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.

Saturday Night With Scout

Tonight is the eve of the 5th Sunday in Lent.  I just got done setting my clock ahead for the dreaded spring forward.  I am not looking forward to the morning darkness, no matter how many times I remind myself about the longer evenings.

It is a lovely evening.  It is dark now.  Tomorrow night at this time it will still be light, I think.  I want someone to remind me to sit on my patio and pay attention to it.  Perhaps someone will.

Earlier this evening, I fed my dog Scout, and then almost immediately afterwards, opened the patio door to get that nice breeze in.

Almost immediately she looked up from her food bowl and went out to the patio.  She must have sat there for fifteen minutes, her food half-eaten.

This is a dog who is usually single-minded when it comes to food.  I wish I could read scripture with the sort of attention she gives to her food, which is ALWAYS the same.  She attacks it with vigor, and doesn't stop until everything is gone.  It is inspiring.

But not tonight.  Tonight something else that caught her attention.  I can't imagine what it was.  My senses are not as finely tuned as hers.  But in those minutes that she sat there, meditating (as I imagined it), I did begin to hear the birds, songs I had not paid attention to.  They are different birdsongs here in Texas than the ones I was accustomed to in Minnesota.  Perhaps it was the birds.  Or perhaps it was smells -- Texas is covered in pollen now.  I can see it, the yellow layers on my car, sliding off in the heavy rains this week.  Maybe Scout can smell things that I am not able to.

There are smells in tomorrow's gospel reading.  I am not paying attention to them.  There is the smell of death and the smell of the costly nard, poured over Jesus' feet.  Scripture says that the smell filled every corner of the house.  I wonder what it was like.

I wonder what it was like, sitting at table with Jesus, just being together.  It is not long before he will be crucified.  They have this moment together, to savor, to be together, to pay attention, to be aware of his presence with them.

Sometimes you have to stop what you are doing, what you thought was so important, and just be present, be in the presence, know that, whether you can sense it or not, God is in the room.

Or dog.

Changing Directions

This morning I opened my door expecting a fresh breeze.  Instead it felt a little muggier than usual.  Still, it was time to walk my dog, so we went for a walk.

It is fall here, so they say.  It is hard for me to notice the signs, because where I am from, the leaves are turning and the evenings have become chilly.  I am used to these signs, even when I grumble that fall arrives too soon and foretells a deep and dark and long snowy winter.

Here, the signs are subtler.  I can still wear my shorts, if I want to, even though it is fall.

I am not sure I want to, some days.

So, this morning, I took my dog out for a walk.  It was warm and still and the dog (who is a good sport, even at 10 years old) bounced around and sniffed everything.

And then, we turned around.

It was not my idea, actually, this 'turning around' thing, but I went along with it, and when I did, I felt it right away.

It was a breeze:  a lovely cool breeze that I never noticed until we turned, until we changed directions.  It was always there, but we needed to change directions to find it, to feel it.

The breeze was a small thing, but that is the way it is sometimes.  There are big changes, like turning around, and there are small things, like feeling the breeze, the wind of the Holy Spirit, who has always been with us, although we don't often notice.

I was at a conference most of last week.  The geography was so much different than here, and so much different than my home state as well.  We were up in the mountains, where the air is thin and you have to take deep gulps and slow down, where you can feel your heart beat and see the beauty all around.

We were talking about worship and faith formation, about the children in our churches, but not just the children.  We were talking about how to faithfully minister to all ages in a way that only the church can do:  by being together, by using the gifts of all the generations.   This does not sound like a big thing, but it represents a change in direction for us.  The church has gotten into the habit of segregating people by age much of the time.  Even in worship.  So we are thinking about how we might really honor the gifts and needs of all generations in worship, use our imaginations and our dreams, our bodies and our souls.

Today, I felt a breeze, a small reminder that the seasons change, that the Holy Spirit is among, and within us, to keep me on my course, changing my direction.

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.

