One. 

Two. 

Three.

Blurry eyed.

Four. Five.

Six. Seven.

Tears plopped one after the other onto the cold, tile floor as I sat folded in half on the toilet seat in Grandpa's powder blue bathroom, holding up my head with my hands.

My Thanksgiving was filled with food and family. It was also filled with flipping thru photo albums from decades past, finding homes for once-treasured items, and flinging trash bags into the beds of trucks to take to the city dump.

I'd found myself on this toilet seat once already this holiday...yesterday as I remembered and wept for all those who would not have the cozy, celebratory, family-filled, food-filled day that my love ones and I were privileged to experience together. For those who found no food, no family, and no celebration on their side of Thanksgiving Day, I wished I would have used time and resources differently to offer love in ways it was needed most. (I mean, really, if anyone should do such things, shouldn't it be a pastor?) After some prayer and a tear or fifty, I made my way out and rejoined my family for the rest of the day's festivities as if all was well. 

Tonight I found myself back on that same toilet seat with tears in my eyes thinking about all of the things you're not supposed to think about on holiday, particularly about the day when those I love most will no longer surround me on holidays such as these. 

I get that it's irrational and I get that it's a waste of energy. This is not news to me. But my feelings have historically presented themselves in the most energy-wasting ways at the most inopportune times, so it was no surprise they showed up while being surrounded by family I only see a few times a year. 

My father and sister were preparing to leave my grandmother's house where we'd all convened for one more holiday celebration before her house is put on the market in the new year, and I began to feel an incredible sadness--that she and my grandfather were not with us for this final Thanksgiving as a family in their home, that holidays are not what they once were when we were children, that one day it would be mine and my sister's turn to go thru our parents' things--making decisions we don't want to make, deeply feeling things we don't want to feel.

Blair called from the other side of the bathroom door before she and dad went out to the truck asking if I was okay. I gave my best "Yep, I'm good!" and heard the front door close behind them. I eventually surfaced from the loo and returned to my chocolate pie. 

Next thing I know, she's back in the house and saying she needs to talk to me. 

Puzzled, I follow her into the den away from our mum and her sisters, followed her instructions to put down my pie, and followed her lead in embracing one another like we meant it. We breathed deeply and cried quietly together for just a few minutes before she headed out the front door once more.

Turns out we both felt it. The pain of grief: both for our grandparents and for time. Growing up is hard for a number of reasons. I think one of the most difficult is that time somehow gets smaller. You're more awake. Your "feelers" as I call them are on autopilot, stuffed down deep as you go thru the mundane of every day...until they're not, and "hurt like hell" doesn't even seem appropriate for the strong feelings that overtake you in the most inconvenient of places and times. 

I'll forever be thankful for memories of holidays past, and one day maybe I'll even appreciate holidays present for the true gift that they are. Even though we are changing and time is changing, there is still plenty to be thankful for. 

Stuff turkeys if you must but please, dear friends, do not stuff down your feelings. Feel them, take note, and move forward gracefully--using them to fuel you in loving others better in the here and now.

I studied her hands, folded in her lap as she sat in her favorite chair.

Calm. Poised. Spotted with age. Her fingers adorned with rings representing deep family ties.

Patiently waiting to receive the sacrament of Holy Communion.

We'd just enjoyed one of our visits in her home that are always a mix of joy and sadness, hope and uncertainty, and consistently infused with her vibrant, unwavering faith.

Despite the tumors in her chest and lesions on her brain, Ms Debra remains unmoved in her convictions of faith, her trust that God has not and will not abandon her in the critical condition of her health, and that she is "in God's hands."

We prayed together, asking that the Holy Spirit be poured out "on these gifts of bread and cup" and that the Holy Spirit be poured out on my parishioner...my friend... that she would have what she needed for the remainder of that day: comfort, strength, rest, peace.

After receiving the sacrament, she told me she felt lighter, that she was already feeling the beginnings of the things for which we had prayed. I felt them, too, not being with it enough to realize I was in need of them in the first place.

Debra's affirmations of the sustenance she received was the second sign for me that day that Holy Communion really does bring us together and helps us to encounter the Spirit of God that is alive and well, loving us with full force, giving us what we need for each moment, and giving us what we need to love one another as God intends.

Earlier that morning I was at a gathering of ministers where I was asked to help serve Communion to those gathered. Though honored, I groaned internally knowing that there was someone in that room toward whom I was harboring disdain and frustration.

