A Letter To Scout, the Dog

We had to put down our 13 1/2 year old golden retriever mix, Scout, yesterday.  I wanted to tell her what she meant to me.  So I wrote this:

Dear Scout,

I met you because of my work.  You were just a tiny puppy.  I was a pastor, visiting a shut in.  You were at Redeemer Residence Nursing Home in South Minneapolis, because a nurse had brought your mom (a golden retriever) and all eight of you puppies to work with her.  You were all in a crate together, and you attracted a LOT of attention.

The shut in and I visited that day, and each of us held a puppy in our hands.  I don't know if you were one of those puppies.  But later on, someone called and said that one of the puppies was available.  Would I like one?  You were 'almost' free.  You had no pedigree.  Golden, Husky, and "something else", was what they said.

Well, I would like one.  I wanted one desperately.  But I had never had a dog before.  I knew you would be a lot of work.  Previously I had been a cat person.  My family had a dog once, so I knew just a little bit about dogs.  Like, dogs are a lot of work.  And, you have to house train them.

I knew you would be a lot of work, but I wanted you.  I wanted something to love.  Truthfully, this was partly because I always wanted children, and I knew I would not have children of my own.  I do have two stepsons that I love with all my heart (and Scout, I know that you did too) but I wanted a baby.  A dog baby.  And yes, I knew you were a puppy and not a human, but I knew also that you would need a lot of care, and I wanted to give you a lot of care.

So we brought you home.  You were just short of 7 weeks old.  We had studied and asked questions but truthfully, we had no idea.  I apologize for that.  You never really liked the crate.  For some dogs it is a comfort, but it never was for you.

I took you home and the first couple of weeks were very hard, taking you out in the middle of the night (both of us surprised when a raccoon jumped out of the garbage can).  There was sleep deprivation and running back and forth from church, and then taking time off so I could stay home to train you.  And then you started getting sick in the middle of the night, and we couldn't find the right food for you, and you started getting possessive of strange things -- growling over a paper towel (for example) or a sock you found on the ground, and scaring us.  I realized that I was in over my head in dog training, and I took you to the Animal Humane Society for testing and advice.  You had been sick the night before and were skinny and I brought a can of bland food for the test.  They did some tests and said you were a "confident puppy".  But then they put a little food in the food bowl and had you start eating and when they put the plastic hand in to take away the food you went ballistic!  They told me you were "aggressive" and that you would need special training but that there were no guarantees that the training would work.  You were about 10 weeks old then.  I took you home and cried all the way.

But we took you to a behavioral veterinarian and we took you to a special trainer who specialized in aggression.  I took you to the dog park almost every day when you were a puppy, to try to deal with some of that excess energy.  We took you to classes in dog obedience.  You never got very good at coming when called, but you really got good at "drop it" and "leave it."  You sat like a pro, but "stay" was hard.  You were not a perfect dog, but you were a good dog.  I know this because of you.

Because of you, I took walks.  I have never been good at regular exercise.  I'm one of those people who likes reading and writing and thinking way too much.  I tried to walk, because I like walking, but until you came along I was never very consistent.  But I took you for walks every single day.  Even when it was dark and cold.  Sometimes, of course, they were shorter walks, but I took walks, and sometimes long walks in the summer.  Because of you I was not afraid to take walks in the dark, because you were with me.  Because of you I took walks because you needed the exercise too.

Because of you, I learned a new language:  dog.  When we went to the behavioral veterinarian, she said, "Scout doesn't know English.  Think of her as if she was a German exchange student."  So I studied, and tried to learn dog.  I learned how to read your bows and your growls and the way you turned your head to the side.  I learned to notice when your tail was up or your tail was down.  and I learned to stand straight and speak low when I wanted you to take me seriously.  I read the book Culture Clash and The Other End of the Leash, and learned to respect your species, and not try to make you into a human.  I still remember the day I learned what it meant when you dropped one of your toys by the kitchen table while we were eating:  you wanted to trade!  (sorry:  you did not get table scraps.)

Because of you, I learned to be less materialistic.  Because sometimes you destroyed things that I loved.  Like (for example) books.  Or a nice pair of shoes.  But I knew you didn't do it on purpose, like some people would.  You just didn't understand the value that humans put on "things".  So I learned to let go of things -- some things -- that I really loved -- because they are just things -- they are not creatures with hearts that beat, and are alive.  (I also learned -- at least most of the time -- to put things where you could not get them).

Because of you, I learned what the word "good" really means.  Because you were a good girl.  You were always a good girl.  Even when you chewed up books, and even when you unwrapped packages, and even when you ate the raisin cookies (and I had to take you to the vet).  Despite all of those things, you were always a good girl.  Even when you growled and snapped as a puppy, and made us afraid, it was because you were trying to tell us something.   You bit me once, and then I knew I had to get really serious about understanding you, and making you understand me, too.  And finally we learned, and you lived for 13 1/2 years, and you were a good girl.   Because you know what, "Good girl, Scout" really means?

It means, "I love you."  No matter what.

What the World Needs Now

There's a moment from yesterday that I keep coming back to.  I'm not sure exactly why.

