Sermon Matthew 13

What I've got as of 9:30pm. We'll see what actually gets preached tomorrow. :)

Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

A sower went out to sow. Perhaps it is no conscience that this text always comes around in the lectionary cycle mid-summer. When the corn is knee high, and the tomatoes are ripening on the vine.

This summer, I’ve been vicariously growing a garden by keeping up with my friend’s garden via a web page online and through emails. Her excitement is palpable—from her preparations of the soil—mixing the beautiful rich soil from the ND Red River Valley with the sandy mixture that makes up her new yard in Chicago, to the seed planting party, to photos of the seeds growth and the nights she spends sitting out among the plants anticipating their development and the harvest. It is a joy to experience...from a far.

It has been many years since I attempted a garden. When we first moved into our parsonage in Fargo, I wanted to give it a try. I could have consulted books and made a plan…instead I called my grandparents who lived an hour away. I enlisted a parishioner to till up the soil and picked out some seeds I thought would be fun to grow. When my grandparents arrived to help, what was to be a little garden, became a whole big event…and a memory I will cherish. At the time, I just stood back and watched them work. My grandpa has a certain way he likes to plant a garden. (EXPAND ON) “Precision” doesn’t quite fully explain it. We measured and planned. We stopped short of getting out the level to see if the rows were straight. We made perfect circles for the cucumbers. The tomatoes and peppers are evenly spaced. We didn’t waste or lose one seed. The garden produced a bounty and it was beautiful...but between the weed and the harvesting, I haven't attempted much beyond a flower bed since. (But, that is for another sermon.)

A sower went out to sow.

In Matthew’s Parable of the Sower, it isn’t any old farmer that goes out to sow. This is, of course, the Sower of the Universe….the one who created light and oxygen and soil and seeds. This sower not only plants cucumber and watermelon seeds…but also plants seeds of grace and forgiveness, justice and mercy, deep within creation…waiting patiently for the good growth to sprout.

While my friend may reflect some of God’s joy at watching these seeds grow….God the sower does not plant seed quite the same way as any farmer or gardener I know of, especially not my grandparents. From this parable, it seems God throws out the seed willy-nilly all over the soil. And in turn, some of the seed falls on rocky soil and some falls on good soil. Birds eat some of it; the hot sun consumes other seeds. There is apparently no care for the seeds placement or consideration of cost benefit analysis. Frankly, it seems a little wasteful.

I have this image of God standing in the fields of our life with a huge, bottomless bag of seed—seed that is God’s Word—and with an overflowing handful God begins to spin. As God spins the Word is sent out all over our lives—love, mercy, forgiveness, patience scatters down over us. It falls in every nook and cranny—every corner.

This is, of course, not how we plant a garden…nor it seems, how we spread the Gospel. But perhaps it is how we are meant to.

In today’s parable Jesus is teaching his disciples about spreading the Word. It is meant to encourage them—because if they thought proclaiming the gospel was like any other profession, they were going to get discouraged pretty quickly. We’ve all known the feeling of being passionate about something; sure that everyone else will catch your zeal…only to be crushed by another’s indifference. I imagine Jesus preparing the disciples for lives spend sowing seeds that they may never see the fruits of. The Word they spread was going to fall in every type of life. Some will be “good soil” hearing the word, as Jesus says, “who indeed bear fruit and yields in one case a hundredfold, in another sixty, and in another thirty.”

But none of us is completely made up of one type of soil…we aren’t just hard defensive rocks, most us aren’t all easy going, weak sand, we can’t just be brittle clay…no one is pure rich soil. One day the Word may catch us and another fall on a hard place. As we disciples scatter the Gospel, it is nearly impossible to fully know another person’s soil content—perhaps we best leave that to God.

But every congregation I’ve ever been a part of has, at one point or another, measured their ministry by the world’s standards verses God’s. “We have this precious seed”, we think…”Where can we plant it to get the most growth?” “Who will it benefit the most?” Ministry programs are carefully analyzed. Budgets are considered. Space, time, volunteer numbers…all of it weighted and factored in. Events and worship services are kept based on how many people attended. Success is often measured by human standards--human standards and the mind set of scarcity. Very seldom do we grab a handful of the Gospel and just start spinning…

Often our relationships are treated the same way. A tough heart. A cross word. A bad decision. And our reaction is to withdraw, to stop sowing. We give up on some people, feeling as if we are wasting our time trying to talk with them, or love them, or forgive them, or reach them. When days, weeks, months, YEARS go by and we see minimal progress or growth in our friends or family or our kids. We wonder, “What has it all been for?” “How long can we pray?” “How long does hope hold out?” Very seldom do we grab a handful of the Gospel and start spinning…

Unfortunately, we treat ourselves the same way. We try and we try and we try…we feel growth…the seeds of patience and maturity taking root, love seems to be blooming…only to get caught up in hate or gossip or envy or ill will, and feel the old self return. It is painful to realize we aren’t as mature as we thought. When that happens it is hard to offer ourselves grace. Hard to be human—easy to turn on ourselves. We wonder what all the work was for and why even try again…it is hard to grab a handful of the Gospel and spin….

A sower went out to sow.

The seeds of love and forgiveness that our lives plant on this earth won’t always bear fruit. Some of the seeds will blow far, far away. Some will fall and be burnt up, some of it will drown. Some of it just won’t take. Some of it destroyed by hate and violence. Some by fear. Not all of it will take root just now.

This is a grace-filled message for those of charged with proclaiming the gospel…Our task is not to measure and arrange a neat garden, our task is to keep on planting. God will provide the nutrients necessary…there will be growth. That is God’s promise to creation. Perhaps not everywhere, perhaps not every time, perhaps not the amount we hoped for…but growth, when we keep planting.

