It's the time of year again for making lists, for looking both forward and backward as we mark the passing of time. And so, as usual, I make my annual evaluation.
↑ Graduate School
I'm now just one semester away from the completion of my masters, and I can't believe how much this program has changed me. I've learned so much in the last two years about what faith and community mean, about how to read, think, write, and speak, and about how to understand myself and others as children of God. This year, in particular, I learned to preach. In the process, I discovered that I'm beginning to get over my old fears of public speaking. Despite its trials, this year has been the best yet. I'm going to miss this place when I leave.
↓ Thesis
The only downside of this semester was the fact that, while I volunteered to write a thesis and had every intention of starting on it, I made almost no progress on in this semester. That is going to make next semester a whole lot more stressful. I think that signing up to write a thesis while writing my commissioning papers was a bit of a mistake.
↑ Travel
This year I had the experience of a lifetime traveling to the Middle East on the Middle East Travel Seminar. As I explained in earlier posts, I got to travel through 5 countries in the course of three weeks, alongside seminarians and professionals from across the country. It was a blast. When I returned from that, I got to go on a road trip from Georgia to Iowa to visit old friends, which was a lot of fun as well.
↔ Weddings
This year marked the beginning of the year of weddings. I watched a friend and my sister walk down the aisle, and next year several more people who are important to me will gown- or suit-up and make lifetime commitments. For the most part, I'm happy for those getting married. On the other hand, it's difficult to watch so many friends and family members pair off when I'm single.
↑ Work
I continued to work as a tutor for international students in my program. It is sometimes frustrating work, especially when I have to explain strange rules in the English language (even I don't know why we ride "on" a bus, but "in" a car) but the students are wonderful. I learn just from reading their papers, and getting to talk with them about life in Korea and living as international students is fascinating.
? The Future
2009 will bring many changes for me. I'm going to finish graduate school and go on to the work world. I'll face an interview that will determine my future and, hopefully, get my first full-time non-summer job. I'll move away, not just to school, but in a much more permanent capacity. I might even have to change my residency and lose my swing-voter status. I don't know what that will be like. I don't know for sure where I'll be or what I'll be doing this time next year. I just go forward with a prayer for all of us to have a peaceful and blessed 2009.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Friday, December 26, 2008
Christmas Cheer
Christmas has been my favorite holiday for as long as I can remember. It was always the holiday with the biggest family gatherings, the one when we got to have ham instead of turkey, the one with the best desserts, and none of that pumpkin pie nonsense. This year, however, was a little different.
My Christmas spirit arrived just in the nick of time (groan away, it was a terrible Christmas pun). As I walked into the choir room of my home church on Wednesday night, I was greeted by the faces of people I can't remember not knowing. I was welcomed with hugs and smiles, and enthusiastically encouraged to join the choir for the evening service. As we sat rehearsing the music for the service, I was reminded of the deep passion and faith with which these people use the gifts God has given them. As they lifted their voices in beautiful harmonies, I felt my heart rising heavenward as well.
As we stood in the choir loft and sang hymns and anthems appropriate to advent and Christmas, I began to imagine how the shepherds felt as they heard the heavenly host singing to announce the birth of Christ. As the readers pronounced the words of Scripture that I've heard so many times before, I had a new appreciation for the awe and wonder of the season.
You see, I was more alert this year, more prepared to savor the moments of worship, because I was consciously making a memory. This is probably the last Christmas that I will have at my home church, since next year I will hopefully be serving a church somewhere else. I'm going to miss simply worshiping on Christmas Eve, being able to sit with my family as I hear the words of the gospel proclaiming Christ's birth. While I'm excited to serve, I'm sad that this chapter in my life is probably closing.
Some of the changes are arriving already, in fact. Instead of just four of us at Christmas this year, we welcomed my new brother-in-law to our family Christmas. It was like putting on a pair of new jeans: you're excited about the newness, but the fit is strange, the style and color are slightly different, and it's difficult to say goodbye to your old favorite pair. There's grief in the loss of the old ways. But having a new person in the family (a wonderful person, in case you were wondering) also meant that we got to explain the traditions and retell the family stories. I was reminded of the Haggadah, the tradition of Passover in which the family re-tells the stories and re-explains the rituals of Passover for children and newcomers. As strange as it was, there was something beautiful about explaining the rituals of negotiating the use of the china, of telling the stories of Tina and the cream pitcher and my maternal grandmother's tradition of the red bag. In telling the stories again, I was reminded of why my family is so special to me, and of how much those experiences have shaped how I understand Christmas.
My Christmas spirit arrived just in the nick of time (groan away, it was a terrible Christmas pun). As I walked into the choir room of my home church on Wednesday night, I was greeted by the faces of people I can't remember not knowing. I was welcomed with hugs and smiles, and enthusiastically encouraged to join the choir for the evening service. As we sat rehearsing the music for the service, I was reminded of the deep passion and faith with which these people use the gifts God has given them. As they lifted their voices in beautiful harmonies, I felt my heart rising heavenward as well.
As we stood in the choir loft and sang hymns and anthems appropriate to advent and Christmas, I began to imagine how the shepherds felt as they heard the heavenly host singing to announce the birth of Christ. As the readers pronounced the words of Scripture that I've heard so many times before, I had a new appreciation for the awe and wonder of the season.
You see, I was more alert this year, more prepared to savor the moments of worship, because I was consciously making a memory. This is probably the last Christmas that I will have at my home church, since next year I will hopefully be serving a church somewhere else. I'm going to miss simply worshiping on Christmas Eve, being able to sit with my family as I hear the words of the gospel proclaiming Christ's birth. While I'm excited to serve, I'm sad that this chapter in my life is probably closing.
Some of the changes are arriving already, in fact. Instead of just four of us at Christmas this year, we welcomed my new brother-in-law to our family Christmas. It was like putting on a pair of new jeans: you're excited about the newness, but the fit is strange, the style and color are slightly different, and it's difficult to say goodbye to your old favorite pair. There's grief in the loss of the old ways. But having a new person in the family (a wonderful person, in case you were wondering) also meant that we got to explain the traditions and retell the family stories. I was reminded of the Haggadah, the tradition of Passover in which the family re-tells the stories and re-explains the rituals of Passover for children and newcomers. As strange as it was, there was something beautiful about explaining the rituals of negotiating the use of the china, of telling the stories of Tina and the cream pitcher and my maternal grandmother's tradition of the red bag. In telling the stories again, I was reminded of why my family is so special to me, and of how much those experiences have shaped how I understand Christmas.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
The Rest of the (Call) Story
For the sometimes-enlightening, often-exasperating, and always-complicated commissioning process, I had to write my "call story". Through the course of seminary and the ministry process, you end up writing and telling this story again and again in various forms to a large number of people. Over time, it becomes streamlined into a brief tale that hits briefly on the highlights on the way to saying, "So, can and will you help me keep writing the story?". However, in that streamlining, important bits of the story are lost. There are small anecdotes, rabbit trails off the main path, that I have to bypass in getting to the main points. Yet, these rabbit trails helped me to get to the main points. Without them, I might never have had call story to tell. Not to mention that, while there was a required bibliography for that section of my papers, it was aimed at books; my call was as much shaped by films as books, but that part is harder to describe. So, since I had to leave these influences out of my papers, but I still want to get them out there, I'll include them here.
The first time I really showed any evidence of a call was in early elementary. My parents heard noises from my room one night after they'd put me to bed and turned out the light, and came into the room only to find me singing to my stuffed animals. I had my illustrated children's book of Bible stories, from which I had done a reading. I had explained the passage to my plush congregation, and I was going on to the closing hymn when my parents came in to check on me. They told me that I could continue the service in the morning, but I had to go to sleep. I don't think I got around to giving the benediction the next day, and the incident was forgotten for many years.
When I was in junior high, my two favorite movies were "Auntie Mame" and "The Trouble with Angels". Interestingly, both of these movies starred Rosalyn Russell, and both gave me an image of who I wanted to become. I loved the way Auntie Mame found the joy in situations and lived a life full of adventure, travel, and exciting people. I loved that her escapades were considered unacceptable by some, yet she was incredibly loving and compassionate, if in her strange, disorganized way. I wanted to be just like her. I particularly liked "The Trouble with Angels" because of the mischief that Mary and Rachel got into. I wanted to emulate their cool, trouble-making ways. I was always a bit saddened by the end, though. I couldn't understand how Mary could make the choice she made. I didn't see how she could be both troublemaker and devout religious servant. Only later, as I began to discern my own call, did I begin to understand how I could be both Mame and Mary at the same time.
High school brought participation in ASP, which was one of the most formative experiences in my faith development. In the mountains of Kentucky and Tennessee, I wrote about faith, sweat, and sawdust. I saw God in the faces of Appalachian teenagers and heard God's voice in the buzz of circular saws. I watched hopes come to fruition and I began to recognize that God was working in my heart and through my blistered hands. Most of all, I saw God in JB, a man whose house I worked on my first summer as a volunteer. JB was a carpenter by trade, and he could have done all the work we were doing both better and faster. But he had developed a rare lung disease and could no longer work. As we worked on his home, he explained things and guided our work with a patience and a humility that amazed me. He sat on the porch with his oxygen tank, encouraging me as I used a power drill for the first time. Through ASP, I learned that God uses all parts of us: our brokenness and our strength, our skills and our inexperience, for a glory that we often do not recognize or understand.
As strange as it might sound, performing in a competitive showchoir also prepared me for ministry in ways I never would have anticipated. I was never a particularly good singer or dancer, but performing helped me to gain a confidence in front of people that I would otherwise have lacked. I learned how to use my facial expressions and body language as communication tools. I learned to disguise my nervousness and have poise, even when wearing sequins and fake eyelashes.
In early college, I was fascinated by semi-religious movies. I watched Saved!, Keeping the Faith, and Dogma over and over again, pulling out themes of religious life. I was fascinated at the way the characters in Saved! managed to hold their faith and their questions in tension and I was challenged by the responsibilities of call and commitment to church in Keeping the Faith.
By odd coincidence (or divine providence, I don't know which) I picked up a copy of a book called Grace at a publisher's booth at the Earth Day festival my sophomore year of college. As a sometimes-pianist, the keyboard on the cover caught my eye, and I bought a copy. I then promptly put it on my shelf and forgot about it for a few months. By the time I picked it up again, I had begun to discern my call to ministry, but didn't really know what to do about it. As I read, I saw connections with my own life, and gained the courage to pursue my vocation.
When I went home for Thanksgiving, just after I recognized my call for the first time, I was terrified to tell my parents. My father is Catholic, and I had never thought to ask him what he thought of women in ministry. So, when I got home, I told my parents to sit down, and I told them a very abbreviated version of my call story. When I finished, my father replied with, "Of course. We knew." I was stunned. I hadn't told them anything. When I asked about it, he continued, "Well, it was revealed to me in meditation a few weeks ago. I told your mother (at this point, Mom nodded) but we didn't want to tell you and mess up your discernment." I didn't know how to respond. I've never been one to put a lot of stock in mystical experiences, but that gave me an affirmation that was very valuable to me.
Then a stranger gave me a great gift: a district superintendent from a conference other than my own, after some consultation with me, assigned me a candidacy mentor. In our process, candidacy mentors can be either helpful or exasperating, but mine was an incredible blessing for me. I looked up to that mentor, who seemed at times to be the person I wanted to grow into in a few years. I saw a woman who was close to my age working in ministry, which I had never seen before. She showed me that I could be in ministry and still be myself. She inspired me to make progress in an arduous process of bureaucracy, which has allowed me to get as far as I am by this point. If we could put people in our bibliographies, she'd be on mine.