We were going on a short break after Thanksgiving.  Most of our vacation this year was taken up with moving out of our home in Minnesota.  The first time I went back, we made sure to see a few people but by the beginning of July it was clear that we would not get things done unless we put blinders on and worked non-stop.

So yesterday, we decided to take a one-night overnight, a real although short get-away out of town.  Friends from our congregation agreed to take care of our dog, Scout, for one night while we were gone.

And this moment -- it's not from the time away -- not exactly -- but we were on the way to the church to drop Scout off with our friends, who would meet us there.

When we got to the church, the door to the sanctuary was open, and they were both inside, getting some things ready for Sunday.  Scout saw them right away.  I let go of her leash and she ran down the middle aisle, where the husband greeted, and petted and patted and scratched her ears.

There was my twelve-year-old dog, who stumbles sometimes now on walks, running like a puppy.

I keep coming back to this moment.

And what I see is Joy.

My dog isn't perfect, as everyone who knows her will attest.  She has taken to destroying books lately, something that breaks our hearts, a little (or a lot, depending on the book).  The latest book of mine to be marred is one that my father gave me while I was living in Japan.  Usually I just throw the book away but with this one, I have kept it (so far) even though I'm not sure it's salvageable.

Lately when we come home and open the door, we wonder what we will find.  Sometimes everything is fine.  Sometimes there is a book with its cover ripped off and teeth marks and the spine destroyed.

Truthfully I can't hate her.  I know that what is happening has as much to do as our own early deficiencies in training as it does with her quirks in personality.  It's complicated.

But here's what is not complicated:  watching my old dog run down the center aisle of the sanctuary.

Joy.

It doesn't fix anything, but it's necessary, you know?  It's necessary.  In the midst of hard work, and fear, and changing what you can change, and figuring out what you can't -- there's Joy.

There is a lot that is not joy in the world, but it's there if you look for it, it's there:  a child opening a small gift and waving it in the air.  There's the joy of hearing an old song after a long time, or the joy of seeing someone you love, who loves you, despite everything.  There's a lightness in joy, a feeling that perhaps you could leap up, even fly.

I remember from last year now -- a Sunday when a little girl came into church while I was standing and giving the announcements.  She ran up to me and hugged my legs.  And I don't know what she was feeling, but I felt Joy.

There is serious work to be done in the world.

And then there's joy.

Paying Attention

This morning my dog Scout and I had a little excitement on our walk.  It wasn't a big excitement; we don't lead really interesting lives, but I credit what excitement we glean from Scout, at least in part.

It was a beautiful, cool morning out, perfect dog-walking weather.  We walked down to the end of the block, as we always do, the dead end which leads to the nature center where there are No Dogs Allowed.  There is also not an entrance to the nature center from our block, but there is some nature there.

Just as we were rounding the corner, I happened to see just the tail end of a deer, disappearing behind the fence line.  I think Scout probably noticed something before I did.  Truthfully, that dog is always looking around, and sniffing around, and walking around as if there is much more going on in the neighborhood than I can see.  She makes me pay attention, because, when I am walking with her, I'm always aware that I might be missing something.

So we saw this little white tail disappearing, and since Scout was with me, we decided to explore a little bit, to walk down into the dead end and see if we could see more.  I could tell that Scout thought that this was a good idea as well.

When we got up to the fence line we could hear and see the deer: a gangly young thing with fuzzy antlers that looked from a distance as if they were slightly different heights.  The deer took a long moment to stare at us, woman and dog, before galloping, no, leaping off along the fence line.

We took our moment of grace for what it was, and gave thanks.  Then we continued on our walk, back up the road toward home.

When we got near the end of the road, my dog-tuned ears recognized that something was not quite right.  But it wasn't until we were just one house from the end of the block that we noticed the deer again.  He had run all the way down the fence line, and was now running (no, leaping is the correct word, again) at the other end of our block.

He stopped between two houses, and we got close enough to stare back at him again.  He had seemed so large at first, but now I could tell that he was all legs and slight.  Scout and I looked at him for another long moment.  I knew he needed to get back to the nature center, the one where there are No Dogs Allowed.  But we stood there for a moment, wishing we had cameras (or at least I did.)  Then we took that one step that would cause the deer to leap off, back in the direction of home.

Before Scout, I don't remember moments like this.  Maybe it's just the walks, but I don't think so.  I think that it's the walks, and it's something else, too.  I am getting a little better at paying attention, to listening and seeing, even if it's just the tail end of a deer, or a rustling in the wind.  It might not be anything, but it might be something, you never know.

Before Scout, I'll bet I wouldn't have discovered two nests of baby rabbits in my back yard.  It was Scout who discovered them, and, even though I admit that her intentions toward them were not pure, her excitement was the thing that tuned my eyes and ears.

Before Scout, I would not have been aware of the imminence of a thunderstorm, just before it erupts.  She has senses to which we do not pay attention, telling her what is most important.

Scout is always discovering something that I didn't even know existed:  a piece of garbage, a turtle, a rock, a weed, a stick.  Her ears (well, one of them, anyway) prick up and I feel as if she is hearing pieces of the universe's orchestra that are too fine for my ears.

