Lost in Translation

 It was back in April, right after Easter, and we were traveling home from Brenham to Montgomery.  Even though we've lived here for awhile now, we still take notice of the geography and the names that we encounter, so different in some ways from the geography and names in our homeland of Minnesota.  I noticed at some point that we were in Brazos County, and that we had traveled over the Brazos River.  We both wondered what "Brazos" meant.  My husband thought that maybe brazes meant brown, because that seemed to be the color of the river, at least from where we could see.  So I did what people do these days:  I googled it.  I googled "Brazos" and discovered that it did not mean "brown."  It was Spanish for "arms."  I thought of all the other words derived from this one:  brace, embrace, bracelet, bracket.  I'm sure there are more.

And then I learned more:  that the full name of the Brazos River is this:  "Rio de los brazos de Dios" -- the River of the Arms of God.  That's what the Spanish explorers called it.  They didn't simply see a body of water, flowing -- they saw something of God -- wide, embracing, stretching out.  Somehow it made the river seem alive to me.  What else was I not noticing?

*****

Then it was July, and I was in Minnesota, a place I know well, or so I think.  We were staying a little north of the Twin Cities, near the City of Anoka, a small historic town that rests on the place where the Rum River flows into the mighty Mississippi.  We walked around the town and peered over the bridges, and drove along the edge of the Rum River, where there were flowering bushes and trees and picnic tables and swings.  I got out of the car and looked around.  I didn't know anything about the Rum River, although I had lived in Minnesota all of my life and knew plenty about the Mississippi and the Minnesota, the St. Croix and the Root Rivers.  So I did what people do these days:  I googled it.  I discovered that the Rum River flows from the great Mille Lacs Lake in north central Minnesota to the Mississippi.  Mille Lacs is French for "thousand lakes".  The Ojibwa people called it "Zaaga'igan" (grand lake), and in Dakota it was called "Bde Wakhan" (Spiritual/Mystic Lake.).  It was a place of spiritual importance, as was the river that flowed out of it. 

The Rum River.  The name is a mistranslation.  When explorers first heard its name, "Spirit River", they thought it meant "spirits" -- like rum.  But it really meant Spirit, as in God.

*****

The River of the Arms of God.  The Spirit River.  The water flows, and shimmers, and gives life.  It is true, what Jacob said.  "Surely God is in this place, and I -- I did not know it."

Dirt

At this moment there is a small container of dirt in my office.

It has to do with the children's message on Sunday.  Wracking my brain for an idea for the complicated gospel reading about the man born blind, I thought about the mud Jesus put on the man's eyes.  Dirt plus water equals mud, I thought.  Surely we could riff on that for a couple of minutes with the children.

I thought I ought to go out and buy some dirt.  This is my way.  I am not proud to admit it.  My husband said, "Why don't you dig some up from around the church?"  But before I could retort to this perfectly sensible idea, one of my good church members was texting me about helping with the children and wondered if there was anything she could do.

"I need dirt," I texted back.

So I had dirt on Sunday morning, and a little bit of water, and I made a little bit of mud in a pie plate while asking the children about what was good about dirt.  They shouted out that things could grow in dirt:  flowers and vegetables and other things.  They thought about good things that we need water for too:  for drinking and washing and growing things.  We need water to live!  they said.

We need dirt to live too.

I poured a little bit of water on the dirt and asked what we made.

Everyone knew it was going to be mud.  Some thought it was cool, except when I asked about Jesus putting it on the blind man's eyes.  "Ewwww!"  said one little boy.

But a miracle happened.  Using dirt and water, Jesus made a blind man see.

Just water and dirt and Jesus.

We are made of earth too, according to the Bible.  Water and dirt.  It could be humbling.

And yet fearfully and wonderfully made.

Water and dirt and Jesus.  Miracles.  Each and every one of us, muddy, messy miracles.

Advent Baptism

Sunday is the 4th Sunday of Advent.  We will baptize two children that morning.

