How is it that my apartment gets messier when I'm not home than it is when I'm here? Oh, right, it's because traveling puts me at my most disorganized. With all the coming and going in this two-month period, it's gotten to the point where I walk through the door, drag whatever I'm carrying to my bedroom, and just dump all of it on the floor. Then I put some of the pile from the floor onto my extra bed, some onto my desk, some into a suitcase, grab a few things that used to be put away, add them to the bag, and walk back out. When I return, I repeat the procedure.
So the detritus of travel ends up all over my bedroom in no discernible pattern. Sometimes I'm so tired when I come in that I don't even make it to the bedroom, and the piles end up in the living room. It looks like a clutter bomb exploded all over my apartment. Fortunately, the ongoing travel means that I only really have to tolerate the mess for 24 hours at a time before I leave again.
So, goodnight bag,
Goodnight rag,
Goodnight duffel that I drag.
Goodnight mess,
Goodnight dress,
Goodnight lists that cause me stress.
Goodnight piles,
Goodnight trials,
Goodnight stuff that I should file.
Goodnight screen,
Goodnight greens
Goodnight laundry I should clean.
And goodnight room.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Licensing School
This week I'm at Licensing School. This is, in my opinion, a little strange, since I spent three years in seminary. But my conference requires everyone who is taking an appointment for the first time to attend licensing school. So, I'm spending nine days reviewing the more practical parts of all the things I learned in seminary.
It's slightly strange because, of the forty-ish people who are present, there are only perhaps four who are single--and we're all young and female. Most everyone else talks a lot about their spouses, kids, and grandkids. Today we were asked what the greatest blessing in our lives is, and nearly everyone said their spouse and/or children. I felt a little like a kindergartener. And it doesn't help that there are giant Adirondack chairs all over the place on the campus where we're staying. So, at the moment I'm sitting in an enormous chair, feeling like I'm not only young, but also small. I don't really mind, but it doesn't really help with claiming pastoral authority.
It's slightly strange because, of the forty-ish people who are present, there are only perhaps four who are single--and we're all young and female. Most everyone else talks a lot about their spouses, kids, and grandkids. Today we were asked what the greatest blessing in our lives is, and nearly everyone said their spouse and/or children. I felt a little like a kindergartener. And it doesn't help that there are giant Adirondack chairs all over the place on the campus where we're staying. So, at the moment I'm sitting in an enormous chair, feeling like I'm not only young, but also small. I don't really mind, but it doesn't really help with claiming pastoral authority.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Here I Am
I went to the beach this week with several of my seminary classmates. For several days, we read on the beach, swam in the Atlantic, swam in the pool, lounged in the hot tub, laughed, cooked, and played Wii. In the midst of that relaxation, we also shared a simple worship service. We read Scripture, prayed, sang hymns, and shared a love feast. As we broke bread together, I looked into the faces of people who have shaped my life and my faith for the last three years. I looked at the empty spaces around the table and thought of my other friends from seminary, those who have already moved away and those who could not join us this week, and thought of the ways that those missing have influenced my life as well.
As we sang "Here I Am, Lord," I was struck by the power of the moment. For three years I have been surrounded by people who are, without a doubt, called by God to serve in powerful ways. And they have answered that call with courage and commitment. They have pursued education to equip them for service, and they have sought opportunities to serve where they felt the Spirit leading them. They have been blessed with skills and talents that I know will enable them to do incredible things, and they are going forth to use those blessings with passion and wisdom. I am honored to know them and be able to call them my friends.
When God called, we replied, "Here I am. Send me." Now we go where God leads us.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Sending Forth
Today was the sending forth service at my seminary. We gathered in the chapel to worship together one last time. I sat in the chapel, listening to the words and music echoing through the space, surrounded by a beautiful cloud of witnesses. My parents sat by my side, and I looked around the room at the faces of the students and professors who have touched my life for the last three years. I am thankful for them.