Paying Attention:  it is a fine art, and I have not mastered it.  Knowing What is Most Important:  this too I have not mastered, even though Jesus keeps reminding me, giving me little pieces of bread in my hand, a sip of wine, a few well-placed words, the line of a hymn.   While I worry, there is a white-tailed deer disappearing into the woods, and I might miss him again.

Or this time, maybe I'll see.

Maybe I'll see, and maybe I'll hear just a little fragment of the song of the universe, the trees clapping their hands, the counterpoint of the streams, one graceful beat of the deer leaping away.

Tell Me Your Stories

"Tell me your stories," my husband says to me as I return home, temporarily, with the dog.

"I don't have any," I reply.  It was a quiet morning, just me and the Office Coordinator and Scout the dog lying zen-like in the middle of my floor.

The phone only rang once.  It was the one of the Women Who Want Food Cards, which I do not have right now.  They keep calling, though.  They would have to come a distance to get a Food Card, and I tell them that they should try churches in their own neighborhood first.  They are persistent.  Or shameless.

Otherwise, I wrote my sermon.

I took breaks for coffee, to talk to the Office Coordinator, to eat the tiniest part of a chocolate pie.

Scout would follow me down the hall each time, an easy loping gait.  She would cruise up to the Office Coordinator to get pets.  She is persistent.  Or perhaps shameless.

I read the story again about the dying young girl who taught the seminary student how to pray, her soft voice urging him when he faltered, "Keep going.  I like to hear you pray, just talking to God like that."

It heard it rain, a little, as I typed, and wrote, and thought, and prayed.

"Teach me to pray," I say, remembering the phrase.  Perhaps I am not as persistent, or shameless, as I ought to be.

It's a Package Deal

Seven years ago we got a puppy.  I saw her when I was visiting in a nursing home.  She was three weeks old, part Golden Retriever, party Husky, part question mark.  All cute.  She slept in my lap while I visited with a parish member.  Though I had never had a dog of my own (just the little dog who grew up with us), I was suddenly considering it.  I "knew" it would be a commitment.  Yeah.

In the past seven years there have been sleepless nights, broken legs, trips to the vet, obedience school.  There have been diet problems and behavior problems.  There have been bills.  We have been worried.  There have also been times when I wouldn't trade our dog for anything, when she has showed her charm to strangers, let a child hug her, walked alongside me, sighed with contentment.  It's a package deal.

It's a package deal, though now that she's seven, there are more good days than bad.

One morning last week, though, I was getting ready for work, and called our dog in from outside.  Admittedly, she was out in our backyard longer than usual, but she seemed to be doing fine.  We are grateful for our fenced in backyard, and we are also grateful that this year the snow is not so deep that she can just walk over to the next-door neighbor's yard.  Anyway, I called her in, and she came, but I immediately sensed that something was wrong.

Maybe the right word is "smelled."  She smelled funny.  And, she looked funny, too.  And she was leaving funny brown tracks in the kitchen, which were not dirt. 

Our dog likes to roll around in the snow.  That's one of the things she likes to do.  But, in our unseasonably warm winter, I guess it's not just snow out there.

So, here I was, all dressed up for work, washing the kitchen floor and making my dog sit and stay while I washed her paws.  And her neck.  And the side of her face.  It's not one of the things they write in the book about the Rewards of Dog Ownership.  But, as we have discovered, it's a package deal.

During the season of Lent, I think it is also well to remember that being a disciple is a package deal.  There are those who would entice us with the Rewards of Discipleship (you know, "Your Best Life Now" and all that), and there are also those who would make discipleship into a cult of suffering.   But being a disciple of Jesus is neither a cult of suffering nor a cult of success.  It is simply a package deal.  It is what you get when you follow Jesus.  It is the way of life, even though the road leads through death. 

Many years ago, when my Lutheran congregation designed and built their sanctuary, they discovered that the pews they ordered came with kneelers.  Even though kneeling is sort of unusual in Lutheran churches, they decided to keep the kneelers.  They were right to do it. 

After all, it's a package deal. 

Brief Encounters While Walking the Dog

Here's something I'm not proud to admit:

I don't walk the dog as often as I used to.

In fact, I am positively lazy in this regard sometimes.

A combination of two things contributes to this reality (okay, really three if you include laziness), the first is my ongoing problem with plantar faschiatis, which seems to have migrated from my left heel to the right one, now.  The second thing is our fenced-in backyard.  I initially began taking Scout for long walks every day because we did not yet have a fenced-in backyard.  But even afterwards, the habit persisted, until laziness and the sore feet conspired against me.

I think Scout does enjoy the free time in the back yard.  Sometimes when I peek out to watch here, she is just gazing medititavely into space, the tao of dog.  Other things, she is taking off as if to chase invisible prey.  This morning, I happened to look outside just at a moment when she was writhing joyfully on her back. 

But I know she would benefit from a regular walk, as would I.

So yesterday my better nature won out over my sloth.  I put on my tennis shoes and a sweat shirt, put the leash on the dog and set out. 

