Hello? Is it me you're looking for?

Over the past two years, a version of this conversation has been repeated many times in our home, usually just late enough that we are awakened by the phone call:

Caller: Is Husband's Name there?

Me: May I ask who is calling?

Caller: Is this the same Husband's Name who went to high school in Nearby Suburb?

Me: No, sorry, you've got the wrong Husband's Name.

Caller: Is he chubby?

Me: (giggle) No.

Caller: Does he have red hair?

Me: (sigh) No.

Caller: He's not chubby with red hair?

Me: No. And we'd be grateful if you'd stop calling.

Caller: (surly now) Geez. You don't have to be so mean!

Me: (sigh, click, yawn) I've got to move the phone to your side of the bed.

Though we have not yet reached the same conclusion, the repeated late-night inquiries are clearly a dead end. For some reason - even though we've asked - he hasn't crossed our number off his list of possibilities. And, despite the annoyance, we've never bothered to go the extra step or two that might finally put an end to this conversation - adding caller id, screening our calls or even pretending to be a chubby redhead, delighted to hear a voice from the past.

I've wondered about the unfinished business the caller has with an old classmate. Is he hoping to reconnect with someone who had been a close friend? Is there an unresolved argument or unpaid debt that, for the caller, rears its head late at night, demanding resolution?

I have my own well-worn list of things that can occasionally keep me up at night - church folks I should check on, financial worries as our oldest visits colleges, conversations I wish I'd had with my dad, my growing dislike for our kitchen cabinets, an ominous noise the car has been making. My grand solutions, all of which seem so plausible in the wee hours of the morning, seem to disappear like smoke in the light of day.

What keeps you up at night? Do you have unfinished business to tend to? Are there folks from your past you'd be glad to hear from again? Who do you call for help?

Something strangely familiar

Our aging van, a hand-me-down purchased from my older brother, needed a repair we couldn't afford. At 200,000+ miles, the end wasn't unexpected, but I was sad to let it go because I'd rather drive an older car that needs an occasional repair than make a monthly payment. We thought our broken-down ride was headed for the junk yard, but the mechanic bought it from us instead for almost nothing and - lo and behold - his brother (also a mechanic) resurrected it in his backyard. Imagine my surprise when I see our old van delivering sandwiches for a super-speedy sandwich shop, pulling up next to us at a stop light, waiting in the same drive-thru lane, or taunting me at the gas station looking better than ever.

Occasionally, its new owner delivers sandwiches to hungry folks at church, pausing just long enough to offer an update about the flagging health of our mutual motorized friend, other junkers he's working on, or news from the neighborhood.

Ours is an unlikely relationship - brought together by a blown
head gasket and roast beef on whole wheat. He's not particularly wowed by me or my work at the church but I am routinely impressed with his ability to diagnose and repair what seems beyond hope. New life comes in surprising ways.

How wonderful to be so differently gifted - mechanics and sandwich makers and pastors all have something valuable to offer.

Do you have any unlikely friends?

Going to the Dogs

My daughter and I spent some time hanging out at the local dog park last night. Without a dog. Our normally docile border collie, Brandy, reacts poorly to having her hind quarters sniffed by others. The few times we've told ourselves "this time will be better," we've left in a hurry to avoid what we imagined were disappointed glares from both the dog owners and their well-mannered pets. It's a heartbreak.

To get closer to the action, we strolled in dog-less, heads held high, boldly pretending we belonged. Because they cannot resist my dog-whispering child, one hound after another decided to sniff around our hind quarters, leaning into our legs for a scratch behind the ear before loping off to join friends of all shapes and sizes.

Earlier this fall, we offered an outdoor worship service that included a blessing for pets. I fret about these things, worried that no one will come. Those concerned about allergies or tripping or excess silliness or germs (all legitimate!) might decide to stay home or worship elsewhere. What if the animals cause harm? What if it's too hot or too cold or too windy? What if the only sound to come out of the electric keyboard is a harmonica or chirping bird? What if Oscar's cat hair ends up in the chalice of wine or Fido decides to make our worship hour and the church yard the time and place for his big moment?

