All is calm. Too bad.

For nearly nine years, we've kept an eye on a creative neighbor who had been forever embellishing his front yard in dramatic ways with unusual materials. Large, flat slabs of stone standing upright like thin grave markers. Narrow paths of rock and wood chips with pumpkin vines trailing into the street. Seasonal inflatables - the big, garish ones. Tall totem poles of pumpkins and piles of gourds accented by purple flowers. A dozen plaster pillars topped with silver Christmas trees glowing with eerie green light. 


Last fall he created a tremendous mountain of dirt, covered it with black tarp, put an enormous spider at the peak and peppered the whole thing with scarecrows and carved pumpkins. I anticipated his Christmas display with growing impatience and then disappointment. The scarecrows and past-their-prime pumpkins were buried under the snow but the trees and lights of his (un)usual holiday display never appeared. 

One week this summer, a “for sale” sign popped up amid the visual clutter. I expected to see a dozen more sale signs - perhaps a statement on our sagging economy, but the house was really for sale and sold quickly. The mountain of dirt and corresponding hole in the back yard remain untouched, but the artist has gone. 


Some folks are probably relieved - the house is curiously dark and quiet with not even a single blinking Christmas light.  But I miss that guy. Every neighborhood can use a quirky neighbor.  I'm thinking about applying for the job.   

Sick day ... or Advent?

I'm working from home while the one with a high fever takes a rare daytime nap on the couch. When my husband went off to his meeting this morning, I grumpily rearranged my schedule, called in favors and complained about drawing the short straw. Since then I've cuddled in front of the television, made and eaten the chicken noodle soup that didn't appeal to my patient, cleaned a toilet, canceled piano lessons and swept up the tumbleweed of dog hair I spotted from our perch on the couch. I've briefly considered rearranging the furniture to make way for a Christmas tree and read through the scripture lessons for Sunday hoping to get a head start on a sermon. Because unloading the dishwasher would be too noisy, I am pondering the quirky John the Baptist while my sick child snoozes on.

Guess it wasn't the short straw - this unexpected time of waiting and preparation. In the whirlwind that engulfs the holidays, I hope you too will surprised by moments of peace.

Taking Turns

I'm normally squeamish about posting my sermons, but since several folks asked, here's an excerpt from All Saints' Sunday. Thus concludes my little run of blogs on death and dying.

The congregation I serve is one of sixty congregations from our synod that partner with Lutheran churches in the Iringa area of Tanzania. Along with a few folks from Salem, I had the privilege of visiting our partners in the village of Magome in 2010 and hope to go again in the summer of 2012.

This weekend I attended a festival celebrating these life-giving global partnerships that included worship, workshops, and updates shared by two pastors visiting from Tanzania. One of the workshops highlighted some of the cultural differences between Americans and Tanzanians – helpful information to have when traveling to a part of the world that is very different from our own. It was led by Pastor Gaville, a pastor of the large Lutheran Cathedral in Iringa.

Pastor Gaville talked about why women and men sit separately in church, how villagers might respond to seeing a person with light skin for the first time, and why it’s important to close the door of a bathroom when the room is not occupied. We chuckled at some of our mutual missteps and misunderstandings.

But everyone in the room really laughed when Pastor Gaville talked about our very different understandings of time. Those who had visited Tanzania had likely experienced the difference between Tanzania time and American time. For example, 10 o’clock worship might actually begin more than an hour later.

Pastor Gaville looked at his watch and shook his head, “American time moves more quickly than Tanzania time,” he lamented. Although our friends in faraway places may have watches and cell phones, he explained, they refuse to let these gadgets control them.

When traveling by foot from one town to another for an appointment, Pastor Gaville said that he might leave his home fully intending to be on time. However, if he runs into friends or relatives on the way, it would be wrong to rush a conversation with them because of an appointment elsewhere. In Tanzania, a higher value is placed on relationships than punctuality - it is better to be late than rude to a friend or neighbor.

On the way to an appointment, intending to be on time, he explained that it would not be uncommon to be interrupted by a funeral procession. Slow-moving mourners carrying a casket could block the road for hours. It would be disrespectful to hurry them along or to rush past in order to be on time.

You've probably had this experience as well. As you make your way to home or work or an appointment, a slow-moving procession of cars making its way to the cemetery stops your progress. You wait as the hearse and the following cars pass, sometimes curious about the person who has died and the family and friends that trickle past. Sometimes, you wait, impatient to be on your way, inconvenienced by death.

In Tanzania, when your travels are interrupted by a funeral procession, Pastor Gaville told us that there was only one thing to do. You take your turn carrying the casket. Whether you knew the person or not, you share the burden of that death upon your shoulders, walking alongside the mourners as if they were your own family. You take your turn carrying the casket.

This is what we do this morning on All Saints’ Sunday as we remember those who have died this past year. We come alongside those who mourn and we help to carry the casket of those who have died because these saints are members of own family. We are fellow members of the body of Christ.

Some of you may remember LouCille Newcomb. She’d be the last to admit it but she was an extraordinary woman. At the beginning of January, we celebrated Lou’s life with a funeral here at Salem. The next day we traveled an hour away to Rush City where she was to be buried. I thought there might be a few friends and family from Rush City at the cemetery – folks who hadn’t been able to get down here for the funeral because of the snowy weather– but it was just LouCille’s two surviving children, a granddaughter, the funeral director and me. The funeral director backed the hearse as close as he could to the gravesite but there was still a lot of icy, uneven ground between the two. “Okay,” he said, pointing from the hearse to the open grave, “we just have to move the casket over there.” I looked around to see who he meant by “we,” thinking there must be a few strong cemetery workers behind me ready to help. Or even one strong cemetery worker. But by “we”, the funeral director meant the five of us. By “we”, he meant me. So I grabbed tight to a handle on that casket and helped to carry it and its precious contents to their final resting place.