It wasn't a long walk, not like the long walks we used to have, anyway.  But at the corner was a young mom who was waiting with her two daughters for the school bus.  One of the girls got on; the other stayed behind.  I recognize this family though I don't know them by name.  It seems they know Scout; she is more famous than I am.  The little girl wanted to pet her.  At first, it seemed that Scout was not going to oblige, but at the last minute she decided that being petted was a good idea.

I decided to take a risk and invited them to our Animal Blessing Service this Sunday.  They demurred; they weren't sure their dog was ready for public appearances yet.   I wondered if they had a church affiliation, but didn't ask.   

We started back down the block toward home when I heard a voice. 

It was our next-door neighbor, complimenting our newly-landscaped front lawn.  He seemed positively giddy with delight that our lawn now does not look as awful as it did before.  He was very friendly for so early in the morning.  I made a comment about the new priest at their church, and he mentioned that they no longer attend that congregation; they've been going to a local mega-church which does not make a big deal about their denominanational affiliation.  He likes it, he said.  I wondered what it was he liked, but didn't have a chance to ask.

So, throughout the day, off and on, I wondered:  I wondered what it is that attracts people to a congregation, what makes them decide to stay, or leave, to set foot in the sanctuary, or not.  I wondered what a person who comes to visit us is looking for, or not looking for.  I don't want to be the kind of person who reads a book (or books) and assumes she knows what people's hearts yearn for.  So, I just had two small conversations, and I wondered a little.

Scout and I have to get out more. 

It's good for both of us to practice the spiritual discipline of walking.

And wondering.

Vacations with Dogs

Some people may ask, "Why would you want to take your dog with you on a vacation?"

It's a fair question.  There are limitations to things you can do when/if you bring your dog with you on vacation, and there are logistical issues that you have to deal with.

First of all, not all hotels will let you bring your dog, especially your rather large dog (but often, any dog at all).  We have found three hotels (so far) that we really like because they welcome our dog, and they are actually quite nice.  One hotel we used to just stay over at overnight while we were taking our son back to college up north.  We remained loyal to this hotel during some major renovations, because they were so unfailingly friendly whenever we walked in the door with Scout.  And, we have a lot of fond memories of this hotel, one of the nicest being the time Scout escaped one wintry Easter after we had taken her outside for bathroom duties.  She ran around the hotel in circles several times before just running back inside through a door left open.

Second, you are not able to bring your dog into fine dining establishments with you.  I realize that some people will leave their dog in the car sometimes, but we are leery of doing that, since we once left Scout in the car briefly on a very cool spring evening, so that we could get a little bite to eat.  Someone came into the restaurant and said in a very loud voice, "Hey!  someone left their dog in the car!  I'm calling the police!"   So when we take Scout on vacation with us, we usually eat at places where they have outdoor dining, or get sandwiches, or eat in our room.

Third, if you are going to visit, for example, Split Rock Lighthouse in Two Harbors, Minnesota,  they do not really want you to bring your dog with you.  Most retail establishments forbid dogs (with the exception of a few antique malls), so we either 1) don't shop, or go to Split Rock Lighthouse, or 2) take turns going in, or waiting outside with the dog.

So, if she's so much trouble, why take her along?

Of course, there are times when we don't, times when we expect we will be spending a lot of time on subways, or at museums, or in other places that we don't think Scout will enjoy.

But there are advantages some advantages to traveling with your dog.

For example, just looking in the back seat and seeing her there, with her head on my husband's guitar, with her eyes open or closed.  (I do get annoyed when she tries to sit between us in the front seat, because there's NOT ROOM.)

Or, let's say you are just minding your own business, taking your dog on a walk because you can't go into the toy store, and while you are walking you happen to run into three llamas!  How much more fun is it to run into llamas if you can see your dog's reaction to the llamas, and the llama's reaction to them!

Or, let's say you are visiting antique stores.  50% of antique stores we visit allow Scout to shop with us, and some of those establishments actually welcome her, and say nice things to her, and tell her how beautiful she is.   Some people even ask which antiques she is most interested in.

People of all ages want to talk to us because we have a dog.  Well, actually, they just want to pet our dog, or wonder what kind of dog she is.  They often ask about the ears.  And we are frequently mistaken for Fine, Upstanding Citizens simply because we have a friendly dog along with us.

It's kind of fun to be offered dog treats when you go through the drive through (though we eschewed the ice cream with a milk bone sticking out of it).

There's nothing like relaxing in your hotel room with your husband and dog at the end of a long day of hiking, sight-seeing, eating at picnic tables, and (possibly) meeting strange animals.  You should try it.

Really.

The First Thunderstorm of the Season

Yesterday we woke up to rumblings in the sky.  It was a dark morning, thunder and lightning, the first spring storm.  Scout was sitting on the rug at the end of the bed -- not too bad yet, although when I asked her to come, she wouldn't.  My side of the bed is near the window, a dangerous place.

Through the early hours of the morning, as the sounds got louder and scarier, our dog got more and more worried.  She paced, she panted, but what she did most of all, what she always does during thunderstorms, is try to find a safe place to hide.  At one point she ended up in our small bathroom (who told her this is really the safest place in the house?), at another time she wedged herself between my husband's easy chair and the end table.  She is also partial to the basement.  There is a bed downstairs she can crawl under.

