The Sleep Talker

I'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:

"Accuse me of being Mr. Happy or shut up!" or this one,

"Can you dance like this? Ha! I didn't think so.. you and your lampshade!"

or how about this recent quip -

"Look at me, are you the singer? Just tell me. Singing? Stop it then. Stop your damn singing!"

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

And that makes the nighttime adventure all worth it...

Eagle's Wings

I 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)

I'm tired.
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.
And I am not alone.
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?

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.

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....
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...
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...

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.
Now and not yet.
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.

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.

The Curve Balls of Life

A month ago I left my ministry position at MIPC without any assurance of what was to come. A few days ago, my better half joined the masses of the laid off. First reaction when he told me over the phone? (I was in LA at the time) I felt my heart drop down to my knees. But I kept my voice calm, chipper almost and after comforting him, I hung up and took a walk.

I wish I could say I walked along the beach. Or some beautifully manicured gardens. But I didn't. I walked down Wilshire Boulevard, eastbound, towards ... I'm not sure where. But my thoughts accompanied me at each step, with each turn.

"I trusted you, God. You called me away from one place to just hang me out to dry like this?"
All I could think of was the reality. My reality. Me unemployed and in search of a call. My better half unemployed. Period.

The further I walked, the further back I recalled similar instances in our almost 27-year marriage. Losing a job 2 weeks before our wedding day. Getting laid off when our youngest was but 3 months old, our oldest 2 year old and me a complete basket case.
Suddenly, I was the proverbial crazy lady walking down Wilshire; smiling to myself.

We'd made it each time. And each time, something remarkable had happened.

No, we never struck gold in the dollars and cents way. We've always made it by. But we seemed to grow stronger, my better half and I. Not only that, we learned to dream a little bigger, and take more chances on what could be. We learned to depend more on our faith and God's assurance, more than anything anyone could ever have promised us. We learned to tighten our belts and dig in our heels; we learned we were fearless in uprooting our little family and moving to the Pacific Northwest where we knew no one. We learned we could lean on each other; alternating between the cheerleader and worker bee depending on who needed what at what moment. We learned we are both determined and unafraid of hard work. We learned that in our marriage, there was and always has been three of us. Husband, wife and God.

"Ok, God, " my inner monologue continued as I reached Farmer's Market, way far from Wilshire and Crescent Heights, "I don't have a clue what's going on, but you've led us this far, I'll trust you have our backs for the rest of the way."

I'm no Pollyana, despite what my sister may say. I know challenges lie ahead of us and there will be days I'll shake my fist heavenwards and my better half will drive me bonkers (and I him, to be sure) but when all is said and done, I know deep within my heart that the promise made to Abraham and Sarah, the Blind Man and the Woman at the Well ... and so many before me is mine as well.
And I will cling to that blessed assurance.

L.A

I sit in my aunt's living room, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Just below is Pacific Coast Highway, "as seen on TV". This is an old view, and yet not completely. I grew up in this town, El Pueblo de la Reina de Los Angeles, otherwise known as LA.

As a kid, my folks packed picnic dinners on summer afternoons and we hit Santa Monica beach. I grew up understanding that everything was supposed to be 20 minutes away, but the reality was that it took us 45 to get to wherever we wanted. I know the difference between marine haze, smog and overcast skies. I know that a Sig Alert means you better pull out all your secret short cuts. I can locate Tito's Tacos, The Apple Pan and Versailles purely by sixth sense.

So I guess you could say LA is my hometown. And yet...

And yet, I walk around and feel like a tourist. No, wait. Not even a tourist, I know my way around. I feel like a stranger. There are no familiar faces smiling out at me, there is no sense of home as I have come to understand home. I can't seem to find touchstones that remind me that I am me.

There was a time, when I initially left this town, that I referred to it with disdain in my voice. The memory of this place was painful for many reasons, and letting a scab grow over the wounds was the healthy thing to do.

But I have been healed. Restored. Made whole.
There is no need to look at this place with anything but new eyes. I know you, LA, yet you don't know me. Never bothered. And it's okay.

In the meantime, I'll keep marvelling at the crash of the ocean waves below me, gazing at that unfamiliar orange globe in the sky and enjoy what this city has to offer. And be thankful.

Louis

I'll refer to my day today as "visitation day". Paid plenty of visits; an old friend, my youngest daughter, the mother of a dear friend. And among that, gave a ride downtown to an elderly Japanese lady to catch her tour bus as she was going strawberry picking with a group of... elderly Japanese folks.
She was due to arrive at the Japanese center sometime between 4 and 4:30 and I was way early, so I drove up Jackson to 23rd where I know there is a Starbucks with overstuffed chairs and I have a good book that needs reading.

I'd just settled into said chair with a double short when an older African-American man in a wheelchair rolled over to me and asked what I was reading. I handed over the book and he made a note of it in a little black notebook with the comment, "I love me a good book, but I also love me a good film. Ever heard of Fellini or Kurosawa?"

