This summer one of my friends celebrated twenty-five years of ordination. She had a big party with a dinner and cruise on the St. Croix River. Today I read in a church newspaper that a young woman has been named as Senior Pastor at a very large church in our neighborhood.
It made me think back to the year 1990, the year I began seminary, and what I thought I was getting into, back then.
After a year or so of deliberation, and the prodding of the Holy Spirit, I began my studies. (My year or so of deliberation included preaching at a couple of Lenten services, and taking a class at the semninary. Maybe I did a couple of other things, but I I can't remember now.)
I remember that I wondered for awhile if God had given me gifts to do this work. After all, I am slightly shy by nature, and as a child I couldn't imagine myself standing in front of people. But in the end, I thought that God had given me gifts, and I even thought I knew what they were.
I thought that one of my gifts would be preaching. I thought this because I write well. I also thought that my missionary past would be a gift, a passion for reaching out. (It was just too bad that I served in a country where success in mission was painfully slow.) When I started seminary, my memories of Japan were only five years old, and I still felt sort of exotic because of those experiences. I loved theology and was pretty sure that this was a good sign as well. I had done different things as a lay leader in the congregation (teach Sunday School, sit on the church council, sing in the choir), and also liked being with both little kids and old people. I knew that I would have to do some hospital and shut-in visitation, but I had seen pastors whose ministry became chaplaincy, and knew that I wouldn't want to create a dependency. "Pastoral Care" would not be one of my strong points. Oh yes, and I'm creative, and I have had spiritual experiences. Those would be helpful too.
Anyway, that's what I thought then.
I will also confess to you that, back then, I did not have a good idea what pastors did all week.
So here I am, about 18 years into this pastor gig.
I still think I have gifts for ministry. I'm not always sure of what they are, and sometimes gifts (and liabilities) have surprised me. I have discovered that I love visiting people, both the shut-ins when I take communion, the people in the hospital, but just sharing a cup of coffee or tea with someone, and hearing a little bit of their story. I am sometimes in awe of a moment in a conversation when a little window opens up.
I have also been told that I "wasn't spiritual enough." That was a surprise. So, I have mixed feelings about claiming that I'm "spiritual" or not.
I really want to connect people with gifts, and people with people.
I really want the church to reach out to un-churched people, and to show they care about the people who live around them. But I know I it's difficult and I don't always know how to do it.
I have discovered that churches need pastors and leaders, people who care and people who have courage, and that courage is hard, and that sometimes I fail at it, and sometimes I succeed.
I have discovered that I have both gifts that I didn't know about and liabilities that I didn't know about.
So, I'm 18 years into this pastor gig. In a few ways, it's what I thought it would be. In a lot of ways, it's very different. It's different than I thought it would be, more varied, more puzzling, more rewarding, but also more challenging. It's also different than it used to be.
It seems to me that people used to think of the church as a sort of still point, offering a sort of stability from week to week. But now I think that the church needs to be seen as moving from 'here' to 'there' -- moving from the old world to the new, and pastors and other leaders need to be like Moses, leading through the wilderness, or Ezra, re-building the temple.
So, I'm 18 years into this pastor gig, and sometimes I do wonder if I really knew what I was getting into. Probably not.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Brief Encounters While Walking the Dog
Here's something I'm not proud to admit:
I don't walk the dog as often as I used to.
In fact, I am positively lazy in this regard sometimes.
A combination of two things contributes to this reality (okay, really three if you include laziness), the first is my ongoing problem with plantar faschiatis, which seems to have migrated from my left heel to the right one, now. The second thing is our fenced-in backyard. I initially began taking Scout for long walks every day because we did not yet have a fenced-in backyard. But even afterwards, the habit persisted, until laziness and the sore feet conspired against me.
I think Scout does enjoy the free time in the back yard. Sometimes when I peek out to watch here, she is just gazing medititavely into space, the tao of dog. Other things, she is taking off as if to chase invisible prey. This morning, I happened to look outside just at a moment when she was writhing joyfully on her back.
But I know she would benefit from a regular walk, as would I.
So yesterday my better nature won out over my sloth. I put on my tennis shoes and a sweat shirt, put the leash on the dog and set out.