I try to comfort Scout.  I keep telling her that we won't let the bad storm get her, but she doesn't respond to reason.  Fear is often like that.  You can't reason with it.  You can only be there.

Inevitably, as I watched Scout and as I heard the sky, I considered the disciples, the Easter disciples hiding in their locked room after the resurrection.  They were afraid, the story says, and so they tried to find a safe place to hide.  And why is it that I imagine that room as small and cozy, with not much room for another person, not even a resurrected Savior? 

Despite the resurrection of Jesus, it seems we are often afraid.  The sky rumbles, the world changes, the signs and portents we do not understand.   There are many things going on in our culture that don't seem so friendly.  The things we used to do (at least in church) don't always work any more.  Some people don't come.  Others mock believers.  Some just ignore us.  We can keep saying and saying, "God is in charge.  This is Christ's church," and even know it's true, but still, we're afraid. 

It's tempting, at times like these, to try to find a safe place to hide: the basement, perhaps?  Any small space, where there is not much extra room, will do.  It's tempting, at times like these, to make our expectations as small as the space we are hiding:  to forget that Jesus rose from the dead and is still risen.  It's tempting to find that small space and stay there, with the people we know, doing the things we know how to do.  It's dark and cramped, but it's safe.  Right?

So Jesus walks into that small locked room, and you know what?  he doesn't say, "I'm in charge."  He doesn't say, "I won't let the big bad thunder get you."  All he says is, "Peace."  Peace be with you. 

And then he sends us out, not to do our puny little tasks, but to proclaim and enact his great mission.  He sends us out in the thunder and the lightning, to that dangerous world.  He sends us out to the world not to reason with people, not to tell people facts about God, but to love them.  To be there. 

Friday Five: Unexpected Thanks Edition

Jan over at Revgalblogpals has this Friday Five for us:

With the American holiday of Thanksgiving being less than a week away, I tried to think of some questions for Friday Five that could be connected to this, but in a new way. So here is my one try:

Name five things that were unexpected in your life that you are now grateful for.
1.  My husband.  After 41 (or so, but who's counting) years of singlehood, I got married.  Very unexpected.  But very good. 

2.  Our Dog Scout.  Before Scout, I was a cat person.  I was the kind of cat person who let my cat sleep on the bed at night.  And I had a cat who loved to curl up in my lap.  But, the first thing that happened was that my husband was allergic to cats.  The second thing that happened was that we met Scout.  Now, we are Totally Bonded.  And I am Very Grateful.

3.  Being a Pastor.  When I was a little girl, women could not be pastors.  I am surprised and grateful that women can be pastors, that God called me, and that a congregation also called me to be their pastor.

4.  New friends.  I am grateful for Fran, Terri, Lindy, Marsha, Stephanie, Jan, Amy (Dogblogger), Robin, etc. etc.  Some of you I have met.  Some of you I still hope to meet someday.  I never imagined that I could be good friends with people I have never met (or met just once).  (sorry no links right now, maybe a little later....)

5.  Knitting.   I've known how to knit since the 7th grade, but I've never made any progress - until the past year.  I'm surprised at myself, and grateful, because my progress is due to patient people willing to work backwards with a left-hander.

Fear Itself

You can't reason with a dog.

During the past couple of weeks, there has been an odd development in Scout's temperament.  She's always been a little skittish when there are thunderstorms or fireworks.  But for the past couple of weeks of so, she has suddenly grown fearful about walking down our block.

It started when we crossed the street one day, on the way to our favorite pond.  We were going along nicely up the street, but there was some construction work going on around the corner, and as we got closer, Scout started to do her famous "walking backwards" dance, which signals not just stubborn "I don't want to go where you want to go"-ness, but actual fear.

You can't reason with a dog.

I know, I've tried.  I get her to stop walking backwards and just sit.  That does work sometimes, but even if I talk to her in a nice, bright, soft voice, and tell her there is nothing to fear around the corner, or just past that car that is running, or past that group of children that is shouting -- even if I tell her all these things -- she doesn't believe me.

In the past couple of weeks, she has started walking backwards a couple of times on our block, which is so disheartening.  I don't want her to become like one of those people who is afraid of everything, who hides in their house.  And though there is no sign of this happening, I certainly don't want her to become one of those dogs who growls and snaps at people because she is afraid.

You can't reason with a dog.

I'm working with her a little bit each day, not trying to force her to go where she doesn't want to go, but trying to increase her comfort, even if we just go a few more steps.  We're working on broadening her circle just a little bit, and hoping that she discovers that she will not get hurt.

You can't reason with a dog.

It starts me thinking about how fear can be irrational, which is not the same as saying that there is nothing to fear.  I certainly think there are plenty of things to fear in the world today.  It's not the great depression, but the economic situation is frightening, and the deficits are frightening, and the both the wars and the terrorists threats are frightening.

To be perfectly honest, though, I'm more frightened about the people running around, calling people they don't agree with "Nazis" or "Marxists" or "Communists."  I'm more frightened of some of the people who are afraid. 

