And Then She Had Another Good Cry

The feedback from my last blog entry has been phenomenal. Thank you, thank you. Your encouragement and grace has been a balm for my weary spirit. I found myself awake last night at 3:00 or so (after my fifth trip to the bathroom) writing blog entries in my head again, something which hasn't happened as often, but seems to have returned (of course I was too lazy to walk downstairs and get my laptop...but rest assured, the laptop will be within easy reach if the insomniac fairy strikes again tonight.)

The bottom line I suppose is...I'm just going to keep writing, and sorting through feelings, and trust that if someone doesn't want to read, they just won't read. Who knows where the Spirit will lead us.

[I just wrote a whole paragraph here about the fatigue factor and the seasicknessy queasies, etc, etc, and somehow accidentally erased it, or the mystery of the blogging universe somehow deemed it unaccepatable...so imagine it here...moan, whine, moan, thankfulness for it not being worse, sigh...there, it's as if it was never gone.]

This evening I took a tepid bath (pregnancy tip: the pregnancy gurus are not so keen on those scalding hot baths I really like...) with some sweet smelling bubble bath (or, it was sweet smelling until I became a little green at the thought and smell of all things soapy). I lay in the bathtub, my neck perched against a bath pillow and took a few deep breaths, and then out of nowhere began to sob. I cried and cried, biting a washcloth to keep from having the girls hear me downstairs.

My tears were nostalgic ones for I realized, in that soapy abyss some of the truths of my existence anew. I come from a long line of women bathers. My grandmother took a bath each night, often with lavender bath oil and I still remember the clean smell and the fogged steaminess of the bathroom on 38th Street after she'd come back out to watch 20/20 with me on Friday nights, trailing talcum powder with each step she took, her hair a little wet on the ends. My mother recently acquired her dream...a whirlpool bathtub where she can soak in her Apricot bath salts until her toes and fingers get pruney. When I was a little girl I would come in and sit on the toilet while my mom took her bath. And it seemed as if our conversations were somehow more sacred as our words reverberated off the tile walls and drowned out the noise of splashing water.

As I lay in the bathtub this evening, with my belly just beginning to poke out from under the bubbles, I thought about this new life I'll usher into the world. I wonder whether she'll be a bather too, or whether he'll make bubble beards on his chin. She or he is another link in the chain, another piece of the genetic puzzle, another step closer to the divine as this world continues to unfold and create itself with the Spirit's urging.

I miss my grandmother. I miss her profoundly. She would have loved this time. She would have loved the waiting and the anticipating and the baby showers and the offering of advice. She loved babies, and she loved me, her baby, with unconditional acceptance. This baby would not exist, in part, without her--not only for the obvious reason, that I would not exist without her--but because the fertility treatments I have undergone have cost money, money which R. and I did not have. Money which was ultimately an inheritance from my grandmother, but given in an act of tremendous generosity from my mother and step-father. If the baby is a girl, her name will be Ella, which is, in addition to being R.'s mother's birth name, a derivation of my grandmother, Ila's name.

At night, the light which shines in our upstairs hallway was the nightlight that shone at my grandparent's house from my earliest memories. I like to imagine her leading me through the darkness, and I recognize that somehow she still surrounds me, as soothing as the water which I soak in every night.

But it doesn't ease the sense of emptiness I sometimes feel at knowing she'll never hold my baby in her arms. And tonight I miss her fiercely.

On Why I Haven't Blogged...

I apologize a million bazillion times for those of you who have sent me personal emails saying, "Uh, excuse me, what's going on?" Because it isn't fair to leave people hanging on a thread in the first trimester of pregnancy. Before I go any further, let me assure you (and myself again) all is well, and like the medieval mystic woman (which one, Hildegard? Julian? Catherine?) said, "And all will be well..." That's sort of my pregnancy mantra.

My reasons for not blogging are myriad. The first is my utter EXHAUSTION (personal aside: in those pregnancy books that you can buy at your local bookstore, those ones with reassuring pictures of duckies and contemplative pregnant women sitting in rocking chairs looking saintly, they, the wise gurus of maternity, talk about how, oh, you may feel a little fatigued in early pregnancy. This is like saying that George W. is a little bit inept as a president. Get the picture?).

But more than the exhaustion, is that I don't know what this blog will be right now. I began writing as an outlet for my spiritual quest as a hospice chaplain, and I'm finding myself feeling a little sheepish at how little attention I feel I have for anything other than our family (those who are here, and he or she who will be arriving in April). And, I don't know how interested this readership is in hearing me wax poetic about the changes which pregnancy is bringing. There's part of me that says, "You know, women have been dropping kids into this world for ever and ever, it's not that revolutionary just because it's you, Christen."

I hesitate about becoming a "Mommy blogger," not because I don't find the blogs of Mom's to be phenomenally insightful and downright hilarious, but perhaps because I don't know if my writing is ever in the league that there's could be (i.e. dooce and amalah, etc.). Or perhaps because this role is still so new to me.