Archbishop Oscar Romero’s prayer came to mind…

It helps, now and then, to step back and take a long view.

The kingdom is not only beyond our efforts,
it is even beyond our vision.

We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction of the magnificent enterprise that is God's work.
Nothing we do is complete, which is a way of saying that the kingdom always lies beyond us.
No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith.
No confession brings perfection.
No pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the church's mission.
No set of goals and objectives includes everything.

This is what we are about.
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted,
knowing that they hold future promise.

We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces far beyond our capabilities.

We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation
in realizing that. This enables us to do something,
and to do it very well. It may be incomplete,
but it is a beginning, a step along the way,
an opportunity for the Lord's grace to enter and do the rest.

We may never see the end results, but that is the difference
between the master builder and the worker.

We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future not our own.
Amen.

This world is made up all sorts of soil—some ready for planting, some too rough and hard to take seed yet. Many a person might wonder why God would continue to waste good seed on us. After all we’ve made quite a mess of creation…only making it worse from what I can gather. Self preservation is often our first goal. We aren’t the most lovable some days. We’ve got hard shells and worn out spirits. We doubt and worry. We fear and fret. So often we want the planting to go our way and growth to happen on our calendar.

God seems to know this and in spite of it, maybe because of our weakness, God doesn’t seem to think it is wasteful at all to keep heaping on the love and scattering hope. Over and over again God keeps replanting our lives with his gracious love.

I don’t know for sure what seeds God has planted in your lives, I’m not completely sure what seeds you are sending out in to the world…but know that there has been promised growth. Hold on to the image of God, standing in a field of your life, spinning and spinning--sending out love and forgiveness with each turn--around and around. There is good soil to be found. God has made sure of that. Good soil in creation, good soil in those around us, good soil in us…there is always the possibility for growth.

A sower has gone out to sow. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Is it wrong...

to eat one Dairy Queen ice cream cone, finish it up, and then as you are driving home later stop at the Dairy Queen closer to your house for another cone?

Just asking. A completely hypothetical situation.

Life Giving?

For some time now, I have had one too many caringbridge sites to follow. I'd rather have zero but instead I have five or six. Two of which are near and dear to my family's hearts. Yuck. Sigh.

But today, I am not sighing over the people's conditions reported on at the sites, but on the well being of those commenting on some of them. I catch myself offering prayers for the supporters and friends.

Some of the comments simply reflect a piece of the Christian body that is foreign to me. Some reflect theology that is just uncomfortable for me. Some are just not well thought out. All of them come from people hurting and grasping for words of comfort...comfort for the one with the diagnosis, and comfort for themselves as they feel completely helpless and weak...and well, human.

Many comments speak of a "miracle." Some allude to the number of visits and marvel that surely God will act because of the great number of people praying. "God can't help but take notice." More than one offers the platitude that "God has a plan."

I sincerely, do. not. understand. With all compassion and love, how is this helping either party?

Perhaps many of us, in the heat of the crisis, don't think our theology out to the next step...

And if a miracle doesn't happen? Whatever that miracle may be, when it doesn't happen, what then do you say about God?

My fear is people blame themselves...

needed to pray more
there was some unrepentant sin
didn't trust enough
didn't do, didn't do, didn't do...and God forgot us or worse, just turned away in disgust.
Must worker hard for God to notice...

I can't believe in a God who practices conditional love. 'If/then' theology doesn't work for me. It breaks my heart (and I am filled with more than a bit of anger) when I hear it taught, modeled and preached. I wonder, "how is it life sustaining for anyone?"

When my heart is breaking over the state of the world, the pain in people's lives, and the uncertainty of life, when I am crippled over at the weight of my own sin; I can't believe in a God that practices 'if/then' love.

God has loved us through quite a bit of "stuff" since daylight first broke and the sun first set. From what I've heard and experienced, God has never waited for us to get our act together before participating in our lives.

When I am in pain, I find it much more comforting to know God is crying with me, angry and hurt, even more than I am, at death, sickness and sin. I find it much more comforting to think God takes notice of all of creation--regardless of whether we have our act together, regardless of how many prayers we have offered up, regardless of if we've said the "right words and actions"or not. God who seeks out all of us lost and wandering people...not only takes notice, but acts in our lives. Unconditionally, reaches out in love, hope and mercy.

We humans can so easily take God and mold the Creator of the Universe for our own human purpose--making God fit in to the mold we can most relate to. I do it all the time. Many would say that I've done it with this post.

Today, I am thankful for God's patience with us and the never ceasing participation in our lives. May our comments be life giving and our lives filled with hope.

We Believe What We Want to Believe...

Isn't that the truth?!

I struggle with this nearly every day--how to be gracious to those I passionately disagree with as I *try* to understand why we are coming at life from such a different perspective. That's my mature way of saying, "When I am so clearly, right, and they are so clearly, wrong." I'd write something, but the Sarcastic Lutheran said it better. So for now, read this and know that I say, "Amen." and "May Your Kingdom Come." (especially to the prayer at the end.)

Sermon Matthew 10:40-42

My sermon for tomorrow (or something like it)...good grief, I can put this process off. My only solace is that my pastor growing up didn't start his sermons until 11pm on Saturday. I am a whole two hours ahead of him. :)

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord and Savior Jesus the Christ. Amen.

