One of the dangers of church work is the engagement of heart.

At worship yesterday, I shared with the gathered the deaths of two of our members.  They are people who had given much to their church:  companionship, insight, great hugs, and beauty.  When the news of death is shared, the whole sanctuary goes through an energy shift.  People are instantly in the place of heart.

Following worship during a scheduled meeting in the sanctuary, I noticed one of our members standing in the back of the sanctuary.  It was odd, this sight, since she is usually robed and singing with the choir.  The language of her body told me that something was up, but with another worship service soon to start, I wasn’t able to connect with her.

The reason for her unlikely position in the sanctuary became clear later.  She had gone to pick up one of our beloved older members for church.  They like each other greatly, these two, and enjoy the ride to church together every week.  The door was not answered this week.  Louise had died in her sleep the night before.   Her friend had come to church to share the news and to be with her people.

There are all the positives to know in my head:  She was in her upper eighties.  She died peacefully.

My head works the check-list of goods, but my heart feels the ache of her passing.

Louise gave huge heart to her church.  She was on staff for a time.  She coordinated counters for years.  And, she was the membership secretary since forever.  Looking at our church records, there is a beautiful visual poetry in the names written by her hand; names representing human lives willing to join their being with a church called “Richfield”.  Their names are in the book of life tended by Louise.

She had been at church just this past week for her book and people tending.  She was full of delight at a recent article written about her grandson, and her pictures of great grand babies were oohed over by all.  She was grounded and alive, full of the sass and heart that permeated her being.

I serve a congregation that walks in beauty.  I have been in their midst some eight plus years and there has grown in my heart a deep love for those kind and good enough to allow me to be Pastor.

Louise was a champion.  I will miss her voice, her love for her people, and her love for her church.  She and her husband Larry created a powerful flock of people who will bless in their stead for generations.  This I know in my head.

But my heart?  It is feeling the ache and beauty of grief and celebration, both.

The blessing of being in communion with Louise made for fine heart stretch.

Some of the things I am grateful for…

A Thanksgiving feast enjoyed by five out of six children and two mothers.

My “missing” child off at a destination wedding (not hers, but a family friend’s of her beloved’s) in Vail, Colorado is in the company of a high school cabin friend.  Who knew?  The world weaves in amazing ways.

Being able to take my mom to church.  The building was empty, and there in the hush of that holy sanctuary space, I could share with her the story of our pipe organ and the ways the church community made beauty happen.

Lunch with my mom and my newly discovered cousin-friend and her kin.  You know how it goes.  Sometimes the people closest via blood aren’t discovered as heart kindred until later in life.  So it has been.

Quiet.  After the orchestration of a mega meal and the hospitality that goes with it, the chance to sit on the couch is gift.

A mother in law who calls in the morning to be sure I read a guest editorial written about the heart-hurt experienced by same-gender loving people who cannot marry.  Last night at the dinner table she challenged us to become knowledgeable and speak up about human trafficking and the upcoming marriage amendment.  She is 89.  Who will be a witness?  Grace Wiggen, that’s who.

Love.  Cooper’s youngest is marrying next summer.  I got a peek at her dress (modern technology is our friend) and the planning is thick.  She is so excited to share life with her guy.  This is good.

More love.  Yesterday twenty-some people gathered around tables and shared a Thanksgiving feast at church.  I wasn’t there, but throughout the day I was aware that the warmth of gratitude and love was being shared by church kin and it moves me, this knitting of people.

Wonder.  Love is grand.  Gratitude is.  And Sunday?  Sunday is the first Sunday in Advent.  It will be powerful to gather in the hush of candle lighting.  To gather, and to continue this giving of thanks for the gift we know to be real but experience in fleeting ways:  the peace of the Christ.  God with us.  Emmanuel.

Gratitude.

We have new computers at work!

We have new computers at work.  Sigh.

While new is lovely, the muttering and foolish-feeling has escalated.  I’m not alone in this.  We do an amazing number of things in a given week:  create power points for worship, write lots of things, field hundreds of emails, send many of same, and send things like sermons from home to church to be printed.

Not a one of the above things that used to be done with ease has been easy these past few weeks.  There has been a seemingly unending stream of ineptitude-proving tasks that take twice as long to get done.

The worst was on Sunday morning.  I write my sermon at home, send it to the church, and print it off from there.  No big deal.  Except that when I got to church I could not get my email to release my oh-so-carefully crafted words.  I was thinking I would have to preach from a manuscript printed in a two (ok, maybe I am exaggerating here) point font.  Luckily I had patient church members who could coach my end-of-my-rope under pressure self and I was able to see my sermon in order to share it.

I know that in a week or so, we’ll be feeling fleet and smug about the new technology in our lives.  But oh, the meantime is endless long.

So, be kind to your techno-blubbing staff, my friends.  We’re doing the best that we can.

So, it’s that glorious day when an extra hour of sleep is given.  People actually get to church early and there is energy aplenty because we are all burping from the extra sleep.

Except me.  Here is how it worked at my house.

I have one of those lovely phones that reminds me of my every obligation.  It does so by way of a beeping alert ten minutes prior to my inputted commitment.

I put Daylight savings into my phone, just so I wouldn’t forget it.  For some reason, I logged it in to commence at midnight.

I sleep with my phone in my bedroom.  Because I have three children and because I am on call 24/7, I plug it into a socket across the room in my bedroom.  Ever vigilant am I.

When I got up this morning, I felt none of the joy of extra sleep. I felt run over by a bus. Cooper too was a bit groggy.  As we swapped “Wow, I feel tired” stories, he suggested that I check my text mail box, since it sounded to him like I was getting texts all night.

That sent my alert mode racing.  I went to my phone to retrieve what I was sure were urgent messages from my kids.

And what I found was that all night long, every ten minutes, my phone had done what it was programmed to do:  remind me that it was the day when a holy extra hour of sleep was possible.

I vaguely remember waking up through the night wondering why my phone was lit up.  But in that sleep fuzzled way of wee hours, I didn’t rouse myself enough to investigate.

Instead, I slept, or didn’t sleep, as every ten minutes my phone spoke its warning message.

Technology is a fine thing, but it is only as good as the humanoids that tell it what to do.

Tonight, I am looking forward to a sleep unaccompanied by lights and beeps and vague wonderings.

I think I’ll like it.