And on the contemplative front, I guess I feel like a contemplative sham. Perhaps I don't think I'm worthy of writing under this title, when I feel as if I have become the anti-contemplative. I'm simply too overwhelmed to do any reflecting.

So, there's my rambling wanderings which I've been playing with in my mind...and it feels better to have them in print. Even if I don't have any answers yet.

Guess I'll Have to Make Shelby An Honest Woman

Because we saw the heart beating today on ultrasound.

I've never seen a more beautiful blob on black and white screen in my life.

And Now I'll Have to Change My Blog Title...

Here's a Jeopardy question for you, the $1000 question in the topic "Overwhelming Encounters."

Q: What is...the event which combines the characteristics of a Spanish Inquisition, a therapy group, a job interview, an ordination committee, a spiritual direction session, and the most intense CPE supervisory session?
A: INTERVIEWS TO QUALIFY FOR BOARD CERTIFICATION AND AFFILIATION WITH THE ASSOCIATION OF PROFESSIONAL CHAPLAINS.

That's right, friends. I spent my morning in a chaplaincy conference room in Indianapolis being interviewed, grilled, understood, challenged, weakened, strengthened, stretched. I was prepared for a grueling experience, but I'm not sure I was aware of how exhausting it could be while six weeks pregnant. I walked into the meeting repeating, "They won't make me cry. I will not cry." And, lo and behold, when challenged on whether or not I "hid behind my words" in my spiritual autobiography, I found myself choking up a bit as I spoke of my reluctance at times to feel secure offering spiritual support to my patients when so often I feel untethered myself. Sometimes, or often, I don't touch that sadness or doubt within. And, well, that's when I had to swallow some tears.

I am not good at allowing myself to be nurtured. This amazing group of chaplains saw through my bullshit, and claimed me as one of their own. They heard my doubts and fears, and named me as worthy. It made me ache, but it challenged me to grow.

Oh, and I now get to add those three magic letters B.C.C. after my name, because the certification committee "passed" me. But moreover, they made me feel not so alone. And that made all the difference.

So am I now the Certified Contemplative Chaplain? Nah...too wordy.

Grumpy, Part Deux

And continuing on from yesterday's post, the one about grumpiness... Here is today's realization.

If you are the peppy activity director at a nursing home, it would be wise for you not to snap and crack your gum in such a way that it irritates the highly sensitive pregnant lady seated three feet to your right, lest she do something with that gum which would render you an identical twin to Dumb Donald in the Fat Albert cartoons. Just a thought.


But really, for all my bitching and moaning and grumping. I am doing well. And I am utterly thankful for doing so well. I promise I'll be back to more routine bloggage soon, and won't become someone who is so utterly transfixed on her pregnancy that she forgets the rest of life. It's just for now, I'm called into a bit of a quieter place...and for some reason I feel as if I've lost any vestige of creativity I once had, so writing feels a bit laborious. God save the poor Huntington congregation which I fear are hearing some mighty shitty sermons of late.

More soon...thanks all, for your prayers and kind words. Even if I am a little testy.

Grumpy

So far, I have very few symptoms of early pregnancy. Which mostly make this hypochondriacal maniac fear she's mere moments away from a miscarriage any moment...as if they'll take away my honorary postitive pregnancy test and say, "Sorry, ma'am there's been a mix-up here." Most people tell me to be thankful that I'm eating like a horse and craving only canned green beans (canned, dammit, they must be canned!) and watermelon. But, I am always wondering, wondering, worrying, wondering.

I do seem to have one clearly discernable symptom of pregnancy though...grumpiness. I am Grumpy (note the capital "G"). Today I had to deal with an asinine nursing home who weren't giving a patient her Ativan on time, and thus the patient was noticeably and understandably edgy and scared. I found myself clenching my fists in rage as I tried to be oh-so-polite to the nurse who was gossiping with her co-workers instead of doing her job and who made my patient wait 50-fucking-minutes despite the daggers I was staring at her across the dining room as I spoon-fed Betty her oatmeal between her panicked sighs. And then, there was the driver who was tailgating me in the Hummer as she talked on her cellphone incessantly. I refrained from giving her the, what I deemed appropriate, gesture. And instead demonstrated my wrath by driving really, really slow in a no-passing zone. Take that, Hummer-Lady! And I won't even go into the fact that my Martha's Vineyard salad at Arby's was lacking in red delicious apple slices. I realized I was muttering under my breath, "Where are the damn apples?" only because my colleague started laughing at me.

All this is to say that hell hath no fury like a newly pregnant woman whose scared out of her mind that she won't stay this way.

And now, dear readers, I'm off to soothe my mind with a bath and a cup of chai. In the meantime, be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

I Know, I Know

I know...I've been quiet. So distant. You must ask, "Is it something I said?" I drop important news on you in a cryptic way and then am so silent...

Sorry. All is well. Just contemplative. Lots to digest this week.