Finally, we get to the good part. If you’ve been round the last few weeks you’ll remember that the Gospel texts have been working us through chapter 10 of Matthew. Jesus comes home one day and decides it is time to spread the work load out a bit. He looks at the twelve disciples and gives them a job description to end all job descriptions…cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, and cast out demons. Then he tells them that not only is there no funding for them, they must leave behind any worldly goods they might have. He also tells them that this isn’t a job for a family man, seeing as it will cause great division and change among ones brothers and sisters and parents. On top of all this, not everyone is going to be welcoming. The disciples know that they are bringing good news, healing and the power to change lives…but not everyone is ready for this power. Not everyone is prepared for a change. Not everyone wants to hear this story. Some of the towns they come to are going to ask them to keep walking. Some of the doors they knock on are going to remain closed. Many of the people’s hearts they meet are going to remain hard.

Knowing full well that as we hear this Gospel, we are the spiritual descendants of the disciples, with full knowledge that we too are called to live on the sustenance of God alone…by verse 40 we are ready to hear about reward. Finally, it seems we are about to get to the good part.

In Matthew 10, verse 40, Jesus’ attention shifts from his disciples to those who will receive the disciples in their homes and towns. Jesus says, “whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.” He goes on to say, “whoever welcomes a prophet in the name of a prophet will receive a prophet’s reward; and whoever welcomes a righteous person in the name of a righteous person will receive the reward of the righteous; and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple – truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.”

The disciples are promised ‘welcome,’ and their reward is a cup of water?

Water.

Now I grant you that cool water would have been a welcome relief on a dry desert day. But, if we are honest with ourselves, after all this work, doesn’t a part of us expect the welcome to look a bit more like; a friendly person with open arms bringing us in to the cool relief of their home, giving us some water to drink but also some wine and a hearty meal. Don’t we have visions of someone offering a bowl of water to clean our burning feet and some oil to heal the cracks and scrapes from a day of walking?

But a cup of water? I’ll say this, Jesus remains a realist when it comes to setting the bar of our expectations. It is almost as if the process of following Jesus is as important as the end results.

After all that work, all the demands of discipleship, all that is sacrificed and loss…all someone needs to do is scoop up some water from their well and offer it to us and they are welcomed by God? Both the prophet and the one who receives him will be viewed the same reward?

It seems to me at the end of this discipleship tutorial, Jesus’ real gift to the disciples and to us, is freedom. No matter where we read the text from: either as a disciple going out, or as someone offering to serve “a little one”…the reward is freedom. We are free to try. Try to offer love, try to serve, try to speak up, try to tackle sin, try to bring life. Our efforts might end in failure…a closed heart, deaf ears, a slammed door. Our efforts might result in new life. We are free to be human and that, my dear friends, is God’s grace.

When I first moved to Peoria, we lived in a temporary apartment and to escape all the boxes I would aimlessly wander around the Lakeview library branch. One day I saw a brochure for the Newcomers’ Club. I took a huge leap out of my comfort zone to attend a lunch. In that leap I discovered the one great things about this town. Most people aren't from here...or rather most of the people I know aren’t. And because of this, people are quite quick to welcome the new person. Many of the families are corporate transfers who are skilled at making community and setting up a home fast. That is rare for a town this size. In most Midwest (and perhaps all over) communities you hear stories of how entrenched the social circles are--based on which high school or college you attended. Your family is probably still around so there is that added comfort zone. It can be a hard place to break in to existing social circles.

When we lived in Fargo, even though I worked in the community before becoming a pastor and participated in activities outside of the church, over the three years we lived there, I developed no friendship outside of my pastoral colleagues. When we moved, I knew isolation would be an issue so I took some risks and actively sought out people.

In hindsight I find it telling that I thought this group would be a good means to meet people verses, say, a church. But let’s be honest, churches are rarely as welcoming as they think they are. If you’ve never had to do it, let me tell you--it is hard to break into this particular social system—this coming from a Christian, a Lutheran, someone who understands what membership is about, and a pastor.

Entering a club specifically for people new to area means you need to strengthen your small talk skills. The disciples in today’s Gospel were meant to move around and proclaim the gospel, opening each conversation with the words, “The kingdom of heaven has come near.” I don’t imagine you and I open every conversation like this…and our lives don’t always reflect this proclamation either. Imagine if you opened each casual conversation with these words…how exactly would you be received?

I imagine very few of us would open right up with, “Hi, I’m Gayle or Steve…I’m a disciple of Jesus Christ and the Kingdom of God has come near.” But when you are pastor…try as you might to fend off that topic, it always comes up. “And what do you do?” A part of me always hesitates not because I’m ashamed or denying my call but because I know it is going to change the course of the conversation and our relationship forever. Some people close down. Some get angry. Some open up…some open up too much. Blessed be the ones who continue to treat me as they did before they learned my calling.

Of course, I imagine all of us have moments where we know our identity as a Child of God has turned people away or brought them closer to us. Where it has changed the course of our relationship with a person. Not wanting change, not wanting to deal with the conflict our identity might bring on…we begin to go it alone. Fear and doubt join us on our journey. Or begin to close down ourselves, slamming doors…becoming entrenched in our faith community, forgetting that our job description was to go out there, to be among those people.

What my time within the Newcomers’ club as taught me is this…We are all visitors. This flawed and broken world--one that can be so lonely and isolating--is not our home. It helps me to remember as I move around that none of us feel completely comfortable where we are...that everyone I come across is a bit lost, a bit of a newcomer. We are all in need of hospitality and grace, no matter how long we've lived at one address or another...together we live in this foreign land searching and yearning for those moments of the Kingdom to break in, for God to hold us...to be truly welcomed.