I'm tempted sometimes, when there is a baptism, to say, "there will be no sermon.  The baptism IS the sermon this morning."  And I mean REALLY tempted.  Compared to the parents and the children and the sponsors standing there, compared to the water being poured, compared to the prayer remembering God's mighty acts, and the words, "Alice, Michael, Emily, Matthew.... I baptize you in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit" -- compared to this, what are all of my words?  Compared to the cross traced in oil and the candle given, "Let your light so shine before others." compared to all of this, the words of my sermon often seem tame.

Baptism is wild.  Something is happening.  We can see and hear and touch it, or at least some of it.  Underneath the things we see, something more is happening.

God is with us.

I met with the parents on Monday and we remembered all of the things that God promises in baptism:  safe passage as on the ark, death and resurrection, a new birth, adoption into God's family.  God promises that we will be clothed with God's righteousness, that we will be a part of God's new creation, that we will be grafted into the living vine, which is Jesus.

All of these things are happening.  When we see the water poured, when we feel the oil on our heads, when we hear the words, we catch a glimpse, but only a glimpse.

This is the 4th Sunday of Advent.  Something is happening.  Mary is going to have a baby.  It is a surprise to Joseph, and not a good surprise.  I always think that the promise of a baby is good news, but that is not always the case.  Sometimes the baby is bad news.  Sometimes the news is mixed.  Joseph knows that this baby is trouble.

It's true.  Jesus is trouble.  He is also Emmanuel -- God with us.  He will save us from our sins.  And he will get us into trouble, for his sake.

Sometimes when I have a baptism on Sunday I am tempted to say, "There will be no sermon this morning.  The baptism is the sermon."  But I never do.

Maybe what I should say is this:  Here's what the baptism means.  God is with us.  God is with us and this baptism means that God will never let go of us.  That's how good his promises are.

But that's not all.  God is with us and he gives us this mission -- and that mission will get us into trouble.  Sharing the love of Jesus is not for the faint-of-heart.

The angel says to Joseph, "Don't be afraid."  There is going to be trouble, but God is in it.  Maybe that's what we should say before baptisms too:  don't be afraid.

Baptism is wild.

Christmas is wild, too.  Because Jesus is coming.

Interactive Palm Sunday Homily for Children and Adults

Homily for Palm Sunday

“On the Road with Jesus”

Interactive message for children and adults.  Children were sitting in the front of the sanctuary, by the baptismal font.

Items I used:  pitcher with water, palm branch, cup with oil, some bread.

I also practiced the response before I began:

            Dear friends in Christ, grace to you and peace from God our creator, and from our risen Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.  AMEN

            Here we are – disciples – and we have been on the road with Jesus.  We are here today with our palm branches and our praises – and our hopes.  Some of us have been with Jesus for just a little while.  Some of us have been following Jesus for a long time.  When did you begin following Jesus?  Think back.  Think back….

           

            Maybe you were there when he was baptized by John in the river Jordan.  Maybe you were there to get baptized too, and you saw something happen then, and you remembered, and ever since then you have been on the road with Jesus.  (pour water in font.  use the palm branch to spray some people.) Maybe you heard John argue with him, “I need to be baptized by you”.  Maybe you saw a dove or heard something from the heavens, something like “You are my beloved son….”  And then you followed Jesus….

            Or, it could have been a little later than that.  Perhaps you were one of the fisherman, standing by the edge of the sea, and you were throwing your nets into the sea when you heard him calling out, “Simon!  James!  John!  (I ad libbed other names and the children starting shouting out their own names.)  Drop your nets and follow me!  I will make you fish for people!”  Maybe you heard him call your name and you just couldn’t help it.  You felt like, for the first time you were important.  You belonged somewhere.  You belonged to someone.  You knew, just knew, that he was going places, and that he was going to do great things, and that you – YOU were going to be a part of it.  From then on you followed him – and you did get to see – and do – great things.  Sure you failed sometimes, but – one of you got to walk on water once!  Who has ever had that happen to them?

            Maybe you were there when everyone was on the mountain listening to him teach.  And afterwards, your stomachs were growling.  But, instead of sending you all away, he told you all to sit down.  You saw that the disciples had just this small amount of bread – 5 loaves – and two fishes – and you saw him lift those loaves and that bread up to heaven and pray.  (Give a few people a taste of bread.)  Maybe you can still taste the bread that he gave you that day.  There were 5,000 people, they said, and that was not counting women and children… and he fed you all.  Since then, you have been following him.

