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Since October it has bugged me that September is missing from my sidebar...will this post change that?

Bookends

I like order and details, so I note the following: this post marks a number of bookends. Today is the last day of the month; my last post was on the first of the month. This is post number 10; a nice round numbered post. Today is my birthday, a bookend of its own, the end of one year and the start of another. While it isn't a "milestone" birthday so to speak, it is the start of my last year in my 20s. Earlier this month, my coworkers were explaining to a young boy that "all grown-up ladies are 29." Today, a card from one of my coworkers read, "29 for real? Have a happy one! (over and over and over again)" And I wonder, next year, will I suddenly want to start denying my age? Because I don't feel any older, and haven't for years. I do avoid saying my age because, in my line of work, it seems like I only need to use it to defend myself--to prove that I have experience despite appearing much younger than I am. We'll just have to wait for that bookend experience next year I guess!

For another bookend, my friend Jess at whatyoutoo.blogspot.com (I don't know how to make links yet) celebrates a bookend today. She's coming home!!

Motivation

Where did mine go? Even this post has been days in the making--and not because I was too busy the last few days to get to it, but simply because vegging out in front of my TV seemed like a much better option.

My to-do list just seems to get longer with each passing second. Somehow all the "necessary" work gets done--the sermons get written (if on Saturday afternoon for a 5 p.m. service), the Bible School openings get prepared (if on the drive into church), the shut-ins I'm to visit this month get visited (if on the 31st), and so on. At home, the lawn eventually gets mowed (though the piles of raked up grass have sat for 3 days--blame the heat wave!), the dishes get placed in the dishwasher (at least I put water in them when I put them in the sink!), the plants get watered (at least the one I'm most concerned will die), and so on.

But the items on the to-do list of things that I really do want to do suffer.
1. Email friends with whom I haven't spoken for some time
2. Work on paperwork to open myself up for a different call
3. Organize recipes and cookbooks (and actually try to make some things from scratch!)
4. Finally sort through those boxes of stuff that've been sitting for 3 years
5. Read a book from my bookshelf for fun
6. Decorate parts of my house--nothing too drastic, but replacing the curtains I've hated since we moved in would be a good start!
7. Organize all the craft items that I've saved "because I might use it"
8. Work on scrapbooking my life
9. Make a quilt using my college t-shirts
10. Go through my closet and get rid off all the clothes I don't need or wear

I used to think I was internally motivated--that if there was something I wanted to do, I would and could just do it. When did I lose that? When did I start to need someone or something to push me to keep going? Why does bad TV (okay, mostly home and garden and cooking shows) seem so appealing? Why am I so tired? And why do all the things on that list seem like they will take so much more energy than I can muster?

Community and Lonliness

I have a sort of love/hate with community. When I was in seminary, I hated the forced attempts at "community building." For me, those kinds of events never seemed to do the trick. I didn't necessarily feel like I was part of the seminary "community." "The lonliest place is alone in a crowd," someone said to me recently. And I thought that's what I felt.

But, now as I look back on my life, I see how often I felt that I was alone in the crowd, not really part of a community but outside on the fringes, looking in and aching to be a part of the group. Now that I'm in a completely different place, I realize that I was part of a community. It may not have been that formal community that I felt was trying to be formed without sucess, but it was a real community. It was the community forged through common experiences, through informal times spent together over meals and homework and walks to work. It was the community forged through honesty and openness because we had the time to learn to trust each other.

But here I am now, aching for community and realizing that I can't have it. For lots of reasons. I haven't had time to learn to trust. I'm in a position that puts me on display and doesn't present the opportunities I need for it truly to be about giving and receiving from all of us. Friends are nice, but I can only show so much of myself without taking people's pastor away from them. I will never try to take someone's pastor away--whether that pastor is me or anyone else.

So it's now that I see how lonly it is to be alone in a crowd. I am almost always around people and almost always feel alone. And I'm just not sure what to do about it.

Where Are You From?

"Where are you from?" This question is one that seems to have come up more often than usual in recent weeks.

I was born and raised in Small Town A in Midwestern State A. My dad had grown up in this community and my mom in the same state, though not that area. I recall only one home in that place, though technically we lived in two. (Having moved as a baby, it's hard for me to count that first house.) This place was my home for my first 18 years; it was "home home" during the next four years when I was in college (and first lived in Midwestern State B). It was even "home home" for the next two years until I married and moved permanently to Midwestern State B, my husband's home state. But yet, it was still "home"--at least another 3 years. Then my mom moved from that place, from that home, that town to another city in that state. And I now live in another small town in Midwestern State B.

