A Sermon Illustration from my Life

I remember once going to visit my uncle in the hospital in Sioux Falls, after he had heart bypass surgery.  It was early in January, and since I was a pastor in a small town in northeastern South Dakota, and since it was in that little lull you get right after Christmas and New Years, I decided go go and keep watch with other members of the family.

My uncle had never married.  But my aunt Margret came, and I think my mother's other brother as well.  They lived nearby, so they came and waited as well.

I knew that my aunt and uncle were proud of my vocation.  They had come and visited me one summer, and stayed in the parsonage.  They came to Sunday worship too.  I still remember that my sermon was on the text from 2nd Samuel about David and Bathsheba and the death of their son, and my uncle was impressed that (whatever I said) I did not sneak around the text.

So I was sitting with my aunt, and I was telling her about how Christmas services had gone.  I told my aunt about my Christmas Day sermon, that I had told a story about going to the farm one Christmas when I was a very little girl.  It was the farm where my aunt and my mom and her sisters grew up.  My mom was the middle one.  Margret was her older sister.  Her younger sister was still living on the farm when I was small.  So I told my aunt about the time when when visited the farm and I was afraid that Santa Claus would not find us.  My mom's younger sister slept in the bed with me, and she reassured me that everything would be all right, that Santa would find me.

It was a sermon illustration from my life.

My aunt thought it was a good story.

Then she asked me a question.  "Have you ever told a story about me in one of your sermons?"

I thought about it.  I thought that I should.  But I couldn't think of anything.

My aunt has always been such a faithful presence in my life.  I remember her colorful china dishes, which she used every day.  She wasn't a gourmet cook, but she was a good no-nonsense cook.  She used to work for General Mills, so she knew her way around the Betty Crocker cookbook.

She always wanted to be a teacher.  She was good at talking to children.  When I was in high school, she took me to the University of Minnesota with her one day, just to walk around the campus and sit in on the classes with her.  

I remember she got involved in visiting shut-ins at her church.  It made her feel good to talk to people who were hurting or lonely, and to befriend them.  She had a pastor's heart.

But when she asked me if I had ever used a story about her as a sermon illustration, I couldn't think of anything.  She was just there, always, a constant presence.  I couldn't think of a single particular thing.  Just that she was always there.

I didn't answer her question then, and I don't think I ever did.

But actually she did become a sermon illustration once.

When I was in college, I got involved in a pretty intense religious group.  They were the kind of people that thought they were right, and that everyone else was wrong.  I was "on fire for the Lord," and sadly, that meant that I was pretty judgmental for awhile.  I questioned everyone else's faith, including my Aunt's.  In fact, I even wrote my aunt and uncle a letter, and although I don't remember exactly what I wrote, I think I wrote some pretty terrible things.

My aunt wrote me back.  And this I remember:

She forgave me.

She loved me anyway.

That was a sermon illustration.

And Aunt Margret, I want you to know this -- your whole life was a sermon illustration for me.

Sunday Sermon: Living Generously, Part II:Beyond our Fear

Luke 12:13-35

            One of my earliest memories – as a very small child – is going to visit my grandma Mary in the Good Samaritan nursing home in Jackson Minnesota.  

            Grandma Mary was not my grandma – she was my great-grandmother, my mother’s grandma, and I must have been just four or five years old when we visited.  

            I remember going with my grandpa and my mom and visiting her in her small room in the nursing home. 

            She was sitting in a wheelchair, a small, frail woman with a warm smile.   

            There were no other children around – I was grandma Mary’s only great-grandchild – and I don’t remember so much about our visits, but I do remember that every time I came – she would open up a drawer and give me something to take home.  

            Maybe a handkerchief, maybe a small stuffed animal.  But she always found something for me to take home.  

            It was like she was slowly giving her life away, and she chose to give a small piece of it to me. And I don’t remember the items any more – but what I remember is the act of giving.  

            What a contrast to the rich man in Jesus’ parable today.  He had a green thumb.  His fields produced abundantly.  

            He was rich!  And then he had a problem – although I guess he didn’t think of it as a problem – he didn’t know what to do with his abundance! And only thing he could think of was to tear down his barns and build bigger ones.  

            Now he did not think he had anything to fear.  Now he didn’t have anything to worry about.  

            Now he possessed everything he needed – in fact more than he needed.  At least – that’s what it looked like.  What more could he need?

            What makes the difference between my great-grandma and the rich man and his bigger barns?  

            Sometimes I think it was just her age – sometimes you gain wisdom when you reach a certain number of years – that makes you feel differently about your life.  

            When there is more behind you than in front of you – some things seem more important – and other things seem less important.  My great-grandmother had already pared down from a farmhouse to a room at a nursing home. 

            She knew  that “you can’t take it with you” – so she was starting early, giving away the things she still had left, little by little.  

            But I think there’s something else as well.  I think that perhaps the rich man with his barns – and my great-grandmother

             – that they had different ideas of just what is valuable in the first place – they had different ideas about where their true treasure was –       and so they feared different things, and they placed their trust in different things. 

            Think about it.  

            The rich man was rich in property – and he was blessed in goods.  But you know what he didn’t have?  He didn’t have anyone to share it with.  

            He didn’t have relationships – either with God – or with a family or friends.  At the harvest, he didn’t think of having a banquet and inviting people to share it.  

            He didn’t have children with whom to divide it.  He didn’t have a partner to share his joy.  This doesn’t seem to bother him, though.   

            But my great-grandmother – well, I don’t know – because I only knew her a little, and I was very small – but I imagine.  

            She was a mother to my grandpa, and a grandmother to my mom, and a great-grandma to me.  

            And I imagine in my mind that those relationships were more important to her than any wealth she could have accumulated. 

             She had a son – and a grand-daughter – and she even had a great-granddaughter now.  

            Her legacy was not in things, but in relationships.  These were her treasures.  WE were her treasures.

            When Jesus tells us not to worry about our lives, but to seek first the Kingdom – I think that God is also thinking about relationships.        The ravens and the lilies receive what they need – but what we need most of all – more than barns and more than grain and more than a large investment portfolio – are relationships.   That's what they discovered when people studied children in orphanages.  they discovered that -- as much as they needed food and clothing and shelter-- they only thrived when they received touch -- when they were loved. 

             So when Jesus tells us to Seek first the Kingdom of heaven – I think he is telling us to seek this particular network of relationships – beginning with our relationship with God.   

            I remember once hearing a story about a young child who was on her way to visit her grandparents. “We’re going to grandma’s!’”  

            She said.  She didn’t say, “We’re going to “Bismarck” or “We’re going to “Conroe”. 

             Perhaps heaven is not so much a place as it is a face. THAT is the treasure.  

            For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.  

            I remember a stewardship program once which the title “Where your heart is.,…”  it’s an attractive idea.  

            Where you put your heart – your love – there you will invest your treasure.  

            It makes sense.  If I love something,  I will invest in it.  But Jesus says it the other way.  

            And it’s not quite the same thing.  “Where your treasure is – there your heart will be….”  Where you make your investment of time, or finances, of work – that’s where you will find your heart.  

