tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86440663577028942162024-03-14T03:27:04.902-04:00wild and precious"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" Mary Oliverlaurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.comBlogger149125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-57123089408155291752009-03-10T12:18:00.004-04:002009-03-10T12:40:41.346-04:00Dying and LivingI have an old friend who is living with ALS. This means, of course, that he is also dying of ALS. Also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease, ALS is a devastating illness and always fatal. <br /><br />But then, so is life. <br /><br />Not devastating, necessarily, but always fatal. I don’t say this to be flip. I say it to acknowledge the stark reality that we all do die. No way around it. Nobody gets out alive. My dad lived a good, long-enough life before he died this year. But his death continues to remind me, day by day, to live. This is my life. What do I want to do before it’s over? I’m also reading a book now – or maybe I should say experiencing a book, because reading it is only half the game – which was written after the author’s step-father died just 37 days after a terminal diagnosis. <br /><br />That reality made her ask herself – what would I do with the next 37 days if they were my last? And she discovered that she wouldn’t take a trip around the world or any of those things we speculate about – like our own personal make-a-wish foundation. What she would do, she decided, is enjoy the life she has more intensely and intentionally. Patti Digh’s book, Life is a Verb, invites the reader to do the same. <br /><br />My friend with ALS has a site where he and his wife write updates about their existence. Sometimes the wife gives a blow-by-blow of just what it’s like to watch your spouse deteriorate muscle by muscle. It’s excruciating. <br /><br />But often the words are full of humor and love and delight in life. Especially when the writer is Rick, the friend who is dying. Rick is a gorgeous, athletic, popular, successful businessman. He and his wife were among my ex and my best friends. We spent several Thanksgivings together, none of us really wanting to spend the whole day with our families of origin. We took weekends in the Adirondacks and Finger Lakes together. The girls would have our nights out together and the boys, theirs. <br /><br />Sometimes after spending extended time with this couple, my ex and I would be relieved to be home alone. It fascinated us how couples adjust to their own tensions and eccentricities, while finding other people’s hard to endure. We sometimes thought we had the stronger marriage. Now we have split and they are walking together through the valley of the shadow of death. The depth of their love and appreciation of each other rings through their writing. <br /><br />I ran into another friend this week whose marriage had been up and down for a while. Then her father died. Turns out that experience did not deepen her marriage. Her husband’s emotional unavailability became the last straw and her father’s death ushered in the death of the marriage. If you only have one life to live, what are you going to do with it? <br /><br />I started this blog after my own marriage broke up and I named it for that wonderful Mary Oliver quote at the top of the page. When I stop and think, honestly, about the percentage of time when I’m actually living as if my life were a wild and precious gift, it gives me pause. <br /><br />I’ve been on a five-year journey of discovering what the next stage of my life should be. In the meantime, I’ve had five years of living my life as it is. Sometimes I get so frustrated that the future is not emerging in the way I expected, that I forget to live the day that has been given. <br /><br />So this week, as I turn 46, I want to declare: this is my life. It isn’t the life I imagined. It isn’t the life I used to have. It isn’t the life I hope to have some years from now. But it is the one and only life I have and I intend to notice it, taste it, relish it, enjoy it, explore it, experience it in all its craziness and joy. <br /><br />As we sang in church camp: This is the day that the Lord has made! I will rejoice and be glad in it!laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-45836639008418210162009-02-08T12:31:00.008-05:002009-02-08T13:39:15.878-05:00Grief Revisited<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.onlinecounsellingservice.co.uk/images/grief.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 367px; height: 340px;" src="http://www.onlinecounsellingservice.co.uk/images/grief.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I am remembering that grief is a sticky interconnected web, the pattern stretched across the branches of a life, one string tugging on another, all the thin threads held together in tenuous contact. My father died four weeks ago and except for moments by his bed that day and again on the morning of his funeral, my grief has not taken the form of tears. I am a crier, so this surprised me. I cry at Hallmark commercials. I cry when I see other people crying. Sometimes I cry when I'm simply in the room with somebody who I sense is holding back tears. <br /><br />Last night the grief came in spasmodic waves. I had a cold, so I was already feeling punky and decided not to go out to hear a friend's band I had been hoping to hear. Instead I watched a movie. I had a few borrowed from a friend sitting around so rather than go out, I picked one off the pile. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Story of Us</span>. About divorce. Besides the fact of a predictable story, poor acting and a Hollywood ending (in the worst sense of that phrase), it was a stupid choice. But I watched it to the end, for some unknown reason. It is the story of how a marriage falls apart. It's painful to watch. <br /><br />My own marriage's demise had plenty of similarities to the movie's as well as numerous differences. But it struck enough uncomfortable chords to send me into a place of deep disappointment -- over how my marriage turned out and, truth be told, how my life has turned out. Whatever happened to all the untapped potential that seemed brimming over the edges of my life when I was 24? By 34 I had chosen to stay in a difficult marriage and given up some career opportunities to make that work. By 44 I had left that marriage and the whole career path and all of the places where I had put down tentative adult roots. <br /><br />Each choice I made along the way had an internal logic. It's hard to imagine that I could have or would have wanted to make any different choices at any particular point. But now the patchwork of ups and downs creates a strange and dissonant work of art. How have I gotten to this place -- broke, underemployed, alone? Me, with so much energy and intelligence and joie de vivre? Me, with all the economic and educational advantages I've been given? Is there something essentially broken in me that keeps me from quite getting my act together, not quite making it work, not quite making the best choices? <br /><br />My mantra this year has been kindness. Whatever else I do in my life, let me be kind. But even at that goal, I often feel like a failure. And so, suddenly, I am thinking of my father and I am overwhelmed with grief. He, who led a life that reached so many tangible goals, as well as creating such vital though less tangible connections. The stories of his compassion and generosity have been pouring in from both expected and unexpected sources over the past few weeks. He was a great man. I want to believe that I was not a disappointment to him or that, even in the ways that I was, this was more about his misplaced expectations than about any real failing on my part. <br /><br />Even as I write this, I can sense some Jimmy Stewart angels appearing to show me my life. I'm nowhere near jumping off any bridges and I have no doubt that I've had my moments, I've touched some lives, I've done some good. But in recent years I have come up against far more closed doors than open ones. I want to believe that even closed doors serve a purpose. I'd like to think that life is shutting off certain possibilities to me so that I can turn in a new direction and discover new opportunities. But then the furnace dies and I spend a weekend in a cold house with my son wondering how I'll pay the bill on Monday when I get it working again. And vague potentialities lose their appeal. I want steady work and a man around the house, if you must know the truth. I would settle for one or the other. <br /><br />It occurs to me that I write more when I'm down than when I'm up ... perhaps the weeks and months of no blogging can be a reminder to me that I've been very happy for most of this past year. And even this past week. And probably will be most of next week. But