Whatcha reading?

 I've been on a reading kick in the last year. I typically have two Kindles at my bedside, just in case my batteries run down on the one, I have my backup ready to go. I go in streaks in my reading habits. I'll read several books about the Tudor dynasty, from fashion to fatalities, then I'll go off in another direction. I've read a number of fiction and non-fiction about Holocaust survivors, pioneer life, and a large number about addiction and its impact on families and society. Then I'll switch gears and read a bunch of books by the same author.

In the past year, I've re-read or read for the first time from "the classics"

• Orwell - 1984 and Animal Farm
• Dickens - A Christmas Carol, Great Expectations, and David Copperfield
• Faulkner - The Sound and the Fury and As I Lay Dying
• Fitzgerald - This Side of Paradise, The Beautiful and the Damned, The Great Gatsby
• Willa Cather - My Antonia
• Steinbeck - Tortilla Flat and Cannery Row
• Hemmingway - The Old Man and the Sea, A Farewell to Arms, The Sun Also Rises, and parts of In Our Time

The influence of reading these authors in rapid succession (I immediately start a new book within minutes of finishing the last book) is apparent in my writing, which is often disjointed and depending on what I most recently read, sometimes incomprehensible. 

I know they say that good writers are good readers, but in my case I feel as though the quality of my writing has decreased in the past couple of years. I don't quite know what to do about that, but I decided maybe I need to simplify things and go back to basics. So I'm picking up the collection of Laura Ingalls Wilder and reading the Little House series for the first time. 

I don't have a problem reading children's lit as an adult. I found re-reading Charlotte's Web this year refreshing. The sentences were clean and the storyline linear. I'm hoping for the same from Wilder. Time will tell. But, even now, as I'm halfway through her first book, I'm itchy to seek out the next title to read, so I ask you, "Whatcha reading?" and is it available on Kindle?

Contentment

 I tried resurrecting my blog last week, but today I'm realizing I did it on the wrong blog platform, so here we are again! The photo I'm posting has nothing to do with my starting back, but it does sort of reflect how I've been doing the past few years since moving to Georgia. Comfortable, but lazy. 

There's noting inherently wrong with what I've been doing (or not doing) but there hasn't been much noteworthy, either. I've just been lounging my way through life. A lot of that has to do with where I'm at mentally. 

Two years ago, I had a major mental health crisis shortly after we moved. No need to go into the details, except to say that I'm now on some pretty strong meds that do their job of keeping me on the right side of the grass, but they've dulled my spark. I go to bed at 7 and would easily sleep more than 12 hours, I find it hard to leave the house, and during the day it sometimes feels like I'm sleepwalking. 

Before moving, I was able to find a job, sell a house, buy a house, move my mom down with us (so managing two separate moving vans), and start a new job, all within a little more than a month. Okay, so that should have been a sign of either extreme motivation or mental illness, but hey, it all shook out.

I'm not thrilled with my lack of energy, but wanting to be alive is pretty friggin' nice. So is living with my supportive spouse, my mama, and a truckload of animals. So, while I can't say I'm completely happy with where things are at right now, I can say I'm content. 

From my perspective, contentment is preferable. Happiness can be fleeting. Happiness is a bolt of lightening on a cloudless day -- it gets your attention, but it's gone the second you see it. Contentment is longer lasting. It's built brick by brick. It's firm. It's sustainable. 

That doesn't mean that I have given up on happiness; it's just not my daily goal. Being a decent human being that left the world a little better each day by encouraging others, loving dogs, or doing something for my job that contributes to the betterment of society, that's worth striving for. Most days I feel like I've moved the needle in the right direction. That's all any of us can really hope for. I wish you all contentment.

In Memoriam - Mango: A girl's best friend

Mango: Approximately 2007-March 18, 2024

What do you say when you say goodbye to a companion who inspired you during some of the most formative moments of the last decade of your life? "Goodbye Mango. You were a good girl, and I will miss you." But that doesn't feel like enough. Let me share just a few of our highlights of the past decade-plus together.

Mango the Seminarian

Mango joined our pack when I was midway through seminary. She was by my side and hovering over me (literally, she was on my shoulder) during the drafting of many papers and sermons. When I had a shoulder surgery that went awry, she was my constant companion while I recuperated and drafted assignments with dictation software.

Pastor Mango

Exactly 10 years ago today, I submitted my ordination paper to the denomination's review committee. Mango escaped with me to a "secret location" where I sequestered myself for several days to crank out the volumes of pages needed to complete my requirements. Following acceptance of my paper, Mango accompanied me to my first call, living in a rooming house with her sister Kiwi, so that I didn't have to start my ministry alone. When I was ordained, Mango was there for the event, sporting a handmade crocheted alb and joining Supportive Spouse while he read a psalm proclaiming the wonder of creation. Mango also attended several worship services over the years, serving as the example of resurrection at Easter services and animal blessings.

Chaplain Mango

During the pandemic, when many of my pastoral visits occurred virtually, Mango took up the challenge and started participating in video visits with patients and their families. Oftentimes, care recipients would tell Mango things they hadn't said to me alone. My spiritual assessment tool I used with my patients was made up of the acronym from her name, a daily reminder of the connectedness of others and being rooted in something other than ourselves.

Mango the Friend

Over the years, Mango made countless visits to my parents, warming up slowly to my dad, a longtime lover of dogs, who's abilities had diminished over time, but he would always perk up and launch into story-telling, while stroking Mango's ear. Mango even won over my mom, who is more discerning. Throughout the past few years, Mango spent many hours snuggled up on mom's lap, while the two of them napped the afternoons away.

