strength

Spirit is a nebulous and visceral thing.

My mother is now home.  In less than two weeks she has gone from the ICU to a regular hospital room to a transitional care facility to home.

Today, one day after returning home, she motored herself up to her church for her regular volunteering gig.  It was Thursday.  That’s what she does.  Of course.

I find myself celebrating the grit of the woman.  She is tiny of stature and humongous of will.

There are still diagnostic questions to be answered.  She is aware of that.  And, she will drive the discovery when she feels it is time.

In the meantime, we who claim her as mom and love are taking deep and grateful breaths.  Mom is out in the world.  We each encounter our days with a deeper sense of ground.

And this daughter is thinking plenty about how it is such strength got planted deep into the soul of Barbara Jane Fawcett Macaulay Forrest.

I thank God for that strength and for her ability to wield it.

All is right in the world.

My mom is in it.

 

tender

I got the phone call on Saturday.

My mom had been admitted to intensive care in Duluth.

I got in the car.  With me was my eldest daughter, Leah.  After explaining to her bosses at the wondrous bakery where she works what the need was, they sent her on her way with a bag full of cookies and hearts full of concern.  Both travelled well with us.

We got to the hospital and there was my tiny mother hooked up to many things.  Her medical issues were many; the presenting chief among them was pneumonia.

There was church to do the next morning.  The culmination of a new thing – a spring stewardship focus – was on the docket.

I needed to stay in Duluth.  My heart could not imagine leaving.  So I called a good and tender man who agreed to preach, leaving me free to be daughter and sister and mom.

My mother was moved the next morning to a regular room.  This is good.  They are seeking to understand how her health got so fritsy and what those spots on her liver are and there are questions that need answering and plans to be made but this I know:

Tenderness is an exquisite thing.

I feel it holding me and my mother and our family and while seeing She Who Must Be Obeyed hooked up and weakened is the stuff of child angst, I know her to be wise and strong and she will encounter this as she has the rest of her life: with surety and grace.

And we who are her children will live as we have been taught.  We are led by a woman who taught skating lessons for years.  And when we fell really hard and she saw it, she did not come swooping up to hold us in our pain.  She was present from across the rink, assessing our ability to get up and skate on.

She believed in our strength.

With surety and grace we will learn our way.

 

love

“Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God.”  1 John 4:7

Love.  It’s a word thrown around easily.  I do it.

And then life unfolds and the power of that word is body felt.

Love connects us, one to the other.  It transcends miles.  It thrums in an ache of such intense pain when our beloveds are vulnerable.

Cancer diagnoses, illness, the vulnerability of our body and soul selves.  There is risk in the communion of this thing called loving.  Sometimes the raw ache of it feels impossible to hold.

My mother, who has challenged and blessed my heart, is in the ER far from me.  I hold her.

A beloved sister friend who is medicine for the heart of the world has been diagnosed with cancer.  I hold her.

This thing sprung from the heart of God. This thing called loving.

It is everything.

And so speaks Sophia (who goes by the name of Mary Oliver):

West Wind #2 

You are young.  So you know everything.  You leap

into the boat and begin rowing.  But listen to me.

Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without

any doubt, I talk directly to your soul.  Listen to me.

Lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and

your heart, and heart’s little intelligence, and listen to

me.  There is life without love.  It is not worth a bent

penny, or a scuffed shoe.  It is not worth the body of a

dead dog nine days unburied.  When you hear, a mile

away and still out of sight, the churn of the water

as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the

sharp rocks – when you hear that unmistakable

pounding – when you feel the mist on your mouth

and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls

plunging and steaming – then row, row for your life

toward it. 

~ Mary Oliver ~

Thanks be to God for the agony that is love.

agree to disagree

Sidelined by sickness, I am watching the General Conference of the United Methodist Church as it is live streamed (www.umc.org).

Just finished was heart breaking and real debate on the floor.

The issue?  A statement proposed that named the reality that we disagree over the issue of same-gender love.  No news.  But controversial and threatening?  I guess.

To that effect, an amendment was made.  It wasn’t radical in that it would do away with language which is soul wrench for many.  What it said was that we disagree, we people called United Methodists.

The link is below.

http://www.umc.org/atf/cf/%7Bdb6a45e4-c446-4248-82c8-e131b6424741%7D/05-03%20DCA%20NEWS%20&%20FEATURwww.umc.org

I came into the discussion late and claim the what-I-don’t-knows.

