than consider perhaps another way. 

And God and His Church really don't need a defense attorney.

 It is the people who are on the outside in the homeless shelters, in the prisons, trying to recover from addiction, suffering from loss, or just lost in the parking lot who desperately need to see Jesus.  They are more in need of the Church's protection and love than those on the inside.  The Church was not created to exist for Herself.  The Church was never meant to be a place of harm, a place of wounding and it was never meant to be so hard to get into.  But it is made up of humans and humans can at times be a discouraging lot to work with.  BUT I also know The Church was God's plan to reach a hurting world.  There is not a plan B. WE ARE THE PLAN.  All of us, even the crazy, even the wounded, even the scarred, even the young, even the old, even the mixed up, even the "heretics", even the eccentrics, even the traditionalists, even the post moderns are the ones who can change the world.

And I suppose that is why I journey, still search, still hope, still try and still believe that Mother Church is worth the risk.  Will I find my way back home someday?  I really don't know. Life from the edges of the Church is lonely, but a lot of good stuff happens out here in the wilderness.   A lot  of good stuff.  Prayers for all my friends who struggle with Church.  Prayers for all my friends who haven't found a Church yet.  Prayers for all my friends who labor in and outside the Church. 

Still hoping and believing in the Church and knowing God wins in the end,

Kathleen

Holy Communion - Our Own Story Tree

No scars. No story. No life. - An Afghanistan refugee

We are our stories.  Our lives are composed in time and experience.  We understand our lives not as events that are not related but "in terms of narrative."  We tell our stories in order to live.  A psychologist who was working with the refugees immediately following the genocide in Rwanda, found that the women of the camp were not sleeping.  The psychologist was struck by just how very quiet these camps were.  The refugees were almost silent.  They were safe from harm, but could not sleep.  The psychologist learned that these women who had witnessed atrocities such as the murder and rape of children and family members, had been told by camp officials not to speak of it in the camp.  Given the deep trauma these women had encountered, they obeyed without question.  The memories still haunted them.  The psychologist set up a story tree.  It was a safe place outside the camp, where the women could come and speak of their experience.  At first no one came, but gradually scores were gathering to share and listen to their tales of grief, loss, horror, fear and death.  Soon the women were sleeping  (From Mighty Stories by Herbert Anderson).

As people of faith understanding our story in relation to God's story is essential.  Story telling makes us human and vulnerable. 

Today in many churches, Holy Communion was celebrated.  We often think of remembering The Passion of Christ on this occasion.  We often think and remember the sacrifice of Jesus.  We interpret this sacrifice as atonement for sin and marks the defining moment of God's grace and life.   This is all true. 

But what if we also told our story?  What if we dared to show our scars?  What if we dared to make ourselves vulnerable?

Isn't that what Jesus did?  He dared to make himself vulnerable, he dared to make himself humble, he dared to tell His Story, he dared to show His scars and in doing so He gave us....

LIFE.

Imagine for one moment...

Gathering around that tree...OUR STORY TREE...and telling our story.  Sharing our scars with God.  Telling God just how scared we are,  just how tired we are, just how thirsty we are, just how hungry we are, just how lost we are, just how broken we are, just how needy we are and we just need to know...is God small enough to care and to listen? 

We know all the stories of how God hid a ram in the thicket, how God spoke in a burning bush, how God closed the mouths of lions, how God killed a giant with a river rock, how God crumbled the walls of Jericho, how God parted the Red Sea, and how the Israelite's shoes never wore out,  and how God gave Jesus and we believe those stories. 

But do we ever asked God to hear ours?  Do we ever asked God to witness ours?  Do we ever ask God to feel ours?  Do we ever just sit under the tree and tell God just how broken we are and how desperate we are for grace?  Or do we think that God is too big to hear, care or respond. God longs to hear our stories, to share our scars, to wrap arms of love around us and to remind us we are part of the larger story.  God longs to show us our place in His story. 

Here is where life begins...by sharing our story.  Here is where we start to sleep peacefully again.  The scars are still there.  We still remember.  We still hurt.  We still grieve.  We still feel the loss.  BUT instead of silence of our pain we hear the beautiful song of LIFE...