today I'm grieving -- for dad, for my marriage, for my career, for my furnace, for that 24 year old and all her hopes and dreams, for that 34 year old, confused and determined, for that 44 year old, piecing life back together after the center did not hold. Today the tears flow. So be it. So be it.laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-11073963978732921572009-01-14T07:04:00.006-05:002009-01-14T08:40:46.121-05:00When Death Comes*My father died at 1 p.m. on Monday, January 12. My mother and I were with him, one on each side, as he quietly, peacefully took his last breaths. I almost missed it. I had gone for lunch. This would have been a great irony. I am, as my Gentleman Friend (GF) likes to say, a good eater. So was my dad. We could always eat. Any time of day. Even if we had just finished a large meal. We appreciate food in our family. Eating was the last of Dad's pleasures to go. <br /><br />So, I had gone to the hospital cafeteria where I had salmon in creamy dill sauce, wild rice and roasted italian vegetables. I bought my mom a sandwich (her request -- I didn't mean to have a nicer meal than she did) and was heading back up to the room where dad had been moved from emergency only an hour before. As I turned onto his floor a gaggle of nurses and CNAs saw me and exclaimed, "There she is now." They were paging me to come because my dad's death was imminent. I ran into the room. A friend of the family had arrived in my absence. He left the room as I entered and I took dad's side. I can't remember what Mom and I said at that moment. Nothing to each other, but maybe to Dad. We had been singing hymns to him that morning -- Holy, Holy, Holy and For All the Saints, that sort of thing -- and quoting his two favorite psalms -- the 121st and the 23rd. We both know all of these by heart and have for most of our lives and yet we stumbled over words and phrases again and again. We didn't know that Dad was going to die when he came in by ambulance that morning or else we might have packed a bible and a hymnbook for the moment. We weren't prepared for death. <br /><br />What happened was this: four days before Christmas Dad took two bad falls. He was falling more and more, so this was not especially significant, except that Mom was unable to get him up and had to call in help both times. That was a Sunday. On Tuesday morning he had another bad spill, knocking the back of his head against the corner of a metal table on the way down. This time Mom managed to get him up and to the shower where she was busy trying to clean up all the blood when she realized it was a pretty bad cut. So she finished his shower, bandaged his head, changed his clothes, got him in her car and drove to the nearest urgent care clinic. They put 10 stitches in his head and sent him home, asking Mom to note if he seemed confused. Dad had beginning stages dementia, was mostly blind, mostly deaf and took too many painkillers for the various physical disabilities that kept him in chronic, crippled pain. Knowing whether he seemed more confused than usual was not a simple task. <br /><br />But rather than complain about his head or his osteo-arthritis or degenerative disk disease pain, all day Dad complained about a sore place on his foot. Mom had taken him to the podiatrist a hundred times in the preceding months for this sore spot, but it clearly had become much worse -- the hole widening and deepening, the area around it turning odd, dark shades not usually associated with Caucasian skin. By the next morning, Christmas Eve, his foot was red and swollen and hot and the sore spot was black. Mom managed, once again (I'm not sure how), to get him into the car and off to a podiatrist. A different one this time, as she was fed up with the lack of help the previous one had been. This one examined Dad's foot, looked up at Mom and said, "I'll do what I can to save his foot." What???<br /><br />So he cleaned and tended the wound, ordered an oral antibiotic, drew a line in red magic marker across Dad's upper foot and told Mom that if the redness and swelling got higher than the mark to go immediately to the emergency room. My son and I came to her house later that day. My ex was going to a 5 pm service at his church and then coming over to sit with Dad, so Mom, son and I could attend the 7 pm Christmas Eve service at her church. We got home from the service, looked at Dad's foot and knew we had to go to the hospital. Because my ex was there, the three of us managed to get him into a car (how had Mom done this on her own earlier that same day?) and Mom and I went off to the hospital, leaving the ex to put the son to bed and fill the stockings. <br /><br />Around 2 a.m. they had run every test imaginable and admitted Dad to the hospital. He had cellulitis in the foot, as well as wicked bed sores on his rear end and signs of a small, recent heart attack. He was a mess from head to toe, quite literally. Dad stayed in the hospital for a week, one problem leading to another, but finally getting the infection under control. From there he went to a skilled nursing facility for rehab. With his fever gone and his medications more controlled than at home, Dad was actually quite lucid and in pretty good spirits for a few days. But when the first week in rehab turned to the second, he began insisting that Mom get him out of there and take him home. A week in the hospital, not moving out of bed, had greatly weakened him and he was having trouble even sitting up and holding a cup. There was no possible way he could go home. In spite of his generally good mental capacity, he could not comprehend this. Of course Mom could take care of him. She'd been doing it for years! <br /><br />On Friday, January 9, Mom and I went to the financial planner's office. I am now the executor of the estate should anything happen to Mom, but this was my first time getting a real lay of the financial landscape. We needed to figure out the situation should Dad be spending months or years in nursing care, which is what we all believed we were facing at this point. The good news was, in spite of huge losses in 2008, Mom and Dad had been so frugal and wise with their money over the years that the planner assured Mom she could keep Dad in nursing care for 12 years before they'd run out of money. We all knew he wouldn't last that long, so this greatly put her mind at ease. <br /><br />I spent that afternoon with Dad, so Mom could be home alone for a while. He was fairly lucid, but certainly more confused than he had been a few days before. I read him Christmas cards. He kept calling on the nurses to help him get up to pee. He could barely make it from the bed to the wheelchair even with two skilled helpers. As the afternoon wore on he got more agitated and kept saying what a mess things were. I couldn't get him to say what the mess was. Finally, I knew he needed to sleep, so I kissed him, told him I loved him and left. <br /><br />I had plans to go out of town that weekend which I kept. There was no reason I shouldn't, as far as we could tell. We were gearing up for the long-haul. Months of a man miserable about being in a nursing home. He had said to Mom for years, "Don't ever put me in a nursing home! I'll die if I have to go to a nursing home!" I stayed in touch with Mom and she said that he developed an intestinal infection on Saturday. She was still able to feed him (a good eater, to the end) and get him to respond to commands ("Open your mouth a little wider"), but he stopped communicating verbally and rarely opened his eyes that weekend. <br /><br />Then Monday morning came and the call that he was being sent to the hospital. Even then, Mom figured he'd gotten dehydrated from the infection or in need of IV antibiotics. As they took his vital signs, his fever was 106. His breathing was labored and his blood pressure was dropping rapidly. Just before I arrived the doctor asked Mom if she wanted extreme measures taken or just comfort care. She asked for comfort care. "Then I give him 24 to 48 hours to live." Death. We didn't know. When I arrived I spoke with the social worker and asked a hospice representative to come meet with us. I thought perhaps we could move him into a hospice facility and out of the emergency room for his last days. I knew from my time as a volunteer hospice chaplain that people could inexplicably hang on longer than expected and I wanted to be ready for the possibility of several days of bedside vigil. Hospice came, but the doctor arranged with the nursing home for us to take him back there, as he didn't think a hospice bed would open in time and knew we could get palliative care at the home. Discharge papers were in place when the doctor came in and told us that he had changed his mind. Dad wouldn't survive the transfer, he thought. They promised to find a bed in the hospital and admit him as quickly as possible, which