I read a conversation between two conservatives.  One of them interviews the other, saying, "I don't agree with President Obama's policies and I wouldn't vote for him.  But I don't believe it's accurate to call him a communist or a socialist.  Why do you do it?"  The other one says that he's going to keep saying the same thing, because, of course, there's more than one way to understand the word "socialist".   (By some understandings, Medicare is socialist.  Perhaps by some understandings, Public Education is also socialist.)

But the words "Socialism," and "Communism," of course, elicit fear.   And fear can cause us to do many things, including snarl and bite.  You can intentionally make a dog afraid, and then set him loose on a victim.

A long while ago President Franklin Delano Roosevelt said that the only thing we had to fear was fear itself.  I don't think he meant that there was nothing to be afraid of.  There were plenty of things to be afraid of during those depression years.  But if you really want to be afraid, check out what scared, desperate people are capable of.  Over in Germany, someone used a whole nation's fear and desperation to rise to power, to create scapegoats and to murder people.  

In the meantime, I'm going to take a deep breath and admit that I'm afraid, too.  I'm afraid of the fear I hear and see, and the consequences it might have.  But I am trying hard not to snarl or growl, and not to start walking backwards either.   Instead, I tell myself that I have hope -- I believe in the love of God for every person.  I believe that in the end, Love wins.  I believe that hope is greater than fear. 

And I just go a few more steps forward, every day.

Scout Enjoys Helping to Collect Food for Food Shelf

Wednesday was our first "Service Project Night" For confirmation this year.  I had proposed a couple of weeks ago, that our two seventh grade groups (one group of girls and one of boys) have a scavanger hunt for our local food shelf, VEAP (Volunteers Enlisted to Assist People.)    What this means is that the young people would go door to door, collecting canned and boxed goods for those who had some to spare, and at the end of the evening, we would see what we had collected, and which group had gotten the most.

Just to make it fun, we say that each group should try to get one food group for each letter of the alphabet. 

I'll be honest:  I had been feeling poorly all day, and I wasn't in top form for Service Project Night.  But it was a beautiful evening, and I was starting to feel a little better by the time the boys all arrived.  One of the girls had thrown down the gauntlet:  "I bet you won't be able to collect as much as we will!"  So the boys were raring to go, all talking about how they were going to show those girls, even though the girls had the advantage with their "puppy dog eyes".

I decided that it would be fun to get Scout involved in the project, so we stopped first at my house to get Scout and some bags for collecting.  She followed us up and down the street, sniffing the grass, straining to see who was at the door, occasionally getting to meet another dog, or a small child who would pet her. 

We made sure to stop in at one house where I knew the couple were advocates for VEAP.  I heard the woman say to the boys, "We go to that church!".  She told them she didn't have any extra canned goods but she gave them $20.

Scout had a good time with this family's dog, a friendly golden retriever.  They circled and sniffed.

So, laden down with many groceries, we returned Scout to our house, and drove back to church.  My husband said that, after we left, Scout went from window to window for several minutes, looking for us, excited and hopeful.

And, by the way, the boys got the most groceries, but the girls actually followed the directions, getting a food item from A to Z.

I am on Vacation

....briefly.

Internet connectivity appears to be anecdotal, but I have it right now.

Here's what I've done so far:

1.  Stopped in a number of places on the way up here, including an Antique Store in Duluth, where I bought three inexpensive children's books, and a Yarn Store (Playing with Yarn) where I haven't bought anything (yet).

2. Had a late lunch at a cool place called Tom's trading post.  They have good tuna salad sandwiches, and they really really liked our dog there.

3.  Watched the old movie, "The Mortal Storm."  Sad, scary movie. 

4.  Had breakfast at Betty's Pies.  Scout made "I miss you guys" noises from the car.

5.  Made a couple of pastoral care phone calls (ah, the wonder of the cell phone).  I'm done now, though.  Promise.

6.  Hiked up around Gooseberry Falls, and stopped in at Split Rock Lighthouse.  Hope to go back for more.  It's their anniversary, you know.

7.  Scout was spooked by a couple of people who wanted to meet her, but, for the most part, she has been friendly and obliging to everyone who wants to pet her.  A couple of people have remarked that she is therapy for them as they had to leave their dog at home.  This is the one vacation where we get to bring her, so I know how they feel. 

It's cool up here, but the sun is shining.  The sky is a beautiful pure blue color.  My feet hurt sometimes, but I keep going.

Scout Predicts the Weather

Suddenly, this evening, Scout went and sat in one of her safe places.  When my husband tried to get her to come so she could go out for the last time in the evening, she growled at him.

This is not like her.

It rained and rained and rained Thursday evening.  There were flash flood warnings in the morning.  It was supposed to storm a lot on Friday night too, but most of it went around us.

The weekend prediction was that the humidity and the temperature would get lower.  It should be (I hope) a nice morning to have church on the lawn.

Then, suddenly, Scout did her weird "safe place" act.  I was sure that it was not supposed to rain tonight. 

So, we finally got Scout to go outside.

As soon as she came back in, it started raining.

I should listen to her more often, I think.