When we share our story under that tree...we find

LIFE.

Praying all my friends tell their stories,

Kathleen

Play It Again

Right at creation, God blessed not a place or a thing, but a day and made it holy, a whole string of moments. Time is always the most consecrated.
 Ann Voskamp

I am always trying to slow time.  Life rushes by us so quickly and we remember very little of it.  So very little. Lately, I have been challenged to commit to paper little things I call glimpses of grace.  I challenged myself to commit to 1000 a year.   It really slows time down for a second and reminds me  what is so very important in life. The moment. I read a book last year, One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp.  I was so moved by that book that I have given at least 25 copies away.  It is so much more than remembering to be grateful, it is a way to slow time down. 

Grace  #175  I am new to this whole blogging thing, and many things do not show up  as I have edited them so I hope you forgive my learning curve.  As I re read them, it reminds me again and of course I find the errors and think, how did I not see that? And then here's the grace part...perfection is so over rated. 

But...every once in a while...

you have one of those moments.  They come one at a time, no interruptions, no text message to answer, no cell phone ring, no child screaming for attention or having some other meltdown, no dinner to make, no crisis to attend to, no racing thoughts...and you fold that last piece of laundry, you put that last dish away, you toss one extra baseball to your son, you lay in the floor and play dolls with your daughter,  you actually smell the rosemary in the air, you see the leaf swirling down to the ground, you see each crystal snowflake fall softly and you can hear the quiet, the yellow on the finch is the brightest ever, the hummingbird turns and smiles, you feel that deep,deep soul connection in a stranger's eyes, you re-read your favorite book...
Not often but every once in a while time seems to stand still and you have one of those moments that you are content.  You have enough.  You do something just for the sheer joy of it.

It is those moments, those once in a while moments that we need to pause and say Grace...We pause and we see ourselves as who we are.  No matter how little or how grand those moments we see ourselves at our absolute best-grounded, no ulterior motive, no self deception, no pretending, nothing to prove...
We finally see the person in us who loves to run barefoot in the grass, who loves to swim naked in the lake, who loves to lick ice cream off their wrist, who loves to dance, who loves to sing at the top of their lungs. This is us. Who we are meant to be.
These moments can not stay, they are fleeting and we must let them go to see the next moment and the next moment. Be fully present to your life and give thanks for it.

All of life is holy...make it so.

Enjoy your weekend my dearest friends,
Kathleen

Your Mom Was Right - Don't Forget to Brush Your Teeth

I am on my best days a failure at prayer.  The prayers I managed to say usually are HELP! THANKS! and Jesus what the $#@!!   The occurs particularly when someone someone cuts in front of me in the Subway Line or I encounter someone who fallen off their road rage recovery plan. But have you ever prayer for your teeth?  I know I have not.  I have been known to pray over my shoes, my hair, baseball games, tests, my cat.  A long time ago I used to pray for the characters of Dallas, particularly when Bobby and  Pam were having problems.  Just ask my old college room ate Mae how concerned I was with Bobby and Pam.  I pray over my beef tenderloin I fix at Christmas but never my teeth.

This got me to thinking just how important are teeth to God.  He numbers the hairs on our head but I don't think he counts our teeth. So I Googled it.  There are no less than 25 references to teeth in the Old Testament (I got tried of searching after 25).  Every reference refers to tearing out teeth, breaking teething, gnashing of teeth, ripping out teeth, you get the idea.  Not one reference that God is big fan of teeth. Now I know I am taking great liberty with the scripture but bear with me.  

I collect prayer books,  37 last count. It has to do with my whole failing prayer thing.  I flipped through today hoping to find a prayer on teeth but no such luck.  There were prayers for pets, pestilence, famine, sword, house, adopting babies, sending kids off to college, trees, fishing,  (well that is obvious we Jesus being such of fan of fish sandwiches and all), going to sleep, waking up, taking naps, preparing meals, water, sickness, peace on earth, safety, baptisms, people who are in recovery, people who are divorced, widowed, planting gardens and raking up leaves.  You get  the idea.  But not one regarding teeth.  Not one.