I served communion for the service, so I got to wear a robe and share the body of Christ with my friends. One of my favorite professors, a man who has inspired, challenged, and guided me in incredible ways over the last three years, came up to receive the sacrament, and I almost cried as I held out the chalice to him. I almost cried when my several of my friends came up and hugged me after receiving. But then my father, a devout Catholic who never takes communion in Protestant services, came up to allow me to serve him communion, and my composure cracked. As I looked into my father's eyes and held the chalice out to him, as I glanced at my mother's tear-streaked face while she watched our interchange, the tears began to flow. And in that moment, it finally started feeling real. The fact that I'm graduating, leaving my beloved seminary community, and becoming a pastor finally began to click. It was a powerful moment of connection, of family, community, and faith. As my parents laid hands on me and the dean spoke a blessing over the graduates, suddenly I felt the power of being sent forth into the world to serve. I really hope I'm up to the challenge. God, give me strength.
I served communion for the service, so I got to wear a robe and share the body of Christ with my friends. One of my favorite professors, a man who has inspired, challenged, and guided me in incredible ways over the last three years, came up to receive the sacrament, and I almost cried as I held out the chalice to him. I almost cried when my several of my friends came up and hugged me after receiving. But then my father, a devout Catholic who never takes communion in Protestant services, came up to allow me to serve him communion, and my composure cracked. As I looked into my father's eyes and held the chalice out to him, as I glanced at my mother's tear-streaked face while she watched our interchange, the tears began to flow. And in that moment, it finally started feeling real. The fact that I'm graduating, leaving my beloved seminary community, and becoming a pastor finally began to click. It was a powerful moment of connection, of family, community, and faith. As my parents laid hands on me and the dean spoke a blessing over the graduates, suddenly I felt the power of being sent forth into the world to serve. I really hope I'm up to the challenge. God, give me strength.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Derby Day
I have never followed horse racing. I don't fully understand the breeding, odds-setting, or sponsoring of the horses, and I find the tiny jockeys a little strange. But I have an appreciation for the Kentucky Derby, thanks to some very special neighbors.
When I was growing up, my down-the-street neighbors, Betsy and Harold, had a Derby Day Breakfast every year. They would serve mock juleps, mint juleps, eggs, bacon, and the most fantastic cinnamon rolls I'd ever tasted. They'd invite all of their friends, so people from their church, families from around the neighborhood, and people I'd never met before would gather and mingle in their dining room and living room, talking, and occasionally glimpsing at the race coverage on TV. I don't know how the timing worked out, but it was also always the day of a big high school track meet across the street, so we'd hear the race results from there echoing through the room as well. It was always a fun time of conversation and catching up with people we hadn't seen in a long time.
I looked forward to it every spring, not because of the race, but because of the party. Even though I was young, I always felt fully included in the event. Harold would make sure that I ended up with a mock julep instead of a fully-loaded mint julep, and I felt very grown up with my fancy drink in a crystal glass, talking with grown-ups.
Today I miss Betsy and Harold. I miss the way their love and acceptance made me feel so special and cared for, as though I were a part of their family, too. And I imagine that my orange juice is a mock julep as I lift the glass in honor of their memory: to Betsy and Harold and Derby Day.
When I was growing up, my down-the-street neighbors, Betsy and Harold, had a Derby Day Breakfast every year. They would serve mock juleps, mint juleps, eggs, bacon, and the most fantastic cinnamon rolls I'd ever tasted. They'd invite all of their friends, so people from their church, families from around the neighborhood, and people I'd never met before would gather and mingle in their dining room and living room, talking, and occasionally glimpsing at the race coverage on TV. I don't know how the timing worked out, but it was also always the day of a big high school track meet across the street, so we'd hear the race results from there echoing through the room as well. It was always a fun time of conversation and catching up with people we hadn't seen in a long time.
I looked forward to it every spring, not because of the race, but because of the party. Even though I was young, I always felt fully included in the event. Harold would make sure that I ended up with a mock julep instead of a fully-loaded mint julep, and I felt very grown up with my fancy drink in a crystal glass, talking with grown-ups.
Today I miss Betsy and Harold. I miss the way their love and acceptance made me feel so special and cared for, as though I were a part of their family, too. And I imagine that my orange juice is a mock julep as I lift the glass in honor of their memory: to Betsy and Harold and Derby Day.
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