Forgive me for not talking more about the big news that we dare not name. I promise in time I will spill all the "he saids" and "she saids" and details of the drama that is unfurling even as we speak within my body, but it still is just so early. And I am such a nervous Nellie that I worry about "jinxing" it by saying more. Once we hit that golden milestone, or hear that first heartbeat perhaps it'll feel more comfortable to write freely.

So...I hold hope. And I marvel at feeling so good.

Thank you all for your kind messages and greetings. You calm me and nourish me with your words.

Other big news at Chez P-M. The dog got a new middle name. Every year it has become a habit in our family, I believe a tradition gleaned from another branch of R.'s family, to add a middle name to the dachshund's already elaborate title. It's sort of a rite of passage. She will officially be crowned with the full name of "Maisie May Weinerschnitzel Butt-whirler Frito Feet Pettite Miller." The newest name aquired for the penchant she has of smelling as if she just tiptoed through a bag of corn chips. And you're wondering how it is I've kept this news from you for so long!?!

I promise more bloggage this week. I'm just now getting my brains back after a week long mind lapse as I sat in slack-jawed wonder meditating on how much has changed in one week's time.

Annunciation

"Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her."
--Luke 1:45

Cautiously, gently I say, "Thanks be to God."

Futher proof that I need a child...

And these words were spoken and heard in my house tonight.

Conversation (or rather admonition) recorded at 7:56 p.m. on Strathdon Drive:

Contemplative Chaplain: Moses! Moses, STOP IT! No...Moses...quit messing with Mommy's hope...(30 second pause)...Moses. Leave Mommy's hope alone. Leave it. Moses! (Loud hissing noise made by me)...Moses. You are a bad, bad boy for messing with my hope. That's Mommy's hope, that's not your hope.

Explanation: On Monday I decided it would behoove me to have a few more visual cues to represent my need to hold hope when I feel desolate. To that end, I bought several beautiful polished stones with the word "hope" etched into them. I've placed them in strategic places...above the sink where I can see it washing dishes...on my worship center in my sanctuary...next to my bed...by my computer...on my desk at the office...

The problem is that Moses, my gray-and-white spitfire of a cat believes that these stones were created especially for him as cat-styled hockey pucks to knock down with his white paws at random and try to scoot across the floor.

Hope, apparently isn't hard to come by when you're a 20lb. tomcat. All you have to do is knock it around a bit.

On Not Crying

I don't cry. Not so much. I gave up crying that day in March of 2005 when, after not being able to stop crying for 6 weeks in the shower every morning while mourning the sudden death of my beloved grandma, I realized I needed some additional pharmaceutical assistance. And thus, the Lexapro. Which has mostly been a great thing, but which keeps me from crying. Most of the time. Which I hate, as I am a crier. I am one of those people who in my natural, non-medicated habitat cry while preaching sermons, while watching loved ones say goodbye to the dying, while witnessing a phenomenal sunset (trite as that sounds), and during many Hallmark commercials (ditto the trite). But with Lexapro...well, I stand detached and I watch (sort of like Peter Sellers in that one movie where he's the gardener, entitled Being There where he says, "I like to watch" in an endearing, nerdy, and not-stalkerish at all sort of way).

The not crying has it's many positives. I actually do my work, rather than fretting about my work. I actually step out of myself and stop panicking about what I would do in this situation. I actually make it the way it should be, less about me and more about the patient, imagine! I actually get up on mornings when I used to wallow in the dark and ponder the dark existence of the ominous scary things awaiting me in the world...student loan interest rate increases, butt saggage, possible infertility, the step-mothering angst, not fulfilling my potential, global warming, and the chance that somone may not like me or that my Greek neighbor's dementia will become so severe that he and his adorable wife will have to move out of their home, thus disrupting the rightness of the universe on Strathdon Drive (see, it is all about me in my non-Lexapro induced state, isn't it?).

BUT...and you knew this was coming, didn't you sweet blogees? The tears, I miss them. The tears connected me to so much of myself, and I feel like I lost parts of me to find parts of me, if that makes sense. I get homesick for my tears, and while I know that I will return to that part of myself in time, that there will be a wonderful time when life feels stable enough to reenter my non-medicated state (like when I'm not struggling with infertility woes), it still gets lonely on this side of the veil.

So, I wrote all this, and what I really wanted to write was: I cried tonight when I read the Church of the Brethren's account of their every-four-years National Youth Conference where 3,000+ youth stream into Colorado and do what youth do best...exude, shine, brighten. Y'all, I am a cynic. I am such a cynic, and yet when I read the accounts of what the future of the CoB holds I find myself whispering, "Yes, oh my God, yes." And the tears feel good on these dry cheeks.

We Activists Start 'Em Young...

