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.

Change your life

A group from our congregation and another are on a mission trip in Guatemala. My husband, who speaks fluent Spanish, has visited there many times and was eager to see dear friends. My teenage son, also on the trip and traveling out of the country for the first time, just added a contribution to the blog intended to keep family, friends and church folks updated. It's an uneasy responsibility to take church kids anywhere - those of us at home like to hear proof that they are alive and well!

My son used the word "life-changing" to describe what he and the group had seen and experienced so far.

I wonder what he means by that.

Change is relentless, hard work - it's far easier to slip back into the patterns of life as usual. How can we - as parents, as families, as a community of faith - truly support the stirrings of change and transformation and faith that we hope a mission trip will foster?

After traveling to Tanzania with a group from our church a few years ago, a common question to be asked when I returned was "Aren't you so grateful for everything we have here?"  Our sisters and brothers in areas of Tanzania and Guatemala and certainly other parts of the world experience levels of poverty and injustice and daily struggle that are difficult for us to truly comprehend, even after visiting for a few whirlwind days. Life isn't fair - and I do enjoy many advantages including reliable access to food, education and health care. As a woman, I have opportunities that my sisters around the world do not share. I am grateful for what I have - sort of. Sometimes.

But I hope gratitude - or relief that we live here and not there - is not the only response my son has to what he has witnessed and experienced. I hope he also has a growing sense of wonder and compassion and at least a tiny bit of outrage that seeks the good for all.

What kinds of life-changing experiences have you had? How were you able to actually be changed by them?

We are an offering

During the children's sermon yesterday morning, I asked the kids about the baskets we pass around to collect the offering. They knew all about what was put into the basket as it passed - bills, checks, coins. Often they had been given a quarter or wadded-up dollar bill to add. "What do you think happens to that money?" I asked. At both services, the kids (ages 2 to about 8) seemed to agree that it was used to feed people who are hungry or to help people who are poor. I like their (current) understanding of what is means to be a church - their church. It made me want to be more attentive and generous - closer to what they think we are and what God calls us to be.