I'm sad that I had to leave these bits out of my explanation of my call for commissioning. The page limits on my commissioning papers forced me to leave out several bits of myself, my story, and my beliefs that I think would give the church a more accurate picture of who I am. And in all the paperwork, I often lost track of the call and the passion that led me to writing them in the first place. These help me to remember that God was forming me long before I began the process, and God will continue to shape me through and after it. For now, I think it's enough that I know where I've been and I believe in the road I'm on (at least most days).
The first time I really showed any evidence of a call was in early elementary. My parents heard noises from my room one night after they'd put me to bed and turned out the light, and came into the room only to find me singing to my stuffed animals. I had my illustrated children's book of Bible stories, from which I had done a reading. I had explained the passage to my plush congregation, and I was going on to the closing hymn when my parents came in to check on me. They told me that I could continue the service in the morning, but I had to go to sleep. I don't think I got around to giving the benediction the next day, and the incident was forgotten for many years.
When I was in junior high, my two favorite movies were "Auntie Mame" and "The Trouble with Angels". Interestingly, both of these movies starred Rosalyn Russell, and both gave me an image of who I wanted to become. I loved the way Auntie Mame found the joy in situations and lived a life full of adventure, travel, and exciting people. I loved that her escapades were considered unacceptable by some, yet she was incredibly loving and compassionate, if in her strange, disorganized way. I wanted to be just like her. I particularly liked "The Trouble with Angels" because of the mischief that Mary and Rachel got into. I wanted to emulate their cool, trouble-making ways. I was always a bit saddened by the end, though. I couldn't understand how Mary could make the choice she made. I didn't see how she could be both troublemaker and devout religious servant. Only later, as I began to discern my own call, did I begin to understand how I could be both Mame and Mary at the same time.
High school brought participation in ASP, which was one of the most formative experiences in my faith development. In the mountains of Kentucky and Tennessee, I wrote about faith, sweat, and sawdust. I saw God in the faces of Appalachian teenagers and heard God's voice in the buzz of circular saws. I watched hopes come to fruition and I began to recognize that God was working in my heart and through my blistered hands. Most of all, I saw God in JB, a man whose house I worked on my first summer as a volunteer. JB was a carpenter by trade, and he could have done all the work we were doing both better and faster. But he had developed a rare lung disease and could no longer work. As we worked on his home, he explained things and guided our work with a patience and a humility that amazed me. He sat on the porch with his oxygen tank, encouraging me as I used a power drill for the first time. Through ASP, I learned that God uses all parts of us: our brokenness and our strength, our skills and our inexperience, for a glory that we often do not recognize or understand.
As strange as it might sound, performing in a competitive showchoir also prepared me for ministry in ways I never would have anticipated. I was never a particularly good singer or dancer, but performing helped me to gain a confidence in front of people that I would otherwise have lacked. I learned how to use my facial expressions and body language as communication tools. I learned to disguise my nervousness and have poise, even when wearing sequins and fake eyelashes.
In early college, I was fascinated by semi-religious movies. I watched Saved!, Keeping the Faith, and Dogma over and over again, pulling out themes of religious life. I was fascinated at the way the characters in Saved! managed to hold their faith and their questions in tension and I was challenged by the responsibilities of call and commitment to church in Keeping the Faith.
By odd coincidence (or divine providence, I don't know which) I picked up a copy of a book called Grace at a publisher's booth at the Earth Day festival my sophomore year of college. As a sometimes-pianist, the keyboard on the cover caught my eye, and I bought a copy. I then promptly put it on my shelf and forgot about it for a few months. By the time I picked it up again, I had begun to discern my call to ministry, but didn't really know what to do about it. As I read, I saw connections with my own life, and gained the courage to pursue my vocation.
When I went home for Thanksgiving, just after I recognized my call for the first time, I was terrified to tell my parents. My father is Catholic, and I had never thought to ask him what he thought of women in ministry. So, when I got home, I told my parents to sit down, and I told them a very abbreviated version of my call story. When I finished, my father replied with, "Of course. We knew." I was stunned. I hadn't told them anything. When I asked about it, he continued, "Well, it was revealed to me in meditation a few weeks ago. I told your mother (at this point, Mom nodded) but we didn't want to tell you and mess up your discernment." I didn't know how to respond. I've never been one to put a lot of stock in mystical experiences, but that gave me an affirmation that was very valuable to me.
Then a stranger gave me a great gift: a district superintendent from a conference other than my own, after some consultation with me, assigned me a candidacy mentor. In our process, candidacy mentors can be either helpful or exasperating, but mine was an incredible blessing for me. I looked up to that mentor, who seemed at times to be the person I wanted to grow into in a few years. I saw a woman who was close to my age working in ministry, which I had never seen before. She showed me that I could be in ministry and still be myself. She inspired me to make progress in an arduous process of bureaucracy, which has allowed me to get as far as I am by this point. If we could put people in our bibliographies, she'd be on mine.
I'm sad that I had to leave these bits out of my explanation of my call for commissioning. The page limits on my commissioning papers forced me to leave out several bits of myself, my story, and my beliefs that I think would give the church a more accurate picture of who I am. And in all the paperwork, I often lost track of the call and the passion that led me to writing them in the first place. These help me to remember that God was forming me long before I began the process, and God will continue to shape me through and after it. For now, I think it's enough that I know where I've been and I believe in the road I'm on (at least most days).
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Long Advent
Christmas snuck up on me this year. Somewhere between my sister's wedding, writing my commissioning papers, and getting through a tough spate of finals, I lost track of the calendar. By the time I woke up from my stress-coma, there were less than 10 days left before the holiday: 10 days in which to do all my Christmas shopping, 10 days to get emotionally prepared for the first Christmas with a new family member, 10 days to get ready for Santa and the baby Jesus to arrive. It's strange, too, because Christmas is my favorite holiday. I usually spend the entire period between Thanksgiving and Christmas being excited, madly decorating, baking, and listening to Christmas carols (I know, I know, I'm not supposed to do that until Christmas, but the Advent music just isn't as good!) Yet this year, I don't seem to be able to get into the holiday spirit.
Instead of getting caught up in the joy of the season, I've been rushing madly, just trying to meet the next deadline, finish the next project. But, in some ways, that has been a good thing. It has left me longing for the holiday to come, desperately wanting the peace of home, break, and holiday to arrive. Now, finally, the break is here, and I'm at home, but still Christmas doesn't seem to be sinking in. Finally I understand the yearning, the longing of advent. For the first time this year, I truly feel that this is a season of waiting and watching, of hoping for peace and joy to arrive. I just hope that in 3 days, as I light a candle at the Christmas Eve Service, I'll finally feel the joy and closeness of Christ that I've been longing for.
Instead of getting caught up in the joy of the season, I've been rushing madly, just trying to meet the next deadline, finish the next project. But, in some ways, that has been a good thing. It has left me longing for the holiday to come, desperately wanting the peace of home, break, and holiday to arrive. Now, finally, the break is here, and I'm at home, but still Christmas doesn't seem to be sinking in. Finally I understand the yearning, the longing of advent. For the first time this year, I truly feel that this is a season of waiting and watching, of hoping for peace and joy to arrive. I just hope that in 3 days, as I light a candle at the Christmas Eve Service, I'll finally feel the joy and closeness of Christ that I've been longing for.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Dashing Toward Change
- This week I went back to my home town for what is probably my last Thanksgiving break for a long time. As we drove through town, I was AMAZED at the changes that have occurred in my absence. Along Main Street, where there used to be an old building and a vacant lot, there is now a McDonald's, complete with golden arch sign and drive-thru window. The old pharmacies that I visited as a child are gone, and their services have been replaced by a new Rite Aid store. I never thought that McDonalds would invade my hometown, so it was bizarre to see it across the street from the old brick post office.
- On my way home, I ended up on a flight with a high school classmate of mine that I hadn't seen in several years. I had a great time catching up with her, talking with her about the tension between home and school, and chatting about what our other classmates have been up to lately.
- The school I attended for K-12 has been bulldozed since last I visited so that its sign now marks an empty lot. Behind the empty lot sits a brand-new school building, one I campaigned for while I was in high school and dreamed of as I sat in the not-air-conditioned ancient brick building. Instead of a dungeon-like art room that had once been used as a locker room, the new building has a real art classroom. It has a stage twice the size of the old one and auditorium chairs that are actually *gasp* comfortable! Yes, the new building is infinitely better than the ancient building where I was educated, where large chunks of the facade sometimes fell onto the desks in the classrooms during storms. Still, seeing that the building where I spent 13 years of my life is gone was a bit of a shock.
- My sister got married last weekend. I have never seen her more beautiful or happier. While the ceremony was not what I would have chosen, the music was incredible. And, although I already miss our time being kids and teenagers together and hanging out one on one, I found myself giddy as I watched my sister so obviously joyful and in love. It was wonderful to see so much of my family (especially the awesome ones from Denver that I hardly ever get to see!), and to get to be part of such a big moment in my sister's life. Plus, I got a pretty cool brother-in-law out of the deal.
- On my way home, I ended up on a flight with a high school classmate of mine that I hadn't seen in several years. I had a great time catching up with her, talking with her about the tension between home and school, and chatting about what our other classmates have been up to lately.
- The school I attended for K-12 has been bulldozed since last I visited so that its sign now marks an empty lot. Behind the empty lot sits a brand-new school building, one I campaigned for while I was in high school and dreamed of as I sat in the not-air-conditioned ancient brick building. Instead of a dungeon-like art room that had once been used as a locker room, the new building has a real art classroom. It has a stage twice the size of the old one and auditorium chairs that are actually *gasp* comfortable! Yes, the new building is infinitely better than the ancient building where I was educated, where large chunks of the facade sometimes fell onto the desks in the classrooms during storms. Still, seeing that the building where I spent 13 years of my life is gone was a bit of a shock.
- My sister got married last weekend. I have never seen her more beautiful or happier. While the ceremony was not what I would have chosen, the music was incredible. And, although I already miss our time being kids and teenagers together and hanging out one on one, I found myself giddy as I watched my sister so obviously joyful and in love. It was wonderful to see so much of my family (especially the awesome ones from Denver that I hardly ever get to see!), and to get to be part of such a big moment in my sister's life. Plus, I got a pretty cool brother-in-law out of the deal.
Friday, November 07, 2008
Leaves
A leaf crunches beneath my feet, and I glance up into the branches above as another leaf falls toward my shoulder. All around me the trees seem caught on fire, their leaves radiant red, orange, and yellow against the drab brick and white-frame houses. The sudden color of the leaves makes me feel as though a toddler with a red crayon in one fist and a yellow one in the other has added random scribbles to the blank coloring book page of my neighborhood. But, in reality, it's the last gift of the trees before they rest for the winter.
I remember when the leaves first appeared in March, when the bare trees outside my window began to bud, and their leaves unfurl. I remember the day I woke up to dim, green-tinted light pouring through the glass, instead of the harsh rays of the winter sun that had glared unmediated onto the carpet on previous mornings. For months I'd sit on the balcony beneath the shade of those trees, with only small speckles of light slipping through the leaves to illumine the book in my hands.
Now those same leaves form the psychedelic carpet that crunches beneath my feet, the colors reminding me of the wild shag carpet of my childhood bedroom. The reds, orange, and yellow brightened my walk home today, and as I walked past them I thought about transitional seasons.
