Break-In

A week ago, someone broke into my parents' house and robbed them. Someone smashed in their patio window, trashed their bedroom, and took my mom's jewelry and my dad's laptop. It was, ironically, the night before I was preaching about trusting in God rather than in money or physical security.

When my dad called to tell me about it, I was floored. I've always believed that my parents' house, the home I grew up in, was safe. My hometown is tiny, and crimes like this hardly ever happen there. Even the police officers were surprised, noting that a crime like this hasn't happened in town in years.

I've spent my life traveling, and that house has always been my home base. As I've traveled to four other continents, moved away for college, grad school, and jobs, my roots have always been there. That is the place I could count on: it was the one constant, my safe place to come home to when I was otherwise rootless. It has only been in the last few months that I've moved into an apartment that's a semi-permanent home, instead of a temporary location for school.

And now that home I'd always taken for granted as being safe and unchanging has been violated. My heart breaks for my parents, whose home has been violated. My heart breaks for the generations-old family heirlooms that are now gone, probably lost forever. My great-grandmother's pearls, my great-grandfather's watch, my mom's wedding pearls, my parents' Phi Beta Kappa pins, the earrings and necklaces my sister and I gave to our mom for Christmases and Mother's Days: all gone. The safety and security my parents counted on: destroyed.

What led the thieves to this course of action? What need drove them to this desperation? Or was it just greed? I'm still trying to find the words to pray for those people who are now my enemies.

It's going to take me a while to come to grips with this. It's going to be a long, difficult recovery for my parents. God help us.

Advent Project

One of my friends, a chaplain, started taking a picture every day of something that made her smile. She was working as a pediatric hospice chaplain, and taking the pictures helped her to remember the good gifts from God that were around her, even when everything seemed to be filled with darkness and tragedy.

I've decided to copy her idea this year for advent. I've always loved advent, and especially Christmas, but I'm nervous that the hectic schedule of working at a church during advent and Christmas is going to get me so focused on the work and the details that I won't be able to remember the beauty of the season. So, to prevent that from happening, I'm going to carry my camera and take pictures of the things that remind me of God, and the season of advent. Then I'm going to post them here, as a form of accountability.

Here are a couple of previews:


I love the colors of autumn!


HIking along the James River


On October 24, I got to see the Richmond Zombie Walk. So, the "undead" walked through the streets of Richmond to raise money for the American Cancer Society.


Zombies!

Little Ones to Him Belong...

Last week I got to do chapel for the "School for Early Childhood Education" (translation: preschool) that is part of the church where I work. Before I get into this, I have to tell you that I have never been great with kids. I can handle them in small numbers, but working with children is not one of my best gifts, and in large numbers I find them very intimidating. So, I was a bit nervous when I looked out at the fifty-ish children assembled in the sanctuary on Tuesday morning.

But then I started making eye contact with them. Most of them smiled when our eyes met. One little boy started grinning hugely whenever I glanced in his direction; he didn't just smile with his mouth, or even his face, he scrunched up his shoulders and wiggled, and it was as though his smile ran from his hair to his toes. I taught them "Rise and Shine", with very simple hand motions, and they followed along. At the point in the song where I clapped once, my clap was immediately followed by thirty seconds of each child repeating that motion in his or her own time. When I started to tell them the story of Noah, one of the older boys called out, "That's from the Bible!" When I replied that yes, the story was from the Bible, half of the kids felt the need to inform me that they, too, had Bibles, and to describe what those books looked like. After a few minutes, I found myself enjoying working with the kids. I was challenged and entertained rather than intimidated or overwhelmed.

After leading chapel on Tuesday and Wednesday, I got a call in the wee hours of Thursday morning from my sister to tell me that she was heading to the hospital: the baby was on its way. I was on pins an needles for twelve hours, jumping every time my phone rang, and finally, finally, my brother-in-law called to tell me that I have a healthy new niece.