I did this not because I was the pastor, not because LouCille was a close personal friend or relative, but I did it because it needed to be done – and because LouCille was a saint, a saint I was lucky to encounter on life’s road.

We slow down to give thanks for LouCille and an unbearably long list of others this morning -- the ones we knew well and the ones whose names are unfamiliar, those from this congregation and those whose names and memories you carry in your hearts.

Our text this morning from the Revelation to John indicates that, at the end of time, we will be gathered together with all the saints, those who have gone before us, those who stand next to us, those who have come after us, from every tribe and every nation. (I know now that our brothers and sisters from Tanzanian might be a little late.) Most of these saints gathered around the throne of the Lamb will be unknown to us. But they will all be known and precious to God.

Today we have an opportunity carry the casket of our saints. To bear one another’s grief as if it were our own. To laugh and to celebrate and to mourn. As we read the names of those who have died in the past year, we anticipate that great day when we will be reunited with them -- for just as surely as we are joined with Christ in death, we are joined with Christ in resurrection and new life. Thanks be to God!

I was here! (God was too.)

A new bridge is being constructed alongside the old one we travel daily - connecting us to work and school on the other side of the Mississippi River. For months the slow-moving, single lane of traffic has given us a good view of the construction being done both on and below the bridge.

Unfortunately, just as soon as the mammoth section of the new bridge was completed on the north end, the top third was covered with a giant swath of bright yellow graffiti. Someone was willing to risk life and limb, a misdemeanor and hefty fine to leave an impression on those headed toward downtown.

At the Bible camp where I worked years ago, the frames of the bunk beds were sanded down and repainted every fall. Over the course of each summer, campers would use whatever they could find to carve their names into the wood - letting the world know they had been there, had hiked those trails, worshiped at that campfire, slept in that bed. Our caretaker hated this chore, grumbling about the life of crime he imagined each child would no doubt lead. I secretly cherished each name and every story.

The desire to be noticed and known, to be remembered, to leave some kind of mark on this world is something we all share. It's one of the things we celebrate tomorrow on All Saints' Sunday. Memories, hymns, prayers, the small flame of a candle, a taste of bread and sip of wine - these things connect us to those who have gone before us, those who stand beside us, and those yet to come. A great cloud of witnesses, experiencing and sharing God's love and grace.

Though our names are not carved into the pews (I hope), we remember and honor one another's stories and give thanks to God for loving us from birth to death and beyond.

Who are you remembering this year?

Short Cut to Community

When I crave a new perspective on things, or even fresh insight into a vexing scripture passage, I will get out of my office to talk with people - at the local McDonald's, waiting to pick up the kids at school, at a coffee shop. And ... although it's risky... occasionally I will get my hair cut by someone new. While the stylist attempts to tame my unruly hair, I steer the conversation away from myself and my work to current events, the dilemmas working mothers face, or my theological troubles.

Recently, it was the anniversary of 9/11 and that Sunday's appointed gospel lesson on extravagant forgiveness that had me headed out of my office to the salon. The stylist was in ninth grade ten years ago when she and her classmates learned of the attacks on the World Trade Center. Teachers and students huddled together in stunned silence around televisions and computers, anxious about the breaking news and what it might mean for them.

The last period of her day was an art class in a basement studio. The art teacher was surprised when the class was reluctant to work on their projects and grew concerned about the serious expressions and even tears on the faces of the students. "Did something happen?" the teacher asked. Even though the attacks had occurred hours earlier, she had not heard the news. Class was canceled and the students joined hands as she saw the images of destruction for the first time on a television she pulled from the closet.

"Wait a minute. None of the other teachers sought her out to share the news?" I asked, clumps of hair falling onto my lap. "She didn't eat lunch with anyone? Run up to the office during the day? Bump into the custodian in the bathroom?" I was troubled by the isolation of this art teacher in a school full of mourning teenagers and distraught teachers. "She was always a little different," came the explanation. (This might also be true of pastors who go to hair salons for help with their sermons?)

For obvious reasons - including some really poor haircuts - I can't resort to this strategy often, but I appreciated this young woman's insights about our deep need for communities of care in a world where our differences can isolate us from our neighbors. Our conversation highlighted my own need to reach beyond the safe circles of people I know to learn from others.

I am so grateful to be part of a faith community in which we wrestle to love, to forgive, to serve. Together we help create the kind of hope-filled world God intends for all. Where do find places and people of encouragement and hope?

Thanks, Popcorn!

Our daughter discovered one of her guinea pigs dead in his cage this afternoon - a big bummer during an already emotional sliver of time between summer and sixth grade. Over the years we have loved and lost many hamsters, sometimes burying them behind the garage with prayers and tears, sometimes whisking them out of the house and into the garbage cart in a brown paper bag. One escape artist is living happily - we tell ourselves - somewhere in the walls of our house. This was different.

Popcorn vacationing at a friend's house

The guinea pig was a much-anticipated birthday gift several summers ago - a homemade coupon picturing a cartoon guinea pig was exchanged for the real thing, chosen with great care. The nocturnal, wheel-spinning hamsters paled in comparison to the lumbering, chattering, goofy, basil-loving poop factory that was Popcorn.

We sat together at the end of the sidewalk and cried, sharing stories about Popcorn and all those pets that had gone before. With geese flying overhead, we lamented the end of summer, the reality of death, our short-comings as pet owners, mosquitoes and the unrelenting passage of time. Between sobs, we laughed - and in that anxious sliver of time between summer and sixth grade - I was grateful for both.

Thanks, Popcorn, for bringing out something good in us.

All work and no play

Over the last 2+ years, I've exchanged daily greetings with the neighbor across the street from church. Our short conversations are often shouted from the sidewalk on my side to his open garage on the other where he builds canoes - one after another. Normally, he teases me about the odd hours I spend at church and I rib him about the obscene amount of time one man can spend in his garage. When I'm leaving the office after dark, he'll yell across to ask if I'd like to borrow a sleeping bag. He often comes home between appointments as an insurance agent and works on the canoe in his suit and tie - even for just a few minutes. When I comment about whether it's wise to purchase insurance products from a guy with sawdust on his shoes, he laughs - then shows up again a few hours later. He doesn't neglect his work but he will do almost anything to make his true passion a priority.

