[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.