But still, when I'm asked this question, "Where are you from?" the first thing that comes to mind is "Small Town A in Midwestern State A" or at the very least "Midwestern State A." I have to make a conscious effort to say, Small Town B in Midwestern State B." The place I live now is my home, but it's not where I'm from. When I traveled to the US-Mexico border, I met many people who would name a town when asked where they were from and then as conversation continued I would find that they had lived in another for many years or that the town they named was where their parents came from though they had never lived there. I could relate to this. The roads and streets, hills and trees, people and community of Small Town A are what shaped me, what formed me, what molded me, what made me who I am. That will always be where I'm from, no matter how long I live elsewhere.

My family recently traveled to Yellowstone National Park and while there, I realized how at home I feel in nature, in God's creation, not only in Yellowstone, but in other parts of the world as well. And I realize that perhaps the better answer of where I'm from is God. I am God's child, sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever. That's the home that matters--my home that is God's kingdom. But it's the church community of Small Town A that helped me discover this for the first time.

So when I'm asked, "Where are you from?" I'm still likely to answer, "I live in Small Town B, Midwestern State B, but I grew up in Small Town A, Midwestern State A. And you?"

No Words Part Two

In my last post, I commented that presiding over that funeral was by far the hardest thing I had ever done. I was wrong. This funeral was followed closely by a horrific car accident in which a young mother was given no hope of survival. I was present as her young children (6 and 9) visited her in ICU. I sat for 10 hours with her family as they extubated her and took turns saying goodbye and as her heart simply wouldn't give up easily and as she took her final breaths. I prayed with this family and was present with them. That was all I could do.

And then, due to circumstances beyond my control, I was not able to preside at this funeral, nor could I even attend. I'm not sure I could have found the words, but I wish I had had the opportunity. Maybe someday I'll find the words or the words will find me and then find a home on this page.

But for now, I'll release these events into God's hands and face the other realities of my life. I don't need to have the words right now, but I do need to live.

No Words

I wanted a home for my words, but words have been lacking lately.

First, I was away from computers for about a week. I was living on the border of the United States and Mexico, learning about border issues. Timely, I might add. But I'm not ready to publish words about that experience.

And then I came home to find a situation in which words are not adequate. I found out that a member of my congregation committed suicide. This young beautiful woman took her own life, leaving behind her husband and three small children between the ages of 7 and 2. Presiding at this funeral and all that entails was/is by far the most difficult thing I have ever done.

And so, I have no words right now.

Sacred Space

There are some spaces that are sacred, special, holy ground. There are moments when it is evident to me that I am in the presence of God. Last week, I was in sacred space and I felt like I didn't belong, but was blessed to be invited. A family was gathered in the hospital room of their dying loved one, her husband, her father, her brother, her step-father, his father-in-law. And he was too young and the hopes had been so great. He had been in the hospital for weeks, his positive outlook hard-wired. But then he got to go home--to sleep in his own bed, to play with his 'toys,' to love his family. Then it happened, the worst possible news--the cancer was back and he gently began to slip away, pain medication easing those final moments for him. He knew he would be in a better place, as did we. And because of my role, I was invited into this space--this hospital room, in the circle of loved ones. I didn't belong; I didn't even know him that well. This was sacred space for this family and I was privileged to be a part of it.

And it took me back, it takes me back, to the other sacred spaces that shape my life. To the one so like this one--the man dying too young, the cancer eating away his life, the promise of a better place. To the room filled with love, to the oxygen tubes, to the pain medication, to the nurse and friend shaking her head, "he's gone." To that moment that would change my life forever. To learning at nine that death is forever, but so is life and so are God's promises. To continuing to learn and believe that. To missing my daddy, but knowing that some spaces are sacred and so is a life full of love.

Spring

This is the third spring that I have lived in my current house. The previous owners clearly took great pride in landscaping. We are doing our best not to kill anything and to keep it up. Flowers appear all throughout the year--except winter of course. (This is the Midwest after all.) We moved into this house during the summer, so though we had an idea about the fall plants, we really had no idea what would happen that first spring. Every time I looked, it seemed a new area was blossoming—daffodils in at least three varieties, six colors of tulips, eight different hyacinth, plus green plants of many kinds. Each spring since has brought the same kind of joy, the surprise of new life appearing.

I have lived in the Midwest all my life, and somehow, spring always takes me by surprise. Throughout the winter and cold season, I say that I’m ready for spring because of the warmth that it will bring. But yet the vegetation, the new life, the plants beginning to peek out from the ground, bring a new surprise each and every day throughout spring. And I love these surprises and the colors they bring.