Today as I was leaving church to go home, I admired the neighbor's craftsmanship from afar. For months he's been building an extra-long canoe out of a 35-year old redwood picnic table his mother wanted to discard. "It's done!" he crowed, "Come over and take a look!" The finished product was so beautiful, I couldn't take my eyes or my hands off of the smooth, gleaming redwood. My neighbor, too, was beaming and brimming with plans for a first voyage. What fun!

Who can argue with a strong work ethic? I love my job and work hard at it - sometimes this demands long, odd hours. What I learn from my neighbor is to foster an equally strong play ethic - to make more room in my life for the kinds of people and things that feed and sustain a sense of joy and fun. Time I would carefully guard and treasure. Things I'd run home for at lunchtime.

What's your true passion? Even if you are lucky enough to love your work, what other things bring you life and joy?

The Word on the Street

Late this afternoon, I was traveling between home and church and noticed something new on busy Robert Street. Wearing a small stole around his shoulders and holding an open Bible in one hand, a young man was shouting scripture in the general direction of the Chinese buffet parking lot across the street. Now I enjoy the Chinese buffet and I love the Bible, but the combination left me feeling curious and a little uneasy. I wanted to ask the preacher about his methods, but the traffic forced me to hurry on. Although I admire his boldness, I wonder if barking scripture at someone has ever worked -- ever led to a relationship, ever sparked a curiosity that grew into a love for Jesus, ever turned someone away from sin. (And if eating Chinese food is problematic, I'm in trouble.)

A block later, I passed a more familiar but no less unusual figure in front of a local pizza joint. Normally dressed in a heavy toga costume with a big nose, he dances non-stop on the corner advertising the restaurant's dance-worthy specials. Dressed as a little Roman dictator, I've admired his energy and have sometimes even been convinced by his dance moves to purchase pizza. Without the costume on this hot day, he's a big sweaty guy with headphones, holding a rectangular dance partner, still dancing away. Being a pizza mascot is not a glamorous or lucrative job, but this guy puts his whole self into it - every day - and I admire that.


I encounter these two fellows as I contemplate the parable of wheat and weeds recorded in Matthew's gospel (Matthew 13:24-29). The workers are eager to rid the fields of choking, potentially deadly weeds masquerading as wheat but the owner says no – let them grow until harvest, when things will be sorted out.

Sometimes it’s difficult to tell the good plants from the weeds – in our gardens, in our communities, in our politicians, on our street corners. A preacher boldly quoting scripture could be using God’s Word to sow seeds of hate and fear. Wheat or weed? A big, sweaty guy dancing away on the street corner hopes to cash in on your hunger pangs. Wheat or weed?

God appears willing to live with the uncertainty of a field mixed with both weeds and wheat rather than risk pulling up any of the good stuff. In the meantime, we are called to be wheat - using our gifts to build up the body of Christ, to work for justice, to care for our neighbors in concrete ways. Maybe even to speak and to act more boldly for the things we care deeply about. Maybe even to dance. 

Please let me know if you see anything interesting while you are about and about! 

With purple fingers...

Yesterday in the 90+ degree heat with humidity, I was knee-deep in mystery weeds wearing jeans and a long sleeve shirt - red-faced, sweaty and a little bloody - when I drew the attention of a park ranger. He thought I might need some assistance. Or that perhaps I was not in my right mind. Because my location would certainly be considered "off the path" in the park ranger manual, I was both a little nervous and a little amused when he inquired about my well-being. "You're not going to take away my berries, are you?" I asked him, rattling the two dozen tiny black raspberries rolling around in my bucket. Unimpressed, he allowed me to continue on my way without confiscating my loot.

I can't explain why I so love to pick berries, especially wild ones that don't necessarily belong to me - along the bike path, in a city park, by the river. This morning I got up early to meet an 82 year-old former firefighter from church at a berry patch I just discovered. After a stormy night, the thorny hill was slippery and I worried that one of us would need to be rescued by the other though I didn't know at the time which one was more daring or who had chosen the most sensible footwear.

I was the first to cry "uncle" when my muscles starting protesting and my shoes were uncomfortably soggy. Dumping my berries - all of them - into my surprised parishioner's bucket, I headed for work. Before going home, I suspect he went out of his way to check on the status of his "secret" berry patch - its whereabouts were not shared with me despite my goading and assurance of pastoral confidentiality.

Since his retirement, my partner in picking has taken on the canning and jelly making activities in his home. Legend has it that his black raspberry jelly is so delicious, one grandson eats it by the spoonful. I'm happy to do my part to keep that grandson coming around. Since there's still jam in our freezer from last year and I can (and should) only eat so much ice cream topped with berries, I gladly share. Turns out that's my favorite part.

Coming soon...

A side effect of our kids growing up -- we can't agree on one movie anymore. Though our teenage son is still willing to see a popular animated film about cars, he doesn't want to be seen seeing it with the rest of us. Popcorn in hand, we part ways at the concession stand with plans to meet up later - my daughter and I headed in one direction, the boys in another. However, last evening in the lobby we all paused in a common location, drawn to a poster advertising an upcoming movie featuring a willy nilly silly old bear and his odd group of friends - an exuberant tiger, a wise owl and a perpetually depressed donkey. "We have to see that!" the kids both agreed at once. I treasure memories of reading about Pooh's adventures together. I didn't realize the kids do too.

I confess to sleeping through half the movie about cars. I'll have to rest up for the one we've agreed "we have to see!" together - so I can watch the kids watching the movie, storing up treasures for another time.

Mirror, mirror on the wall...