Discipleship is about the process of following Christ. The end goal belongs to God and God has already shared that reward with us. God has welcomed us Eternal life is ours, God’s love and mercy is ours. . Instead of a life lived in pursuit of a reward, discipleship is the lifelong attempt to trust in God’s promise to provide and care for us. We do not follow Jesus in search of a reward--because at the end our earthly reward may only be a cup of water. We follow Jesus because he is the one who grants us the freedom to be human. Broken, questioning, tired…human. Hopeful, awestruck, energized…human. Sinfully human. Sainted, human. God grants us refreshing grace…space and room to attempt to fully be who God created us to be. Through Christ we have freedom from God to try—to follow where Christ leads us, to open ourselves up to the visitor, to knock on hearts, to serve and love the other, to live as though the kingdom of God has indeed come near and invite others to join us. Doors may open, doors may close…but truly I tell you not one who tries will lose their reward.

Amen.

Let's Go Swimming

Wake up. Beautiful day...let's go swimming.
Want new pool.
9:00am
Everyone fed,
clean,
dressed,
in the car.
Drive to Target to get it.
Don't have.
Buy a summer 'chic lit' book, new chalk...ready for fun in the sun.
Drive to Walmart.
Buy pool.
Stop to buy coffee on the way home (not on the way, mind you...) but need to go to the bank so it works out.
Take longer route home because Kathy and Judy are funny. (on radio)
Home.
Unload car.
Emily awake.
Henry "so 'cited, Mom."
Change one diaper.
Get Henry dressed,
sunscreen,
swim diaper,
swim suit.
Change another diaper.
Put on sunscreen.
Get self dressed for outdoors.
Emily crying.
Will. Not. Be. Left. Alone.
Henry begins to whine.
Emily stops crying.
We go out side.
Bring chalk, pool, sunglasses and coffee.
Set up umbrella.
Run back inside--forgot to switch water tank to softened water--convince Henry to come in.
Back outside.
Hook up hose, turn on water.
Begin to fill up pool.
Henry wants to draw with Chalk.
Draw with Chalk.
Emily crying.
Convince Henry to come back inside.
Emily ok.

LUNCH TIME.

Henry wants to come in.
Henry wants to change clothes.
Take off swimsuit and swim diaper.
Begin to make lunch.
Turn off water outside.
Eat lunch.
Convince Henry to stay inside while Emily eats.
Feed Emily.
She will not be left alone.
Emily cries.
Henry cries.
Mommy thinks about crying.
Decide to go back out.
Put swimsuit on Henry.
Put Emily under umbrella.
Henry draws with chalk.
"How about we swim?"
Go to pool.
Look at pool.
Get in pool.
We stand in it for three minutes.

"I all done swimming. That fun, Mommy."
Noon.

Newcomers All of Us

Yesterday, at the monthly Newcomers lunch I met a young woman who had just moved to the area. She had the nervous giddy laugh of someone who isn't quite sure what they had gotten themselves into and that shell shocked look of someone whose clothes are still sitting in the living room in a suitcase and whose coffee maker is in the garage with her toothbrush.

This Newcomers group is something I joined when we first moved here. I was aimlessly wandering around the library one day as I escaped life in the temporary apartment and saw the brochure. I took a huge leap out of my comfort zone to attend a lunch. In the leap I discovered the one great thing about this town. Most people aren't from here...or rather most of the people I know. And because of this, people are quite quick to welcome the new person. Many of the families are corporate transfers who are skilled at making community and setting up a home fast. That is rare for a town this size. Even in Mpls and St. Paul I have heard stories of how entrenched the social circles are--based on which college you attended or which high school you went to. Your family probably still around so there is that added comfort zone. The midwest (and probably everywhere) can be a hard place to break in to existing social circles.

In Fargo, even though I worked in the community before becoming a pastor and did participate in activities outside of the church during the three years we lived there, I developed no friendship outside of colleagues. Not a one.

But I had very close friends nearby so the isolation was easily thawed with a quick trip north or south. But when we moved, I knew isolation would be an issue so I took some risks and actively sought out people.

In hindsight I find it telling that I thought this group would be a good means to meet people verses, say, a church. But church comes with numerous issues for me. And lets be honest churches are rarely as welcoming as they think they are. It is HARD to break into that particular social system--even being a Christian, a Lutheran, a life long member of one church or another, and a pastor. Perhaps it is really just this last title that leads me to seek other avenues for friendship. The pastor baggage can get in the way a bit...in any circle.

While I am thankful for the connections made and the warm welcome I received through the newcomers group, my participation is waning. Over the three and a half years in this town, I have found new connections, real friends, and the newcomer group itself has changed. (The negative part of a town made up of transplants is they are probably going to be re-potted somewhere else sooner or later.) But yesterday, as I drove home from the lunch, I remembered the greatest lesson being a newcomer taught me.

We are all visitors. This flawed and broken world--one that can be so lonely and isolating--is not our home. It helps me to remember as I move around that none of us feel completely comfortable where we are...that everyone I come across is a bit lost, a bit of a newcomer. We are all in need of hospitality and grace, no matter how long we've lived at one address or another...together we live in this foreign land searching and yearning for those moments of the Kingdom to break in, for God to hold us...to be truly, home.

My First Born Spoiled Me

Most of you have known me long enough know just how far Annebelle has fallen in the family hierarchy. Three short years ago she was our prized friend and constant companion. Then we moved her away from the large yard and tens of neighborhood kids in Fargo...depression set in. And then we had Henry. She got mad at us, and we, in turn began to ignore her.

There is no question that owning a dog is good preparation for childcare. It takes some of the edge off. A puppy introduces you to sleepless nights and the never ending clean up of bodily fluids. A responsible dog owner knows you have to plan ahead for a trip, need to consider where to stay and allow for bathroom breaks and meals. Your time is not completely your own. You can't be gone from home for hours on end without an unpleasant surprise greeting you upon your return. There is someone else who relies on your for food, shelter and love. You also learn something about discipline (teaching) and in our case spent lots of time in obedience school learning how to be a better human.