Dog and God

I've been reading a book called The Divinity of Dogs lately.  It was a Christmas present from one of my stepsons, an astute giver.  The book is full of stories about dogs, dogs who have known what to do and what to give in moments of crisis, dogs who were patient and loved without limits, dogs who have sacrificed to make a connection with us humans.

In one story, a dog befriended a young boy with a terminal illness.  At the hospital, the dog was allowed into the room and leapt up on the bed just before the boy experienced his first seizure.  In another story, a dog became the confidante of a young autistic boy who was being bullied, and helped him to know he had a friend in the world.

Reading this book, I couldn't help thinking about our own beloved dog, Scout, she of the one ear that flops and the other that doesn't.  I couldn't help thinking of her serious brown eyes and how she stares at us, sometimes, in the morning, and how, when I call her to come in from the back yard, she often stares at me, and doesn't come in.  I couldn't help thinking about her and how recently, when I called her to come in and have her dinner, she was trying to squeeze her head under the fence back yard.

That's right.

It was just before Christmas on a Friday night when my husband called and told me that he had let our Scout out in the backyard, but she seemed to have found a method of escape.  He couldn't find out where.  He said I would have to find her when I got home, as he had to practice for a piece in a Christmas concert.

I drove home in a dark and sort of desperate mood.  Scout is light-colored and hard to find in the winter when it has snowed.  I worried that she might be hit by a car.  When I rounded the corner to our house, I saw her right away.  She was walking down the middle of the street, possibly sauntering, even.  I could tell she recognized my car, so I stopped in the street and rolled down the window.

She jumped up on the window and I grabbed her collar and held on.  Now I had her, and I didn't know what to do with her.  I tried to unlock the door and unfortunately made the window start rolling up again.  Also I realized that I would have to disentangle myself from my seatbelt.

Now Scout was whining, a little, but I knew that if I let go she'd be running down the street, and would not come to me if I called.  So I kept working until I could hold her collar with my other hand, and open the door enough to slide out.

That's our divine dog, if dogs are divine.  Are dogs divine?

It depends on what you mean.

When I read the stories of the comfort dogs who visited Newtown, Connecticut, I know that dogs are divine, in some way or another, that they carry a presence within them, that somehow they are able to be ministers of divine love.  I know I don't think that "Dogs are God", any more than I am, but I do know that dogs have a place in God's world.

The thing is, even though I have no stories about how Scout rescued me, and many stories about how she has been a sort-of pain in the neck sometimes, I still believe that Scout is a creature of God, and that she somehow is a minister of divine love.  Despite her quirks, despite her "failings" (if you can call them that), she does good.

And I too, despite my failings, despite the fact that I don't always come when called, do good.  I am an instrument of God's peace.  I don't always believe this, but I look at my dog, and I know that it's true, and it can be true, too.

Animals and Eschatology

We have an Animal Blessing Service at my church this Sunday afternoon.  We always begin out on the front lawn with songs and prayer, and at the end, we process into the chapel, where the animals are each blessed individually.

We would't have to bring the animals indoors.  My husband's church has an animal blessing service at around the same time of year, and the whole service is held at the front entry to the church.  They have horses, so I suppose I can see their point.  But there's something I really like about looking out over my congregation of people, and assorted dogs, cats, gerbils and canaries (and sometimes, a goat).  I'm glad that we bring the animals indoors.  It doesn't seem right to have animals in the pews with people, and yet, it does.

There's another part of me that secretly wonders why I love the Blessing of the Animals so much, if it isn't a flaw in me of some sort, a soft sentimentality.  Instead of putting my hand on the head of a Golden Retriever, maybe I should be Ending Poverty, or Racism, or doing something much more Important, something that will bring the Reign of God just a few inches closer.  In the scheme of things, blessing the animals on Sunday afternoon is not that important.  It's not up there with funerals and weddings, it's not as important as feeding the hungry or standing up for those who have been ground into the dust.

