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.