they did, with great kindness and efficiency. Around noon, Dad was finally settled into his new room -- a quiet one with a beautiful view of the mountains. It was a gorgeous, bright winter day. <br /><br />Mom and I sat with Dad for a few minutes and then we both realized we were hungry. Even at this point, we figured we had hours ahead of us. Mom asked me to go eat and bring her something. So I did. And almost missed the last moment. But not quite. I'm glad I was there. <br /><br />I have no regrets, nor does Mom, but one can't help but think about some "what ifs" in those final moments. Mom would have spent the night with Dad, had she any idea of the severity of this infection. I would have gone to see him when I got home on Sunday. And more than that, I would have been kinder to him on Friday. <br /><br />When I last saw him, he seemed so like he had for months. Demanding, irritable, but pretty lucid and generally OK. I was frustrated with him for not trying harder to sit up, to feed himself. He seemed perfectly happy to have it all done for him, but then angry that he couldn't go home even though he was making no efforts at rehabilitation. He complained about how tired he was. When he asked for water, I tried to insist that he hold the cup himself and get the straw to his mouth. I put it directly in both hands and shaped the one hand around the cup and the other around the handle. He dropped it. I caught it before it spilled and tried again. I snipped at him for not holding on, for not listening to what I was asking him to do. After a third attempt, I held it for him and put the straw in his mouth. But not compassionately. I did it with a huff. <br /><br />I am not haunted by this interaction. I know that I am forgiven by God and by Dad, if that is a post-life possibility. I can forgive myself. But forgive does not mean forget and I believe that I will remember this moment for a long time. I hope I do. Because it is easy for me to think that <span style="font-style:italic;">had I known</span> this would be the last time I saw my dad with any real life in him, I would have been so much more kind and gentle and patient. I would have compassionately given him the water as he asked and not scolded him. I would have gently rubbed his bald head while he drank. Had I known death was coming in a matter of days rather than months, I'm sure I would have been kind. I was kind on Monday, when it hardly mattered any more. <br /><br />It's so utterly predictable to learn this lesson now. We never know which interactions will be our last ones. And so every single moment we are called to compassionate presence. There is not a one of us that doesn't know this. But how easy it is to live out of the grudges, the impatience, the frustration. How very human. <br /><br />Dad is gone. We had a wonderful and difficult relationship for many years. We loved each other fiercely and wounded each other deeply. We fought and we made up. We criticized and we praised. We prayed together and we yelled at each other. We both clamored for Mom's attention and affection in our own ways and often in competition with each other. We could stay angry at each other for too long, but we were never estranged. We both knew we were the apple of the other's eye.<br /><br />People have been saying this week, "Now he can see again and hear again and walk again!" I really don't know about that. I believe in resurrection, but I have no earthly idea what it means. What it looks like. Does Dad really have a healthy body now? We have joked about him being reunited with some of his obnoxious friends, about them all giving God hell together. Maybe. I don't know. What I do know is this: he lived 81 years. He touched more lives than I will ever know with his own compassion and faith and preaching of the gospel, in both word and deed. He loved Mom passionately, even though he demanded far too much of her for far too long. He did much good in his life -- serving every community he lived in with civic zeal, every church he pastored with vigor and enthusiasm. He loved life. He loved people. He loved God. He loved me. <br /><br />And now he is gone. Blessed are those who die in the Lord. <br /><br /><br />*With apologies to Mary Oliverlaurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-36125211603166714582008-12-24T09:51:00.010-05:002008-12-24T12:00:24.350-05:00Sunday School Redux<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.christmasatkingswood.co.uk/MCj04105910000%5B1%5D.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 339px; height: 362px;" src="http://www.christmasatkingswood.co.uk/MCj04105910000%5B1%5D.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />For anyone who actually still reads this blog (that would be you, PJ), you may remember the <a href="http://wildprecious.blogspot.com/2008/03/sunday-thoughts.html">Sunday School concerns</a> I've had. This fall my ex decided to enroll our son in the Sunday School at the church that he has been attending for the past 2 years. This is a weird and wild post-Christian, <a href="http://www.jubileecommunity.org/">creation spirituality church</a>. I enjoy attending it once or twice a month and have agreed to support the boy's participation in the SS program. To give you an idea of the religious education my son is now part of, here is the <a href=" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jnH7QsQjiI4">teen's Christmas story</a> performed in church recently. What can I say? <br /><br />Merry Christmas, my friends.laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-70514580165757731962008-12-01T17:04:00.006-05:002008-12-01T17:32:22.864-05:00My Thanksgiving<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://userserve-ak.last.fm/serve/252/72969.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 252px; height: 167px;" src="http://userserve-ak.last.fm/serve/252/72969.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />This year I traveled to Cleveland for Thanksgiving to meet my new friend's family and friends. My friend used to be in a rock band, playing lead guitar. The band-leader/song-writer was Kevin McMahon, who went on to form other bands, including one called Prick (yeah, I know). In <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ppCyIdkoXGk#">this video</a> he's the guy singing and swinging on the perch, wearing the black bird suit. We spent half a day in his studio, listening to old cuts from the original band and jamming. (Well, I didn't jam, I listened and bopped around a bit). <br /><br />Can I just say that this is kind of different than participating in an ecumenical Thanksgiving service at a local main-line church? <br /> <br />(Technical difficulties prevented me from posting the video itself -- the link should work).laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-40139878214776041762008-11-09T16:15:00.010-05:002008-11-09T16:51:48.220-05:00Democracy Taking RootThere is no way to describe the euphoria everywhere I've been this week. A cosmic shift has taken place and we know it. I'm basking in it and I know we all want to bask in it for as long as we can. But basking can only be the beginning, not the end. I believe, as does Colin Powell, that Obama is a transformational leader. I would add that I believe his election in this moment of national crisis is a gift from God. <br /><br />I also believe, as does Barack Obama, that power does not concede and that the road ahead for this country is a steep and rocky one. Gifts from God are not to be hoarded. They are meant to inspire us to generosity and compassion and courage. And courage will be needed in the months to come. This is no time to gloat, no time to let up. This is a time to stand up and fight. We no longer have the excuse that nothing can change in the current administration. We have seen the grass-roots at work and we have begun to remember that we can make a difference. <br /><br />But just in case you doubt it, let me recommend a stirring documentary. <a href="http://takingrootfilm.com/"><span style="font-style:italic;">Taking Root: The Vision of Wangari Maathai</span></a> won the award for best documentary at this weekend's Asheville Film Festival. The film looks not only at her work in the <a href="http://www.greenbeltmovement.org/">Greenbelt Movement</a>, but also her grass-roots democratic work for better government. I have admired Maathai for years, but I learned more about her courage, her commitment, her suffering on behalf of Kenya and her impact on that nation than I ever knew. Weaving Kenyan political history through the story of her life and work, the film highlights the enormous obstacles she had to overcome to do her work of planting trees to re-forest her native land. It's a must-see for anyone who cares about the environment. It reminds us in no uncertain terms that it is WE THE PEOPLE who must save our land. We cannot wait for the