And yet, in its own small way, there's something going on here that is important.  Some people use their  Animals Blessing Service to highlight larger concerns:  the important Christian vocation of caring for creation, for one thing.  Protecting the vulnerable includes the vulnerable animals who live with us and around us.  

But the people who come to our front lawn on Sunday afternoon:  they aren't there just because they believe in caring for God's beautiful and vulnerable creation.  They may believe in all that, but they are there because they love the creatures they live with, sometimes beyond all reason.  They love them, and  and in this relationship they catch a glimpse of the grace of God for all creatures, and in this relationship they catch a glimpse of the world to come.

This isn't about "finding God in the beauty of nature"; we're about as likely to find cruelty as beauty in nature.  But it is about glimpses -- glimpses of the future that we sometimes get, glimpses of a future where the lion will lie down with the lamb, where tears and pain and death will be no more, where people and animals and friends and enemies will finally live in peace, where everyone will have enough.

That is the future that God desires, and that is the future that God is bringing to being, and that is the end that we walk toward in the way we treat each other now.

And every once in awhile we catch a glimpse of it.  When enemies forgive each other.  When health is restored.  And animals and people sing God's praise together in the sanctuary.

Reflections on Life and Ministry

It is late on the evening of a day off.  It's been dark for a few hours now.  Actually, it's been dark since shortly before 5:00 p.m., I think.  There's a moon, still, big and round. 

It was an unseasonably warm winter day.  Most of the snow is gone.  When we walk outside, it doesn't hurt.

Inside, it is not so Christmas-y either, at least in our house.  We do not yet have the tree up, but we do have a plan.  We have a couple of Christmas wall-hangings up, and I have begun to set out the Christmas books.

We got up early this morning and went to breakfast in St. Paul, at a great diner near the college where my husband works.  He had music juries today, and I went with him so that I could work on a Christmas present while he listened to music students. 

I also did a little reading.  I have started reading The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People.  I know, I should have read this book about 20 years ago.  I know I've had it sitting on my shelf for a long time, probably since seminary which is not quite 20 years ago, but close enough.  I don't know why I haven't read it, but I'm reading it now.  I am reading the chapter about being pro-active, which means choosing how you will respond in any situation.

After my husband was done with his juries, we stopped in at a used book store in the neighborhood.  The owners of this particular bookstore are a married couple.  He seems to have libertarian political views, but I prefer talking to his wife, who likes to collect children's and illustrated books.  We talk about Arthur Rackham, Kay Nielsen, Wanda Gag, Maude and Miska Petersham.  I can't afford to collect much, but I have a handful of treasures: a copy of A Christmas Carol illustrated by Arthur Rackham (no dust jacket, though), The Tall Book of Make-Believe, illustrated by Garth Williams, a book of hymns illustrated by Gustav Tenggren. 

After returning home, my husband prepared for his evening church service.  I prepared to meet with a young couple getting married in May.  We let the dog out, just as it was getting dark, which we do every day, but appears to have been a mistake.

She did not want to come in.  At first, it seemed normal.  Sometimes she doesn't want to come in right away.  She still has a little playing to do, someone to bark at, something to sniff in the yard.  But usually, a couple of minutes later, she's at the back door, making pathetic whining and yodeling noises, which we interpret as "Let me iiiiiiin!" 

Not tonight.  We tempted her with food.  We cried and cajoled.  We left her in the back yard and went to do our respective ministries.  I met with my young couple.  We talked about the Strengths and Growth Areas they perceived in their relationship. 

I came home and our dog would still not come in.  I wondered if I was being pro-active or re-active.  I wondered if I was a bad dog-mom.  What does it mean if your dog is running in circles around you in the dark back yard, dragging an enormous stick her mouth, trying to jump over the back fence?  An hour ago, I was a wise counselor, asking just the right questions to a young couple who were sitting in my well-appointed office.  Now I am anything but wise, trying to figure out just the right strategy to make my dog come in for the evening. 

