tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58079246076305433312024-02-08T04:42:39.542-08:00Pen and InkElianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-53327361999258331892012-08-24T11:46:00.000-07:002012-08-24T11:47:04.176-07:00CarpetingI toured the empty rooms one last time. There were the drops of nail polish – in Barbie pink – that were never removed. Over there, the horrible dark oily stain of a lava lamp gone rogue. Foot prints, cleat prints, tap shoe prints… they were all there. The ugly faded beige carpeting in the upstairs bedrooms that held so many memories had arrived at its final day.
Old and worn when we moved in 18 years ago, the carpet was washed and vacuumed insistently in a futile attempt to return to its once glamorous days. It never did. Rather, it served as the setting for innumerous doll plays and Lego buildings for one season, and later on for laying on to listen or play music, whisper with friends and do homework. The ugly carpet has held onto those memories as it did dog hair and dust.
By a corner is a coffee stain left by a now deceased grandmother, next to the windowsills is oopsie paint blotches of an art project, and yet in another spot are the burn marks by a forgotten hair straightener.
A young man gingerly pulls up a swath of the carpeting and rolls it up to one side, and the past unravels just a bit more and fades a little further. Soon, the floors will gleam with newly polished hardwood. No longer will I be able to stealthily tip toe into the rooms, the wood floors echoing our every steps.
Goodbye, horrible carpet. I’ve dreamt of this day for so long! But first, let me take a moment to honor the memories, the secrets, the stories you witnessed and absorbed.
Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-40089880566137336112012-02-15T07:15:00.000-08:002012-02-15T09:25:46.708-08:00Go Lakers!I’ve never had fine china or crystal. My cupboards are filled with a mish mash of comfortably used and familiar crockery. There’s the chipped Peter Rabbit bowl in which I mixed my children their first baby cereal, a favorite coffee mug my sister gave me…well, you get the picture. I won’t be asked to entertain the folks from Downton Abbey any time soon.<br /><br />Tucked in the glass cupboard though stands an odd piece, odd even for me. It’s a tall drinking glass with a gaudy Lakers logo – basketball and all. It was obviously a gas station giveaway when gas stations still did that sort of thing. But there it is. And I find it so comforting knowing it is there and will use it when I need an extra dose of grounding.<br /><br />I’m not sure how this glass came to arrive in our home, but a few days after our eldest daughter was born, my grandmother came to visit. One of the first things she did was march into the kitchen, select the Lakers glass and announce to the world, “This is my glass. Nobody drink from it or you’ll get old”. Although a strange pronouncement to many, this was expected in my family. Wherever Abuelita (little Grandmother) went, she claimed items. Drinking glasses or cups, a towel, a comb. After observing her for a bit, I realized she would scope out whatever item seemed seldom used, old or odd, and set it aside.<br /><br />Abuelita’s reasoning was that she was old and somehow or another, she didn’t want us catching it. Standing at about 4 and a half feet, she would greet us children with a kiss on the top of our heads. If you were taller that her, then she would kiss you wherever her face met your body. That meant getting kissed on the stomach, arm, chest, or the hand. If you made the mistake of leaning down to get a kiss on the cheek, she would protest and then scold, “What? You want an old lady kiss and get old like this?” And she was a master at squirming from getting your kiss on her cheek. She’d offer us her forearm, a sleeve even.<br />Abuelita also shrouded herself with Maja talcum powder, in an effort to cover up her “old lady smell”, convinced that somehow or another her aging would speed up ours.<br /><br />For the longest time I couldn’t understand my Abuelita’s fear and shame of being old. And then one day as I watched her playing “house” with my then 3 year old, I stumbled onto a possible explanation. <br />Perhaps Abuelita was not so much disdainful of aging as she was enthralled and protective of youth.<br /><br />By the time Abuelita was in her late teens, she’d run off with a much, much older man and begun a family. The seven children she had came quickly, one after another. Before she’d had a chance to notice her own growing up, her house became even fuller with the sound of grandchildren. Abuelita went from being a naïve 16 year old to a grandmother in a blink of an eye. Is it any wonder she marveled at our youth? She finally had a chance to see it up close and study it, and there was no way she wanted to mar it. Even if it meant drinking out of a tacky gas station gifted cup or drying her hands on the rattiest towel in the house.<br /><br />I love my Lakers glass. It’s a little piece of Abuelita who has been gone many years now. She left her mark on us all – all seven of her children, her many grandchildren, scores of great-grandchildren and now great-great-grandchildren. <br />The way our family rallies around each other, dropping everything for the one who is faltering. She taught us that.<br />The way our women are stronger than strong, determined, feisty and resilient. She gave us that.<br />The way we lean on God, confident in a faith we do not pretend to understand. She lived that.<br /><br />It dawns on me that I am now the age Abuelita was when I first remember her in my life. <br />And so I drink from her cup.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-50250612965554049212012-01-25T18:55:00.000-08:002012-01-25T18:56:02.397-08:00Dreaming BahamianToday is Michael’s birthday. He must be 17 years old now. I see the reminder on my electronic calendar, put there by my better half. He also has made note of Natasha and Shelley’s birthdays as well. A simple reminder, a little detail, but it’s a dagger in my heart. A wound that although scarred over, still aches.<br /><br />Six years ago our little family joined several other members of our church on a mission trip to the Bahamas. Before you begin picturing sandy beaches and palm trees swaying to the beat of calypso music, let me emphasize “mission” trip. We were on our way to a week at All Saints AIDS Camp, a once leper colony now converted to housing for Bahamian AIDS sufferers.<br /><br />The place was located in a desolated area outside of Nassau, with a checkpoint at the entrance to ensure safety, I suppose. The camp itself was a collection of ramshackle wood shelters that housed one, sometimes two adults. The men were separated from the women, but all ages were mixed. These were the forgotten. Here was the hemorrhaging woman, the paralytic by the pool, the Samaritan woman by the well. People arrived at the camp not necessarily by choice, but usually dropped off by family members or friends once the diagnosis was given. AIDS is a cruel disease. In the Caribbean, it is hateful. Many people still believe you can catch the virus by breathing the same air or touching an infected person. So here, at All Saints Camp were the diseased, the ostracized and the reviled.<br /><br />We arrived with children in tow, men and women ready to take on what we could. We scrubbed their kitchen, weeded their stony gardens, cooked meals, and repaired what structures we could – all in what seemed to be bazillion degrees. We sponge bathed some of the residents, and washed and braided hair. We took them for walks (those who were ambulatory), planned a party with cake and ice cream and spent time in their suffocating rooms listening to their stories.<br /><br />We anticipated all this. We felt called to serve this community in this way at this time.<br /><br />What we could not have imagined was that we would also fall in love while there.<br /><br />You see, the camp housed children as well. Some were HIV positive, some were there with a parent, some abandoned. Michael, Natasha and Shelley were siblings ages 9, 7 and 5. They had different dads, but their mom had been a resident of the camp. HIV positive, she had a problem with drug addiction and prostitution, and so had been asked by the camp director to either clean up her act or leave. She chose to leave. And left her babies behind. <br />When we met the children, we played and talked and cuddled. Oh, how they loved to cuddle. At first shyly and then with increasing confidence, they would follow us around asking to help, asking for a hug, asking about our lives back home and yes, asking for yet another hug.