So why does it make me sad this year? It seems as though the only thing new in my life is the creation around me, the flowers and trees and plants in my yard. Nothing else in my life is new. Maybe that’s why I needed to start this blog.

"A House is a House for Me"

When I was in elementary school, each week we had "specials" ~ art, music, physical education, and library. Library was by far my favorite, and of course, the one that we only had once a week. I loved going into the library where Miss L. would be there, the librarian, this lovely grandmotherly type lady who could always help me find the right book.

(I was so sad when Miss L. retired because of health problems just before my last year of elementary school. In a twist of fate, we became co-workers when I began working at our public library while in high school. All the other student workers could call her by her first name, but I could never call her anything other than Miss L. Memories of her are some of my best.)

During library time, we would often have a story read to us and then do some sort of activity related to the book. For some reason, one in particular stands out in my memory. I'm guessing it was from lower elementary years, but I can't be sure. I recall Miss L. reading us a book entitled A House is a House for Me. I can even picture the book ~ a light green border on the cover, pages with pen-line drawings which appeared to be filled in with colored pencils. From what I can remember of the book, the catch-phrase was "a house is a house for me" which followed a description of what were houses for others, like "a nest is a home for a bird" and other such things. The activity that went with this book was to create our own page for a book using the phrase "a blank is a home for a blank" and then draw a picture to go with it. I wrote, "a neck is a home for a necklace" and drew (not very well) a neck that filled up the whole sheet of construction paper with a necklace drawn to represent the pink heart-shaped prism charm on a necklace that my neighbor had given me as a gift along with the book Pollyanna.

Why is it that this particular book and activity stands out in my memory? When there were so many many weeks and so many many books, why this?

I think there is something about these words that are so important, maybe especially so right now. The book title is about houses, but the sentence I wrote is about a home. "A house is a house for me." Yes, that's the easy part. I am blessed to live in a beautiful house with a beautiful yard, but what about home?

Does where I live feel like home? Some days, but not everyday and maybe not even most days. Because home is greater than the dwelling in which I live, though the dwelling is part of it. Home is also my family, my workplace, my community. And even then, what makes a place home?

Home is a place where I can be me, fully and completely. I sometimes feel like I have given up so much of me that no place is home. And that's not really fair, because my husband hasn't asked me to change or be something I'm not. But at the same time, if I want to spend time with him or do things with him, I've had to learn to do (or at least tolerate in some cases) activities that I wouldn't normally do. And I can't seem to see where he's had to change--other than the change of having to put up with me, which is a tall order some days because we are really different. And I haven't figured out yet how to be me fully and completely and live happily.

And at work, it's a challenge for me. I can be me to a certain point, but then I can't because of my role. My role is important and I'm not called there to be friends with everyone. And my co-workers and I probably wouldn't be friends if we met in different circumstances and there are times it is really hard to try to be friends. It takes so much more energy than I possess, because what I need often isn't what I get and I don't feel like what I give is what is needed or desired. And all of that makes me sad.

A Home for My Words

Words, especially written, somehow always bring me comfort.

Reading the beautiful words of others give me permission to feel, to think, to live beyond the boundaries of my current life. I don’t remember learning to read, but I remember the greatest joy of my childhood was bringing home that stack of books from the library and diving into those pages.

And to attempt to put thoughts and feelings that tumble around my mind into written words is a gift that has given me comfort throughout my life. There have been times when I have felt so alone and the only comfort came from putting the deep pain and sadness into words with the act of putting pen to paper. And though there will always be something special for me about that physical act of using pen and paper, it seemed time to try it this way—with computer keyboard instead.

I have come to realize how much I want to write. I have come to realize how much I need to write.

Because spoken words seem to fail me. I spent my childhood years in mostly silence, mostly smiling, being shy and afraid to speak. I’ve “come out of my shell” through the years, but some of that fear is still there. And irony of ironies is that I have been called to a vocation in which one of my primary roles is that of preacher, speaker of the good news of what God has done for us.

And somehow, I can speak of God. And somehow, God speaks through me and allows people to hear of and experience the good news of God. And that is wonderful and amazing.

But I can’t speak of me. These people with whom I spend many of my days haven’t known me very long. They don’t see how difficult it is for share of myself, to open my mouth to speak of things that are important to me.

Somehow the weight of what is happening inside me doesn’t come out in words when I try to speak. Especially if I haven’t planned every word, every syllable.

I need a home for my words.