I luxuriated this afternoon in the company of Lynn, one of my closest friends, who finally realized what was good for her and moved back to this part of the country from the-oh-so-gorgeous and politically-correct Ithaca, New York. I know it is cultural whiplash for her, but selfishly, I will donate my services as politically liberal ambassador from Indiana in exchange for having her back in my neck of the cornfields. I will shield her eyes from confederate flag bumper stickers on 4x4 pick-ups and will assure her that some Hoosiers do believe in recycling and wearing Patchouli oil (on occasion).

Lynn and I took her son Eli out for lunch and a few hours of galavanting around tiny North Manchester, which is the home of my college alma mater and short 40-minute drive and I still can't get over the utter joy of having her so close, a mere 40 minutes away (which sure as hell beats that expensive plane ticket to upstate New York and the cost of the Xanax I need to take to get on the freakin' plane). I still can't get over the delight in having someone who knows me so well that they roll their eyes when I order the same exact thing I always order at Subway.

My women friends have been scattered across the country for so long now, that I forget the easy comfort that comes with someone who I simply feel that easy familiarity, the comfort in having someone you don't have to hold in your stomach around, the understanding of someone who can finish your sentences and who can properly identify exactly what small object of which you are referring when you say, "You know...hand me the 'doo-hickey'..." The person with whom you lie awake laughing hysterically at 3:00 a.m. and the person who holds hope for you when you feel utterly hopeless and barren.

As we were finishing our North Manchester adventuring, we drove by my old house in town, a beautiful brick English cottage built in the 1900s where I lived for six years. I prided myself on the cottage garden which had been started by the former owner, and which I enhanced. I spent hours pulling leaves and pruning trees, and lying on the ground under the french Lilac tree in the spring waiting for a soft wind to blow those deep, deep purple blooms down into my hair. A church (a fundamentalist church which doesn't allow women to be pastors, not that I'm bitter) has bought the property now after my friend Lee (who bought the house from me) married and moved out a few months ago.

I mourned when I drove by the house today and saw that my beautiful day lilies and my fragile lady's mantle, my butterfly bush and my wild roses have all been torn out to make more space for what I can only assume will be pavement, else why would my plants be so cruelly treated?

I said in a dramatic fashion to Lynn's almost-3rd-grade son, Eli who sat quietly in the backseat, "Eli, can you believe what happened to my beautiful house and my beautiful gardens? Do you remember coming here when you were little?" Eli looked out the window solemnly as we crept past and said, "Look how different it is!" "I know, Eli," I said. "And I hate it...it's so ugly now..." There was a moment of quiet mourning until Eli, who had just received a new pad of drawing paper piped up, "Kiki! [his nickname for me], I know...let's start a demonstration! I have paper here already, all we need are some sticks and we can make some signs. We can stand outside on the sidewalk and tell them how unfair it is!"

I looked at Lynn and said, "You're raising him right, Lynnie. How's that for a nonviolent response?!?" Lynn smiled knowingly. She's not surprised. She's supermom.

Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone

Miss B. has done left us for summer camp. We are missing her sorely.

There's a camp rule that if a camper receives more than five pieces of mail in one day they get thrown in the lake.

I hope she has extra dry clothes.

For Medicinal Purposes Only

Cooper and Moses, two cats who think their mommy is one bitchin' babe for growing that catnip in her herb garden.

Feeding Ourselves to Feed Others--Sermon 7/23/06

The apostles were gathered around. They were awaiting a word from their teacher Jesus, a teacher who had proved himself to them through his healing touch, and his prophetic word. Already these disciples had witnessed the healing of the paralytic, the healing of the man with a withered hand, the healing of the many in the crowd near the seashore, the healing of people meeting at Simon’s house. The healings are too many to number at this point, and certainly the apostles had to be convinced by now at the veracity of this prophet’s words. Jesus was consistently calling people to him, reaching out to the crowds, surrounding himself with those in need. Now it was clear to all, this man was a healer.

The book of Mark is the most terse of the gospels. Mark is a writer who believes in getting to the point. He doesn’t spend much time elaborating on the details, he doesn’t tarry over the small touches. Instead, the book of Mark reads like a grocery list of healings and sayings, moving quickly from story to story, almost as if Mark wanted to make sure he didn’t miss out on any point of his inventory. Mark is a “just the facts, ma’am” kind of writer. He’s not prone to fancy flourishes.

In the midst of Mark’s retelling of all those healings, in the midst of all the activity, after Jesus had commissioned his disciples and John the Baptist has been done away with, there is this beautiful little interlude before Mark launches into the next section of miracles. Some commentaries call it a “transitional point.” There is a space of about four verses that seem very “Un-Mark-like.” They are verses that share a bit more intimately about the quiet side of Jesus, about the more contemplative side of this prophet, and so often they seem to be words we spend very little time pondering.