When I visited our church kids (including my two) at camp last week, my quick check-the-hair glance in the bathroom mirror was denied - all of the mirrors on the campsite had been covered with butcher paper. Written on the paper were encouraging messages -- "I like your face." and "You're beautiful just the way you are." and "God loves you." My daughter explained later that the campers, boys and girls alike, were encouraged to forego makeup and hair products for the day, concentrating on inner beauty instead.

As a mother, I was grateful. Our society's obsession with outward appearance takes its toll - on tween girls who want to be unique but still fit in, teenage boys whose bodies are changing at an uncomfortable pace, on the college-age counselors hoping to catch someone's eye, on a middle aged mom who compares herself to seemingly flawless celebrities of the same age (who me?), on older adults who hesitate to come to worship when a new or aching joint necessitates a cane or walker. Our comparisons often lead to either negative self-talk or unkind judgments about others ... or both.

The kids all looked beautiful to me -- and I was freed from at least one disgruntled swipe at my own uncooperative hair and wrinkles. Believing we are beautiful, loved, valued, awesome -- what would we do with the extra time on our hands?

A fun-filled week

We've got lots of kids and volunteers in the building this week for Vacation Bible School. Although not for everyone, VBS has always been my idea of a good time. At the registration table today I witnessed two five-year olds  greeting each other with small excited waves while adults conducted the business of checking in. "She's my friend from Sunday School," one confided in me while waiting for her name tag. Properly registered, they joined hands and ran to find their group.

Relationships are so important - not just for our well-being but for understanding how our relational God has created us to negotiate in the world. At five and eighty-five -- taking turns, sharing, listening  -- these are the important building blocks to making and being a friend. They are also the foundation for being good stewards of the blessings God has shared with us.

Everyone enjoys the worship and singing!

I've been especially enthralled with the volunteers from our congregation and community who stepped forward this year to teach crafts, prepare snacks, bring the Bible stories alive, and shepherd groups of kids from room to room. There are the new helpers -- older youth and high school kids who have graduated to "crew leader" status. Some of these kids we know well - others are friends of friends already bored after two weeks of summer. Some were clearly volunteered against their will - grumpy and uncooperative after being awakened too early - physically present but letting the rest of us know they aren't happy about it.

Among this year's crop of volunteers are some long-retired Sunday School teachers and a dozen other older adults who have jumped in with the kind of contagious enthusiasm and joy I wish everyone had. They've egged each other on - playing games with the kids, singing and doing the hand motions - embracing the new(er) technology of mimicking the words and motions of enthusiastic kids on a DVD.

Relationships are vital to them also - both the lasting friendships they've developed over many years and the new relationships that may only last the few days of Vacation Bible School.

Learning about God's love through games and fun!

When one of the youngest kids came to the snack station on the first day, he asked for a hamburger and fries. Learning that they were not available, he was willing to settle for mac and cheese. We are not always able or willing to offer all of the bells and whistles (or mac and cheese) of a larger church. But we are certainly growing in our ability to welcome and build relationships with these young children, the eager and even reluctant teenagers, and with each other. We are excited to take turns so that others may shine, to share what we have - including our time and the treasure our faith. Come and see!

Bang! Bang!

Forced to do some triage by unexpected water in our basement, I've been going through bins of old toys and games the kids have enjoyed, outgrown and forgotten. It's been difficult for me to part with some of these treasures - each one holds memories of wonderful times when a single Hot Wheel car or a stuffed bear and its adventures could be the plan for a whole afternoon. A time when my own confidence as a parent was high - without the daily drama and missteps of today's tween and teen years.

Sorting through the toys, a forgotten parenting theme emerged. Examining a small spaceman I thought was broken, I remembered carefully sanding off the weapon in his hand before giving the toy to our son - thinking he would never notice (he did). The tiny black pistols from the Lego police officers "disappeared," and for years we resisted the pull of those enormous Super Soakers - squirt guns shaped like automatic weapons. Instead our kids had pink flamingo and zebra squirters which leaked down the arm and required frequent refilling. I would politely ask David to put his pretend finger gun away and redirect him to another activity. Right or wrong, I hated seeing my kids and their friends pointing weapons at each other or me.

I vividly remember the turning point. At a birthday party several years ago, David received a gigantic Nerf bazooka. As he unwrapped the gift, I thought to myself, "That's going back to Target. Today." Emerging out of a flurry of wrapping paper, the kids ran to the park across the street with some of his new toys. To my surprise, that Nerf gun had already been wrestled out of its packaging and was lifted high over the boys' heads like a trophy. Too late to take it back. Over time, his collection of Nerf guns has grown. On hot summer days, we've all enjoyed giant squirt fights with giant squirters. Currently, his room is overrun with a large and baffling assortment of Warhammer figures and weapons, a tabletop military strategy game he enjoys for hours with friends.

All of these memories run through my mind as I grudgingly purge the basement and consider the kind of parent I have become and the kind of people my children have grown into and will grow into. At some point, all of my parental hopes and dreams for them narrowed to just a handful  - to be kind and happy with faith in a God who loves them and the knowledge that they can make a difference in the world. This has meant clinging hard to some values and letting some other stuff go.  When I watch and listen to them, I give thanks. Most of the time. So far, so good.

Now... if I could just get rid of these cute little beanie babies.

Better than nothing? Part 2

As I was driving home today, I spotted Gary - last week's stranded, depressed, former church goer from a distant town. He was chatting with someone at a corner bus stop while I sat at the stoplight watching him and debating. A week ago I was taken in by his sad story and had felt at least a little superior about my generous and compassionate response. This afternoon, however, I sat through the long light, deflated and debating. Should I stop to talk with him? Wag an accusing finger at him? Ask for a refund? Call the cops?