Well, she did come in, but I will spare you the details.  It involve my finding the big stick, not for violence, but for a short game of tug-of-war.  For some reason, afterwards the dog sat on command and I grabbed her collar and dragged her indoors.  Her paws were filthy.

Now, I am going to go back to reading about what it means to be Pro-Active, which I think is a Good Idea.  I think it is a good idea for Life, and for Ministry, and Even for Dogs.

Grace Grace Grace Grace Grace Grace Grace Grace Grace Grace Grace

Nothing about my life is perfect right now.

For example:  recently I've been having trouble doing my most regular form of exercise, walking the dog.  My heel hurts, sometimes terribly, and I end up limping like I'm about 30 years older than my actual age.  I haven't been to the doctor yet, but I think I have something called plantar faschiatis.   

I'm knitting another pair of socks, in the odd moment or two, at the end of long days.  I'm still working the basic pattern, with different colors and weights of yarn.  The first pair came out all right, except the kitchener stitch.  The second pair, with exactly the same pattern, stretched out way too big.  The third pair are not exactly the same length.  They all have the little holes that I haven't learned how to correct, although I've tried a few suggestions.  None of these socks are monstrosities, but, they aren't perfect either.

As everyone knows, my dog is also not perfect (although there are times when I think she is nevertheless, the best part of my life).  She was Possessive as a puppy and, although she's much better now, she still has Issues.

I'm currently serving a church in a first-ring suburb, a church in a changing neighborhood, a community with growing diversity, poverty, a growing immigrant population.  I find many things about this stimulating.  I want to be a part of a church that is diverse in age, ethnic heritage, race.  But, this is easier said than done.  So, my congregation is not perfect.  (I'm not either, so I suppose it's a good fit.)

I'm thinking a lot about social justice, the call to do justice in our community, to stand against racism, to stand for equity, to work on behalf of the little ones.  I believe in this.  I try to do it.  I fail a lot.  Sometimes I feel like quitting.  I especially want all children, no matter who they are, who their parents are, where they are from, to have a chance to thrive.

But deep down, what I'm really passionate about, even more than justice, is grace.

Nothing about my life is perfect.  I'm not going to do all the things I want to do with my life (although I still habor a couple of hopes).  I'm going to keep failing, and I need the courage to get up and keep trying, despite my aching feet, despite my roomy socks, despite my church full of sinners (like me).  And the over-the-top, never-ending, over-flowing grace of God is the only thing I know that gives me enough courage to keep going.  The only thing. 

Grace -- God's love to those who waste their whole lives, to those who try with good intentions, to the clueless and the earnest, to the mean and the lowly and the hopeless and those clinging to false hopes.  God's love to Marcus Borg-loving liberals and tongues-speaking Pentecostals and everyone in between. 

I have to preach grace.  But then, say, "Just do it."  Do justice.  Love kindness.  Fail at it, but do it.

After all, what have you got to lose?

"Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom."

A Dog I Love

This picture is not Scout. No, this picture is of a dog with, I think, an eerie resemblance to Scout. Her name is Pink, and she is a lab-husky mix. Notice how one of her ears stays up and the other one flops down?

Pink belongs to the trainer who I believed "saved" Scout. As many of you know, when Scout was a puppy she had aggression problems. She was possessive of her food bowl and also of items that she "stole." She even bit me once. We took Scout to the Humane Society, and to many different kinds of training. I was very worried that we couldn't manage this behavior when Scout grew up, we would not be able to keep her, because she wouldn't be safe. When we went to Maureen, she gave us some training so that we could be better leaders. And she wouldn't give up. And although Scout is not perfect (and this is more our deficiency than it is hers), she does not protect or guard items any more.

The first time Maureen met Scout, she told me I needed to go to her website and look at Pink. I did, and thought they could be sisters. They are the same age. Scout used to board with Maureen every once in awhile, and so go to know Pink as well.

I just found out that Pink, this beautiful dog, the same age as Scout, has Stage V Lymphoma.

Please keep Pink and her people in your prayers.

I've learned so much from them. I can't even tell you how much right now.