We soon got to talking (how does that happen anyways?) and pretty soon I had scooted my chair to a large table where about 5 other older African-American men were gathered. My new friend, Louis, introduced me to everyone as fellow book and film lovers.
Among the men were 2 retired SPD officers, 1 retired bailiff and a couple of retired dockworkers. Louis wasn't retired, he proclaimed. He's always been an artist and "you can never retire from that". They all had a good laugh and I noticed Louis was missing most of his teeth. The whites of his eyes were yellowed. I couldn't resist.

"Why you in a wheelchair, Louis?" I asked.
"I'm dying."
The table quieted down and all we could hear was Al Green pleading for himself and Mrs. Jones.
Louis gave us the quick version.
Pancreatic cancer. Inoperable. He's also on dialysis and is HIV positive.

One of retired cops, a big tough looking guy, said, "Damn, Louis. You should be dead already."
Louis laughed. "Yep, yep. I probably should."

We talked more. We exchanged favorite foreign film synopsis, trashed Spielberg and Lucas for ripping off Kurosawa in their Star Wars trilogy and lamented the poor distribution of African and Middle Eastern films.

I want to remember Louis - a 60 year old man who looked 90. A man who's body has given in but with a mind that refuses to quit, interested in reading yet another new title, enjoying the latest Cannes nominees. A man who, I discovered, has been taken in by one of the men in the group and given a place to live out his last weeks or months because Louis has no family and his friend could not bear to see him ending up in a shelter. The man who offered up his home had met Louis only 2 years ago when he went with a church group to serve at a local shelter.

Before I realized it, my phone rang. The elderly Japanese lady was ready to get picked up. I'd been visiting with my new friends for over an hour and a half.

I gave everyone goodbye handshakes - until I got to Louis. I hugged him.
He blushed. "See you in heaven, angel."
See you around, Louis...

Me and Juan's Friend

God sometimes throws you a bone when you least expect it, but most probably need it. Badly.

My first few days of being unemployed have been filled with having coffee with dear friends, lunch with beloved offspring, quiet time and mundane errands. And a sudden rash of phone calls on my cell from a young man seeking "Juan".

My first impression of RG (I dubbed him such, as I don't know his name and he is Random Guy to me) was that he's a 20 something stoner. He sounds a little out of it, but not stupid. He's not a child, but sounds lonely.
He called my cell phone about 3 times in a row, each time asking for Juan. Each time I responded in a curt, "there's no one here by that name". By the 4th time though, his voice sounded familiar. Sort of like when you are in a crowd and suddenly a familiar face looms somewhere out there. I gravitated to that voice.

I thought I would be witty and had the following exchange with him:
RG: Juan?
Me: No such person here.
RG: What did you do with him?
Me: Cement shoes, buddy. He sleeps with the fishes.

He quietly hung up.

The following day he called again.
RG: Juan?
Me: Nope, still not here.
RG: You the lady said he had cement on his shoes?
Me: Nope, I'm the lady who said he had cement shoes and was sleeping with the fishes.
RG: Can I call him later?

He calls again today.
RG: Hello?
Me: Looking for Juan?
RG: Yeah
Me: What do you think I'm going to say?
RG: He's not there.
Me: No, he's not. This isn't his phone number, remember?
RG: Dude, I haven't talked to him in ages.
Me: Yeah, not looking good for you, buddy. Not today. Not tomorrow.
RG:I'll try later.
Me: Sure, why not.

And I hope he does.
I don't know who he is. I really don't need to know who he is. He's looking for Juan and has ended up finding me. I'm looking for myself and there he is - Juan's friend. I have a made up back story cooking in my mind. It has to do with a long time friendship between the two young men and one betraying the other. Juan avoids RG's desperate attempts for reconciliation.

For someone who has constantly been surrounded by people and is passionate about reaching out to them, RG is filling a huge gaping hole. Granted, he's only filling a small portion of it, but God, he's trying. And I am thankful for him and his random calls.

Call me, RG. We'll find Juan together...

A New Season

This morning at 10:30 am - when I usually would be going into a staff meeting at MIPC - I was sitting on a wood bench at the vet clinic. A small sack of dog poop resting by my side. So this is transition. This is change. One Tuesday you're gathered with colleagues discussing a lectionary text and planning for community building events and the next week your big task of the day is to figure out if your dog has parasites. (she doesn't, by the way)

Waiting rooms do give me time to pause and think. To review the past couple of weeks since the return from vacation. I've been feted and celebrated, affirmed and congratulated. I haven't been on such an emotional high from others' appreciation since ... I can't think of any other such moment in my life. As a friend mentioned at my goodbye party Friday night, most people have to be dead to hear friends talk about them in such a manner. I'm still above ground - I'm one lucky person.

It's a humbling experience.

But here I am, on the other side of a closed door. And like a person seeking the exit of a dark room, I'm feeling my way along the walls of my days. Scour the want ads. Not too many calls for spiritual leaders on Craigslist. Update the yellowing 15-year old resume. Make a list of all the housekeeping chores that were waylayed these many years - and dread having the time to actually do them now. Bemoan the absence of old black and white movies on regular tv, and hear myself actually muttering, "when I was young, you could have your choice of old Bette Davis movies on tv".

I'm reassured by friends and mentors that entering this new season will take a little time. I need to be patient and kind to myself, give myself the space and time to explore what might and will come next.
I first need to convince myself there is a next.