It wasn't a long walk, not like the long walks we used to have, anyway. But at the corner was a young mom who was waiting with her two daughters for the school bus. One of the girls got on; the other stayed behind. I recognize this family though I don't know them by name. It seems they know Scout; she is more famous than I am. The little girl wanted to pet her. At first, it seemed that Scout was not going to oblige, but at the last minute she decided that being petted was a good idea.
I decided to take a risk and invited them to our Animal Blessing Service this Sunday. They demurred; they weren't sure their dog was ready for public appearances yet. I wondered if they had a church affiliation, but didn't ask.
We started back down the block toward home when I heard a voice.
It was our next-door neighbor, complimenting our newly-landscaped front lawn. He seemed positively giddy with delight that our lawn now does not look as awful as it did before. He was very friendly for so early in the morning. I made a comment about the new priest at their church, and he mentioned that they no longer attend that congregation; they've been going to a local mega-church which does not make a big deal about their denominanational affiliation. He likes it, he said. I wondered what it was he liked, but didn't have a chance to ask.
So, throughout the day, off and on, I wondered: I wondered what it is that attracts people to a congregation, what makes them decide to stay, or leave, to set foot in the sanctuary, or not. I wondered what a person who comes to visit us is looking for, or not looking for. I don't want to be the kind of person who reads a book (or books) and assumes she knows what people's hearts yearn for. So, I just had two small conversations, and I wondered a little.
Scout and I have to get out more.
It's good for both of us to practice the spiritual discipline of walking.
And wondering.
I don't walk the dog as often as I used to.
In fact, I am positively lazy in this regard sometimes.
A combination of two things contributes to this reality (okay, really three if you include laziness), the first is my ongoing problem with plantar faschiatis, which seems to have migrated from my left heel to the right one, now. The second thing is our fenced-in backyard. I initially began taking Scout for long walks every day because we did not yet have a fenced-in backyard. But even afterwards, the habit persisted, until laziness and the sore feet conspired against me.
I think Scout does enjoy the free time in the back yard. Sometimes when I peek out to watch here, she is just gazing medititavely into space, the tao of dog. Other things, she is taking off as if to chase invisible prey. This morning, I happened to look outside just at a moment when she was writhing joyfully on her back.
But I know she would benefit from a regular walk, as would I.
So yesterday my better nature won out over my sloth. I put on my tennis shoes and a sweat shirt, put the leash on the dog and set out.
It wasn't a long walk, not like the long walks we used to have, anyway. But at the corner was a young mom who was waiting with her two daughters for the school bus. One of the girls got on; the other stayed behind. I recognize this family though I don't know them by name. It seems they know Scout; she is more famous than I am. The little girl wanted to pet her. At first, it seemed that Scout was not going to oblige, but at the last minute she decided that being petted was a good idea.
I decided to take a risk and invited them to our Animal Blessing Service this Sunday. They demurred; they weren't sure their dog was ready for public appearances yet. I wondered if they had a church affiliation, but didn't ask.
We started back down the block toward home when I heard a voice.
It was our next-door neighbor, complimenting our newly-landscaped front lawn. He seemed positively giddy with delight that our lawn now does not look as awful as it did before. He was very friendly for so early in the morning. I made a comment about the new priest at their church, and he mentioned that they no longer attend that congregation; they've been going to a local mega-church which does not make a big deal about their denominanational affiliation. He likes it, he said. I wondered what it was he liked, but didn't have a chance to ask.
So, throughout the day, off and on, I wondered: I wondered what it is that attracts people to a congregation, what makes them decide to stay, or leave, to set foot in the sanctuary, or not. I wondered what a person who comes to visit us is looking for, or not looking for. I don't want to be the kind of person who reads a book (or books) and assumes she knows what people's hearts yearn for. So, I just had two small conversations, and I wondered a little.
Scout and I have to get out more.
It's good for both of us to practice the spiritual discipline of walking.
And wondering.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Conversion
I'm for it.
Perhaps you are surprised. After all, I'm a born-and-bred, dyed-in-the-wool, baptized-when-I-was-4-weeks-old-and-proud-of-it Lutheran. I do mark that early date, May 19 of the year I was born, as the beginning of my relationship with God. I love baptisms, whether the baby is 5 weeks old or three years old, or 10 years old, or twenty five years old, or eighty-one years old. I love baptisms. I think my congregation will attest to this, the sheer graciousness of the event, every time.