To be honest I never thought about my teeth until about 10 am yesterday.  I lost a filling in November and it cracked yesterday.  I guess I should mentioned I am terrified of the dentist.  I don't know if you can have Dental PTSD but I think I may have it.  It didn't really hurt that bad at first but I knew it would have to be tended too.  At 2 pm I called my son's dentist.  We had just been there that morning.  I asked for an appointment.  I know she rolled her eyes.  I know she was thinking not her -hyper woman- not her- the great canceller.  My appointment is for 10 am Monday. 

By 4 pm it was throbbing like nothing I had ever felt before...not even birth and I am think I would have rather given birth.  I had taken about 4000 mg of Tylenol and 800 mg of Naproxen and even made a paste of Aspirin to cover my tooth with.  It so was not working. So I google toothaches and found out the most amazing information. 

There is something called clove oil that you can put on the tooth for pain relief but don't let it touch your mouth or you have to call Poison Control.  I knew that sounded risky but at this point I would do anything.  I also found an emergency dental kit at Wallgreens (and they were not pleasant at all and I had to resort to my third prayer).

By six pm my jaw is a little swollen. I am rinsing it every two hours with salt water and hydrogen peroxide and the clove oil is working.

When I woke up this morning I had grown a third head on my jaw.  My face was huge.  It was so  huge it had pushed those little hormone hairs out where I could see them and pluck them.  I went to work. They took one look at me and sent me to Employee Health.  The nurse felt so sorry for me she ran to grab the doctor.  She said, "That is the worse abscess I have ever seen."  "First your not going back to work.  Second we are putting you on heavy doses of antibiotics and third you have got to have some Vicodin."  I was in no position to argue.

prayed about my teeth.  I am not sure it is publishable or appropriate for the Book of Common Prayer.  I am sending it to the Archbishop. 

Creator God maker of heaven  and earth and creator of teeth...
Help me to release the fear of dentist
Cover me with your peace (particularly my tooth) that I can tolerate the pain
Bless toothpaste, dental floss, hydrogen peroxide, clove oil, Keflex and Vicodin.
Keep the dentist hands steady Monday and my breathing calm. 
Remind me that you care for all mundane situations we face everyday - even teeth. 
Thank you for laughing with me, praying with  me and just plain shaking your head over this.

All is grace.  Amen.

Kathleen


Have a refreshing weekend and may you see God in all the mundane areas of your life my kindest friends.  I am humbly grateful for you support.  Find great shoes, floss and make room for Life..

Breathing Lessons

Breathing is a Lenten discipline. Really. Simple breathing. One could commit to that for 40 days and be a changed person, however if you fail Lent as regularly as I do, you would be restarting this practice about every 15 minutes. 

Honestly, I am a bit of mess but then my friends know that already.  I am a bit of an imperfect perfectionist.  I am a bit of a task oriented, goal oriented, control freak kind of a person.

My house is always a mess, my laundry basket never empty, my to do list never done, I have an unfinished degree in religion, am two classes shy of completing my BSN, (it only took 25 years to complete that!), always losing my car keys, always fifteen minutes behind schedule and quite exhausted at the end of any given day.  But if you are anything like me, it probably describes your life too.  But it is really ok, because in the midst of all this is a one very ordinary, holy life that has been lived well with grace always orchestrating the whole mess.

None of these attributes are necessarily negative and during my work hours come in quite handy. Except for about three weeks ago and then this imperfect, goal oriented, way too much on her plate, exhausted gal fell flat on her face. LITERALLY.  Well actually it was kind of on my back but that is just a tiny detail. And as my one of  my favorite nurse buddy muses..."You just can't make this *&!@ up."
At least, now that my pride has recovered I can laugh about it.