I can only describe what I saw on my little computer screen while a Minnesota spring storm was raging outside.

I saw people who love their church come to their feet to beg for open doors and hearts and minds.  I saw witnesses in rainbow stoles who circled the Body in prayer and witness.

I saw people tussling with each other about bragging rights to who is orthodox and who is successful and really who cares when a church built upon the heart warming of grace offered to all – even sinners like John Wesley and me –  is unwilling to name that we disagree?

Here is what I know.  The mission of the United Methodist Church is to make disciples for Jesus the Christ.

People in my church make disciples of ME by the ways they model ministry.  They are gay and they are lesbian and they are straight and they are celibate and they are a multicolored rainbow transforming the world because they belong to a church that welcomes all who seek to live the teachings of Jesus.

All.  The United Methodist Church is bigger than our fears.  This I believe.

the view from here

It has been three plus days of being home bound.

My couch knows me well, as does my bed.

I was on retreat with 30 amazing women and we shared many things – pestilence being one of them.

It’s been amazing to hear of those from the retreat who have been felled and the varying diagnoses given.  As for me, I finally got myself to a doctor this afternoon when my teeth started to ache but good.  Bacterial sinus infection.  Drugs.  Work tomorrow if no fever.  I checked;  I won’t be contagious if there is no fever.

Here is what I have experienced:

I like my brain.  I like it best when it works.

My husband is a dear minster to my sad self.  He has been kind and helpful and patient and this is huge gift.  I think we will grow old together tenderly well.

Catching up on email is a good thing.  Words with Friends is no fun when most of the world works.  My dog likes my company.  Back to back episodes of “Sex in the City” is a great antidote to misery.

Books require my brain.  See above.

The world goes along just fine without me.  I have cancelled meetings with gracious people who are audibly relieved that I will keep my pestilence to myself.

From where I sit, grace is real.  Spring is rioting outside and tomorrow I may find my brain and be back at it.  But in the meantime, I think I’ll celebrate the view from here.

sick

“Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got ’till it’s gone.”

Wisdom from the “Big Yellow Taxi” rings in my whole tormented body on this day.

I was on retreat with 30 wonderful women over the weekend.  And, clearly I was on retreat with some kind of nasty pestilence that has taken up residence in many of our bodies.

Ah me, the misery! It’s almost laughable how sad sad sad a body can become.  I’m hauling myself from place to place in my house, bleary and spaced out from fever and all I can think about is getting rid of this headache and living through this so I can feel like a human again.

Knowing that I am not alone in this is no comfort:  I am feeling bad that anyone else would feel this miserable.

There is hope, right?

 

parenting

In a conversation the other day there was appreciation expressed by those gathered about a family in our church.

Their children are amazing, as are all children.  There is a something more, though, about this clan, and the gathered women got to wondering about what it was that set those kids up to shine so fully.

My sense about one of the reasons for shine?  The parents know that they are the parents.

There was a columnist, John Rosemond by name, who used to have a syndicated column on parenting that ran in the Duluth paper while I was raising my babies.

He was a no nonsense kind of guy.  He was often blunt and gray seemed not to be in his color palette.

What he stressed was that kids need boundaries and limits.  They need the comfort and relaxing good of knowing that their parents are in charge.  They need to know at age 6 (or 2 or 16), when they are not equipped to run the world, that their parents will step up and make the hard decisions and set the limits that need setting.

I think he is right.  Saying “no” and maintaining chains of command is not always popular.  Kids are wired to push up against the authority we seek to maintain.  It’s how they learn.  They will fuss for sure and push all the buttons their clever and intuitive souls know how to find.

But in the end they will thank us, I believe.  The world is an anxiety-stirring place.  Knowing that they are not in charge of the big things (and sometimes even the little things!) helps children to explore their worlds safely and with confidence.

The other thing Rosemond stressed was the need for parents to order family life in such a way that they take time for themselves; both as individuals and as a couple.  When our lives are solely focused on our children, we send them the wrong message and for sure it is a set-up for disillusionment when they leave the nest and discover that the world does not revolve around them.

It’s been awhile since I was in the kids-at-home trenches.  It is hard and heart-stomping work, raising babies.  The list of needs is endless and the list of anxieties about doing it right (whatever that means!) is endless as well.