And yet....
We had a guest preacher at church today, a woman from India who is also a missionary in India. She told us powerful stories of God's movement in her life, her family's life, the lives of the students at the school where she teaches. She told stories of how she came to the United States with $200 from her parents, and one suitcase, and how her mother said, "you'll make it." She told a story of a ten-year-old girl praying for her family, a story of God opening a hard heart: stories of conversion.
Conversion stories have always had a place in my heart. From Anne LaMott reporting how Jesus dogged her like the hound of heaven, to Lauren Winner's strange dream and warm affinity for the stories of Jan Karon, I've been fascinated by stories of how people have come to faith. When in high school a friend of my father's gave me the old classic The Cross and the Switchblade, and perhaps started right then and there my attraction to the dramatic conversion story. It's so different from my own journey, from baptism to Sunday School, from Church camp to college, from Japan and back to the United States, from teaching English to working for an insurance company and then from seminary to where I am now.
Wait a minute.
What about my struggles and doubts in my senior year of high school, followed by that "leap of faith"? What about the religious experiences I had when I was in college? What about the experiences I had in Japan, when I realized (suddenly or not) that faith was a much wider, and varied thing than I had thought before? Or what about the conversion I experienced after reading Ron Sider's Rich Christians in a Age of Hunger for the first time? And there has been the long conversion I have experienced after knowing Gay and Lesbian Christians.
Perhaps it's wrong (actually I'm sure it's wrong) to limit conversion stories to the once-in-a-lifetime and dramatic stories of people who turn from the gangs of New York to the arms of Jesus. Conversion is a natural part of the Christian life, even and especially for people who were baptized when they were four weeks old. And I think that people who think they were converted once, and are now done, are wrong about that: life with God means continuing to be open to being converted.
I have come to believe that in the life of a believer there are many conversions. Some are dramatic and some are subtle, and none of them takes away from God's grace, God's coming-to-me-no-matter what. Conversions don't save us, they don't make God love us any better, but they do something important in us, and, I believe that conversions are God's work in us, too.
When people experience a sort of conversion something is kindled or re-kindled in us, something necessary, I think, when we are in this Christian life for the long haul. Let's be honest. Whether you are a dyed-in-the-wool, baptized-when-you-are-4-weeks-old Lutheran or a hands-waving-in-the-air Pentecostal, or even Spiritual-but-not-religious, a lot of life is boring. Church can be boring. Seeing God in a cricket or a sunset can be boring. Following God can be boring, because it is a daily thing, step by step, sometimes tracing the same steps. Who told us that we needed to be constantly entertained, to entertain each other? You know: chop wood, carry water. Before and after enlightenement.
Except that there are these flames, small or large, that turn us around. Sometimes it's a person you met or a place you went that changed your perspective, and kindled a new flame in your heart. Sometimes it's a song you sang that was boring every time: until today. Sometimes it's the hard times when you thought that faith was gone and then there was a small pin-prick of light, and it got bigger. Sometimes it happens in a strange place, and sometimes in a familiar place.
Come to think of it, I do think that conversions save us, in a way. Not in the long-run, but for continuing daily service and worship in this life, this amazing and boring life. Something is kindled or re-kindled in us. God turns us around, turns the lights on bright again, for just a little while.
Conversion: I'm for it.
Perhaps you are surprised. After all, I'm a born-and-bred, dyed-in-the-wool, baptized-when-I-was-4-weeks-old-and-proud-of-it Lutheran. I do mark that early date, May 19 of the year I was born, as the beginning of my relationship with God. I love baptisms, whether the baby is 5 weeks old or three years old, or 10 years old, or twenty five years old, or eighty-one years old. I love baptisms. I think my congregation will attest to this, the sheer graciousness of the event, every time.
And yet....
We had a guest preacher at church today, a woman from India who is also a missionary in India. She told us powerful stories of God's movement in her life, her family's life, the lives of the students at the school where she teaches. She told stories of how she came to the United States with $200 from her parents, and one suitcase, and how her mother said, "you'll make it." She told a story of a ten-year-old girl praying for her family, a story of God opening a hard heart: stories of conversion.
