A Dog's Life

Brandy

It is the job of the last one out the door in the morning and the last one up at night to scoot our aging dog, Brandy, from the living room into an area of the house where she can do less damage. Don't ask.

Her fourteen year-old joints complain when she reluctantly makes the move from one rug to another. She's become less active with age and snoozes away much of the day.

Except sometimes she doesn't.

When we visit the family farm in Iowa, Brandy behaves very differently - full of curiosity and energy. She chases every cat, rolls enthusiastically in every foul-smelling patch of grass, barks at every passing car, samples every dead thing she discovers, barely pausing from her hopeful explorations. When the last one up tries to scoot her indoors for safe-keeping overnight, she runs the other way. We call her "feral" - once domesticated, now untamed, unresponsive, uncooperative.

Actually, in those surroundings, Brandy isn't wild - she is fully alive, enjoying every moment as only a dog can. I wonder if we should leave her there at the farm to live out the rest of her days on high alert, happily chasing cats from the front porch. Because the difference is so startling - after the long ride home, she quickly reverts back to her more familiar sleepy, creaky, leaky self.

I'd like to be more like the feral Brandy.

• What is the human equivalent of being so fully alive? So alert?
• Do we get trapped in patterns and surroundings and brokenness that have us snoozing our way through life? 
• What brings out the very best in us and how can we be that best more often?

These fleeting weeks of waiting and expectation before Christmas call us to wakefulness, to curiosity, to hope, to new life. We are on high alert, not just for the coming of the Christ child and his promised return, but to his daily comings and goings in our ordinary lives. Peace to you on the sleepiest of days and on those in which you are most fully awake.

Dear Dad,

Remember that day you got your arm pinned between the spout of the feeder wagon and the silo? I had gone to the barn to clean the hog floors and you promised to yell when you needed my help with something. I had barely thrown a few forkfuls of dirty hay out the door when I heard you calling my name. So soon? I ran up to the silos to find you hopelessly stuck. 

"Pull the tractor ahead without letting it roll backward," you instructed – something I had never done successfully. Not once. Was I 10? 12? I had to stand on the clutch with both feet to put that stubborn Oliver tractor into gear – which meant I didn’t have a foot to put on the brake to stop a backward roll. And one hand for the throttle on the steering column? I can still see it in my mind. Certainly I was going to make a mistake and take off your arm – wouldn’t you rather I went to get someone else? My mom, my older brother, a neighbor, anyone? 

“You can do it,” you coached me. I revved the throttle and popped the clutch – the tractor practically leaped forward, freeing your arm. And then… back to the barn to clean the hog floors.

You are a great dad, a good coach and I love you. Lynn

Dear Dad,

Today I was thinking about the overflow room at church where we helped to fold and stuff the bulletins when it was your turn to usher. On those Sundays, being allowed to ring the church bell by pulling on the big rope in the closet – what a thrill! Sitting in the back or in the balcony when farm chores made us late for church –how embarrassing! You taught us to say “amen” in our heads whenever Pastor Mentick took a breath during his long, dull (for me) sermons. Eventually, he would say “ amen” out loud at the same time I said it silently and we would be free at last – the rest of the service was an easy downhill slide from there. 

The habit of showing up at church week after week whether we wanted to or not sustained me through some hard times when God seemed distant or absent. Your leadership and your faith have been so important to the mission of that church – thank you for that. What an example you and mom set for all of us. I hope that your faith and our deep love for your will carry you through this time until you rest fully in God's waiting arms. 

Love, Lynn

Dear Dad,

I was in second grade when you took me to the bank to get a checking account so I could pay for my own piano lessons out of my allowance. It was always fun and a little awesome to watch you doing business with the bankers and tellers. Was there a serious one with glasses named MaryLou? I didn’t really understand how farming worked – sometimes taking out loans, sometimes buying things for next year at this year’s prices, the big checks we would bring home from Dubuque after riding up with Grandpa Gray and a load of cattle, your “bookwork” laid out on the table for weeks before going to see your tax person, listening to Max Armstrong on WGN doing the farm market reports, your distinctive handwriting on the checks. You’re so smart. I hope you’re enjoying the boys today. 

Love, Lynn

Living the Dream

"I had a dream about you." 
For good reason, I am wary of conversations with parishioners that begin this way. I have dreams about them, too - mostly anxiety dreams in which I can't locate my sermon, forgot it was Sunday or neglected to wear pants for worship. In one such dream, I hastily fashioned a dress for myself out of a large brown trash bag I found under the sacristy sink. Cinched with an extension cord I unplugged from the wall, no one seemed to notice my makeshift apparel or my extreme embarrassment.