            Or this:  he held out his hand, and he spoke a word, and he healed you.  He healed you, or he healed someone close to you.  Maybe he took mud and put it on your eyes, or maybe he told you to get up and walk, or maybe he opened your ears so now you can hear.  (Walk around an anoint a few children with oil.)  You were a leper, an outcast, and he made you clean, so that you can be with other people again.  Or, he raised you from the dead.  You – or your daughter or your son – they are alive today because of Jesus.  And so, here you are, on the road, following.

            Or, he forgave you.  Did Jesus forgive you?  (the children shouted, "Yes!")  All of the things that held you back, he let go of.  All of the things you are afraid of – he promised to go with you.  All of the things you regret – he said – they don’t matter any more.  He said, “God forgives you all of your sins.”  So you got up and you followed him.

            Or maybe you just saw him now, recently, as he was entering Jerusalem.  He was seated on a donkey.  You had heard stories about him, and you saw all the other people following him, and you started following too, because of the things you heard and the people you saw.  And you thought, “Is this the One?  Is this the King God was telling us would come?”  Because you had heard from the prophets that the King, the one who would save Israel, would come HUMBLY, on a donkey!  And besides, the crowd was getting bigger and bigger and everything was getting louder and more exciting and people were waving branches and they were putting their cloaks on the ground. 

            Some of the people were shouting “Hosanna!”  (have one side of sanctuary shout “Hosanna!”)

            Some of the people were shouting “Blessed are you, King Jesus!”  (have other side shout)

            They were shouting at the same time!  (have both sides shout at the same time)

            This was it!  This is everything you have been waiting for.

            And you follow Jesus as he enters Jerusalem.

           

            HOSANNA!  BLESSED ARE YOU KING JESUS!

            And you know there are people who don’t like what he is doing.  There are people who are angry at Jesus, who are afraid of Jesus, but he just keeps on riding into Jerusalem.

            HOSANNA!  BLESSED ARE YOU KING JESUS!

            And we are on the road – we are following Jesus.  It is so exciting today to hear the shouts and to see the crowds.

            HOSANNA!  BLESSED ARE YOU KING JESUS!

            But he doesn’t stop here.  Does he?  He keeps going. 

            He keeps going into Jerusalem, and he doesn’t stop…..

            Until he gets to the cross.

            We are on the road with Jesus this week.

            Following the one who has fed, forgiven, taught and healed us, raised us to life, who has called us his own.

            And he won’t stop until he gets to the cross.

            For the lonely.  The outcast.  The poor.

            For you.  For me.  For the whole world.

            What will it mean for you to follow Jesus this week?

            AMEN

           

            

The Space Between Water and Light

On the last day of our after-Christmas vacation, the weather finally became closer to what you might expect from a Southwestern desert climate.  It was a sunny afternoon, and finally warming up enough so that we didn't need our jackets.  So, on Sunday afternoon, we took a little drive out into the desert.

My sister and brother-in-law had found the ruins of an old ghost town where they thought it would be fun to hike.  We drove down a road that I would have sworn was actually not a road ("No, that's it; that's where we are supposed to go," my sister said).  We got out of the car and stared out at the spare beauty of the desert, not seeing anything but varieties of cactus and palo verde trees.  There were no houses, no buildings, no roads that we could see.

When we got closer, though, we saw bricks, the remains of walls, some old pipes still sticking out of the ground, the last vestiges of the town that used to be there.  We hiked a bit, pointing out the clues to the former times, the times when humans prospered here, until my sister started insisting that we go and find the path to Queen Creek.

We knew it was near; we could hear it.  But the trick was finding the right path, the safe one that would take us there.  We even once looked down at the creek from a hill, but knew we could not get down to the water from there.

My brother-in-law wanted to go home; we had seen the ruins, after all.  That was the most important part.  But my sister kept talking about the creek; we couldn't go home until we found the creek.  At one point she disappeared for a little while; we thought she was lost.  But she knew where she was.  She was looking for the path to the water.

