Baby 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.

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.
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.
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.

Today we’re celebrating my youngest daughter’s birthday.

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.
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!”
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.

And there will be cuddling. Oh yes, plenty of it. There always will be.

I’ve always been a scribbler.

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.

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.

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.
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.
For now, I am working with a one page outline.

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.

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.
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.

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)

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!

Part Time Gig By Any Other Name...

I'm feeling like a substitute teacher.

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?
Everyone is really nice. Very polite. But I can tell they're watching me. Checking me out. Testing the waters.

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.

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!

The woman turned out to be a monster.
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?

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.
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...

Ordination Day

Ever 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?

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.
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.”

Heady stuff. I am elated, blessed, thankful. And humbled. So humbled.

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.

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.

Of Fish and Paint

The 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.

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.

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…

Still Mom

Last 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?
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.

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.

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.

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.

I 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.

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.

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?

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.”
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.”

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…