"How can I offer this person communion when I am still so annoyed, frustrated, and baffled by them?" I asked myself as the liturgy began.

When it was time to go forward, I was still feeling uneasy about the hypocrisy in which I was about to participate. "You can't serve someone Communion if you've got beef with them--beef that they don't even know or care about, mind you!" spat the inner critic within my mind.

Then the darndest thing happened.

The person walked up. I looked them in the eye, called them by name, and told them "the body of Christ, given for you." In that moment (believe it or not), I felt my disdain for this human melt away and in its place was shoved the recognition that they, too, are made in God's image and that they, too, are loved by God.

And even if just for that moment, it was enough. It was enough to get over myself, it was enough to forgive, it was enough to move on, and it was enough to be reminded that each of us belongs to each other and that each of us belongs to God. All of us. Not one single human excluded.

Holy Communion does something that almost nothing else in this world can do: It brings all of us to a common table to share a common meal to be reminded of a not-so-common love that was given to us and that continues to be spread far and wide for all of creation in every moment.

It causes us to love when that's the last thing feel like doing because it reminds us that we have been loved at our most unlovable. It gives us hope when that's the last thing the world can possibly offer us because we are reminded that our hope is beyond this world.

So, thanks be for Holy Communion. As annoying as it can be for our hearts to be softened against our will and for us to receive the reality checks we need most, it is absolutely essential for journeying our life and faith together.

A month or so ago, I had a chance to sit across the table from a newfound friend at a little Mexican restaurant right outside the famed downtown Franklin, Tennessee.

This friend and I have actually known of one another for some time through mutual friends but haven't spent much time getting to know each other until recently. We're similar in a few ways that are of note: 

-We're both ENFJ according to Myers Briggs
-We both share July 6th as our date of birth
-and we are both hard on ourselves in most aspects of life...in our vocations of ministry, in particular.

Despite the busy morning that had preceded our lunch meeting, as soon as I scooched into the booth and folded my legs to the side of me, I felt instantly at peace.

This being the first meal we'd ever shared I imagined there would be some awkwardness, some slowness in getting conversation started, but we jumped into discussion and the chips and salsa like we'd been pals all our lives.

This lunch date came at a time when we were both feeling a bit low...lots of feelings with no time or space to feel them, lots of questions with no one to ask. And then all of a sudden, here we were with one another, gifted with the safe space for which we'd both been longing. 

We voiced the feelings.

We asked the questions.

No holds barred. No tiptoeing. No second guessing. Unapologetically saying exactly what we meant, knowing that we wouldn't be judged by the other.

We emerged from the restaurant later that day deciding to do more of the following:

-Take care of ourselves (physically, spiritually, emotionally, and socially--thanks Mountain T.O.P.)

-Tell the truth when things are difficult. We need not struggle alone.

-Be kinder to ourselves and remember that the world will not come crashing down if we do not do things perfectly because, well, we're human, so that's impossible anyway. And there is always another new moment unfolding before us.

As I walked back to my car that afternoon, I breathed in the just-finished-raining smell that was simultaneously holding space around me and soaking into the asphalt underneath my feet. I felt for the first time in a while that there was hope, that I could breathe, that I wasn't alone, and that these "new moments" were the grace that had always been there but that I hadn't come up for air to accept and embrace.

Because she knew the positive outlook we helped one another reach over Mexican food that day would not be a constant, she sent me a canvas of the T.S. Eliot quote below in the mail a few days ago for the times that I need a little extra encouragement and a reminder to breeeathe.

I am thankful for her friendship and for the ways she continues to care for others even in the midst of all she has on her plate. Krislyn is currently finalizing her United Methodist commissioning paperwork, along with working in ministry full time, AND finishing her seminary education. Will you join me in praying for her to have all she needs throughout this very busy season of life--for patience, strength, comfort, and peace?

Thanks for being you, Krislyn! And thanks for the lunch date that helped give me a much needed "fresh beginning."

Today I caught a glimpse of her.

You see, the ol' girl has been somewhere else for quite a while. 

Here somewhat, some days. Gone the next.

But today...today I found her.

I found her in a corner booth at a Panera Bread talking worship with her music leader, dreaming for their congregation and community together as the music leader's daughter kept them entertained, bobbing up and down taking refuge beneath the table.

I found her in the sanctuary as a mom in another congregation propped herself up on the altar and they talked real life--the ugly, the messy, the broken...and the hopeful. Honest, open, vulnerable conversation quietly circled that corner of the sanctuary and the world for 45ish minutes and the possibility for relationship began to blossom.