Finally a pause has come in my semester, which has allowed me to lift my gaze from the path beneath my feet long enough to notice my surroundings. Suddenly I find that my constant slog through the tasks of my coursework has brought me farther than I realized. There are a mere three weeks remaining in the semester and I have already registered for my final semester of this program, and perhaps of my schooling. I can see a new season coming, a spring that will follow. But at this moment, I long to enjoy the bright leaves while they last. I have loved this place, this program, these people. I have loved the season that I see fading and, on days of doubt, I wonder whether the leaves will reappear just as beautifully again next time. The leaves won't be the same, they won't look the same. They never do. But there will be leaves again, and they will give shade and speckled light, and they, too will turn bright and fade away.
As I write this, I can hear the rain falling outside, and I know that its drumming and weight will bring many of the remaining leaves to the ground. But the rain nurtures, too, so new green leaves will be able to appear in just a few months. So I lift my glass: to the brilliance of the autumn leaves and the hope for a new canopy soon to come.
I remember when the leaves first appeared in March, when the bare trees outside my window began to bud, and their leaves unfurl. I remember the day I woke up to dim, green-tinted light pouring through the glass, instead of the harsh rays of the winter sun that had glared unmediated onto the carpet on previous mornings. For months I'd sit on the balcony beneath the shade of those trees, with only small speckles of light slipping through the leaves to illumine the book in my hands.
Now those same leaves form the psychedelic carpet that crunches beneath my feet, the colors reminding me of the wild shag carpet of my childhood bedroom. The reds, orange, and yellow brightened my walk home today, and as I walked past them I thought about transitional seasons.
Finally a pause has come in my semester, which has allowed me to lift my gaze from the path beneath my feet long enough to notice my surroundings. Suddenly I find that my constant slog through the tasks of my coursework has brought me farther than I realized. There are a mere three weeks remaining in the semester and I have already registered for my final semester of this program, and perhaps of my schooling. I can see a new season coming, a spring that will follow. But at this moment, I long to enjoy the bright leaves while they last. I have loved this place, this program, these people. I have loved the season that I see fading and, on days of doubt, I wonder whether the leaves will reappear just as beautifully again next time. The leaves won't be the same, they won't look the same. They never do. But there will be leaves again, and they will give shade and speckled light, and they, too will turn bright and fade away.
As I write this, I can hear the rain falling outside, and I know that its drumming and weight will bring many of the remaining leaves to the ground. But the rain nurtures, too, so new green leaves will be able to appear in just a few months. So I lift my glass: to the brilliance of the autumn leaves and the hope for a new canopy soon to come.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Preach
I speak for them.
I speak for the prophets whose voices have grown raspy and hoarse
From shouting truth at people
Who cannot hear them.
I speak to them.
I speak to a people who have been deafened by the pounding drumbeats of “progress”
And the roaring sirens of consumerism
So they cannot hear the truth.
I ask the questions.
I ask the questions of generations to come, who will see a world different from ours,
But a world shaped by our decisions
When we did not think of them.
I voice the ponderings.
I voice the ponderings of philosophers who wonder what our thoughtless actions will do
And write treatises of warning
That will be read too late.
I seek the answers.
I seek the answers that will bring quiet to the sirens of this generation
And replace them with words of truth
Before it’s too late.
I grow weary.
I grow weary of the noise that brings no solutions
And my voice grows raspy and hoarse
Who will speak for me?
I speak for the prophets whose voices have grown raspy and hoarse
From shouting truth at people
Who cannot hear them.
I speak to them.
I speak to a people who have been deafened by the pounding drumbeats of “progress”
And the roaring sirens of consumerism
So they cannot hear the truth.
I ask the questions.
I ask the questions of generations to come, who will see a world different from ours,
But a world shaped by our decisions
When we did not think of them.
I voice the ponderings.
I voice the ponderings of philosophers who wonder what our thoughtless actions will do
And write treatises of warning
That will be read too late.
I seek the answers.
I seek the answers that will bring quiet to the sirens of this generation
And replace them with words of truth
Before it’s too late.
I grow weary.
I grow weary of the noise that brings no solutions
And my voice grows raspy and hoarse
Who will speak for me?
Monday, September 15, 2008
Books!!!
One of my friends posted this on facebook, and I wanted to see how I'd do on this list.
The Big Read reckons that the average adult has only read 6 of the top 100 books they've printed.
The Rules:
1) Look at the list and put one * by those you have read.
2) Put a % by those you intend to read.
3) Put two ** by the books you LOVE.
4) Put # by the books you HATE.
5) Post. (Don't forget to tag me.)
1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen**
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien * (does it count if someone read it aloud to me?)
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte*
4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling **
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee*
6 The Bible **
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8 1984 - George Orwell**
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott*
12 Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare%* (in progress...)
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien** (again with the reading to me...)
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveller's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell* (that was a really LONG summer!)
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald%
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky*
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll%
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia- CS Lewis%
34 Emma - Jane Austen*
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen%
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis**
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden*
40 Winnie the pooh - AA Milne**
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell**
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown* (Angels and Demons was better)
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery%
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood%
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding*# (Ugh... AP English)
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen**
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac%
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68 Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding*
69 Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett *
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson%
75 Ulysses - James Joyce*
76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath%
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens*
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker%
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte's Web - EB White *
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle# (one of these was enough... YUCK!)
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery** (in French no less!)
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare *
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl *
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo %
I've read 28... not bad, really! Still, there are several great works on here that I should probably pick up once I'm not reading 600 pages of theology every week. If only I had more time...
The Big Read reckons that the average adult has only read 6 of the top 100 books they've printed.
The Rules:
1) Look at the list and put one * by those you have read.
2) Put a % by those you intend to read.
3) Put two ** by the books you LOVE.
4) Put # by the books you HATE.
5) Post. (Don't forget to tag me.)
1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen**
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien * (does it count if someone read it aloud to me?)
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte*
4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling **
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee*
6 The Bible **
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8 1984 - George Orwell**
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott*
12 Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare%* (in progress...)
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien** (again with the reading to me...)
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveller's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell* (that was a really LONG summer!)
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald%
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky*
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll%
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33 Chronicles of Narnia- CS Lewis%
34 Emma - Jane Austen*
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen%
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis**
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden*
40 Winnie the pooh - AA Milne**
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell**
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown* (Angels and Demons was better)
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery%
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood%
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding*# (Ugh... AP English)
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen**
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac%
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68 Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding*
69 Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett *
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson%
75 Ulysses - James Joyce*
76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath%
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens*
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker%
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte's Web - EB White *
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle# (one of these was enough... YUCK!)
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery** (in French no less!)
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare *
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl *
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo %
I've read 28... not bad, really! Still, there are several great works on here that I should probably pick up once I'm not reading 600 pages of theology every week. If only I had more time...
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Engaging Everyone
"No wonder I'm single," she says to the mirror. "Even I don't want to get into bed with these thighs."
I say that getting married isn't like winning the Miss America Pageant; it doesn't all come down to the bathing suit competition.
"I hate weddings," she says. "They make me feel so unmarried. Actually, even brushing my teeth makes me feel unmarried." - Melissa Bank, "The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing"
My sister got engaged last weekend. She's older than I am and has been seriously dating this guy for a while, so it wasn't a surprise. I like her fiance, and I'm very happy for both of them. That said, the sudden epidemic of engagements among the people who are closest to me is making me a little crazy. This is the third engagement among my friends this summer, and I have reason to believe that at least one more will occur before the end of the year. That means one wedding in November, another two in January, and probably two more in the spring/summer. It's a little overwhelming.
As a single woman, it's a little difficult to watch all of this go on. Even though I'm a very independent person and I know that don't need a man by my side in order to be happy or validated, it's tough when it feels like everyone around you is pairing off. I watch my friends' giddy smiles, happy for them, but nervous and a little sad because I know that my relationships with them will change. They will be relying on their husbands more than their friends, and may get so busy with children and family life that they no longer have time to go out for coffee or a meal with me.
I'm stuck, too, trying to figure out a theology/ideology of romantic relationships. I've never really believed that there was only one right person, or "soulmate" out there for each individual, despite all the Disney movies and romantic-comedies that seem to imply that. But, at the same time, I don't really think romance is random, either. I think it's a mix of timing and chemistry, attraction and compatibility, God-guidance, location, and free will, and I don't know how those all work together. I'm not waiting around for Mr. Right to sweep me off my feet, but I'm not manhunting, either. I don't even know if I'm supposed to get married or stay single forever. The thing is, these never seemed like urgent questions before. But the sudden flurry of white dresses is giving them undue gravity and imminence.
I'm not going to get the answers to those questions today. I'll let you know if/when somebody fills me in on this. In the meantime, I'll be checking registries, wearing bridesmaid dresses, and wondering what's going on.
I say that getting married isn't like winning the Miss America Pageant; it doesn't all come down to the bathing suit competition.
"I hate weddings," she says. "They make me feel so unmarried. Actually, even brushing my teeth makes me feel unmarried." - Melissa Bank, "The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing"
My sister got engaged last weekend. She's older than I am and has been seriously dating this guy for a while, so it wasn't a surprise. I like her fiance, and I'm very happy for both of them. That said, the sudden epidemic of engagements among the people who are closest to me is making me a little crazy. This is the third engagement among my friends this summer, and I have reason to believe that at least one more will occur before the end of the year. That means one wedding in November, another two in January, and probably two more in the spring/summer. It's a little overwhelming.
As a single woman, it's a little difficult to watch all of this go on. Even though I'm a very independent person and I know that don't need a man by my side in order to be happy or validated, it's tough when it feels like everyone around you is pairing off. I watch my friends' giddy smiles, happy for them, but nervous and a little sad because I know that my relationships with them will change. They will be relying on their husbands more than their friends, and may get so busy with children and family life that they no longer have time to go out for coffee or a meal with me.
I'm stuck, too, trying to figure out a theology/ideology of romantic relationships. I've never really believed that there was only one right person, or "soulmate" out there for each individual, despite all the Disney movies and romantic-comedies that seem to imply that. But, at the same time, I don't really think romance is random, either. I think it's a mix of timing and chemistry, attraction and compatibility, God-guidance, location, and free will, and I don't know how those all work together. I'm not waiting around for Mr. Right to sweep me off my feet, but I'm not manhunting, either. I don't even know if I'm supposed to get married or stay single forever. The thing is, these never seemed like urgent questions before. But the sudden flurry of white dresses is giving them undue gravity and imminence.
I'm not going to get the answers to those questions today. I'll let you know if/when somebody fills me in on this. In the meantime, I'll be checking registries, wearing bridesmaid dresses, and wondering what's going on.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Olympic Fever
Love Affair
I love the Olympic Games. I love that, for a few weeks every two years, people around the world can all be focused on something positive and uniting. So often when something takes the world spotlight, it's a crisis: natural disaster, war, famine, climate change, or scandal. But the Olympics offer something different. For a few weeks, we all look to swimming pools and tracks, ski slopes and skating rinks, balance beams and judo mats, and we cheer people on to celebrate what humanity can do. We test the limits of human endurance, celebrate the emotions that accompany victory and defeat, and unite around our shared humanity. I know that there are places where young athletes do not have the resources to train, and there are countries that cannot field teams. But when I see swimmers from Japan, Zimbabwe, Canada, Australia, China, France, and the Netherlands in the pool together, it gives me hope that someday all the nations really will be represented. I love the colors of flags and faces, the sound of voices in all different languages shouting exuberantly for the accomplishments of people they've never met.