government to do it. We are the ones we have been waiting for. <br /><br />And, not to boast too much, but can I just say that seeing this film was the highlight of a wonderful weekend in a beautiful city? Honestly, I do live in the nicest place ever. The <a href="http://www.riverdistrictartists.com/">River Arts District Studio Stroll</a> was this weekend and I met a<a href="http://www.carolbomer.com/index.cfm"> fabulous artist</a> who inspired me with her faith, as well as with her beautiful work. <a href="http://www.ashevillefilmfestival.com/">The Film Festival</a> brought to town a host of independent movies that, unfortunately, probably won't be making it to your local multi-plex. My<a href="http://www.therocketclub.net/"> new neighborhood night club</a> had a<a href="http://www.theafromotive.com/"> fun, funky dance band</a> Friday night and my son's neighborhood school had a sweet, playful Fall Festival that made lots of money for our Title I school, which needs it, while demonstrating work on our <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cob_(building)">cob shed</a> in our organic garden. Plus, the weather has been just dog-gone beautiful. <br /><br />OK, back to basking while I sweep the leaves off my deck.laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-4909886664957029362008-10-31T17:48:00.005-04:002008-10-31T18:56:16.169-04:00Pissed Off Presbyterians<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2275/2377501358_704ee32fcc.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 375px;" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2275/2377501358_704ee32fcc.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Kay Hagan, Democratic candidate for U.S. Senator from North Carolina, is running a strong race against Republican incumbent Elizabeth Dole. In fact, most polls show that Hagan is very likely to win, providing one of the turn-over seats in this year's senate. Because Dole, in spite of her money and Washington connections, has run out of ideas, she turned vicious. She's running an ad accusing Kay of being "godless." Kay happens to be an ordained elder in the Presbyterian Church and a Sunday School teacher. Kay's campaign ordered a "cease and desist" order which the Dole campaign (literally) laughed off. So now Kay is suing Dole for defamation of character. Her pastor and the Presbytery Executive have gone on the offensive for her. My mom, also a long-time Sunday School teacher and ordained Presbyterian elder, wrote Dole today saying "Shame on you!" Read more <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2008/10/30/politics/main4559455.shtml">here</a> ... if you aren't yet sick of nasty lies and character assassinations.laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-27396260267783382532008-10-25T14:12:00.003-04:002008-10-25T14:17:52.172-04:00Generation Jones -- Who Knew?<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/1Ta_Du5K0jk&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/1Ta_Du5K0jk&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />I don't watch TV, so apparently I missed out on this new designation for my generation. For years I have said that, although the stated years for the Baby Boomers' births were 1946-1964, I never, ever felt like part of that generation. Nor did I feel like an Xer. Well, turns out -- I wasn't alone. Generation Jones is the "lost generation" between the two and, as the generation shared by Obama and Palin, we are the group that could swing this election. <br /><br />I once was lost, but now am found. Hallelujah!laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-32185839565583878272008-10-19T23:28:00.007-04:002008-10-19T23:46:51.324-04:00A Good Weekend<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EcgGnPXN6OI/SPv7dRrcitI/AAAAAAAAABc/9sScoF2uSgQ/s1600-h/DSCN0789.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EcgGnPXN6OI/SPv7dRrcitI/AAAAAAAAABc/9sScoF2uSgQ/s400/DSCN0789.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259073470265592530" /></a><br /><br />Saturday began with me getting in line before the polls opened to vote. The lines were already long when I arrived and were still long when I left -- lots of excitement in the room. That afternoon and evening, my son and I joined our local hiking meetup to make one of my favorite climbs. This was the view when we arrived. We stayed until the sun set. Hurrying down the 3.5 mile trail in the dark was a little creepy, but worth it. <br /><br />And then tonight -- Sunday -- I went to a free James Taylor concert for Obama. Taylor is a Carolina native and is doing free concerts across the state this week to rally for Obama since we are one of the key battleground states. Additionally, I got to bring along my first real boss, a pastor I worked with in inner-city Indianapolis 20 years ago. He's in town for a conference, so we had dinner together and then went to the concert. His daughter (4 at the time I worked with him!) is now the Obama campaign coordinator for Indianapolis. It was the first time I had seen him in years, but we picked up like old friends. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EcgGnPXN6OI/SPv-ohMXqnI/AAAAAAAAABk/xgirzlKbKUE/s1600-h/DSCN0802.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_EcgGnPXN6OI/SPv-ohMXqnI/AAAAAAAAABk/xgirzlKbKUE/s400/DSCN0802.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259076961943661170" /></a><br /><br />This is what I call a good weekend. How was yours?laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-36439412908082057712008-10-16T08:20:00.002-04:002008-10-16T08:26:10.787-04:00Manifest Obama<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/v8Bzp0Fxq28&rel=0&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/v8Bzp0Fxq28&rel=0&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />This video was made at the Asheville Obama Rally I attended recently. Notice the joy in people's faces while waiting for hours in line. This is how the whole day felt. Joyous, hopeful, peaceful. The singer is a local musician -- Billy Jonas -- who is a wonderful, crazy guy. Very mellow in this, though. <br /><br />Go Asheville! Go Barack! I'm glad the debates are over. Early voting starts today. Be the change, people, be the change!laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-43954219044846255512008-10-10T22:15:00.006-04:002008-10-10T22:26:49.677-04:00The Cut<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EcgGnPXN6OI/SPAOSmYtukI/AAAAAAAAABM/e1n8_LvBNj0/s1600-h/Photo+53.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_EcgGnPXN6OI/SPAOSmYtukI/AAAAAAAAABM/e1n8_LvBNj0/s320/Photo+53.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255716477846010434" /></a><br />Last month I bid on a haircut at a silent auction at a fundraiser for a local nonprofit and today I got that cut and now have a ponytail to donate to "Pantene Beautiful Lengths" for women with cancer. (Unlike Locks of Love, which requires a 10-inch ponytail, Pantene only requires 8). So here I am: the new do! laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-82474415614905525702008-10-05T17:20:00.006-04:002008-10-05T17:33:10.682-04:00Barack the Vote!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://img.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2008/02_01/obamaMOS0202_468x365.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://img.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2008/02_01/obamaMOS0202_468x365.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I just spent a blistering hot October afternoon standing in the sun shoulder to shoulder with thousands of other people to hear the next president of the United States. He's here in Asheville preparing for the next debate. Today he focused almost exclusively on health care. As always, he was brilliant, funny, nuanced (imagine that!) and uplifting. All about who we can be as a people -- imagining our most decent and gracious selves as a nation. I love that message. (He did, however, get a couple of little sideways jabs at Gov. Palin.)<div><br /><div><div> </div><div>Michelle spoke here a few months ago and I went to that with my son, as well (yes, he had to stand for hours in the sun and crowd with me today, as well as then, to witness history). Her speech was actually the better of the two -- she is an astounding woman. She would make a great president herself, but I can't imagine a more wonderful first lady. </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>Today was the most diverse crowd I've been a part of since moving to Asheville more than two years ago. It feels so good to be coming together as a community, as a nation. And come together we will, because we must. Too much is at stake. For our children and for our world. This is a pivotal moment in our nation's history and we have to get it right this time. </div><div><br /></div><div><div> </div><div>North Carolina is going blue -- can I get a witness? </div></div></div></div>laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-33834531083660545162008-07-10T21:00:00.007-04:002008-07-19T14:18:26.985-04:00Waves<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.free-slideshow.com/stock-photos/sparkling_waves/waves-plateau.