I found her on a leather sofa in a tidy, blue living room partly lit by the late afternoon sun streaming thru the windows talking with a kind, elderly widow who kept absentmindedly glancing at the rocker next to hers as she spoke of everyday things.

I found her sitting across the table from a clergy colleague, sipping coffee, and listening intently as he offered his wisdom and encouragement, stories from his experiences, and gave her a "word" that I'm sure will continue to stick with her for as long as she continues fumbling her way through her ministry:

Mary Kate-ness.

She has that, you know. Mary Kate-ness. It is the very stuff that makes the ol' girl who she is. It's what fuels her fire, what provides her sass, what causes her to speak a little too honestly at times, what drives her to want to align with God's will and not her own, what makes her long for relationship, community, honesty, and life-giving spirituality, what energizes her for this crazy, wacky, messy, beautiful journey she's on.

It's the very stuff she's made of.

Though I'm sure she'll get lost again, I hope she'll do what she can to remember her Mary Kate-ness, to nurture it by being with God and being with others, by closely walking thru the messy gift of life with those who will let her in, and by groaning/rejoicing in prayer to God asking for direction and purpose.

There will be days of being lost, but Oh, thank God, for the days we find ourselves.
I'm so glad I caught a glimpse of me today.

[written yesterday, July 6]

Those who know me well would likely agree that in my essence I carry a childlike spirit.

However, I haven't felt quite so young and helpless in the past decade or so as I did today.

I got the call around 1:00 PM.

I was in the midst of chatting with a dear friend and her beloved children as they giggled sweet little "Happy Birthday Mary Kate!"'s and observed the countless dinosaurs scattered around my office as I took them on a virtual tour.

My mom called once.

I ignored it, thinking she might have just been calling to wish me a happy birthday and that I would return her call later in the afternoon.

She called again, and I knew this was not a "call back later" scenario.

From the first note in her "Hello?", it was evident that something was not right, something had gone wrong.

"There's no good way to tell you this..." she began. And I knew.

"Grammy passed away this morning."

My mom's mom has been sick for several years, suffering with dementia since around the time my grandfather, her husband, passed away the fall of my senior year in high school in 2007.

We've watched her beautiful mind that once helped her read and comprehend books, much like a person might eat pieces of popcorn one right after the other, deteriorate as did her body as it slowly fell in line.

My memory isn't the best, but I do remember very clearly that much of my childhood was wrapped up in her cozy little town of Tullahoma, TN. Her home was where I found refuge from the humdrum of reality. I loved spending the weekend with her and my grandfather, and while he was the one who taught me most about being responsible and tricked me into eating carrots because "They make your eyes sparkle!", she was the one whose side I'd never have left if I'd had my way.

We had a usual routine when I would visit her. The library for books and VHS tapes, the local Discovery Museum to inspect various exhibits and race the light that sped down the wall at the speed a cheetah runs just to see if I could beat it (though I never did), Waffle House as I scarfed down breakfast and observed her carefully mixing her usual coffee concoction, the country club of which they were members feeling so fancy and important as several people would predictably stop by our table to talk with her and Grandpa, laying on the squishy carpet of her living room floor flipping through countless photo albums as she pointed to different people and recalled stories about them, playing numerous card games and Chinese Checkers and Gooses Wild.

We did so much together when I was little, and that is how I will always remember her. The tiny lady who never stopped smiling or playing or going or doing for her family.

I'm convinced that such a sweet and vivacious spirit as hers has never lived in another, and I am so glad that I got to learn from her about being kind, intelligent, humble, playful, and the importance of having a good sense of humor. By her side, I learned about the important things all while still having the chance to be a kid and to withdraw from the busyness of life. 

My birthday is no longer just my birthday. It is her end-of-life-in-pain day. And I am both deeply saddened and honored to share the day with her in such a way. 

Wherever Grammy went, endless magic, wonder, and love seemed to follow. That's how I will always remember her in my heart. That's how I will always hope to live my life. Just as she taught me to do.

I made my first hospital visit ever this morning. Yes, ever. It was ugly getting there (read: small town girl trying to navigate downtown-ish Nashville was bound to be a tad dysfunctional. Thank the Lort for GPS!), but in my time visiting Ms Mabel--who I know would appreciate your prayers as she is experiencing shortness of breath and is most likely having a pace maker put in on Thursday--my call to ministry was validated in a way that I didn't expect.