Once a teen from church shared a similar story about helping someone he and friends had met, pooling together their money to give the stranger a few bucks for a night in a nearby shelter. Several days later, the young man was still stewing about whether he had done the right thing. (I know the feeling.) Stewing enough to come in and talk about it. What if the money was spent on alcohol or drugs? What if the stranger hadn't gone to the shelter? What if there wasn't even a shelter? Had he and his friends behaved foolishly by giving money? Could our faith make us fools? I guess the simple answer is "Yes."

The Bible has not-so-simple verses that could speak to this kind of human dilemma. For example, in the gospel of Luke Jesus urges us to "give to everyone who begs from you: and if anyone takes your goods, do not ask for them again." (Luke 6:30) That sounds wildly generous but also unwise and irresponsible and un-doable to me. Everyone? That guy on the corner who ripped me off? Responding to enemies with love, forgiving people, turning the other cheek, turning out my pockets? Doing these things, even grudgingly and imperfectly, can makes us look like such fools by the world's standards when we'd prefer to look powerful and generous and - in my case - oh so right.

So I sat at the stoplight, fuming and keeping score, thinking unkind thoughts about the man at the bus stop. Sometimes people (including me) behave in ways that are disappointing or mean or desperate or worse - for reasons that are more complicated than I can quickly comprehend.

Which is easier?  By refusing to respond to people in need, I could minimize the foolish factor and dole out my compassion and my pocket money to those I know with certainty are deserving.  Or I could stop trying to control the outcome.  Generosity should probably be freely offered or it turns into something else - something that generates as much joy and love and real relationship as paying the utility bill.

I'm still curious about his real story - which is probably every bit as layered and difficult as the fake one he sold to me a week ago. It has certainly been more interesting and challenging to have met and engaged this stranger than to have passed him by without even really seeing.

When you've been asked for help, when you've been surprised and disappointed - how have you responded?

Better than nothing?

Getting into the van with my hands full of Chinese takeout, I was approached by a stranger. I was cautious because our young daughter had already climbed in with the drinks, anxious because I wasn't sure what to expect from this man, impatient because the food was getting cold while he spilled his story.

"What's your name?" Gary.
"Where are you staying?" In the car.
"When did you last eat?" This morning.
"Can you get home?" No.

He had driven more than seventy miles to the cities for three or four days of promised temporary employment which fell through two or three days ago. He ran out of gas in the parking lot of a business along the main drag - not a big problem when you expect to be paid at the end of the day and the employees are willing to push your car to the back of the lot. Big problem when the work dries up and there's no money in your pocket and you're sleeping in a parking lot. When we met, he had wandered more than a mile from his vehicle and had just decided he was going to have to ask someone for help. Maybe lots of someones if he was going to fill his gas tank with enough gas to get home.

As I listen, I confess, I'm weighing his story for truthfulness. Calculating the amount of cash and coin I have in my purse and car. Aware of how much time I have before the finale of Dancing with the Stars begins. Gauging both my safety and possible stupidity. Thinking about my child in the car - knowing she is listening hard and watching carefully to see how I respond.

To make a long story short, I decided to help. Glossing over the parts where I may have behaved unwisely, the now not-so-stranger was soon on his way home. I think. I hope. As we parted, I handed him my business card and was surprised when he burst into tears. Out poured other stories. About the church he grew up in, the church he and his wife and children had attended together, his divorce and the deep depression that made more permanent employment so challenging, falling away from the church. His desire to find God and the lack of hope. His sense of being profoundly found by God today.

I had to resist driving back to that parking lot later to see if his car was there. Something jaded and doubting in me wanted to know if I had been duped, not for the first time. "Did we do the right thing?" I asked my daughter as we finally drove home. "I don't know," she said, "but it was better than doing nothing. Wasn't it?"

Prayers and more when we can for all the Garys out there, whether we are bamboozled by them or not.

Under Construction

Nearly every street and highway I travel regularly is under construction. I had no idea so many concrete barriers and orange traffic cones even existed but they've suddenly sprouted everywhere. Not only is the preparation for a much-needed new bridge over the Mississippi River underway, the same highway is tricky to negotiate closer to my house - with one narrow lane in each direction and lots of delays. The major side streets between my home and church - just two miles away - are also under construction. Fooled by a street that is sometimes open and sometimes closed, I've accidentally taken the long way home, driving miles out of my way. Over near the kids' school in St. Paul along University Avenue, work has begun on the central corridor light rail project. ARGGH!

It can be frustrating to get around - some of these major projects will take years to complete! No more quick errands. No more dashing out the door at the last minute expecting to make it to school or work with time to spare. No quick trip home to retrieve my forgotten cell phone. We've been forced to take alternate routes, make last minute adjustments, allow extra time, call ahead to apologize for delays, even ask for directions when lost in unfamiliar territory. 

There have also been some real advantages to moving away from the well-worn familiar pathways of my routine. I've discovered new things about our community, stopped to visit church folks working in their yards, noted new businesses and shuttered windows, found areas of new growth or surprising decay I didn't realize were right there outside my narrow vision. 

This major bridge is being replaced.

As individuals and a faith community, we are always under construction. Being pushed from old routines into new patterns brings opportunities for growth and learning. As we mercifully move into summer after a long winter and dismal spring, I hope to discover some new things -- not just about how to get from home to work and back without delays, but about myself and the people around me. Summer has its own pace - maybe it is the season to make a new friend, find an inner athlete, discover a new bike trail, hang out at a new coffee shop, visit every Farmer's Market, build a muscle, go camping, give the kids some undivided attention, plant a new vegetable and actually eat it.

I'm under construction - what about you?

I do and I ask God to help and guide me.

Four of our young people affirmed their Christian faith today, leading us in worship, daring to share tiny pieces of who they are and what they believe with the rest of us.

For my own confirmation in eighth grade, I wore a powder blue dress made by my grandmother, pantyhose in the suntan shade and a pair of regrettable brown loafers. When my pastor revealed the verse he had chosen for me -- Blessed are the meek --  I wanted to kick him in the shin with my ugly brown shoes and run out of the church.