Mango the Attitude

I'd be remiss if I didn't get real for a moment and say that while Mango had many wonderful attributes, she was also a supreme pain in the butt with an outsized attitude and a stubborn streak surprisingly large for such a small creature. An accomplished escape artist, she was able to dig a hole under a fence and run more than a mile from home in a matter of a few minutes. For years, Mango sported a GPS collar that was nearly as large as her head. Not that it kept her home, but I was able to better track how far afield she had run. Once, she got as far as a middle school almost 2 miles from our home and back before I could manage more than a few blocks with an empty leash in my hands.

Mango the Inspiration

Probably the greatest gift Mango gave me was as an inspiration. She didn't just have a spiritual

transformation from the time she came to us as an emotionally wounded young dog. She physically changed appearance. In our earliest photos, Mango's ears were slack and her posture was submissive, her shoulders hunched and flinching at the smallest of movements. She would be frozen in obedience classes, too overwhelmed to absorb the lessons (it took her 6 months to feel comfortable enough around us to lay down). Yet after we told her for enough months that she was wonderful, she came to believe it herself - a spark lit in her eyes and her ears became pointed and erect. She carried herself with a confidence that couldn't have been imagined in those early months. The turning point seemed to have been when she had an expanding pellet surgically removed some months after joining our home. After we learned she had been shot, her reactions to loud noises made more sense.  One of the happiest days with her was the afternoon I came home from work and Mango ran to the bed and rolled over for a belly rub. The amount of confidence, combined with vulnerability, in that gesture brought me to tears.

Mango Forever

I cannot begin to capture what Mango meant to me in these words, nor do I expect anyone to get much out of my writing, but I am compelled to memorialize the girl who was so important in my life, as I suspect I was for her. She will forever be a part of my being. I will love Mango forever.

I've Moved!

Hi gang,

In case you check for updates here, rather than Facebook or other sites. I've been migrating my stuff over to a new blog hosting site at wordpress.com. Here's the latest posting: Thy people shall be my people.

I tried to keep my 'handle" mostly the same. You can find me at leftyforjesus.wordpress.com.

See you on the other side!

Lefty

Preparation Part 2

Those of you who "follow" this blog should know I'm considering moving from blogger to wordpress. I'm fiddling around with the software, etc. So it's not a done deal, but it seems to have a little more flexibility for posting on-the-go than Blogger has. Stay tuned.

Preparation

This has been a season of preparation. Earlier this fall, I prepared to meet with the committee who would decide whether I should be accepted by my denomination as a "Student in Discernment," a first step on a path to what I believe could be ordination.

Now I find myself preparing for Thanksgiving by taking time most days to note some small (or not-so-small) thing I am thankful for in my life. I am also preparing for the end of the semester by completing papers and projects. In addition, I decided a couple of weeks ago to apply for a merit scholarship at school, and now I am preparing to take the GREs next week by thinking about math equations that haven't crossed my mind in two decades.

I'm also preparing to go on my first international trip in nearly 25 years. This January, I'll be traveling to the Philippines for a two week "Global Justice" trip -- Global justice is a requirement for graduation. A trip to the Philippines is not. In anticipation of this trek, I've prepared physically by receiving more immunizations and preventive care for a two-week journey than most of the local inhabitants have likely had in a lifetime.

My other preparation is seeing if I can work with new technology to keep you posted once or twice while I'm gone about my journey. This is my fourth attempt at posting this via an old Palm Pilot and portable keyboard. I understand four times is a charm.

The great why

As I move through my seminary coursework, I run across variations of the same question with more and more frequency: Why? Why would a loving God “do” [fill in the blank with whichever injustice is on the questioner’s mind]? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why senseless wars? Why “evil” people? Why?

First, what I can say is that it’s not as if after you’ve paid a certain amount of tuition, you get led into a secret room and are given the answer to this burning question. Nope. No handbook. No secret decoder ring. When it comes to answers to questions like these, there isn’t much that’s dispensed at seminary that we can’t all work through on our own.

So, with that in mind, my response is solely my own. It’s been processed more as an outcome of my own heartache than any textbook. The answer might sound a little flip, and my apologies to anyone who is currently in deep pain and yearns for a different answer, but my response to the “Why would God do this?” is “It’s not God’s job.”

I know there are plenty of folks, some I love greatly, who are under the impression that God is the great dispenser of tangible gifts: money, sudden reversals of incurable diseases, jobs, mates, whatever. In this theological outlook, a person asks, and God gives or doesn’t give based on criteria beyond our understanding. No offense to people who take comfort in this way of living, but if that’s the case, God is a ginormous prick. I don’t care to spend my time in such company. It’s bad for my growth and it’s a bad precedent to set for an impressionable world.

So that leads to the question, what exactly is God’s job. That gets a little trickier. I heard a professor relay a scenario once, I don’t remember the particulars, but the upshot was something along the lines of, do you want a God who is not as powerful as some would lead us to believe, but is able to be present with us in our grief and suffering, or would you prefer an all-powerful God who is responsible for that grief and suffering?

There’s no right or wrong answer to this question, but how you might respond will likely have a great impact on your relationship with God and also with humanity. Why humanity, you might wonder? Well, it’s like this: Say you’re looking to help support the Kingdom of God here on Earth. If your idea of God is one who “allows” for war and suffering, then the Kingdom you are working toward is already here. If your idea of God is one who may not be able to deliver every desire, no matter how important it is for you as an individual, but this God is one who is willing to be present with you in times of trial, to bear witness in times of injustice, to feel with you the strong emotions of love…this is a Kingdom of God that you and I are able to participate in, in partnership with God, and in partnership with humanity.

While it doesn’t make the immediate pain of a particular situation any less, I’ve come to prefer a God of solidarity and compassion in the dark and lonely moments of our lives than to face the other kind of God in the dark alleys of my life.

In the Presence of God

For the past 11 or so years, rarely has a day gone by where at some point I haven’t looked at Merlin, my huge tough dog, stuck in a little white dog’s body and said, “You’re my favorite.” I uttered that familiar phrase for the last time on Wednesday when I took him in for emergency abdominal surgery. He was expected to survive the surgery, and he did, but afterward, he developed complications and died. The hole in my heart is massive, as I knew it would be. One doesn’t lose one’s favorite without going through a fair amount of pain. That’s part of the deal we make when human and pet form a bond and one is snatched from the other.