Entering this whole full time ministry extravaganza has been nothing but a whirlwind. No "easing in" to speak of, and in the midst of the going and doing and emailing and meeting folks and planning, I will admit I was getting a little lost in my own thoughts and doubts about whether or not I'm capable of being what people in my congregations (many of them quite a bit older than me) need in a pastor as I finally pulled into a spot in the hospital parking garage.

I walked around for a moment, realized I was lost, and came back to my car. Did I need to park somewhere else? Would my car be towed? I thought this was visitor and patient parking? Then to my surprise and utter gratitude an angel named Tammy appeared. Her daughter, Cassie, just had a baby (They would both also appreciate your prayers!) and it turns out she was headed the direction I needed to go, so she took me under her wing (and into her car! What?! Talk about a trusting human to let a total stranger into your car...) and away we went. She rode up the elevator with me and wished me luck before proceeding to a higher floor--probably Heaven from where she had so obviously come in the first place.

I finally--after making a full lap around the floor--made it to 88 year old Ms Mabel, introduced myself, and watched her watch the nurse take her vitals. They would do this a couple of times over the course of my stay. We then settled into easy conversation, and Mabel talked to me about how her illness had gotten worse in recent years, about her upbringing, being baptized in a river at ten years old, offered heartfelt details about her love for her late husband, children, grandchildren, and great grand children. She went on and on, and as I sat there observing the lines on her face and the still-very-much-apparent twinkle in her eyes while she spoke with me, I thought, "Is this really my "job" right now? I get to listen to this incredible woman's life story and chalk it up as another day in the office (or out of it)?" Our stories are so important for us and for others, and I hope when I left she had a sense of the importance of her life story and witness to me in our time together.

Toward the end of our visit, she apologized for a couple of things--talking "so much" (which I assured her I *loved*) and being worried about her health. "I know I shouldn't worry..." she said as if this somehow diminished her faith. I assured her that God knows we are humans with human emotions because God created us as such and also gently coaxed that God is also understanding and compassionate toward us because God became one of us and experienced some of the very feelings she was experiencing. I told her God didn't love her any less for how she felt and that God was most likely feeling those same emotions alongside her because God loves her so.

I think today I was reminded that I don't have to know all the things or totally get it right 110% of the time. Rather, if I just show up, listen, and love to the very best of my abilities, God will do the rest. People just need to know they matter and know they are loved, especially when they are the most vulnerable. I am so appreciative that I got to learn this lesson from Ms Mabel of all people today for she showed me and taught me much more than she'll ever realize about the importance of presence, kindness, and compassion. I am so lucky to have received all those gifts and more from her today!

So, ministry, huh? Maybe, with the help of God and God's people, just maybe I can do this thing after all.

I thought it was just a peach.

As we perused the local farmers market in the late afternoon sun yesterday, elated at this perk of our new homestead, we happened upon a booth displaying baskets of gorgeous peaches. I was thrilled because peaches in Ohio are no-thing like peaches down here.

The best peaches are clearly from Georgia. They remind me of my Aunt Christie and how she talked to the wee and curious nieces and grandbabies with that elegant, smooth Georgia accent of hers on warm nights at the beach while she effortlessly peeled peaches and tossed them into the ice cream maker years ago.

Because of that personal connection with peaches--and because, when ripe, they taste like what I imagine heaven itself would taste like if one was to take a bite--I'm drawn to them and was so excited to get home, peel one, and eat it...until I got home, tried to peel one and eat it.

Anyone who has ever shared a meal with me knows I loathe messy food. And, yeah, in case you forgot (as I always do): peaches are messy. Really messy. Juice all over the place. And peeling them? Woof. Double dose of frustration coming right up!

I set aside my annoyance about the juicy mess, but the peeling was becoming increasingly more ridiculous. I kept trying and failing, trying and failing. Quickly pulling at pieces of the fuzzy skin to no avail.

On the last piece, I decided to try a different approach. Take my time. Peel back the skin slowly with precision, patience, and perseverance. Much to my surprise, the skin came off in whole, leaving me with nothing but a beautiful, heavenly-tasting piece'a peach.

In the midst of witnessing the success of the "slow and steady wins the race" method while peeling this peach, I began to realize that this moment served as a metaphor for my current reality as I am stepping into full time ministry in the local church.

I know myself well enough to know I will experience my natural inclination to kick everything into high gear, to try (and then fail) to do everything all at once, to sidestep the mess by any means necessary, and take any mess that comes as a personal failure of my character and capabilities.