            So, Jesus says, invest in the Kingdom.  Invest in the kingdom of heaven.  

            Invest in that network of relationships, starting with your relationship with God.  

            And Invest in the values of the kingdom of heaven –  where the hungry are fed, the homeless are given shelter, the poor and the brokenhearted are lifted up. 

             Invest there – and your heart will follow….  Invest outside yourself – where people are hurting, or hungry or lonely or doubting --- where people are thirsty for grace and to know they matter – 

            Stewardship is investing in the kingdom of heaven – investing in relationships 

            – including the relationships here – and in our neighborhood.  And your congregation – Grace – is a part of that.  

            When you give to Grace – you are investing in relationships – relationships that show the face of God in Christ, relationships that bring the bread of life to the hungry, relationships that show compassion to the lonely.  

            When I think of my great-grandmother giving away her things – to me – I think maybe she saw the future in my face.  The fourth generation.  

            She wouldn’t live to see me grow up, but she trusted the future.  That was her legacy to me.  

            And I hope that my hands can be as open as hers were.  

            As for us – we see the future in the face of Christ,  the one who died and rose, the one who gave himself for us.  

            Do not be afraid, little flock.  Open your hands and receive true treasure.  The kingdom of heaven is yours.  

            It is yours – to share.

            Amen

Searching for Christmas

"It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas," was one of my songs, growing up.  My dad and I would sing it in the car, while we were going to get the Christmas tree.  We would drive along the snowy roads of suburban Minnesota, past twinkling lights and shopping malls, and we would sing "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas" with all of the gusto we gave to the sacred songs.

Back then, I thought I knew what Christmas looked like.  It looked like the creche in our living room, with the figures I loved to move around, so that I could tell the story.  It also looked like the snowflakes on the window, the ribbon candy and peanuts they gave us in Sunday School, the angel wings and haloes, the tinsel on the tree.  It looked like the eighth floor of the department store downtown where we bought each other presents.  It looked like the whole extended family gathered around the table, a tree full of presents.  It looked like the new clothes we wore to the Christmas eve service.  It looked like snow.  I was dreaming of a White Christmas, even while I was singing "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing."

This year I am serving a congregation in a different region of the country.  It doesn't look much like my conception of Christmas here.  Most of my Christmas decorations are still in Minnesota.  There is not room for a tree in my apartment.   I will not be surrounded by extended family this year; there will be no snow.  And I have caught myself wondering:  what does Christmas look like?

I would like to know it when I see it.

It is still Advent here, but not for long.  Soon people will be gathering to sing the carols and to hear the story, snow or not.  Some of them will be coming with extended family, reunited for the holiday.  Some will come alone.  Others may not come at all, will stay at home, wondering what Christmas looks like.  If the children aren't coming home, if there is no snow, if you don't have a festive meal with family, if you don't have a tree, if your Christmas this year doesn't look like the Christmases you remember:  What does Christmas look like?

I would like to know it when I see it.

So I am searching for Christmas right now, which is to say I am searching for a light in the darkness, the door that is open, the hand that will not let go.  I am searching for a pure note in the silence, tears of joy and grief, an unexpected gift, the word 'yes.'  I am searching for Christmas, by which I mean the smell of fresh hay, new babies and night air, the sound of whispers, the sight of snow, or a star, or a lightning bug.  The Word made flesh.  Where I am.  Not just memories.

I am searching for Christmas right now.  The Word made flesh.  Where I am.  Where you are.

For Spencer and Caitlin, on the Occasion of their Marriage

I went to a wedding on Friday, for two people dear to my heart.  I have known Spencer since he was nine or ten years old, when he was collecting coins and taking piano lessons and reading the Harry Potter books.  He won my heart by liking whatever I cooked, and by being interested in almost everything.

I've known Caitlin for just a couple of years, but she has won my heart as well.  First of all, she loves Spencer, and that would probably be enough.  But she is also a woman of both substance and style, vivacious and earnest and funny.

Their wedding was an expression of the individual personalities and their relationship:  full of music and original style, held in a funky old warehouse.  Everyone came as themselves, no one simply playing a part.  The officiant struck a balance of warmth and originality.  Of course, the bride and groom wrote their own vows.  There were tears.  There was dancing.  The word "unique" came to mind.

I am glad about that.  I am glad that this wedding was unique, but I am also glad that, in the midst of all of the special and unique words that I heard, I also heard a few that resonated, a few that I recognized from other weddings, words about faithfulness, words about staying together in sickness and in health, for as long as we both shall live.

Caitlin and Spencer, I celebrate your uniqueness, and this unique expression of your commitment to each other.  I celebrate your style, your music, the light that I see behind your eyes, and when your eyes meet.  But I also celebrate the promises of marriage, promises that are not unique, but which have been made by millions of couples for eons and ages.

It takes courage to get married.  I think it has always been so, but maybe not always for the same reasons.  It takes courages to pledge your life and your love to another unique person, to say, "from now on, we are in this together.  It takes courage to get married, if for no other reason than that vow you make, "till death do us part."  You love, and someday you will grieve.

Caitlin and Spencer, I celebrate your style.  I celebrate your music, I celebrate your love for each other. But most of all, I celebrate your courage.  You stand in a long line of people who have taken the leap, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live.

Incredibly Happy, Incredibly Sad

Today, on the first Sunday of Advent, I worshipped at a mega-church.

I have been with family in Another City for the Thanksgiving Holiday, getting acquainted and re-acquainted with new and old family, eating the familiar feast and giving thanks and having conversations, making sure to talk about some subjects and avoid other subjects.  We walked and shopped and ate and watched movies.

This morning we went to church together.

It was my first time at a real mega-church, although I have been at a few large church services in my day, and I even spent a couple of years among the Pentecostals.  But still, I am older now, and wiser, and it was the first Sunday of Advent, and I wondered what I would think, and how I would feel, standing in a row with some new family and some old family, and worshipping at a mega-church.  I wondered if they would have Advent candles, or if they would acknowledge the season at all, and if so, what difference it would make.

They didn't have candles.  They did say the word "Advent," though, as well as the word "Christmas", and they gave out advent calendars at the end of the service.  They had flashing lights, and a thumping bass rhythm, and songs that rocked.  At the beginning of the service, a piped in choir sang O Come O Come Emmanuel.  Then, we were welcomed, and encouraged to sing along as the band began playing a version of Joy to the World.  The lights went down.   The band played and sang.  We sang.  I sang.

And I felt a lump in my throat, and, I don't know why, a few tears sat in the corners of my eyes, and trickled down.  No one saw.  It was dark.  No one knew.  And I don't know why.  Somehow I was incredibly happy, and somehow I was incredibly sad.

There was a part of a verse when the band tried to drop out and encourage us to sing.  I sang so loud.  We knew the song.  And I think that a lot of us were singing our guts out.  But it hardly made a dent in the huge building, even though it was full of people.  Maybe that's why I felt so incredibly sad.  Here we were, all these people worshipping together, and the sound we made felt so small that morning, and it made me think of how much trouble there is, and how small the sound we make can be.  I thought back to the day before Thanksgiving, when I had a small prayer service in my church.  I encouraged those present to write down what they were thankful for.  And during the prayers I read all of the responses.