Dreaming
When I was growing up, I, like so many little girls around the globe, was fascinated with figure skating and gymnastics. My sister and I would watch the figure skaters: Kristy Yamaguchi, Nancy Kerrigan, Scott Hamilton, gliding gracefully over the ice and flying through the air. Then we'd go out and rollerskate around our driveway, creating routines and imagining that we, too, were skating stars. Both of us had taken gymnastics as kids and, while neither of us stayed with it for very long, we still watched in awe and delight as Shannon Miller and Dominique Dawes competed in the Olympics. I wished I could do parallel bar routines and tumbling runs during floor exercises, too. It's strange to me now to realize that most of the athletes are younger than I am. Katie Hoff, for instance, swam in her first Olympics at age 15 and is now in Beijing at 19. It's amazing to me that these young people can balance the expectations of an entire nation on their shoulders as they push their bodies to the limit.
Fourth Place
I always feel bad for the athletes who win fourth place at the Olympics. They've trained countless hours and years, practiced, competed, and pushed themselves, and they've done very well. To even make it to the Olympics is an incredible honor, and to do so well as to be fourth is incredible. Yet these fourth-place contenders do not get a place on the medal stand. Their photographs don't make the newsstands, and their names fade to obscurity, if they were ever brought up at all. And yet, it's the fourth-place contenders who really represent us. Most of us aren't Michael Phelpses. We work and our efforts are neither recognized nor remembered. We don't get medals or get our pictures in the paper. But we don't work for the recognition. We work because the endeavor is worth it. We struggle because there is joy in trying, in being in motion. So I salute the fourth-place contenders, and their fifth- and sixth-place competitors. Thank you for keeping up the effort, for working toward a goal. Thank you for playing because you love the sport, because you want to be better, and because you hope for more. And thank you for accepting fourth-place gracefully, knowing that your efforts still have merit.
I love the Olympic Games. I love that, for a few weeks every two years, people around the world can all be focused on something positive and uniting. So often when something takes the world spotlight, it's a crisis: natural disaster, war, famine, climate change, or scandal. But the Olympics offer something different. For a few weeks, we all look to swimming pools and tracks, ski slopes and skating rinks, balance beams and judo mats, and we cheer people on to celebrate what humanity can do. We test the limits of human endurance, celebrate the emotions that accompany victory and defeat, and unite around our shared humanity. I know that there are places where young athletes do not have the resources to train, and there are countries that cannot field teams. But when I see swimmers from Japan, Zimbabwe, Canada, Australia, China, France, and the Netherlands in the pool together, it gives me hope that someday all the nations really will be represented. I love the colors of flags and faces, the sound of voices in all different languages shouting exuberantly for the accomplishments of people they've never met.
Dreaming
When I was growing up, I, like so many little girls around the globe, was fascinated with figure skating and gymnastics. My sister and I would watch the figure skaters: Kristy Yamaguchi, Nancy Kerrigan, Scott Hamilton, gliding gracefully over the ice and flying through the air. Then we'd go out and rollerskate around our driveway, creating routines and imagining that we, too, were skating stars. Both of us had taken gymnastics as kids and, while neither of us stayed with it for very long, we still watched in awe and delight as Shannon Miller and Dominique Dawes competed in the Olympics. I wished I could do parallel bar routines and tumbling runs during floor exercises, too. It's strange to me now to realize that most of the athletes are younger than I am. Katie Hoff, for instance, swam in her first Olympics at age 15 and is now in Beijing at 19. It's amazing to me that these young people can balance the expectations of an entire nation on their shoulders as they push their bodies to the limit.
Fourth Place
I always feel bad for the athletes who win fourth place at the Olympics. They've trained countless hours and years, practiced, competed, and pushed themselves, and they've done very well. To even make it to the Olympics is an incredible honor, and to do so well as to be fourth is incredible. Yet these fourth-place contenders do not get a place on the medal stand. Their photographs don't make the newsstands, and their names fade to obscurity, if they were ever brought up at all. And yet, it's the fourth-place contenders who really represent us. Most of us aren't Michael Phelpses. We work and our efforts are neither recognized nor remembered. We don't get medals or get our pictures in the paper. But we don't work for the recognition. We work because the endeavor is worth it. We struggle because there is joy in trying, in being in motion. So I salute the fourth-place contenders, and their fifth- and sixth-place competitors. Thank you for keeping up the effort, for working toward a goal. Thank you for playing because you love the sport, because you want to be better, and because you hope for more. And thank you for accepting fourth-place gracefully, knowing that your efforts still have merit.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
A Congregational Change
I checked my mail today to find the monthly newsletter from my home church in my box. I love getting the newsletter and catching up on the news of that community, even though I moved away and only attend there sporadically. As I flipped to page four, I noticed a box marked "Congregational Change". There it was: a paragraph announcing my change of membership to another church, and a brief explanation that it's because I'm seeking ordination in a different conference. I've known it was coming for a while. The change is a result of a decision I made and the effort I put forth to see it through. But for a minute I sat staring at the page and feeling like I was going to cry.
It's as though I've moved out all over again, I've left home once more. I love that church. For the life of me, I can't remember a time when that church wasn't home to me. I grew up there, holding the wrinkled hands of the elderly members who were like grandparents to me. I remember whining about putting on tights and dresses to sit on the hard wooded pews of that sanctuary. I remember filling in all the O's and zeros in the bulletin while words I didn't really understand washed over me. I recall standing on the pew to see the hymnal in my mother's hands, and hearing all the rich voices raised in song around me.
I was baptized in that church when I was ten. Every time I see the baptismal font at the front of that sanctuary, I remember the feeling of love and responsibility as the pastor dripped wet hands on my scalp, telling me that I belonged to God and to that community.
I know the building like I know my own reflection. I used to explore it while my mom counted the collection and play Sardines there during Girl Scout overnights and MYF lock-ins. I practiced organ in the sanctuary while a rogue bat flew around the ceiling. I know the secret rooms and the stairway to the bell tower, and I can walk around in the dark without fear. It's as safe and comfortable to me as the house where I lived for 17 years.
I can still remember Sunday School lessons and learning the Lord's Prayer, running down the red carpet to children's time and sitting in the balcony with my friends feeling quite grown up. I recall confirmation classes and conversations that made the stories from the Bible real.
But most of all, I remember the people. I remember being able to walk up to anyone in the sanctuary and trust them. I can see the faces and feel the hugs, I can hear the voices lifting hymns to the top of the stained glass windows, and I can even imagine precisely where everyone sits in the sanctuary and whether I could find them working in the kitchen or chatting in the fellowship hall after the service. It's their support that has allowed me to go this far. It is the lessons they taught me that nurtured my faith and prepared me for a life of service. Every day, I thank God for them and pray that they continue to do the same for everyone who passes through their doors.
I haven't attended that church regularly in six years, and now my membership is even registered somewhere else. But no matter where I serve or worship, that building, those people, that community is still my home church.
It's as though I've moved out all over again, I've left home once more. I love that church. For the life of me, I can't remember a time when that church wasn't home to me. I grew up there, holding the wrinkled hands of the elderly members who were like grandparents to me. I remember whining about putting on tights and dresses to sit on the hard wooded pews of that sanctuary. I remember filling in all the O's and zeros in the bulletin while words I didn't really understand washed over me. I recall standing on the pew to see the hymnal in my mother's hands, and hearing all the rich voices raised in song around me.
I was baptized in that church when I was ten. Every time I see the baptismal font at the front of that sanctuary, I remember the feeling of love and responsibility as the pastor dripped wet hands on my scalp, telling me that I belonged to God and to that community.
I know the building like I know my own reflection. I used to explore it while my mom counted the collection and play Sardines there during Girl Scout overnights and MYF lock-ins. I practiced organ in the sanctuary while a rogue bat flew around the ceiling. I know the secret rooms and the stairway to the bell tower, and I can walk around in the dark without fear. It's as safe and comfortable to me as the house where I lived for 17 years.
I can still remember Sunday School lessons and learning the Lord's Prayer, running down the red carpet to children's time and sitting in the balcony with my friends feeling quite grown up. I recall confirmation classes and conversations that made the stories from the Bible real.
But most of all, I remember the people. I remember being able to walk up to anyone in the sanctuary and trust them. I can see the faces and feel the hugs, I can hear the voices lifting hymns to the top of the stained glass windows, and I can even imagine precisely where everyone sits in the sanctuary and whether I could find them working in the kitchen or chatting in the fellowship hall after the service. It's their support that has allowed me to go this far. It is the lessons they taught me that nurtured my faith and prepared me for a life of service. Every day, I thank God for them and pray that they continue to do the same for everyone who passes through their doors.
I haven't attended that church regularly in six years, and now my membership is even registered somewhere else. But no matter where I serve or worship, that building, those people, that community is still my home church.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
Wisdom of Those Who've Gone Before
I've been worrying lately. Those of you who know me well won't be surprised to hear that, but I felt the need to put it into words. The strange thing is, I'm not really worried about failing. In fact, I'm more worried about the consequences of succeeding.
Right now I'm working on a huge application for the career that I hope I will pursue for the rest of my life. In my area of life, that application process is called "commissioning". And, while I'm a bit concerned about not passing the "commissioning process", I'm actually more afraid of passing and facing the life that is beyond it. All my life I've been in school, taking classes and getting degrees in preparation for some abstract future called a "career" or, in more spiritual circles, a "vocation". Until recently, I looked at that future vocation with hope and excitement, but now that excitement is tinged with fear.
It reminds me of the first time I went to Chicago. I was extremely excited about seeing the skyscrapers and the diversity of the city, of being around people and noise and hustle, and of the contrast from my tiny hometown. But as our family minivan started through the suburbs and the freeway widened to ten lanes, my eyes grew wide in fear. What if the buildings fell down, or I got lost in all those people? I was still excited about Chicago, but up close it was much bigger and more intimidating than I realized.
That's what I'm beginning to realize about my upcoming ministry. It's not that I really think anything will go wrong. It will be a challenge and a learning experience, and I honestly believe that I can do all the necessary tasks of ministry, and even do them relatively well. But it's a lot scarier now that it's looming on the horizon. The responsibilities seem much larger from the downhill slope of seminary.
So today, as I was worrying about my future and rehearsing those quarter-life crisis phrases that many people my age know by heart, I decided to go scanning the blogospere for those who share this experience in common with me. I looked to the internet writings of the people I have admired in my seminary career, to people who are like me, but a couple steps farther down the road. I added their URLs to my links in the hope that, over the coming months, when I'm freaking out about the way my vocation is growing in the windshield, I'll be able to look to their wisdom and see that they are surviving, and even thriving, in the world of ordained ministry that seems so frightening from where I stand.
Deep down, I take courage in the belief that I can follow the path to which I've been called. But it helps to be able to read the travelogues of those who've gone before, look a few chapters ahead, and see that it turned out all right.
Right now I'm working on a huge application for the career that I hope I will pursue for the rest of my life. In my area of life, that application process is called "commissioning". And, while I'm a bit concerned about not passing the "commissioning process", I'm actually more afraid of passing and facing the life that is beyond it. All my life I've been in school, taking classes and getting degrees in preparation for some abstract future called a "career" or, in more spiritual circles, a "vocation". Until recently, I looked at that future vocation with hope and excitement, but now that excitement is tinged with fear.