<br />After a week, my better half and I knew what we needed to do. We didn’t really even have to talk about it, we arrived at the same conclusion and voiced it to one another almost simultaneously. We wanted to look into the possibility of adopting the children.<br />Although the time to go home cam quickly, we promised to keep in touch and so we did. And began the process of formal adoption. Another trip to see the children was made which included taking them for a full medical workup and beginning all the paperwork with a Bahamian attorney.<br />The children were excited, we were thrilled and our daughters began to make plans for welcoming their new little brother and sisters.<br /><br />After three intense months of constant negotiations with embassies, physicians and lawyers, the children’s mother surfaced and claimed her children. Through a local attorney she made it known to us that she would be willing to “sell” us her children for specified amount.<br /><br />And that was that.<br /><br />Just as quickly, the door slammed shut. The conversation ended with her demands. The possibility evaporated when she suddenly picked the children up from the camp she had abandoned them as infants and disappeared.<br /><br />Although we tried every way we could, we never were able to track Michael, Natasha and Shelley down. But we never forget. We never forget the three children who could have been raised in our home, children we love deep in our hearts and whose names we whisper in our prayers.<br /><br />I try to imagine myself with a 17-year-old son and two little girls in the throes of adolescence. And I can’t. It’s almost as if God wiped that bit of my imagination away so as to soften the blow.<br /><br />But that’s okay. I’ve learned to let go. And yet I’m still silently singing happy birthday to dear Michael, Natasha and Shelley. And always will.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-38995766644273620172011-12-27T13:50:00.000-08:002011-12-27T13:52:44.734-08:00The Christmas LetterChristmas letters were a lot of fun to write when my children were little. I mean, really little. “So and so took her first steps this year. Sure to be the beginning of an illustrious future as a track and field star!” Or, “6 year old you-know-who received a perfect attendance certificate at school this year. Hope they give those out at Harvard! Ha ha ha!” Those were the years of suppositions and projections.<br /><br />I remember the year I stopped writing a family Christmas letter. Actually, I wrote one that year and wrote our family truth in it and, as I always would do, showed it to my comrades in arms at the homestead. The letter was met with unanimous silence; a disapproving silence and promptly shelved.<br />It was a banner year for the Maxim clan and I was compelled to share it in all its glory. It went something like this:<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />“Greetings family and friends! Whew! What a year! Let me give you the lowdown on what’s been happening in our little nest.<br />Eldest child finally came out of the closet (bet you didn’t see that one coming, ha ha!) and promptly became a pseudo goth/punk high school freshman. That ought to help her make loads of friends, don’t you think? She’s played ‘I’m A Creep’ a few thousand times each day this year; we’re really getting to appreciate Thom Yorke.<br />Our youngest once again failed math, but hey! At least she’s consistent! We’re hoping her deep interest in brushing her Barbies’ hair prepares her for future in either dog grooming or beauty school. <br />Dear husband’s parents are living with us for the next year! Doesn’t that sound awesome?! Yep, that’s the same mother-in-law who wished me dead, but, hey – this will give us time to bond!”</span><br /><br />Yeah… that letter never went out. <br /><br />And the subsequent years haven’t engendered any letters for one simple reason. <br />Not because there haven’t been projections or dreams or illusions. I could never have imagined the blessed life I have been gifted with, the marvelous unfolding of my children’s lives and the treasure of their accomplishments. <br /><br />Simply put: I cannot begin to capture the wonder and surprise that is life. <br /><br />How do I explain the life-giving conversations with my daughters while we cuddle in bed? Or the profundity of looking at my spouse of almost 30 years and still feeling dizzyingly in love with him? Or the privilege of having my parents and sister near me, of the wonderful times we share? How do I express my satisfaction of seeing my little girls grow up to be remarkably well-adjusted women?<br />Not only am I feeble at finding the words to write, but what a boring letter.<br /><br />No, you won’t be getting a family Christmas letter from me. Probably not until grandkids start arriving and taking first steps and I get caught up in exclamation points once again. Until then though, know that life – as usual and unusual – goes on with us. In all its glory.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-41379849774001562882011-12-15T10:09:00.000-08:002011-12-15T10:11:40.608-08:00Killing CathyShortly after arriving in this country, someone – probably my parents – gave me my first doll. She was Chatty Cathy, a large size hard plastic doll with a pull string in the back of her neck, blond wavy hair, unreal blue eyes and a fixed smile. <br /><br />My greatest joy was that Cathy spoke to me personally, in my language. When I pulled her string, I became convinced that among her many utterances, she stated in a clear loud voice, “Que rico Colombia!” (loosely translated to “How wonderful is Colombia!) I look back now and realize the complete nonsense of my belief. There was no way Mattel was going to personalize Chatty Cathys for homesick immigrant girls.<br /><br />I know I ran around pulling that string like crazy, demonstrating to anyone who would listen how brilliant my doll was that she was able to know where I came from and how wonderful it had been there. My parents humored me and nodded with what I assumed was melancholy for the homeland but was probably pity for their clueless child. <br />There were naysayers, well meaning folks who’s greatest desire was to educate me who were quick to point out that Chatty Cathy was American and therefore only spoke English, that she could only repeat 11 English phrases, that I needed to listen carefully and so on.<br /><br />And so I did. <br /><br />Eventually. I pulled the string over and over, listening closely to Cathy’s message to me and it suddenly dawned on me that no matter how many times I pulled the string, she was no longer saying “Que rico Colombia”.<br />She said “I love you”, “Take me with you”, “Can I have a cookie” and other meaningless phrases, but she no longer said what I needed to hear.<br /><br />I remember that evening undressing Cathy and without my parents knowing, took her in the bath with me. A strictly forbidden activity because of her talking mechanism. I’m not sure what I was thinking or if it was intentional. But that was the night I silenced Cathy. <br /><br />For a few days afterwards she gurgled a bit when her string was pulled, but eventually she just smiled silently at me. A little mockingly, I believe.<br /><br />Chatty Cathy was relegated to a shelf in my room. At one point I took her down and with a marker scribbled something on her forehead and put her back on the shelf. <br /><br />I never had another doll again.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-19874326757079351362011-11-23T18:30:00.001-08:002011-11-23T18:30:58.911-08:00All AmericanIt’s Thanksgiving Eve and the three matriarchs of the family are busy slicing, dicing, stuffing and baking. My mother is queen of the turkey. Tonight she is lovingly marinating the bird and preparing her now famous stuffing. The entire time she’ll worry the bird is much too big and there’s no way any group of human can nor should consume this amount of food. My dad awaits his cue; it arrives tomorrow. He is the mashed potatoes man. Simple, easy, yet those creamy peaks of buttery goodness are his domain and he knows he has us salivating from the moment he brings the dish to the serving table.