Conversion stories have always had a place in my heart. From Anne LaMott reporting how Jesus dogged her like the hound of heaven, to Lauren Winner's strange dream and warm affinity for the stories of Jan Karon, I've been fascinated by stories of how people have come to faith. When in high school a friend of my father's gave me the old classic The Cross and the Switchblade, and perhaps started right then and there my attraction to the dramatic conversion story. It's so different from my own journey, from baptism to Sunday School, from Church camp to college, from Japan and back to the United States, from teaching English to working for an insurance company and then from seminary to where I am now.
Wait a minute.
What about my struggles and doubts in my senior year of high school, followed by that "leap of faith"? What about the religious experiences I had when I was in college? What about the experiences I had in Japan, when I realized (suddenly or not) that faith was a much wider, and varied thing than I had thought before? Or what about the conversion I experienced after reading Ron Sider's Rich Christians in a Age of Hunger for the first time? And there has been the long conversion I have experienced after knowing Gay and Lesbian Christians.
Perhaps it's wrong (actually I'm sure it's wrong) to limit conversion stories to the once-in-a-lifetime and dramatic stories of people who turn from the gangs of New York to the arms of Jesus. Conversion is a natural part of the Christian life, even and especially for people who were baptized when they were four weeks old. And I think that people who think they were converted once, and are now done, are wrong about that: life with God means continuing to be open to being converted.
I have come to believe that in the life of a believer there are many conversions. Some are dramatic and some are subtle, and none of them takes away from God's grace, God's coming-to-me-no-matter what. Conversions don't save us, they don't make God love us any better, but they do something important in us, and, I believe that conversions are God's work in us, too.
When people experience a sort of conversion something is kindled or re-kindled in us, something necessary, I think, when we are in this Christian life for the long haul. Let's be honest. Whether you are a dyed-in-the-wool, baptized-when-you-are-4-weeks-old Lutheran or a hands-waving-in-the-air Pentecostal, or even Spiritual-but-not-religious, a lot of life is boring. Church can be boring. Seeing God in a cricket or a sunset can be boring. Following God can be boring, because it is a daily thing, step by step, sometimes tracing the same steps. Who told us that we needed to be constantly entertained, to entertain each other? You know: chop wood, carry water. Before and after enlightenement.
Except that there are these flames, small or large, that turn us around. Sometimes it's a person you met or a place you went that changed your perspective, and kindled a new flame in your heart. Sometimes it's a song you sang that was boring every time: until today. Sometimes it's the hard times when you thought that faith was gone and then there was a small pin-prick of light, and it got bigger. Sometimes it happens in a strange place, and sometimes in a familiar place.
Come to think of it, I do think that conversions save us, in a way. Not in the long-run, but for continuing daily service and worship in this life, this amazing and boring life. Something is kindled or re-kindled in us. God turns us around, turns the lights on bright again, for just a little while.
Conversion: I'm for it.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Saturday Night
Saturday nights are quiet around the house. No late night parties, no big plans (usually), no large dinner parties (or small ones, even). When I preach on Saturday, in fact, I'm usually in the office for at least part of the day, after which we do something really exciting like watching "Antiques Roadshow". I might glance over my sermon once or twice, or I might avoid it altogether until just before I go to bed.
This weekend I am not preaching. I'm not even presiding at the early service. It feels odd, actually.
So, I'm knitting a turquoise footie (the second one, actually). Last weekend, I started it, found a dropped stitch, and ended up ripping up the whole sock and starting over. I'm just about where I started again. (There's a metaphor in there, somewhere, I'm sure. Or, a sermon illustration.)
I'm reading a little. I just finished The Birchbark House, by Louise Erdrich, and want to get the next in the series as soon as I can. I read all of the Little House books when I was little. Louise Erdrich was inspired to write her counterpoint from the Native point of view, at least in part, because of something Caroline Ingalls said in one of the books, "There's no one here." I'm glad to know this Ojibwe family; I think in future books they will probably travel from place to place like the Ingalls family, but for different reasons.
