On Sunday morning, I visited the second-grade classroom to say hello. The kids will soon be receiving new Bibles and had been practicing finding the book, chapter and verses of several passages.

The kids opened their stiff, colorful bibles and poked around to find Psalm 12:1-2. Once everyone had a finger on the verses, they began to read them out loud in unison.

    Help, O LORD, for there is no longer anyone who is godly;
    the faithful have disappeared from humankind.
    They utter lies to each other;
    with flattering lips and a double heart they speak.

“Yikes,” I said. Although that assessment seems timely with a ring of truth, it is an unlikely choice for second graders. Their teacher checked her notes to discover what was missing – Psalm 121 not Psalm 12!

The kids dove in again, flipping ahead to read the correct passage out loud. The whole psalm is one worth remembering and returning to again and again. As an unwanted war rages in faraway places, this psalm offers the comfort of a loving God who never strays from our side.

    I lift up my eyes to the hills—from where will my help come?
    My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.
    He will not let your foot be moved; 

    he who keeps you will not slumber.
    He who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.
    The LORD is your keeper; 

    the LORD is your shade at your right hand.
    The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night.
    The LORD will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life.
    The LORD will keep your going out and your coming in
    from this time on and forevermore.


God of all people and all places,
I don’t understand everything going in in the world. You do.
The world feels less safe and more broken than yesterday. You know.
My heart and head are weary. You listen.
Uncertainty grips me. You are steadfast.
War scares me. You pursue peace.
My faith falters. Your love is unwavering.
My prayers and actions seem feeble.
You gather them with the prayers and actions of others 

to change the world.
Please be with the people and leaders of Ukraine. You are there.
Help me to work for the world I long for. You promise.
Amen. You answer.

Whom do we call?

Some of the challenges of the neighborhood around our church are lived out loud for all to see - homelessness, human trafficking, opioid use - sometimes in deadly combination.

One Sunday afternoon, right before an organ concert, a person unknown to us entered the building and curled up on the landing to the office at the top of the stairs, barely responsive.

You couldn't get into the office without stepping over them.
You couldn't get to the concert without witnessing them.

Drug overdose? Intoxicated? Diabetic? Other medical emergency? Dangerous? Harmless? 

So often, driving away or crossing the street or avoiding a neighborhood is the first option. The need is complex and overwhelming. 

Not that day. This person literally blocks my path. 

What do we do? Call 911? Would that make things better or worse? If not, whom?

In the aftermath of the death of George Floyd, as our conversation has turned to public safety including the appropriate use and heavy-handed misuse of the police, I keep thinking about this single unexpected, unavoidable guest.

What would you do? We have routinely turned to our emergency responders as a one-size-fits-all solution, yet we know that policing is not applied equally to all. With tragic consequences.

Fortunately, we know people who know people. Organizations in our community like Street Angels, Inc., Inner Beauty and Sisters South respond with compassion to people who are pushed to the edges of our society and then often pushed over the edge when they can't get it together fast enough or well enough or often enough. Whenever possible, basic needs are met, connections are made, resources are found. They offer hope and, in some situations, would be a wise first call.

Within the unsettledness of this time, there are opportunities to participate in hard conversations about who we are called to be as the church, as communities, as a country, as neighbors, as human beings. The issues we face are complex and the solutions are not simple.

It's far easier to walk away or change the topic or point fingers or put down the mirror we've been forced to gaze into. Reshaping a future that is good for all begins with examining ourselves - listening, learning, confessing, growing, pruning, falling, getting up, lamenting, demanding, praying, forgiving, loving. 

Let's not turn away.

Holy God,

We call upon you. We need your help.

Help us to see our neighbor as your own beloved,
created in your image, worthy of love and compassion.

Help us to see ourselves as your own beloved,
created in your image, worthy of love and compassion.

You call upon us. You equip and send us. 

Give us courage and strength for the hard, holy work ahead.

Amen.

