Chilling in the church basement

A unique feature of a funeral lunch at Salem is the ice. Two women who are often called upon to serve have strong opinions about half-empty bags of frosty ice clumps that taste unpleasantly like the freezer. When a luncheon is requested, these two volunteers spring into action - generating fresh, delicious "homemade" ice cubes to more tastefully chill the water and punch. One uses her refrigerator's ice maker, the other churns them out the old-fashioned way - using ice cube trays. To be fair, I am always careful to taste and admire each kind - I don't like frosty, stinky ice clumps either and am willing to do my part to keep the good ice coming.

I recently touted our superior ice to a family as they made plans for their mother's funeral and the lunch to follow. Yesterday, in the midst of the healing chatter and laughter that so often accompany the cold cuts and Special K bars, a mourner from the immediate family asked me to point out the two ice-makers. Since one woman was on vacation, the other was able to take all of the credit while he thanked her sincerely and profusely, telling her how delicious and refreshing he found her homemade cubes.

A few moments later, one of his sisters also offered compliments ("never better") and then another sibling ("so tasty") and another ("best I've ever had"). Seven or eight relatives later, everyone was giggling about the outstanding ice cubes, especially their maker. When the lunch was finally winding down, the flower arrangements and leftover potato salad were divvied up and all of the good ice was gone, I overheard one last daughter, so sad to lose her mom, ask for a few of those delicious ice cubes "to go." Even in the midst of their grief - these adult children could not squelch the laughter and playfulness they had inherited from their mother.

Our lunch crew's hospitality allows families to make themselves at home in our church basement - for an hour or an afternoon. Just once like yesterday or after fifty years of potlucks and annual meetings and Easter breakfasts -- during the best and most painful days life offers.

I am so very grateful to serve alongside them. And the ice cubes really were delicious - I'll have to ask for the recipe.

Encourage - Take Heart

At our mid-week Lenten service this week, I invited an eight year-old from the congregation to share the sermon with me. Not because he's cute or funny (he's both), but because his ability to articulate his eight year-old faith is inspiring. I picked his brain a few days ahead of time, prepared several questions to prompt our conversation and then threw my considerable remaining caution to the wind.

Most impressive to me was not his willingness to pin on a microphone and share his thoughts about how God is at work in the world and in his life - though plenty of adults had said "no, thank you" to the same opportunity. I most admired his parents' courage - trusting God's spirit to work through whatever might happen, trusting the congregation to treat him gently (and on a school night to boot).

After worship, I witnessed a brief, precious exchange between this young boy and the gentleman who has agreed to shared his own story a few weeks from now.

"Nice job! Do you have any advice for me?"
"Yes, just find some people you know and look at them the whole time."

The word courage comes from the Latin word for heart. To encourage others, then, is literally to share your heart - to hearten others. This is what healthy Christian communities do - give and receive courage from one another so that we too, might boldly share our hearts and the treasure of our faith.

Confession is good for the sole.

We've waited all winter for a decent snowstorm. Last night's weather didn't live up the hype, but it did deliver enough sloppy, wet snow to shovel and plow. When I heard some of the neighbor kids playing in the church parking lot as I headed out of the building - I quickly pulled on my gloves so I could toss a few snowballs at them. I had to abandon my ambush when I discovered a young boy balancing on one foot while his younger friend searched for a missing shoe deep in the pile of snow left by the plow. Neither one was wearing gloves so I said, "Hold my purse." and started to dig.

Eventually I had to get a shovel, while one held my bag and the other offered advice about the depth and location of the shoe. Because it took a while to unearth the snow-packed footwear, an explanation was offered - one part confession and two parts tattling. A poor decision had led to this chilly predicament - leaping off the retaining wall into the pile of snow several feet below probably seemed like a grand idea and I suspect there had been several previous attempts with happier endings. Worse things could have happened besides a wet sock, a stern warning, and the deep embarrassment of being forced to hold a lady's giraffe-print purse in public.

Of course, I don't want these or other kids jumping off the retaining wall in any season. I don't let them climb the crab apple tree in front of the church office. I certainly don't want them scrambling up onto the roof or any number of things that could lead to injury for them and liability for the church. But I also don't want to chase them away or forbid them from learning to ride their bikes in our parking lot or tell them not to pick dandelions from the cracks in our sidewalks or to play hide and seek in our vast yard. This church is part of the web of support that helps to keep children safe, shapes the decisions they make, knows and loves them, and even digs them out of all kinds of trouble when they find themselves buried in it.

My own feet were wet and cold for the rest of the day. In case they come back tomorrow, I'm bringing my boots and will have the snowballs ready.