"Actually, it was a dream about your dad."
Whoa, that hardly seems fair - he rarely appears in my dreams since his death last August. As Dad's health declined but before he was so miserable I had stopped praying for more time, I did dream about him - whole and healthy, thin and weak, laughing and too silent, living and already dead. In the last year, I have been surprised by the breathtaking completeness of his absence. Going to the cemetery, walking in his footsteps, eating peanut butter kisses, listening to a Chicago Cubs' game - nothing works to conjure a feeling of closeness.

"I'm supposed to tell you to write down your stories. It might help."
What to make of this dreamy beyond-the-grave declaration from a church friend? Writing has been complicated by grief - pulling together a sermon or newsletter article or sometimes a single good sentence demands more time and energy than it used to.

On the eve of All Saints' Sunday, a day we remember and celebrate our place among the saints of all time and all places, I think I'll try. When Dad was dying, it was my goal to send him a note every day - something I remembered, something I was grateful for, something that made me laugh or something I deeply regretted. Perhaps I will start there. Stay tuned.

Lost and Found

The summer I graduated from college, I was invited to take a month-long trip to India with a handful of social work professors and students. The plan was to study Mahatma Gandhi, one of the most respected spiritual and political leaders of the 20th century. To be honest, I didn't really care that much about Gandhi, but I really wanted to go on what promised to be a once-in-a–lifetime trip. My grandmother gave me enough money for the airfare and I cashed in what must have been a decade of babysitting money to go on the adventure. 

Our plan was to fly into the capital city of New Delhi and then travel by train to other parts of the country where we had arranged to meet with social work students, visit libraries, and take a tour of one of Gandhi’s residences. This all sounded very exciting – but it turns out that sitting on the hard floor of a classroom listening to long lectures in a language you don’t understand is terribly, terribly boring no matter what country you are in.

We found our way to the New Delhi Railway Station for the first leg of our trip. The train station is massive and crowded with an amazing number of different languages spoken. Although things continue to change, the diverse country of India is still very much divided into different classes or castes and wide gaps separate the rich and poor. Train travel in India is a reflection of the division of classes in Indian culture – within the various cars of one train the comfort level can range from non-existent to luxurious.

I soon learned that my understanding of waiting patiently in line for my turn at the ticket counter or in the restroom was not universally shared. Negotiating through the station was particularly challenging for those in our group who liked to keep a little personal space between themselves and others.

Before we could say yes or no, our luggage was scooped onto the heads and shoulders of men working as porters. They didn’t speak English and it was all we could do to keep up with them as we watched our suitcases bobbing off. For a time, my friend and I were separated from the rest of our small group. We were pushed around by people who knew where they were going and all I could think about in that moment of panic was how I would get back to Iowa where it was safe and familiar. What had seemed like a great adventure was suddenly terrifying. We had no idea where we were supposed to go and no clue how to find out.

Even if you haven’t been in a foreign train station, I’m guessing that we have all been in situations in which we felt overwhelmed, confused, or lost - not knowing where to turn or whom to trust. Maybe you are going to a new school this fall or you've begun to test the waters of a new career path. Our kids grow up, move out, move back, move out, start families of their own; our bodies begin to fail us and cause us to visit medical professionals with increasing frequency. Our neighborhoods change and the languages spoken in our grocery stores and on our streets are sometimes unfamiliar. 

Back in the train station, my friend and I found that, by keeping an eye on our suitcases and yelling out the name of our leader, we were able to rejoin our group! Although that solved one problem, we still couldn’t tell which of the hundred trains was the one we needed to be on.

Huddled together to keep from being separated again in the sea of people, we tried to get our bearings. On one of the passenger trains closest to us was a small sheet of white paper posted by the door. Maybe that would at least give us clue about what direction the train was pointed? I volunteered to find out what it said and was shocked to discover that on that piece of paper in a crowded train station more than seven thousand miles from home at a moment when I had never felt more lost, more homesick, more frightened…. On that white piece of paper was my name. Lynn Gray.

My name! On the side of that train! The journey was no less frightening, the crowds and languages no less confusing, the smells and noises no less overwhelming. But I knew where I belonged. Rejoice!

We belong to the God who calls us by name, who chooses to speak our many languages, who meets us when we are most lost, who gives us his very breath and sends us into the world where so many of God’s beloved children feel helplessly lost. Perhaps we can carry a piece of their baggage for a time, point them in the right direction, and walk together on the way.

Change your life

A group from our congregation and another are on a mission trip in Guatemala. My husband, who speaks fluent Spanish, has visited there many times and was eager to see dear friends. My teenage son, also on the trip and traveling out of the country for the first time, just added a contribution to the blog intended to keep family, friends and church folks updated. It's an uneasy responsibility to take church kids anywhere - those of us at home like to hear proof that they are alive and well!

My son used the word "life-changing" to describe what he and the group had seen and experienced so far.

I wonder what he means by that.