One of today's confirmands sported purple hair, a matching tie and new black converse as he quietly and confidently shared the careful words he had chosen about his mother's great faith and example. One deftly negotiated the chancel steps in five inch heels, bravely expressing both her faith and her doubts. Another shared a story about God's presence and protection while wearing the first dress she'd owned in years - stretched far beyond her comfort zone in every possible way today. One shared how powerfully God had worked through others to speak to him - surprising him with clarity and faith the rest of us sort of envied. Although the two young men would probably not appreciate this description, there was also some sweet, sweet singing that brought me to tears - favorite songs the kids shared with the congregation.

People lead busy lives and Christian education, including confirmation, often takes a back seat to other commitments - sports, jobs, piles of homework, weekends at the cabin, an opportunity to catch up on lost sleep.  Almost everyone I know has an opinion about how to properly educate our youth and hopefully keep them involved in the life of the church after a day like today. Some Wednesday nights I went home shaking my head after confirmation, wondering if we had accomplished anything together. Our conversations often veered from the Creed to broken relationships at school, from the Lord's Prayer to prayers for better grades, from God's love to budding romances, from the Ten Commandments to ten or more worries about the world we live in. Hopefully, despite our missteps and theirs, these young people know that they are loved and celebrated - by me, by the congregation, by their families and by our generous God who has blessed each unique one with gifts to share.

Do you believe? It's really very brave to stand and declare in front of everyone:  "I do and I ask God to help and guide me."  Please pray for the young people in your lives and celebrate the courageous things they do and share.

Peace like a river

Our first-ring suburb is strung along the mighty Mississippi River.  At one time, the busy stockyards along its banks were among the largest in the world - a source of both great pride and prosperity (and odor). Though the stockyards are now (mostly) closed, other
businesses and a busy

recreational trail have
cropped up in recent years.

Although I do have an unusual fondness for the smell of manure, I'm drawn to the river for its watery connection to people and memories in both directions. We once took the kids on a much-treasured vacation to Lake Itasca where the river begins its journey. Sarah took the word "headwaters" literally, dipping her head repeatedly into the cold, shallow water.

I grew up on a farm near the Mississippi farther south in eastern Iowa. A long, narrow toll bridge spanned the river between us and the closest Pizza Hut -- the open grate that kept the dead shadflies from piling up on the bridge offered a freaky view of the water far below. Even now, I believe I could fashion a sturdy (enough) raft out of driftwood and spend a lazy day drifting away from my life's demands downstream to Dubuque or Bellevue or Sabula where life flows at a slower pace. 

As a child I explored the river's banks -- collecting rocks while my brother took his turn at piano lessons from Mrs. Sorg whose house was on River Street in Sabula. Although I wasn't picky, my favorite stones were the layered agates - so beautiful under the water, so dull and boring when they dried out in my pocket. 

One year, Santa brought me the coveted rock polisher I needed to transform my pile of drab river stones into gleaming treasures. The rock polisher came with mysterious packets of grit, jewelry findings and extensive instructions. I imagined myself wearing a stunning polished stone pendant and matching ring, the envy of my friends. Excited and determined, I added my rocks, water and grit to the tumbler and plugged it in. Not realizing that the process of polishing rocks can take many weeks, I checked my stones approximately every 5 minutes and quickly became discouraged - abandoning the polisher to the basement where it was eventually thrown away without producing a single polished stone.

Sometimes I expect needed transformation in myself and others, in our faith community and in our world to happen quickly - and sometimes it does. But often it happens over time, like a river that carves out its winding path or like a stone that is carefully chosen and lovingly polished. When I become fearful, discouraged and impatient with the world and the people in it (myself included), I head to the river to pray. Remember how beautiful and vibrant those agates are when they are immersed in the water -- and how lifeless they become when stuffed into my pocket? Watching the river flow, I remember the promises shared in the waters of baptism - God's persistent, wildly generous, enduring, unbroken, foolish love for us and the responsibility God shares with us to create a world that is more generous, more loving, more just, more peaceful, more beautiful, less isolated and more connected.  Stay close to the water.

Where does God find you when you are discouraged, impatient, isolated?

A Holy Free-for-All

I've never forgotten a Maundy Thursday service I attended years ago at St. Paul's Lutheran Church in Milwaukee.  At the end of the service, anyone could come up to the altar area, grab something and remove it. Holy things - all handled with care by the women of the altar guild, the choir director, the pastors, the neighborhood children who came without parents, the church secretary, strangers, me.

People really got into it - everything that was not nailed down had to go. So focused on the task, some of the kids would have removed the furniture and rolled up the carpet if asked -- a somber, dead serious, holy free-for-all.

Like many churches, St. Paul's has an altar built against the wall. Behind the altar was a cloth backdrop.  If I remember correctly, it was a curtain or banner in the appropriate color of the season - probably a Lenten purple. When the custodian jumped up on the altar in his work boots and pulled down that cloth, I was shocked -- so completely appalled and offended, I remember it vividly years later! 

These days of Holy Week are like that - or should be.  Not so tamed down that we are not offended by the dead seriousness of the Cross.  Not so routine that we are not blown away by the new life that follows - God's holy free-for-all.  

Hold on.  Easter is coming.

An Early Alleluia!

Today a young child skipped and skee-daddled up to my communion line to receive a blessing.  I had already admired her lovely Easter dress and striped tights as she headed to Sunday School, worn a week early because - really - who can wait? This little girl first arrived in Advent, brought by her grandparents for the Christmas program rehearsals. They sat together on the steps of our fellowship hall while she learned the songs around the corner - just in case things didn't go smoothly. As Advent progressed, a younger granddaughter tagged along and they all  - grandparents and the littler one - played in the nursery while they waited. 

