Short Cut to Community

When I crave a new perspective on things, or even fresh insight into a vexing scripture passage, I will get out of my office to talk with people - at the local McDonald's, waiting to pick up the kids at school, at a coffee shop. And ... although it's risky... occasionally I will get my hair cut by someone new. While the stylist attempts to tame my unruly hair, I steer the conversation away from myself and my work to current events, the dilemmas working mothers face, or my theological troubles.

Recently, it was the anniversary of 9/11 and that Sunday's appointed gospel lesson on extravagant forgiveness that had me headed out of my office to the salon. The stylist was in ninth grade ten years ago when she and her classmates learned of the attacks on the World Trade Center. Teachers and students huddled together in stunned silence around televisions and computers, anxious about the breaking news and what it might mean for them.

The last period of her day was an art class in a basement studio. The art teacher was surprised when the class was reluctant to work on their projects and grew concerned about the serious expressions and even tears on the faces of the students. "Did something happen?" the teacher asked. Even though the attacks had occurred hours earlier, she had not heard the news. Class was canceled and the students joined hands as she saw the images of destruction for the first time on a television she pulled from the closet.

"Wait a minute. None of the other teachers sought her out to share the news?" I asked, clumps of hair falling onto my lap. "She didn't eat lunch with anyone? Run up to the office during the day? Bump into the custodian in the bathroom?" I was troubled by the isolation of this art teacher in a school full of mourning teenagers and distraught teachers. "She was always a little different," came the explanation. (This might also be true of pastors who go to hair salons for help with their sermons?)

For obvious reasons - including some really poor haircuts - I can't resort to this strategy often, but I appreciated this young woman's insights about our deep need for communities of care in a world where our differences can isolate us from our neighbors. Our conversation highlighted my own need to reach beyond the safe circles of people I know to learn from others.

I am so grateful to be part of a faith community in which we wrestle to love, to forgive, to serve. Together we help create the kind of hope-filled world God intends for all. Where do find places and people of encouragement and hope?

Thanks, Popcorn!

Our daughter discovered one of her guinea pigs dead in his cage this afternoon - a big bummer during an already emotional sliver of time between summer and sixth grade. Over the years we have loved and lost many hamsters, sometimes burying them behind the garage with prayers and tears, sometimes whisking them out of the house and into the garbage cart in a brown paper bag. One escape artist is living happily - we tell ourselves - somewhere in the walls of our house. This was different.

Popcorn vacationing at a friend's house

The guinea pig was a much-anticipated birthday gift several summers ago - a homemade coupon picturing a cartoon guinea pig was exchanged for the real thing, chosen with great care. The nocturnal, wheel-spinning hamsters paled in comparison to the lumbering, chattering, goofy, basil-loving poop factory that was Popcorn.

We sat together at the end of the sidewalk and cried, sharing stories about Popcorn and all those pets that had gone before. With geese flying overhead, we lamented the end of summer, the reality of death, our short-comings as pet owners, mosquitoes and the unrelenting passage of time. Between sobs, we laughed - and in that anxious sliver of time between summer and sixth grade - I was grateful for both.

Thanks, Popcorn, for bringing out something good in us.

All work and no play

Over the last 2+ years, I've exchanged daily greetings with the neighbor across the street from church. Our short conversations are often shouted from the sidewalk on my side to his open garage on the other where he builds canoes - one after another. Normally, he teases me about the odd hours I spend at church and I rib him about the obscene amount of time one man can spend in his garage. When I'm leaving the office after dark, he'll yell across to ask if I'd like to borrow a sleeping bag. He often comes home between appointments as an insurance agent and works on the canoe in his suit and tie - even for just a few minutes. When I comment about whether it's wise to purchase insurance products from a guy with sawdust on his shoes, he laughs - then shows up again a few hours later. He doesn't neglect his work but he will do almost anything to make his true passion a priority.

Today as I was leaving church to go home, I admired the neighbor's craftsmanship from afar. For months he's been building an extra-long canoe out of a 35-year old redwood picnic table his mother wanted to discard. "It's done!" he crowed, "Come over and take a look!" The finished product was so beautiful, I couldn't take my eyes or my hands off of the smooth, gleaming redwood. My neighbor, too, was beaming and brimming with plans for a first voyage. What fun!

Who can argue with a strong work ethic? I love my job and work hard at it - sometimes this demands long, odd hours. What I learn from my neighbor is to foster an equally strong play ethic - to make more room in my life for the kinds of people and things that feed and sustain a sense of joy and fun. Time I would carefully guard and treasure. Things I'd run home for at lunchtime.

What's your true passion? Even if you are lucky enough to love your work, what other things bring you life and joy?

The Word on the Street

Late this afternoon, I was traveling between home and church and noticed something new on busy Robert Street. Wearing a small stole around his shoulders and holding an open Bible in one hand, a young man was shouting scripture in the general direction of the Chinese buffet parking lot across the street. Now I enjoy the Chinese buffet and I love the Bible, but the combination left me feeling curious and a little uneasy. I wanted to ask the preacher about his methods, but the traffic forced me to hurry on. Although I admire his boldness, I wonder if barking scripture at someone has ever worked -- ever led to a relationship, ever sparked a curiosity that grew into a love for Jesus, ever turned someone away from sin. (And if eating Chinese food is problematic, I'm in trouble.)