I am in the midst of completing my BSN.  For some insane reason, (and my nurse friends who have gone before me in pursuit of higher education will attest to this), I decided to complete the two year program in 12 months.  Seriously.  I felt as if I was running out of time.  I have never been a very good runner (sweating vey hard just isn't my cup of tea - I gave that up one Lent shortly after I gave birth-sweating not tea). I have never even attempted much less completed a 13.1 or 5K or run anywhere farther than across a parking lot or down the grocery store aisle while chasing my son when he was two.  I let his dad play all the outdoor games.  I focused more on quiet times like naps, more naps and finger painting. I  must digress here a minute.
I just learned what a 13.1 was. I had been seeing these buttons and bumper stickers with that logo all over the place.  I thought is was some secret scripture or a radio station.  For those of you who don't know and probably everyone but me does, a 13.1 is a half marathon.  Who knew?


So since May of last year I have completed 40 semester hours of course work.  Crazy, huh?  I am now 8 hours from completion! Yeah!  I also decided last May to change jobs.  I thought I needed a little less stress in my life. So, I left hospice nursing and joined the Catheter Care Team.  (Clarification-this involves blood not urine).  I never read the fine writing and always assume everything is way easier than it really is, so when I was told I would be taking a Chemotherapy/Biotherapy Course for two weeks this month, I  thought, "game on!" How hard can one class be?  Turns out - pretty, damn hard.  I won't bore you with the cirruculum details here, but suffice it to say it involved cellular biology, pharmacology, cancer biology, the nuts and bolts of bone marrow and stem cell transplant and two textbooks. Two full weeks to absorb a career worth of knowledge.  My brain sponge is saturated.

And I was eating about 6 Subway peanut butter cookies a day.  At one point, a stranger found me outside the Subway, slumped over my steering wheel, sobbing.  He knocked on my car window and asked, "Miss- are you ok?"  Through my sobs I managed to choke out..."Yes,  I am fine, they are just out of cookies."  He looked puzzled for a minute and asked, "Can I do anything to help you?"  I said, "Unless you happen to be an oncologist who has about 40 spare hours to tutor me OR a former Navy Seal who would like to go on a search and destroy mission...probably not."  I was thinking it might be reasonable to destroy my instructor's computer and all materials related to testing.  I think he was glad when I wiped the tears from my mascara stained face and said, "You are so kind, but really I will be ok."


First test was open book and I scored an 89.  An 89 on an open book test!  My friend who loves shoes said, "Are you kidding me?" She wasn't drinking that day.  I was enjoying every drop of that Cosmopolitin and it was only 11 am.  Second test - 76 and it was just mathmatical calculations.  OK it did require that way expensive calculator I bought my son for math and I did fail Algebra II in high school, but really??!!??  I forgot to mention I needed cummulative average of an 80 to pass and one very small important fact - my employer was insistent that I pass.  The third test I scored a 51. Yep. A 51.  I think you can see where this is going,  I would need a 97 on the final to pass the course and clearly that wasn't happening. I would like to say that this is where I forgot to breathe, but looking back I probably haven't been breathing since November. 


Here is where I landed on my back and it probably saved my life again.  I am the kind of character who needs saving about twice a day. 

I have been a nurse about 25 years and have seen, smelled, touched, stepped on, heard about, watched some pretty gross and horrific stuff.  Right now I am remember a particular incident involving maggots.  BUT, I have only passed out once.  I had been scrubbed for two hours, hadn't eaten breakfast, was sweating profusely and wearing about 15 pounds of lead.  I get a pass on that one.

My instructor walks around the corner and says very kindly, "Kathleen, can we talk?"  I thought -"Guessing I didn't make that 97 I was hoping for."  When she handed me the test and to be honest who can read that much red...I think I might have stopped breathing a little bit.  Her version is that I continued to talk and plead my case of just how hard I had studied for about 5 minutes and then I just passed out.  Funny thing is I don't remember anything past "Guess I didn't get that 97."  Not one moment do I remember till I am being loaded on a stretcher headed to the ER. 

As usual, I didn't shave my legs that morning, I mean it wasn't Friday night and I wasn't planning on wearing a bathing suit anytime soon.  I wore socks that had holes in them and yes your mama was right - always wear your best socks and underwear.  The EMT was a friend.  He whispered in my ear, "Honey, could you be pregnant?"  I answered, "If I am pregnant at my age, I have got way more  problems than passing out!"