In the sixth chapter of Mark, in the thirtieth verse, there is this line: “The apostles gathered around Jesus and told him all they had done and taught.” When I hear this verse I am reminded of how excited my step-daughter, Brynn was coming home from summer camp last year. There were so many important things to tell us, about the wind storm which knocked over trees, and about the tie-dye shirt she made, and about how if you got more than five letters a day you got thrown in the lake. We spent all evening listening to every little detail of the week, and she replayed all the funny stories, and retold all the camp legends. No tidbit was left behind in her excitement. And this is how I picture the apostles gathered around Jesus. Children around their caregiver who don’t want to miss out on sharing any of the juicy details of their wanderings and seeings.

And then, the writer of Mark tells us, Jesus said to them, “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest awhile,” because there were people all around them, coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat a meal. I think perhaps we should rename this, “Jesus’ first commandment of self-care.” Come away. Come away by yourself. Rest. This man of action, this man who gave of himself constantly, knew the simple need of rest. And so, Jesus invited them all into a boat, and he moved them away from the shore to a deserted place, a place alone.

But the pericope does not stop there, because the action continued on the shore. The people continued their searching for this one who they had heard about, this one who offered miracles, this one who traveled with his own posse who could get things done. Word got out about where Jesus and the apostles had retreated to, and the crowds arrived there, and Jesus saw them and offered his compassionate wisdom.

The action, of course continued, miracles filled up the verses that followed, but that’s not where I want us to go this morning. Not yet. Not for now. Let’s save that for another Sunday. Instead, I’d like for us to pause on the words given to the apostles about finding quiet places. For it seems that sometimes we’re so busy looking for the action in this story, that we forget to tarry on the quiet pronunciation right before it. The call to come away. The call to rest. This quiet simple vignette is a critical one for all of us to discover.

When I began to look at this scripture last month in preparation for this Sunday, I was sitting on the porch of my in-law’s quiet retreat-like farm in Texas all by myself, my family inside having breakfast, and I looked out across the field and realized that it was the first time I’d settled myself in quiet in months and months, I realized that the quiet moments, the sabbath moments, the “come-away” moments are few and far between in so many of our busy lives, and so perhaps this was a scripture on which I needed to preach.

One of the things I learned in seminary was that we shouldn’t take words out of context, we shouldn’t preach on only part of a text without elaborating on the rest. And so, I’ve often felt as if I shouldn’t simply preach on this encounter with the apostles, without then telling about how Jesus came back and fed all those around. But, I was surprised to learn that in the lectionary, these verses are listed alone. The story of the feeding of the five thousand, which occurs next in the scripture, are to be preached about at a different time, on a different day. And I marveled, that I’d never heard a sermon about this before. It seems as if being commanded to find a quiet place, the command to “be” rather than to “do,” isn’t as valued by the church. Taking care of ourselves, reconnecting to the quiet presence of God can sometimes take a backseat to all of the action we are called to do in our service to the world. Finding our way to reconnect in the silence seems self-indulgent perhaps. Feeding ourselves, when so many others cry out for our feed may seem selfish. And yet, this story gently seems to ask us, “How can you feed others when you’re not fed yourself? How can you speak a words of God’s peace and love, when you have no connection to it in your own life?”

I’m not implying that there is a dualism between caring for ourselves or caring for others. I believe to be whole that both are necessary. I’m simply inviting each of us to follow Jesus, the one who has called us clearly to come away to deserted places when we need to be refilled.

There was a moment when I was reminded of this call quite clearly, and the image has stayed with me for several years. It happened one afternoon when I was pastoring at the Manchester Church of the Brethren. I was driving on a country road near South Whitley, Indiana, taking a shortcut, on my way to visit one of my parishioners at the hospital in Fort Wayne. I was tired. It had been a long week and it was a Thursday afternoon, the day before my weekend began. That trip to the hospital was my final task before I had time to rest and, as someetimes happens when I drive on a country road, and no one else is around, I was going a teensy, tiny bit too fast. Now, I want to be clear about this. There was no emergency I was hurrying off to, this wasn’t a desperate situation that I had to attend to immediately. I was just feeling frazzled. I was just feeling frantic. And, as often is the case with me, that can translate into my foot pressing itself with a little more force on the accelerator. You can imagine what happened next. As I sped over a hill, I quickly noticed, the presence of a black and white police car waiting patiently on the side of the road with a radar aimed directly at my Honda. The police officer hadn’t even needed to turn his lights on and start the engine of his cruiser before I had pulled over in a confession of guilt. I knew I had been speeding, and I knew I had been caught, and I knew that it was completely and utterly my fault. The officer sauntered over to my already rolled-down window, and I had already gathered my license and registration and I held them out the window, practically forcing them on him. He greeted me, took my documents, quickly scanned them for my name, and said politely, “Mrs. Miller, why are you in such a hurry today?” I said, quite bluntly, “Actually Officer, I’m on my way to visit someone in the hospital, but it’s not an emergency, and I had no business driving this fast on a country.” He asked who I was visiting, and I told him it was one of my parishioners. And he said, “Oh, you’re a pastor?” And not wanting to exploit my status as clergy, as I’ve seen some other pastors do, said, “Yes, but I want to be clear. This isn’t an emergency. I’m just speeding.” Perhaps that was my cry for help. The officer smiled at me, handed me back my license and registration, and looked into my eyes and said gently, “Pastor Miller, if you don’t take care of yourself, you won’t be there to take care of anyone else. If you have an accident, who will visit your parishioners? I’m not going to give you a ticket or a warning, just take care of yourself.” And with that, this saint of a man turned and headed back to his car and I rolled up the window and burst into tears. Tears which lasted all the way to Fort Wayne, and tears which I can easily conjure as I recall the grace I was granted by that officer who acted as Christ for me that day. The Christ who reminds us to come away, come away and rest. The Christ that reminds us that we cannot feed others, unless we slow down and feed ourselves too.