Annebelle listened better when I was calm, when I wasn't angry or out of control. She taught me that consistency works...give the same message the same way and eventually the dog or child will get it. BUT man oh man the learning curve is higher with a kid. :) I catch myself saying 'Come here, Henry' and lo and behold....he DOESN'T come! I say "Sit and stay" and he gets up and moves. I tell him "No" and it is as if I am speaking a language only known to me. I say "lay down in bed" and he jumps up.

I know you aren't suppose to compare your children, but really people, Annebelle had all these lessons by a year. :) It might have had something to do with the collar around her neck and the leash....that or the fact she's a first born. They tend to aim high. ;)

Awe, Work

Most of the year, part of me envies Chad as he leaves for work each morning. Mind you, I, along with the whole world, wouldn't want me to do what he is doing. Rather, it is the fact he leaves for work. That he speaks to people...and from the sounds of it they get to finish their sentences. It is the alone drive time. It is the satisfaction (and even frustrations) of finishing a task and the joy of being apart of a team.

But these days, these glorious summer days, I keep my mouth shut and just enjoy the gift I have been given.

I am just back from the park with friends. Part of my job description is Chief Educator of Large Muscle Groups-2 year old division. So, off we go each day to a park or field to run, jump and climb. Hard to want to be anywhere else when it is 75 degrees, sunny with dry breeze. When one is standing in a park sipping iced tea and soaking in the sun, all the while watching joyful kids learn and grow. All the while knowing that it is truly what you "should" be doing for your kids--it is hard to wish for a desk in a cubicle farm.

Of course, I have real complaints/concerns/whines about the state of the world, including my own life, but today isn't a day for them. Today is a day to offer up prayers where they are needed and then be grateful for all the ways God is at work in the world and in my life.

Love is Tough

Forgive me one more bird story.

Today as I was getting BB ready for his nap we noticed Papa Robina and one of the babies squawking away at each other outside the bedroom window. As we watched, I realized that Papa had food in his beak and was not sharing with the baby.

The rest of this story is anthropomorphism at its best...I imagine that Baby Bird can now find plenty of food for herself. Enough weeks have gone by and it is time for her to catch her own worms. Papa must still be around to help direct and guide, but he was hungry. "Get your own worm." I heard him say. The baby squawked and squawked back in protest. When he wouldn't give, she ran after him with her mouth open--panicked and angry. He calmly kept walking and promptly swallowed the worm.

Months ago in some book on parenting I came across the quote, "I won't do for my child what he can do for himself." (Or something like that...) As someone who has never had a huge need to be 'needed', I appreciated the quote. (Now, a need to be adored, loved, cared for, pampered, listened to, appreciated, understood, heard...yes.)

As my own little bird grows, I realize how hard it is to put this idea into practice. In recent weeks I have just begun to feel the growing pains of parenting. Pains that will continue every day for the rest of our lives and from what I can tell only get stronger and at times more stabbing. It is easy enough to get our babies up and walking...we rejoice in those first milestones. But growth, real growth is harder to encourage. But grow they must. They have to have freedom to fall, fail, flail...and fly. Our stepping in to help them isn't really helpful in the long run.

Now that BB can eat, sleep, talk, move all on his own, the next phases begin. How to truly live. Beneath every simple lesson is a larger one that will shape him into adulthood. Henry isn't a kid that pushes boundaries too much. He is content with most of the constraints put on him. Some constraints are ones any parent would place on their kid, others stem from a father whose own anxiety pushes him to assure a world with no risk for his kids. A fruitless endeavor to be sure. I carry my own set of parental fears, but I bring self awareness to the table and a healthy dose of faith, hope and reality. I am no dare devil but I am brave. Bravery that came from being given the space to experience those four 'f's' I just listed.

But what does happen is, being our first child, I am often slow to realize that he could be doing/trying something new. "Oh, he can sit on a chair verses a highchair." "Oh, he can drink from a big cup." "Oh, he should be learning to ride a trike." "Oh, he can go up and down the playground equipment without plummeting to his death." "Oh, he probably should put his own clothes on." "Oh, yeah...potty training." Over the past two years the list goes on and on.

My mantra of "not doing for him what he can do for himself" is good. It is helpful. It is also exhausting. Two year old pace is sssssssslllllllllloooooooowwwwwwww. I am not a teacher by nature...trying to figure out how to communicate these basic concepts takes work. He is mostly content to let me do it for him. Being consistent in allowing/encouraging him the space to try is hard for me.

But everyday, more and more, he is able to search for his own worms. I believe my job is to let him find them. Putting that belief into action is harder than I ever imagined it to be.

Which, which Mommy?

Conversations I've been having....
Me: Time to get into the car.
BB: Which car?
Our minivan.
Which minivan?
The brown one.
Which brown one?
The one in the garage.
Which garage minivan in?
That one. (I point.)
Which one?
Stop.
Mommy, What we do next?
BB, Let's put your shoe on.
Which shoe?
Your blue sandal?
Which blue sandal?
The one in my hand, now, I want your foot.
Which foot for my blue sandal?
Your left foot.
Which left foot?
This one.
Which one? Mommy, which garage again?

Both DAD and I commented that we feel as if we are on some bad comedy show. We are waiting for a camera to pop out and put us on some realty TV remake of the Abbot and Costello act.

You're the one that I love

Made me laugh. Annebelle is good...not this good, though. :)

Creative Worship Link

Augsburg Fortress is starting a creative worship tour...here is a blog entry about it.

Friends

My friend (facebook and real life) Jennie has a really nice entry on Facebook friendship.

Self Control

I woke convicted that I must dig deep within myself. I need to unearth a new level of self control. So this morning I am telling myself to take the day minute by minute. I can do this.