We watched an old movie from 1932, Love Me Tonight, while my husband did interesting historical background on his ipad. He also worked on an old acrostic. I could watch over and over the opening sequence, in which the song "Isn't it Romantic?" travels from person to person and place to place.
Tomorrow, I'm looking forward to hearing Nihjar Ekka-Minz preach, instead of me. I'm looking forward to hearing about work in faraway North India. Nihjar and her husband tell fascinating stories. And I can't help loving stories.
This weekend I am not preaching. I'm not even presiding at the early service. It feels odd, actually.
So, I'm knitting a turquoise footie (the second one, actually). Last weekend, I started it, found a dropped stitch, and ended up ripping up the whole sock and starting over. I'm just about where I started again. (There's a metaphor in there, somewhere, I'm sure. Or, a sermon illustration.)
I'm reading a little. I just finished The Birchbark House, by Louise Erdrich, and want to get the next in the series as soon as I can. I read all of the Little House books when I was little. Louise Erdrich was inspired to write her counterpoint from the Native point of view, at least in part, because of something Caroline Ingalls said in one of the books, "There's no one here." I'm glad to know this Ojibwe family; I think in future books they will probably travel from place to place like the Ingalls family, but for different reasons.
We watched an old movie from 1932, Love Me Tonight, while my husband did interesting historical background on his ipad. He also worked on an old acrostic. I could watch over and over the opening sequence, in which the song "Isn't it Romantic?" travels from person to person and place to place.
Tomorrow, I'm looking forward to hearing Nihjar Ekka-Minz preach, instead of me. I'm looking forward to hearing about work in faraway North India. Nihjar and her husband tell fascinating stories. And I can't help loving stories.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
I Remember Riding in the Car with My Dad when I was Little
"You shall put these words of mine in your heart and soul, and you shall bind them as a sign on your hand, and fix them as an emblem on your forehead. Teach them to your children, talking about them when you area t home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise. Write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates, so taht your days and the days of your children may be multiplied in the land that the Lord swore to your ancestors to give them, as long as the heavens are above the earth."
Deuteronomy 11:18-21
I remember riding in the car with my dad when I was little. I remember partly because when I was small, my dad had a big orange van that he used for his business, which was TV Sales and Service. It had the words G&B TV on the side in great big letters. This was an era waaaaay before SUVs, and riding in my dad's van was an adventure. Sometimes when we set out, he would pretend that we were taking off in a huge jet liner: "Pilot to co-pilot/pilot to co-pilot, come in please," he'd say to me.
I remember riding in the car with my dad.
Sometimes we'd be going to get the Christmas tree, and he'd be singing Christmas carols all the way there and back. Sometimes he told jokes, kind of cheesy jokes, actually, and other times we'd have serious conversations, especially as I got older.
We discussed questions, even theological questions, on occasion, talked about (for example) what was the most important day in the church year (Easter? Christmas? Pentecost?), or why bad things happened to good people (neither of us had the answer to that). I remember on a couple of occasions, he talked about tragedies we had heard about on the news, and people's statements that they were saved from death or injury or some bad thing, becasue "God was with them." But, my dad would always say, "What about all those other people? The ones who died? The ones who suffered?" Wasn't God with them, too? Didn't God love them too?
I remember riding in the car with my dad, and the converesations we had.
"Teach (these things) to your children, talking about them when you are at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise."
One of the things I think about often is what it means to live a generous life. What does it mean for us, as individuals, as families, as a congregation, to be known as generous? There are a lot of components to this, lots of ways to practice generosity -- or not. There are people who are quick to give, a little or a lot, whenever there is a need. There are people who are quick to extend their own hearts to others, be vulnerable, share their own struggles, be real.
My dad wasn't perfect by any means. But it seems to me that he had a kind of generosity, the generosity to count among God's blessed ones the suffering and the sorrowing, the down-and-out as well as the up-and-coming.
As we contemplate in our congregation what it means to live a generous life, I hope that our definition will include both generous financial giving to the mission of our congregation, and a generous heart, one that extends God's presence and God's love to the ones who need it most.
I remember riding in the car with my dad, when I was little.