A block later, I passed a more familiar but no less unusual figure in front of a local pizza joint. Normally dressed in a heavy toga costume with a big nose, he dances non-stop on the corner advertising the restaurant's dance-worthy specials. Dressed as a little Roman dictator, I've admired his energy and have sometimes even been convinced by his dance moves to purchase pizza. Without the costume on this hot day, he's a big sweaty guy with headphones, holding a rectangular dance partner, still dancing away. Being a pizza mascot is not a glamorous or lucrative job, but this guy puts his whole self into it - every day - and I admire that.


I encounter these two fellows as I contemplate the parable of wheat and weeds recorded in Matthew's gospel (Matthew 13:24-29). The workers are eager to rid the fields of choking, potentially deadly weeds masquerading as wheat but the owner says no – let them grow until harvest, when things will be sorted out.

Sometimes it’s difficult to tell the good plants from the weeds – in our gardens, in our communities, in our politicians, on our street corners. A preacher boldly quoting scripture could be using God’s Word to sow seeds of hate and fear. Wheat or weed? A big, sweaty guy dancing away on the street corner hopes to cash in on your hunger pangs. Wheat or weed?

God appears willing to live with the uncertainty of a field mixed with both weeds and wheat rather than risk pulling up any of the good stuff. In the meantime, we are called to be wheat - using our gifts to build up the body of Christ, to work for justice, to care for our neighbors in concrete ways. Maybe even to speak and to act more boldly for the things we care deeply about. Maybe even to dance. 

Please let me know if you see anything interesting while you are about and about! 

With purple fingers...

Yesterday in the 90+ degree heat with humidity, I was knee-deep in mystery weeds wearing jeans and a long sleeve shirt - red-faced, sweaty and a little bloody - when I drew the attention of a park ranger. He thought I might need some assistance. Or that perhaps I was not in my right mind. Because my location would certainly be considered "off the path" in the park ranger manual, I was both a little nervous and a little amused when he inquired about my well-being. "You're not going to take away my berries, are you?" I asked him, rattling the two dozen tiny black raspberries rolling around in my bucket. Unimpressed, he allowed me to continue on my way without confiscating my loot.

I can't explain why I so love to pick berries, especially wild ones that don't necessarily belong to me - along the bike path, in a city park, by the river. This morning I got up early to meet an 82 year-old former firefighter from church at a berry patch I just discovered. After a stormy night, the thorny hill was slippery and I worried that one of us would need to be rescued by the other though I didn't know at the time which one was more daring or who had chosen the most sensible footwear.

I was the first to cry "uncle" when my muscles starting protesting and my shoes were uncomfortably soggy. Dumping my berries - all of them - into my surprised parishioner's bucket, I headed for work. Before going home, I suspect he went out of his way to check on the status of his "secret" berry patch - its whereabouts were not shared with me despite my goading and assurance of pastoral confidentiality.

Since his retirement, my partner in picking has taken on the canning and jelly making activities in his home. Legend has it that his black raspberry jelly is so delicious, one grandson eats it by the spoonful. I'm happy to do my part to keep that grandson coming around. Since there's still jam in our freezer from last year and I can (and should) only eat so much ice cream topped with berries, I gladly share. Turns out that's my favorite part.

Coming soon...

A side effect of our kids growing up -- we can't agree on one movie anymore. Though our teenage son is still willing to see a popular animated film about cars, he doesn't want to be seen seeing it with the rest of us. Popcorn in hand, we part ways at the concession stand with plans to meet up later - my daughter and I headed in one direction, the boys in another. However, last evening in the lobby we all paused in a common location, drawn to a poster advertising an upcoming movie featuring a willy nilly silly old bear and his odd group of friends - an exuberant tiger, a wise owl and a perpetually depressed donkey. "We have to see that!" the kids both agreed at once. I treasure memories of reading about Pooh's adventures together. I didn't realize the kids do too.

I confess to sleeping through half the movie about cars. I'll have to rest up for the one we've agreed "we have to see!" together - so I can watch the kids watching the movie, storing up treasures for another time.

Mirror, mirror on the wall...

When I visited our church kids (including my two) at camp last week, my quick check-the-hair glance in the bathroom mirror was denied - all of the mirrors on the campsite had been covered with butcher paper. Written on the paper were encouraging messages -- "I like your face." and "You're beautiful just the way you are." and "God loves you." My daughter explained later that the campers, boys and girls alike, were encouraged to forego makeup and hair products for the day, concentrating on inner beauty instead.

As a mother, I was grateful. Our society's obsession with outward appearance takes its toll - on tween girls who want to be unique but still fit in, teenage boys whose bodies are changing at an uncomfortable pace, on the college-age counselors hoping to catch someone's eye, on a middle aged mom who compares herself to seemingly flawless celebrities of the same age (who me?), on older adults who hesitate to come to worship when a new or aching joint necessitates a cane or walker. Our comparisons often lead to either negative self-talk or unkind judgments about others ... or both.

The kids all looked beautiful to me -- and I was freed from at least one disgruntled swipe at my own uncooperative hair and wrinkles. Believing we are beautiful, loved, valued, awesome -- what would we do with the extra time on our hands?