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.free-slideshow.com/stock-photos/sparkling_waves/waves-plateau.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Whenever I go to the ocean and spend a few hours diving in the waves, as I did last week, I am reminded of how much they have taught me. Occasionally you see somebody out in the surf who is clearly a newcomer to waves. Again and again they stand in the way of them and get smacked down. Now, if getting hit in the chest and head and back by powerful walls of frothy salt water is your thing, then go right on standing there and getting smacked. There are certainly worse ways to spend a day. <div><br /></div><div>Personally, I prefer to face waves in a few other ways: diving over, diving under, moving out beyond them or riding them in. Of course, each way holds its own life lessons. </div><div><br /></div><div>Diving over is tricky and only works if you catch it just before the big break. You have to know your wave and decide whether you have the traction on the sand shifting beneath you to make the leap. This way involves risk and quick judgement and the willingness to get a huge faceful of froth. But done right, it can result in a very pleasant floating, flopping ride to the other side.</div><div><br /></div><div>Diving under is the easiest thing. Just put your arms over your head and face the wave and plunge straight in the the heart of it. But if you've never done it before, it looks scary. It's only once you've tried it that you understand that the quietest place in the surf is directly underneath the biggest waves. Ah yes, the old "there's no way out but through" philosophy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Getting out beyond the waves usually means putting yourself rather far out into the ocean, which only works if you like being in the ocean over your head and trust that you have the strength to swim back in, even if a rip tide is pulling you farther out. To get beyond the waves you have to take a few in the face first, or try the diving under and over techniques often enough to get good at both. Beyond the waves can be choppy or peaceful and you are never guaranteed a wave-free existence, but what a place to hang out and enjoy the vastness of the universe. The risk is in straying too far from shore, but the pay-off is excellent. </div><div><br /></div><div>Riding them in is the most fun of all but requires a willingness to eat some sand, scrape your knees on shells and occasionally feel as if you may be ripped apart. It also requires great patience in finding just the right wave to ride and catching it at just the right moment as the wall of water tips forward, but before the actual crest. But when you catch a great body surfing rise -- ah! What a rush! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-10946216866634488092008-07-05T13:01:00.004-04:002008-07-05T13:13:51.185-04:00Independence Week<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://jeremylatham.com/images/vancouver-fireworks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://jeremylatham.com/images/vancouver-fireworks.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />In addition to celebrating the independence of our nation this week, two other events occurred in my life with liberating effect.<div><br /></div><div>Monday, June 30 was the last day that the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">former</span> director of the center where I am now the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">current </span>director was officially on the payroll. Of course, she is still calling to tell me what to do, but it really has very little impact on me these days. (Really, she called this week to suggest several things I ought to be doing during my vacation. No kidding.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Wednesday, July 2, my ex and I went to court and are now officially divorced. There was a brief moment of breathless sadness and then ... relief. I am proud of how well the two of us handled this ending, sans lawyers or mediators or anyone else. We went through the whole process together, from separation agreement to final stamp of legal approval, and now it is finished and we are still friends. Thanks be to God! </div><div><br /></div><div>And now, I am off on a vacation with my young one. See you when I get back. </div>laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-21542030211542115852008-07-05T12:24:00.008-04:002008-07-05T12:50:14.408-04:00I dedicate this to my Lord and Savior, Jesus<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_EcgGnPXN6OI/SG-lt31-q7I/AAAAAAAAAA0/sZPhm2CJEjY/s1600-h/premio%2Barte%2By%2Bpico.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_EcgGnPXN6OI/SG-lt31-q7I/AAAAAAAAAA0/sZPhm2CJEjY/s320/premio%2Barte%2By%2Bpico.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219572700648745906" /></a><br />The darling and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">irascible</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><a href="http://pjspointless.blogspot.com/">PJ</a></span><a href="http://pjspointless.blogspot.com/"> </a>has given me an award I clearly have not earned, but tearfully accept. <div>Here are the rules:</div><div>1) Pick five blogs that you consider deserve this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language.</div><div>2) Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.</div><div>3) Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself. </div><div>4) Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of Arte Y Pico blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award which is here: <a href="http://arteypico.blogspot.com/">Arte Y Pico</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>And because I never really follow all the rules, I pick these <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">three</span>: </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://faithincommunity.blogspot.com/">Diane</a>, for her theological depth and Midwestern good sense. </div><div><a href="http://wormwoodsdoxy.blogspot.com/">Doxy</a>, for her pulls-no-punches writing on topics others don't want to touch. </div><div>and</div><div><a href="http://pearlriverfishing.blogspot.com/">Laura</a>, because I ran into her yesterday and anyone who is a full-time pastor and mother of two charming young children, and can find time to blog and still look fabulous on a hot, sticky day at a parade deserves many awards. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-49124939343187021612008-06-22T21:16:00.003-04:002008-06-22T21:46:27.763-04:00Jesus is my Guru<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.rejesus.co.uk/expressions/faces_jesus/facesj_media/b_guru.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px;" src="http://www.rejesus.co.uk/expressions/faces_jesus/facesj_media/b_guru.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />As a newly divorced woman in her mid-forties, I have entered a strange new world of dating. And I am doing it in the strange world that is Asheville. Being who I am, I tend to be attracted to men who are <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">spiritual</span>. This translates into my last three dates being with a guy who has been a devoted practitioner of a particular form of meditation based on some kind of yoga out of Hindu/Indian traditions. So, it has a guru. And he (date guy) does. I'm not a guru type of gal. My protestant gut is suspicious of any human being who claims too much spiritual power. Power corrupts and corrupted spiritual power may be the worst kind. <div><br /></div><div>(Think inquisitions. Or Osama bin Laden, for that matter. Although I don't really think of either of those as spiritual, but political power which cynically used the spiritual weaknesses of people to rile them up. But that's another post.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I'm discussing my general distrust of gurus with this guy, who is trying not to become defensive about his love of his guru (he's gone to India 3 times to see him) and trying to share with me that it's really all about love -- increasing our love through meditation, blah, blah, blah. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I say, "Well, Jesus is my guru. I don't need any other ones." And I realize it is true. That I do think of Jesus much in the same way he thinks of his guru -- as a human being who became so imbued with God-love that he was capable of extending it through not only his words and touch, but even through time and past death. While I'm fairly ambivalent about church these days, I am still crazy about Jesus. Though it defies intellectual understanding, I have experienced Jesus in encounters I will call mystical because I'm not sure what else to call them. I have been healed by these encounters -- spiritually, emotionally and physically healed. Not always in the ways I hoped to be healed, but in ways that powerfully changed me or the direction of my life. </div><div><br /></div><div>I experience Jesus as a guy -- a real Middle Eastern Jewish guy -- who fully and completely got it. Got God. Got the point of life. And was transformed -- transfigured -- by it. And then became a conduit for transforming others. I don't know what happens to most of us when we die -- worm food? reincarnation? straight to heaven, do not pass go, do not collect $200? -- but I believe that Jesus, in some real sense, did not die. His body is dead and gone, but his spirit is alive and well. And not in some vague "everything is divine" sense, but in the sense of that Jewish guy who lived 2000 years ago and taught and walked and healed and was crucified. That his particular life experience -- incarnate, real, fully human experience -- was critical to his ability to continue through cultures and time to speak to us as fully human ones. </div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps there have been other human beings in history who share this category -- Buddha comes to mind -- but I can't attest to that. I can attest to Jesus. And because I experience him as still present, still available, still healing, I don't see the need for some other human to come along and claim some spiritual power into which I need to tap. I can go straight to the source -- the Big God -- or I can go to Jesus. And Jesus, having been human, is easier for me to get most days than the BG. </div><div><br /></div><div>What about you? </div>laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-59064254575767656112008-06-07T13:17:00.006-04:002008-06-07T13:31:54.856-04:00Go, Hillary!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.carboncommentary.com/wp-includes/images/hillary-clinton.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px;" src="http://www.carboncommentary.com/wp-includes/images/hillary-clinton.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Well, I'm inspired to break my two-month fast from blogging today because of Hillary Rodham Clinton and her powerful and gracious concession speech. I watched it start to finish and was moved to tears throughout. Unlike many people who got more angry the longer she stayed in the race, I found myself growing in admiration for her spunk. Those of you who have read my blog in the past know that Hillary was never one of my top choices for Democratic nominee. The war in Iraq was high on my list of reasons. Along with that were my concern that she is too much of a Washington insider to think in new ways about our country and its needs and that she is too much of a savvy politician to stick to strong progressive stances in spite of opposition. <div><br /></div><div>Nonetheless, as a woman, a mother and a feminist, I am delighted that she did as well as she did. By staying in the race she did, as she said today, put 18 million cracks in that glass ceiling leading to the White House. She accomplished, as she said, the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">remarkable</span> task of making it <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">unremarkable</span> that future women will be considered true contenders in such a race. Hillary Clinton is a brilliant woman, an inspired politician, and a great leader for our country. I believe that she will continue to be so in whatever the next role for her turns out to be. And I sincerely hope it is a significant one. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am grateful that she came out so strongly and clearly for Obama and for the Democratic party. Good for her. In the coming months, may her followers be as clear and gracious as she was today.</div>laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-76624830272086143232008-04-08T21:21:00.005-04:002008-04-08T21:35:17.899-04:00Opening to Grace -- an ad<span><span>I don't think I've ever used this space for an ad before, but I'm going to make an exception. There is an amazing woman by the name of Tilda Norberg who lives on Staten Island, where she practices and teaches <a href="http://gestaltpastoralcare.com">Gestalt Pastoral Care</a>. Throughout the year she does weekend retreats called "Opening to Grace" near Dingman's Ferry, PA, at her funky little retreat space. This fall the dates for her weekends are: Sept. 25-27, Oct. 16-18, and Dec. 4-6. Each retreat is limited to 6 participants, plus some helpers, and costs $300, which includes room and board. Gestalt pastoral care is a combination of Gestalt growth work, healing prayer and spiritual companioning. It's hard to describe. You kind of have to experience it. </span></span><div><span><span><br />I studied with Tilda for two years at her home/school on Staten Island. It was one of the most important experiences of my life. Given that my life has been a bit of a mess ever since, I realize I'm not the best walking advertisement. (But then again, I'm not sure this mess isn't partly a result of shaking up my comfortable little world. Sometimes healing isn't pretty.)</span></span></div><div><span><span><br />If this sounds even vaguely interesting to you, go to the website and read up on it. Or give Tilda a call and have a chat. I highly recommend her and this work. But maybe you shouldn't go if you like your life exactly the way it is. I'm just saying ... </span></span><div></div></div>laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-41150786545796008582008-04-04T12:30:00.010-04:002008-04-05T13:55:40.835-04:00In Defense of Church-Shopping<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.promotedating.com/images/senior-dating-couple.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.promotedating.com/images/senior-dating-couple.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"></span><span><span> I recently read an article by a former colleague of mine in which she bemoaned the American habit of church-shopping. I completely understand how she feels. I used to preach that same sermon. She criticized the concept that churches are "spiritual service providers." Yup, I've made that argument, too, back in my preaching days. </span></span><div><br /></div><div><span><span>But let's consider the other side of the story. Let's say I'm a mom of a young child and worship on Sunday morning is the one hour a week I can hope to get some spiritual nourishment in community. I may sneak in my own prayer and devotion time through the week -- but not with other people. This is my only chance and I know I can get more out of it if my beautiful, squirmy, noisy, curious child is safely taken care of somewhere else. In a nursery. And the church I attend doesn't have one. Will I stay? Probably not. Could I be accused of only thinking of my own spiritual needs? I could. But what would be the point? That I shouldn't be taking care of my own spiritual needs? Don't women -- and mothers in particular -- get that message often enough? Take care of everybody else's needs first! Yours can wait. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>Or take the accusation that one shouldn't leave because you disagree with the pastor. The truth is, anybody making this statement is probably a pastor. What is the point of worshipping week after week, listening to a person who preaches the Word and shapes the liturgy, if you have some fundamental disagreements with that person about that same Word and liturgy? Is this a tolerance test? Of course I'll disagree with any other human being from time to time -- we're human, after all -- but to state that agreement with the pastor should not be a criteria for whether one stays active in a church is an unrealistic and, frankly, disingenuous statement. You can bet the person making it, on his/her Sunday off, seeks out a worship service with a pastor they enjoy. (If they go to church at all). </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>Neither of the above are my current situation. But here is my reality: I'm a single mom working full-time as director of an agency, with two precious animals in my care, a home, yard and car that are my responsibility, and aging parents for whom I uprooted my adult life so that I could live near them. I am not complaining about these things. I love these realities. They are, in fact, my calling in life at this stage. Each one of them has a particular pull on my soul and energy and I do my best to honor all of those pulls. They are where my time, energy and love go, day after day. Taking care of a church community is not one of my callings right now. It has been for most of my life, but it isn't now. And that's true of many people sitting in our pews. They aren't called to take care of your congregation, preacher, so give them a break. