Today I helped my husband bathe his 95 year old mother. Yes, my mother-in-law.

That may not sound like much unless you understood a bit of our shared history.
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.
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.

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.

But like I said, that was in the past.

The marriage (28 years and counting) endures, and this once tall, strong, opinionated, bossy and intimidating woman is no more.

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.

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.

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.

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...

A Journey's Detour

There was no gnashing of teeth or rending of clothes.
No wailing or fits of anger.
But I have experienced an overwhelming sadness. No scratch that. It's not sadness really. But more of a desolateness. A desert time...

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.

When they all returned, they had that peculiar expression on their faces - a mixture of sympathy and concern. I was done for.

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:
'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.'
They then went on to give the example that I had not used the term "sovereignty of God".

All I could think of at that moment was, "but I talked about the omniscience 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.

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 encouraged me to not give up, to try again, to push forward.

And then we all prayed while I wept.

Exam - Round 3

At 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Thy will be done.

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.