And, it’s the most important work I’ll ever do.

God bless parents.  May we find the patience, strength, joy and forgiveness to keep on keeping on.

 

more

Whew!

A retreat with 30 women.  Two worship services.  This and that to tend to and then a gathering of souls who will travel together to Ireland in September.  48 hours of intense good are bouncing around in me.

Retreats are a lot of work for everyone.  Emotionally, it takes a lot for women to take the time to get away.  There are kids and dogs to provide for while gone.  And, there is the great emotional leap of courage that it takes to give over to someone else the charting  of the rhythm of the days.  All this with unfamiliar sleeping partners and sometimes challenging beds.

Planning for retreats is an act of faith.  Chemistry is a fickle thing.  I’m never sure what the vibe of the gathered will be, so I plan and pray and let go and trust that something will touch someone somehow in the course of our time together.

Always, as I look at the faces of the gathered and as I experience the ways they weave themselves into something never before experienced;  always I am moved.  So it was this weekend.

On this Sunday night after many chances to be in varying circles of faith seeking and faith grounded folks, I am amazed by those who show up, who say “yes”, who enter in, who bring their sacred selves into the power of community.

As tired as I am, I want more.

After a nap…

 

can we just get along?

I was in a meeting last night with a woman a generation younger.

We were talking in said meeting about how to offer community to people who have no relationship with “church”.

She made a comment that I know is real but for some reason it sounded with added power in my belly.

She said that as we seek to be in relationship with non-church folk, we have to be impeccable with our actions.  They are tired of our hypocrisy, these folk, and are watching to see that our words and our actions square with each other.  Otherwise, we’re just another group of hucksters on the make (my words, not hers).

Her words jangled because one of the hardest things about being church is that we are a collection of human beings.  As human folk, we bring into our churches all the wounds and ways of being that we learn along the way.  Sometimes, we keep our woundedness and barbs neatly cloaked in our professional lives but let them fly in our private worlds of home and, most challenglingly to this pastor, church.

Churches are challenging and messy things.  Our souls must feel safe enough to take the risk to be vulnerable to grace.  So we talk a lot about acceptance and love in order to make room for light, but sometimes that vulnerability gets slashed by members who forget that the way of Jesus is surely about knowing our God-created goodness and it is very powerfully about seeing the Holy in each and treating each other accordingly.

Church is not an “anything goes” place.  We’re a place where we ground ourselves in the teachings of Jesus and help each other grow into full Holy-reflecting humanity.  When we bicker and slash and judge and wound each other, we hurt hurt hurt a tender trust.

And, the world is watching.

My belief is that people who enter churches smell the emotional air.  At a core level, a sense of “safe or unsafe” is registered.  If people in the church are observed as respectful of each other and graceful about differences, new folk feel perhaps safe to engage.

If tension and seething feuds are sensed or outright observed?  Seekers chalk it up to yet another hypocritical club they want no part of.  They take the wild courage and hope they summoned to walk into a church for the first time out the door with them.  They don’t come back.

So how are we doing?  As individuals and as a collection of relationships called church, how are we doing?

My prayer is that we own the challenge it is to live the teachings of Jesus.  And, when we are tempted to lash out or gossip or indulge in drama or build posses or block the soul expression of others; I hope we are aware that we are not alone.

The world, the community, our children, seeking people.  They are all watching.

And oh there is this:  so is our Creator.  The very creator who gave us one another in order that we might practice the fine art of loving.

It’s messy powerful crucial foundational work.

We can do it.

 

home

The computer is set up in the basement.

A nest has been feathered.

Jameson is home.  Just for a time he is cloistering himself in our home in order to do all things necessary for finals.  We have internet, true, but I suspect he is tapping into a wisdom that tells him that his chances of being led not into play temptation are greater while residing at home.

I purr when there are offspring about.  I suppose a lot of it has to do with the fact that I just can’t seem to get over the wonder of their being.  And, I really like them.  Between Cooper and myself we have six interesting, engaged and dangerously funny people we get to call children.  It’s amazing.

Having these opportunities to share morning coffee and informal down time are precious.  Finals will end and Jamie will be off to the house he shares with countless others.

For a time, though, some homing instinct in his heart led him here.

My heart gives thanks for the simple wonder of love; that’s all.

That’s everything.