Change is relentless, hard work - it's far easier to slip back into the patterns of life as usual. How can we - as parents, as families, as a community of faith - truly support the stirrings of change and transformation and faith that we hope a mission trip will foster?

After traveling to Tanzania with a group from our church a few years ago, a common question to be asked when I returned was "Aren't you so grateful for everything we have here?"  Our sisters and brothers in areas of Tanzania and Guatemala and certainly other parts of the world experience levels of poverty and injustice and daily struggle that are difficult for us to truly comprehend, even after visiting for a few whirlwind days. Life isn't fair - and I do enjoy many advantages including reliable access to food, education and health care. As a woman, I have opportunities that my sisters around the world do not share. I am grateful for what I have - sort of. Sometimes.

But I hope gratitude - or relief that we live here and not there - is not the only response my son has to what he has witnessed and experienced. I hope he also has a growing sense of wonder and compassion and at least a tiny bit of outrage that seeks the good for all.

What kinds of life-changing experiences have you had? How were you able to actually be changed by them?

We are an offering

During the children's sermon yesterday morning, I asked the kids about the baskets we pass around to collect the offering. They knew all about what was put into the basket as it passed - bills, checks, coins. Often they had been given a quarter or wadded-up dollar bill to add. "What do you think happens to that money?" I asked. At both services, the kids (ages 2 to about 8) seemed to agree that it was used to feed people who are hungry or to help people who are poor. I like their (current) understanding of what is means to be a church - their church. It made me want to be more attentive and generous - closer to what they think we are and what God calls us to be.

Play Ball!

One summer, Paul coached David’s T-ball team. The four year-old playing second base would routinely fill her pockets with so much dirt, she emitted puffs of dust as she ran to and from the field. Paul once looked up from his clipboard and asked, “Where did they all go?” Apparently, the need to trek to the nearest bathroom was contagious – no one was left in the outfield. Running the bases - in order - turned out to be a more difficult concept to teach than expected. For many parents, it was a first experience with organized sports and sometimes, in their enthusiasm, they (we) said the wrong things at the wrong time in a tone of voice that led to tears. It was a season of learning for everyone, parents and players alike.

For the last game, I made giant cut-out cookies in the shape of baseballs with red licorice lacing. We prepared special award certificates highlighting things we had learned to love about each player. As we gathered to hand out the treats and awards after the game, we heard loud cheers from the opposing team, also celebrating the season’s end. Curious, we looked over to discover the source of their enthusiasm: giant, shiny, engraved trophies. 

Our kids couldn’t look away from those trophies, couldn’t help comparing, couldn’t stop grumbling about the unfairness of it all. The celebration on our side of the field fizzled. As the kids gathered their things, I overheard a parent promise in a too-loud whisper, “Don’t worry. We’ll find you a trophy.” Some of those awesome cookies got left behind.

We don’t have to be four to do this. (I speak for myself here!) We compare ourselves and our lives to others and conclude that our own blessings come up short. Instead of being generous with who we are and what we have, we worry that we are not enough or we don’t have enough. We struggle to rejoice with those who rejoice and keep score instead. We make promises we can't keep. We forget that we belong to each other. 

Thanks goodness, we also don't have to be four to learn and grow. To get carried away, to share a snack, to cheer on a friend, to win or lose gracefully, to apologize, to be generous and grateful without the promise of a reward.

Dear God, 
Give us generous hands and grateful hearts. 
Amen.

May Day

As we approach May 1st, winter has finally loosened its grip on the upper Midwest. Two days ago, we grudgingly shoveled heavy, cement-like, late-April snow. Today, all is forgiven. Sunshine, 72 degrees, open windows, dandelions, cardinal song, motorcycles, and everywhere the hint of long-overdue green.

Though I live in the city, I am an Iowa farm girl at heart and this year the first of May carries with it a wave of nostalgia and grief. In an unspoken competition with the neighboring farmers, my father worked to be the first to get the corn planted each spring, usually before May 1st. What an exercise in faith - in a flurry of hope, the brown earth was carefully prepared and planted. Good years, bad years - spring came.

Last June, Dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. As his health rapidly declined, it didn't seem right, but the corn continued to grow. In those too-short weeks of summer, it troubled me that he would not (and did not) live to harvest the crops he had helped to plant.

A life of faith is like that. We plant seeds of corn, peas, sunflowers, hope, love, faith, joy. We might also scatter seeds of hatred and fear and divisiveness and doubt. Some grow, some die, some thrive, some shrivel - we don't always see the results of what we have planted. We might be called to tend the crops others have planted. Sometimes we must not hesitate to pull the weeds up by the roots. So often we enjoy the fruits of another's labor -- and if we're lucky, we get to share our abundance with others.

Last year was a bad year - yet spring still comes. Thank God.