I could tell you about the heavy grief I’m feeling today, share my guilt that I didn’t see him one last time, describe the moments where I swear I see him for a fleeting moment out of the corner of my eye. But, I think these are universal things pet owners go through when their beloved dies. For many, this is nothing new. What I did think about today is my grandmother and I think there’s something instructive there for those of us who are younger and more mobile. Or for the people I cannot understand – non-pet-lovers.

Grandma Max (yes, her name was Max – it wasn’t short for anything, and heaven help the person who tried to call her Maxine or some other nonsense) was an animal lover extraordinaire. Her last pet was a Pekingese named Trampus, but she usually called him Tramp or Trampy. Grandma named many of her pets after characters from old TV Westerns – I don’t remember most of the other names, but there was also a Festus at one point, too. She and Tramp were quite the team. She took that little dog EVERYWHERE. I can’t begin to tell you the number of people who did double-takes when they realized the “toy” in the rear window of her car was real. This was well before the day of doggie seat belts or any such devices. Had it occurred to her that Trampy being in that spot was particularly dangerous, she would have never allowed him to do so.

Tramp was an incredibly spoiled dog. Never once in all his years did a bite of kibble pass his lips. Grandma cooked for him. Every meal. Every day. She would make him chicken or serve him hamburger. Grandpa used to say “that dog eats better than we do” and it was undeniably true. Oh, and Grandma fed him every morsel of food by hand. Every meal. Every day. The two of them, Grandma Max and Tramp, shared a level of intimacy that few of us will ever reach. They relied on each other. Neither could live without the other – Tramp wouldn’t eat if Grandma didn’t feed him; Grandma couldn’t function if she didn’t have Tramp to fuss over.

So after feeling the crushing grief of losing my beloved Merlin and fighting through some bouts of spontaneous tears, I find myself this afternoon thinking about my Grandma and by extension all the other grandmas out there who are suddenly much lonelier after the passing of their pet. About what it must have been like for her in the days after her beloved Trampy died. About the quiet where there was once jingling tags as he patrolled from room to room to look out the windows (using the custom-built step stools Grandma had made specifically for this purpose). About the little dog she’d see from the corner of her eye for many months after his passing. About all the time she had on her hands, when she was accustomed to using those hands to feed and brush and pet her Tramp for hours every day. Grandma’s own health was beginning to decline. Her vision wasn’t what it used to be. She was easily winded. She didn’t get out and about as she once had. Her world was becoming a much smaller place, and now the bright light in her life was dimmed.

Grandma continued to be an animal lover, although she never again had another pet. In the times when her health was most precarious and she would have occasion to hallucinate, they were pleasant visions – small children, puppies and kitties would reside on her pillow. They were a comfort to her. At one point, an uncle or a cousin gave grandma a small stuffed poodle. She named it “Annie” and kept it with her for the rest of her life. Beyond her life, actually. It was placed in her coffin to spend eternity with her. For some people, being an animal lover is something deeply embedded in their core being. After everything else has gone, the ability to reason or recognize loved ones, mobility, bodily control, there is a spark of life that ignites when in the presence of a beloved creature.

Animals have a therapeutic effect. Clergy don’t have to be enamored with critters themselves, but they must recognize that for some in their parish, being in the presence of a beloved pet in a time of need, or bringing in a therapy dog to a care setting, is not like being in the presence of God. It is being in the presence of God. A pox upon the pastor who interrupts a truly prayerful moment for something that is a mere imitation in the animal lover’s eyes.

My Godsons and My Family Promises

I'm reading Growing in the Life of Faith: Education and Christian Practices for class today. Overall, I find the book highly offensive with a narrow definition of Christianity that I simply cannot relate to. Of marriages like mine and my spouse's that's been holding its own for nearly two decades, despite the fact that only one of us is Christian, author Craig Dykstra manages to muster a lukewarm acknowledgement that "redemptive partnerships can be formed." Um, thanks, Craig.

Dykstra's comment comes within the chapter titled "Family Promises." Other nuggets of that chapter include his expansion of another individual's argument (Ronald Green's "Abortion and Promise-Keeping") that "Sexual intercourse is, in and of itself, implicitly promissory. Just by having intercourse, we make promises to any potential offspring of that action." I had to put my highlighter down for a moment when I got to that section.

However, there were instances within the chapter that did get me to think about a couple of important touch points in my life: my godsons. I actually have two godchildren: my sister's youngest boy and my cousin's son. They're both of an age that if they knew I was blogging about them, they would feel a little squeamish. Fortunately, I can't imagine either of them would bother to check out my blog. So, here's what I can say about the promises I made to "my boys."

I cannot say I could come remotely close to recalling the baptismal date for either boy. However, I do pray about them. Often. The day they were baptized was one day of their lives. The cords of love and familial obligation will last forever. That's not to say that I don't lift up thoughts and prayers for my other nieces, nephews and cousins' children...even a couple of grand-nieces. They're all special. They all give their middle-aged, intentionally childless auntie / cousin a pang in her heart when she thinks about them, which is pretty often. Daily, actually. I do believe there are family promises that are made when we bring a young 'un into the world. However, I also take umbrage that my "heathen" spouse is somehow less obligated to love "our kids" simply because he is not a Christian.

I look to my godsons and I think of my relationship with my own godmother. It was also one where we didn't reflect on the importance of my "baptismal birthday," nor did we see each other with much frequency for long stretches of our lives. Yet, despite our sometimes divergent paths, we were blessed to strengthen our connection in the months prior to her death from cancer. I wouldn't expect "my boys" to feel any obligation to be with me in my final hours. At least they may not be physically present. But if there is a part of me that is still cognizant of such things as I am preparing to cross over to the other side, they and the other important people in my life: my spouse, parents, siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews, friends who are loved so much that they have been forged into the family chain, and the saints who have gone before me, will be streaming into my heart and my heart will be pouring out to those whom I call family. Of that I can promise.