This morning, she had a sizeable group of admirers there to hear her sing with her Sunday School friends. She and most of the other children made it all the way through the long service, palm branches waving. When she skipped forward to the communion rail, pulling a grandmother in each hand, I couldn't help it - even with the somber ending to our passion story still ringing in my ears and the subdued Lenten hymns in the background. I couldn't help it - I laughed out loud, grateful for the many surprising ways God has been at work in our midst and - on the cusp of a week that can feel more harried than holy - blessing me with this little girl and her joy.  Alleluia!  A week early because - really - who can wait?

Loving the Library

I made a trip to the public library in downtown St. Paul yesterday to gather resources for a spring project on mythical creatures. The whole shelf of books on unicorns in the far reaches of adult non-fiction came as a surprise to me. A whole shelf!

The library is one of my favorite places. When the kids were smaller we visited so often, the librarians greeted us by name. They hunted down elusive titles, recommended authors, forgave fines, repaired torn pages and hauled stacks of books to the car when we accidentally checked out more materials than we could carry. In turn, I offered a listening ear when they moved elderly parents into assisted living facilities and when budget cuts eliminated positions and library hours. There were summers we diligently recorded every minute we spent reading in order to claim the (lame) prize of an inflatable baseball, months we borrowed nothing but origami books or cookbooks, many days when the "free" resources we couldn't locate under the couch or beds had to be replaced.

I am grateful that my children share my love for reading and have no complaints about whiling away an afternoon wandering through the stacks, pulling out the titles that grab our attention, sitting down on the floor to begin reading while other patrons maneuver around us.  The possibilities are endless: learn to fold a paper crane, plan a dinosaur birthday party, assemble and frost an impressive cake, wean a child, travel to another country, explore a culture, repair an oven door, paint a room, learn a yoga pose, draw a unicorn.

After finding the books on fantastic beasts we needed, I wandered through the little-explored biography section. I enjoyed some of the titles:

You Better Watch Out by Greg Malone
Dreams Can Come True by Susan Boyle
The Good Fight by Walter Mondale

And two of my curious favorites:
Never Tell Our Business to Strangers by Jennifer Mascia
A Supremely Bad Idea: Three Mad Birders and Their Quest to See It All by Luke Dempsey

I wondered on the way home what title would be appropriate for a book about my complicated, messy, wonderful life and was disappointed that A Supremely Bad Idea was already taken by those three wacky bird lovers. Here are some alternatives:

No, I Don't Have Any Thoughts about Supper
Mission Impossible: When Ministry and Motherhood Collide
Love, Love, Love: That's What It's All About

Have you read any good books lately?
What would be a good title for a book about your life?

Smooth Sailing

Our ten year-old daughter has outgrown her old bike - both the size and the princessy purple and pink colors. Her new one is a beautiful aqua blue, her first with gears and no pedal breaks.  This afternoon was warmish and sunny so we ventured out for a ride. 

Our suburb, which borders the Mississippi, has a wonderful bike trail with the river and its wildlife and barge traffic on one side and active train tracks on the other. Throw in the busy dog park along the path and it's almost sensory overload! 

However, between our house and the bike trail is a really steep hill.  It usually takes me several weeks of biking before I've worked up enough strength to get back up without stopping to walk.  It's not just that I'm out of shape, the hill is just that big. I've tried every possible street in town that leads away from the river and, although some hills are better than others, they're all bad.

The hardest part of our bike ride today was letting Sarah ride down the hill. What if she went too fast, fell off her bike, slid on the gravel, ran into a car, used the hand brakes too enthusiastically?  Her new bike seemed suddenly enormous and dangerous to me but she was confident and un-princesslike with her long hair flying, her unzipped sweatshirt flapping, her laughter tinged with both delight and fear. Sure, we had to walk back up at the end of our ride, but the conversation and the purple crocuses along the road eased the way.

How many of us inch down the big challenges and opportunities of life, both hands on the brakes, worried that we might make mistakes, go off the trail, have to limp back up?  Some risks are worth taking.

Next time, she plans to ease up on the brakes and go a little faster down the hill. 

I may have to send her with her father.

Thank you very much.

At lunchtime today, I hoped to do a quick errand at a local bank but the line was long and slow moving. I should have connected the dots-- lunch hour... bank ... errand ... Monday -- and anticipated a long wait.  As I was reconsidering the errand, a bank employee noticed the delays, grabbed his clip board, and worked the line in a way I had to admire. He introduced himself to each person, checked to see if they had the right forms filled out correctly, switched flawlessly between English and Spanish as needed, thanked us by name for our patience, and pulled people out of line when he could complete the simpler transactions himself.

As I watched, I was reminded of a gentleman who works at the information desk of an area hospital. Arturo embodies hospitality - something so valuable in a setting where people are very often anxious, overwhelmed and disoriented.  He greets me like an old friend, thanks me profusely for visiting "our" guests, and makes me feel like I am the most important person to visit the hospital's most important patient. Overhearing him answer the phone and respond to questions, I realize, of course, it's not actually all about me. He has a real gift for greeting each person with genuine warmth and delight.

I learn something from these folks about how together we can create and sustain a faith community that welcomes, that notices and responds to needs, that celebrates and utilizes the gifts of all.

Do you have any Arturos in your life?

Say Cheese!

Our congregation is putting together a new picture directory. It's been fun to hang out downstairs talking to people as they arrive for their portraits. Some families or couples choose to be photographed in color-coordinated apparel.  One member rushed in from work and may not have taken off his coat for the camera. Others look far fancier than I've ever encountered them on a Sunday morning. Then in comes those who have lost or divorced a spouse since the last directory several years ago. Being photographed alone isn't something they ever imagined doing. For some members, it might be a first family photo. For others, it will likely be the last. There are even some folks I've never seen in church, yet for some reason they still value the connection. Perhaps one day I will learn why.

Though we sometimes think of church as a stable place where change comes slowly, where people and attitudes can be stuck in the past, I find that our community is a fluid one, with people and mission coming and going at a pace that is sometimes unsettling in a lifetime that seems all too fleeting.

