Trust God and always be healthy.

After worship and extra meetings today, I recruited two kids, brother and sister, to help me retrieve some items from the sanctuary. We raced through the hall then slow motion down the aisle to get the toaster I had used for a children's sermon. I know, I know - we probably shouldn't run in church - especially in heels and with a toaster because it can be difficult to keep up. Then we went outside to search for the baby hawk that fell out of a tree earlier in the week. We didn't find it but we chatted as we looked, wondering what was for lunch and talking about afternoon plans.

I once worked at a church where the parents of the current Sunday School children had a fear of the senior pastor that had begun in confirmation and .... lingered. Maybe that kind of relationship with a pastor has its place, though I don't see the point in cultivating a withering glance as a tool for ministry. (It never even worked on my own children once they learned not to make eye contact.) In the congregation I serve, I'm so grateful for life-giving relationships at every age.

When I asked the seven year-old if he was still interested in being my worship assistant sometime this summer, he and his six year-old sister quickly hatched an elaborate, marvelous plan: We should meet every Friday to practice church. They would take turns being the pastor and doing the other parts of the service. Having both boy pastors and girl pastors seemed important to them. I would play the piano. Instead of having the kids come up for a children's sermon, adults would be invited to sit on the steps and whoever is the pastor that day would talk to them about life. "What about communion?" their dad chimed in. Oh, yes, the fledgling pastor lit up with excitement and an idea - they would hand out goldfish crackers with the words "Trust God and always be healthy." They weren't picky about the wardrobe when their mom inquired - both albs or regular clothes were acceptable. But they thought we would definitely need a bulletin for what they called "fake church."

It was a lively conversation that tickled my imagination. It makes me wonder - not just about what children hear and take home from our corporate worship, but what others hear and remember as well. I'm going to have to give this "fake church" a try and see what happens.

Other Duties as Assigned

This week, a young hawk fell out of one of the large fir trees at church. Still white and fluffy, he's uninjured but not yet ready to fly. His mother is nearby - agitated, protective and loud as she swoops in to scare off those who venture too close.

"Put him back up in the tree," recommended the local raptor experts, "and his mother will take care of the rest."

This was easier said than done -- but with a ladder, a box, some long potholders snagged from the church kitchen, a helpful church secretary and some screeching on the part of both myself and the baby bird, we were able to get the tyke into the lowest branches of the tree. The next day and the next, despite blistering heat and a blustery thunderstorm, there he sat in the same spot while his helpless mother fretted nearby. Today, however, he's under a bush with a dead mouse - I can't decide if this is good or bad. His mother has ramped up her warnings, screeching and swooping to keep lookie loos and mouse stealers at bay.

Never a dull day around here. Ministry is like this more days than I'd care to admit - making use of the tools and people God puts in front of us, calling for help as needed, mustering courage for the things that are challenging, creating safe space for others to grow into their wings and fly, praying for the best without always knowing what the best outcome might be.

Having a snack handy and someone to watch your back can't hurt.

Stupid Cancer

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago mid-way through a long solo road trip, stalling because I suspected there was bad news waiting on the other end:

Forsaking my to-do list, I'm driving down to Iowa today. I got up and ready to leave an hour before I intended not realizing soon enough to go back to bed. With forty miles to go, I've made a pitstop at McDonald's for caffeine and now hesitate to get back in the car. I'm in the kind of hurry that a medical emergency demands which means that I both want to get there quickly and ... I don't want to go at all.

The distance and my out-of-sync-with-most job make this trek to the family farm and my farm family more rare than I would like and than I've promised myself. Over the years I've missed graduations and birthdays, hospitalizations and funerals, and far too many of the bowls of popcorn and slices of red velvet cake that taste like home. Whatever waits, I am grateful to be on my way toward home and the people that make it so.

With no choice but to continue onward, I regressed a year with each remaining mile. By the time I arrived, I felt very much like a frightened five year-old, wanting to close my eyes and stuff my fingers into my ears. Maybe this is the only way to bear unbearable news about a loved one - though I don't envy the doctors whose explanations fall on my stopped-up ears.

Here's what the 5 year-old me has to say: "Stupid cancer."

Here's what the 46 year-old me has to say: "Stupid cancer."

To be continued...

Divine Farewell

A block or so from our house, an old hospital is being dismantled. Built fifty years ago, Divine Redeemer Memorial Hospital had been the jewel of this small, suburban community. Forward-thinking, hard-working, determined residents pledged their own money to bring the hospital to a river town made prosperous by busy stockyards. The Sisters of the Divine Redeemer were persuaded to provide the administrative know-how.


Looking into a twisted cross-section of the half-demolished building - it's noisier than I expect. The cranes and backhoes sit quietly at the end of the day, but the building itself creaks and moans as if shifting from one foot to another — impatient for morning. It's easy to imagine the life and death those rooms once held—children born, diseases fought, bodies repaired, lives lost, meals served, floors mopped, careers launched, heroes made, tears shed, prayers lifted. 

There were brushes with fame—the hospital was one location for the filming of the movie “Grumpy Old Men” and several others. Years ago, local hockey legend, Herb Brooks, broke his arm playing semipro hockey at a local ice rink and eventually married the young nurse who cared for him at Divine Redeemer that night.

Most recently, the building served as a long-term care facility. My last visits were to a much-loved mother and grandmother surrounded by devoted family at the end of her life. While dying, the dear woman was wrapped in a quilt pieced together from a lifetime of memories. The staff was kind, respectful, even sad as they hovered near the last goodbyes.

Finally, our son's school project on a significant landmark in our neighborhood had us poking around the old hospital and local library asking questions, reading through old news articles, taking photographs and interviewing former patients and employees. After the care center was closed, the empty building was used to train specialized police units—mock hostages were rescued, search warrants executed, battering rams and equipment tested. Since then, silence.

Too expensive to renovate, the hospital is being leveled and the site scoured, readied for a future use that remains uncertain. I would love to hear any stories you have of what has been described as “a wonderful little hospital” and I wait with anticipation for what the future brings.

When former employees gathered for a farewell ceremony, one of the nuns spoke of the cherished relationships and sense of community the hospital fostered - important things that outlive the bricks and mortar. "It is just a building," she said, but it was certainly a building that breathed life into this community and leaves a sense of loss as it takes its final breaths. 

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?