Someone wrote, "I am glad I live in a peaceful city, and state."

And that broke my heart, just a little, because I knew that this person was saying that they were thankful that they were not in Ferguson, Missouri.  

Maybe I was thinking about that, and all the other sadnesses, while I was singing and the tears were trickling down my cheeks.  Maybe I was thinking about all of the things that are not right, and how I can sing my heart out and sometimes it feels like no one can hear me.

But then again there were the words, "Joy to the world, the Lord is come."  And in that darkness I couldn't help but feel the joy in the words that I was singing.  They are advent words, by which I mean they are words not just about the coming of the baby, but about the coming of the King, the coming of the King not just of small hopes, but of large ones, the king who will raise up the lowly and feed the hungry and dry every tear.

We are given that song to sing, and it makes me incredibly happy to sing it, even in the darkness.

It is Advent.  The first day.

And I am incredibly happy.
And incredibly sad.

The Story of the Quilt

I met my mother for lunch on Wednesday.  It was the anniversary of my father's death, but that wasn't why we were having lunch together.  It just turned out that way.

While we were eating, my mother unfolded an 8 1/2 by 11 piece of paper and gave it to me.  She said there was something she never told me about the quilt that she had made and given to me a couple of years ago.

My mother has always been good at sewing.  She made most of our clothes, and even a spring jacket for my sister and me.  She made a pants outfit for me once, and matched the plaids so well that people commented on it.  But it is only recently that she had gotten interested in quilting.  It was my grandmother, my mother's mother, that was the quilter.  She was famous for her beautiful hand-stitched quilts.  Everyone tells me that she had an eye for putting together colors.  I have one of her quilts, but I don't remember ever seeing her put one together.  By the time I was born, it hurt her hands and her eyes too much to do the close work necessary.

Recently, though, my mother has begun quilting.  And two years ago she gave me this beautiful lap quilt.  I thought the colors were amazing.  It holds a place of honor in our living room.

But it turns out that I did not know everything about it.

On the piece of paper that my mother gave me, she told me that this quilt was a collaboration, in a way. After my grandmother died, my aunt discovered some pieces that my grandmother had cut out, and a pattern for a quilt square.  She took half of the pieces, and gave my mother the other half.  But neither of them knew what to do with them.  They had a pattern, but were not sure how to put it together.

One day, one of my mother's friends took a look at the pieces and the pattern, and she could figure it out.  Then my mother could begin to make the squares that would form the quilt.

It took a long time; in the process she decided to divide the pieces and make two quilts instead of one; my sister just received the other one.  Until Wednesday, though, I never knew that my grandmother had a hand in the quilt I received from my mother.

I see it differently now.  It is not just a quilt.  It is a story.  It was always a story, but until Wednesday I did not know the language that the quilt was speaking, even though I loved it.

My mother's quilt makes me think of the church these days, what has been passed down to us, what we value, what we know.  I know many of the older people in my congregation value and love liturgy.  They have been singing and praying in a particular way for many years, as it has been passed down to them.  They have learned some new rhythms along the way, it's true, but they still sing and pray the basic pattern, and they find it beautiful, and comforting, even, at times (although a seminarian friend recently scoffed at the idea of comforting religion).

And yet I wonder if we still remember the stories behind the rhythms and the words of liturgy, the ones that change it from a beautiful object into a story about us, about our mothers and our grandmothers and our great-grandmothers.  I wonder if we still remember the stories that speak about love that pursues us through the ages, that pieces us together, that made us by hand.  I wonder if we still remember the stories of why we sing and say and pray the things we do, and if we are even curious.

The People Who Raised Me

The other night my mother called and left me a message.  She mentioned a name -- the name of someone I knew a long long ago.  One of a couple that were my parents' friends for many years.  She told me that he had died, and that his funeral would be this Friday.

When she said the name, I felt suddenly transported to my childhood.  I began to remember my parents' circle of friends.  I have known them all for over fifty years.  A few of them had been childhood friends of my father; they went to Sunday school and confirmation together.  They were part of a group for newly married couples, called (of all things) the Merry Mates.

After a few years, none of them attended the same church anymore.  They had moved out to the suburbs and joined other churches.  But they continued to get together for social events:  birthdays, summer picnics, camping, Christmas parties.  There were informal concerts put on by some of the children.  There was the annual "Wizard of Oz" movie viewing event, complete with the children's re-enactment after the movie was over.  A couple of times I remember bringing along pajamas and going to sleep on someone else's floor; later on we woke up and were carried out to our car to go home to our own beds.

One of the couples later became missionaries to Papua, New Guinea.  My Barbie dolls, dressed up, played a featured role in the decorations for their going-away party.

One of my first arguments about contemporary worship was with one of my parents' friends.  I thought we should have a lot of 'new songs', like in Psalm 98.  "Sing to the Lord a new song!"  She said she didn't really feel like she was worshipping if she had to work hard learning all of the notes and words.  At the time, I didn't really know where she was coming from.  Now, even though I still love learning new songs, I also know the special gift of singing what you know by heart, as well.

Two of the friends eventually became estranged.  One of them has a daughter who is gay; the other believes that being gay is against God's will.  My mother remains friends with both of them.

When I think back, these were the people who raised me, not just my own parents, but all of these other couples.  They set examples for me: not of heroism, but of kindness.  They did not make fun of the children.  They were faithful to their friends.  They weren't perfect.  But they were good.

The people who raised me are dying.  One of the men had Parkinsons, like my dad.  One of the women had cancer.  Another of the women has Alzheimers.  Her husband stays with her every day.  I remember when I was in Japan, he wrote me letters.  She told me, "I would write to you, but if I did, he would stop, and I think it's good he writes."

The people who raised me are dying.  They taught me what it meant to be human, to laugh, to listen, not to make fun of the children, to be kind.

They showed me what faithfulness looks like, like a small ordinary thing, rare as a diamond, beautiful as an autumn maple leaf.

The people who raised me are dying.  May they live forever.

My Uncle Roger's Arms

On Tuesday, I officiated at the funeral for one of my beloved uncles, my dad's brother-in-law, Roger.  He was 90, so he lived a good long life, just the past few years in a local nursing home, confined to a wheelchair.  He and my Aunt Norma were married for 65 years, which is a pretty good run, in my book.  My aunt and their three children and families were there, at the funeral, and I was honored, and a little nervous, to speak to them.

I have officiated at several weddings for family members in the past, but have never been asked to officiate at a funeral.  I think that I would, in some ways, prefer to be one of the mourners, to be able to hear the promise of the gospel from someone else, to hold my memories and weep and rejoice.  I would like to hear the insights of another preacher, reminding me of all the things I knew, telling me things I never knew.  But when my cousin called me last Thursday evening, I found that I couldn't say no.  I was honored that she asked me, but still, a little nervous.