My fervent prayer for this body of believers is that we may be Christ for one another. That we may understand that to do the work of God demands that we quiet ourselves to find God first. And that we might come away to those quiet spaces to breathe deeply of the God who calls us to renewal. So, come. Come away to a deserted place. And may you find in that rest, strength to fill others from your own abundance.

Amen.

Too Much Information

Warning...I've been doped out on the big drugs today due to an infertility related procedure. So, this is the uncensored Contemplative Chaplain at her finest. Who knows, this post may be erased when I come to, officially, so read it while you can...

As I've often alluded to, I'm being treated for all sorts of invasive fertility procedures. And, I've become accustomed to them, so much so that I have become a mainstay in 'ole Dr. B's office and can call all the nurses by name and even know the names of their children, and animals and favorite local eateries. My favorite nurse, though, is Shelby. I love, love, love Shelby not only because she seems to be the one who does her work with the least amount of pain, but because she is always so hopeful, and because in a private conversation, she has confessed to me that she changes the doctor's choice of radio station music from the contemporary Christian variety to 80s rock on the days he's not in the office. Shelby's a rebel. We speak the same language. And our language doesn't have any breathy "Oh Jesus..." refrains, nor does it use the words "majestic" and "Lord" in the same sentence.

Well, this morning, after downing the good drugs, and lying on the paper-covered doctor's table, Shelby and I started chit-chatting about her life. Seems she's getting married soon. Seems she's looking for a minister to officiate. "Do you ever do that kind of thing?" She asked, while snapping on her rubber gloves. "I'd be happy to for you, " I said. "Really?" she asked, clearly pleasantly surprised, "That would be so great! I'm so touched!"

The procedure went as anticipated. Shelby left the room so I could lie quietly on my back and contemplate the wonders of the universe, and enjoy my Xanax induced calm for the next twenty minutes. And then something occurred to me with clarity, a moral lesson society repeats to all its responsible youth in issues of sexuality, and I turned to a loving and devoted R. who sat holding my hand and slurred assertively, "Hell, if Shelby knocks me up, the least I can do is marry her."

And, damn if that comment still seems like the funniest thing I've ever said.

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

http://www.fortwayne.com/mld/journalgazette/living/15056361.htm

I Can't Get No Respect

As I've said time and time again, my dog is no MENSA candidate. Cute? Yes. Big brown eyes? Yes. Good with the rawhide? Oh yes. But, she is, for all intents and purposes, a badger-hunter with no badgers to hunt. Dachshunds were bred to eliminate all badgers from the land, and poor thing ended up in suburban Indiana where there is nary a badger to be seen, at least not in a tiny intergrated suburb in Fort Wayne, the best we do is chipmunks. To add insult to injury, the poor dog isn't even a standard sized dachshund, but has been bred to be small, wee, teeny. She isn't even catagorized as a "miniature," but weighs so little that she is considered a "toy." Now, tell me that wouldn't give you a complex?!?

I have accepted that I am not the "alpha dog" in this house. This was further reinforced by Maisie walking across the kitchen table in full sight of me, even though she knows that toy dachshunds are strictly prohibited in this home from setting even one paw on the kitchen table. And the whole time she merely looked at me proudly as if to say, "Look at me, aren't I so tall up here on the table, where the alpha dog won't let me be?"

I have accepted that I am not the "alpha dog," but I still grapple with the fact that apparently I am, yay, merely the "omega dog."

The most commonly heard phrase in our house is this, spoken by one weak and flailing omega dog voice..."R., will you call/tell/yell at/inform/punish/ Maisie? She isn't listening to me, instead she is peeing in her bed/chewing her bone/sniffing the cat's butt/eating a spider she found on the floor/chasing a fly." And R., the one who wasn't entirely sure about having a dog in the first place merely has to enuciate the word, "Maisie..." (he hits it really strong on the "M" sound...)and she submits. Literally, she pauses and cowers at his voice.

Secretly, I whisper to her sometimes, deeply into her soft floppy ears. I murmur, "I'm the one who wanted you. If it weren't for me you wouldn't be here...I can be both alpha and omega to you, for I am a minister and understand these Biblical phrases." But this seems to do little to reinforce my status in the dog hierarchy.