It reminds me of the first time I went to Chicago. I was extremely excited about seeing the skyscrapers and the diversity of the city, of being around people and noise and hustle, and of the contrast from my tiny hometown. But as our family minivan started through the suburbs and the freeway widened to ten lanes, my eyes grew wide in fear. What if the buildings fell down, or I got lost in all those people? I was still excited about Chicago, but up close it was much bigger and more intimidating than I realized.
That's what I'm beginning to realize about my upcoming ministry. It's not that I really think anything will go wrong. It will be a challenge and a learning experience, and I honestly believe that I can do all the necessary tasks of ministry, and even do them relatively well. But it's a lot scarier now that it's looming on the horizon. The responsibilities seem much larger from the downhill slope of seminary.
So today, as I was worrying about my future and rehearsing those quarter-life crisis phrases that many people my age know by heart, I decided to go scanning the blogospere for those who share this experience in common with me. I looked to the internet writings of the people I have admired in my seminary career, to people who are like me, but a couple steps farther down the road. I added their URLs to my links in the hope that, over the coming months, when I'm freaking out about the way my vocation is growing in the windshield, I'll be able to look to their wisdom and see that they are surviving, and even thriving, in the world of ordained ministry that seems so frightening from where I stand.
Deep down, I take courage in the belief that I can follow the path to which I've been called. But it helps to be able to read the travelogues of those who've gone before, look a few chapters ahead, and see that it turned out all right.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
The Smokies: the Final Leg of the GRT
On Saturday, I was in the Harrison County Fair Parade (Harrison County, IA). I sat in the back of a pickup truck throwing shirts and pencils to the people who lined the street. Riding on a float in the Harrison County Fair Parade was a strange throwback to my life growing up. Living in a small Midwestern town in the fall often meant staking out a spot on the sidewalk lining Main Street and collecting as much candy as I could from the passing floats. I remember how exciting it was to hear the drums of the marching band and the blast of the horn on the fire engine. Then, as a member of the high school marching band, I was often a part of small parades. We'd march in our matching summer uniforms of shorts and polo shirts, or sweat like crazy in our wool uniforms, walking sort-of-close-to-in-step with one another past the grins of proud parents and children who wished we could produce candy out of our instruments instead of music. I had forgotten how much I liked parades.
From there, A and I drove across Iowa to visit her hometown, which I have heard about for years. She is the "heiress to the feed store" in her tiny Iowa town, and it was really fun for me to see the places she'd talked about and glimpse what life might have been like for her growing up in a town even smaller than the one I grew up in.
Then it was on across the country, past the world's largest truck stop, down through the hills of Kentucky to Great Smokey Mountain National Park. A's parents have a gorgeous cabin just outside the park, and they welcomed us warmly. We spent a couple days exploring the park, having picnics and going hiking, and driving down the windy roads looking for animals. It was fun to join in their family vacation, and I felt almost like one of the family as we ate together and talked about their small town and shared stories of family vacations past.
On Wednesday morning, A and I spotted a two-year bear cub while hiking around Cades Cove. We were only about thirty feet away, so I got some great shots of the bear:
Then, after nearly two weeks and more than 2,300 miles of travel, I made my way back to the city. Too bad my air conditioning was broken when I got back to my apartment...
From there, A and I drove across Iowa to visit her hometown, which I have heard about for years. She is the "heiress to the feed store" in her tiny Iowa town, and it was really fun for me to see the places she'd talked about and glimpse what life might have been like for her growing up in a town even smaller than the one I grew up in.
Then it was on across the country, past the world's largest truck stop, down through the hills of Kentucky to Great Smokey Mountain National Park. A's parents have a gorgeous cabin just outside the park, and they welcomed us warmly. We spent a couple days exploring the park, having picnics and going hiking, and driving down the windy roads looking for animals. It was fun to join in their family vacation, and I felt almost like one of the family as we ate together and talked about their small town and shared stories of family vacations past. On Wednesday morning, A and I spotted a two-year bear cub while hiking around Cades Cove. We were only about thirty feet away, so I got some great shots of the bear:
Then, after nearly two weeks and more than 2,300 miles of travel, I made my way back to the city. Too bad my air conditioning was broken when I got back to my apartment...
Friday, July 25, 2008
Wineries in Iowa? and Other Lessons of the GRT
After a lovely visit in Indiana, I went up to the great state of Missouri. There, I got to have lunch and catch up briefly with Bear, a friend from college who I hadn't seen in two years. Bear has the same sense of humor, kindness, and love of hot wings that I first cherished in our friendship, but he also seems to have gained some wisdom since I saw him last. I can't explain how I gained that impression, and perhaps it was just seeing him through two years of separation, but I was impressed by his self-assurance and acceptance of the situations around him. It made me proud to be his friend.
From there I went on to Kansas City, where I visited art museums with an artist friend of mine, C. I had seen C's work before, but I'd never heard him explain other people's works. He is not only well-versed in art history and knowledgeable about the pieces we viewed in the two Kansas City art museums, he's also very skilled at explaining the works in ways that ordinary people can understand. He likened the different methods and movements to food and music, helping me to understand the pieces in new ways. I could almost taste and smell the paintings as well as see them.
Along the way, I drove through the city where I went to school. It was strange to see the exits again, to recognize the signs for restaurants and stores where I once ate and drank with friends, places that shaped my life for four years. Most of all, I was amazed at the feelings that washed over me as I spotted the smokestack on the horizon that always, to me, signaled that I had returned to school. As I sped across the pavement, I though of the small brick residence hall near the base of that smokestack where I learned so many lessons. That building was once a cherished haven for me, the place where I could return when I felt torn between my childhood self and the adult I knew I had to become. I remembered all the deep conversations and self-revelations I uncovered in those cinder-block rooms, and my vision was blurred with the faces of people who challenged me to be myself, many of whom I have failed to maintain contact with. I learned so much on that campus. I transformed from a high school caterpillar to a world-ready butterfly in that academic cocoon. And, as I watched that city fade in my rearview mirror, I knew that the city held memories, but no future for me.
I drove on to Iowa, where my friend A has chased her dream to a Wildlife Refuge. She is one of the brave people in my acquaintance who know what they want and throw their whole selves into achieving that. We spent several days catching up, making small road trips around the region to the Omaha Zoo and to Pipestone National Monument in Minnesota. And she revealed to me that there is a fledgling wine industry in Iowa, so we had wine-tasting adventures in the Midwest. While she works, I get to explore the prairies, wetlands, and expansive farms that make up the landscapes here. And even this slightly hilly land, cut by rivers, where most people just see endless cornfields, is beautiful to me.
From there I went on to Kansas City, where I visited art museums with an artist friend of mine, C. I had seen C's work before, but I'd never heard him explain other people's works. He is not only well-versed in art history and knowledgeable about the pieces we viewed in the two Kansas City art museums, he's also very skilled at explaining the works in ways that ordinary people can understand. He likened the different methods and movements to food and music, helping me to understand the pieces in new ways. I could almost taste and smell the paintings as well as see them. Along the way, I drove through the city where I went to school. It was strange to see the exits again, to recognize the signs for restaurants and stores where I once ate and drank with friends, places that shaped my life for four years. Most of all, I was amazed at the feelings that washed over me as I spotted the smokestack on the horizon that always, to me, signaled that I had returned to school. As I sped across the pavement, I though of the small brick residence hall near the base of that smokestack where I learned so many lessons. That building was once a cherished haven for me, the place where I could return when I felt torn between my childhood self and the adult I knew I had to become. I remembered all the deep conversations and self-revelations I uncovered in those cinder-block rooms, and my vision was blurred with the faces of people who challenged me to be myself, many of whom I have failed to maintain contact with. I learned so much on that campus. I transformed from a high school caterpillar to a world-ready butterfly in that academic cocoon. And, as I watched that city fade in my rearview mirror, I knew that the city held memories, but no future for me.
I drove on to Iowa, where my friend A has chased her dream to a Wildlife Refuge. She is one of the brave people in my acquaintance who know what they want and throw their whole selves into achieving that. We spent several days catching up, making small road trips around the region to the Omaha Zoo and to Pipestone National Monument in Minnesota. And she revealed to me that there is a fledgling wine industry in Iowa, so we had wine-tasting adventures in the Midwest. While she works, I get to explore the prairies, wetlands, and expansive farms that make up the landscapes here. And even this slightly hilly land, cut by rivers, where most people just see endless cornfields, is beautiful to me.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The GRT: My Great American Road Trip
"Where all are you guys going?"
"Who do you mean, 'you guys'? It's just me."
"Wait, you're going on a two week road trip alone?"
"Yup."
"Why?"
"Because I can. Because I want to."
"Oh. Wow."
I have been told that the "Great American Road Trip" is dying out. People are saying that high gas prices, the increased availability of flying, and the fragmenting of the American family are causing road trips to become a thing of the past. Maybe I'm just behind the times, but I don't buy it. When I was a kid, my family took road trips with relative frequency, and many of my favorite family memories are of things that happened on those trips.
I remember going to Washington D.C. for the first time, listening to my dad describe historical events as we toured the places where they happened. I remember getting ice cream sundaes in the basement of the Smithsonian and gazing at the planes suspended from the ceiling of the Air and Space Museum. I was awe-struck by being able to see history in concrete form before me. I remember Mom navigating the Metro, and Dad keeping his head on a swivel and his hand on his wallet as my sister and I, small-town girls at heart, stared around us with eyes like saucers.
I remember driving down to New Orleans and staying with my uncle there. I was fascinated by the smells and dirt of the French Quarter. I recall my parents hustling us past shop fronts that they deemed inappropriate, but letting us explore the stores that featured ceramic theater masks. I even recall trying on a huge, antique sapphire ring in a pawn shop, being amazed that such a huge stone even existed.
I remember going to Mammoth Cave and being fascinated with the idea of spelunking. We ran into an old science teacher of my sister's at the park, where he was working as a ranger, and I remember climbing around on the young cavers tour, exploring tiny spaces and getting covered in cave mud.
But probably most memorable of all was our trip out west. On that trek, my dad's mother joined our family of four, so we took her minivan and started our venture from Denver. We drove up through the Black Hills to Mt. Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Monument, then on to Yellowstone. In my mind's eye I can still see the colors of the hot springs, and the lush green of the hills. I can remember my mad excitement when I saw Old Faithful blow the first time. And, when I really focus, I can remember the smell of the NutriGrain bars I'd eat when I started to get carsick.
Perhaps those fond memories are the reason that I love road trips so much. I love the idea of exploring and having an adventure, and I get excited about the chance to see friends and family who are usually far away. I love the feel of stretching after a long car ride, and of the hugs and smiles of the people at your destination when you finally arrive on their doorsteps. I love the freedom of traveling, of being able to go down the road, to see the world out my window and sing at the top of my lungs in the car.
So, to commemorate what will probably be my last free summer, I am taking a road trip. I'm loading my remarkably reliable car, Jack, and setting out on an adventure. When I first mentioned my plans, some of my friends were surprised that I would want to travel several thousand miles and take on a two-week trip by myself. But my family and those who know me best recognize that it's pretty typical of me. I'm pretty independent and have no qualms about going out on my own. I love the open road, the freedom of a flexible itinerary, and the knowledge that I get to see people I care about along the way. I love singing in the car and finding fun restaurants where I can eat along the way.