<br />Meanwhile, 5 floors down in the same building, my sister will be creating her signature contributions to the table – the world’s most exquisite pies. Pecan, apple, pumpkin. A little something for every taste, she has perfected these sweet offerings over the years to the point where no other pie can compare. And woe to whoever should try!<br />A few minutes away, I am in my kitchen watching the cranberries jump and split, thinly slicing shallots, stuffing sugar pumpkins… I am the side dish lady. Saddled with two vegetarians in my household (who of course bring along other vegetarians on this fowl centered holiday) I was delegated the vegies. Each year I try something a little different, hoping to sate the obvious loss those vegetarians must feel upon seeing the gloried golden bird arrive.<br /><br />What’s funny about this family scenario is that Thanksgiving was a complete mystery to my family of origin when I was growing up. It was labeled as “an American holiday” by my parents, and they seized the wonderful advantage of not having to work their assorted jobs and shifts but that was it. Turkey? Heavens no! That was for Christmas! Cranberries? Mija! They look poisonous. <br />At some point, either my sister or I insisted on something special for the holiday and my parents began taking us to Wan Q for dinner on Thanksgiving.<br />A Polynesian themed restaurant, you couldn’t have designed a kitschier stereotype of all things Asian. But they had cloth napkins. You ordered from a menu, family style. And so it was deemed “our special Thanksgiving”.<br /><br />We did this for many years until one year my mom’s baby sister, who had come to live with us and was a freshman in college, somehow convinced my parents to join the millions of other November-turkey and cranberry eaters of the country. I don’t really remember that meal. What I do remember was missing the fake tiki torches and canned ukulele music from Wan Q. I missed the fried rice (hold the peas and carrots ‘cause who puts that in their arroz con pollo?), the crispy won tons with unnaturally red sweet stickiness and the mysterious fortune cookies.<br /><br />Tomorrow afternoon we’ll gather around my parents’ dining room table; my sister and I contributing not just our culinary offerings, but husbands to help in the cleanup; my 98 year old father in law missing his beloved wife; my daughters with their special friends. We will all hold hands as we say grace, thankful for another year of blessed bounty and unity.<br /><br />And I will be remembering Wan Q and a season of thankfulness in a strange land.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-50439007205682614302011-11-22T13:51:00.000-08:002011-11-22T13:52:14.523-08:00Baby turns older...There is no other reason for my absence from the blogging world than sheer unadulterated laziness. Plain and simple. Having confessed, I will await absolution. <br /><br />I’ve been thinking a lot about my 25 plus years of parenting. I’ve been blessed with two remarkable daughters, each one unique and beloved, each one extraordinarily gifted and singularly quirky. I’ve savored each season, every phase of being their mom. Some were sweet, others tart … but regardless, each one molded and shaped me into the person I am today. It also gave me an appreciation of then and now, the richness and profundity of what has been, but also the wonder and excitement of what will be.<br />Last night, my eldest (now 25) came home with a friend after having dinner out. They came home in a most grown up way – to have a cup of tea and chat. And although the evening began that way, soon my daughter was hiding in a large box breathlessly waiting to jump out and scare her dad when he arrived. I could hear her breathing heavily, suppressing giggles inside the box while her friend hid in the bathroom also laughing. <br />I recognized this young woman, professional graphic designer and musician, as the same little girl who would devise complex mazes and art installations for her father to inspect and experience when he came home from work. <br /><br />Today we’re celebrating my youngest daughter’s birthday.<br /><br />In years past, that would have meant baking a Barbie cake, and making a pan of homemade macaroni and cheese. There would be two presents to her from us– a “need” (usually a winter coat) and a “want” (Barbie and her accouterments). There would be significant cuddling and a retelling of the day of her birth. It was a perfectly sunny but crisp Monday morning, yes Dad was in the delivery room, no it wasn’t as long as her sister’s delivery, yes I got to hold her right away, no she didn’t cry but instead looked around the room inquisitively and yes – yes! She was the most beautiful little baby in the whole entire world, absolutely perfect in every single way.<br />This would usually lead to a round of tickling and more cuddling, perhaps even a viewing of old videos of her as a baby, learning to walk, babbling in her made up language and of course, the now famous (in our little world) of her at 6 years old, twirling at her friend’s house declaring “I’m the most beautiful girl in the world!”<br />Now, at 23, my little girl will come to dinner with her sweetheart. Her menu of choice includes spinach risotto and halibut steaks in a balsamic pomegranate reduction. Gifts will be practical per her instructions and there will be little to no twirling. Although her large expressive brown eyes still twinkle with laughter, she is more reserved, thoughtful and will converse about her upcoming college graduation, month-long trip to Venezuela and other future goals. <br /><br />And there will be cuddling. Oh yes, plenty of it. There always will be.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-60321983712410644322011-06-11T12:17:00.000-07:002011-06-11T12:18:04.597-07:00I’ve always been a scribbler.<br /><br />I enjoyed writing stories for my sister when we were growing up, then reading them aloud at night. I wrote news stories and documentaries in my former career. I read voraciously- some would say (like my better half) a bit obsessively. And as a preacher, I’ve labored over multi-page manuscripts, working words and crafting phrases that would communicate what was in my heart and in my head.<br /><br />I love words. I love how you can paint pictures with them and inspire, crush or rescue the human spirit with them. I love how they look; organized and orderly, marching across the page ready to carry out their job.<br /><br />About a year ago, I decided I wanted to move from being a “manuscript” preacher to a more extemporaneous style. A dangerous move. This means standing up at the pulpit without a sheaf of papers. I liken it to walking the tightrope with no net below.<br />I’ve been moving in this direction slowly, until one day, I hope to walk into the pulpit with just my Bible and some words written in the margin of the day’s text.<br />For now, I am working with a one page outline.<br /><br />It takes twice as much preparation to do this, I’ve discovered. I have to know the Biblical text well. Really well. I have to practice my sermon several more times than usual – all in my head. It has to sound right. It needs to flow effortlessly. It needs to feel absolutely natural and comfortable. Whatever words I do write down have to mean so much, they each must carry a huge burden of responsibility.<br /><br />So why do it this way? Besides the fact that I am stubborn and restless (challenging personality faults), as much as I love the written word, I love even more being able to engage visually with the congregation. The manuscript doesn’t afford me that in the manner I’d like. <br />And perhaps more illogically, I want to be surprised. With or without manuscript, the Spirit of our Lord is faithful and present when the word is rightly preached, but there seems to be more gracious space when I’m not bound to the sequence of page after page. Perhaps this is simply one person’s experience. Mine. Perhaps this is a relative newbie speaking. Yet when I am able to physically move away from the anchor of the pulpit and preach, I feel a part of the congregation and the Word becomes incarnate in all gathered.