It isn't food. Not alcohol or drugs. Not coffee. No, my friends it is Facebook. I know, just a few posts ago I expressed my confusion over what it is and what exactly is so magical about it, I know.

But I am addicted.

It involves people. It involves searching through the past for people you once knew. It has the snooping element; you can search through other people's friends. Piece together who knows each other and imagine how they met, how they are connected. You read snippets of their life and can imagine. (I'm a snoop at heart...I confess. And I have a huge imagination.) Plus, people actually use this more than email...I have actually heard from more people (or different people) than I do via email. For someone at home with small children, it lulls you into feeling connected with the outside world. And this alone is a drug one must have...It is addicting.

So, today, NO Facebook. No matter how many notices come to my email box, I will not go over to Facebook. I will not. I will not. I. Will. Not.

I know what you're thinking. I said nothing about Blogging or email--so don't judge me. ;)

And Then the Nest was Empty.

Well, almost.

Oh, they grow up so fast. Seems like just last week they were bald ugly and their eyes were all bulging and closed. Thanks to the tireless efforts of Mama and Papa Robin the birds are off. And they are cute!
This morning as I went to let the dog out and much to my surprise there sat one of the babies on our patio table. She was all proud and puffed up. Mama, true to form, was hopping around in an anxious fit on the ground near by. Eventually the baby bird decided to show off for me and took off FLYING to the next tree. I was so proud.

I'm not sure how the family dynamics go with The Robins but the other bird was still huddled in the nest. Perhaps waiting for permission from Mama and Papa. "Wait your turn. She hatched first. Life isn't fair. Get use to it. You both got plenty of worms--I don't want to hear about it."

I'm sure this one will get a crack at life out of the nest, too. This has been a fascinating event to watch.

p.s. from the top photo you'll notice that Big Boy's lettuce crop is doing well.

Do I Look My Age?

I left Oprah in the kitchen remaking women so they looked their age (with Oprah's resources remaking them, I hope they look good at the end...reality isn't quite that easy....) to check my email. I came across this blog entry from Jenell Paris.

http://jenellparis.blogspot.com/

Read her post, Disguises. She could be writing about me in the last two paragraphs. Made me laugh out loud in solidarity.

I don't get it.

Facebook.

I was never part of the 'in' crowd. I never attended one event in high school that could legitimately be described as a 'party'. I did fine as I progressed through college and now feel my social skills are well honed. But perhaps it is these latent HS feelings of inadequacy that made me sign up for Facebook yesterday.

I learned that most of my cousins and all of my siblings were communicating (without me there to monitor the conversation) on Facebook and I just had to be apart of it.

Sure, it was great fun to set up my account and post a photo. I found a few friends that were also signed up and I laughed as throughout the day I received email notices like this one...

"Robroy and Heather are now friends."

Well, I thought we had that established years ago, but whatever. :) And I did get to IM with my sister, so that was a neat feature.

But at the end of the day, old as this may make me sound, I don't get it. Can't we just keep in contact with each other via email? Or phone? Or the US Postal system?

Someone explain, please.

New Life

This past week I discovered something more tiring than being a mom...being a Robin Mama.

A few weeks ago a nice Robin couple made a nest in the pine tree right outside our kitchen window. Pretty soon three perfect, blue eggs showed up. We watched and wondered how they would do. Henry was so excited. While he had no idea what it meant for eggs to 'hatch' he got the gist that it was a special event. I began to worry that this might also turn into Henry's first taste of the big cruel world of nature. I so wanted the eggs to hatch and the birds to live.

Proving that we mothers are a competitive bunch, I began to second guess the Robin Mama's moves.

"Should you really leave the nest so often?"
"Are the eggs warm enough?"
"Awfully windy today, hope you built that nest well."
"Was it smart to build your nest so close to our house?"

Last Wednesday I noticed some movement in the nest and sure enough, there were three baby birds crying out for food. (the photo is not of our baby birds but rather some in PA at Jenell Paris' home)

All weekend we watched with fascination as the Robin family attended to their babies needs. It made me tired. Apparently worms are digested even faster than breast milk. She no sooner feeds them than she flies off to find another worm or grub. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. At least I know how she loses the baby weight.

Obviously parents both of us, our nest multiplied as Chad and I unconsciously check on the birds and report back to each other. "She's feeding them again." "She's got a big grub this time." "Oh, nice worm." "They are awake."

We have tried to respect their space but Sunday I just had to plant some flowers. My own babies were in the house with their Dad and I had some luxurious time to myself. Mama Robin watched me the whole time. As I dug in the soil, just out of my peripheral vision I could see this little bird hopping around in a nervous fit; a fresh worm or grub hanging from her beak.

So our flowers are planted a little denser on one side of the flowerbed and there are weeds under only one tree. I worked as fast as I could.

I feel for her, I really do. These kids are exhausting. At least mine are cute.

Doing Motherhood

Yet today, tomorrow and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem. Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! Luke 13:33-34

The mom's group at my church leads a early childhood class for mothers who attend the alternative high school in our area. This morning a small group of women from our group gathered at church to organize and put together gift bags and resource binders we'll give the students in a few weeks.

I arrived too late to help with one group and just on time to work with the second group. Being a true Minnesota Lutheran, even though I was running late, I also felt a need to bring coffee and baked goods. (It is as if I was raised to believe that sweets and coffee are the third sacrament.) So there we were, united in our effort to support these younger moms.

We joked about who had showered (not I said the fly) and most of us sucked down coffee with the passion; or was it desperation?; of any good addict. Our kids played, cried, laughed, bossed each other around, screamed, ate, and walked/ran around the building with the familiarity of children who identify as much with the church as with their home.