God's Big Love

All of the lessons in yesterday's worship service pointed to the enormity of God's love - for all nations and all people. This sounds amazing, right? However, when Jesus suggested that God's love is extended to outsiders, to foreigners, misfits and actual sinners, even his hometown crowd became enraged enough to throw him off a cliff. It's hard for us to wrap our minds around a love that big.

During the children's time, worshipers were invited to think of someone who is especially difficult to love and to write the name down on a piece of paper. I had two slips of paper, so I wrote down two names. Sadly, I think if I had more paper, I could have filled them all.

Could we imagine God's love enveloping the hard-to-love in our own lives?

Later in the service, as people came forward for communion, they placed the names in a basket right before the body of Christ was placed in their hands. It wasn't intended as an exchange, but it felt like one - it's impossible to put a wafer into a hand that's clinging to something else. As I stood there proclaiming, "This is the body of Christ, given for you," I could feel those two names burning a hole in my alb pocket. I couldn't wait to add them to the basket. After the meal, we prayed for those people who have hurt us, disappointed us, betrayed us, enraged us, frightened us. We prayed for our own hard and broken hearts and gave thanks for God's enormous one.

This morning, I peeked at a few of those slips of paper before deciding what to do with them. I was not surprised to find the names of politicians, troublesome co-workers, pesky neighbors. I was heartbroken to see how many slips of paper hit much, much closer to home:

"Dad"
"Mother-in-law"
"My brothers"
"Me"

Loving others can be so hard. In the midst of all that is broken in our world and in our own lives, we pray for God's embrace of the unlovable, the unforgivable, the outsider, the broken and the broken-hearted, you and me.

What did she do?

I spent this week with a diverse group of children and high school youth, mostly from St. Paul. The high school youth did a wonderful job serving as counselors for our day camp - leading small groups of children through each day's activities, joining them in silly songs and games, and coming alongside them in afternoon service projects and fun.

This morning, I called the parents of the counselors to thank them and to share something I appreciated about their kids. I am new to the church and was coordinating the program for the first time, so I do not know the kids or the families well. But after a week together, I knew just enough about each young person to make the calls.  

Right away, I hit a snag. When I called the parent contact of the first young woman on my list, the person who answered was not her mother. After some conversation, I realized she was something like the mother of all children - so I asked, "Do you know her mom's name? Do you have her number?" 

"What's wrong?" she demanded. "What did she do?"

I explained that nothing was wrong. That this young woman had worked really hard and had done a great job. That I was so happy to work with her and hoped she would apply again next year.

Silence. 

Then I heard a squeal of joy on the other end of the phone, "You have got to call her momma. Her momma needs to hear this." After much scrambling, she found the number I needed and was about to hang up when I said, "Wait. Before I call her, I need to tell you about your two girls."

"What's wrong?" she demanded. "What did they do?"

"Well, both of your daughters are already extraordinary leaders. They see what needs to be done and they do it without being asked. They have great ideas and they are fun to have around. If I needed to get a job done, I would ask them."  I laid the truth on pretty thick which resulted in a lot more squealing on the other end of the line. 

After a dozen calls, I was able to reach all but a few of the parents. There was a great deal of squealing on the other end, but especially from those who were always anticipating bad news and were overjoyed to hear the good.

Changes

The transitions in our upcoming move are both predictable and unexpected.

My husband's gone off to a new job in a distant city. I've stayed temporarily with a house to sell, work to complete, a teenager to shuttle and a nearby college student.

Today I'm finishing off a second three-pound jar of chunky peanut butter. Now that I'm the only one in the house who doesn't like the smooth stuff, I know full well that I alone consumed nearly six pounds of peanut butter. 

Gross. 

Cheers!

When my dad was dying, he missed going to church, even though it was dreadful to be told how awful he looked by well-meaning fellow church-goers.

My farmer dad had always cleaned up nicely and in record time, whistling through his bathroom routine, hair grooming and wardrobe selection. He could go from kicking off his dirty boots by the back steps to backing out of the garage in less than ten minutes - from manure to aftershave. That summer he went from dapper to dying, also in record time.