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>I love God. I love worshipping God in community. I need that community. And I am church-shopping to find it. Shopping has this negative, materialistic, self-centered image in the church and for good reason. I think a better metaphor is dating. I'm dating several churches (and other spiritual communities) this year. I thought I needed to hop from my last church-marriage into a new one and the trouble with that model is you don't give yourself time to learn and grow and figure out how you changed since the last time you made a commitment. So I hopped quickly into what I believed to be a long-term relationship with a congregation. I didn't sign on the membership line, but I did get very involved. Then, when I began sensing that the relationship wasn't really working, I felt guilty and confused about how to extricate myself. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>Also, like my real-life dating these days, there is a child involved. And that makes a tremendous difference. (Unlike real-life dating, the child goes on most of my church-dates). It is not just my needs, but his that I consider. Is he surrounded by other adults in this congregation who demonstrate to him, implicitly and explicitly, the kind of Christian values I hope to help him develop? If that isn't happening in the congregation, I'm not staying. Just as in dating, I don't care how much I like the guy, if he's not somebody I feel good about my kid being around, it ain't happening. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>And, as is true in my dating life (or my desire to have one, is more like it), I'm not really out for a long-term commitment just yet. I need a break from the hard work of that kind of commitment. I do want to just be able to enjoy the date without thinking too much about the future. Which means, next Sunday I may or may not want to spend time with you. I may want to go out with another church next week. Or I may be serially monogomous for a while -- a few months in this church, a few in that. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span><span>The bottom line is, church-shopping -- or church-dating, as I prefer to call it-- is going to happen. Churches and pastors need to deal with this reality without judgement. Just as not every date is going to lead to marriage, not every church-date is going to lead to a long-term commitment. Nor should it. And there's nothing wrong with that. </span></span><div><div></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div></div></div>laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-19148999518533019312008-04-02T17:35:00.002-04:002008-04-02T17:42:34.949-04:00Hafiz -- a poem<div style="text-align: center;">Don't surrender your loneliness<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">So quickly. <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Let it cut more deep.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Let it ferment and season you<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">As few human<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Or even divine ingredients can.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Something missing in my heart tonight<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Has made my eyes so soft, <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">My voice<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">So tender,<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">My need of God<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Absolutely<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Clear. <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-6442683907689874772008-03-31T20:13:00.001-04:002008-03-31T20:15:01.506-04:00My New Favorite Song<object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/jx6v7MH2wuA&hl=en"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/jx6v7MH2wuA&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object><br /><br />So I'm a little late to the party, as usual. This one is for a special friend. You know who you are.laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-63044933711973749382008-03-26T11:41:00.004-04:002008-03-26T12:42:05.174-04:00Holy WeekBeing asked to do the Presbymeme (below) gave me the impetus to blog about my Holy Week. Nothing Presbyterian about it. <br /><br />Let's start on Palm Sunday. I got a 9 a.m. call from a new friend, raised secular Muslim, who has very bad feelings about Christianity in general, but is trying hard to respect mine. "Happy Palm Sunday!" he announced. "Oh. Is it?" I replied. I really didn't know. And that shocked me. Has there ever been a Palm Sunday in my entire life that I didn't wake up looking forward to the dramatic story that moves from triumph to tragedy? I loved waving the palms as a child. I love the Palm Sunday hymns. As a pastor, I always loved creating a parade from the outside to the inside of the church and moving the congregation from the exaltation of "All Glory, Laud and Honor" to the reality of death and betrayal still to come. <br /><br />I went to Funny Little Church (FLC) -- the one I've blogged about from time to time this year -- at the usual afternoon time. They had palm branches there, but we really didn't do anything with them. The service was fine ... but it didn't feel like Palm Sunday. None of the triumph or the tragedy, really. Just another informal, lefty Baptist kind of thing. <br /><br />In keeping with the lack of realization that it was Holy Week, I had made plans to celebrate the Vernal Equinox on Maundy Thursday. That day I had second thoughts, but having no church home that was doing Maundy Thursday, I kept my original plans. I went to a friend's retreat center (we do similar work and try to collaborate rather than compete) to do meditative dances. It was fine. But it was not Maundy Thursday, which may well be my favorite Holy Day of the year. Especially when foot washing is included. My churches have typically conflated MT and Good Friday, with communion first and then Tenebrae, on the theory that getting Presbyterians out to one mid-week service is asking enough and two would be impossible. I love that movement as well, from tight circle of friends huddled in an upper room, to public trial and betrayal. From gentle hope to dark hopelessness in such a short time. <br /><br />On Good Friday, I attended my local Episcopal church (LEC), which is where FLC now meets, so they had invited us to join them. It was a beautiful service. We heard the whole gospel story of the betrayal, trial, crucifixion and tomb. The priest gave a beautiful homily using an illustration from modern-day Middle East about non-violence and compassion that was so moving and pertinent. He is a man clearly in love with God. We had a ritual with stones that we offered as something we needed to let go of in order to follow Christ. There was the Eucharist and healing prayer. We sang Taize music, mostly. Finally, I felt like I had joined Holy Week. <br /><br />But that left Easter. FLC just doesn't do the Big Holy Days (BHD) well at all and I had decided some time before not to attend there, so as to preempt my disappointment. But the last BHD I had gone with my mom to her traditional Presbyterian church and left screaming in boredom and ended up offending her, because she really loves her church, so I didn't want to do that either. First I thought I'd just do LEC again or the Cathedral, always a good choice if one is in search of Pomp. But I wasn't in search of Pomp. I was in search of resurrection. <br /><br />Then I got an invitation I couldn't refuse. To worship at the Men's State Correctional Facility. So that's what I did. Drove with some friends from FLC to the maximum security prison about an hour away and worshipped there. We didn't sing any of the hymns I love -- no Jesus Christ is Risen Today or Hallelujah Chorus or the wonderful Brian Wren Easter hymn to Beethoven's 9th. They sang gospel. And Amazing Grace. A retired Baptist minister preached. Good sermon. <br /><br />It is a strange and discomforting place for me to feel so out of sync not with Christianity in the spiritual sense, but Christianity in the denominational sense. In spite of lovely, compassionate Christian people in all the churches I have attended over the past year, I can't escape the sense of deadliness I encounter there. Is it in me or in the churches? I suspect it is me dying to my old ways of being church. A long, slow death as it is turning out. <br /><br />At the prison, there is so little pretence. You either get resurrection or you don't. If you don't, you're not there on Sunday. If you do, you