<br /><br />This certainly isn’t the way to preach or meant for everyone. Fred Craddock wrote, “Every method [manuscript and extemporaneous sermon] pays a price for its advantages. Those who prefer the freedom and relationships available to the preacher without notes will not usually rate as high on careful phrasing and wealth of content. Those who prefer the tightly woven fabric of a manuscript must … accept the fact that a manuscript is less personal and its use is less evocative of intense listener engagement. ‘(Preaching, p. 216)<br /><br />God continually calls us to risky places. This is one for me. All I can do is say yes, prepare the best I can and then let go. I’m not sure I’ll be successful at this. Time will tell. But the journey alone will be exhilarating!Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-19933189778471193622011-06-01T12:14:00.000-07:002011-06-01T12:31:15.376-07:00Part Time Gig By Any Other Name...I'm feeling like a substitute teacher.<br /><br />I'm sitting in the pastor's office at the church where I have been asked to serve for the next three months as their pastor. I chose to bring my own stuff - pencil, notepad, Bible, laptop. Everything is so tidy and in it's place, I don't want to mess things up. What if I don't remember where everything was originally when I have to turn the office keys back to the "real" pastor? <br />Everyone is really nice. Very polite. But I can tell they're watching me. Checking me out. Testing the waters.<br /><br />I remember one year in elementary school my class had a substitute teacher from South Africa. She was white with blond hair and reminded me of a flight attendant. A 1960's flight attendant, otherwise known then as a stewardess. Adorable sweater sets and perfectly coordinated pumps. She had a cool accent. And she subbed in my 3rd grade class when my "real" teacher broke her arm walking backwards leading our class line back from recess. The sub was pretty cool. I remember she brought us matzo crackers. Was she Jewish? I don't recall, but she was exotic.<br /><br />How delightful to find out the following school year that she was now on staff, a "real" teacher at my school. And I got to be in her class!<br /><br />The woman turned out to be a monster.<br />She shoulda stuck to part-time work, stayed on the substitute teacher career path. We were too much for her, day in and day out. She yelled. She screamed. She slapped us on the back when she couldn't read our penmanship. Her once charming accent became obnoxious and shrill. No longer exotic, she was always trying to cram something new down out throats. Haroset? Are you kidding me, lady?<br /><br />I will not be charming in my temporary pastor gig. There will be no special treats and I am most certainly not updating my wardrobe. What they see is what they'll get week in and week out. <br />I will just love them as best I can in my regular old usual way until it's time for me fade away and their "real" pastor returns...Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-32545570827371422032011-04-18T10:34:00.000-07:002011-04-18T10:35:22.700-07:00Ordination DayEver have the experience of being so emotionally exhausted you can’t begin to express yourself? That your heart is so dang full, your lips are incapable or even willing to utter a word? <br /><br />Saturday afternoon I looked out at the congregation gathered for my ordination and was humbled by God’s extraordinary grace. Colleagues from seminary stood beside members of my home church who stood alongside members from various immigrant fellowships and sundry committees from my presbytery. Children who had loved and taught me theology joined with seminary professors and ordained pastors from several denominations. <br />This is my family. This is the community God used and continues to use in order to remind me, “I have called you by name. You are mine…you are precious in my sight, and honored and I love you.”<br /><br />Heady stuff. I am elated, blessed, thankful. And humbled. So humbled.<br /><br />Because as I looked out and saw my beloved cloud of witnesses, these angels who have journeyed with me, I was reminded that God has claimed each one. Each precious, honored and treasured by the Creator. And each person there has embarked on their own journey and they too have their champions, their stumbling blocks and their blessings. I am humbled because so many have allowed me to journey with them and once again witness God’s enduring faithfulness.<br /><br />Okay, so now I have a framed ordination certificate propped up against my office bookshelf. I have a tailored robe and cool stoles. I can use Rev in front of my name. But the greatest thing to have occurred Saturday afternoon was that God showed up in a most wonderfully tangible way – like water from a rock or the birth of a baby – by casting an extended sacred embrace to a large group of people, calling each by name, claiming us for service and ministry, equipping and empowering us to boldly go out in the world in God’s name.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-16115218425147719282011-03-19T14:38:00.000-07:002011-03-19T14:39:15.790-07:00Of Fish and PaintThe last time I painted by daughters’ bathroom, I armed myself with a quart of baby blue and another of sea foam green, a mish mash of assorted bright colors and set about converting the space into an indoor seaquarium. Handmade, cartoonish and frankly, quite amateur. But I lovingly painted rainbow fish swimming among green kelp and rolling waves for my girls to enjoy. In the last few years, the fish have faded and the waves seem created by a 5 year old. The talk of the family is when – quick!- can that corny bathroom be painted.<br /><br />Today, the bathroom is being painted moss green with white trim. Serious. Modern. And oh so grown up. I still refer to it as the girls’ bathroom although only one daughter lives at home. But in some ways, it’s the last vestige of an era gone by. <br /><br />I suppose it signifies yet another turning point in my life. In all our lives. And today, tired little rainbow fish are painted over by intense moss green. They’re not gone. They’re hidden. And only they and I will know they once were welcomed by two little girls oohing and aahing over mommy’s cleverness. And I will treasure all these things in my heart…Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-63630812107674313562011-03-05T18:12:00.000-08:002011-03-05T18:30:13.180-08:00Still MomLast Wednesday morning I was awaken by a phone call from my 24 year old daughter. She wasn't feeling very well and would I mind going with her to the doctor? <br />I quickly looked at the calendar on my cell phone and mentally ticked off all the appointments, meetings and projects I would cancel because - truth be told, my first obligation today, 20 years ago and 20 years from now, will be to my girls.<br /><br />Since that day, my child has been tucked into bed in her old room. The walls still have her art work on display; the bookshelves hold her old yearbooks, awards and photos. I can hear her talking softly on her cell phone, and every so often her younger sister and her chat about this or that. My heart soars to hear these familiar sounds once again. Her humming in the shower. Her belly laughs as she watches some quirky online show. Her cough in the middle of the night, which still gets me to rise and go check in on her regardless of the hour.<br /><br />Yet her body seems to be too tall for her twin bed and every so often she mentions how badly she wants to "go home". I catch myself from correcting her. And I have to remind myself that I already let this one go, saw her fly away before to create her own nest elsewhere.<br /><br />So I return to guard her sleep; make sure to keep the fever in check, a pot of homemade broth simmering on the stove, gentle reminders to hydrate. And remind myself that I walk on holy but temporary ground. She will soon feel strong enough to pack up her overnight bag, give me an appreciative kiss and disappear back into her grownup world, with the coolness of my hand on her warm forehead a vague recollection.