Here, kitty, kitty!

This is an excerpt from a sermon I wrote for a pet blessing service after my dear dad died three summers ago. 

Growing up on a busy cattle farm, animals fell into several different categories. There were animals we raised to make a living and for food – cattle and pigs. There were the animals we loved – the cats and dogs. And the ones that were a nuisance – the mice in the walls of our old farm house, raccoons that ate the sweet corn before it ripened, the moles that created lumpy paths through my mom’s garden, coyotes that howled at night, an unwelcome romantic tomcat wandering through, and for a short time a horse named Ginger that would intentionally saunter under the apple tree to casually knock off anyone brave enough to hop onto her saddle.

Today we remember and bless the animals we love. Each year on the farm, it was fun to discover and tame the litters of kittens that were born– some in the barn, some in the shed, once in a bucket of nails in my dad’s shop. Farm life could get boring and lonely and those cats provided us with hours of fun and companionship. As my own children and their cousins have grown, they have also enjoyed finding, taming and naming each one. They never met a kitten they couldn’t love. Though there were often several that looked so alike I had trouble telling them apart, the kids knew without a doubt which one was Mittens and which one was Scruffy, which one was Midnight and which one was Hombre. 

There weren’t many kittens this year at the farm and some were too wild to catch. And it also appears the gene pool has been totally depleted. Every single kitten was gray. No pretty calico kitties, no sleek black ones, no classic brown striped cats. They were all gray. 

In June, as my dad was growing sicker and the doctors narrowed down a diagnosis for him, there was one friendly gray kitten abandoned near the house. It hid in the downspout by the garage. He ran along the length of the porch and tried to get in the house whenever the door opened. My nieces made a special concoction of yogurt and milk that its small tummy could tolerate and they were determined to keep that kitten alive. About the same time, up in the barn was another gray kitten whose mother went missing. This one had long, fluffy hair and was so frightened, he hid behind whatever he could find and had to be coaxed out. My nieces brought both kittens down to dad’s shop, found a litter box they vowed to empty every day, and promised it would only be for a little while until they were big enough to fend for themselves outside with the rest of the cats. 

My dad had good days and bad days, nearly all of them filled with naseau and pain. Those two kittens became his companions. Very early one morning, I went down to have coffee with him in his shop and found one kitten playing with the pencils on his desk in the office while the other one hid behind a file cabinet. “I was never going to have cats in my shop,” he lamented. “Never.” 

On the farm, pets belonged outside – not in the house, not in dad’s shop. But here were these two kittens, wrestling at his feet. The more aggressive kitten pounced on the other and they rolled across the floor and dad laughed at their antics. “Is this on your list of things that don’t matter anymore?” I asked him. He was dying. “Yes it is,” he said as he coaxed the fluffy kitten out from behind the cabinet and onto his lap. 

As the summer progressed, they hid in the drawers of his work bench, jumping out to surprise him. They stretched out onto his lap while he did his breathing treatments and poked their heads into his coffee cup. On the days that nausea won and he didn’t want any company, he could still tolerate those kittens. 

One hot afternoon, I stopped down to check on him and one kitten was sprawled on his lap, chewing on his shirt. “Look,” Dad said, “He thinks I’m his mother.” This became a weird, wonderful pattern – dad would sit in his usual spot to use the nebulizer or drink his coffee and the cat would hop out from one of his drawers to chew on his shirt. The dog, Kate, never straying too far from her place by dad’s feet.

An old dog and two playful kittens. This probably was not exactly what the psalmist had in mind when he said that God places all things under our feet. A dog and two kittens – this also wasn’t exactly the medicine the doctors prescribed when dad decided not to seek treatment for his cancer. But they were as effective as any comfort measures the doctor recommended. 

Today as we talk about blessing animals, we also share our stories about how God can use animals and all of creation to bless us. Regardless of your relationships with these creatures - and I plan to keep my distance from that lizard over there - I hope that we can all find a place in our hearts to recognize and celebrate the blessings that pets can bring into our lives and the lives of those around us. We give thanks to God for all the ways that love, companionship, and grace enter into our lives. 

Psalm 8:3-9

When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars that you have established;
what are human beings that you are mindful of them,
mortals that you care for them?

Yet you have made them a little lower than God,
and crowned them with glory and honor.
You have given them dominion over the works of your hands;
you have put all things under their feet,
all sheep and oxen, and also the beasts of the field,
the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea,
whatever passes along the paths of the seas.