When we found it, it was just a little stream, tucked away in the middle of the ruins.  It was just a little stream, but once you saw the place, you couldn't help but notice -- in the middle of the desert, everything was starting to be green.  Green was sprouting up there.  We couldn't help it;  we just started taking pictures.  There was something shimmery there, where the light touched the water and bounced back.   It made me feel like this could be a place where secrets are revealed.

We started taking pictures of each other.   I took one of my sister, standing just in front of the creek, with the light reflecting off the water and a finger of the creek in the eeriest shade of blue.   I thought then that I knew why my sister liked this place.  She is an artist, after all, and I thought she must be attracted to the way the light and the shadows and the water all work together to make everything beautiful.

Even us.

On Sunday it be The Baptism of Our Lord, the 2nd Sunday after the Epiphany.  We hear the same gospel story every year, although a different variation.  This year the variation I am hearing is from Matthew, where Jesus is baptized by John in the river Jordan, and John doesn't want to do it.  Somehow,  in the River Jordan, the secret is revealed, and John can see it:  "I need to be baptized by you."  But Jesus knows something else, and he insists.  Somehow his being baptized will "fulfill all righteousness" whatever that means.

In my imagination I have sometimes thought that Jesus had a list, a list of all of the things he had to do to effect our salvation.  "Be baptized" was there, at the top of the list, even though, as the story goes, he had no sins to repent of.  That is what 'fulfill all righteousness' meant.

Today, though, I am imagining something else:  I am imagining Jesus and John, standing in Queen Creek.  "I need to be baptized by you," John says.  Somehow in the space between the water and the light he sees something about Jesus, something about himself.  But Jesus insists.  He insists because there is another secret that the world needs to know.

When he comes up from the water and the Spirit descends, the voice speaks.  "You are my son, the beloved."  And the Words shimmer in the space between the water and the light, and it all works together to make everything beautiful.

Even us.

Even us.

He has made known to us the mystery of his will, according to his good pleasure that he set forth in Christ, ¹as a plan for the fullness of time, to gather up all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth.  (Ephesians 1:9-10)

Of Rivers and Lakes

Here's an occupational hazard for pastors:  arguing with a preacher in your head while you are a guest in another congregation.

It happened to me last winter, while I was visiting family out of town and had the luxury to participate rather than lead worship for a change.  This should be a good thing, right?  It was a congregation of mostly young adults and young families.  The music was just a little edgy and well-done (although I may be just a tad biased; one of my own family is in the band).  I loved the play area for children in the back of the church, and the fact that after the first fifteen minutes of the service, there was a fellowship break with time for coffee before settling in for the sermon.

Then came the sermon, very long, and earnest, I remember, although, I will confess I don't remember much more about it any more.  I do remember, however, an illustration about the difference between rivers and lakes, and how, in God's way of thinking, it is much better for us (as individuals) to be like a river than it is to be like a lake.  Rivers are good; lakes are bad.  Why?  A river flows.  It is healthy; it has a source and a destination.  A lake just sits there.

Well.

In my mind I understood that this was a metaphor, and as a metaphor, I suppose it was just fine.  He was trying to say that we too need to know our source, and be flowing toward a destination, rather than just sitting there, keeping it all to ourselves.

And yet….

I kept thinking, he is being unfair to lakes.  Lakes don't just sit there.  If they are healthy, they also have an inlet and an outlet.  Just because they are (often) deep and you can't seem the bottom, and just because you can't see them flowing, doesn't mean that they are just sitting there.  Think about Lake Pepin, after all.  Lake Pepin is a lake inside a river.  The river flows into the lake and back out again.  Or, think about the chain of lakes in my own hometown.  There are four lakes that flow one from the other.  They are not stagnant, although it is true that they are not so healthy any more.  But that is not their fault.

I grew up loving lakes, although, like the young preacher, I didn't understand them.  I loved the lakes in my city, and up north, where we would go to camp, and swim, and fish, and play.  I didn't understand then where the water came from and where it went to.  I didn't know that there were consequences for the lakes that more and more homes and businesses came near.