His few remaining Sundays passed far too quickly. Unfortunately, he felt as awful as he looked which made attending worship unworkable. Between pastors at their beloved church, no one came calling on Mom and Dad, which made dying lonelier than it might have been.

"Mom, I could give Dad communion," I offered, not sure I actually could. Or should. I didn't have my home communion kit with me that trip, but we could improvise.

Two of my aunts stopped by that day - my mom's sisters, both nurses. Uncle Steve, too, nursing his own chronic aches and pains. A sacramental party quickly began to take shape. Mom pulled out the good wine glasses, once reserved for extended family gatherings at the dining room table, and filled them with wine and juice -- not just a sip, but all the way. My daughter fished hotdog buns from the freezer and left them on a plate to defrost. In lieu of a stole, Mom draped an embroidered table runner around my shoulders. My aunt plucked out almost-familiar hymn tunes on my lap harp. I solemnly offered the pastor-y part, impossible to separate from the daughter-whose-dad-is-dying part. Once everyone had received the body and blood of Christ, we clinked our still-full glasses, nibbled at the remaining hot dog buns, prayed and sang robustly and we laughed until we cried, celebrating life and cursing cancer. While our hearts were breaking, God was picking up the pieces and putting them back together again. And again.

My dad loved seeing us laugh.

There had been and would be time for weeping. But as we shared that holy meal, we laughed, loosening death's fearful grip on us. Bread and wine, life and death, song and curse, laughing and weeping, mourning and dancing. Yes. To all of it. Yes.

Here, kitty, kitty!

This is an excerpt from a sermon I wrote for a pet blessing service after my dear dad died three summers ago. 

Growing up on a busy cattle farm, animals fell into several different categories. There were animals we raised to make a living and for food – cattle and pigs. There were the animals we loved – the cats and dogs. And the ones that were a nuisance – the mice in the walls of our old farm house, raccoons that ate the sweet corn before it ripened, the moles that created lumpy paths through my mom’s garden, coyotes that howled at night, an unwelcome romantic tomcat wandering through, and for a short time a horse named Ginger that would intentionally saunter under the apple tree to casually knock off anyone brave enough to hop onto her saddle.

Today we remember and bless the animals we love. Each year on the farm, it was fun to discover and tame the litters of kittens that were born– some in the barn, some in the shed, once in a bucket of nails in my dad’s shop. Farm life could get boring and lonely and those cats provided us with hours of fun and companionship. As my own children and their cousins have grown, they have also enjoyed finding, taming and naming each one. They never met a kitten they couldn’t love. Though there were often several that looked so alike I had trouble telling them apart, the kids knew without a doubt which one was Mittens and which one was Scruffy, which one was Midnight and which one was Hombre. 

There weren’t many kittens this year at the farm and some were too wild to catch. And it also appears the gene pool has been totally depleted. Every single kitten was gray. No pretty calico kitties, no sleek black ones, no classic brown striped cats. They were all gray. 

In June, as my dad was growing sicker and the doctors narrowed down a diagnosis for him, there was one friendly gray kitten abandoned near the house. It hid in the downspout by the garage. He ran along the length of the porch and tried to get in the house whenever the door opened. My nieces made a special concoction of yogurt and milk that its small tummy could tolerate and they were determined to keep that kitten alive. About the same time, up in the barn was another gray kitten whose mother went missing. This one had long, fluffy hair and was so frightened, he hid behind whatever he could find and had to be coaxed out. My nieces brought both kittens down to dad’s shop, found a litter box they vowed to empty every day, and promised it would only be for a little while until they were big enough to fend for themselves outside with the rest of the cats. 

My dad had good days and bad days, nearly all of them filled with naseau and pain. Those two kittens became his companions. Very early one morning, I went down to have coffee with him in his shop and found one kitten playing with the pencils on his desk in the office while the other one hid behind a file cabinet. “I was never going to have cats in my shop,” he lamented. “Never.” 