Deuteronomy 11:18-21
I remember riding in the car with my dad when I was little. I remember partly because when I was small, my dad had a big orange van that he used for his business, which was TV Sales and Service. It had the words G&B TV on the side in great big letters. This was an era waaaaay before SUVs, and riding in my dad's van was an adventure. Sometimes when we set out, he would pretend that we were taking off in a huge jet liner: "Pilot to co-pilot/pilot to co-pilot, come in please," he'd say to me.
I remember riding in the car with my dad.
Sometimes we'd be going to get the Christmas tree, and he'd be singing Christmas carols all the way there and back. Sometimes he told jokes, kind of cheesy jokes, actually, and other times we'd have serious conversations, especially as I got older.
We discussed questions, even theological questions, on occasion, talked about (for example) what was the most important day in the church year (Easter? Christmas? Pentecost?), or why bad things happened to good people (neither of us had the answer to that). I remember on a couple of occasions, he talked about tragedies we had heard about on the news, and people's statements that they were saved from death or injury or some bad thing, becasue "God was with them." But, my dad would always say, "What about all those other people? The ones who died? The ones who suffered?" Wasn't God with them, too? Didn't God love them too?
I remember riding in the car with my dad, and the converesations we had.
"Teach (these things) to your children, talking about them when you are at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise."
One of the things I think about often is what it means to live a generous life. What does it mean for us, as individuals, as families, as a congregation, to be known as generous? There are a lot of components to this, lots of ways to practice generosity -- or not. There are people who are quick to give, a little or a lot, whenever there is a need. There are people who are quick to extend their own hearts to others, be vulnerable, share their own struggles, be real.
My dad wasn't perfect by any means. But it seems to me that he had a kind of generosity, the generosity to count among God's blessed ones the suffering and the sorrowing, the down-and-out as well as the up-and-coming.
As we contemplate in our congregation what it means to live a generous life, I hope that our definition will include both generous financial giving to the mission of our congregation, and a generous heart, one that extends God's presence and God's love to the ones who need it most.
I remember riding in the car with my dad, when I was little.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Friday Five: Seeking What?
I haven't done the RevGals "Friday Five" for a long time. This one, from Jan, seemed like a good place to start:
I was struck in our weekly Lectio Divina group by a few verses from Psalm 105: 3-4
So for this Friday Five, list what you are seeking, whether it is trivial, profound, or ordinary--whatever you would like to share. List 5 and add a bonus if you feel like it.
Here are my five:
I am seeking:
3. Beauty. I do find myself drawn to beauty, in all its forms. I just learned that the St. John's Bible is finished, for example. I bought a little piece of folk art and a storyteller doll when we were in New Mexico/Colorado. I buy yarn sometimes, even before I know what it's for, just because it looks so beautiful, and full of possibility to me.
4. Light. Our church's fall theme (which is actually a stewardship theme, but that's another post) is "Shine!" so everywhere I go, I'm seeking out light, from flashlights to candles to a video of the northern lights in Iceland. And mirrors. And a child's eyes. The light of a smile, and the way tears glisten. Help me find some more light, will you?
BONUS: Wisdom. that's all I'm going to say about that.
P.S. the four things that I was missing last week: a small pen, my watch, a gift card and a knitting pattern -- have all been found, as of yesterday.
I was struck in our weekly Lectio Divina group by a few verses from Psalm 105: 3-4
. . let the hearts of those who seek the Lord rejoice.
Seek the Lord and his strength;
seek his presence continually.
Seeking is rejoicing. Rejoicing comes from the seeking, NOT the end of glory, heaven, enlightenment, or whatever. Seeking is the journey--RIGHT NOW!
So for this Friday Five, list what you are seeking, whether it is trivial, profound, or ordinary--whatever you would like to share. List 5 and add a bonus if you feel like it.
Here are my five:
I am seeking:
1. Community. Not perfect community, but a community that both wants to work together for a larger purpose, and a community that supports and and encourages one another, and especially those who are most vulnerable.
2. An Outlet for Creativity. Some space and some self-discipline for writing. A know friends who regularly get prayers and worship materials published, and I find myself a little jealous, both thinking about having the venue and also finding the time.3. Beauty. I do find myself drawn to beauty, in all its forms. I just learned that the St. John's Bible is finished, for example. I bought a little piece of folk art and a storyteller doll when we were in New Mexico/Colorado. I buy yarn sometimes, even before I know what it's for, just because it looks so beautiful, and full of possibility to me.