In Which Diane Keeps Reading, at least for a little while longer...

My reading this summer has taken a few twists and turns.

28. The Daily Coyote. Shreve's Stockton's memoir of raising an abandoned coyote pup out in rural Wyoming is part dog-training manuel (ratcheted up to the nth degree), part love story, and partly theological (although she might deny it). Besides the obvious lessons in a story about a love that will not give up on the other (and a coyote is sure "other"), I was intrigued by her frequent citing of the messages on the reader-board at the local Methodist church. She treated them a little like zen koans from God. Makes me realize that people are always paying attention to the church and what we say and do, even in this post-modern era.

29. Julie and Julia (the hardcover edition) (and no, I haven't seen the movie yet). A friend from my church loaned me her copy at the beginning of the summer. It took until August (and I was finally finished with that large large book Pillars of the Earth), but I finally got to read the book, and found it delightful. Actually, at the beginning, I just "liked" it, but at one point I started laughing hysterically (probably it was the story about the marinating lamb), and now I find myself reading cookbooks. It was really a fun book, even if you aren't ever going to cook anything from Julia Child's cookbook.

30. In Defense of Food, by Michael Pollan. I haven't read the longer (and more highly praised) The Omnivore's Dilemma yet), but I picked up this book for a number of reasons: 1) since Julie and Julia, I'm suddenly into food, 2) stepson #2, Young Man of Value, is becoming Vegan, and 3) I am interested in more intentional eating, even if I'm not really interested in becoming vegan. I did really resonate with his idea that we should eat more real food and less processed "stuff". Michael Pollan asserts that that the highly processed diet that most of us are eating now is about the only diet that our bodies are not becoming adapted to.

31. People of the Book, by Geraldine Brooks. This was our August book club book, and I loved it. But I'm a sucker for illuminated books, historical novels, international intrigue: what's not to like? I'm also becoming a Geraldine Brooks fan. A woman who visits our church on occasion came to our book club for the first time and brought along some information about the St. John's Bible (this is one of the links at the side of my blog). She's an art teacher, and we all hope she will return again.

32 and 33. Messenger of Truth and An Incomplete Revenge, by Jacqueline Winspear. I'm almost at the end of the available Maisie Dobbs mysteries. I really enjoyed An Incomplete Revenge, but was not as excited about Messenger of Truth, which I thought moved kind of slowly. Both novels have the same excellent attention to detail and thoughtful insights regarding the human toll of war. I am considering a break before the last Maisie Dobbs novel because 1) it's still only available in hardcover, 2) I'm getting a little frustrated by Maisie's inability to find love (I was disappointed that she spurned Dr. Andrew Dene). I'm really hoping that Ms. Winspear finds it in her heart to give Maisie a companion; I know it's difficult, but she seems awfully lonely to me.

There you have it! I'm afraid that reading may fall off slightly this fall: I hope not, but I'm looking at the schedule and seeing the handwriting on the wall. We'll see.

I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, which of these books have you read? What did you think? Any recommendations? (Please, books shorter than 973 pages, only).

Two Old Friends

A couple of weeks ago I had the rare pleasure of getting together, on two separate occasions, with two old friends. The first was an old friend from my seminary days. This doesn’t seem like such a long time ago, until I realize that I have been ordained for 15 years (as of July 16). My seminary friend was a "study buddy"; I met her when we were both first moving to one of the campus dormitories. We studied Greek and Church History together, among other things. More than that, though: she and I were part of a small group of women seminarians who shared our hopes and dreams for ourselves in the future. I admired that my friend was always clear, from the beginning, that she wanted to be a professor.

And now, here she is teaching New Testament and Homiletics at the seminary we both graduated from. She's one of the regular contributors to the popular Working Preacher website, among her other accomplishments.

I can’t help admiring her clear vision and ability to go out and achieve what she wanted. Our conversation that evening ranged from "shop talk" to family to the new visions and dreams we have for ourselves and our church. I can’t believe we live about seven minutes from one another, and we haven’t done this before. I hope we will do it again.