O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!

Remember you are dust

When one of our members, age 90+, took a tumble that landed her in transitional care, I stopped by to say hello. It was no surprise that she was down in the dumps. Transitions can be difficult at any age, but are especially painful when decisions about housing and mobility and even personal care are no longer fully yours to make. A fall can herald harsh and sudden change - my church friend was unsettled about what had happened and uncertain about the future.

Into a lull in the conversation, I announced, "It's Ash Wednesday," though it was redundant.The enormous cross on my forehead from the early service had already broadcast this fact.

"Oh," she said, clearly dejected. "I wish I had some ashes. That would really cheer me up."

This Eeyore-like response spoke such volumes about her predicament. Alive but not fully living - at least not as she hoped.

"Don't I have a pretty big cross on my forehead?" I asked, knowing it had been applied by my pastor-husband who had never once skimped on the ashes.

"Oh, yes, you certainly do," she agreed.

"I'll share."

"You'll need a mirror," she immediately declared, "Use mine." In the bathroom, I used my thumb to remove as much ash as I could from my forehead while muttering "What are you doing?" to my reflection.

We sat on the awkward low-to-the floor bed like girlfriends at a sleepover as I traced a whisper of a cross onto her brow. It was a holy highlight in the disorienting and fear-filled day after a fall. We held hands as we prayed together, not knowing what the earthly future holds - but giving thanks for the gift of life and for God's persistent, loving claim on us from beginning to end. And for the promise of new life to come.

Happy Birthday

With birthdays on the 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th and beyond, October was birthday month for our family as I was growing up. After church, we’d gather for a birthday dinner at Grandma’s followed by thick slabs of red velvet cake. Grandpa once confessed – after more than sixty years of October gatherings and countless slices of cake – that red velvet was not his favorite, but it has remained one of mine.

I remember just one October birthday party with school friends. As socially awkward then as now, I turned cartwheels on the lawn in my skirted girl scout uniform, giving everyone a peek at my underwear.

I was glad our son got a birthday of his own – October 5th. As of 2:07 this morning, he is 18! Although I hope his plans for today do not include any of these things, he could now enter into a contract, marry a sweetheart, gamble away his tuition money, rent an apartment or buy property, consent to medical treatment, serve on a jury, buy cigarettes or a gun.

Always curious, opinionated and wildly inclusive – I do hope he will exercise his new privilege to vote. Our words and actions – in and out of the voting booth–help to shape the communities and world we live in. I hope he will participate fully, using his brain and his gifts and his faith to make the world a better place.

Federal law also requires that he register for the selective service—in a crisis, our son could be drafted into military service. Although I'm not turning cartwheels about this sobering possibility, we live in a complex and conflicted world – one that may always need soldiers. All of them sons and daughters.

Law and privilege, rights and responsibility – happy birthday to our much-loved son as he grows into these gifts of early adulthood. 

Shhhh

Shhh. Our son is home from college for the night. This afternoon he negotiated on his bike from dorm to light rail station to his occasional job off campus. His shift ended too late to safely reverse those steps, so we offered to pick him up and return him to campus. Or home. His choice. Only a week in, it's an awkward return -- no toothbrush, not enough pillows, his room still disheveled from his recent departure. His sister welcomes best -- waiting up for the briefest glimpse, glad he's home to eat the muffins she'd baked. It's my equivalent of a school night as I make a list of loose ends for tomorrow's full morning of rally day activities at church. My desire to stay up and listen is thwarted by his weariness and my own. I'll be up and out of the house before he wakes tomorrow. He'll be long gone by the time I return. Shhhh.

Got ten minutes?

This week, our congregation sent a group to Greeley, Colorado to learn and serve in a community that experienced horrendous flooding last year. On the way, they ate a meal in North Platte, Nebraska. Although I imagine our youth were unimpressed with North Platte, the small city does boast the world's largest railroad yards, Bailey Yard. And it was once the home of a tremendous example of outrageous welcome and hospitality.  

Some time ago, I read a book called Once Upon a Town, The Miracle of the North Platte Canteen by Bob Greene. The Union Pacific Railroad's main line runs through North Platte and during World War II, trains carrying our troops on their way to or from the war traveled through the town. The trains stopped for no more than fifteen minutes for fueling or unloading or to add or change cars. On Christmas Day 1941, thinking their own sons from the local 134th Infantry Regiment were on the trains, the people of North Platte decided to greet them as they rolled through town. Gifts, food, words of encouragement and thanks were lavishly shared with the young men – who turned out to be strangers, not their own. 