That is why, this morning, I lugged my duffel bag downstairs, set my iPod for some tunes, and Jack and I set off down the road. I drove through Tennessee and Kentucky, through beautiful green hills and gently rolling farmland toward the flat plains of the midwest. I finally stopped in the small city of Evansville, Indiana, a place I where I had once visited when a friend went to college here. I recalled a small, indie coffee shop here that my friend had taken me to and, with a little help from my GPS, found it: Penny Lane Coffee House. I stopped in for an Italian Soda and got a little work done in the afternoon.
Then I met up with a friend from grad. school, Rachel, who is working here for the summer, and we went to a New York-style lounge called to catch a little dinner. After dinner we met up with the local dance group for a lesson in salsa dancing and an evening of salsa and swing. I'm not a great dancer, but the teachers were good and, with the help of some excellent leads, I managed to dance both salsa and swing. It was great to move that much after a day of driving, and I thoroughly enjoyed the music. I had learned a few salsa and swing moves in my showchoir days, but there's something totally different about the improvisational style of swing dancing outside showchoir choreography. In addition, the communities of swing dancers are really diverse, and I love the chance to meet people I otherwise might never get to talk to. Rachel has definitely persuaded me to take up dancing more in my everyday life, so I may have to look up the local swing dancers in my future locations. In the meantime, I'll try not to forget how to do the basic salsa and the triple-Lindy as I drive on down the road.
That's all for now, but stay tuned for the next installment of my GRT: Missouri Loves Company.
"Who do you mean, 'you guys'? It's just me."
"Wait, you're going on a two week road trip alone?"
"Yup."
"Why?"
"Because I can. Because I want to."
"Oh. Wow."
I have been told that the "Great American Road Trip" is dying out. People are saying that high gas prices, the increased availability of flying, and the fragmenting of the American family are causing road trips to become a thing of the past. Maybe I'm just behind the times, but I don't buy it. When I was a kid, my family took road trips with relative frequency, and many of my favorite family memories are of things that happened on those trips.
I remember going to Washington D.C. for the first time, listening to my dad describe historical events as we toured the places where they happened. I remember getting ice cream sundaes in the basement of the Smithsonian and gazing at the planes suspended from the ceiling of the Air and Space Museum. I was awe-struck by being able to see history in concrete form before me. I remember Mom navigating the Metro, and Dad keeping his head on a swivel and his hand on his wallet as my sister and I, small-town girls at heart, stared around us with eyes like saucers.
I remember driving down to New Orleans and staying with my uncle there. I was fascinated by the smells and dirt of the French Quarter. I recall my parents hustling us past shop fronts that they deemed inappropriate, but letting us explore the stores that featured ceramic theater masks. I even recall trying on a huge, antique sapphire ring in a pawn shop, being amazed that such a huge stone even existed.
I remember going to Mammoth Cave and being fascinated with the idea of spelunking. We ran into an old science teacher of my sister's at the park, where he was working as a ranger, and I remember climbing around on the young cavers tour, exploring tiny spaces and getting covered in cave mud.
But probably most memorable of all was our trip out west. On that trek, my dad's mother joined our family of four, so we took her minivan and started our venture from Denver. We drove up through the Black Hills to Mt. Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Monument, then on to Yellowstone. In my mind's eye I can still see the colors of the hot springs, and the lush green of the hills. I can remember my mad excitement when I saw Old Faithful blow the first time. And, when I really focus, I can remember the smell of the NutriGrain bars I'd eat when I started to get carsick.
Perhaps those fond memories are the reason that I love road trips so much. I love the idea of exploring and having an adventure, and I get excited about the chance to see friends and family who are usually far away. I love the feel of stretching after a long car ride, and of the hugs and smiles of the people at your destination when you finally arrive on their doorsteps. I love the freedom of traveling, of being able to go down the road, to see the world out my window and sing at the top of my lungs in the car.
So, to commemorate what will probably be my last free summer, I am taking a road trip. I'm loading my remarkably reliable car, Jack, and setting out on an adventure. When I first mentioned my plans, some of my friends were surprised that I would want to travel several thousand miles and take on a two-week trip by myself. But my family and those who know me best recognize that it's pretty typical of me. I'm pretty independent and have no qualms about going out on my own. I love the open road, the freedom of a flexible itinerary, and the knowledge that I get to see people I care about along the way. I love singing in the car and finding fun restaurants where I can eat along the way.
That is why, this morning, I lugged my duffel bag downstairs, set my iPod for some tunes, and Jack and I set off down the road. I drove through Tennessee and Kentucky, through beautiful green hills and gently rolling farmland toward the flat plains of the midwest. I finally stopped in the small city of Evansville, Indiana, a place I where I had once visited when a friend went to college here. I recalled a small, indie coffee shop here that my friend had taken me to and, with a little help from my GPS, found it: Penny Lane Coffee House. I stopped in for an Italian Soda and got a little work done in the afternoon.
Then I met up with a friend from grad. school, Rachel, who is working here for the summer, and we went to a New York-style lounge called to catch a little dinner. After dinner we met up with the local dance group for a lesson in salsa dancing and an evening of salsa and swing. I'm not a great dancer, but the teachers were good and, with the help of some excellent leads, I managed to dance both salsa and swing. It was great to move that much after a day of driving, and I thoroughly enjoyed the music. I had learned a few salsa and swing moves in my showchoir days, but there's something totally different about the improvisational style of swing dancing outside showchoir choreography. In addition, the communities of swing dancers are really diverse, and I love the chance to meet people I otherwise might never get to talk to. Rachel has definitely persuaded me to take up dancing more in my everyday life, so I may have to look up the local swing dancers in my future locations. In the meantime, I'll try not to forget how to do the basic salsa and the triple-Lindy as I drive on down the road.
That's all for now, but stay tuned for the next installment of my GRT: Missouri Loves Company.
Friday, July 04, 2008
Did They Know?
Benjamin Franklin: "Don't worry, the history books will clean it up."
John Adams: "I won't be remembered by the history books. It will all be 'Franklin did this, and Franklin did that, and Franklin did some other damn thing. Franklin smote the ground and out popped George Washington, fully grown and on his horse. He then electrified him with his amazing lightning rod and the three of them, Franklin, Washington, and the horse, conducted the entire revolution by themselves."
I watched the movie 1776 today, as is becoming my habit on Independence Day. As I watched it, I began to wonder: did our forebears realize what kind of legacy they would have? Did John Adams know, when he pushed and pushed for independence, that over two hundred years later people would still be talking about and celebrating what he did? Did Benjamin Franklin realize when he had his portrait painted that hundreds of years later people would walk around with his picture on their money? Moreover, did he have any idea what that the electricity that he began playing with then would be absolutely essential to the way many people live their lives now, so many years later? Did Thomas Jefferson know that his words would be quoted for centuries to come? I doubt it. I think they probably knew what they were doing was important, probably realized that it would have long-term consequences, but did they realize they were creating a new nation that would thrive and become a world power?
It got me thinking about the consequences of our actions, and about what people will think about our generation two hundred years in the future. Is it possible that, centuries from now, people will be quoting things my friends and colleagues have written? Could it be that our inventions, our ideas, our creations will endure?
I remember the giant stone ruins I saw in the Middle East, the enormous pillars that have remained standing for thousands of years. I wonder if the lowly stone cutter and the engineers and well-muscled workers who put up those pillars knew that thousands of years later people would travel from around the globe (another concept they could not have grasped) to see their work. Will our buildings last that long? Will they endure the weathering and time to stand as a testament to our existence thousands of years in the future?
I've been contemplating time a lot lately. I've been thinking about the four thousands years of worship that have taken place at Palmyra in Syria, and about the period of time that people have been continuously dwelling in the city of Damascus. I thought about how, despite the fact that they're practically newborns in the grand scheme of history, how much impact the founders of the U.S. have had on the world. Understood philosophically, time is both a force and a social construction. Time is a force in that it is something that exists in the realm of nature, and which is beyond our control. Time passes, the sun rises and sets, the seasons change, organisms grow, die, and decompose, ad nauseum et infinitum. But time is also a social construction. Humans created calendars and clocks, defined years, months, hours, minutes, and seconds. We are the only creations, so far as I can tell, that actually keep track of time. Animals perhaps keep track of seasons for hibernation and food storage. Plants grow as the seasons set forth, but they do not count the hours and minutes, they don't set deadlines, and they certainly don't keep concrete schedules.
So, what is it about our humanity that makes us want to keep track of time? Why do we count the days of our lives, numbering the days and the years, ticking off hours and minutes? Is it our sense of looming mortality? Are we trying to keep track of our time so that we can make the most of it? Or is have we created calendars and timepieces so that we can live better together? Our time-tracking certainly makes it more possible for us to arrange to meet one another, to make working and traveling together a possibility. Keeping track of time allows us to have commerce and communication, to organize our interaction. Yet, does it really serve us? When we worry about wasting time or losing time, when we allow our calendars and clocks to limit us or dictate how we live, is that healthy? When we forget that we have created time and instead allow it to rule us, what does that do to our freedom? Do we realize how small we are in the grand scheme of things? Do we recognize the possible consequences of our actions in the long run? Or are we so trapped in our keeping track of seconds that we forget to think in terms of centuries? And how would we act or live differently if we thought with a longer frame of reference?
As I write this, I doubt that anyone will read this a month from now, much less in two hundred years. I know that I've spent minutes typing this that I will never get back. But I care a lot less about the minutes I've lost and a lot more about the possibility of making a positive change for the people two hundred years from now. So I guess I'll keep writing.
John Adams: "I won't be remembered by the history books. It will all be 'Franklin did this, and Franklin did that, and Franklin did some other damn thing. Franklin smote the ground and out popped George Washington, fully grown and on his horse. He then electrified him with his amazing lightning rod and the three of them, Franklin, Washington, and the horse, conducted the entire revolution by themselves."
I watched the movie 1776 today, as is becoming my habit on Independence Day. As I watched it, I began to wonder: did our forebears realize what kind of legacy they would have? Did John Adams know, when he pushed and pushed for independence, that over two hundred years later people would still be talking about and celebrating what he did? Did Benjamin Franklin realize when he had his portrait painted that hundreds of years later people would walk around with his picture on their money? Moreover, did he have any idea what that the electricity that he began playing with then would be absolutely essential to the way many people live their lives now, so many years later? Did Thomas Jefferson know that his words would be quoted for centuries to come? I doubt it. I think they probably knew what they were doing was important, probably realized that it would have long-term consequences, but did they realize they were creating a new nation that would thrive and become a world power?
It got me thinking about the consequences of our actions, and about what people will think about our generation two hundred years in the future. Is it possible that, centuries from now, people will be quoting things my friends and colleagues have written? Could it be that our inventions, our ideas, our creations will endure?
I remember the giant stone ruins I saw in the Middle East, the enormous pillars that have remained standing for thousands of years. I wonder if the lowly stone cutter and the engineers and well-muscled workers who put up those pillars knew that thousands of years later people would travel from around the globe (another concept they could not have grasped) to see their work. Will our buildings last that long? Will they endure the weathering and time to stand as a testament to our existence thousands of years in the future?
I've been contemplating time a lot lately. I've been thinking about the four thousands years of worship that have taken place at Palmyra in Syria, and about the period of time that people have been continuously dwelling in the city of Damascus. I thought about how, despite the fact that they're practically newborns in the grand scheme of history, how much impact the founders of the U.S. have had on the world. Understood philosophically, time is both a force and a social construction. Time is a force in that it is something that exists in the realm of nature, and which is beyond our control. Time passes, the sun rises and sets, the seasons change, organisms grow, die, and decompose, ad nauseum et infinitum. But time is also a social construction. Humans created calendars and clocks, defined years, months, hours, minutes, and seconds. We are the only creations, so far as I can tell, that actually keep track of time. Animals perhaps keep track of seasons for hibernation and food storage. Plants grow as the seasons set forth, but they do not count the hours and minutes, they don't set deadlines, and they certainly don't keep concrete schedules.
