25 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.
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.
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.
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.”
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t predictable or formulaic.
It was a disaster occurring in front of our eyes.
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.
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?
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?
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?
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.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Blueberries
Although 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.
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.
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.
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.
But blueberries were something special.
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.
Dare I say it? Blueberries taste of victory.
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.
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.
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.
But blueberries were something special.
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.
Dare I say it? Blueberries taste of victory.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Preacher Lady
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.
I’ve developed a sort of routine or maybe it’s a ritual of how I come about this sacred and humbling exercise.
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. And I’ll pray.
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.”
And then my favorite prayer, the one I utter every day dozens and dozens of times a day. “Use me, Lord.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, October 1, 2010
From A Mom
You think your words don't have much power, but they drive into my child's heart like a red hot dagger.
It starts off pretty innocently - you noticed back in the 2nd or 3rd grade (or maybe you caught on even earlier) that my kid was ...different. 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 different. And so you picked out a label and slapped it on her, little knowing how it would stick, how it would burn.
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 different, becomes distrustful. She learns to be afraid.
Perhaps middle school will be better for my different child. More kids, more diversity. But her different-ness 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.
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.
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.
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.
But I know somewhere there weeps another different child. One whose parents are unwilling to understand, whose faith community condemns them and who feel completely isolated.
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.
To YOU, the one who began in grade school with simple teasing words and today escalates to more; you who cyberbully, 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.
Dare to be that radical.
It starts off pretty innocently - you noticed back in the 2nd or 3rd grade (or maybe you caught on even earlier) that my kid was ...different. 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 different. And so you picked out a label and slapped it on her, little knowing how it would stick, how it would burn.
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 different, becomes distrustful. She learns to be afraid.
Perhaps middle school will be better for my different child. More kids, more diversity. But her different-ness 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.
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.
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.
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.
But I know somewhere there weeps another different child. One whose parents are unwilling to understand, whose faith community condemns them and who feel completely isolated.
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.
To YOU, the one who began in grade school with simple teasing words and today escalates to more; you who cyberbully, 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.
Dare to be that radical.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
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...
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...
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
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.
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.
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