I think she knows more than I give her credit for.

"I see you out walking your dog in the morning...."

About twelve years ago, when I moved here, I thought I was moving from the claustrophobic microscope of small-town living to a relatively anonymous life in the big city. The retired couple who lived across from the parsonage used to greet me in the morning with words like these: "Your light usually goes on at about 7:00 in the morning, but it didn't come on until 7:30 today. Is everything okay?" One day, at the post office, one of the farmers said, "I saw you leave town the other day and I thought your car was going to turn left, but it turned right. Where'd you go?" (As I was opening my mouth and trying to form words, another farmer interrupted, "She doesn't have to tell you where she's going." Bless him.)

Don't get me wrong. I loved this town and its people. They were, in many ways, an extremely gracious parish, a lovely place for a first call pastor to get her start. They greeted me when I arrived at the parsonage, helped me to unload my car and then left me to unpack in private. They knocked before entering. I never found them in the parsonage without my permission. But I was unused to the feeling that I got that people pretty much knew where I was at all times, knew which house the pastor lived in, could see my car come from a good distance away.

So imagine my surprise when, shortly after I returned to what I thought was big-city life, I was getting tickets to a movie with a date and the teenage clerk blurted out, "Aren't you the new pastor at Brand X Lutheran Church?"

I run into parish members, community leaders and neighbors regularly at the grocery store, as well as the Big Store with the Red Circles and other places of interest. Once, after Good Friday Tenebrae services, I ran into a couple from church at the grocery store. We greeted each other silently, I leaned in and whispered, "I think it's all right to talk now."

But I measure most of all my lack of anonymity by the people who tell me, "I see you out walking your dog in the morning." Maybe it's because in this particular case, they see me, but I never see them. I am blithely going along, getting in exercise and bonding time with Scout, while unbeknownst to me, I Am Being Watched. They don't wave to me. I don't notice them. But people know I'm around, in the community. And they feel compelled to tell me, "I see you out walking your dog in the morning."

I'm enough of a believer in the priesthood of all believers that I don't believe that I'm a "sign of God's presence in the community." The truth is, we're all that: each and every one of us mostly anonymous Christians. We're all signs of God's presence in the community. And, like a lot of God's signs, they are mostly small or invisible. The pastor walking her dog. The young woman next door who works with child protection. The teenager helping younger children learn to read. The older couple who have opened their home to young adults.

You never know where we are. But we're God's people, and we're on a lot of streets.

An inelegant postscript:
actually, upon thinking about it, I think I am a sign of God's presence in the world -- in particular as a pastor. Here's how: when you see me, you know there must be a congregation around somewhere. You know that God has called me to serve God's people in the world. Sometimes I happen to be more visible because I'm wearing a collar, or I'm standing up in front. But I'm a small visible sign of the presence of God's people, the ones who have called me to lead them, provoke them, listen to them, and equip them.

The Decline of Blogging

Every once in awhile, in a fit of nostalgia, I go back and read old blog posts.

I know, it's embarrassing to admit it.

I'm struck by a kind of golden era, a couple of years ago, when I was writing a lot and reading a lot of blogs, getting sometimes twenty comments on a post. I'm struck, sometimes, by the elegance of my writing (this is sort of embarrassing to admit as well), and I yearn a little for the good old days, when it seemed like I was reading everyone's blog and everyone was reading mine, and we were all on our way up.

It's times like these when I consider what people are saying about the "decline of blogging."

Some people are even more blunt. "Blogging is dead," they say. They mean, of course, that they used to get twenty comments and now they get two, or one. Or none. Or they mean that they just don't have time to "blog" much any more.

I have been feeling the same way. But I don't think that blogging is dead. (Just ask Andrew Sullivan, for one.) However, I do think a particular kind of blogging, the blog-as-journal-type-blog, is in a temporary or permanet decline.

It has to do, at least in part, with a certain popular social media which starts with "FB". There we can leave six word personal updates. I can tell you a little bit about how my dog broke her toe (something I used to do on this blog), and I can update you all on how my knitting is going. I can post a video link that I like, old pictures of my family.

So, what is my blog, "faith in community" for?

When I posted more often, it was kind of a mish-mash: I told stories about Scout, and my church (not revealing any confidentialities, of course); I posted theological and pastoral reflections, and talked about walking around the lake in the summer. Sometimes the connections to "faith in community" were apparent and obvious, other times more tangential. Sometimes (I'll be honest) I just liked putting words together in fun ways and hearing how they sounded together.

I love the title of my blog, "faith in community." I think I would like to keep it, but try to be a little more intentional about what I write about. I'd like to take more risks in what I write, do things that are a little harder for me, that will take some time.

Or, I'm thinking about starting over with a new blog. I have attempted it a couple of times. I have a pretty good title in mind, even posted a little, but found that I couldn't keep up two at one time. Especially in this era of blogging decline.

I know I'll never be a Lutheran pastor version of Andrew Sullivan, but I'd like to create something a little more cohesive. So, I'm searching for themes, ideas, what to keep, what to discard. I don't think I'll be writing about Scout, unless, of course, I can wring some sort of a theological message out of her. (that is not outside of the realm of possibility, of course.) Perhaps I'll do less posting about the books I read, unless I can give a full review.