This spring I picked up a book by a retired college professor and ecologist, Darby Nelson.  It is called For Love of Lakes.  The book is part memoir, part geology, as he writes lyrically of his boyhood love of lakes, and yet exposes how many of them have become degraded.  How can we say we love lakes, and let them fall to ruin?, he wonders.  Is it because we don't understand them?  In a lake, so much happens under the surface, where we cannot see.

Two paragraphs in his introduction struck me:

If I think of time as a river, I predispose myself to think linearly, to see events as unconnected, where a tree branch falling into the river at noon is swept away by current to remain eternally separated in time and space from the butterfly that falls in an hour later and thrashes about seeking floating refuge.

But if I think of time as a lake, I see ripples set in motion by one event touching an entire shore and then, when reflected back toward the middle, meeting ripples from other events, each changing the other in their passing.  I think of connectedness, of relationships, and interacting events that matter greatly to lakes.

I don't know why I was so obstinate in my mind about this young preacher's river and lake analogy, why I couldn't just go where he was trying to take me.  A lake is not a person, after all.  He was not engaged in some sort of "Lake Profiling", or "Lake Stereotyping".  I don't know if it was just that I am from a region famous for its lakes (although we have some awfully fine rivers too).  Was I, perhaps unconsciously, aligning myself with a different sort of spirituality, one more in tune with lakes than with rivers, more inter-connected and interacting?  Maybe I just worried that even a well-intentioned metaphor can contribute to misunderstanding, if it is not quite true.   Perhaps I just think that some things, like lakes and rivers, are not 'either/or', but 'both/and.'  Maybe I see a better, truer metaphor in the different kinds of waters.

Both lakes and rivers are good; they teach us different things.  A lake can teach us how much of life lies beneath the surface; like the Spirit, we do not always know where it comes from, and where it is going, at least from close up.  A river teaches us the movement, the dance that we can see, the journey.

I did not approach the pastor after the sermon to argue with his metaphor.  And even though I disagreed, I'll grant that he made me think:  there's something to be said for that.

Ordinary Miracles

This was the last part of my sermon this morning….

Here it is:  All Saints Sunday, and one of the things I love about this day is that it is all about ordinary miracles. 

            All Saints Day is not a day to remember and celebrate famous people who have done great things, but it is a day to remember and give thanks for the ordinary miracles – the ordinary saints – in our lives.   Some of them we will name here in a little while.  Some of them we will name in the silence of our hearts.  Some of them are well known to our whole congregation.  Some of them are only known to a few of us.  They are ordinary people, but they were washed in the waters of baptism, and the light shines of Christ shines in them.  Their names are Don and Jan, Jean and Jim, Grace and Herlanda, Ivar and Emil and Otto and Marian and Gisela.  Some of them sang in the choir, and some of them worked in the kitchen, and some of them fought in wars, and some of them took meals on wheels to shut ins.  Some of them were healers, and some of them were teachers, some of and some of them – like the little girl who told Naaman about the prophet Elisha – some of them have names known only to a few people, or only to God.  Some were important, like Naaman – but all of them are saints because this ordinary miracle happened to them – they were washed in the waters of baptism, they were cleansed from sin, they were named children of God, and the light of Jesus shines in them.  Today we remember them.  Ordinary saints.  Beloved by God. 

            Today I am thinking of so many saints, so many ordinary, holy people.   To be holy is to be set apart for a particular purpose.  I am thinking about saints and what I learned from them.  I am thinking about Harriet, who made it her simple practice to name ten blessings every day.  Ten blessings.  And who taught me to see blessings in unexpected places.  And people.  I am thinking about Jim, who considered going into the ministry.  He became a teacher.  And he DID go into the ministry.  He was set aside for this purpose.   I am thinking about Pearl, who reminded us that Jesus is in this place with us, even when we are fighting and arguing with each other.  I am thinking of Gil, who taught me that to be passionate about the gospel and to be passionate about social justice were the same thing, part of the same discipleship, sharing the love of God with the world.  And I am thinking about Jean  and Jan, who were healers by vocation, and who knew the difference between being healed and being cured,

who knew that even though they were not cured, they were healed, because the hope of Jesus living in them never died. 

            I am thinking of so many ordinary miracles.  Including you. 

            Each one of you.