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-16342661723175394682011-02-21T23:10:00.001-08:002011-02-21T23:10:38.078-08:00I stretched out on my daughter’s bed in her cozy little apartment and listened in as she explained sketches to her dad. We had come for lunch and for my dear husband wanted to consult her on some design ideas for a web page. She spoke clearly and confidently about “negative space” and “rezzes” and “opacity”. I lay there wrapped in wonder and mystery. I couldn’t help but consider that this person who was speaking in tongues (as far as I’m concerned) was the same one once coached in phonics. <br /><br />I suddenly was reminded of the many times she would require I not enter our old dining room. My chubby cheeked 6 year old would be busy rearranging furniture, drawing pictures, assembling these items to create an art installation of her imagination. She would sternly remind me not to touch a thing until her daddy came home from work so he could appreciate her “project”. Her face was all seriousness, her long curls bouncing up and down and it was all I could to refrain from squeezing her.<br /><br />Our children display their corner of the world, their personal secret garden of imagination to us when they still trust us. How many times have we not been invited to participate in their world of illusion? And how many times do we support this burst of creativity melded with their confidence in our appreciation?<br /><br />My younger daughter had no patience for creating objects or works of art. Yet she would spend hours on end weaving intricate story lines for her Barbies to experience. It wasn’t until I allowed myself to be swept up in one of her dramas that I realized my little girl was processing her own emotions. Friend troubles, missing loved ones, challenging homework. All these topics, which could have been opportunities for whining and defeat, she instead used as material for her ongoing sagas. I sat watching her cry real tears when Skipper announced to Barbie she was moving away and they would no longer be friends. I wanted to put my arm around my little girl, but instead she whispered in her famously raspy voice, “mom, your turn to talk. Tell Barbie everything is going to be alright.” <br />My Barbie –playing child is now 22, and I overhear her consoling her friends on occasion. “Everything is going to be alright. I’m here for you.”<br /><br />My daughters taught me about respecting the inner creativity we all possess. To take the time to listen , watch and wait for it to bloom. I will relish this perfume forever…Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-31151927083994435562011-02-10T19:17:00.000-08:002011-02-10T19:18:17.638-08:00Tick, Tock...I’m getting old.<br /><br />Perhaps it’s this countdown to my mid-century mark this year that has me suddenly aware of every creak and ping of my body, but the fact remains the same. I am getting old.<br /><br />After 15 minutes on the elliptical, my knees pop and scream. When I stretch out in bed at night, there’s some strange cracking in my back and hips I’d never noticed before. I seem to be “touching up the roots” way more often than I used to. And Lord, when I look at myself in the mirror, there’s some saggy, soft version of myself staring back at me. It’s not quite my mom (she’s in way better shape than me), but damn, she looks close.<br /><br />People around me seem to be younger as well, which in turn makes me older. In a couple of months my eldest daughter will be the age I was when I gave birth to her. At my youngest daughter’s age, I had been married for almost a year. I could swear the cop that gave me a friendly warning and called me m’am can’t be a day over 17. And watching parents chasing after their preschoolers at the mall exhausts me. Just watching and I’m wiped.<br /><br />I’m getting old, that’s true. But I think I may be getting a bit wiser as well.<br /><br />I don’t seem to care much what people think of me and my life choices. And when I don’t feel like doing something, I just say, “I don’t feel like doing that” and don’t. <br />I spend time doing the things that really mean something to me, and surround myself with people I really care about.<br />I love more deeply and perhaps more passionately and unconditionally because I’ve realized I’m probably half-way through my allotted time to love on earth.<br />I learn for the sake of knowing and have no compulsion to prove myself or my knowledge to anyone. Love me or leave me. It’s all good. <br /><br />I peer into the mirror and indeed, time is marching on.<br />Creases and lines make their way across my face and suddenly I see a wayward, misplaced pimple. A reminder that youth with all its frailties and temporariness hasn’t quite waved the white flag. Not yet anyway.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-71304719882877462962011-02-08T18:05:00.000-08:002011-02-08T18:06:09.433-08:00GiftsIn my line of work I come across all sorts of philosophies and theologies. Some are nicely packaged like a Nordstrom gift; perfect silvery box with color coordinated bow. Some are messy and unfinished, bits and pieces tossed into a nondescript paper bag. Some are quite bountiful and generous, others the first attempts at assembling a thought, a belief.<br />All of them, in their various states of completion, elaboration and decoration are housed under the umbrella of Reformed Christian. Presbyterian, to be more precise. And I find myself reveling in the diversity of it all. As a wise man once said, it’s easy to be of one mind when you’re with your own kind. I like contemplating others’ positions on issues. I like considering other interpretations of scripture. I like hearing the evolution of someone else’ thought process.<br /><br />But in my line of work I also come across the misleading gift.<br />That’s the one that is beautifully wrapped with expensive heavy wrapping paper and a real satin ribbon. It’s the one that feels heavy when you hold it and makes mysteriously enticing sounds when you gently shake it. It’s the one you cannot take your eyes off for fear of losing one single magically lovely moment.<br />And you open it.<br />And you are suddenly hit with the stink of rotting flesh. You spy one lone item in this decorative masterpiece and it’s slimy, cheap and minuscule.<br />The misleading gift. It’s not just available in my line of work, in theology or philosophy. I see it in relationships, policies, manners. I see it all around, these misleading gifts.<br /><br />That’s the one where someone tells you you’d be a better wife, husband, mother, father, child, friend if only you would…<br />That’s the one where someone smiles in your direction but it’s just their lips curling up while their eyes glare coldly at you.<br />That’s the one where society tells you to pull yourself up by your bootstraps, but you’re barefoot.<br />The misleading gift is the one you receive with an open heart, excitedly run home with it tucked under your arm and then spend hours weeping in your pillow.<br /><br />I was the recipient of such a gift today. But I won’t weep.<br />And I won’t rewrap and regift. <br />I’ll hold on to it for a bit, just so I can try to make sense of life, of humanity. And then I will let it go, like an unwanted balloon growing tinier and tinier in the vast sky.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-79339483160123922592011-02-07T14:22:00.000-08:002011-02-07T14:23:21.320-08:00Shaping A New "We"Recent articles in the mainstream media have reported Britain’s recent proclamation that “multiculturalism has failed”. Political leaders in the UK go on to delineate their supporting arguments for this statement and several others across Europe nod their head in agreement.<br /><br />The church’s commitment to multiculturalism has fared better, though we cannot yet claim victory. The church has one great advantage over economic, political and sociological frameworks. She can call upon our common source of unity – spirituality – and from there build upon diversity in the hopes of fulfilling the vision of a beloved community.<br /><br />This begins with our ability to recognize and respect our different forms of worship, an obvious difference we can observe. Many of our fellowships within the Seattle Presbytery do not limit their services to an hour, but to however long the Spirit leads. Dancing is a form of sacred expression, and spontaneous testimonials are not uncommon. In turn, the quiet reserved worship of many our established Presbyterian churches reflect the reverence and engagement with the holy centered on the church’s historical identity.<br />If we were to solely look at these outward expressions of worship, we would indeed be “us” and “them”. Thank God, we are more complex than that. We are capable and we are meant to be “we”.