The second old friend was one from my high school days: we haven’t seen each other since we were both 18 years old, which was longer ago than I care to think about, at least on some days. She went out east to a prestigious college, and I did intend to keep in touch, but I didn’t. One day I was noodling around on facebook, and thinking about friends who shared my passion for writing back then, and I found her name somewhere. She and I weren’t "best friends" but we were good school friends, and we had (as I remember it) a lot of deep discussions about writing and philosophy and religion and creativity. One of the most important things I didn’t know about her when I was in high school was this:

She was crazy about dogs.

Turns out, she still is. In high school, it was German Shepherds that she loved the most. Now, among other things, she is a well-known breeder of a rare dog native to Israel called the Canaan Dog. She has now living with her, four adult dogs and three small puppies who were just born about a month ago. Her adult dogs are: Tovah, Naftalia, Mazel and Yomi. (My favorite of the four was Naftalia: all the dogs in that litter were named after the sons of Jacob.)

Canaan dogs are descended from the pariah dogs that existed in Canaan from pre-biblical times. They became the guard and shepherd dogs for the Israelites in ancient times, but remained mostly undomesticated until recently. Dr. Rudolphina Menzel began developing the dog in the 1930s as a sentry to guard isolated Jewish settlements.

As for me, when I think of the Canaan dog, I can’t help thinking about the story of Jesus and the Canaanite woman. I can’t help remember how Jesus told her, "It’s not fair to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs." I can’t help remembering her great reply, "But even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the master’s table." It's fascinating to think that the dog they were perhaps envisioning was something like the Canaan dogs that my friend breeds: intelligent, loyal, beautiful.

Two old friends: they are so different in many ways, but in one way alike: they are both women of passion and accomplishment, both with the ability to see visions and dream dreams, and with the ability to make them real. Both of them women of God, faithful to God's dreams and visions for them, and for the world.

They give me courage to risk my own dreams, even the wild ones.

My Favorite Dog

(a short break from the story)

A couple of weeks ago Scout was annoying me because she suddenly started whining to go out at odd times. She's usually quite good about "sleeping in", for example, on our day off. But she whined during our Sunday afternoon nap, for example. She whined to go out early Monday morning, too.

So I watched her for a little while early in the morning. I found out why she was anxious to get outside. She had found a new toy.

It was a dead mouse.

This was during the cold spell (the 20 below cold spell), so I'm sure that the mouse was frozen solid.

***

Lately I have been contemplating getting a special kind of (expensive) brush for Scout. This is her shedding season, and it's been coming out in tufts. We vacuum three times a day, we brush her all the time, and the fur just keeps coming out. By all rights, she should be bald by now. But she's not. But I priced the brush, and it's $59.95. She's a pretty expensive dog.

***

Scout has always had a sensitive stomach. We have finally found a prescription dog food that, though expensive, works well for her. She hasn't been sick for a long time. We have even let her have a piece of popcorn on occasion, with no ill effects.

On Saturday, we ran out of food. Our vet is usually open on Saturday morning, so we called to get a new bag. They were out for continuing education. For the last two days we have been back to the rice and boiled hamburger diet. We got a new bag of food today.

Yesterday I brought home a coffee cake, a special treat from a local grocery store. For those of you "in the know", it was from Lunds, so you know it was a kind of a "high end" coffee cake. We each indulged in a piece after church on Sunday.

Scout ate the rest.

It's a good thing she's so cute.

UPDATE ON SCOUT:

This morning (Tuesday) I took Scout out for her walk, as is my habit, and then let her run in the back yard until her breakfast time. It was a very wet and sloppy morning, and when I first saw her sitting at the back door, I thought she was covered with mud. On closer inspection, it turned out that she was covered -- but not with mud.

She was covered with burrs. From her head and ears to her tail.

We are still pulling them out -- gently. Some, on her ears, are so embedded that when we try to take them out, she screams. ("Scream" is the word my husband uses for the sound she makes.)