I will treasure this directory - a snapshot of people who have planted seeds of ministry and faith, of those who will water and weed, of those who will reap the harvest and turn over the soil. And between the pictures I will remember with gratitude those who are missing -  the ones who have died and those who have, I hope, found other communities in which to thrive. With anticipation I will also imagine those who are yet to come, praying that this community's heart is big enough to welcome, embrace, equip, and send back into the world everyone God sends our way.

The wind blows where it will...

I am thinking about Nicodemus for Sunday's sermon as I read about the aftermath of the earthquake and tsunami in Japan and the resulting crises with the affected nuclear power plants. Nicodemus, a prominent Pharisee, approached Jesus at night with his curiosity and questions. As part of his response, Jesus talks about the untamed gift of the Spirit: "The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit." (John 3:8)

Worrying about which way the wind blows has taken on new urgency as we consider the possible effects of radiation that cannot be fully contained. People are urged to move many miles away from the damaged plants - perhaps leaving behind hope of finding missing loved ones from within the rubble. I watch and wonder about those brave people who--when others are wisely moving away--they instead move in, risking their own health and even their own lives to rescue, recover and repair.

Many years ago, I visited the nuclear power plant about an hour from our home - a mandatory field trip for middle schoolers. I remember being awed in the fullest sense of the word - filled with wonder, curiosity, unanswerable questions and fear. That combination of wonder and fear led to some restless nights, then and now, about what the future holds in the wake of natural disasters, economic uncertainties, and serious tensions locally and around the world. I pray that the Spirit blows where it will, carrying with it compassion, generosity, wisdom, and courage.

We don't know what the future holds but we know who holds the future - a God who loves and redeems us. Jesus offers Nicodemus - and us- this promise: "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him." While clinging to the hope given to us in Christ, we do what we can to love and serve our neighbor in difficult times and in all times - however the wind may blow.

Lenten surprise

During our Lenten service this evening, I spent the majority of the service sitting with my family - something I am rarely able to do.  Though my kids may no longer acknowledge me at school or welcome my sense of humor and they often discourage my substitution of lyrics to popular songs or any hint of dancing - they got as close as they could, crawling under my arm, sharing the service book, singing together. The smell of my daughter's clean hair and the sound of my teenage son's changing voice stole my attention from the service. It was an unexpected gift of peace in the midst of chaotic and frightening news from Japan and elsewhere.  In this first week of Lent, I hope you are finding people and places of peace and new life. I'd love to hear about them.

Joyful Generosity

Today I had the privilege of leading a group of family and friends as they celebrated the life of a loved one who passed away recently.

What I loved most about this man's story was what he grew into. His own father was a hard man who struggled with alcoholism and showed little affection for his family. As a father of five himself, his children described him as "stern" when they were growing up.  But, oh, he learned to love!

One grandchild, now an adult, treasures the tape of bedtime stories his grandfather recorded for him years ago. What a gift to be able to, even now, hear his grandpa telling him how much he is loved and valued.  The deceased developed many friendships over the years and treasured each one.  More than that, he actually told them "Thank you so much for your friendship" each time they'd meet. Despite a challenging start in life, he grew into a joyful and generous and grateful giver. His legacy is one of tremendous love and hospitality.

"Where'd he learn to love like that?" I asked his wife.  "I trained him," she said simply as her children all nodded.

Where did you learn to love and to give?

Ashes to Ashes

There's something profound about Ash Wednesday.  Maybe it's making the sign of the cross upon the heads of those who have struggled with serious illness and won or those who have somehow summoned the courage to come to worship after a long absence. Marking with ash the smooth skin of a toddler whose head was anointed with an oily cross just months ago or being startled by the glaring marks on the foreheads of my own children.  The community that forms on Wednesday evenings is more porous than a usual Sunday morning - more visitors, old friends, folks testing the waters after loss or disappointment, early and later service folks together, neighbors who stop by, regular worshipers sitting in unexpected places. I love serving these folks, whatever shape they take, and look forward to our Wednesday evenings together.

Lent Eve

At our house, there's always pressure on the eve of Lent to decide on some kind of discipline to carry us through the season. Each year, my hope is that the discipline will turn into a habit and the habit will lead to welcome or needed transformation. Normally, I fail miserably. This year, my husband, who excels at disciplines of all sorts, intends to give up aspartame. Yesterday he came home loaded down with Diet Coke - he is good at snagging the aspartame-laden beverages while they are on sale and is apparently better able to withstand temptation than his spouse. Once he gave up nuts for Lent and - I'm not kidding - lost 30 pounds. Sigh. I don't even care about almonds until I'm trying to avoid them.

For me, this winter has been a long season heavy and holy with death and dying. As we turn toward Lent and the cross, my plan is to be on the lookout for signs of life and hope even in the midst of death. In addition, my daughter and I signed up to run in a 2K race at the end of April and a 5K race in May. This forces us to get outside and move. Even if it still means moving through the snow that just keeps coming. Even if it means more walking than running at first. Even if it means wet socks and a muddy dog as we plow through the puddles. 

Looking forward to what we might discover.

New This Morning

Because the congregation I serve is about to launch its new website, some have asked whether sermons or videos of our services could be posted on the site. Although this makes perfectly good sense and is commonly done, I quake and balk and drag my feet. It is one thing to stand before a gathering of folks that I have come to mostly know and deeply love and proclaim something to them on God's behalf within the context of worship. It seems like something else entirely to have those words or images available to ... whomever. whenever.

So while I wrestle with questions about the website, I thought I would challenge myself to explore something else during the season of Lent - an occasional blog. My hope would be to raise questions, to reflect on how faith, relationships and ordinary life are intertwined, and to point out how God is at work in and through the faithful people and lively ministries of Salem Lutheran Church.

"New every morning" is from Lamentations 3:22-24 - one of my favorite passages from scripture:

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul,
'therefore I will hope in him.’