My encounter with the peach showed me that my ways--fast, neat, perfectionist--are not the best ways. Nor are they realistic. God's people, the church, every last one of us is very much imperfect and lead messy lives. But within the less-than-perfect, within the mess, we recognize God's solidarity with and love for us and the ways we are called to be and do the same for one another. No matter how frustrating, foreign, or messy life's circumstances are, we cannot give up on each other if we want to experience the sweetness and goodness that life this side of heaven has to offer.

And here I thought it was just a peach.

I'm over it. 

I'm over guns.
I'm over violence. 
I'm over hate.
I'm over murder.
I'm over discrimination.
I'm over exclusion.
I'm over racism.
I'm over homophobia.
I'm over Islamophobia.
I'm over judging parents.
I'm over fear.
I'm over finger-pointing.
I'm over shhaming others.
I'm over politicking our way to the top.
I'm over being fake.
I'm over closed minds and closed hearts. 

Can we not just mourn with those who mourn? Can we not just extend love and compassion to one another? Can we not just walk alongside one another and admit that not a one of us has all the answers? 

Please. 

Can we please just help each other do these things? Can we please just do whater we possibly can to love each other?

“I give you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, so you also must love each other. This is how everyone will know that you are my disciples, when you love each other.” -John 13:34-35
<3

It has always been a curious habit of mine to escape to the nearest bathroom in times of boredom or unease to pace the tiles as I contemplate life, sort thru my frustrations, and lament to God when my thoughts threaten to consume me.

I think it all began with church.

I remember getting up and leaving worship fairly often (once I was regularly attending "big church" and was no longer allowed in children's church where lively, colorful puppets and crafts told the stories as opposed to the preacher who droned on about them from that box in the front of the sanctuary), whispering to my mother as I scooted out of the pew that I needed to use the restroom and would shortly return. That was rarely the case.

I would toddle out the back entrance, down the stone staircase taking in as much fresh air into my lungs as they could muster, back thru the front entrance, and zipped up the stairs to the (very) pink girls bathroom on the second floor.

All was quiet in the halls as the Christian education classes would have concluded prior to the beginning of service, and I remember feeling a young child's thrill of rebellion as I softly sang while walking the length of the space knowing I would be in quite a bit of trouble if anyone was to stumble upon my secret hideout, my sanctuary.

Moving from my live performance for the classroom doors, I would then spend time in the (very) pink bathroom taking in the fragrant, circular 90s air fresheners that stuck to the wall, sitting in the chair that sat in the corner for reasons unbeknownst to me at the time, and looking with disapproving eyes at the odd figure that stood before me in the full length mirror.

I'd think about what I learned in Sunday school that morning, think about my current crush, and wonder if my girlfriends at church would think I was cool if they knew I was pulling off this masterful plan of hiding out in the bathroom rather than trying to hold my eyelids open in service.
---
Nowadays, I still find the bathroom a place of refuge. The place is the same--private, quiet, calm--but the thoughts are different. I hide away when I feel myself begin to be frustrated with others, when I need to realign my energy to be more present in a space, when I feel the overwhelming need to pray for those who suffer, when I need to be unapologetically pissed for just a moment at the countless injustices of the world.

I just experienced such a moment when we stopped at a rest area on the way to Louisiana. I just stood there leaning against the stall wall rubbing my eyes, sad and angry, for all that sucks in the world. Once again, the haven of the bathroom pulled thru so I could sort thru all things (big and small) running rampant in my mind:

I'm sad that Mike the Tiger is dying from some rare form of cancer.

I'm sad that Alzheimer's is slowly taking my grandmother's life from her. 

I'm sad that because we haven't taken seriously our charge to care for our planet, quality of life across all dimensions of creation is suffering.

I'm mad that I will probably never be taken as seriously as my husband in our profession despite us both having the same title and following very similar calls to ministry because I am a woman.

I'm angry that black and brown bodies are STILL being treated as >less than< white bodies despite our knowledge that every single human being is loved, valued, & breathed into being by the God of Life and Love.

I'm angry that members of the LGBTQ community are still not being welcomed to lead and live and love in the church despite our knowledge that every single human being is loved, valued, & breathed into being by the God of Life and Love.

I'm angry that people are dying from hunger when there is plenty of food to go around and be shared with those who are starving.

I'm devastated that children all over the world are being abused and that children who live in poverty often do not get what they need in the way of nourishment for their minds, bodies, and souls from our society and world.
---
It's alright to embrace the spaces where we can unearth and sit in the brokenness of the world, but then we must go from those spaces to pray, to act, to live WITH one another, united in God's love, as we seek to ease the suffering of those around us and far beyond us.