Inviting the Spirit to the Educational Party

I heard from a few readers that my last posting was a difficult read. I suppose it was. It was a conscious decision to look in the eye some of the concerns that have been bubbling up as I've been doing the readings and soul-searching for my Christian education class.

Perhaps I take these things too seriously, but I think there hasn't been enough care and concern placed in education, Christian or otherwise. How often have our churches searched for someone, anyone, to help lead a Sunday school or confirmation class and have been satisfied to have located a person who has passed the background check. (Your church does do background checks on individuals who work with children, right?)

At any rate, Sunday school and confirmation are just one component of Christian ed. There's a whole universe of other learning outside of those narrow confines. I'm just scratching the surface in the first couple of weeks of my CE class and have a lot of catching up to do, given I've not spent any time considering CE prior to this semester. One exercise we just did was to write a definition paper in which we come up with a personal definition of CE and then spend about 6 pages explaining ourselves. This was my definition for this paper (although I suspect it will evolve some as the semester unfolds):

Christian education is a gathering of individuals seeking to grow in their knowledge of the holy. When done well, Christian education is guided by the Spirit and all participants. Whether one is the learner or the “teacher/facilitator,” all who come open to the experience are enriched by the encounter.

What kind of surprised me as I rattled off my first draft was my willingness to allow the Spirit to be part of the experience. Even a couple of years ago, this would not have been the case. However, I'm finding that The Spirit I rejected in the past was not the Spirit in my midst. The Spirit isn't necessarily the drunken party guest, a noisy thing that mucks about, causing havoc at every turn. Rather, the Spirit as I encounter it today is a more subtle thing. As I explained to my Unitarian spouse, what I see as the Spirit is probably close to what he calls the "connective force" that holds us together.

When I pray for another or for myself, it's not that I see God as a waitress standing around with an order pad, just waiting for me to say whether I want my miracle with or without fries. I see prayer (at least this iteration of my thoughts on prayer) as a way to invite the connection between myself and the world. The Spirit is the web (or energy or force or whatever metaphor works better for you) that draws "me with thee" -- it's the Spirit that has the job of keeping me human, of keeping me grounded and connected.

Looked at this way, of course the Spirit should be invited to the educational party. The Spirit is that really good friend who says, "you really need to get to know this person" (or idea) -- the Spirit can help break down the barriers. The Spirit looks to see that not only do you have a glass in your hand, but that it's filled. Being an introverted type myself, I appreciate the thought of enlisting the help of a good party planner. I can't force anyone to listen, but I can at least extend the invitation and see if the Spirit moves.

Teaching children: A cationary tale

Once upon a time there was a church. In this church were many outwardly pious people. They went to church regularly. They made a point of being seen putting something into the plate as it passed down the pews. Some of these people in this little God-fearing church had children.

One boy came from a home where order was very, very important to the father. Things had to be just so. Cleanliness is next to godliness, you know. When things aren’t done in a neat and orderly way, there are consequences. When the family pet wasn’t cleaned up after to the degree the father thought was appropriate, the pet was killed. In the living room. In the children’s presence. The older kids tried to make a joke of it. They didn’t want the younger one to think there was anything wrong with the situation. She might talk. The other children in the neighborhood went to the boy’s church. Everyone went the same church. The children knew what happened to the pet. They didn’t know what to do about it. They didn’t think there was anything they could do.

There was a girl. She had a little sister. She had a grandfather who said he loved these girls very, very much. He did things with the older sister that didn’t seem right. She went to her mother. Her mother told her it wasn’t nice to make up stories and said she shouldn’t mention it to anyone ever again. The older sister never did anything outside of school hours. No sports. No extra activities. She knew that if she wasn’t home by the time the elementary school bus arrived, her little sister would need to go to the safety of her grandparents’ house, because there are bad people out there who can’t be trusted if she were to be home alone. The other children in the neighborhood went to the girls’ church. Everyone went to the same church. The children knew what was happening at “grandpa’s house.” They didn’t know what to do about it. They didn’t think there was anything they could do.

There was a church with good people in it. The adults liked things just so. They liked it when the children came to classes and sat quietly when lessons were being taught. They liked it when the children were sweet and cooperative and cute. The adults didn’t like it when the children had too many questions. Sometimes the questions didn’t have easy answers. The adults didn’t like questions. Neither did the pastor. The children in this church learned it was better to sit quietly. To not ask too many questions, that how things looked was very, very important. The children stopped asking questions.

The parents of the boy and the girl were praised for the regular attendance of their children at church and classes, and that they always had a quarter to drop in the plate when it was passed down the pews. Except for an occasional outburst, these children were very well behaved. When the children spoke out, the people in the church knew the parents would take care of it.

Rather be damned than right

I'm reading To Know as We are Known: Education as a Spiritual Journey by Parker Palmer. I have a really difficult time reading anything, even books like this which have been labeled an "easy read." I'm not sure why, but I'm a very slow reader and find I have a hard time grasping the words on the page. (Weird confession for someone with a master's in English, but there you have it.) One of the things I've found over the years that helps me retain what I've read is to try immediately to apply what I've read to my life and see if it sticks. If I'm understanding Palmer correctly, he would agree with this approach.

Palmer sees true learning as a two way street: the one that is learning and the one that teaches (be it a human or an object) are both affected by reflected by the other the encounter. Taking great liberties, it seems Palmer is saying, "to learn it, live it." He seems to put learning and prayer in the same plane -- or perhaps as the same thing. "As I move toward the heart of reality," Palmer reflects, "reality is moving toward my heart. As I recollect the unity of life, life is recollecting me in my original wholeness. In prayer, I not only address the love at the core of all things; I listen as that love addresses me, calling me out of isolation and self-centeredness into community and compassion. In prayer, I begin to realize that I not only know but am known." (Page 11 for those keeping track at home.)