            Someday we will all worship around the throne of the lamb in the place where there is no more death, and no more pain, where the lamb will be the light.

             In the meantime, each of us here is a miracle. 

            By some miracle, Jesus lives in us and Jesus shines through us. 

            Right here and now.  Alleluia.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN

Water and Whispered Alleluias

a meditation for Easter Vigil.

Last summer my husband and I trekked to an out-of-the way place for the first time – a place I had heard about often but never been.

It’s a famous place, perhaps many of you have heard of it, some have even been there.

But it’s a little off the beaten path. We really had to think about how we were going to get there. The place is called "Mesa Verde."

It is tucked into the mountains of Southwestern Colorado, on the other side of the Rocky Mountains, in a beautiful stretch of land.

But it’s not the beautiful, high mountains that are the main attraction there.

The scenery is breathtaking, but the main attraction is something historical – it is a number of cliff dwellings that are almost hidden underneath mesas.

　

People lived in these places several hundreds of years ago, and yet there is much about them that is preserved almost exactly as it was in about 1200 AD – even down to a child’s handprint on one of the walls.

Standing right in one of the cliff dwellings, our guide pointed out that these houses are so well preserved because the climate is so dry

– there is not much water here – there is not much water to wear down the rocks and disturb the sand.

Of course, that’s probably why the homes were abandoned, finally – there is not much water here.

But the guide asked us to look around and see if we could see any sources of water.

We had to look carefully, but we did see – we saw at first the pockets of green sprouting out from between the rocks, and then we saw small trickles of water too – the water that these people used to live.

We had to keep our eyes peeled, though – and we needed to know the signs, what to look for, to see the signs of life.

Water. We’ve spent so much time during Lent looking for water marks, which is to say looking for signs of life.

We’ve seen how many of the great stories of the Bible have to do with water – the waters separating at creation, the waters above and the waters below, the waters that the Israelites walked through, the waters we are thirsty for.

There’s the water that Jesus was baptized in, and the water the disciples fished in, and the water that Jesus walked on.

There’s the water Jesus washed his disciples’ feet with, and there’s the water that Jesus was thirsty for, and there’s the water that came from his wounded side.

Water.

Sometimes it’s obvious and abundant and there is so much of it you can drown in it,

and sometimes you have to keep your eyes peeled, because there’s just a little trickle, but it’s there, for those who have eyes to see.

There’s water. There’s life.

When I think about our gospel reading this evening – Mark’s resurrection story – I can’t help thinking about the little trickle of water I saw in Mesa Verde.

Partly because – well – here we are, it’s Saturday night – it’s dark.

This is the night that it all happened, in the darkness. It's the night that love conquered hate, that hope conquered fear, that life conquered death.

Remember when the women got to the tomb, the stone was already rolled away?

This is the night, the night that Jesus rose,

and even though a huge, momentous thunderous thing happened, it happened in the quiet of the dead of the night, when no one was watching.

Just a little trickle.

In the same way, when we read this story of the resurrection from Mark, might be left wanting a little more.

When we leave tonight, Jesus will not yet have appeared to his disciples, or Mary. The angels promise that he will appear to them, he will meet them, but not yet.

In fact, not only does Jesus NOT appear, but the women are terrified and run away.

They don’t say anything to anyone.

You have to imagine that it must have been very early in the morning.

There was so far just a trickle of light on the horizon.

It’s a sort of eerie, mysterious time of morning.

But there is this: the huge stone has been rolled away, somehow, and he’s not here.

And the angel says it, "He has been raised."

So far it is not the blazing light that will hurt our eyes, it’s not the water that will wash over us, it’s just this: "He has been raised."

And the women can’t say it.

The words stick in their throat.

They’re so thirsty, so thirsty, but they can’t say it.

But we can.

Tonight it’s still dark, which is the case so often for us, isn’t it? It’s still dark.

But he has been raised.

And tonight we can whisper.

Tomorrow we will shout it from the rooftops, but tonight, tonight we will whisper to one another: "Christ is risen! He is risen indeed. Alleluia.."

And we will see signs of life, some small – that it is true.

The stone has been rolled away. Someone has taken our hand.