I simply get no respect here on Strathdon Drive.

Stones and Stories--Sermon 7/16/06

When I was a seven or eight year old, my bedtime ritual seldom strayed from the routine. And the routine was this, both my parents would come upstairs with me to tuck me into my antique spindle bed in my pink-painted bedroom, each sitting on either side of me. My mother would kiss me goodnight, remind me of the special events the next day, and tuck me snugly under the covers. And then she would leave the room, graciously allowing my father and me our Daddy/Daughter time. And thus, the highlight of my evening ritual would commence, the telling of the nightly story. Now, I know many of you probably had people read bedtime stories to you, but I would wager a bet that few of you could say you had a bedtime stories as outrageous as I, for I had stories of the Finkelstein family. The Finkelstein family was my father’s own creation, a brainchild perhaps of his hippie seminary years, and what was fascinating about the Finkelsteins was that each and every one of the family, right down to the family ferret, Farcus, had names that started with the letter “F.” Moreover, the family, that would be the parents, Frank and Francine and their children Freddy and Freida, and we dare not forget the fluffy Farcus, only ate foods that began with the letter “F,” which limited their tastes to frankfurters, Froot Loops, Fritos, and the occasional bowl of fettucini. Each evening I waited in anxious anticipation to see what those funky Finkelsteins would be up to, were they going to a football game, or playing Frisbee on the front lawn, or learning to dance the Funky Chicken? Often, I would contribute to the Finkelstein story, inserting my own dialogue, or adding a few more colorful details to the Finkelstein epic. Through this continuing story, a story which grew richer and more complex each evening, my father and I would weave a world, a world where we could work out the problems of my own life, such as the day Freida was made fun of by friends at school, or the day the family ferret got sick and they had to take it do Dr. Flugelheimer to be put to sleep. I learned in that nightly ritual what it meant to allow a story to shape you, and I loved a good story.

The fourth chapter of Joshua tells a story of its own. It is the story of a posse of vagabonds looking for a home. It is the story of a people making their way toward the land that their God has promised. And while it doesn’t have the illiterative appeal that the Finkelstein Fables had, it has a hearing far broader than the writer of Joshua ever could have imagined.

Ever since I first read the story in Joshua I have always enjoyed it. How Joshua came back from chit-chat with the Lord, how he had each of the twelve tribes send out one man, how he gave those select men special instructions. He said, “OK, men, I have an important assignment here so I want you to listen up good. What I want you to do is, I want you to put on your hip boots and I want you to wade out there into the Jordan River. Now, I know you’re all busy, and I know the wife and kids have other plans for you, and I know you don’t want to slop around in all that mud, and I now you’re going to get all wet, but you have been chosen for something special. I want you to go out there and bring back a stone. Now, I don’t want something that looks like a wad of chewing gum. I want something large. I want 12 big bruisers. Now Know that there are some nice-looking specimens right here along the shore. But I don’t want them. I want stones from right out there in the middle of the river, where the water is the deepest and the current is the fastest. And I don’t want 11 and I don’t want 13. I want an even dozen. And once you get back to shore, what I want you to do is, I want you to plan on carrying them around with you every day as we travel. Now you don’t have to carry these pet rocks around with you forever, of course. I’d say it wouldn’t be more than, say 20 or 30 years.” Now you and I know from our perspective in time that Joshua new what he was doing. He was creating a memorial. He was creating a ritual. He was coming up with something to tell around the campfire at night, as the people sat with their heads perched against those rocks. Something that became part of their history. Something for the little ones to notice. Something for them to point at and say, “Why do you always lug those things around with you?” Then the elder could say, “Well, these stones are memorials. They help us remember something. One time a bunch of bad guy were chasing us and we came to this very wide river and we didn’t know how we were going to get across…” And the tale would begin to be told and the children’s eyes would grow wide.

The stones served as a reminder to the people, never to forget, never to allow themselves to dismiss the story of their lives, and the one who gave them that story. The stones served as a Godly whisper which said that it was not just a matter of wisdom to remember, but a sacred duty, a trust to hold on to the stories of the past, for by retelling them, by honoring them, the people could be brought forward into the new creation. And those stones stood, ultimately, in that new land…the Israelites lived within sight of those stones, a constant reminder of their past, and of their good God.

Part of the reason that I am a preacher is because I love a good story. Henri Nouwen claims that the great vocation of the minister is to continuously make connections between human stories and the divine story. Eugene Peterson, one of the foremost writers on the vocation of pastoral ministry, writes to all new clergy, “Your task is to keep telling the basic story, representing the presence of the Spirit.” And as the interim pastor here, I want to hear your stories. I began ministry, and I stay in Hospice ministry, because I like to listen to the stories, and because I long to tell the story of God’s love, and of God’s mystery, and of God’s compassion, and of the presence of the sacred in the profane. And it is such a sacred task for us all, for we are all called to ministry. We are called to hear our brothers and sisters into speech, to know the twists and turns of their own journeys, to find out the ways in which their story intersects with the story of the Huntington Church of the Brethren, and the larger narrative of God’s story for our world. Each of you have been given the holy vocation of listening, and it is our duty as brothers and sisters in this community to minister to one another by telling the story, and asking the questions, and pointing to the stones, and asking what they mean.