The miracle part of the story is that the people of North Platte and surrounding communities made a commitment to greet every single troop train that came through town as long as the war lasted. On an average day, three to five thousand military personnel passed through the canteen, and toward the end of the war as many as twenty-three trains passed through each day. Over six million soldiers were welcomed and fed during the war, day and night, day after day, and year after long year.

Remember, most of the people served by the canteen were there for only ten or fifteen minutes. They gobbled down homemade pie and roast beef sandwiches. They flirted and danced with the young women whose job it was to greet the trains. They accepted sloppy kisses and firm handshakes from women and men who could have been their mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. And then they were gone. Yet the book describes the life-long impact those ten minutes had on those who gave and received the gift of such generous hospitality. 

Ten minutes. What a lingering impression a warm greeting can have on a Sunday morning! Ten minutes could ward off a sense of isolation and depression for someone who is struggling. A compliment for a well-behaved child, a question about an illness, a thank-you for the lovely music could have a long-lasting impact both on people we already know and those who are new. Maybe outreach and evangelism aren't as complicated and difficult as we tend to think. Ten minutes to intentionally and generously share Christ’s love and hospitality with your spouse, a child, your mother, a visitor, a co-worker, your boss, even a complete stranger – those ten minutes could transform a congregation, a community, you, me. 

Let me know if you have been to North Platte– or if you'd like to borrow the book! Pray for young people and adults on summer mission trips that they might be outrageously welcomed as the spirit of God works through them to welcome and bless others. 

Remembering

Preparing the bulletin and worship service for this Sunday, I had a flashback to one of the many firsts of my first year as pastor. Memorial Day weekend snuck up on me. Although I had prepared prayers of gratitude for those who had died serving our country, I neglected to ask about other traditions the congregation valued.

That Sunday morning, as I sought the too-late advice of the volunteer who deftly handles the nitty gritty details of worship, something caught my eye outside. Fluttering. Actually, a flurry of fluttering. Small American flags lined both sides of the sidewalk leading to the church. "Uh-oh," I thought to myself.

Those flags raised the expectation for something that was not going to be happening in worship that day. Like patriotic music. Like red, white and blue sprinkles at coffee hour. Like scriptural assurance that God had a special soft spot for our corner of the world. I quickly moved to the other entrance. More flags. More fluttering. Suddenly, I couldn't remember if there was a flag in our worship space or fathom what I would do with it if there was.

Improvising at the beginning of the service, I was moved to tears when dozens of veterans stood to be recognized - some had served long ago in far-flung places, some had returned from the Middle East just days before. Five years later, that group has dwindled - lost to other battles with cancer, kidney failure, dementia, suicide.

I might quibble about secular holidays creeping into worship, but I hope to never pass up an opportunity to bless the people in front of me. To listen to and honor their stories. To thank them and to give thanks for them.

"Hi, it's me."

Something startling happens when I call my mom's cell phone and she doesn't answer. The voice mail greeting reminds me, in my sister-in-law's familiar voice:

"Ron Gray is not available." 

Tell me about it. From a dripping ceiling in our daughter's room to our congregation's looming capital campaign; from our son's pending high school graduation to farmers preparing their fields for spring planting - I'm acutely aware of my father's absence. Even after a year and a half, the declaration stills jars me.

My parents held on to their first cell phone for years, passing up free upgrades and newer models in favor of one they knew how to use. Once bound by the awkwardness of a party-line shared with neighbors up and down their rural road, mom and dad learned to text. Once cautious about the expense of long distance calling, they learned to call for no reason - unlimited minutes were used to report monarch sightings or a new kitten or the death of a neighbor or a funny story.

I suspect that clunky cell phone, replaced only after my dad's death, sits in a kitchen drawer at the farm. Though its chirping crickets and croaking frog ringtone is now silenced, it still holds little bits and pieces of our lives - texts and pictures and voice mail messages collected and forgotten over many years. That it once had the power to connect me to my dad on the best and worst of days or for no reason at all makes it - for now, for me - too precious to throw away or recycle.

My mom is savvy enough to change the greeting on her new phone - but I hope she won't.