Whose support system are you a part of?

Sometimes it's the little things

At our Ash Wednesday worship service last night, a young couple with a toddler and a nearly new infant were last to approach my side as they came up for ashes and Holy Communion. The two year old was curious and watchful, her brow furrowed as I carefully traced crosses on each member of her family. I showed her my small dish of palm ashes and asked if I could put some on her forehead, remembering suddenly and vividly that the last time I had touched her brow was at her baptism.

Because she was reluctant to agree, I offered to put the sign of the cross on the back of her hand instead - which she allowed. After examining the black mark on her hand, she looked from her mother's face to her sister's to mine - concern on her own, the gears in her head hard at work.

She quickly came to a conclusion - and rubbed the back of her smudged hand onto her own forehead. That single moment might be the gift that tides me over until Easter. Thanks, little one.

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down...

I found what I was frantically looking for - the two small packets of palm ashes purchased weeks ago for tomorrow's Ash Wednesday services. A pastor friend once shared a cautionary tale I've never forgotten: copier toner is not a safe substitute for ashes.

Not to worry. At least I've collected the basic supplies.

Over many years and in many settings I have had the privilege of applying ashen crosses to the foreheads of a wide range of folks -confirmation campers under the canopy of a redwood forest, an ecumenical collection of college students crowded into a university chapel, elderly shut-ins who needed no reminding that this life is beautiful, fragile and limited, infants who hadn't yet defied a parent, tasted strawberries, thrown a snowball.

I have at times been over-ambitious with the ash, dribbling a trail of soot onto eyelashes and noses. I have accidentally dislodged wigs and lifted up bangs crispy with hair gel to make way for the cross. I have traced giant ashen hearts onto pates bald from chemo and graced foreheads marred with acne. I have caught someone's eye and laughed at just the wrong/right moment, unleashing a ripple of the kind of giggles that are hard to stop on such a somber day, probably ruining it for some. I have been surprised by a tidal wave of love and grief and awe that snuck up on me, excusing myself until the floodgates could be closed. I have gone home too tired to wash the cross off my own forehead and awakened to its shadow with forty long days standing between me and the promised resurrection.

What will God do with us, in us, and through us in the next forty days?

What's that smell?

As a young girl, I dreaded being sent to the barn to do even the smallest task before school.  After just a few seconds, my long hair would reek of hog manure - a fragrant fact my classmates were quick to notice and ridicule. The smell of farm life clung to me all day.

In college, I spent a semester assembling and serving fast food at a popular chain restaurant. The long walk back to my apartment after my shift was never enough to separate me from the greasy aroma of hamburgers and fries - both delicious and repulsive.

I spent most of this busy day doing home visits and returned smelling like ... well.... like my parishioners! In the exchange of hugs and handshakes, communion and prayers, the smells of cologne and perfume and soap clung to me - along with the pain, grief, laughter, love and faith that were shared. (And, I confess, a very small slice of cherry pie.)

Peeling off my fragrant jacket, I am so grateful for the gift of relationship and for burdens and hope shared in our faith community.

What does love smell like for you?

Between the times

This morning I spent some time in our dark, chilly sanctuary packing up the many nativity sets used to celebrate the Christmas season. I don't have room to display them all at home, so I bring my collection over - even the tacky ones. Because the holiday came and went too quickly, I treasured Mary and Joseph as I wrapped them, their newborn, and an odd assortment of angels, magi and a stray plastic firefighter in wads of paper towel, newspaper and bubble wrap.

The twelve days of Christmas are drawing to a close while Epiphany waits in the wings, impatient for its moment to shine before Lent barrels in. I'd like to linger near the manger, wondering about God's preposterous arrival in human flesh, but- alas- the feeding trough with its loose board and fleecy swaddling cloths needs to be packed away. Trees, chrismons, candles, wreaths and glittery angel wings - everything goes. The poinsettias that still need to be delivered to homebound members seem disappointed to be kept waiting, their glory as short-lived as the star of Bethlehem now propped up in a corner.

Few folks see what happens behind the scenes - between the Sundays, between the seasons, between the manger and the cross. I'm guessing that most, like me, prefer decorating to un-decorating, prefer the manger to the crucifixion. But physically packing away one season and unwrapping the next helps me to reflect and rejoice, to mourn and lament, to prepare and anticipate.

Besides, it has never been possible to put Jesus in a box or tuck him away until we are ready to put him on display. His mission of love and justice continues through you and me in every season.

What do you do between the times to reflect and to prepare? And what's your solution for removing candle wax?