It is said that when the founder of Hasidic Judaism, the great Rabbi Israel Shem Tov saw misfortune threatening the Jews, it was his custom to go into a certain part of the forest to meditate. There he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and the miracle would be accomplished and the misfortune averted. Later, when his disciple, he celebrated Maggid of Mezritch had occasion, for the same reason, to intercede with heaven, he would go to the same place in the forest and say: “Master of the Universe, listen! I do not know how to light the sacred fire, but I am able to say the prayer,” and again, the miracle would be accomplished. Still later, Rabbi Moshe-leib of Sasov, in order to save his people once more, would go to the forest and say, “I do not know how to light the fire. I do not know the words to the prayer, but I know the place and this must be sufficient.” It was sufficient, and the miracle was accomplished. Then it fell, four generations later, to Rabbi Israel of Rizhin to overcome misfortune. Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he spoke to God: “I am unable to light the fire and I do not know the prayer, I cannot even find the place in the forest. All I can do is to tell the story and this must be sufficient.” And it was sufficient. For it is said, God made humanity because God loves a good story.

In time, when your children ask you, “What do the stones which created the Huntington Church of the Brethren mean?” What will you tell them? Will you tell them of the faithful hours spent rolling out cinnamon rolls in the kitchen? Will you tell them about the light in the eyes of the children of Nicaragua when you took that trip to Tisma? Will you tell of the countless hours spent in this sanctuary? Or of the way someone embraced you after church when you were feeling so lost? I invite you to begin to tell those stories again, to one another, or to me, or to God in prayer, remind one another of the stones which sustain this faithful body of believers, for in telling the stories you begin to cast a vision of what you want as you continue the journey together, and you uncover anew the faithfulness of the God who has accompanied you.

Our call is clear. It is the same call Joshua pronounced as the words of God thousands of years before and the call is this: wrap yourself in your stories, each of you and all of us, and know that it is the stories what will call us home, right smack dab into the arms of our faithful and loving God.

And all God’s people said,
Amen.

The Truth, Sometimes It Hurts

Things which have become clear to me lately:

• I am a pessimist. I assume many negative outcomes so that I don't have to be disappointed (See objects A-E)
• Object A: "I'll never get pregnant."
• Object B: "My step-daughters will never think I'm a good parent."
• Object C: "R. will forget to tape 'Footloose' despite the fact that I think every pre-adolescent girl should idolize it and memorize the dance steps and love it forever and ever and remember the night their stepmother introduced them to the wonder that is Kevin Bacon as Ren at 20ish years of age trying to act as if he were 16. "
• Object D: "My Alberta dwarf spruce which we planted just last weekend will die."
• Object E: "Cooper and Moses, my fat boy cats will forever pee on the floor right next to the litter box even if there is only one measly turdlet in the litter box to which they seem to object even after I have saturated the @#$% floor with Enzymatic cleaner."
• Object F: "My dog, who is no MENSA candidate, will never learn to drop the freakin' ball and let me throw it so we can play catch like a real owner/master, but instead will forever treat me as if I were the heathen trying to collect the holy grail from her sacred jaws."
• Object F: "I will never score over 15,000 in Snood."

Today, someone said to me, "I think it's time you have faith in something. You're a minister, right? That's what you do?" Oh, yeah.

But I see so much bad shit...people dying young, children left without parents, beloved cats dead on the side of the road, panicky old women who feel powerless in their nursing homes, sad old men left to wallow in their disposable diapers. It's hard to feel hopeful.

Rabbi Kushner says in essence, that if you expect God to make all these things better, if you blame God for all of the wretchedness in the world, that you disconnect from the compassionate and all loving God who desires intimate communion with you in your pain.

Can I bear to give up my fascination with the negative? Can I leap off the cliff and assume that God's compassion is enough to nurture my fear?

I'm counting on it. Because I'm tired of being sure of the worst.

Slumpish

Do you ever feel sorta, oh, slumpy? Sorta like the colors aren't as bright and the food doesn't taste as good? Sorta like you're just on autopilot? Sorta just, well, sorta blah. No? Really? It's just me?

I dunno. I'm in a slump. Not a big slump. Not a "I hate my life slump," not a "Oh-woe-is-me-kinda slump," not a "I wish my life were different slump." As a matter of fact, I like my life quite a lot, and life is pretty generous to me which is why the slump is so mysteriously slumpy. I firmly believe that fallow time has something to teach us, and so, I'm waiting patiently for what this fallow time has to tell. I'm sitting quietly and I'm pausing thoughtfully and I'm wondering, "Hmmm...what am I needing to learn here."

And hopefully it will yield some sort of fruit.