<br /><br />Professor Tariq Ramadan, Islamic scholar and recent keynote speaker at Seattle University Searching for Meaning book festival, said, “As created beings of a great God, we must acknowledge each other’s complexities. I am as multidimensional as you are. Do not limit yourself to know me by my periphery, but come to the center of who I am. Know my essence.”<br /><br />We are challenged by our differences as well as our call to unity and inclusion, but this is indeed who we are called to be as the body of Christ. There is a healthy tension when we embark on the adventure of being the whole people of God and together fulfill God’s dream for humanity. We do it with the confident knowledge that at each of our core is the divine spark of our Creator.<br /><br />Open wide the church doors, there are many who seek your spiritual partnership!<br />Open wide the church doors, there are many who await you in their community!Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-55669356977771906702011-01-28T11:39:00.000-08:002011-01-28T11:40:08.365-08:0025 years ago I was 7 months pregnant with my first child. I was determined to not allow a simple thing like a pregnancy change my life whatsoever. What can I say, I was young. Very young.<br /><br />I worked in a newsroom. High paced, frenetic, male dominated and incredibly competitive. Any little whiff of an event was possibly the next Big Story. <br />And it was an early morning 25 years ago to this day that I sat in the newsroom bullpen with other producers anxiously scanning wire services and newspapers for a lead. Yet another shuttle was being launched that morning and it already been determined by our boss who would cover the landing out in the California desert when it returned. Another formulaic, predictable coverage of a formulaic, predictable event. The joke was you could write the script on the drive out to the desert. Or better yet, someone else chimed in, use the same script from the last landing.<br /><br />So it was with mild interest that many of us gazed up as the shuttle launched. Challenger. There was a school teacher aboard, and an African American astronaut. And then some seconds after the take off, someone in the room uttered words I cannot forget. “It doesn’t look right.”<br /><br />It wasn’t right. It wasn’t predictable or formulaic. <br />It was a disaster occurring in front of our eyes.<br /><br />In a room where there was a constant and almost deafening noise all at hours, there was suddenly stillness and silence. In horror, we were all riveted to the large screen. In what seemed like an eternity, but in reality were few minutes, the shuttle Challenger erupted into fire and disappeared. With the teacher. With the African American astronaut. And with any delusion I may have had that anything in life is routine.<br /><br />Over the years I have gained a deeper understanding of the temporality of life, but more importantly, the role I play in it. What seems like just another day of packing lunches for the kids and quickly gulping a cup of coffee might be the morning you could have noticed one of your children hesitant to go to school. But you send her off. It’s just another day. But is it?<br />Or you drive unthinkingly down a familiar road and once again see the same vagrant on the street corner with his cardboard sign. He’s just another street person looking for a handout. But is he?<br /><br />What if I open my eyes and take in the day for what it is in that very instant and I treat it as if I had never lived a day before? What if I could revel in the ordinariness of life? What if I replaced complacency with wonder? <br /><br />25 years ago I thought most of life was routine and I could jump in when things got interesting, when it became A Story. 25 years later I realize I live THE story in each moment and there is no routine. Just life.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-44430049052848614842011-01-15T10:11:00.000-08:002011-01-15T10:13:32.848-08:00BlueberriesAlthough I grew up in a loving, nurturing home, as it want to happen, there were outside negative forces that created challenges and tension. Finances were always tight – both my parents worked full time outside the home, with my father usually also working a second job. And nostalgia ran rampant in our home. Immigrants tend to live longing for a place and a time that no longer exists.<br /><br />I spent most of my time with my nose buried in a book and there was a particular season when my obsession rested on Laura Ingalls Wilder’s series of books. I imagined myself facing the brutal mid-western winters in our Southern California backyard and with the help of my little sister, built a lean-to for us to escape.<br /><br />And escape we did. We would sit back there for hours, weaving stories of hardships completely unknown to us except for Laura’s input. Sometimes I would be stricken blind with some outdated malady, other times my sister would be lost in a blizzard. But we always made it home safely to our lean-to.<br /><br />Somewhere along this journey of play, I began to save up my weekly .25 allowance, realizing that if I saved 4 of those shining quarters, I could purchase a pint of truly American blueberries. For .99, I could eat the fruit of the prairie. My mother didn’t quite understand why I insisted on forking over a month’s worth of allowance for a precious pint of these blue orbs, especially when she always made sure we had our fill of bananas, oranges and the inevitable papaya. <br /><br />But blueberries were something special.<br /><br />Sitting in our makeshift lean-to, slowly popping one berry in my mouth after another, I savored what it meant to provide for myself. My imaginary crop failures, blizzards and assorted 19th century ailments were so much easier to handle than my mother weeping at night for her family back home, my father exhausted and frustrated at not making ends meet and the inevitable negative people and forces life sometimes thrusts upon a 9 year old. But here I stood. Hunched over our little “house in the yard”, the taste of survival, self-reliance and yes, belonging, lingering on my lips.<br /><br />Dare I say it? Blueberries taste of victory.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-31771512266525588612011-01-13T11:39:00.000-08:002011-01-13T11:40:38.645-08:00Preacher Lady<meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 14"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 14"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/Eliana/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--> <link rel="themeData" href="file://localhost/Users/Eliana/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_themedata.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> 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table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Another Thursday comes around, and I find myself once again with my trusty and worn Bible in front of me. It’s time to begin the journey of preparing a sermon for Sunday.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ve developed a sort of routine or maybe it’s a ritual of how I come about this sacred and humbling exercise.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Today I will read the pertinent Scripture. The text. The lesson. The Good News. I will write it out in long hand in my trusty moleskin notebook.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And I’ll pray. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ll think about who will be hearing the message. The faithful who sit in the same seat in the same pew Sunday after Sunday. The ones who might wander in purely by chance that particular Sabbath. I will pray for them all. “Lord, help me to make sense. Help me to be relevant and grounded. Bless each person who will come to worship; let it be YOU they hear, no me. Thank you for giving me this opportunity. Thank you for not letting me throw up during the sermon.”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And then my favorite prayer, the one I utter every day dozens and dozens of times a day. “Use me, Lord.”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Tomorrow I will re-read the passage. Pray a little more. And then dive in head-first in research. Do my seminary professors proud – I will exegete. Word studies, historical criticisms, and of course, selected commentaries. And then set it all aside so I can sleep on it.