I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth. 
1 Corinthians 3:6

Were you there?

After a long Lenten season that ends with Holy Week and Easter - followed by a night or two of good sleep and a few meals that didn't include jelly beans - I arrive in this uneasy, humbling place:

"Where was so-and-so?"

Although the church was full on Easter Sunday, some voices were missing from the chorus of "Alleluias."

Don't get me wrong - I am so grateful for familiar folks who worship regularly, who serve faithfully, who give generously of themselves - whose faith overflows and even sometimes sustains those whose own belief may have withered. But I have a tremendous soft spot for those who only worship on Christmas and Easter. I long for a glimpse of whatever fragile tether keeps them connected, if only rarely and reluctantly - pressure to please Grandma, years of habit, nostalgia, an unexpected dose of courage, openness to the nudge of the Spirit, old-fashioned longing for something more.

I am fretting today about those who didn't make it this year - I missed them and pray they have found a place of belonging and purpose in another faith community. 

There are a million reasons people stay away - both simple and complex, reasons we might quibble with and some that would break our hearts. Surely God has a firm hold on us, even when we're walking as fast as we can in the other direction, even when God and the church have been sources of disappointment and judgment and pain, even when going through the motions seems hollow, dull and irrelevant.

Long-time members, an old church friend, a new neighbor, someone with too-early signs of dementia, an awkward teenager, my own children, strangers - it takes my breath away to worship and share a holy meal together. Even if it's just once. Someone has the courage to show up just in time to to whisper "He is risen indeed!" on Easter morning? Thank God! It gives me hope.

Of course, it's problematic to think that God can only be found inside the walls of a sanctuary. We need some strong tethers that pull us out of the church and our comfort zones and into the world God loves.

Christ is risen... for you. And even for your neighbor who may decide to sleep in or go grocery shopping on Sunday morning.

Hello? Is it me you're looking for?

Over the past two years, a version of this conversation has been repeated many times in our home, usually just late enough that we are awakened by the phone call:

Caller: Is Husband's Name there?

Me: May I ask who is calling?

Caller: Is this the same Husband's Name who went to high school in Nearby Suburb?

Me: No, sorry, you've got the wrong Husband's Name.

Caller: Is he chubby?

Me: (giggle) No.

Caller: Does he have red hair?

Me: (sigh) No.

Caller: He's not chubby with red hair?

Me: No. And we'd be grateful if you'd stop calling.

Caller: (surly now) Geez. You don't have to be so mean!

Me: (sigh, click, yawn) I've got to move the phone to your side of the bed.

Though we have not yet reached the same conclusion, the repeated late-night inquiries are clearly a dead end. For some reason - even though we've asked - he hasn't crossed our number off his list of possibilities. And, despite the annoyance, we've never bothered to go the extra step or two that might finally put an end to this conversation - adding caller id, screening our calls or even pretending to be a chubby redhead, delighted to hear a voice from the past.

I've wondered about the unfinished business the caller has with an old classmate. Is he hoping to reconnect with someone who had been a close friend? Is there an unresolved argument or unpaid debt that, for the caller, rears its head late at night, demanding resolution?

I have my own well-worn list of things that can occasionally keep me up at night - church folks I should check on, financial worries as our oldest visits colleges, conversations I wish I'd had with my dad, my growing dislike for our kitchen cabinets, an ominous noise the car has been making. My grand solutions, all of which seem so plausible in the wee hours of the morning, seem to disappear like smoke in the light of day.

What keeps you up at night? Do you have unfinished business to tend to? Are there folks from your past you'd be glad to hear from again? Who do you call for help?

Something strangely familiar

Our aging van, a hand-me-down purchased from my older brother, needed a repair we couldn't afford. At 200,000+ miles, the end wasn't unexpected, but I was sad to let it go because I'd rather drive an older car that needs an occasional repair than make a monthly payment. We thought our broken-down ride was headed for the junk yard, but the mechanic bought it from us instead for almost nothing and - lo and behold - his brother (also a mechanic) resurrected it in his backyard. Imagine my surprise when I see our old van delivering sandwiches for a super-speedy sandwich shop, pulling up next to us at a stop light, waiting in the same drive-thru lane, or taunting me at the gas station looking better than ever.

Occasionally, its new owner delivers sandwiches to hungry folks at church, pausing just long enough to offer an update about the flagging health of our mutual motorized friend, other junkers he's working on, or news from the neighborhood.

Ours is an unlikely relationship - brought together by a blown
head gasket and roast beef on whole wheat. He's not particularly wowed by me or my work at the church but I am routinely impressed with his ability to diagnose and repair what seems beyond hope. New life comes in surprising ways.

How wonderful to be so differently gifted - mechanics and sandwich makers and pastors all have something valuable to offer.

Do you have any unlikely friends?