For many of you, it comes as no surprise that I have issues with prayer. I've mentioned it in past blogs. It's a struggle for me to articulate what prayer means to me; to actually have to articulate how I practice it would completely paralyze me, but Palmer's observation that in prayer for others he is drawn out of isolation and becomes in community with others is a pretty close reflection to how I view it, as well ... although it wouldn't be nearly as succinct or articulate coming from my lips. What this has to do with education is that he continuously touts the benefits of looking at knowledge not in the language of power and domination (one has a master in a particular field because one has successfully conquered it), but rather, one might look at knowledge as a web -- what we know is connected to others, other people, other objects, other ideas. When one puts as much effort into seeing the web as one does in "mastering" the topic, the world opens up in new ways. Palmer seems to be imploring educators to open up their minds and hearts to the others in the classroom not only for the student's well-being, but also for the sake of their own souls.

Another of Palmer's concepts revolves around truth. Truth, as he sees it, may not be "right." You can give an academically correct answer that rings hollow. It is not true. I think this is how a lot of confirmation kids must feel when they encounter a "my way or the highway" pastor. For them to give the correct answer in the eyes of the ordained means to lie to themselves -- one of the reasons my first stint at confirmation at the tender age of 12 was a colossal failure. In my heart of hearts, I said to myself "I'll be damned if I'm right for this guy." Looking back, even when I look at the kid I was -- I'm the one in the upper right in the old snapshot at the top of this post -- I still feel that way. I reject the notion some have that a kid grows out of obstinance; sometimes it's the adult who's way off track. I'm glad to know that I've managed to hold onto that truth after three decades. I hope I have the grace to hang onto that when I'm feeling insecure in front of students in a classroom. I'm damned if I don't let a kid speak a deeper truth than I can muster with all my high falutin' and expensive words.

Discernment

It appears my blog took a bit of a summer vacation. That's not to say nothing happened for the past couple of months, just that I haven't carved out the time to note it here. I'm pretty sure the important highlights will naturally crop up later on in other posts, so I'll spare you the boring catalog of what I did this summer and just get to what's currently on my mind.

I crossed another important milestone this week. I'm now what's known as a "Student in Discernment" with my denomination. Discernment is kind of a heavy word. Lots of connotations for people. Some have good associations. Some bad. I actually like this designation better than what my current state used to be referred to: "Student in Care of the Association." To me, that sounds like the association has a big bucket of care that they dump upon unsuspecting seminarians, nearly drowning them in hand-wringing worry in the process. I'd much rather be doing something active with my association, like discern my calling as a part of our shared community than to be fussed over. Connotations can flavor the activity. My two cents.

So, what did I do to mark this momentous event that is expected to eventually lead to ordained ministry? I got a tattoo. Yeah, I know. Some of you will go all Leviticus on me about this. I'm not about to launch into that whole can of worms today. That's your issue to grapple with, not mine. And, this isn't my first tattoo. About 12 or 13 years ago, the women in my family trooped to a now defunct tat shop in Newport, Minnesota for our first venture in marking our bodies. It was my mother's idea. My sister and I both thought it sounded like a reasonable thing to do, so we joined her in an early fall excursion.

Now as my mother approaches her 74th birthday, she's wanting to do another piece of body art, but my sister and I got out of the gate a little ahead of her this time. We selected the same image, different markings. We chose a dragonfly as the basic outline, although mine is more like a dragon-butter-fire-fly combo. Besides that I just think dragonflies are cool, there is a little bit of symbolism going on here.

I wanted to go with a firefly because it's an image I've used a couple of times in the past couple of years when trying to describe my faith journey and also my current path for discernment. Nothing has been crystal clear for me and if I try to look too far out, I make myself crazy. Yet, even in the darkest times, there's some faint light that's been leading me forward. Sometimes that light has about the same power as a firefly, but that's light enough. So, my invented insect has a glowing tail to remind me that there's always light, but it might not be obvious.

The butterfly is about the most stereotypical Christian symbol around, resurrection and all that jazz. I figure it's one that most folk can easily identify with and understand. But, here's the other thing about the butterfly: Its wings are an aeronautical wonder. They're super fragile, to the point that the slightest touch can crumble them. Yet, their wings are also strong enough to take them from the upper Midwest to as far south as Mexico. How is this possible? The wings have an amazing support structure that helps to distribute the stress of flying so that no single part of the wing is so taxed that it can break in flight. In theory, that's what my discernment peeps will be for me, a support system that will help me avoid crashing in mid-flight ... and that's what I hope I can help establish in whatever form my ministry moves to in the future. None of us alone can withstand the strain of living without the sometimes hidden support structure that holds us all together. Even introverts like me get that. But, a visible reminder doesn't hurt.

The dragonfly. What's up with the dragonfly? Besides being an exceptionally nifty insect, I like how it looks like it's zipping along, willy-nilly, with no particular purpose, yet, it's actually pulling off a zillion useful jobs for its ecosystem ... not the least of which is keeping down the skeeter population. So, yeah. All that churning that's going on...perhaps there is some useful purpose to it in the end. Who's to say?

So that's the reason for the image and the timing - I wanted to commemorate this milestone with something that will help remind me of some important stuff on the days that I'm just not feeling it: My connection with my family, my faith community and with God. The location? Well, it's just above my inner right ankle. What's the symbolism there? Sorry to disappoint. One very practical reason for its location is that as I get older, I'm pretty sure I'll still be able to cross my leg so that I can see it. No saying the same would hold true if it were in another location. Not everything has to be deep all the time. Heck, if we don't agonize over a story of God mooning Moses, a little permanent ink just adds more color to the party.