On the farm, pets belonged outside – not in the house, not in dad’s shop. But here were these two kittens, wrestling at his feet. The more aggressive kitten pounced on the other and they rolled across the floor and dad laughed at their antics. “Is this on your list of things that don’t matter anymore?” I asked him. He was dying. “Yes it is,” he said as he coaxed the fluffy kitten out from behind the cabinet and onto his lap. 

As the summer progressed, they hid in the drawers of his work bench, jumping out to surprise him. They stretched out onto his lap while he did his breathing treatments and poked their heads into his coffee cup. On the days that nausea won and he didn’t want any company, he could still tolerate those kittens. 

One hot afternoon, I stopped down to check on him and one kitten was sprawled on his lap, chewing on his shirt. “Look,” Dad said, “He thinks I’m his mother.” This became a weird, wonderful pattern – dad would sit in his usual spot to use the nebulizer or drink his coffee and the cat would hop out from one of his drawers to chew on his shirt. The dog, Kate, never straying too far from her place by dad’s feet.

An old dog and two playful kittens. This probably was not exactly what the psalmist had in mind when he said that God places all things under our feet. A dog and two kittens – this also wasn’t exactly the medicine the doctors prescribed when dad decided not to seek treatment for his cancer. But they were as effective as any comfort measures the doctor recommended. 

Today as we talk about blessing animals, we also share our stories about how God can use animals and all of creation to bless us. Regardless of your relationships with these creatures - and I plan to keep my distance from that lizard over there - I hope that we can all find a place in our hearts to recognize and celebrate the blessings that pets can bring into our lives and the lives of those around us. We give thanks to God for all the ways that love, companionship, and grace enter into our lives. 

Psalm 8:3-9

When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars that you have established;
what are human beings that you are mindful of them,
mortals that you care for them?

Yet you have made them a little lower than God,
and crowned them with glory and honor.
You have given them dominion over the works of your hands;
you have put all things under their feet,
all sheep and oxen, and also the beasts of the field,
the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea,
whatever passes along the paths of the seas.

O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!

Remember you are dust

When one of our members, age 90+, took a tumble that landed her in transitional care, I stopped by to say hello. It was no surprise that she was down in the dumps. Transitions can be difficult at any age, but are especially painful when decisions about housing and mobility and even personal care are no longer fully yours to make. A fall can herald harsh and sudden change - my church friend was unsettled about what had happened and uncertain about the future.

Into a lull in the conversation, I announced, "It's Ash Wednesday," though it was redundant.The enormous cross on my forehead from the early service had already broadcast this fact.

"Oh," she said, clearly dejected. "I wish I had some ashes. That would really cheer me up."

This Eeyore-like response spoke such volumes about her predicament. Alive but not fully living - at least not as she hoped.

"Don't I have a pretty big cross on my forehead?" I asked, knowing it had been applied by my pastor-husband who had never once skimped on the ashes.

"Oh, yes, you certainly do," she agreed.

"I'll share."

"You'll need a mirror," she immediately declared, "Use mine." In the bathroom, I used my thumb to remove as much ash as I could from my forehead while muttering "What are you doing?" to my reflection.

We sat on the awkward low-to-the floor bed like girlfriends at a sleepover as I traced a whisper of a cross onto her brow. It was a holy highlight in the disorienting and fear-filled day after a fall. We held hands as we prayed together, not knowing what the earthly future holds - but giving thanks for the gift of life and for God's persistent, loving claim on us from beginning to end. And for the promise of new life to come.

Happy Birthday

With birthdays on the 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th and beyond, October was birthday month for our family as I was growing up. After church, we’d gather for a birthday dinner at Grandma’s followed by thick slabs of red velvet cake. Grandpa once confessed – after more than sixty years of October gatherings and countless slices of cake – that red velvet was not his favorite, but it has remained one of mine.

I remember just one October birthday party with school friends. As socially awkward then as now, I turned cartwheels on the lawn in my skirted girl scout uniform, giving everyone a peek at my underwear.