can't not be there. What else is there when you are behind bars and have thrown yourself on the mercy of a living, loving Lord? This is a stance I understand. When my church let me go, God did not. God, in fact, picked me up even before they threw me down. <br /><br />[Now, there will be some Presbyterians who will read this, who know my story and will jump in to say, "Oh, no. The church didn't leave you." To you, I need to say, please spare me. I know what happened and how. And until you have walked in my shoes, you really, really don't know.] <br /><br />So I am dying a long, slow death to the ways of worshipping and understanding God and church and community and compassion that I lived so fully for so many years. It is not easy. And yet, it is also not hard. Because I know resurrection. I know it in my bones, in my gut, in the ligaments that hold me together. I know it, quite literally, better than I know myself. Because my <span style="font-style:italic;">self</span> is also in this long, slow dying time. I don't know what I'll look like or sound like on the other side of the process I'm in, but I trust, that with Peter I will move from eager follower to quick denier to empowered leader. But also like Peter, I don't know if my former communities will recognize me when I get to that stage or will want to disown the more inclusive, more powerful, more merciful and impartial God that I am continuing to grow to know. There is no going back to the old ways. I have no desire or need to do so. But what is to come is yet to be clear. Resurrection changes things. <br /><br />Happy season of resurrection, friends. May you know it in your life and may the church know it as well.laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-10628786100871309862008-03-25T21:33:00.009-04:002008-03-26T17:25:44.110-04:00PresbyMeme<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://fujipub.com/elfumador/presbyterian.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://fujipub.com/elfumador/presbyterian.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />OK, my blog bud <a href="http://rutheverhart.com/blog/">Ruth</a> tagged me for this one. To put it mildly, I'm pretty disconnected from being Presbyterian these days, but given how deeply I've been steeped in the past, I'll play along. The start for this one came from <a href="http://www.mod.reyes-chow.com/2008/03/i-presbtyerian.html">Bruce Reyes-Chow</a>.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What is your earliest memory of being distinctly Presbyterian?</span><br />All my early memories include being distinctly Presbyterian!! I wasn't Catholic -- didn't wear a uniform and go to a special school or have a priest who wore a collar or have to go to confession. I wasn't Southern Baptist -- didn't sing praise songs, go to revivals, or believe that everybody might be on the way to hell. I was invited to think about and question scripture as soon as I started learning it. In a small Midwestern town what else could I be? Gee, I must be Presbyterian! (And then there was church camp, Logos, singing in the children's choir, Synod School, serving on the Presbytery Youth Council, being a YAD at Synod, the first ever Youth Triennium -- yes, I did just turn 45 -- Montreat youth conferences, Montreat mission conferences, being a YAD at GA, being a seminary intern at GA, working for the Presbyterian headquarters when it still was in NYC -- yes, I did just turn 45 -- and all those SERMONS!!!) <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">On what issue/question should the PC(USA) spend LESS energy and time?</span><br />g/l/b/t ordination. Newsflash: gays are people in whom the holy spirit moves. get over it already. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />On what issue/question should the PC(USA) spend MORE energy and time?</span><br />whether they embody the healing power of Jesus in everything they say and do. If not, why bother? <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />If you could have the PC(USA) focus on one passage of scripture for a entire year, what would it be?</span><br />"Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me." (Psalm 51:10)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">If the PC(USA) were an animal what would it be and why?</span><br />Ruth, I love you, sweetie, but I can't answer this one in polite company. Nothing good will come of it. (But your answer on this one was lovely.) <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Extra Credit: Jesus shows up at General Assembly this year, what does he say to the Presbyterian Church (USA)?</span><br />"Umm ... excuse me. Is there some reason you're trying to save this denomination? Did you forget that whole thing in Matthew 16:25, Mark 8:35 and Luke 9:24? Ya think if it was crucial enough to make it into all 3 synoptics you might wanna pay attention?" (Oh, I love to send Presbyterians scrambling for their Bibles). <br /><br />OK, hope I don't sound <span style="font-style:italic;">too<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span> bitter. I don't know many Presby bloggers so if you are one, play along and if you aren't one but want to answer for your own brand of religion, play along that way.laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-9349588259541926442008-03-17T22:03:00.006-04:002008-03-18T19:42:57.048-04:00St. Patrick's PrayerI bind unto myself today<br />the strong name of the Trinity,<br />by invocation of the same,<br />the Three in One, and One in Three.<br /><br />I bind this day to me forever,<br />by power of faith, Christ's incarnation;<br />his baptism in the Jordan river;<br />his death on the cross for my salvation.<br />His bursting from the spiced tomb;<br />his riding up the heavenly way;<br />his coming at the day of doom<br />I bind unto myself today.<br /><br />I bind unto myself today<br />the virtues of the star-lit heaven,<br />the glorious sun's life-giving ray,<br />the whiteness of the moon at even,<br />the flashing of the lightning free,<br />the whirling wind's tempestuous shocks,<br />the stable earth, the deep salt sea<br />around the old eternal rocks.<br /><br />I bind unto myself today<br />the power of God to hold and lead,<br />God's eye to watch, God's might to stay,<br />God's ear to hearken to my need,<br />the wisdom of my God to teach,<br />God's hand to guide, God's shield to ward,<br />the word of God to give me speech,<br />God's heavenly host to be my guard.<br /><br />Christ be with me, Christ within me,<br />Christ behind me, Christ before me,<br />Christ beside me, Christ to win me,<br />Christ to comfort and restore me,<br />Christ beneath me, Christ above me,<br />Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,<br />Christ in hearts of all that love me,<br />Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.<br /><br />I bind unto myself the name,<br />the strong name of the Trinity,<br />by invocation of the same,<br />the Three in One, the One in Three,<br />of whom all nature has creation,<br />eternal Father, Spirit, Word.<br />Praise to the Lord of my salvation,<br />salvation is of Christ the Lord. Amen.<br /><br />(With thanks to my friend, <a href="http://web.mac.com/royhoward/SayingGrace/Blog/Blog.html">Roy</a>).laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8644066357702894216.post-13631040741671768282008-03-15T23:08:00.002-04:002008-03-15T23:20:20.976-04:00PartiesI threw myself a birthday party tonight. It was fun. 8 interesting women joined me, most of whom did not know each other. There were lively conversations in all corners of the house. Then when we all ended up in one room eating, we covered such topics as:<br />*prostitution<br />*political wives and the choices we all make behind closed doors about the public faces we will present<br />*breast-feeding<br />*adoption<br />*the choice/circumstances to remain childless<br />*Obama-mania<br />*what kids are down-loading on their ipods<br />*at what age we began drinking (ranged from 12 to 21)<br />*the age at which someone first kissed our breasts (ranged from 14 to 32)<br />*the last time someone kissed our breasts ...<br /><br />OK, that last one was just me. Feeling sorry for myself. Anyhoo ... <br /><br />Other fun birthday parties I remember:<br /><br />Age 5 -- my first big party with hats, games and lots of friends. I still love the photos from that one -- I graduated from high school with everyone who came to that party. Isn't that wild? Small town midwest America.<br /><br />Age 12-ish? A taffy pull. Probably my favorite childhood birthday party. <br /><br />Age 21 -- no party, but I was on a work-camp in Jamaica on spring break from my jr. year in college. <br /><br />Age 35 -- again, no party, but finally pregnant and happy as a lark.laurajhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03807633102907921517noreply@blogger.com10