My next task: to find the place in our back yard where the burrs are coming from, and get rid of all of them.

Three out of Four Bumpers Agree....

I'm not quite at the point that I can joke about this, but I am beating myself up a little bit less today. I also DO realize that it could have been a lot worse. I was driving to the hospital Saturday after the church service when the traffic on the freeway came to a sudden stop. (There is a lot of road construction around here, and it is winter.) I tried to slow down and stop, discerned that I might not be able to stop in time, and attempted to make a lane change into the right hand lane, which was clear. That's when my car suddenly started to spin. A moment of terror. Two other cars had some damage as well, but nobody was hurt.

I'm still a little down, although after calling my insurance company, and visiting the auto body shop, it appears that they will be able to fix the car. They aren't sure, of course, until they open the hood, which they advised me not to do.

Tonight we are getting our getting our first honest-to-goodness "snow advisory". Three to four inches of snow is falling. It's pretty, but it makes me want to stay in, not go out. I did enjoy watching Scout play in the snow for a little while, which calmed my soul. She also kept me company Saturday evening when I was feeling like a dolt. Dogs are good that way. So are husbands.

I'd like to glean a nice religious lesson from this, but I don't have one yet. Except that for calming the soul, often, just a small miracle will do.

Vignettes

Last night we had a meeting of our worship coordinators. They are the few people who organize and make sure each service runs smoothly: communion table set, processional well-paced, assistants trained and ready to go. They also clean up after each service, and take the linens home to launder. At the end of each meeting, one of the pastors gives a brief "liturgical moment." We talked about baptism and Holy Communion, hymnody and the order of worship.

Last night I told them a little about "The Liturgy of the Hours." I have been trying to discipline myself lately according to Phyllis Tickle's books, "The Divine Hours." So I told them a little bit about where the tradition of "fixed-hour prayer" comes from.

I come from a tradition where it has often been deemed superior to "make your own prayer," otherwise known as (aka) "praying from the heart." Yet, I am not myself an either/or type of pray-er, and I have discovered both "making my own prayers," and traditional collects to be helpful at different times. I also offered a testimony of sorts: there are times when it is difficult to pray from the heart, and I have discovered that an old prayer, one that has stood the test of time, is exactly the prayer I need to say.

We closed with this prayer:

Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ; give rest to the weary, bless the dying, sooth the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love's sake. Amen.

****

Sunday was our 2nd Annual Animal Blessing service. It dawned cold and rainy. Loud thunderstorms punctuated Sunday worship. It dried off by 2:00 p.m., but our crowd was much smaller than last year, and it was cold.

Our Scout was not a very good dog this year. She was very interested in the cats who had come, and tried my husband's patience mightily. We did not get any good pictures of her.

However, it was worth it because we blessed Harriet.

Harriet is a ten-year-old boxer. An 11-year old boy and his mom brought her to the service in the afternoon. They said they had never been to anything like this before. They are members of our church, but had not been to our service the year before.

Between March and May of this year, Harriet's guardians discovered that she was bumping into things. By May she had become completely blind. They took her to the vet, and discovered that she had a tumor. It is cancer.

"Bless O Lord, your servant Harriet, and fill our hearts with gratitude for her life."

***

I have been thinking a lot about the economy lately. I suppose that everybody has. I remember studying the Depression, seeing the pictures of bread lines and hoboes. I don't think we are going to have a depression like that one, but I do wonder what the future will bring for us. I also think: the one thing that they had in larger supply than we do: community.

Simple Faith

I had a funeral today: an old woman who was considered to be, I suppose, "developmentally disabled". She was single and lived with her sister and many dogs her whole life. She loved dogs and hoped to see her dogs Binkie, Melody, Billy Blue, and others, in heaven. Her sister died in 2000. She lived alone until she fell this winter, and her extended family discovered that she had cancer.