I was glad our son got a birthday of his own – October 5th. As of 2:07 this morning, he is 18! Although I hope his plans for today do not include any of these things, he could now enter into a contract, marry a sweetheart, gamble away his tuition money, rent an apartment or buy property, consent to medical treatment, serve on a jury, buy cigarettes or a gun.

Always curious, opinionated and wildly inclusive – I do hope he will exercise his new privilege to vote. Our words and actions – in and out of the voting booth–help to shape the communities and world we live in. I hope he will participate fully, using his brain and his gifts and his faith to make the world a better place.

Federal law also requires that he register for the selective service—in a crisis, our son could be drafted into military service. Although I'm not turning cartwheels about this sobering possibility, we live in a complex and conflicted world – one that may always need soldiers. All of them sons and daughters.

Law and privilege, rights and responsibility – happy birthday to our much-loved son as he grows into these gifts of early adulthood. 

Shhhh

Shhh. Our son is home from college for the night. This afternoon he negotiated on his bike from dorm to light rail station to his occasional job off campus. His shift ended too late to safely reverse those steps, so we offered to pick him up and return him to campus. Or home. His choice. Only a week in, it's an awkward return -- no toothbrush, not enough pillows, his room still disheveled from his recent departure. His sister welcomes best -- waiting up for the briefest glimpse, glad he's home to eat the muffins she'd baked. It's my equivalent of a school night as I make a list of loose ends for tomorrow's full morning of rally day activities at church. My desire to stay up and listen is thwarted by his weariness and my own. I'll be up and out of the house before he wakes tomorrow. He'll be long gone by the time I return. Shhhh.

Got ten minutes?

This week, our congregation sent a group to Greeley, Colorado to learn and serve in a community that experienced horrendous flooding last year. On the way, they ate a meal in North Platte, Nebraska. Although I imagine our youth were unimpressed with North Platte, the small city does boast the world's largest railroad yards, Bailey Yard. And it was once the home of a tremendous example of outrageous welcome and hospitality.  

Some time ago, I read a book called Once Upon a Town, The Miracle of the North Platte Canteen by Bob Greene. The Union Pacific Railroad's main line runs through North Platte and during World War II, trains carrying our troops on their way to or from the war traveled through the town. The trains stopped for no more than fifteen minutes for fueling or unloading or to add or change cars. On Christmas Day 1941, thinking their own sons from the local 134th Infantry Regiment were on the trains, the people of North Platte decided to greet them as they rolled through town. Gifts, food, words of encouragement and thanks were lavishly shared with the young men – who turned out to be strangers, not their own. 

The miracle part of the story is that the people of North Platte and surrounding communities made a commitment to greet every single troop train that came through town as long as the war lasted. On an average day, three to five thousand military personnel passed through the canteen, and toward the end of the war as many as twenty-three trains passed through each day. Over six million soldiers were welcomed and fed during the war, day and night, day after day, and year after long year.

Remember, most of the people served by the canteen were there for only ten or fifteen minutes. They gobbled down homemade pie and roast beef sandwiches. They flirted and danced with the young women whose job it was to greet the trains. They accepted sloppy kisses and firm handshakes from women and men who could have been their mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. And then they were gone. Yet the book describes the life-long impact those ten minutes had on those who gave and received the gift of such generous hospitality. 

Ten minutes. What a lingering impression a warm greeting can have on a Sunday morning! Ten minutes could ward off a sense of isolation and depression for someone who is struggling. A compliment for a well-behaved child, a question about an illness, a thank-you for the lovely music could have a long-lasting impact both on people we already know and those who are new. Maybe outreach and evangelism aren't as complicated and difficult as we tend to think. Ten minutes to intentionally and generously share Christ’s love and hospitality with your spouse, a child, your mother, a visitor, a co-worker, your boss, even a complete stranger – those ten minutes could transform a congregation, a community, you, me. 