Seemingly we don't have much in common with these young students. For the most part we differ in age, race, economics, upbringing, education, and marital status. By the grace of God our lives look much different than theirs.

But we are all mothers. Whether we wanted to be or not, whether it fit our schedule or turned out how we thought it would, we are mothers. No matter what else we need to figure out in life, we share a call to raise up our children; part of our lives are now lived beyond ourselves.

I love the image of Jesus as a mother hen. He likened himself not to the rooster but to the nurturing hen. The one whose chief purpose is to watch out for her chicks. The one who protects her own by fluffing herself up and stretching out her wings--clucking at her kids to get under her and then sitting on them for their own good. Then she puts her own body between her chicks and the fox. Denying herself so that they might have a fighting chance at a whole life. Dying for them if she must.

Barbara Brown Taylor writes, "...perhaps this is why we call the church, "Mother Church." It is where we come to be fed and sheltered, but it is also where we come to stand firm with those who need the same things from us. It is where we grow from chicks into chickens, by giving what we have received, by teaching what we have learned, and by loving the way we ourselves have been loved--by a mother hen who would give his life to gather us under his wings."

And so at least for me, I gathered my two chicks (by gather, I mean threw them in the car-one without shoes, the other hungry and in her pajamas. I went back for the shoes and she got food.) got sustenance and plopped them in the nursery because, for the sake of my chicks, I want my outstretched arms to extend beyond my own brood.

The students who will receive the binders and goody bags will never know what was going on in our lives as we put them together. They may look at them and never put them to use. They may be too overwhelmed to even open them. But it is our way of extending grace...we are mothers and stretching out our arms is what we do.

I give great thanks for a group of women who model this grace; the ones on this journey of motherhood with me. The ones who continually remind me of the One who opened his arms for me, and through their lives encourage me to open my own arms wider.

Art of Schmoozing

Schmoozing 101

For anyone who wants to help their congregation/small group grow, here are some tips. Although, my friend Jennie has proclaimed the "less chairs" at a party tip for sometime. :)

Awe...needed food for my soul

My devotion for the morning. Watch to the end. While I don't think God is a white male, God may in fact have an Irish accent in my mind. :)
It came from Mary Hess's blog.

Like Sex and the City*...

but so not.

Given my propensity for living in a fantasy world and the build up in my mind to a pedicure scheduled for Saturday, you would have thought I was to be in an episode of SATC: A Day At The Spa--season 6 episode 30. A warm Saturday in spring. Nails so in need of color. Heals in need of exfoliation. Time just for me. My life will change. All will be perfect and whole.

But even my active imagination couldn't overcome the reality that in this episode I was wearing a kinda clean sweat suit and 10 year old Tevas while driving a beige Honda minivan to a strip mall in "anywhere" America. So, it was just like an episode, but without the cute shoes, beautiful designer clothes, wild atmosphere or sassy friends. (ok, I have sassy friends, they just weren't with me.) That's leaves me staring in, what? Something About Ramond.

But oddly uncomfortable talk about topics one shouldn't discuss in public...oh, yeah that was there.

Of course my excitement wasn't just about the pedicure. It had more to do with relaxing for over an hour without kids or husband. I left the house with enough time to get an iced tea and arrive at the spa early so that I could smell the Aveda essential oils..allowing them to take me back to Grand Ave. in St. Paul and those carefree days. (when I was so stressed I needed a spa treatment once a month.)

All was going well. My nail lady (what do you call them?) looked ok. The other women seemed nice. Sure no one offered me lemon infused water or a magazine but I settled in. Ok, she didn't let me soak very long and the water was luke warm. The lady next to me began to take cell phone calls and no one said anything. The nail ladies began to gossip (to put it kindly) about co-workers and clients. I began to tune out. When I tuned back in the group was talking about who among the staff did Brazilian waxes. (If you don't know what it is...I'm not going to outright say so you have to live in the dark or ask a girlfriend.) For the next half an hour I was regaled with stories about the women who come in for this procedure and the men who love them. Some want a heart. Others a landing strip. Then there was talk of the undergarments you wear. I will stop right there. You think on this.

While I am not a prude, (after all I do watch, eh hem, I mean own, dvds of SATC.) I am just naive enough to pretend this type of thing really does just go on in New York City on the set of a tv show. I did not need to know any of this information about my neighbors in middle America. I am a visual person...too much, people. TOO. MUCH.

Sigh. My nails look cute, but all this talk really distracted my young nail lady and she didn't come anywhere close to my massage or relaxation expectations. I can chalk it up entertaining. And it got my mind off of the amount of diapers filling our landfills, the plastic in the bottles slowly killing my children and the unhealthy nitrates we are getting in our lunch meats each noon. In other words, it helped me escape reality and perhaps provide some healthy perspective. Maybe it did all it needed to do.

*My apologizes to those of you who are shocked to learn I own SATC. I watch for the shoes. :)

Prayer

Jenell Paris has an entry, titled Lessons, on prayer, here.

Living the Encore

Growing up there was always someone clapping for me. Supportive parents, enthusiastic grandparents, siblings, aunts and uncles, family friends; you name it I had a cheering section. I also grew up to a be an athlete. One that did pretty well in high school and college, so I got very use to ribbons and medals. I lived in a small town so I also got use to newspaper articles about my teams and photos of us in the paper.

This was not necessarily a good thing in the long term...as I grew up people stopped handing me medals for the things I did. Of course, I still knew where I stood as professors handed out test grades and comments on my papers. A variety of bosses had progress reports and reviews of my work.