6  hours and one emergency room visit complete with full neuro, cardiac and septic work up, two bags of IV fluid later, the diagnosis - passing out.  Number one cause for passing out - holding your breath.  Suffice it to say the ER physcian thought it was best I not work for a few days and regroup. Suffice it also to say I am the only person that had passed out due to this class.

Breathing...just breathing...

We sometimes forget the simple act of breathing.  The word breath is derived from the Latin root spiro- which means spirit. To live the spiritual life implies breathing.

God breathed life into man...
Jesus offered his breath to God on the cross...
Jesus breathed on his disciples after the resurrection...
Life comes from breath...

And yet we forget to breathe...We rush...We hurry...We worry...We toss and turn...and the simple act of breathing and returning to that breath reminds us whose we are...where we come from...and who we can be...

It is possible that breathing...really breathing...and focusing on that breath...is the most spiritual act of all...

May you be reminded that the very breath of God is in your soul, your body, your being...and do we really need anymore than that?

Table Talk

Personally, I think about my shoes.  Obviously when asked the question today, "What do you tell your children you think about during communion?" - I didn't blurt out that random thought or even raise my hand to share.  I hate small discussion groups.  Being an introvert by nature, it is a challenge for me to be a group participant to say the least.  I have also noticed that the random thoughts that pop into my head during such endeavors are irreverent and probably do not represent any well thought out theology.  I am not sure why I am attending this Lenten study.  Maybe because I pass no less than three Subways one my way to the church and I like to challenge myself. 

I have a girlfriend who shares my passion for great shoes.  We are both certain that given a great pair of shoes and white blouse we could save the world.  We both share the same opinion that we absolutely must have every great pair of shoes we see and that there is really no limit on how many white blouses or little black dresses hang in our closets.  Clearly, I need to work on the whole spiritual discipline of simplicity.  But I am a character that is always in need of redemption and is surprised everyday with glimpses of grace. 

I envy my girlfriend's shoes and those her daughters wear.  I would look forward every Sunday morning just to see what shoes her children were wearing.  I have a son and the most excited he ever gets about shoes are new cleats.  I do have a very strong opinion that white cleats look ridiculous on baseball players.  Unfortunately his coach does not share my fashion sense.

Back to the question.  "What do I tell my son I think about during communion?"  To be very honest I worry about my shoes.  When my son was about three or four I just worried about wrestling him back into his shoes as we walked down the aisle. 

One Sunday I was wearing a brand new pair of  t-strap pumps.  I loved those shoes.  They were turquoise.  I found them on the sale rack at Marshall's and they were Italian designer shoes.  I knelt at the altar that day and tried desperately to think on Jesus, grace, forgiveness, redemption instead of what I was going to fix for lunch.  Funny, I am sitting at the table, starving, thirsty and desperate and manna is being offered for the taking and I almost walk away hungry, having satisfied my self with a few crumbs. 

As I stood up, the strap broke on my new pumps.  Once again God in his infinite mercy saw fit to grab my attention.  It was as if He whispered in my ear, "Please sit back down, take time to taste your food. Swallow slowly otherwise you might choke and remember this isn't a drive through." Given that I almost completely fell over, I had no choice. As I tried to gracefully kneel back down at the altar and fix my shoe predicament simultaneously , I felt it and heard it.  A hand was on my head as if to hold me in place for just a moment.  The hand had a voice. The hand was real (it was the pastor's), the words they were real but I am not sure who spoke them.  Now, I never can claim to have heard God's voice before, but that day, well I am not sure.  The voice said, "Be still..." 

It kind of hit me in the face then...Bread of life...Water that quenches every thirst...Jesus was barefoot at Passover...He took his time...He was a slow eater...He took time to wash feet...He made sure everyone took their shoes off...It was to be the last time he would be with them...and he had a lot to say...Words that would be food and drink...Words that offered hope...new life...He prayed for them....

I would like to say I am still at every communion and that I always drink the last drop and eat the last crumb, but I don't.  I would like to say I have given up my love of great shoes for some more worthy spiritual practice.  But I haven't.  I am forgetful and need reminding again and again...Today I was reminded about what I think about...shoes...