We have seen buds on the trees.

We heard a whispered prayer.

(Whisper: Christ is risen! He is risen indeed. Alleluia!)

Far Away From Everywhere

On Tuesday we drove from Albuquerque to Mesa Verde National Park, with a stop at Aztec National Monument and a late lunch in Durango.  We spent a short time walking up Durango's Historic Main Street, peeking into a few of the shops, including a terrific Art and Antique Shop, featuring lots of local artists. 

We arrived at Far View Lodge just in time for an impressive thunderstorm. 

Our room is simple but nicely appointed.  There is really a "far view"  -- every room has a panoramic view of some of the mesas, and a little balcony where you can sit and have a glass of wine, if you like.  There is a clock radio, but no television, no internet, and very little cell phone coverage, as far as we can discern.

I think that's a good thing.

There is free internet in the lodge, so you can connect up if you really can't stand being unconnected.

One Wednesday we got up early and got some good advice on where we could go "on our own."  We ended up at Spruce Tree House, so early that we were just about the only people there.  A little later we joined a small group for a ranger-led tour of Long House at the Weatherill Mesa.  If Mesa Verde is a little off the beaten path, Weatherill Mesa is even more so, down many winding roads with no signs that say "keep going!  you are almost there!." 

It was worth it, in the end.

Today we took an all-morning tour called the "700 Year Tour", because it takes you along 700 years of Puebloan Indian History, culminating in a tour of the most famous and spectacular Cliff Palace. 

Both yesterday and today, we found ourselves doing trails and climbs we had thought we couldn't do.  I guess we both have more courage than we think, in a pinch.

But after this morning, I lost an entire afternoon trying to get rid of a persistent headache.  Even had one of the National Park medics up to see me.  We didn't figure out exactly what hit me, but verified that it was not hydration related (though I found out you can actually drink too much water; he had a word for that which I don't remember.)

I can't help thinking about water, when I'm here.  The thunderstorm, the droughts they experienced those hundreds of years ago, the drought they are experiencing now. 

Down at the most basic level of human life, there is water.  And there, at the most basic level of human life and need, there God meets us most of all.

Waiting for Rain

.....don't know if we'll get it.

The grass is brown around here. My basil is wilting, despite some recent revival efforts. It was unseasonably cool last week, but is back to beautiful summer weather again, except for one thing:

We need rain.

I thought I heard a report that there was a chance of rain tonight. I am hoping for that. I'm hoping for the deep continuous soaking rain that refreshes and renews everything and everyone. However, my husband said that the TV radar showed it was just possible that the rain might miss us altogether, heading north.

I am also praying for people who are not just needing rain: they are in the midst of a serious drought. I received an Email from Lutheran World Relief (which is, by the way, a top-notch organization and one of the reasons I am Lutheran) about drought in East Africa.

Please keep them in your prayers.

A while back someone told me they visited our congregation, and they didn't really like the sermon that day because it was about water. This person said, "I like more practical sermons."

I wonder what she meant by that?

There is nothing more practical than water.

Cool, Clear Water

I had never had an IV before.
I was fascinated by the drip drip drip
of the salty water
into my arm
and how it was saving me
making me alive

how thirsty I was!
how much I wanted a drink!
it was the one thing I needed most
but the one thing that my body rejected


there's a lesson in here somewhere
you tell me what it is

A Matter of Perspective

To the participant at our Lenten lunch this noon, I still looked "a little peekid." (If that's the right spelling.)

To the hospital patient who had just had surgery, I was looking "pretty spry."

I'm tired. In the middle of Holden Evening Prayer, I realized I could not sing the high notes. I just totally lost them. At one point I opened my mouth and nothing came out.

I love Holden Evening Prayer. And there are other things that I want to come out. They are sitting inside me, but I'm a little too tired to get them to come out right now.

--watching the IV drip and realizing how important water really is, in ways I hadn't even thought of
-- how our health is related to our sense of connection with one another, and how deeply alienated most of us our from each other, and especially those outside of our own ethnic group, class or race
-- why Jesus REALLY challenges me....
-- and then there are a couple of family challenges that I can't talk about, but would like you to pray for.