I knew my uncle Roger as a child knows an adult.  I remembered how much he loved the water, his silly jokes, the way he would tease me or give me a kiss on the cheek.  He taught me how to surface dive, when I was afraid to dive instead of jump from the deep end of the water.  He had polio when he was young, I knew that, because he always walked with a limp.  But I did not find out until just before his funeral that he had polio as a teenager -- at 17 -- and was in the hospital for a whole year.  According to his family, he never complained about it, always found something positive.

Some things I remember about my uncle Roger in part because of the family movies my dad took.  They have been spliced together and, although they are not in order, I still will force my husband to watch them with me, on occasion.  When I was looking through the movies before I preached on Tuesday, the first image I saw was my uncle Roger in a boat on the lake.  I also saw a clip from Christmas.  Whenever the camera came to him, he would turn and give my aunt a kiss on the cheek.

But the clip I was looking for I could not find.  It's a clip of my uncle Roger on the floor, playing with the kids.  Actually, he is lying on the floor, on his back, and he is lifting us up in his hands, up into the air.  If the clip is as I remember it, I was hesitant.  It looked scary.  He kept coaxing me, while all of the other cousins took turns going up in the air, up in his hands, higher than they imagined they could go.  It was as if he was saying, "Don't be afraid.  It'll be fun!  Trust me.  I can hold you."

On Tuesday, I took Isaiah 43 as one of my texts.  "Do not be afraid; for I am with you.  I have called you by name; you are mine."  I started out thinking about the promise, "I have called you by name, you are mine."  But I kept thinking about my uncle and how he always appeared fearless to me.  He wasn't afraid of the water.  He wasn't afraid of life.  He wasn't afraid of anything.  And I think he wanted to teach us to be fearless too.  I kept thinking about my uncle and his strong arms, and how I was afraid, but I didn't need to be.  I kept thinking about how if we trusted him, we got to go higher and higher in the air, and then I started thinking about how strong his arms must have been.  His legs were weak, but his arms were so strong they could hold us.

"Don't be afraid."  That's what my uncle Roger taught me, or tried to, anyway.  "Trust me.  I may have weak legs, but I have strong arms."

On Tuesday, I did not remember that the weakness of God is stronger than human strength, and the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom. I remember today, though.

Today, I am imagining my uncle Roger, going up in the hands of God, higher than he has ever gone before.  I am imagining him going high up in the strong arms of Jesus, up to the place prepared for him in the love of God.  I am imagining how strong the arms of Jesus can be, even though he was struck down, maybe because he was struck down.

And my uncle Roger?  He is not afraid.  He never was.

May I someday learn to be so foolish.  And so fearless.  And so wise.

What I Learn From Funerals

The last funeral I officiated was on a Saturday afternoon in Lent.  The woman who died was too young, had cancer, fought valiantly, put her life in Jesus' hands.  In many ways her funeral was like many other funerals where I officiate.  There is so much that is the same.  There are certain songs that almost everyone sings, certain scriptures that occur over and over.  The liturgy we use is very simple, and so much is nearly the same every time, although, since my father's funeral last fall, I have taken to tweaking the prayers some, using different prayers than the ones that are in the book.

There was this one unique moment, though, at the beginning of her memorial service.

The woman who died had been a day care provider in our community for many years.  She was well known to parent and children for her firm but kind nurture, unapologetic discipline and boundaries, and unconditional love.  It was a powerful combination.

At the beginning of the service, at the direction of her family, I asked all of the children and young adults who had been cared for at this woman's day care to come to the entry to the sanctuary.  Forty or fifty young people stood up and met me and the doorway, where our funeral coordinator gave each of them a small bouquet of white carnations.  At the opening hymn, all of these young people processed in behind me, but before the family.  They each placed  their carnations in the baptismal font, where they stayed for the entire service.

The woman's husband explained why he wanted to do this, "I wanted everyone to have a part."

Not long before this, at another funeral, there were similar words.  A woman, helping to plan her husband's funeral, said, "There are nine grandchildren who all need jobs."  At that service, we had readers, eulogists, and intercessory pray-ers.

This is very wise, I thought.

The more I thought about it, the wiser I thought it was.

I thought about all of those carnations in the baptismal font, and I thought about the fact that, at the most recent funeral, all of the eulogists were participants in the woman's day care:  two parents, and one of the former day care children.

It took me a while to realize that there was a powerful message being spoken that day, not just the message about the love of God, more powerful than death.

It was the message that so much of our society disbelieves:  that we belong to one another.  Our family is wider than we think, wider than we know, wider than we see -- except, sometimes at funerals.  All around us there is the message that we are on our own.  We draw our circles closer and closer, and are told to care only for a few who are closest to our hearts.

But here is the truth:  we belong to one another.  We are members of one another.  Our fates are intertwined.  Life and death and love and pain bind us together.

Perhaps it is why there is so much similarity in funerals:  our common humanity and hope finds words and sighs.  There is bound to be overlap.

And yet:  here is the other thing I learn from funerals.

Despite their similarities, no two are really alike.  They are like fingerprints.  I can't say exactly why, when we sing so much "Amazing Grace" or "Love Divine", and we hear so much about the many mansions, or the resurrection and the Life.  But somehow each funeral embodies the hope of a particular child of God, ordinary and extraordinary at the same time, and they are not the same.  Sometimes they are small things that matter:  a particular story shared, a Scripture verse in German, or a baptismal font full of carnations.

The End of an Era

The church where I grew up held their final worship service on Baptism of Our Lord Sunday.  I have a copy of the bulletin from the service, even though I wasn't able to attend.  The picture on the front of the bulletin is from the church's heyday, in the early 1970s.  I keep looking at the picture, thinking about the past, and where I am now.

When my family joined the church, I was six years old, and the congregation was bursting at the seams.   It was the baby boom, the congregation was a mission start, and the ushers couldn't set up the folding chairs quickly enough on Sunday morning.  There was not enough room for all of the Sunday School classes.  During Vacation Bible School, there were often big tents set up in the back yard, and one summer some of us were even chauffeured over to the synagogue across the street.  The event was noted in the local newspaper.

Though we were still a smaller congregation with one pastor, the congregation seemed destined for greatness.  We purchased land and had a model for our expansion set up in the church basement.  It was all very exciting.  All the time I was growing up we were worshipping in what would be the fellowship hall.  At the first worship service in the new sanctuary, I remember listening to the pastor preach, and thinking, "If I were a man, that is what I would want to do."  It was a fleeting thought then, because there were no women pastors, as far as I knew.  And I was very shy.  I couldn't imagine myself speaking in front of a large group.  I had no idea where that thought came from.

This is the church where I was nurtured in faith, where I was confirmed.  It was the church that supported me when I became a missionary to Japan, the church that recognized my gifts for ministry and endorsed me for my seminary studies, the church where I was ordained into Word and Sacrament ministry.  It was the church where I taught Sunday School, sang in the choir, read lessons, sat on the church council, preached my first sermon.

It was a congregation where I also saw and experienced a slow process of decline.  Throughout the years I saw wonderful relationships and painful conflict.  Talented people came and went in a congregation which had a reputation for innovative worship.