Lord of mercy, grace & justice,
hear our prayers
for healing,
comfort,
change of systems,
reorientation of relationships,
realization of privilege,
nourishment of all kinds,
refocus,
reconciliation,
redemption,
restoration,
& peace...all so that your will be done: love shown to, lived out, and felt by all people, your people. Amen

The cuts,
the bruises,
and the scrapes.
You scooped me up and quickly draped
your arms around me 
& pulled me close to you.

You taught me to be strong,
but by and by and all along
you always let me know you loved me for me...
eternally.
No matter what,
there you'd be
walking behind, in front, & beside
of me.

Safety nets,
volleyball sets,
my fair share of student loan debts.
Thru every up
and every down,
there you've been
helping me find my way 'round.

Your selfless ways,
they humble me silent
and we all know that's hard to do.
But this I know for sure.
This world, our family, & I?
We're all better off because of you.

The good parts of me, you see,
are only because of you
& the love you so freely give to me.

--------

I love you both.
Happy Mother's Day to you, my Mum.
Happy Birthday to you, my Taddy. 
Thank you for all you do for me and our family.
<3

And some days you don't fit. 
You won't. 
You can't. 
Not all the time, anyway. 
No one does.

And on these days you might have difficulty explaining yourself to others--what you think, feel, experience, wrestle with, dream about...

"They don't understand what I'm trying to say," you think to yourself. 
"Does everyone always struggle this much to understand me?" you wonder.

You might get a sense of what Alice felt like when she ate that tart that made her grow too large to fit thru the keyhole as you make your lunch and gobstopper-sized tears fall from your eyes onto your plate.

It's a strange place to be in...

...especially if you're someone the world is used to hearing talk and laugh and be silly.

"What's wrong with her?" they think to themselves.

And sometimes they'll even be brave enough to ask you to your face.

But because you don't make sense today, trying to explain to them your state of mind is likely pointless.

And thus continues the confusing, blubbering, chaotic circular pattern of your life for the day.

-----

Ah, but there is always some form of redemption in the midst of these strange days--sometimes that form is in the form of spaces where you need merely show up and exist, with your only care in the world being taking note of your chest as it moves up and down and up and then down once more, again and again as you remember the Breath that initially gave you life and continues to sustain your existence even today, on this, one of the strangest days. 

This space was my haven today. 

Created by my classmates with love & reverence, we reflected on rainbows as signs of God's hope and promise.

I didn't have to say anything or explain anything.

I just had to sit, listen, and take it all in.

Maybe strange days like today serve as reminders for those of us who feel as though talking is how we make it known that we're here and accounted for in the world that 

There is goodness in listening. There is goodness in stillness. There is goodness in silence.

In such spaces, no explanations are needed. 

In such spaces, we need only to "be."

It is for these spaces that I give thanks today.

Church is weird.
Worship is weird.

Especially when it's happening beyond the walls of the typical buildings in atypical fashions such as:

Playing dodgeball with a group of rowdy teenagers
Spreading mulch in a fairy forest
Singing familiar songs with 20,000 some odd unfamiliar people, and 
Trying to be present to and with a grieving soul

But all of these places is where I found myself face-to-face with the living, moving, breathing, working God this weekend.

Agreeing (somewhat insanely) to be a chaperon for a youth lock-in at church gave me the freedom I needed to step away from all of the stress of school and "moving home to adult world" logistics and embrace the Spirit of God evident in a group of young people I've had the privilege to watch grow in their faith over the past three or so years as we colored and laughed and prayed and played games and made s'mores and sang together.

Being invited to help a person who has been so instrumental in our growth throughout seminary with weeding and spreading mulch to nurture the blooms and buds of her fairy forest of a yard opened my eyes to the goodness of the sun, of nature, of friendship, of new life and the care that is necessary in order for the new life to be noticed and appreciated for all it's worth.

Looking around an arena full of strangers who hugged their loved ones close to them as they sang in unison the lyrics of a song that implied that sometimes the crappy times of our past help lead us to the happiness that we experience today in our relationships and what a gift such happiness is now, even if we had no inkling that such joy existed during the difficult times we previously experienced. In the midst of the joy and bliss and gratitude of random people all around me, I felt the risen Christ encouraging us to be thankful for the love in our lives in all its various forms and to share that overflow of God's love until we have none left to give.