Also, if there are any lurkers here, is there anything you would like to hear more of? Less of?

Life in Lent

I've been working on my very first sock, using this great Swedish yarn that makes me want to make sweaters, even though it's about spring and nearing the end of knitting weather. I've turned the heal, and am headed toward the toe. It's going to be a thick "house sock"; there's no way it will ever be able to be worn with shoes; but it's great to learn on.

It's not as easy as you might think to throw away, or somehow get rid of one thing every day. A couple of things were no brainers: an old black wool skirt that has unrepairable tears, a pair of shoes which never fit me, an old coat which doesn't fit anybody. But, it's easy to get behind. Someone expressed a sense of awe that I could find 40 things to get rid of, but the reality is, there are probably many more than 40 things I have that I could probably live without.

I'm reading Olive Kitteridge for book group. I've also begun reading a book called Transforming Congregational Culture, by Anthony Robinson. I just saw this one quote on Facebook, and got really really intrigued. I've been zipping right through it, underlining and circling many things.

I had to buy a new phone today. oh-uh. My phone froze. Then it died.

We are leaving for Arizona on Monday, a week's vacation during Lent, and I don't think I have one pair of shorts that fit me. There's a topic for reflection.

And I'm taking Scout to day care tomorrow, probably for the last time this season. The weather is getting warmer, and it will be easier for us to make sure she has the required amount of exercise.

So, I called to make sure she had a spot this afternoon, and the woman who answered the phone said, "We might be full." She put me on hold for awhile, and when she came back on the line, she asked, "Which Scout is this?" I told her my name, and after another pause, she said that she needed to find out which play group Scout was in.

Play group?

Scout worries

I am very worried that Scout has been restless and pacing for the past two nights. I will call the vet in the morning.

Dog Mysteries

Some of you might know that Scout was uncharacteristically naughty while we were away for a few days. According to her dog sitter (for whom she usually behaves exceptionally well), she often would not come in from outside. She would scratch at the door to come in, and when the door was opened for her, she would run away. The cold weather made this behavior particularly annoying. They said a couple of times they had to trap her (although I'm having a hard time imagining how they did this -- she's pretty fast), so they started not to let her go outside very often.

When we picked her up on Wednesday she was pretty quiet. This isn't unusual, since she gets a lot of exercise at the dog sitter's. But she seemed really subdued. I was checking her over, and thought her nose looked kind of funny. It looked like there was some kind of scab or wound on both sides of her muzzle. I called the sitter to find out if she got along okay with the other dogs.

The next day, when the sitter got back to me, she said, no, she got along fine with the other dogs, just like always.

But here's what she said: Scout wanted to spend all her time outdoors -- until the last day. Then, suddenly, she did NOT want to go outside. They found her hiding under a bed and in someone's room, and at one point when someone came to get her and encourage her to go outside, she even snarled a little, very unusual for her.

So, obviously something happened that last day. But what?

Christmas Walk

We will be heading out soon to a "Christmas walk" in a small historic town near to us. We have never done this before here, but used to regularly attend a Christmas walk in the Chicago area when we visited at Thanksgiving.

Scout will not be able to come, of course, so I took her on a mid-day walk around the neighborhood. At a park just up the street from us, two small children shouted out, "Can we pet your dog?" Before I could say anything, they started running toward Scout, and she started backing up. So it appeared that today, at least, the answer would be, "no." Scout usually likes small children, but does get a little worried when strangers start running toward her.

The little girl then shouted, "Is that were-wolf dog?" "No," I answered. "Then why does she look like a were-wolf dog?" she asked.

Question: what does a were-wolf dog look like?

That Time of Year....

Yesterday was a gorgeous fall day, with temperatures up into the 60s. It was a day that there was no excuse to stay inside, so we actually got out in the morning (before I had to be at church for a pre-baptism meeting and some other office work) and raked leaves and started cleaning and organizing our back porch.

Scout wanted to be outside too. She always adds an element of fun to "outside". We took a couple of work breaks to take pictures of her.

When we got tired and needed to go inside for lunch and to do other things, Scout didn't want to come in. In fact, she didn't want to come in all afternoon.

She didn't come inside until it was time for her supper.

She wasn't running around, or chasing animals, or digging holes, or barking madly. When we peeked outside to check on her, more often than not, we would find her just sitting in the middle of the yard, just experiencing (it seemed to me) the rareness of the day, the rareness of the time of year -- the fleeting season between summer and winter, when the leaves are down but the snow has not yet come, when the sun is not too hot, the wind is not too fierce, the sun is soothing, the wind massages.

I think I knew a little of what she felt.

My days become so full, my lists so long, my worries so all-consuming, that it seems that I don't have time so often to just sit: to sit and read, to sit and knit -- even just to sit and look around and wonder. My days become so full that I don't notice... the yellow leaves, the breeze, the quiet ticking...

That time of year thou mayest in me behold

When yellow leaves, or few, or none do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the deathbed whereon it must expire,

Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

--William Shakespeare