"Why does a church close?' my husband asked me as we were reminiscing last week.  It was a wistful question.  In number of years at least, the congregation seemed too young to die.

"I don't know," I replied.

And I was being truthful, even though throughout the years, I had had plenty of ideas about what was wrong.  As a lay leader, I even had some strategies for how to fix it.  Better Sunday School, personal relationships, adult education, re-immersing ourselves in the neighborhood.  I was being truthful, even though I know that there were outside challenges, and inside challenges for our congregation.  We were hampered by a highway location that made us easy to see, but difficult to find.  We had had congregational conflicts that left us wounded.  And there were cultural changes going on that I didn't know about then, but have only begun to understand in retrospect.

Why does a church close?

It could have been any one of those reasons, or a combination of them, or something else entirely.

I don't know.

But here's one thing I do know:  people are born, people live, people die.  Congregations are not people, but they are like people in some ways.  When a church closes, it is like a funeral.  It is the end of an era.  When the church is a fairly young one, like mine was, there are exhausting efforts to return to life and health, and there is deep grief when the doors finally close.

Each life has a purpose.  So does a congregation.  Maybe it is an illusion, though, that any one congregation is meant to last forever.  It is an illusion borne of many things:  perhaps our sturdy, strong buildings make us think of permanence.  Perhaps a culture that worships growth and sees a congregation as a simply an organization but not an organism plays a part.

I don't know.

Congregations are born.  Congregations live.  And sometimes, congregations die.  And what really matters, it seems to me, is that while we live, we know we have a purpose, that God lives and breathes and loves through us.

Reformation Lutheran Church, you are the servant of the Lord.  Go in peace.

"Your Church Family"

This Fall, we had a Wednesday night faith formation group, and used the Animate videos and discussion material.  Though billed as "An Animated Discussion about Faith", it's actually a primer on the basics of the Christian faith, with plenty of wiggle room for differing ideas and opinions.

A couple of weeks ago, we finished the series with the session on the church.  "What is the church, after all?" was the question.  There were a lot of different proposals:  social club, a classroom, a sporting event, a theatre, or a hospital?   (hospital is my personal favorite).  None of these, really, it turns out.  But Bruce Reyes-Chow's answer sort of took me aback:

Family.

Now he did quality his answer by letting us know that the church is an imperfect family, not the 1950s squeaky clean, solve-your-problems-in-27-minutes-like-on-TV family, but a messy, chaotic, sometimes rubbing-each-other-the-wrong-way family.

But Still.

I grew up referring to the church as my family.  It has been hard for me to give up the habit, but I have been working on it these many years.  The seminary professors and evangelism specialists have been repeating, again and again, this mantra:  NEVER call the church your family. This is a BAD idea, and part of the problem.  And I actually see their point.  When you think about the church as a family, when you close your eyes and imagine it, what does it look like?  A few people who all sort of resemble one another?  A small table in the kitchen: coziness, a sense of intimacy?  Our images of family often look like closed circles, and it's hard to imagine letting very many new people in. It is really hard to become family (harder in some families than in others).  Many churches are already ingrown.  "Church family" language reinforces the idea that there are insiders and the outsiders, and doesn't answer the question, "What are we here for?"

And yet....

If you read the Scriptures, it's hard to get around the fact that we really are related to one another, in some way or another.  Don't call us a family, if you don't want to, and please don't think that we all look alike, but do recognize the fact that those of us who have been joined to Christ have also been joined to one another, whether we like it or not.  Somehow, we are all related.  And even though we are called to welcome people into the body of Christ, becoming family is not as easy as a two-session "new member" course.  Perhaps that is why I am attracted to the catechumenate process.  It takes seriously the idea that becoming part of the Body of Christ, becoming grafted into the vine, becoming family, is not so easy.  It is being patient with each other.  It is listening.  It is looking into one another's eyes and seeing the beauty along with the scars.  It is a lifelong practice of grace, the grace first extended to us.

Mitakuye Oyasin. We are all related.  That's what the Lakota believe.  But it is not so easy to practice.

There is no them and us.  There is only us.  That's what Father Gregory Boyle says.  But it is not so easy to practice.

In church, we practice being family.  By which I mean that we practice sharing our food, forgiving each other, cheering each other on.

And perhaps, in practicing, we can learn to see the stranger as kin, that through the mercy of Christ, we are all related.

Feeding My Dad

I went to visit my dad yesterday, at the nursing home.

I was trying to get there about mid-morning.  My mom has said that he is better in the mornings, or later in the afternoon.  But then I needed to proof-read the Sunday bulletins, and make a couple of phone calls, and try to make a couple of appointments with homebound members, and help find a microphone for the people who will be using the fellowship hall today.  So I got there just before lunchtime.

These days, I don't always recognize him for a minute when I first walk in.  He was sitting in his latest wheelchair, which is huge and can be used for reclining.  He used to have these lah-di-dah motorized wheelchairs, but he doesn't need them any more.  Now, it's the comfort that matters.

I looked at this old man in his wheelchair, sitting at the head of one of the tables, and for a minute I stared at him and thought, "Is that my dad?  He looks so old."  But as I got closer I knew that it was him.  They had cut his hair recently, and it looked nice.  But he didn't have that nice wave in his hair any more, like when he was young.

I moved toward his table, and one of the aides volunteered to move him to another table, so that I could sit next to him.  "He's a feeder," they said.  "Do you want to feed him?"  I said that I would.

I sat down next to him, and spoke into his ear.  He tried to talk, and mostly stuttered, but he grabbed my hand.  His hand was warm.  In a little while, the food came:  egg bake and red jello, carrots and peas, mandarin orange salad.  I put a little jello up to his mouth, and waited for him to eat it.

Meanwhile, a social worker from hospice stopped by.  They are just starting to come and visit my dad, and I was glad to meet her.  She stayed and asked me some questions.  Since I was feeding my dad jello, I remembered how we all used to go out on Sunday after church to the Forum cafeteria downtown.  It was just an ordinary cafeteria in some ways, but it had this awesome art deco architecture.  It was a great building.  And they had every color of jello at the Forum cafeteria.

I got my dad to eat a little of the egg bake too.  I could tell he was getting sleepy, but he ate most of the egg bake, and some of the jello.  I thought about how he used to make us toast in the morning (he was not really a cook); sometimes he would put the peanut butter on the toast and forget and start to eat it himself.  And we would shout, "Dad!  That's our toast!"

The social worker asked me this question, "Did he used to be a sweet man?"  I know what she meant, but it startled me.  Suddenly I got this urge to find pictures for her, pictures of the dad I knew.  I took out my iPad and found two very very old pictures, taken when I was a baby.  I particularly wanted her to see the wave he used to have in his hair.

The picture I really wanted her to see was not so old, and was taken at my sister's wedding, many years ago.  I like my dad's crinkly smile in that picture. He looks so happy.

Yes.  He was a sweet man.  Maybe he was a little too tender-hearted sometimes.  I think he let my mom be the "bad cop" more than she really wanted to be.  But he had a sentimental streak a mile wide.  He really thought that love conquered all.  His favorite movie was Pollyanna.  He liked dogs.  Our cat:  not so much.