The very next day, I made my way up to the hospital to see how my sister was faring and to meet my new niece. So, less than 24-hours after she entered the world, I got to hold the precious little one in my arms. I couldn't tear my eyes away: I marveled at her copious, dark hair and at the deep blue of her eyes. I was fascinated by her puffy cheeks and mesmerized by the faces she made in her sleep.

Since then, I've gotten to spend more time with her. I've gotten to hold her and feel the unevenness of her breathing. I've gotten to hear her strange little squeaks and tiny hiccups. She's amazing.

As I looked at the preschool children, and as I held my niece, I became even more convinced that God is love. Only a loving being could create something so tiny and precious. And how could any creator not fall in love when faced with the fragile beauty and wondrous creativity of children?

Praise the Creator God, in whose eyes we are all precious, fragile, amazing, beloved children. Praise God who cradles us in the eternal hands, swaddles us with divine presence, and sings us lullabies of comfort and peace. Amen.

"My Bubbles!"

I practice blowing bubbles as a meditative act. I know it's a strange habit for an adult, but I love it. It allows me to connect with beautiful memories of childhood. It takes me back to getting gradually soaked in sticky bubble solution as I spun around with my wand arm out so that I was surrounded in floating rainbows. It reminds me of stealing pans and dish detergent from the kitchen and bending wire hangers into giant loops in hopes of making giant bubbles. There's an innocence and carelessness about it: you simply can't be too serious while blowing bubbles.

At the same time, it gives me an action and a focal point to keep my lower consciousness occupied so that my mind can focus on deeper things. In that way, it's a bit like a rosary. Moving the beads and saying the simple prayers of the rosary occupies one's motor functions and allows for praying about other things. For me, bubbles serve the same function. It keeps my hands busy and prevents me from seeking greater mental distractions. And bubbles can be a metaphor for almost anything, which gets me started on inner reflections.

I've tried for years to write poetry about bubbles because I love their beauty and simplicity. I love their connection to people's childhood memories. I don't know of anyone who dislikes bubbles or has bad associations with them. But I can never seem to capture that in a poem because it always seems cheesy. Even the metaphors that stir my mind sound schmaltzy when written down and don't express what I see. I suppose I should just leave it to meditation, since trying to grasp or capture bubbles almost never works.

Half-Formed

My view of the world is based upon a continually-changing set of theories. My way of thinking, my values, and the purpose of my actions are based on more solid, less changeable things, but the way I see the world is shifting constantly because of changing experiences and attitudes, and I like to formulate expendable theories based upon those shifting views. Here are a few of my more recent theories:

1) There ought to be a periodic table of people, based primarily on reactivity. Some people are extremely reactive, and whenever they're faced with stress or anxiety, they blow up or boil over. Other people are mostly stable, but react to specific situations or other elements badly. The goal for leaders is, I think, to be like Noble gasses, almost completely non-reactive. Leaders need to inspire, true, but when anxiety is introduced into a system, when people are freaking out, the job of leaders is to remain calm, to respond instead of reacting. People should be required to at least be aware of their people-periodic number, and to warn others so that they can be treated accordingly.

2) The creators of the movie The Wizard of Oz were secretly inspired by the Epistle of James. (Note: this is the movie. The book was more likely inspired by a bad acid trip.) Think for a moment about the last scene in Oz, when the wizard is helping the Tin Man, the Scarecrow, and the Cowardly Lion. He tells them that they already had the gifts they were looking for, but it was as though they didn't have those gifts because they didn't evidence them. Once they have claimed and demonstrated their gifts in their journey to help Dorothy, they are given tokens that reaffirm their possession and use of the gifts. The wizard tells the Lion, Scarecrow, and Tin Man in turn that they already have what they were looking for, "But there's one thing they have that you don't have," and presents them with a token marking their gifts based upon their actions. Perhaps what James is trying to say is, "Where I come from, there are people who all day long do nothing but faithful things. Those people are called Christians. You are like them, but there's one thing they have that you don't have: evidence. So, in honor of your acts of faith in Jesus Christ, these are acts of piety and grace. Do them, and all the world will know you have faith.