So, what is it about our humanity that makes us want to keep track of time? Why do we count the days of our lives, numbering the days and the years, ticking off hours and minutes? Is it our sense of looming mortality? Are we trying to keep track of our time so that we can make the most of it? Or is have we created calendars and timepieces so that we can live better together? Our time-tracking certainly makes it more possible for us to arrange to meet one another, to make working and traveling together a possibility. Keeping track of time allows us to have commerce and communication, to organize our interaction. Yet, does it really serve us? When we worry about wasting time or losing time, when we allow our calendars and clocks to limit us or dictate how we live, is that healthy? When we forget that we have created time and instead allow it to rule us, what does that do to our freedom? Do we realize how small we are in the grand scheme of things? Do we recognize the possible consequences of our actions in the long run? Or are we so trapped in our keeping track of seconds that we forget to think in terms of centuries? And how would we act or live differently if we thought with a longer frame of reference?
As I write this, I doubt that anyone will read this a month from now, much less in two hundred years. I know that I've spent minutes typing this that I will never get back. But I care a lot less about the minutes I've lost and a lot more about the possibility of making a positive change for the people two hundred years from now. So I guess I'll keep writing.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
I wish I had the words
Since I last put anything on this blog, I've: finished another semester of grad school, traveled to Syria, Jordan, Egypt, Israel, and Greece, been through a break-up, and started work on my thesis. Consider that the quick update.
Visiting the Middle East was incredible and, sadly, indescribable. I've tried to explain the feelings and smells and sights, but I can't capture them in words. My attempts always come up short. For example: The Suq in Damascus smells like the color orange, sharp and bright and spicy. It's a mix of tamarind juice and the spices that are sold in open bins in the market stalls. You walk through the Suq and your eyes get drunk from the colors everywhere, illuminated by sunlight streaming through the pinprick holes in the metal roof. There are colorful scarves and pashminas everywhere, their light fabric and vibrant colors waving gently as people hurry past. Between the stalls of spices and fabrics are stalls gleaming with jewelry and wonderfully decorated tea sets. Then you walk out through ancient stone arches and into a courtyard full of pigeons with old men talking politics and women tending children waiting to get into the Umayyad Mosque just a few yards away.
That was just one of the things we did on our first day in Damascus. Now, imagine ten times what I can describe, and multiply that by 21 days of similar experiences: visiting ruins, driving through deserts, climbing mountains, watching sunrises and sunsets, seeing mosques, churches, and synagogues, worshiping on mountains and next to beautiful blue seas, snorkeling in the Red Sea, riding a camel in the middle of the night, and praying in places where Jesus walked and taught. I regret to say that I can't possibly articulate it. You'd need to go there. Which, for the record, I highly recommend.
I'll try to explain more as I go through more of my pictures and journal stuff. In the meantime, here are some of the pictures that best capture my experience.
This is the sunrise from the top of Mt. Sinai in Egypt.
The "monastery" in Petra, Jordan is actually a huge facade for a tomb.
I had the opportunity to pray at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.
Visiting the Middle East was incredible and, sadly, indescribable. I've tried to explain the feelings and smells and sights, but I can't capture them in words. My attempts always come up short. For example: The Suq in Damascus smells like the color orange, sharp and bright and spicy. It's a mix of tamarind juice and the spices that are sold in open bins in the market stalls. You walk through the Suq and your eyes get drunk from the colors everywhere, illuminated by sunlight streaming through the pinprick holes in the metal roof. There are colorful scarves and pashminas everywhere, their light fabric and vibrant colors waving gently as people hurry past. Between the stalls of spices and fabrics are stalls gleaming with jewelry and wonderfully decorated tea sets. Then you walk out through ancient stone arches and into a courtyard full of pigeons with old men talking politics and women tending children waiting to get into the Umayyad Mosque just a few yards away.
That was just one of the things we did on our first day in Damascus. Now, imagine ten times what I can describe, and multiply that by 21 days of similar experiences: visiting ruins, driving through deserts, climbing mountains, watching sunrises and sunsets, seeing mosques, churches, and synagogues, worshiping on mountains and next to beautiful blue seas, snorkeling in the Red Sea, riding a camel in the middle of the night, and praying in places where Jesus walked and taught. I regret to say that I can't possibly articulate it. You'd need to go there. Which, for the record, I highly recommend.
I'll try to explain more as I go through more of my pictures and journal stuff. In the meantime, here are some of the pictures that best capture my experience.
This is the sunrise from the top of Mt. Sinai in Egypt.
The "monastery" in Petra, Jordan is actually a huge facade for a tomb.
I had the opportunity to pray at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.
Monday, April 28, 2008
This Made Me Laugh
Someone shared a copy of this list with me a couple days ago, and I thought it was brilliant. It's originally from here, but I've reprinted it here because it's easier to read here than to go link-hunting. I think it's just as reasonable and logical as many of the arguments against ordaining women.
10 Reasons Men Should Not Be Ordained
10. A man’s place is in the army.
9. The pastoral duties of men who have children might distract them from the responsibility of being a parent.
8. The physique of men indicates that they are more suited to such tasks as chopping down trees and wrestling mountain lions. It would be “unnatural” for them to do ministerial tasks.
7. Man was created before woman, obviously as a prototype. Thus, they represent an experiment rather than the crowning achievement of creation.
6. Men are too emotional to be priests or pastors. Their conduct at football and basketball games demonstrates this.
5. Some men are handsome, and this will distract women worshipers.
4. Pastors need to nurture their congregations. But this is not a traditional male role. Throughout history, women have been recognized as not only more skilled than men at nurturing, but also more fervently attracted to it. This makes them the obvious choice for ordination.
3. Men are prone to violence. No really masculine man wants to settle disputes except by fighting about them. Thus they would be poor role models as well as dangerously unstable in positions of leadership.
2. The New Testament tells us that Jesus was betrayed by a man. His lack of faith and ensuing punishment remind us of the subordinated position that all men should take.
1. Men can still be involved in church activities, even without being ordained. They can sweep sidewalks, repair the church roof, and perhaps even lead the song service on Father’s Day. By confining themselves to such traditional male roles, they can still be vitally important in the life of the church.
10 Reasons Men Should Not Be Ordained
10. A man’s place is in the army.
9. The pastoral duties of men who have children might distract them from the responsibility of being a parent.
8. The physique of men indicates that they are more suited to such tasks as chopping down trees and wrestling mountain lions. It would be “unnatural” for them to do ministerial tasks.
7. Man was created before woman, obviously as a prototype. Thus, they represent an experiment rather than the crowning achievement of creation.
6. Men are too emotional to be priests or pastors. Their conduct at football and basketball games demonstrates this.
5. Some men are handsome, and this will distract women worshipers.
4. Pastors need to nurture their congregations. But this is not a traditional male role. Throughout history, women have been recognized as not only more skilled than men at nurturing, but also more fervently attracted to it. This makes them the obvious choice for ordination.
3. Men are prone to violence. No really masculine man wants to settle disputes except by fighting about them. Thus they would be poor role models as well as dangerously unstable in positions of leadership.
2. The New Testament tells us that Jesus was betrayed by a man. His lack of faith and ensuing punishment remind us of the subordinated position that all men should take.
1. Men can still be involved in church activities, even without being ordained. They can sweep sidewalks, repair the church roof, and perhaps even lead the song service on Father’s Day. By confining themselves to such traditional male roles, they can still be vitally important in the life of the church.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Don't Call Us, We'll Call You
Want to date me? Apply now!
Name:
Number of Syllables in Last Name:
Age:
Phone Number(s):
E-Mail Address:
Address:
Height:
Hair Color:
Eye Color:
1) What were the last five books you read? (If you cannot think of 5 books you've ever read, you need not apply.)
2) List your goals for the next five years in priority order.
3) Describe your faith/religious affiliation in detail.
4) List your favorite:
a) Sports teams (NFL, NCAA football, NCAA basketball, hockey, baseball)
b) Newspaper
c) Color
d) Five Movies
e) Five bands/performers
f) Quote
g) Type of art (Medium, genre, artist)
5) What is your Myers-Briggs personality type?
6) Describe your faith/spirituality.
7) List your educational background, beginning with high school and including institutions, degrees, and areas of concentration.
8) Attach an updated resume to this form.
9) Family: explain.
10) Name five current or former members of the Denver Broncos.
11) Your girlfriend asks you to attend a musical with her. How do you respond?
12) What kind of flowers, if any, do you give to a significant other?
13) List any phobias, obsessions, compulsions, psychoses, and neuroses you exhibit.
14) Can you:
a) Tie your shoes?
b) Dig a hole 18"x18"x24"?
c) Select a matching shirt and tie?
d) Change a tire?
e) Give a passable back rub?
f) Eat with your hands?
g) Tolerate tears and whining?
h) Handle yourself in strange social situations?
i) Wash dishes?
j) Pray out loud?
k) Sing?
15) How do you feel about travel?
16) Cats or Dogs?
17) My cooking is: a)inedible, b)passible, c)tasty and nutritious, d)gourmet e)I have never, ever cooked anything.
18) Complete the sentence: People describe my sense of humor as...
19) Would you be willing and able to move in order to follow your spouse's career? (If no, please tear up application effective immediately)
20) Describe the first date you would take me on.
21) Give three personal references, including one by a woman who is not related to you.
22) Do you have a criminal record? Explain.
23) Every man should know either everything or nothing. Which do you know?
24) What are your political views?
25) Essay: Please explain why you wish to date me and why I should choose to date you.
Name:
Number of Syllables in Last Name:
Age:
Phone Number(s):
E-Mail Address:
Address:
Height:
Hair Color:
Eye Color:
1) What were the last five books you read? (If you cannot think of 5 books you've ever read, you need not apply.)
2) List your goals for the next five years in priority order.
3) Describe your faith/religious affiliation in detail.
4) List your favorite:
a) Sports teams (NFL, NCAA football, NCAA basketball, hockey, baseball)
b) Newspaper
c) Color
d) Five Movies
e) Five bands/performers
f) Quote
g) Type of art (Medium, genre, artist)
5) What is your Myers-Briggs personality type?
6) Describe your faith/spirituality.
7) List your educational background, beginning with high school and including institutions, degrees, and areas of concentration.
8) Attach an updated resume to this form.
9) Family: explain.
10) Name five current or former members of the Denver Broncos.
11) Your girlfriend asks you to attend a musical with her. How do you respond?
12) What kind of flowers, if any, do you give to a significant other?
13) List any phobias, obsessions, compulsions, psychoses, and neuroses you exhibit.
14) Can you:
a) Tie your shoes?
b) Dig a hole 18"x18"x24"?
c) Select a matching shirt and tie?
d) Change a tire?
e) Give a passable back rub?
f) Eat with your hands?
g) Tolerate tears and whining?
h) Handle yourself in strange social situations?
i) Wash dishes?
j) Pray out loud?
k) Sing?
15) How do you feel about travel?
16) Cats or Dogs?
17) My cooking is: a)inedible, b)passible, c)tasty and nutritious, d)gourmet e)I have never, ever cooked anything.