He enjoyed tinkering with radios and fixing televisions.  He enjoyed talking to people.  He wasn't that ambitious.  The most important thing to him was that he took care of us.

So now, I'm taking care of him.  Not as much as I should.  Just once in awhile.  I'm taking care of him, and singing in his ear and remembering.

On Father's Day: Lessons from My Dad

1.  Go to church.
There are probably many reasons I still go to church, not the least of them being that I am the pastor.  But one of the reasons I go is that my dad went to church.  Every Sunday.  Not only did my dad go to church, but he actually seemed to enjoy it.

Studies show that children whose father attend church are more likely to continue actively practicing their faith into adulthood.  I don't know why this is, but I am still grateful that my dad went to church.

2.  Sing.
My dad sang in church.  Sometimes in harmony.  He also sang in the car, in the shower, with my mom at the piano, and just about everywhere else.  It's true, he didn't always know all the words, but that didn't stop him.  He sang anyway.  Sometimes he made up his own lyrics.

At least in part because of my dad's influence, I too sing in church.  Sometimes in harmony.  And I sing other places too.  It's true, that singing by amateurs has become a rare phenomenon.  More and more we have learned to leave it to the professionals.  But my dad was a great amateur singer, and he gave me a lifelong love for singing and music, and a conviction that I didn't have to be that good at it to enjoy it.  Every time I stand up in church and chant the liturgy, I have my dad to thank.

3.  Use your imagination.
Here's something I remember:  when my dad used to get us out of the bathtub, he used to sing the song "The Sheik of Araby" to us while he was drying us off with the towel.  However, he used to make up his own words, while he would wrap the towel around us to pretend we were really arabian sheiks, or ghosts, or even Little Red Riding Hood.  He also would sometimes pretend he was Methuselah, the world's oldest man, when he came in to say our prayers with us in the evening.  He would tell us that he remembered all of the Bible characters as he sat on our beds.  He made evening prayer time fun.  He loved to pretend.  And I think that it was because of his imagination that he was also an incurable romantic.  He loved the movie "Pollyanna" and really thought that the world should be a kinder place than it really was.

I hope that I have gotten just a little of his imagination in my life.  Whether I have enjoyed a good pun, imagined a story or a poem, or just imagined the world in a different, better way, I have my dad to thank.

4.  Be there.
Woody Allen once said that half of life is just showing up.  My dad showed up.  I remember my dad sitting across the dining room table with me, helping me memorize my multiplication tables when I was in the 4th grade.  And I remember in high school, my dad sitting across the table from me again, helping me to learn how to do my taxes.  When I was in college one of my friends came to me to help her with her taxes, because I knew what to do.  Her dad always just did hers for her.  When I got my first apartment, my dad gave me my own set of tools.

My dad showed up.  He showed up and taught me how to do things.  He didn't just do things for me (except for the times he opened the lids on peanut butter jars for me.  Even then, he would make a big show of trying to open the jar.  Then he would say, "it's too hard for me.  You'll have to do it."  He gave it back to me and of course, then I could open the jar easily.)

Now, I want to be there for my stepsons, and for my nieces and nephew, not just to do things for them, but to help them to learn to do things for themselves.  I hope that I have given them just a few tools they can use in their lives.  I hope that I've "been there" as well.

5.  Talk to your children about your faith, and your questions.
When I was a teenager, Hal Lindsay's book, "The Late Great Planet Earth" was very popular.  Everybody was talking about the end of the world.  I was very worried about it.  I was only thirteen, and I didn't want the world to end any time soon.  My dad wasn't much of a reader, but he read that book, and I remember us talking about whether the world would end or not.  He took my questions seriously, and he had his own questions, too.  Somehow, knowing that just made me feel better.

6.  You don't have to be perfect.  Just be yourself.
When I was a little girl, my dad was my hero.  Now that I'm an adult, I know that he is a human being, with failings and flaws just like everyone else.  There were times when I really wanted him to be serious, and he really wanted to keep it light.  I know that it was hard for him when his business went bankrupt, but he never talked about it.  He didn't like to talk about things.  He didn't always say or do the right thing.  But he's still my hero.  He taught me how to sing and how to pray.  He gave me imagination and hope and shared his faith.  He was there when it counted.

He was pretty cute too.

What more could a girl want in a father?

I'll Count Easter As a "Win"

I'm not talking about Easter Worship, which was good.  Very Good, actually, to quote God.

I'm talking about Easter Dinner at my mom's house in the afternoon.

My mom made the ham, the vegetables, and the pie.  I made something called "Company Hash Browns" and "Apple Gorgonzola Salad."  There was just a little of each left over, and, since I don't cook as often as I'd like, I was pleased that everyone liked my offerings.  Maybe I'll cook again, someday.

But I'm not talking about that, either.

My mother-in-law came to church with us, but unfortunately didn't feel well enough to come to dinner later.  My stepson accepted our invitation, but my niece stayed home with a cough.  And my brother and my nephew (the rock star) went over to the nursing home where my dad lives and brought him over for dinner.

My dad has Parkinsons.  He used to be on medication that helped him stay active, but some of the medication also made him hallucinate.  After awhile, they decided not to make him take all of that medication, so he is pretty much confined to the wheelchair now.  We like that he can be with us for holidays, but some visits go better than others.

At first, it seemed like it wasn't going to go very well.  When my brother brought my dad's wheelchair in, he was sort of leaning over and had a grimace on his face as if he was in pain.  We tried to straighten him up, but he didn't look like he was ready to have a good time.  My brother got a pillow from the car, and that seemed to help a little bit.

My dad had a good dinner with us, but he's not such a sparkling conversationalist as he used to be.  Just last week one of my parents' old friends said she remembered how good my dad was at telling stories.  So I told him so.  I said, "Velma said she remembered how good you were at telling stories!"  I said it several times, until finally he replied, "She did?"

After dinner, I thought I'd try to engage my dad a little more.  We tried singing.  We started "You are My Sunshine," thinking we would just sing the chorus, but when we finished, he went right into the first verse.  We sang a few other songs, but I didn't know all of the words.  (as usual.)

At one point my nephew ( the rock star) was sitting next to my dad and talking to him, and I thought I heard my dad give a little laugh that was familiar to me.  So we said, "Dad!  Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?  the Shadow knows..." and my dad said....'bwa haha'.  We said it a couple more times.  And my dad also remembered a few other imitations he used to do.

We laughed.  My brother and I sang a few old Allan Sherman songs.

Then we had two kinds of pie:  lemon and apple.

My brother helped my mom get my dad into the car to go back to the nursing home.

I fell asleep in the easy chair in their living room.

When my mom returned from the nursing home, she said that my dad turned to her in the car and said, "that was fun."

So, I'll count Easter as a 'win.'

Watching Home Movies With My Dad

So, Monday was my dad's 84th birthday.  Sunday night my brother and my mom got him out of the nursing home where he lives so that we could have a nice birthday dinner at their home:  turkey and mashed potatoes with gravy, corn, salad, and cherry pie for dessert.