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Saturday I will re-re-read the passage. Read it slowly. Savor the words. And then begin to write. And write and write. No, there is no outline. No three-point structure. I just write.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ll finagle with the manuscript several more times, reading it over and over until I ultimately think it’s at a place where I can read it to my number one critic – my husband.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Most of the time he’ll just nod his head and say “slow down”. Other times he’ll point out a section I need to elaborate more. But always he gives me a smile and assures me God will be with me.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">When I climb into the pulpit with manuscript in hand, I must confess I am no longer really present. Something extraordinary comes over me and there is a mixture of my not really being there with a sense of aliveness I’ve never felt in any other situation. I find myself using my manuscript sparingly and elaborating extemporaneously. God, indeed, has been faithful and once again shown up. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I love to preach. I love it because I get a front seat to witness the remarkable grace of God, the anointing of the Holy Spirit on all who desire to hear the Word and my most fervent prayer answered. “Use me, Lord.” And indeed I am.<o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-37093819950752693572010-10-01T18:49:00.000-07:002010-10-01T19:12:13.975-07:00From A MomYou think your words don't have much power, but they drive into my child's heart like a red hot dagger.<br /><br />It starts off pretty innocently - you noticed back in the 2<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">nd</span> or 3rd grade (or maybe you caught on even earlier) that my kid was ...<strong>different</strong>. She looked like all the other girls in class, but there was something about the way she carried herself, the way she talked. It was <strong>different</strong>. And so you picked out a label and slapped it on her, little knowing how it would stick, how it would burn.<br /><br />And so this once outgoing child, eager to make friends with everyone, begins to draw away, unsure if the next kid coming up to them on the playground will have learned the label as well. This little girl, who knows all too well she is <strong>different</strong>, becomes distrustful. She learns to be afraid.<br /><br />Perhaps middle school will be better for my <strong>different</strong> child. More kids, more diversity. But her different-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">ness</span> is more marked now and you have more power. Your words evolve as well, become more sophisticated. You learn the art of wounding and segregating. You pick up on other kids who are different and lump them all together. Losers. Weirdos. Homos.<br /><br />My child comes home from school exhausted. Classwork is nothing. The labor of keeping it all together, surviving another day being an outsider... it's debilitating.<br /><br />High school begins and now your vocabulary includes ideology, most of it picked up from your home, your parents, your friends. Kids are no longer just weird or gay, they ruin everything. They ultimately want to turn you into them, God is disgusted with them, their parents are oblivious losers and our country is going to hell because of them. You don't even understand what you're saying, but your parroting is slick and practiced.<br /><br />My child's situation has a golden ring. She knows you're a puppet; an empty, insecure, misinformed child. She knows love - unconditional and extravagant. From her parents, her family and most importantly of all - God. She knows she's exceptional, not because of who God made her to be, but because God made her. Period.<br /><br />But I know somewhere there weeps another <strong>different</strong> child. One whose parents are unwilling to understand, whose faith community condemns them and who feel completely isolated.<br /><br />To that child, I want to gather you up in my arms and give you rest, assure you that life will get better and you will find many many people who will love you just as you are.<br />To YOU, the one who began in grade school with simple teasing words and today escalates to more; you who <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">cyberbully</span>, who taunt, who ostracize, who ridicule.... you diminish your humanity with your actions. Break the cycle, do not be your parents, your circle of friends. Be the one who breaks away free from hatred.<br /><br />Dare to be that radical.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-90243290182387389262010-09-30T17:13:00.000-07:002010-09-30T17:38:23.161-07:00Today I helped my husband bathe his 95 year old mother. Yes, my mother-in-law.<br /><br />That may not sound like much unless you understood a bit of our shared history.<br />Once upon a time, 30 plus years ago when we first met, the woman took an instant disliking to me. And that is putting it mildly.<br />Throughout my better half and my courtship, she did her best to make life difficult. At our wedding reception, she loudly proclaimed the marriage wouldn't last a year. And her yearly visits - for two to three months a shot - was my personal inferno.<br /><br />Although I am certainly not perfect, it was challenging for me to understand why this woman took such an intense dislike to me. She criticized my looks, my education, my youth, my family. The way I dressed, talked, walked and mothered. I could do nothing right in her eyes.<br /><br />But like I said, that was in the past.<br /><br />The marriage (28 years and counting) endures, and this once tall, strong, opinionated, bossy and intimidating woman is no more.<br /><br />Her Alzheimer's disease began about 10 years ago and slowly her essence departed, leaving behind a frail, sing-songy, uncomprehending being. She likes to play with small windup toys and can be entertained by looking at magazines without having any clue what it all means. She's confused easily by photographs and only recognizes my father-in-law and my husband. She sometimes calls me her caregiver, sometimes her daughter - even though she never had one. But every time she sees me, she hugs me, kisses me and is genuinely delighted to see me.<br /><br />As a rinsed the shampoo off her thinning gray hair, I marveled at the ability God has to transform our brokeness into tenderness. This woman who had wounded me so deeply by refusing to accept me - much less love me- now surrenders her body to me so I can gently bathe her. The hardness of my heart, the wall I erected years ago to keep her out, has come down - brick by brick - with the toweling off of her body, the brushing of her hair, the cajoling to take her meds. I have been made tender once again through her vulnerability.<br /><br />I have had moments of bitterness - why couldn't she have been this kind years ago when my daughters were young? And then I consider... perhaps it would require my steely resolve, hardened by her fire, to endure and understand her today.<br /><br />She's 95. But she's really not. She's my mother-in-law. But not really. But then, I'm not who I was 30 years ago either...Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-17883004770165341752010-08-31T09:46:00.000-07:002010-08-31T10:11:01.699-07:00A Journey's DetourThere was no gnashing of teeth or rending of clothes.<br />No wailing or fits of anger.<br />But I have experienced an overwhelming sadness. No scratch that. It's not sadness really. But more of a desolateness. A desert time...<br /><br />I met with the 4 examiners on Friday morning. Each one kind, gracious and welcoming. Basically, the "alternative" exam turned out to be the same written exam everyone gets, but the examiners got to ask follow up questions, clarifying questions, etc. Again, I reiterate, everyone was extremely kind. At the end of the 2+ hours, they all retreated to another room while I waited. After the first 20 minutes, I realized it was all over. I've seen enough Law and Order episodes to know that when juries deliberate too long, it ain't good news.<br /><br />When they all returned, they had that peculiar expression on their faces - a mixture of sympathy and concern. I was done for.