Gazing into the brokenhearted brown eyes of my friend and colleague as she openly and vulnerably answered my question of, "How are you doing today?" in regards to her unimaginable grief of the recent and unexpected passing of her husband and best friend of 35 years. As I was reminded yet again that I had no words to comfort her other than that I heard what she was saying and that what she was feeling was real and important for her to confront head-on--which is her approach to grief, she has to "name it," she says--I was in awe of how nearly palpable God's presence was with us. Even in the midst of such agony and raw emotion and my amazement at what a strong yet suffering human being sat before me, I think we both knew we weren't alone. God was there with us at that table as the sunny morning shifted into the grayness of the afternoon and as we sat in the reality of what a broken world it is that we inhabit. 

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I used to wonder about Matthew 18:20. What did Jesus mean when he says, "For where two or three are gathered in my name, I'm there with them"? Now, I think he was just trying to emphasize that there really is strength in numbers...even if it's just a little number. We are reminded that we are not alone in this world when we experience it, face it, question it all...together. We are reminded that God is, in fact, with us in the midst of it all, good and bad.

"Together"--in whatever shape or form that takes, in whatever time and whatever place--is where we belong.

It is where we find the abiding Spirit of God, breathing life into us again and again, so that we can face the upcoming moments of life with the assurance that God's love never leaves us, not even for an instant, as we face the typical and the atypical, the work and the play, the suffering and the joy, of our everyday lives. Thanks be to God.

I woke up with theodicy (the question of why evil exists in the world) and brokenness on my mind this morning. As I stumbled from the edge of the bed to the coffee pot, realizing that there probably wasn't enough coffee in the world to help me sort thru these thoughts in their entirety, the list kept growing:

Sick children who are confined to hospital beds, people who are attacked for simply being who they are, the homeless and jobless who roam the streets and highways begging for change so they can merely survive the day, the brokenhearted who have longed to be loved but who are only met with disappointment and rejection, those who struggle with mental illness and do their best to relate what they're feeling to a world that just doesn't understand.

I often find myself subconsciously asking God "Why?" in the midst of these situations and others when, really, I think the better question might be to ask "Where? Where are you calling me to go and use my life to ease the suffering of others with the power of your Spirit?"

And then, of course, as I'm running thru all these questions like a hamster on a wheel, I get to the gospel reading for today. It's one of my favorites. John 20:19-22. Jesus appeared to the disciples after the resurrection and said to them, "'Peace be with you. As God has sent me so I am sending you.' Then he breathed on them and said, 'Receive the Holy Spirit.'"

God has not left us alone in the grief of this life. God walks alongside us, comforting us when we hurt and empowering us when we don't, encouraging us to offer words and acts of love to those who suffer so that they may know God's love and presence has not abandoned them.

We have been breathed into being by the God of Creation. And that same God breathes God's Spirit into us so that we may go into the world, see the brokenness, and do something about it out of the unconditional love that is given for all just as Jesus did so long ago. 

We cannot stand idly by when we witness suffering in the world. We must go where the Spirit leads us so that God's will of healing, wholeness, and right relationship with all people may begin to be revealed in the here and now.
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Prayer makes a difference.
Writing notes of encouragement makes a difference.
Making donations to people directly or organizations that seek to help people makes a difference.
Being present with someone in their suffering makes a difference.
Listening, not talking, makes a difference.

Putting God's will before our own makes a difference. 

What will we do to let others know they are not alone in their suffering today? Will we notice the Spirit abiding with and guiding us? May it be so, O Lord, and may we honor you as we seek to spread your love and compassion to the ends of the earth.

Rain and gloom on Holy Thursday.

Normally, I would be content that a similar darkness to what I've always imagined is settling in around Jesus and the disciples on Maundy Thursday is also evident around me as I read about and remember the happenings on the night before Jesus' death (John 13: 1-17; 31-35). Scripture tells us this night was full of honest moments, of truth-telling, of charging the disciples with their responsibility to carry on without Jesus' physical presence in the weeks and months and years ahead as they continue spreading far and wide their new-found knowledge of God's unequivocal and unconditional love for all God's people.

Today the rain and thunder make me a little uneasy as I survey it from my in-laws' pier in Louisiana.  It occurs to me that the rain is probably inducing everything but contentment in the people of this state. The rain has caused so much damage here lately that I watch in both amazement at its beautiful eeriness and fear that the water will continue to rise and again put people's lives in danger.

I wonder if the disciples didn't feel similar emotions (on a much grander scale) that Maundy Thursday night as Jesus said all of these profound and earth-shattering truths to them...could these things Jesus is telling us really be true? Do we have what it takes to follow this call without him here?