My dad thought it was possibly Christmas.

He was pretty good:  sometimes, it takes almost the whole visit before he will join the party, and talk.  Last Thanksgiving he kept falling asleep until just before we took him back to the nursing home.  But Sunday afternoon he got in a few comments.  I thought he was going to start telling "Knock Knock" jokes.  He didn't, but when my brother and I started imitating the old "Axel" character from past local children's program, he knew right away it was Clellan Card.

After dinner and before the cherry pie, my mom had a special event planned.  We were going to watch old home movies.  One of our old friends had taken some of our old home movies and put them on a DVD, so that we could watch them again.  We hadn't seen those movies for a long time, but I remember sometimes, long ago, that we would have fun putting up the movie screen and pulling out the movie projector and watching a bunch of those 8 millimeter family shows.  Most of them were various Christmases, with a few camping experiences thrown in.  We used to love to run the Christmas ones backwards, so that we could see everyone re-wrapping up their presents.  Simple pleasures, you know.

So there we were, all sitting together in the little family room, my dad in his wheelchair, right in the middle of all of us.  One of the unique features of this DVD is that there is background music, and you can choose which sound track you'd like: classical, country, or folk.  Another unique feature of the DVD is that the movies are arranged in no particular order.  So one moment we might all be visiting the farm and it's before my parents were even married, and the next moment, all three of us kids are sitting under a tinsel-laden Christmas tree, and then the next moment it is another Christmas, but I'm the only one around, and I'm a baby (I'm the oldest.)

So we're watching all these little episodes, all out of order, and shouting out to one another and to my Dad, "Look!  There's uncle Dick!  There's Norma!"  I still remember the first time my brother appeared on the screen, shaking my dad's arm and saying, "There's your son!  That's David."

The one thing my mom kept saying:  "You took these pictures.  Do you remember?"

My dad isn't in any of the movies.  He was taking them all.

From a professional standpoint, my dad was not an excellent filmmaker.  He tended to cut off people's heads, for one thing.  We were teasing him about that.  He didn't have a great instinct for "the scene", but he loved us and he wanted to record a bit of our lives.

For us, we just wanted to say, "thank you."  Thank you for not being in the movies, but taking the movies.  Thank you for recording our lives, in little bits and episodes.  In the movies, I can see through my dad's eyes, just a little, and I see how much he loved my mom, how much he loved us, even though he wasn't the type to say it much.

It's funny how much those few seconds of videotape can say -- how a few seconds of me chasing a kitten, or my little brother trying to blow out his first birthday candle, or his uncle hoisting all of us kids up in the air (except me, I was scared) brought back a flood of other memories and pictures.  And my father isn't in any of the pictures, preferring to take pictures of all of us, his family.

Happy birthday, Dad.  Thank you for taking the movies.  Thank you for helping us remember, even if you don't.

Best Christmas Presents

I ever gave (I think).

1.  The green scarf I got for my Mom at Walgreen's, because I thought it matched her coat.  I was 10 years old.  It cost $1.50
2.  The red and yellow book light I got for my stepson for Christmas before he was my stepson.  He was 10 years old at the time, and I heard later that he kept saying to his dad, "I've just got to thank her."
3.  The box of chocolates we got for our parents and put under the tree on Christmas morning, with a tag on it that said, "From Santa Claus."  The next year my parents went out and bought themselves Christmas stockings.
4.  The time I made hand-stamped Christmas cards for every family in my parish.  Luckily, I did not count the number of families before I began.
5. The guitar-shaped spatula which was a stocking stuffer for my husband, but which turned out to be fun for the whole family.
6.  The boom box we got for my in-laws one Christmas.  "Oh, it's something big!"  My mother-in-law exclaimed.  I never saw anyone so excited.
7.  hand-knitted scarves for my sister, her husband and my niece.
8.  for my brother, a polo shirt I happened to see which had a small Pokey riding a Gumby figure on it (this is a family joke, but 'Gumby' is one of my brother's nicknames).
9.  old-fashioned ribbon candy for my mom who has a sweet tooth.
10.  a particular cookbook for one of my husband's neices who likes to cook.  I marked some of my favorite recipes.

When I think about it more, sometimes I think that the best presents I ever gave were these:  listening to my dad tell stories, learning and singing a song in Swedish for my grandmother, spending time with my mom over coffee, singing and listening to my stepsons play instruments (although it's hard to say whether that was a gift given or received).

What do you think?  What are the best Christmas presents you ever gave?

Visiting My Dad

I got a call yesterday to visit someone in the hospital.  I didn't know her well, but I recognized her name, and when I got to the hospital, I remembered her husband.  Two of her four daughters were there.   They were not sure about their mother's prognosis, so we prayed for strength for whatever the future would bring.

Then I went to visit my dad at the nursing home.

I don't visit my dad enough.  Every time I go, I consider this truth.

When I got there, he was napping, but was ready for a visit.  So we got him up and I asked him about his day.  It was quiet there on a Saturday afternoon, though I thought I heard a movie in the background of the social room.  We talked about his favorite foods (pizza, meatballs, cherry pie, corned beef), and sang a few songs, including Bing Crosby songs and some hymns.  My dad had a pretty good voice back in the day, and he loved to sing Bing Crosby songs most of all.  I tried to get a little crooning in my voice when I sang "When the Blue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day."   I didn't know all of the words, but then, neither did he.

Then we said the Lord's Prayer together.

My dad used to read Bible stories to us when we were getting ready for bed.  My parents both said our prayers with us, but when my dad said them, he would often pretend he was Methuselah, the world's oldest man.  He would tell us that he remembered Moses and Abraham and all of the heroes of the Bible, and he would talk in an old man's voice.  When we started to say the prayers, he would pretend that he was falling asleep during the prayer, and when his voice trailed off, my sister or I would kick him.

So, that's my memory of my dad teaching me the Lord's Prayer.

My dad wasn't a terribly educated man.  The youngest son of Swedish immigrants, he at first longed to be a high school teacher:  he wanted to teach Shop.  But he found that college was more of a challenge than he imagined, so he changed his plans and opened his own business:  Radio and TV Sales and Service.  I still remember the smells of that old shop, oil and picture tubes and carpeting.

My dad was traditional, which means that he didn't really cook or do much cleaning, unless my mom specifically told him what to do.  He was endlessly fascinated by television and he could fry an egg, grill hamburgers and make a mean bean sandwich.  He wasn't a cat person, but he loved our dog.  He was sentimental, believing that love should always win out.  But I don't remember ever seeing him cry. He liked to cover up tough times with a laugh or a joke.

He liked to sing, but he rarely knew all of the words to the songs.  So sometimes, he made up his own words.

When I was trying to figure out whether to change course and go to seminary to be a pastor, I was desperate to know what my parents thought about it.  They're Scandinavian, though, which means they aren't always free with their opinions.  But finally, I practically begged.  I asked my dad, "Do you think I would be a good pastor?"

"Oh," he said, "I think you'd be good at whatever you did."