<br /><br />I wish I could remember everything they said. All four took turns giving me their impressions and reasons why I wasn't "passed". But the message was pretty uniform and as I can best recall it it went something like this:<br />'Although it is plainly evident that you have a pastor's heart and any church would be blessed to have you serve it, you do not easily use the reformed language to express your theology.'<br />They then went on to give the example that I had not used the term "sovereignty of God".<br /><br />All I could think of at that moment was, "but I talked about the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">omniscience</span> and transcendence of God, I talked about God working in and through everything and everyone to ultimately bring about completion in the fullness of time..." Regardless, I had not delivered what they were they were looking for.<br /><br />Two of the examiners, local theology professors, offered to meet with me and provide tutoring. Everyone commented on my call to ministry; according to them obvious, infectious and effervescent. And all <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">encouraged</span> me to not give up, to try again, to push forward.<br /><br />And then we all prayed while I wept.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-78212951432941541152010-08-26T11:06:00.000-07:002010-08-26T11:27:41.101-07:00Exam - Round 3At this very moment, at this singular second of my existence, I can most assuredly state... I hate my life. Four words I forbade my daughters to say; words that I found demeaning, trivial and so completely self-centered. But this is my truth right now.<br /><br />In exactly 24 hours, I will be sitting for an oral examination of reformed theology. This will be my third attempt. Yes, you read that right. Third. That means I failed the previous two times, both written exams. Both times that I studied, reviewed and entered the examination process with confidence and faith. Both times that I received results that left me bewildered. Needless to say, any sense of self confidence has been shattered.<br /><br />Each time before, I refused to consider the possibility of not passing. Of course I'd pass! This time - although I am trying to put my best face forward - I am all too familiar with the let down and the heart break.<br /><br />I suppose I could come up with a bunch of reasons or excuses why I flounder at the reformed theology exam. But none of it means anything. I can't move forward in my call until I satisfy this last requirement: demonstrate my profiency in reformed theology to the ordination exam readers/graders.<br /><br />I suppose if there is one small, tiny glimmer of comfort is that it is a group of human beings - fallible and insecure as I am - who sit in judgment of my ability. God remains silent. God already issued my call to ministry. There is no need for God to say or do anything else.<br /><br />Perhaps God is just waiting for us all to catch up. Me -to remember which Confession deals with covenant or sacraments or stewardship -and my graders to uncover my deeper truths, ones that will serve God and not so much the examination paradigm.<br /><br />Thy will be done.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-47475814574949818742010-08-04T11:31:00.000-07:002010-08-04T17:34:53.186-07:00The Sleep TalkerI've been asked on a number of occasions what are the quotes I post as my Facebook status from time to time. I admit they can sound pretty random. For example:<br /><br /><div align="left">"Accuse me of being Mr. Happy or shut up!" or this one,</div><div align="left">"Can you dance like this? Ha! I didn't think so.. you and your lampshade!" </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">or how about this recent quip - </div><div align="left">"Look at me, are you the singer? Just tell me. Singing? Stop it then. Stop your damn singing!" </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="left">These little gems are the nightly ramblings of my better half. For some years now (I'd say 10 or so) my sweet husband yells in his sleep, violently sits up in bed, curses, talks incessantly and yes, kicks, swims, flies or whatever other physical demonstration of his dreams happens to erupt.</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">For those who don't know him, I should explain that sleeping/dreaming Aleco is nothing at all like the waking one. When awake and conscious, my better half is a gentle, mild-mannered, courteous and peaceful individual. He's been accused of being too laid back sometimes and he certainly does not use foul language. </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Enter the sleeping Aleco. I'm not sure I like this guy very much, but he certainly entertains me. From what I have been able to observe, this character believes himself to be a super hero, is convinced that squirrels are out to get him (probably due to the fact that waking Aleco has accidently run two over and still feels racked with guilt over their murders), and he can't stand pretty much anyone in his space.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Like I said, sleeping Aleco is not at all like waking Aleco and I can't help wonder what exactly his psyche is working through while he slumbers. Yes, he's particiapted in sleep studies and he's been diagnosed with sleep issues. Something to do with too vivid dreams and the ability to actually act them out while sleeping. Well, duh. I could have diagnosed that as well. Like the time he dreamt he was tackling an intruder and he flung himself out of bed, landing on the nightable and requiring a midnight run to the ER for stitches. Or another time when he dreamt he was with a group of skydivers and the person in front of him wouldn't jump and consequently he kicked me out of bed with a satisfied yell, "Now you jump, baby!"</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Yeah, I don't really like this guy, but he doesn't last very long. As a matter of fact, when I open my eyes in the morning, it's waking Aleco who greets me with a warm smile and sweet kiss. </div><div align="left">And that makes the nighttime adventure all worth it...</div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div>Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5807924607630543331.post-44465637799442689512010-07-27T16:45:00.000-07:002010-07-27T17:12:11.464-07:00Eagle's WingsI lay in bed and a verse goes over and over in my head... "those that wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint." (Isaiah 40:31 NRSV)<br /><br />I'm tired.<br />I'm tired of waiting on others. Of waiting on others to validate my call. Of waiting on others to discern whether or not they should hire me. Of waiting for others to simply reply to my email or voice mail.<br />And I am not alone.<br />So many friends are in the same boat. Their resumes hanging out there, along with their hope. God has called me to ministry, there has got to be a place for me! Right?<br /><br />So I consider the waiting, and I consider all those who have had to wait simply to live or be treated with equality. And I realize that this waiting is not just from decades past.<br /><br />I think of my nephew who must wait for a society to see him as an intelligent, warm and engaging young man rather than crossing to the other side of the street from him because of the color of his skin....<br />My daughter who must wait for a society to deem her valuable enough to have earned the right to marry who she loves, for a church that welcomes her enough to invite her to serve rather than both a society and church that opens the door just enough for her peek in and see what she could have, if only she wasn't herself...<br />My brothers and sisters who are questioned daily if they belong in the country simply because of the language they speak and/or the color of their skin...<br /><br />We are, after all, a people of the now and not yet. I remind myself of this over and over; in some ways, it has become a mantra.<br />Now and not yet.<br />We will mount on eagles' wings, and it will be in God's time. Perhaps not yet, but one time. Some time. And until then, shame on us for not working toward that goal.<br /><br />Perhaps that is the call. Perhaps that is where the strength comes from - from waiting on God's time and in the waiting, being and doing with others who also wait.Elianahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16811126499687487362noreply@blogger.com