They took her to their small town to care for her; she lived in the nursing home where she loved to watch the birds (that's where her statement "not enough people watch birds" came from); she went to church with them almost every week. It was a little country church; she told her nephew and his wife that "she loved that nino church."

As she grew sicker and began to be in pain, her nephew's wife would often go to visit her and to care for her. She told this woman on one occasion, "I wish you didn't have to suffer." And she replied, "Jesus suffered on the cross for me. I can do this."

They told me I could share this story.

In Memory of Cub

Scout and I are taking a little break.

In the meantime, please pray for Cub's family, who will miss her.

Little Things

Today after the three worship services I walked into my office and found a cranberry muffin waiting for me. It was homemade, I think. An anonymous gift. And not unappreciated. I was VERY HUNGRY.

We had prospective new members coming down the hallway, on a tour of the church. There were four families, including young children. I love how our Outreach Director took them past each of our doors, as if each member of the staff were a celebrity. And here's Pastor Roth's door, I heard her say, and I made note of the several pictures of Scout on the door. I heard one little boy squeal with delight. "She's a big dog!" His mother whispering, "He really likes animals."

I bought pears again at the store. What is it I like so much about pears? I really like them, when they are just right juicy and golden. And we hopped out to a used book store and I got an early birthday present: an old illustrated book of dog stories. I love used book stores; they are like museums to me. I especially like looking at the illustrated books, although many of them are far out of my price range.

Tomorrow there will be no day off for me. I have a funeral, a beloved member of our church and former teacher in our community as well. The scriptures have been chosen, the worship folder is finished, I have notes which I need to finish into a sermon.

My Blog Anniversary

Today is the first anniversary of my blog. Last night I celebrated by meeting Jan at Yearning for God. She's here in my town for the very first time. She's at the Episcopal Relief and Development Conference, and is in meetings most of the time. So we wanted to show her a little bit of the city, but we couldn't see so much in the dark. We went to a nice restaurant, Dakota Restaurant and Jazz Club, and drove her to the Mississippi River and also to Lake of the Isles and Lake Calhoun. With the light dusting of snow, it looked a little like Christmas Eve, but without the pretty lights. (sigh) I hope she got a good impression of our city.

Today is going to be a busy day, with much of a sermon to prepare, and other worship and pastoral care items to attend to. So for your entertainment, I offer you the following video. Before Scout got her own blog, she was one of the main characters here, and still makes an occasional appearance. She just prefers to speak for herself now.

But, she gives her full approval to this one:

My Dog Never Thinks About It

My dog never thinks about it
she doesn't wonder
should I eat that steak?
should I chase that rabbit?
should I bark or howl or whine or whimper?
should I wait at the window with hope?
should I invite that dog to play
with wagging tail and open smile?

I always think about it
worry about it
have second thoughts about it
I wonder
should I eat and drink
should I fast and pray
should I chase my dreams
should I wait with hope
should I invite a stranger
to my adventure
should I speak
should I be silent

I hesitate

and all is lost

(draft draft draft!)

Another Poem by Mary Oliver

I was blessed to hear Mary Oliver read her poetry last Sunday night. She also answered questions from the audience. I say this even though I went out with a migraine, my eyes were watering, my nose was running, there were sharp stabbing pains behind one eye. It was still a privilege to hear her read. And we laughed, too She was funny.

The old elegant theatre was nearly full. My husband said, how is it that so many people come out to hear a poet? I didn't say this, but I thought, Mary Oliver is poetry's version of a rock star.

I found a review of the evening here.

She read three poems about her dog, Percy. This was not one of them.

Percy and Books (Eight)

Percy does not like it when I read a book.
He puts his face over the top of it and moans.
He rolls his eyes, sometimes he sneezes.
The sun is up, he says, and the wind is down.
The tide it out and the neighbor's dogs are playing.
But Percy, I say, Ideas! The elegance of language!
The insights, the funniness, the beautiful stories
that rise and fall and turn into strength, or courage.

Books? says Percy. I ate one once, and it was enough.
Let's go.

From her new collection, Red Bird