Washing in the Jordan seven times

Those who have been following this blog for a while know that in the past several months, I've been seeing a counselor who works a lot with folks who are seeking a vocation on the churchy side of the street. It's not that I was worried my immortal soul was in jeopardy or that my relationship with God had fallen apart ... or even that I thought I was losing my grip on sanity. (No more so than other seminarians who struggle to balance work, family and school obligations, anyway.) I was just feeling stretched a little thin and unfocused. I was beginning to think if I didn't start getting new tools to get a grip, too much could slip away before I'd even notice.

So, a few times a month I checked in with my counselor and followed her suggestions on being aware of what I'm doing, being intentional in my spiritual practice, and working through some of the character traits that could get in my way of effective ministry, like impatience. Many of those exercises have been worked through right here on this blog, like identifying the milestones in my life that are important to me and where I'm going, thinking about the role of prayer in my life and how it could affect my future vocation, searching for ways to bring grace and patience into frustrating situations, and how to balance my introversion (note I didn't say "overcome" it) with the need I'll have to work a room when I'm in a ministerial role. Like most good counseling experiences I'm familiar with, I've learned that very little of the sessions have to do with tremendous insights from the counselor; it's more a case of the one paying the bills taking time to actually think about the issues at hand, whether there's an actual resolution to be had or not.

My counselor went over my list of goals last week and announced it appeared we'd discussed each of them and while I had some work to do, it was stuff I could do on my own (and here's the surprising part) with some help from my dog Beans. Huh? What help could a 2 year old bundle of unfocused energy be for me? I felt a bit like the famous general (and leper) Naaman must have felt when he traveled to Elisha's place to ask for a cure and was told to go wash in the Jordan seven times and he'd be healed. (Yeah, I know, this is pretty esoteric stuff for a large batch of my readership. You can read the whole story here.)

The point she was trying to make, I think, is that sometimes we're too quick to shell out big bucks for a cure (you know, like up to $125 a session, including insurance billing) when there's a simpler solution right under our noses. For me, the "simple" solution is to continue working with Beans in his Therapy Dog classes. Granted, we're not going to pass this time -- trying to bite someone on the first night of class pretty much disqualifies the human/canine team from getting a completion certificate. (I won't say which of us did the chomping -- we're in it together, so it was our combined action.) However, there are a lot of lessons that transfer nicely from the therapist's couch to the classroom: socializing, patience, empathy, reading others' emotions and learning how to work with what you have.

I have to say, my counselor is right. Instead of getting exasperated because we haven't completed a lesson perfectly, we both need to enjoy being in the moment and in each other's company. We need to learn to adapt to each other's shortcomings and help accentuate the good qualities of each other and lend a helping hand (or paw) when the other is just not getting it. Actually, Beans is a much better team member than I am. No matter how many times I screw up, he still offers his paw for a high-five or a shake and is ready for whatever comes our way next. Sometimes there are things he hates. It's obvious, but he still has a sense of enduring unpleasantness that many of us could only hope to emulate. I think Beans would joyfully take the chance to jump in the Jordan seven times, especially if I were right there with him. Well, buddy, for the next six sessions of this class, and for the rest of your life, you can count me in. Let's get muddy!

A new sense of timing

My mother-in-law died “suddenly but not unexpectedly,” as my spouse has been putting it, a week ago today. Since the moment the phone rang at about 5 a.m. that Sunday morning, time has taken on an entirely new meaning. We’ve had no true control of time. We need to go to the bank and get cash before we travel…to bad, it’s Sunday. Our lawn was already an eyesore with our two riders both out of commission and hopes of getting them into the shop on Monday. Pity. We’ll be in a different time zone before the shop even opens. In a cruel twist of irony, Bob was beginning to settle on dates a few weeks out when he would drive out to Pennsylvania and visit his mom and dad for a couple of weeks. Again, time waits for no one.

Driving in a haze. Arriving in a haze. Visitations. Special fraternal ceremonies. A funeral. A burying. It all happened in a blur in the span of about 24 hours. Then there’s the day after. After the funeral. After most of the people have returned home or gotten back into their old routines. This is when it felt as if we were entering holy time – the time when we watched an 81-year-old man learn what it might mean to live a solo life after nearly 56 years of marriage. We hear slips of the tongue about wanting to hold off on deciding on travel or finalizing the grocery list until he can consult with his wife, and the almost immediate realization of what he’s said and the bashful chuckle. There's the beginnings of placing time in the categories of "before" and "after."

There’s a transition to going from two to one, like a different kind of a birth. There are the muffled cries of pain, the confusion, the chaos. Then there are the still moments where one can catch one’s breath and see a different kind of future. It won’t be the same as before, to be sure, but there is a future. New possibilities open up for getting out and about and seeing the countryside. Plane reservations are made. Amidst the dread of the last car pulling away and being finally alone within the four walls of home, there is possibility. Hope perseveres. Time takes on new meaning.

On being appropriately sticky

I think the biggest regret I'll have about not having children is that I won't get to be an old grandma. Not the kind that bounces small children off of my knee and has a magic way of stopping them from crying. That ain't gonna happen. Ever. But I do love having my family around. That goes for the blood kind and the "family by choice" variety.

I'm a little too anti-social for the fantasy of some (such as my spouse) that we own a ginormous house in which every member of our extended family has a room and we meet up frequently for family meals, but if it's been too long in-between visits from my beloved cousins and their families, I feel like a little piece of me is dying. Same goes for my parents, siblings and close friends.

When the Creator was putting together the components for humanity, I believe there was some realization that everything that was needed to make us human could not be held in one container. The solution: Have those who are closest to the person hold onto some of the needed elements.