As people began to gather with their dogs and cats, I muttered to myself: "We're not doing this next year." Meanwhile, my twelve year-old daughter, whose own beloved dog is too unpredictable to bless, began a joy-filled refrain that lasted through worship and beyond. "I love this service." "I love this service." "I love this service."

Mourning Into Dancing

Grief is a greedy thief  — just when life has never seemed more fleeting and precious and filled with beauty, it can be so difficult to enjoy.

Painful "lasts"—last conversation, last time behind the wheel, last game of five hundred, last bowls of popcorn, last Sunday in worship —collide too quickly with breath-taking "firsts." First solitary meal, first trip home expecting to hear a silenced voice, first visit to the cemetery in town, staring down at a grave covered with black dirt so dry the grass seed refuses to sprout.

Though against the cemetery's rules, it's tempting to bring a wheelbarrow filled with tulip bulbs and plant them in raw earth watered by tears, hoping that by the time they bloom with a flourish in the spring, grief will have loosened its too-tight grip.

A favorite psalm speaks of both joy and sadness, mourning and dancing (Psalm 30:11-12):

You have turned my mourning into dancing;
you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
so that my soul may praise you and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you for ever.

Life is messy. Laughter comes in the midst of tears, joy creeps in while I'm still dressed in funeral clothes. The reverse is also true, of course. A hopeful new day can dissolve into despair. Laughter can trigger tears. In the midst of life — precious, fleeting, and beautiful interwoven with love, sadness, joy and loss... O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you for ever. 

Love Blooms

This summer, much of life felt un-bloggable during my father’s illness and recent death. However, one reality of church life is that monthly newsletter deadlines keep coming whether one feels like writing or not. So... here is a version of something I wrote for our September newsletter:

Over the years and in recent weeks my parents had talked at length about end of life issues – what they wanted and what they didn’t concerning medical care, financial matters, funeral and burial arrangements, the farm. As he was able in the last few weeks, my dad made things as easy as possible for Mom and the rest of us, making sure we knew where to find important papers and phone numbers, pointing out things that needed to be done on the farm and making sure we knew how much he loved his life and each one of us. 

Although my father had not wanted a visitation, he reluctantly agreed to my mother’s request, negotiating a spot in the sunny narthex addition he had helped to imagine and build one summer years ago. A beautiful arrangement of sunflowers, red Gerber daisies, ears of corn and pieces of denim graced the simple closed casket. 

My mom had delegated the task of finding the altar flowers to a cousin, but when the vases arrived for the evening visitation, they were missing the cheerful sunflowers my mom had specifically requested. As I stood in the aisle of the still-empty sanctuary looking at the altar and its not-quite-right flowers, I contemplated where I could possibly track down some yellow blooms much later that evening—not an easy task in that rural community. Just as I had decided to troll through the gardens of neighboring farms with a flashlight, the funeral director approached and asked, “What do you need?” 

It was a pretty big question on the eve of my father’s funeral – the list of what my broken heart longed for at that moment was a long one.“I need a dozen sunflowers,” I told the kind young man, holding up my hands about six inches apart. “This big,” I said. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” he said as a humbling wave of family, friends, old classmates of mine and students of my mother, farmers, business people, neighbors and church folks began flowing into the parking lot and through the building. An hour into the visitation, I glanced at the altar to see that sunflowers had been carefully added to each vase. Daisies too. That act of kindness buoyed me through the long evening. Those flowers greeted me again the next day as we celebrated the extraordinary life, deep faith and generous love of a simple farmer, husband, father and grandfather.

On the eve of his death, Jesus told his disciples, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” Well, actually, John’s Gospel puts it this way: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also.” 

For the many ways, big and small, that God speaks to our troubled hearts, our fears, our grief, our hopes, our doubts—I am amazed and so grateful. For the preparations and promises that Christ has made for my dad, for you, for me—I rejoice. For the gift of this life and the opportunities we are all given to minister to one another in joy and in sorrow—I say “yes.”

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.