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.