So we have parents, siblings, cousins, friends and even pets who hold part of the best of who we are ... and sometimes the worst of who we are. That means sometimes we have to reach out to others to get those good bits back. Sometimes we may be faced with leaving some of broken of unsavory bits behind. Whether it's for a moment or a lifetime, it's hard to say. It's hard to walk away from a part of who we are, but that happens in this less-than-perfect world, too. That's something we have to be aware of, but today, I want to recognize those who have made my being a little richer and have brought me to myself in ways that I could never get to on my own.

I know I carry a whole basket of interesting bits for others. I hope that I have more shiny sequins, funky shaped pieces of sea glass and construction paper in my assortment than I do razor blades and rotten apples. The key for humanity is helping to hand back to cool things and help dispose of the unhelpful pieces before they're handed off for someone else to deal with. There's no need to hold onto those for the next generation.

While I may never be anyone's grandma, I hope along with my collection of odds and ends, I can carry a paste jar to help affix some of the good things the people I love tote around for other people I love. I can think of no finer compliment than to be called sticky.

@ trad clrgy: OMG keep up or u r toast

Today is Pentecost. Some folks call it the "birthday of the church" which I find to be pushing it a might, but it is one of my favorite days, despite the silly labels that people try to place on it. There's a reading from Acts that's typically done that even those who aren't all that familiar with the Bible but still attend a church now and again kinda recall.

The reading is an English major's wacky bag of mixed metaphors: We've got a rush of a violent wind, fire-like tongues, people who don't speak the same language, the notion of public drunkenness, and a Spirit that pours out among the people. There's a little something for everyone. Some years it's the wind that gets to me; other years it's the fire or the thought of the spirit sloshing about and getting everyone a little wet. This year, I think because I'm trying to understand myself in relation to the world, it's the speaking the same language that got my attention. How cool it would be if I could get through this whole seminary thing and still be able to speak authentically in my own tongue and yet be understood by others. Even cooler, if there was some sort of a spiritual translator who would fill me in on what's going on in the strange world of other's minds.

And here I'm only talking about the ones who speak English. The thought of having this instant translation service extend to the far reaches of the globe is mind-blowing, but given the way technology has made the world a smaller place that communicates across borders, in one sense, Pentecost moments happen all the time. The global exchanges couldn't happen without a great intermediary (in this case a bank of supercomputers) running trades and calculating exchange rates for individuals from Tuscany to Tuscaloosa to Tanzania. And that's just the foreign financial markets. Social media has made breaking down international barriers much easier for the individual. Ironically, sometimes I find it much easier to communicate with a person on the other hemisphere than I do the person sitting next to me on the bus. The distance to reach out to my seat mate at times is far too great to traverse.

One generation out and the "gee whiz" factor of the Pentecost story is going to be totally lost on the younger American audience (don't balk at the word "audience" we've long ago made worship entertainment, so let's face facts and call a spade a spade). How relevant will it be to them to hear about something that can happen in real-time from their telephones or whatever new technological device that can do the same thing, without all the wind and fire?

Reconciling tradition with technology is a challenge that is going to take down many a preacher in the future. I already see it in times when clergy diminish the relevance of tools like Facebook, Twitter, Caring Bridge and texting. For entire populations, these are the communication methods of choice. The people who choose to use them don't do so to isolate themselves from others; they use them to stay connected with people they care about in ways that those who don't even try to understand the technology can scarcely fathom.

All I can say is God help us if we don't allow the Spirit to run through fiber optic lines or wifi or satellite. Let our daughters and sons prophesy and see visions. God help us if we try to muzzle the still-speaking voice that is emerging on the waves of the Spirit poured out among us. I fear if we get in the way, there will be hell to pay.

Playing the field

I come from a long line of schmoozers. There are people in my realm who can chat up a rock and probably coerce an intelligible answer from it. My Grandpa Joe made a point of looking for connections and casting about until he found one. And he always found some common ground - someone they both knew, attended the same school, worked for the same company. He was not satisfied until there was an intersection of his life with the other person's. There are many in my family who have this knack for connection. I'm not one of them.

When it comes to networking, fellowship or the 1950s style cocktail party, you're apt to find me in a corner, hallway or kitchen, not in the center of the room working the crowd. While others feed off of the energy in the group, it drains me to the point of exhaustion. It's not that I'm afraid of gatherings, I can hold my own ... if I have to. But, while some seek these situations out, I'm calling my dentist office to see if there's a last-minute cancellation so I can go in for an elective root canal. Seriously, give me a room with a thousand people and a podium and I'm good, but give me 10 - 100 people in an enclosed space with no structure and you'll see me break into a sweat.

This can be a bit of a handicap in the line of work I'm pouring a lot of my time and financial resources to achieve. Maybe because I'm an inherently practical person, I identified my discomfort with small talk/small crowds as something to work on with my counselor. I'd hate to get a few years down the line and discover the time and energy was wasted because this small group thing was a deal breaker.

I've been doing some talking with people who seem to do a better job of working a room. Turns out a lot of what they're after are the same things I seek to do in more intimate settings; they're just more efficient or something at doing it on a bigger scale. What I mean is that I'll find the one person with whom I can connect, and assuming they're cool with me, I could spend the rest of the time with that one person. I guess I'm sort of a monogamous schmoozer, while others tend to like to play the field a little more. While I don't need to be a promiscuous mixer, it might be helpful if I didn't marry the first person that comes along, either.

I came up with a watch phrase for when I find myself getting impatient: Carrots and celery. I guess for the next little while, as I'm getting used to the idea of working a small crowd, I'll need to repeat, "You don't have to get hitched." Come to think of it, I'm sure my unintended spouse would appreciate a more open relationship, as well.

Not going to confuse me with a saint

"She's got the patience of a saint." Nope. That's not something you're ever going to hear about me. I'm just not a patient person.

What gives me eye tics more than anything else is dealing with things that DON'T MAKE ANY SENSE. People who cut me off in traffic when there's a mile of open road behind me. Tic. People who tell long stories that seemingly have no end in sight, or a beginning for that matter. Tic. Office bureaucracy. TIC.