18) Complete the sentence: People describe my sense of humor as...
19) Would you be willing and able to move in order to follow your spouse's career? (If no, please tear up application effective immediately)
20) Describe the first date you would take me on.
21) Give three personal references, including one by a woman who is not related to you.
22) Do you have a criminal record? Explain.
23) Every man should know either everything or nothing. Which do you know?
24) What are your political views?
25) Essay: Please explain why you wish to date me and why I should choose to date you.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Light on Rain
"River in the rain, sometimes at night you look like a long, wide train, winding your way away somewhere. River, I love you, don't you care?"- Big River, "River in the Rain"
There's something about rainy nights that intrigues me. The light on the rain in the dark makes the air seem to glisten. The glowdrops swirling through the air become a Van Gogh painting moving all around me. Every surface shimmers in the lamplight, as though covered in gold glitter. Puddles of obsidian appear everywhere, glistening when the breeze disturbs their serenity. And when the raindrops pound their surface, they bubble effusively as though unable to contain their emotion, and I'm never sure if it's mirth or rage.
I know this weather inspires me to write, and I suppose it must be the same for many people, because there are tons of pieces of music about this weather, whether drizzle or storms. So, in the spirit of April showers, here are some of my favorites:
"Please Call Me, Baby" - Tom Waits
"Stormy Weather" - Joni Mitchell
"Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" - B.J. Thomas
"Grey Street" - Dave Matthews Band
"River in the Rain" - Big River
"Ain't No Sunshine" - Bill Withers
"Africa" - Toto
"Famous Last Words" - Billy Joel
There's something about rainy nights that intrigues me. The light on the rain in the dark makes the air seem to glisten. The glowdrops swirling through the air become a Van Gogh painting moving all around me. Every surface shimmers in the lamplight, as though covered in gold glitter. Puddles of obsidian appear everywhere, glistening when the breeze disturbs their serenity. And when the raindrops pound their surface, they bubble effusively as though unable to contain their emotion, and I'm never sure if it's mirth or rage.
I know this weather inspires me to write, and I suppose it must be the same for many people, because there are tons of pieces of music about this weather, whether drizzle or storms. So, in the spirit of April showers, here are some of my favorites:
"Please Call Me, Baby" - Tom Waits
"Stormy Weather" - Joni Mitchell
"Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" - B.J. Thomas
"Grey Street" - Dave Matthews Band
"River in the Rain" - Big River
"Ain't No Sunshine" - Bill Withers
"Africa" - Toto
"Famous Last Words" - Billy Joel
Friday, March 21, 2008
Neighbor
She always had time and smiles. Not expensive gifts, perhaps, but they were just what I needed. Her smile transformed her whole sun-browned face, crinkling her kind eyes, and she seemed to radiate joy.
I was an awkward, lonely thirteen year old and she was an adult who actually listened. When I was bemoaning a world where no one understood me, she came close, just by opening her door and listening. I spent hours in the dining room with them under the guise of "studying", actually eating popcorn, drinking Sunkist, joking, talking, laughing. We'd take the dog for a walk, smiling at the way his stubby tail wagged and the way he got mud on our pants when he jumped on our legs. I laughed endlessly when we discovered that she couldn't say aluminum. She nodded in understanding when we explained the bullying of junior high. In my loneliest days, I counted her among my friends.
I got older, taller, busier, but she remained my friend. She came to football games, tennis matches, band concerts, and showchoir competitions, supporting not just her son, but all of us. She was small, but her hugs were enormous, enveloping. Her laugh danced through the room, tickling everyone until they giggled along.
She loved horses and dogs. She grew up in my hometown and told stories about her youth there. She cared for people and greeted them with a friendliness that made them feel immediately at ease. She lived the command to love her neighbor. And she taught me to do that, too.
I miss her.
I was an awkward, lonely thirteen year old and she was an adult who actually listened. When I was bemoaning a world where no one understood me, she came close, just by opening her door and listening. I spent hours in the dining room with them under the guise of "studying", actually eating popcorn, drinking Sunkist, joking, talking, laughing. We'd take the dog for a walk, smiling at the way his stubby tail wagged and the way he got mud on our pants when he jumped on our legs. I laughed endlessly when we discovered that she couldn't say aluminum. She nodded in understanding when we explained the bullying of junior high. In my loneliest days, I counted her among my friends.
I got older, taller, busier, but she remained my friend. She came to football games, tennis matches, band concerts, and showchoir competitions, supporting not just her son, but all of us. She was small, but her hugs were enormous, enveloping. Her laugh danced through the room, tickling everyone until they giggled along.
She loved horses and dogs. She grew up in my hometown and told stories about her youth there. She cared for people and greeted them with a friendliness that made them feel immediately at ease. She lived the command to love her neighbor. And she taught me to do that, too.
I miss her.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
I love this...
At this moment I'm sitting in the student commons at school, and I feel I need to explain how much I love this place. So far this conversation has skipped through: the history of underwear, Bart Simpson's middle name, the current presidential election, Old Testament prophecy, Bret Favre, facial hair, John Wesley, antelope, religion, recessions, urination, and sermon-writing. Anything goes here. We can have serious conversations or we can goof around about almost anything. We gather around tables: people of all ages, races and backgrounds, eating, drinking, talking, studying, doing crossword puzzles, and creating the community I have longed for.
I look around as I sit here and think, "I love these people." These people give me hope for the future of our communities and churches. In 10 years, these people will be the leaders of our churches and non-profit organizations. They'll be transforming lives and spreading the love of Christ in the world. I love it.
In a little over a year, most of us will be leaving. Some of us only have a few months left in this community. I'm going to be very sad to leave this, very sad to see this community disperse into the world beyond. But, as much as I hate to think of us leaving this place, I know that in our departure, we're going out into the world to really make a difference. I believe in this, in these people. As much as I'm frustrated by many things in our church and frightened by the state of our society, these people give me hope. These are people who are passionate about God's word, passionate about bringing the kingdom of God on earth, who have the skills, attitude, and humor to face the problems out there and overcome them. God will work mighty things through these people.
I look around as I sit here and think, "I love these people." These people give me hope for the future of our communities and churches. In 10 years, these people will be the leaders of our churches and non-profit organizations. They'll be transforming lives and spreading the love of Christ in the world. I love it.
In a little over a year, most of us will be leaving. Some of us only have a few months left in this community. I'm going to be very sad to leave this, very sad to see this community disperse into the world beyond. But, as much as I hate to think of us leaving this place, I know that in our departure, we're going out into the world to really make a difference. I believe in this, in these people. As much as I'm frustrated by many things in our church and frightened by the state of our society, these people give me hope. These are people who are passionate about God's word, passionate about bringing the kingdom of God on earth, who have the skills, attitude, and humor to face the problems out there and overcome them. God will work mighty things through these people.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Postcards from the City
I am not from here. I am not from the city, not from the south, not from anywhere like this. So, as a tourist in this strangely familiar place, I write postcards in my head to people far away, people who do not see this place the way I do.
Everyone here wears shades of black and brown and serious. The outfits are always coordinated, but they pretend it's unintentional. It's not. Belts, shoes, accessories, designers, all mismatched to perfection, the epitome of sophistication. Their music is unintelligible: complex sentences set to tones of dulcet discontentment. No harmony is permitted, perhaps because it would be incongruous with the noise filtering in from the street. Minimalist sophisticates, gleaming without warmth.
The skyline glows and shimmers in the twilight. If I squint, I can pretend it is a forest of giant Christmas trees, with lighted branches dancing and winking, flirting with the moon. But when I smooth my features, the lines and rigid shapes return, the trees fade into towers. The buildings stand as stark sentinels, boldly proclaiming modernity and commerce. But they never dance in the breeze.
There's a certain charm to all-night diners. No gourmet here, but heavy sustenance is guaranteed. The late night wait staff is strange, and the customers are even more bizarre. The air is chilled, as though by turning the building into a refrigerator, memories of better days and more acceptable hours could be preserved. But the food is hot, and when everywhere else seems dark and lonely, the flourescent lights of the diner brighten the night.
The city is a perpetual motion machine. There is no lonely silence here. The streets and buildings are always buzzing with action and communication. Interaction never ceases and the air is thick with words and pheromones. The cacophony becomes music, the motion a dance; the city is an all day, all night gala event. Didn't you get an invitation?
Everyone here wears shades of black and brown and serious. The outfits are always coordinated, but they pretend it's unintentional. It's not. Belts, shoes, accessories, designers, all mismatched to perfection, the epitome of sophistication. Their music is unintelligible: complex sentences set to tones of dulcet discontentment. No harmony is permitted, perhaps because it would be incongruous with the noise filtering in from the street. Minimalist sophisticates, gleaming without warmth.
The skyline glows and shimmers in the twilight. If I squint, I can pretend it is a forest of giant Christmas trees, with lighted branches dancing and winking, flirting with the moon. But when I smooth my features, the lines and rigid shapes return, the trees fade into towers. The buildings stand as stark sentinels, boldly proclaiming modernity and commerce. But they never dance in the breeze.
There's a certain charm to all-night diners. No gourmet here, but heavy sustenance is guaranteed. The late night wait staff is strange, and the customers are even more bizarre. The air is chilled, as though by turning the building into a refrigerator, memories of better days and more acceptable hours could be preserved. But the food is hot, and when everywhere else seems dark and lonely, the flourescent lights of the diner brighten the night.
The city is a perpetual motion machine. There is no lonely silence here. The streets and buildings are always buzzing with action and communication. Interaction never ceases and the air is thick with words and pheromones. The cacophony becomes music, the motion a dance; the city is an all day, all night gala event. Didn't you get an invitation?
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Let it Snow!
I hate cold weather, and winter is my least-favorite season. I hate the way the wind whips through my hair, freezing my fingertips, ears, and nose, and it drives me crazy that I have to stay mostly inside for months on end. But, despite all that, I really like the first day or two of snow. I love to watch the snowflakes float and dance on their way down from the heavens. That's one of my favorite things about snow: it seldom just falls straight to the ground. It's forever twisting and twirling through the air, dancing sideways on the breeze. Even once it's on the ground, it drifts, moving like waves over the ground, seldom still or static.
I love the perfect, untouched expanse of ground covered with a blanket of snow before anyone makes footprints or tire tracks across it. I adore watching the marks appearing on it, showing all the inhabitants of the area, whether squirrels and rabbits or humans and vehicles. I love the side-by-side footprints where children have walked with parents and friends have trudged at one another's side.
A few days later, I know the snow will have melted away or, worse, been shoveled and plowed into big gray mounds of slush in parking lots and along roadsides. The joy and beauty will disappear, as fragile and temporary as it is beautiful. But today, while the snow performs its ballet outside my window, in this warm-climate place where it is rarely seen at all, I am thankful for the bits of frosty lace that grace my vision.
I love the perfect, untouched expanse of ground covered with a blanket of snow before anyone makes footprints or tire tracks across it. I adore watching the marks appearing on it, showing all the inhabitants of the area, whether squirrels and rabbits or humans and vehicles. I love the side-by-side footprints where children have walked with parents and friends have trudged at one another's side.
A few days later, I know the snow will have melted away or, worse, been shoveled and plowed into big gray mounds of slush in parking lots and along roadsides. The joy and beauty will disappear, as fragile and temporary as it is beautiful. But today, while the snow performs its ballet outside my window, in this warm-climate place where it is rarely seen at all, I am thankful for the bits of frosty lace that grace my vision.
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