Let me know if you have been to North Platte– or if you'd like to borrow the book! Pray for young people and adults on summer mission trips that they might be outrageously welcomed as the spirit of God works through them to welcome and bless others. 

Remembering

Preparing the bulletin and worship service for this Sunday, I had a flashback to one of the many firsts of my first year as pastor. Memorial Day weekend snuck up on me. Although I had prepared prayers of gratitude for those who had died serving our country, I neglected to ask about other traditions the congregation valued.

That Sunday morning, as I sought the too-late advice of the volunteer who deftly handles the nitty gritty details of worship, something caught my eye outside. Fluttering. Actually, a flurry of fluttering. Small American flags lined both sides of the sidewalk leading to the church. "Uh-oh," I thought to myself.

Those flags raised the expectation for something that was not going to be happening in worship that day. Like patriotic music. Like red, white and blue sprinkles at coffee hour. Like scriptural assurance that God had a special soft spot for our corner of the world. I quickly moved to the other entrance. More flags. More fluttering. Suddenly, I couldn't remember if there was a flag in our worship space or fathom what I would do with it if there was.

Improvising at the beginning of the service, I was moved to tears when dozens of veterans stood to be recognized - some had served long ago in far-flung places, some had returned from the Middle East just days before. Five years later, that group has dwindled - lost to other battles with cancer, kidney failure, dementia, suicide.

I might quibble about secular holidays creeping into worship, but I hope to never pass up an opportunity to bless the people in front of me. To listen to and honor their stories. To thank them and to give thanks for them.

"Hi, it's me."

Something startling happens when I call my mom's cell phone and she doesn't answer. The voice mail greeting reminds me, in my sister-in-law's familiar voice:

"Ron Gray is not available." 

Tell me about it. From a dripping ceiling in our daughter's room to our congregation's looming capital campaign; from our son's pending high school graduation to farmers preparing their fields for spring planting - I'm acutely aware of my father's absence. Even after a year and a half, the declaration stills jars me.

My parents held on to their first cell phone for years, passing up free upgrades and newer models in favor of one they knew how to use. Once bound by the awkwardness of a party-line shared with neighbors up and down their rural road, mom and dad learned to text. Once cautious about the expense of long distance calling, they learned to call for no reason - unlimited minutes were used to report monarch sightings or a new kitten or the death of a neighbor or a funny story.

I suspect that clunky cell phone, replaced only after my dad's death, sits in a kitchen drawer at the farm. Though its chirping crickets and croaking frog ringtone is now silenced, it still holds little bits and pieces of our lives - texts and pictures and voice mail messages collected and forgotten over many years. That it once had the power to connect me to my dad on the best and worst of days or for no reason at all makes it - for now, for me - too precious to throw away or recycle.

My mom is savvy enough to change the greeting on her new phone - but I hope she won't.

A good mechanic is hard to find.

For years, we've taken our broken-down vehicles to a trusted mechanic in town. Once, after a hose of some importance let loose a spectacular plume of steam and smoke, I pulled over our aging van to give him a call. I described what had happened and asked if I could still drive the five miles to his shop if I stopped now and then to add some water to the radiator. "You will turn a small problem into a very big problem if you do," he warned. "Words to live by," I thought, as the kids and I waited for the tow truck.

In the grubby powder blue lobby of his shop, he stubbed out his cigarettes so I wouldn't breathe the smoke and listened carefully when I imitated the alarming sounds initiated only by a right hand turn at certain speeds. He told the truth when there was nothing to fix. He laughed his head off when, in my desperation to pick up a repaired vehicle, I propelled my son's razor scooter a mile and a half to get there in my work clothes, arriving sweaty and flustered and ridiculous victorious. For years we heeded his advice, nursing a few more miles and a few more years out of the very small fleet of vehicles we've owned over the last decade.

Without explanation or notice, the shop is closed, the parking lot emptied of sagging vehicles, the mechanic gone. I wish we had thanked him more.

Anyone know a good mechanic?

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.