4. Light. Our church's fall theme (which is actually a stewardship theme, but that's another post) is "Shine!" so everywhere I go, I'm seeking out light, from flashlights to candles to a video of the northern lights in Iceland. And mirrors. And a child's eyes. The light of a smile, and the way tears glisten. Help me find some more light, will you?5. Laughter. I just found this great quote, "Laughter is an instant vacation." So I am seeking opportunities to laugh, sometimes, even when I'm close to tears.
BONUS: Wisdom. that's all I'm going to say about that.
P.S. the four things that I was missing last week: a small pen, my watch, a gift card and a knitting pattern -- have all been found, as of yesterday.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
They're Back
This Sunday was "Rally Day" on the church calendar, the day that the prodigal worshipers return (well, most of them, anyway), the day we are most likely to have visitors (other than Christmas and Easter), the day Sunday School starts, and a day when there are always plenty of brightly-colored balloons.
The children are back. The youth are back. The babies are back -- I can hear some crying in the back pew. There are a couple of families that I haven't seen in awhile, a new young couple in the adult choir, and also playing the handbells. There are teachers starting off the school year, and children with and without backpacks (we ask them to bring backpacks.)
I like to have children and adults help with the service, but we decided that the service was so full already, full of prayers and blessings and the children singing "This little light of Mine." So we only read the gospel at the second service.
I asked one of our high school students to do something different instead: help me in leading the intercessory prayers. We both knelt at the altar, trading petitions back and forth. I thought I saw a couple in the front beaming as she went back to her seat at the close of the prayers.
Earlier in the service, we blessed the children and their backpacks. There were so many up there I thought I would get lost in the crowd (perhaps I did; I'm a little height challenged). I've never done this before, but I decided to ask the congregation to raise their hands forward in blessing as we said the prayer. I then invited Sunday School teachers, and all teachers to come forward and be blessed at the beginning of their school year.
We raised our hands again.
If we learn nothing else in church, I wish we could learn to bless one another -- our children, the single person sitting alone, the grandparents, the parents, the non-parents, the out-of-work, the tired, the stranger, the one weeping, the one whispering.
If we learn nothing else in church, I wish we could learn to bless one another -- the clerk at the supermarket, the guy on the ladder, the man in the nursing home, the person who gives you a kiss when you walk in the door, the person who hates you, the person who doesn't understand you, or who knows you too well.
If we learn nothing else in church, I wish we could learn to bless one another, to raise our hands forward, to touch each other's lives, to change the world.
The children are back. The youth are back. The babies are back -- I can hear some crying in the back pew. There are a couple of families that I haven't seen in awhile, a new young couple in the adult choir, and also playing the handbells. There are teachers starting off the school year, and children with and without backpacks (we ask them to bring backpacks.)
I like to have children and adults help with the service, but we decided that the service was so full already, full of prayers and blessings and the children singing "This little light of Mine." So we only read the gospel at the second service.
I asked one of our high school students to do something different instead: help me in leading the intercessory prayers. We both knelt at the altar, trading petitions back and forth. I thought I saw a couple in the front beaming as she went back to her seat at the close of the prayers.
Earlier in the service, we blessed the children and their backpacks. There were so many up there I thought I would get lost in the crowd (perhaps I did; I'm a little height challenged). I've never done this before, but I decided to ask the congregation to raise their hands forward in blessing as we said the prayer. I then invited Sunday School teachers, and all teachers to come forward and be blessed at the beginning of their school year.
We raised our hands again.
If we learn nothing else in church, I wish we could learn to bless one another -- our children, the single person sitting alone, the grandparents, the parents, the non-parents, the out-of-work, the tired, the stranger, the one weeping, the one whispering.
If we learn nothing else in church, I wish we could learn to bless one another -- the clerk at the supermarket, the guy on the ladder, the man in the nursing home, the person who gives you a kiss when you walk in the door, the person who hates you, the person who doesn't understand you, or who knows you too well.
If we learn nothing else in church, I wish we could learn to bless one another, to raise our hands forward, to touch each other's lives, to change the world.
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