As one of his final acts in showing the disciples how they were to live their lives in service to God and to others, he washes their feet. They're hesitant at first. Sort of like, "Whoa, Jesus, you're kiiiind of a big deal. Maybe washing my feet isn't such a good idea..." to which Jesus replies, "I'm doing this so you'll know how this is gonna roll. I've called you to humbly lead and walk alongside people in their faith with God as your guide. This makes you no better than them. This call is not about who's better. It is everything about right relationship: with God and with people. I have been sent by God and now I am sending you out into the world to continue teaching about and living out God's love for all people."

It can be a lot, right? This whole being sent by God to be the church in the world business. It's especially heavy on this, Holy Week, as we come face to face with, nowhere to hide from the ways that we have failed to acknowledge our shortcomings in the call we have been given as Christians to care for others and the ways we have turned blind eye after blind eye to those who are hungry, thirsty, sick, lost, lonely, without shelter, without loved ones, without community, without knowledge of God's love for them.

Easter is not yet here. Now is the time that we contemplate our humanity.  Now is the time that we acknowledge our own brokenness and the brokenness of the world in which we live. Will we chalk it up to being human that we do not always care for others as God has called us or will we follow the example of the One whose Spirit lives within our own, who showed us the way to live our lives so that all may know of and experience God's goodness, abundance, and love?

The choice, as we know, is up to us.
 

I want to remember my last first day of school:

-I want to remember how easily frustrated I was while getting ready this morning, trying to make this last first day perfect, and how quickly my mood changed as I clumsily burst out the door into the breezy, too-warm-to-be-February air and my chacos flopped onto the stoop.

-I want to remember the peace that blew into my body when I walked into my classroom to a friendly, familiar professor's smiling face and a table she had set--with a rainbow-colored quilt made with her own hands and an elegant tray of candles ready to be lit.

-I want to remember how the six of us (my classmates, professor, and I) 'passed the peace' with one another, greeting one another one by one, with a sincere "Peace!" followed by a hug and an affirmation of the gifts and passions we know the other is bringing to the class.

-I want to remember words and phrases like, "You're the most pastoral person I know at this school;" "Your facebook posts always bring me such joy..you use your intellect and your heart;" "I'm so excited you're going to be leading a church!"

-I want to remember the joy I felt in realizing the strength and organic nature of the tiny but mighty community of women who surrounded me, with whom I will learn and grow and laugh and cry and question and affirm throughout this final semester.

-I want to remember the sun beaming warm and strong on my right side on the way home after class; so sure and constant and jolly was its presence, it was almost as though we were playing a game.

-I want to remember the smell of the earth, freshly watered. Dirt was no longer dirt, but mud, and the smell made me feel alive so I took it in, gulped down the air in gigantic inhalations afraid that I would lose the scent or forget it if I didn't.

-I want to remember catching my breath in thanks when my mom "liked" something I posted a day after I had been quick to say some hurtful things to her, a way of her saying "I love you anyway" and reminding me of the power of my words--both to help and to harm.

-I want to remember the drive out to church in the late afternoon, the smells and sights making me question whether or not it was truly winter or whether we had traveled back in time to fall.

-I want to remember frantically scurrying around the kitchen with my friend and former colleague as we pretended we knew what we were doing preparing dinner for the soon-to-arrive congregation and laughed at how awful we were with the tasks set before us. (Where was Bo when we needed him?)

-I want to remember watching one of my favorite kiddos from church clinging to the communion chalice for dear life, afraid that its almost-bigger-than-her size would be too much for her small, but sure hands as she served the rest of us.

-I want to remember the tears that welled up in my eyes as I watched one of my favorite couples, soon-to-be parents, from church discreetly and gently grab one another's hand as they made their way to receive the Bread and Cup together.

-I want to remember the pastor forgetting the words to the Lord's Prayer--how this moment that she desired to be perfect (much like I had wanted for my last first day of school) didn't turn out like she planned, yet it was beautiful in that we were reminded none of us--not even pastors--are perfect, but that thankfully grace is enough to cover all of our mistakes and shortcomings.

How profound it was to be reminded today that the most amazing moments, the most breathtaking and simultaneously life-giving moments, happen in the smallest, least perfect things and people.

What a gift and responsibility we have been given to live this life! May we focus less on trying and failing to make things "perfect" and instead focus on being present within this beautifully imperfect life as we seek God's face in the midst of it.