I could try to blow some smoke here and say that even Jesus had his moments of melting down, but try as I might, I'm thinking I can't say I've had a money-changer moment just because I drew the short stick and ended up sitting next to the chatterbox on the morning bus...in really slow traffic. My reaction to a woman who doesn't get that the six rows of people around her don't want to hear the details of her family dinner, complete with cooking instructions, doesn't quite measure up to the anger Jesus is said to have felt when God's house has been turned into a den of thieves.

My spouse is quick to point out that I don't suffer fools gladly. It's sort of a point of pride. But, I also know it can be a handicap. When my initial reaction is to help speed a person along to the conclusion of a story, finish a small child's task, or force a process, I know I could be missing out on something really good. I've heard some people re-frame situations like these and look for the opportunities in the midst of frustration. I don't think I'll ever joyfully embrace long lines, pointless meetings, or long sessions of small talk, but there might be something to those moments.

Maybe it's sort of along the lines of my last posting about the troubles I have with prayer. Maybe I'm spending too much time trying to define it in terms of others. I KNOW I'll never have the patience of a saint. I know I'm not going to suddenly sprout a halo during a trigger situation. Maybe what I'll need to do as a first step is play a little game with myself.

In a class I took about a year ago in which we did "mini-internships" in a number of locations, we were frequently asked where we had seen God in the situation. I was assigned to a church, something I dreaded because of bad experiences I've had in congregational settings in the past. However, because of this annoying question, I knew I needed to look for moments where I had seen God, so I'd be prepared whenever the pop quiz came about. I found that the harder I looked, the more stressed I got and the less able I was to really be present with the people I encountered on the job. However, when I was distracted with busywork, like getting a meal ready for a community dinner, my brain could chill a little and I'd have surprisingly meaningful conversations with the woman who had a traumatic brain injury from a tumor that would eventually kill her.

At one point in the semester, the woman's health declined and she was gone for several weeks. I missed her. Terribly. When she returned, I told her how glad I was to see her. She told me she didn't remember who I was or anything about me. The funny thing is that I didn't care. It was enough that we were together, cutting vegetables and placing them in very neat rows on a tray. Being that anal with the arrangement of vegetables is something that would typically drive me batty, but in the calmness of the moment, I realized it was one thing this woman could control. By rushing the process, I would have robbed her of the gift she brought to the community. The only thing my impatience would have served in that situation would have been myself. And really, what was I in a rush to complete? Scrubbing potatoes? There were plenty of hands available. I didn't NEED to be in a rush.

This week I will play a game with myself. Every time I want to implode with frustration, I will mentally line up carrot and celery sticks, slowly and deliberately, and in solidarity with those whose carrots might be family dinners, or getting into the next lane on the road, or telling a musty old joke whose punchline is at the tip of my tongue. For a week, I'll try to make sure there's an abundance of carrots and celery, all in their places. Someone else can get to the potatoes. I'm the carrots and celery girl with whomever I'm with.

Is the week over yet?

Don't have a prayer in the world

I've been tasked with thinking about prayer before my next appointment with my counselor. It's not like she's a cruel person who just dreams these things up. I have the vague topic of "prayer" as one of my goals during these sessions. But, it is a very uncomfortable topic for me that I have avoided with an aversion reserved for occasions like reaching for a plant in your garden and disturbing a snake. Either that or the feeling you get when you lick a 9-volt battery. Prayer gives me the heebie jeebies. What I haven't worked out is why.

Part of my aversion might be that I haven't exactly figured out what God's job really is, but it doesn't seem as though the Creator came up with the first call center. I think that distinction would have to be attributed to the evildoer (either that or some enterprising business person with an affinity for cubicles).

But there's something about the image of a call center that seems to fit the notions of prayer I frequently see in others. There's the complaint line, where one can share lamentations. The help desk, where one takes issues and hopes for better things after the system reboots. The sales desk, where one barters for a better price for the things one wants. And there's the line that seems to get very little use. It's the line where one can share thanks.

Seems like the only times the compliments hub on the switchboard lights up is when the caller has received a favorable result from one of the other lines. It's a transferred call. Rarely does a call come in directly. Instead, there's some asked for product or service that is delivered to the order-taker's specifications and the call transferred on. Too often I wonder if the caller is somehow hoping that the favorable feedback will result in a gift certificate for a future purchase to be sent in the mail in a sort of divine quid pro quo.

I know, all this thinking about how I perceive prayer through the eyes of others doesn't get to what it is I think it means to me. For two weeks now, I've been spending a lot of time thinking about this. Anytime I'm not actively working on something else, it seems as though this has been running in the background, like a virus scan or backup software program. Today when I brought up the "prayer" window I had minimized, this is what I had on my screen:

• Prayer is the moments when I'm walking on the trail and my dogs spontaneously tear around in a fit of joy.
• Prayer is the moment in communion when I feel my soul might be in communion with the saints in my life who have departed this world.
• Prayer is when I've been with dying loved ones and have slowed my breathing to match theirs and we've had long silent moments where I've laid my hands on them and felt the flow of energy between us equalize, when the distinction of where I end and the other begins becomes meaningless.
• Prayer is that short span of time when I'm doing my sorry attempt at running and, despite a nagging throb in the knee or tweak in the ankle, everything just feels right.
• Prayer is when I lose who I am as an individual and am fully in the moment.
• Prayer is when the cat climbs on my lap and settles in for a snooze.
• Prayer is when I look at what's happening around me and the only thing I can think is WTF???
• Prayer is when I'm embracing one in pain and know there's not a single word that can help any more than my simply being there.
• Prayer happens more than I acknowledge, but it is rendered speechless.

Maybe that's one of the issues I have with prayer. I put food on the table through my ability to put words to the page. Prayer, when it is really happening in my realm, has no words. When I force words upon it, I have taken away its power. When I try to utter a prayer to the world, I find I don't have a prayer in the world.