What did she do?

I spent this week with a diverse group of children and high school youth, mostly from St. Paul. The high school youth did a wonderful job serving as counselors for our day camp - leading small groups of children through each day's activities, joining them in silly songs and games, and coming alongside them in afternoon service projects and fun.

This morning, I called the parents of the counselors to thank them and to share something I appreciated about their kids. I am new to the church and was coordinating the program for the first time, so I do not know the kids or the families well. But after a week together, I knew just enough about each young person to make the calls.  

Right away, I hit a snag. When I called the parent contact of the first young woman on my list, the person who answered was not her mother. After some conversation, I realized she was something like the mother of all children - so I asked, "Do you know her mom's name? Do you have her number?" 

"What's wrong?" she demanded. "What did she do?"

I explained that nothing was wrong. That this young woman had worked really hard and had done a great job. That I was so happy to work with her and hoped she would apply again next year.

Silence. 

Then I heard a squeal of joy on the other end of the phone, "You have got to call her momma. Her momma needs to hear this." After much scrambling, she found the number I needed and was about to hang up when I said, "Wait. Before I call her, I need to tell you about your two girls."

"What's wrong?" she demanded. "What did they do?"

"Well, both of your daughters are already extraordinary leaders. They see what needs to be done and they do it without being asked. They have great ideas and they are fun to have around. If I needed to get a job done, I would ask them."  I laid the truth on pretty thick which resulted in a lot more squealing on the other end of the line. 

After a dozen calls, I was able to reach all but a few of the parents. There was a great deal of squealing on the other end, but especially from those who were always anticipating bad news and were overjoyed to hear the good.

Changes

The transitions in our upcoming move are both predictable and unexpected.

My husband's gone off to a new job in a distant city. I've stayed temporarily with a house to sell, work to complete, a teenager to shuttle and a nearby college student.

Today I'm finishing off a second three-pound jar of chunky peanut butter. Now that I'm the only one in the house who doesn't like the smooth stuff, I know full well that I alone consumed nearly six pounds of peanut butter. 

Gross. 

Cheers!

When my dad was dying, he missed going to church, even though it was dreadful to be told how awful he looked by well-meaning fellow church-goers.

My farmer dad had always cleaned up nicely and in record time, whistling through his bathroom routine, hair grooming and wardrobe selection. He could go from kicking off his dirty boots by the back steps to backing out of the garage in less than ten minutes - from manure to aftershave. That summer he went from dapper to dying, also in record time.

His few remaining Sundays passed far too quickly. Unfortunately, he felt as awful as he looked which made attending worship unworkable. Between pastors at their beloved church, no one came calling on Mom and Dad, which made dying lonelier than it might have been.

"Mom, I could give Dad communion," I offered, not sure I actually could. Or should. I didn't have my home communion kit with me that trip, but we could improvise.

Two of my aunts stopped by that day - my mom's sisters, both nurses. Uncle Steve, too, nursing his own chronic aches and pains. A sacramental party quickly began to take shape. Mom pulled out the good wine glasses, once reserved for extended family gatherings at the dining room table, and filled them with wine and juice -- not just a sip, but all the way. My daughter fished hotdog buns from the freezer and left them on a plate to defrost. In lieu of a stole, Mom draped an embroidered table runner around my shoulders. My aunt plucked out almost-familiar hymn tunes on my lap harp. I solemnly offered the pastor-y part, impossible to separate from the daughter-whose-dad-is-dying part. Once everyone had received the body and blood of Christ, we clinked our still-full glasses, nibbled at the remaining hot dog buns, prayed and sang robustly and we laughed until we cried, celebrating life and cursing cancer. While our hearts were breaking, God was picking up the pieces and putting them back together again. And again.

My dad loved seeing us laugh.

There had been and would be time for weeping. But as we shared that holy meal, we laughed, loosening death's fearful grip on us. Bread and wine, life and death, song and curse, laughing and weeping, mourning and dancing. Yes. To all of it. Yes.

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.