3) Someone, somewhere needs to invent a neuter personal pronoun for the English language. She and he both imply gender, and it objectifies. This leaves me with no adequate pronouns for describing my as-yet-unborn niece or nephew or God. It leaves me at a loss for words more often than I'd care to mention. If a new pronoun is not added soon, I'll have to think of my own. I'm leaning toward "teb", but I'm also taking suggestions.

Flashback

Two weeks ago, I decided that fall had arrived. I turned off the air conditioning, threw open the windows, and breathed in the crisp air of an autumn evening. For the last fourteen days, I've smiled smugly to myself, thinking about how green I've been and how much I must be saving on my energy bills. But the summer decided to return for a last laugh, and tonight I found myself sprawled on top of the sheets, with the comforter thrown aside, still too warm to sleep.

Suddenly, the heat and the sleeplessness cast me into memory. I remembered other nights of temperature-induced insomnia; at my grandparents' house, at age nine, lying as still as I could, listening to the cicadas chirp and the frogs sing, and willing a cool mountain breeze to wake the air from its steamy stupor. After 60 Minutes, Murder She Wrote, and a bowl of ice cream, I'd be sent to bed. And as much as I wanted to be obedient and just go to sleep, the doldrums of hot air prevented me from sailing off into slumber. So I'd stare at the ceiling, straining my ears for the chiming of the grandmother clock, the whooshes of passing cars, and the faint murmur of Granddaddy watching TV in the basement.

In the stillness, it almost seems possible that tomorrow I'll wake up to the smell of blueberry muffins and bacon, nine years old again. I almost feel like tomorrow I'll go swimming, play Scrabble with Grandmother, eat fresh blueberries, and fall asleep waiting for the thunderstorm to cross over the mountains and bring cooler temperatures through the screened windows.

But here no grandmother clock chimes on the quarter-hours, and I'll wake up tomorrow to an alarm instead of the smell of bacon. Tonight i miss being nine.

Reflections on a Quarter-Century

I turned twenty-five today. It's a bit strange, because I feel simultaneously very old and very young. A part of me is shocked that I've now crossed the very last threshold of "now you're old enough to do everything," and is amazed that I'm really that old. Another part of me can't believe that, with all the stuff I do every day, and the average age of the people I work with and for, I'm only just now turning 25. It seems as though most other people my age are either a) established, married, and thinking about a family, or b) in school or recently finished and out partying it up every weekend. I am neither of those--a fact which surprises even me.

Ten years ago, I would never have envisioned myself here at this point in my life. In fact, ten years ago, I thought that at 25 I'd be working for a newspaper, probably out west somewhere. I thought I'd be married, living with my spouse in an apartment or first house. I thought I'd have a dog and dishes that weren't from my parents' house in the seventies. Fifteen-year-old me would never have imagined I'd be a pastor or that I'd be single.

On the other hand, I've done some incredible things that I never would have dreamed I could have done. I finished not just my a bachelor's degree, but also a masters. I got to study in South Africa, do mission work in Peru and Brazil, and travel in the Middle East. I've driven halfway across the country by myself, lived in four different states, and flown halfway around the world. I've been with people when they've died, officiated at funerals, presided over communion, and tomorrow I'll baptize someone. I've been blessed with incredible opportunities and wonderful friendships.

My first quarter-century has not been what I expected. But I have loved it. Not every minute, of course, but a lot of it. And I refuse to regret any of it, because I do not have a long enough view to make that kind of judgement. Everything that has happened thus far has made me who I am and brought me to this place in my life. And I like who I am and where I find myself, so I cannot regret the things that brought me here. I have been given opportunities, and I have made choices, and so far I am pleased with the outcomes.

At twenty-five, with probably sixty more years of life ahead of me, I simply hope that at the end of that time I will have the same attitude: thankful for the blessings, and glad to be who and where I am.