"You never say that," I told him.

As if thinking it for the first time, he said, "Nobody ever said it to me, either."

I don't visit my dad enough.

But when I do, we sing.  Even though neither of us remembers the words.

Family Ties

Before I left church this afternoon, I ripped a small piece of paper off the wall behind my desk.  It has been taped there since September of 1999, shortly after I got married.  I had been asked to write the weekly Newsletter column, and this is what I came up with:

From the Pastor

"I've had a pretty high "learning curve" the last couple of months -- a new house here in Richfield, a new name, a new husband, a new family.  There have been occasions on which I have forgotten my name -- writing checks, for example, or in these columns -- but other people have forgotten, too.  I had a few years to get used to my old name, so I'm sure the adjustment will take awhile.

"Of course, the name is probably the least of the changes.  Instead of thinking only about a cranky old cat and myself, I am continually thinking about three other people -- my husband and his two boys.  When I go grocery shopping, when I clean the house, when I look at my weekly calendar, I can't be quite as selfish as I was.  My vision has become wider.  I belong to more people now.

"It seems similar to what happens when we are baptized and as we grow in Christ.  It's a name change that means so many others things.  When we are baptized, we receive Christ's name, and all of a sudden we are related to many more people.  As we grow and learn more about our family name, it's harder and harder for us to think only of ourselves.  Our vision becomes wider than it used to be.  As it is written in our baptismal liturgy, "As we live with him and with his people, we grow in faith, lobve, and obedience to the will of God."

"...And with his people."  Now that we have a new name, we learn to live with one another under this roof, as I'm learning to live with more people under one roof.  It can be a pretty high learning curve sometimes, but it's how we learn to be God's family together, considering one another's needs and feelings, listening to one another, widening our vision."

"Who are my mother and my brothers?" Jesus asks this week.  It is an uncomfortable question.  Or, maybe it's a comforting question.  Sometimes we all feel like orphans, looking for someone to share a road with us.  Sometimes the vision of a few people in a little house is all we can handle.  Other times we look around at the people who share the table with us, and don't recognize them. 

Who are our mother and our brothers and our sisters?  We can't get around it, our vision is wider now, and sometimes this feels like a burden.  And other times, it is the greatest joy imaginable.

A Belated Happy Birthday to my Dad, including Songs

My dad's 82nd birthday was actually on Friday, March 11 of this year, but we moved the big celebration forward a few days to yesterday --- the first day of Spring, March 20.  My brother was gone the weekend before, and my mom had time to put together a special afternoon.  She reserved the community room where she lives, and brought my dad home from the nursing home for the afternoon.  We had crackers, meat and cheese, potato salad and pasta salad, chips and other snacks, and of course, cake and punch and coffee.  If you're Scandinavian, you have to have coffee.

My mom invited a few family members -- my dad's sister and her family, my mom's sister and brother and a couple of my cousins.  Their pastor showed up at some point, which I thought was really sweet.  He had his "Gustavus Adolphus College" sweatshirt on.  He's Swedish, too.

Also, my mom invited the Swedish Male Chorus to come and give a little mini concert for my dad. 

My dad sang with the chorus for several years.  Of course, he had to be egged on for a few years by his friend, Ralf.  My dad has always loved music and singing.  I'm prejudiced, but I thought he sounded a little big like Bing Crosby.  He didn't sing in choirs much, though, until he finally broke down and joined the Chorus.

My grandparents emigrated from Sweden back in the early 1900s.  My dad grew up in the Cedar Riverside and Seward neighborhoods of Minneapolis, both enclaves of Swedish immigrants back then.  In fact, it was either Cedar or Riverside which was nicknamed "Snoose Boulevard" because of the cheap tobacco that the immigrants chewed.

So the men came, in their suit jackets and all wearing their blue and yellow ties, and they sang for my dad, there in the foyer.  They sang "They Shall Have Music" and "Sverige" and other songs in Swedish and in English.  And, sitting in his wheelchair in the front row, my dad sang along. 

The chorus invited everyone to sing along on the last song, "Halsa Dem Darhemma."  (Greet those at home.)  I remember learning and singing this song as a little girl.  It is supposed to be sung by a girl as she is leaving her home in Sweden to go to America.  She sees a swallow, and asks the swallow to take a message to her family back in Sweden for her.

I remember singing this song with my sister, singing for my grandmother, and seeing her cry when she heard it.  I remember once that my sister and I sang the song into the phone to her, though I don't remember why.  We lived in town, not far away.  Maybe she was sick, and we just wanted to cheer her up. 

On Sunday the Chorus invited us all to sing along, and my dad sang, and I sang.  And we all cried.

We have all come a long way.  But may we never forget where we came from.

Happy birthday, Dad.

Visiting My Dad

One of the things I regretted in my busy solo summer was that I did not visit my dad in the nursing home as much as I would have liked.  My mom had him home for a couple of afternoons, and we had a big bash for Father's Day, but I just didn't get up to see him that often.  I was busy holding down the fort at the church, writing sermons and funeral sermons (we had twelve funerals this summer), and checking up on people, and trying to get ready for the fall.

But last week our interim Senior Pastor arrived, and he is encouraging me to take some comp time, to do things like clean my house and make doctors appointments, and just rest a little.  So this afternoon, before starting on the dirty dishes, and wiping out that cupboard or sweeping the closet that has accumulated dog hair, I went up to see my dad.

He was sitting in the common area, paging through a magazine.  He seemed happy to see me, although I wasn't sure at first he knew who I was.  I asked him several times, and he seemed puzzled, but it turns out that he has lost his hearing aid again.  Finally, he said my name, ("of course!"), and told the old knock-knock joke associated with me. It seems that I was helping with the dishes once when I was very small.  I turned to my parents and said, "Knock knock."  They answered, "Who's there?"  "Dishes," I said, thinking about the dishes in the sink.  "Dishes who?"  "Dishes Diane."  My father has told that joke ever since.

So today he called me, "Dishes Diane," and continued to page through the magazine.  It seemed that he was looking for something, but I don't know what.  When he finished that magazine, I found him another.  He seemed to enjoy just paging through the pages.

I told him a few riddles.  He knew the answers to some, but not to all of them.  He couldn't remember what he had for lunch, so he said, "Filet Mignon."  

Someone came by with chocolate chip cookies and coffee for break.  We each munched one cookie.

I couldn't think of what to say, so I asked if we could say the Lord's Prayer together.  I know, it seems like a pastor thing to do, but he used to say it with me before I went to bed, when I was a little girl.  So we said the Lord,'s prayer, the old version, and then I said I would have to go. 

He said something about saying the Lord's Prayer when he went to bed.  I asked him if he still did that.  "Not any more," he said.  "I used to."

"You said it now," I told him.  "Was that good?"

Sometimes I think I ought to bring something every time I visit my dad.  Once I brought him an old riddle book, another time I knitted a shawl.  I think it would have been nice to get him something, a stuffed animal, one of those funny ones that sings when you push on the tummy or the ears.  You know what I mean.

But in the end, I just came with my empty hands, and the Lord's Prayer.