May you find grace in every moment even the mundane and realize that God can use anything to speak...even Italian leather pumps...

All really is grace my friends.  It really is.

Giving Up

The bottom fell out. The temperature had fallen 15 degrees in 30 minutes.  The weather is not predictable. What began as hopeful, early spring day was ending in a downpour. Clouds rolled in heavy and black.  Rain was falling in sheets. Thunder and lightening.  He came running off the ball field, drenched, splattered in red North Carolina clay.  He threw his bat bag in the trunk.  He jumped in the front seat gulping Gatorade.  And then he paused...By now I should know that a deep thought that only a thirteen year old can have is about to be verbalized...but it still catches me off guard.
  "So, mom what did you give up for Lent?"  To be honest I fail at Lent.  I had considered giving up peanut butter cookies from Subway and yes this would be a sacrifice for me.  I eat about 3 a day at work.  They know me by name at the Subway at the hospital.  They fix my order before I ask.  Peanut butter cookies are my addiction.  If the day is real, real stressful, I have been known to eat 6. 
I guess I should clarify at this point.  I am a nurse on an oncology unit.  I remember when I graduated from nursing school two decades ago, I asked my head nurse, "Can I expect to cry everyday?"  Her reply, "Honey, sometimes twice." Being an ugly crier I had to think of something to blunt the emotional toil nursing takes.  I have changed my emotional food addictions over my career from coffee to Twinkies, coffee again to Payday candy bars, back to coffee again to peanut M&Ms.  I became caffeine free about 7 years ago.  About 6 years ago I found peanut butter cookies from Subway.  You get my point. 
So, when my son asked the question, I immediately responded peanut butter cookies.  It was the fourth day of Lent, I had already eaten 6 peanut butter cookies.  Thus far, I was failing Lent.  Then he asked another question.  "Well mom, what is the point of that?  Does God care if you eat peanut butter cookies?  Wouldn't God rather you do something that means something?"
How do kids do that?  How do they manage in just a few words to cut to the quick, expose you and your need to be saved again and again from ourselves?  I suspect it has something to do with their ability to be blatantly honest.  They haven't learned the fine art of illusion just yet.  They haven't learned how to wear masks just yet or to cover up all their flaws, their messes, their fears, their shortcomings.  I am not sure when one begins to learn the art of illusion but it takes a lifetime to unlearn it.
"Well, son, I suppose you are right. God really doesn't care what I eat.  But, the purpose behind giving up something for Lent is to replace it with a spiritual discipline of some sort.  The purpose really is to take something up that will make you grow and sometimes that is just hard to do."
"Well, that stinks," he said.  "I haven't given anything up yet, but I want to.  I am already four days late. My friend told me today he is giving up Mountain Dew and my other friend said he was giving up Face book.  I am pretty sure God doesn't expect that."
"Oh and by the way Mom, what did Jesus give up for Lent?"
And I always fall into the trap just about here.  I began to give him a lovely explanation of the tradition of Lent going back to the sixth century.  After my 10 minute explanation of ancient Christian practices, he stops me mid sentence.
"So basically what you are saying, Jesus gave up his life so we could make room in our life for more life."
My stomach knotted up.  Tears welled up in my eyes and threatened to fall down.  Where are those cookies when I need them?  How simple that was.  How simple.  Giving up life to have life.  Giving up things to have life and have life abundantly.  And it is so simple a 13 year old understands it. Lent means life.
"You know Mom, I think for Lent I will learn scripture. Wouldn't that work?  I can do that  once a week. Isn't that like giving up?  I mean I would have to give up about 30 minutes to learn it.  But let's start out very short.  Not too hard. And how many weeks are there?"  
I almost began the metaphorical explanation again but I stopped short.  Just 6 weeks.
Redeeming time to have more life.  Learning the word of life to have more life.
We continued our drive home, laughing at the wind and the rain, and the mud.  I can't think of better way to spend Lent.  Giving up life to have more life.  And I still get to keep the peanut butter cookies. 

May you have life and life abundantly kindest friends.