When I began my first call it became clear that I would need to stop relying on others affirmation to know how I had done that Sunday. Some people will say "Good sermon, Pastor." to anything you say and others will never utter a word, even if you are moving their soul like no one ever has before (a girl can dream). No one handed out medals. I had to dig a little deeper to sustain my self esteem and judge the merit of my contribution. Over the years I think I got the hang of it...

then came motherhood. There are no medals here. What exactly would a gold look like? A day with no tears, all smiles and hugs, lots of "yes, mommy, that's a great idea." Children that joyfully realized I have more to do than read, Curious George Lands his Aircraft on Mars and Finds a Pond to Go Fishing In, one more time and that I really can't get the imaginary purple cat named Jude off of the refrigerator...(It just won't move, so stop crying.) But I digress... No one would raise their voices. No one would throw things. The word 'no' would actually never appear.

There aren't medals or ribbons being handed out and no journalists are at my door wondering how I train for such an event. This is the hard reality of life, isn't it? :) Wouldn't it be easier to get up in the morning when there is a chance your performance might be noticed and applauded. (or even some helpful advice on how to do better tomorrow would be nice.)

Enter a little story from Sunday's sermon: A conductor was rehearsing with a lackluster orchestra. After a few attempts at the piece he stopped the group and told them to play it again, only this time play it as if it were an encore performance. Play it as if the crowd was already clapping.

In all honestly, I don't know where our pastor fit this in to his sermon or where he went after he told this story...(we had a pretzel situation going on in our pew) but I realized this was how we are to live. Waking up each day to our own encore performance. As children of God we are reminded that God is already clapping for us, waiting for us to play our hearts out. Trust that we have been claimed as God's own. We are loved. We are forgiven. We are being equipped for our days.

Most days it is hard to praise ourselves. You can't count on family or friends or spouses to hand out awards every day. Toddlers and infants are usually mute on the subject, but God isn't. God has made his preference known and we come out ahead.

Time for me to cook dinner. Big Boy has woken up and is alternately screaming his newest phrases, "I need help Mommy." and "What next Mommy?" Baby girl will need food soon. But today at least I have tried to hear God clapping. You're doing it, Heather Louise...just keep living the encore.

Inviting

When you give a feast, invite the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed because they cannot repay you.” Luke 14:13-14

I woke to the basketball slamming into the rim of the hoop each morning. Each and every morning—without fail—Steve would miss his first toss of the day. BAM! With this welcome to the day, I would troop out to the kitchen and start the coffee. This was my ritual while I worked in West Virginia. I was the Volunteer Coordinator, and a volunteer, thus had housing in the same building as the high school and college students who rotated through the Volunteer Center each week. I did have my own apartment, which helped provide some escape.

But I could never escape Steve’s game of “horse” or “pig.” If I wasn’t being asked to be a part of the round the clock game, I was listening to the shouts, slams, yelps and dribbling of the game.

Steve was not a volunteer. He lived in the community Habitat served. His parents were gone—either they had died or abandoned him—I never quite knew. He lived with his grandparents. He was deaf and lived with a few other birth defects. Thankfully, one of my co-workers knew sign language and this gift added communication to what otherwise could have been painfully silent and frustrating months.

Most of my time in West Virginia was spent cleaning up after a flood that had ripped through the river valley. Steve’s home which sat right near the river, had been, by most of our standards, a shack . It was insulated with stacks of old newspaper and cardboard boxes. A smoky wood stove heated the room. It had plastic sheeting for windows. When he wasn't shooting hoops, Steve slept at the Volunteer Center during the day. Each week we needed to tactfully explain to the new groups that it wasn't that he was extraordinarily lazy, but that at night Steve stayed awake armed with a bb gun to shoot the rats that ran through the house. He said it was hard to sleep as they climbed over him and he wanted to keep them off his grandparents.

Everyone in town knew of Steve. Most didn’t want to get to know him.

One night the volunteers and my co-workers were invited to the home of local family for dinner. We loaded into vans and headed “in to town” a few miles away. We were showered and excited to be in a real home with real food that we hadn’t made. It was a simple, yet blessed treat. We were graciously welcomed. We were given appetizers and comfortable couches to settle into. As we were laughing and chatting about the past days work, the doorbell rang. Our guest opened it to find a person she had probably never even thought to speak to, let alone host in her house.

She audibly gasp and just stood there. It seemed like a bad movie or at least bad acting. My heart dropped and I looked at my co-worker. John whispered that he had told Steve where we were going for dinner. Steve must have misunderstood and thought that he had been invited to dinner as well.

While it seemed like we all sat there for hours waiting for our host to say something, it took her a minute to catch her breath and ask, “What do you want?” Of course Steve did not completely understand her words—although there was no misunderstanding her body language.

Then in the most gracious of acts, a young high school woman jumped up from across the room and swooped in. “Welcome, Steve,” she said as she took his hand.

Looking at our host she said, “This is my friend Steve. I invited him to dinner, too. I hope you don’t mind.” She gave a beautiful and sincere smile to our host and walked Steve into the living room.

“Invite the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed because they cannot repay you”, we are told. It seems to me the poor, the maimed, the lame; the blind are not just other people. We too fit those categories. Not only have we all had social moments when we feel desperately out of place and un-welcomed, we are also broken people—mind, body and soul—we long to be welcomed and loved.

With gracious love God has swooped in and saved us. We are claimed. We are loved. We are forgiven.

To a world that may at times, seem harsh, mean spirited, and out to get us, God has told the world, “This is my friend, this is my child. I invited them to the party. I will take care of them.”

Thanks be to God that the world does not play host…God does and does so in the most gracious of ways. God invites all to the party—knowing full well we could never repay the hospitality given to us. We cannot repay God but I think we could respond as Steve did to his host.

As Steve received the Coke someone handed him and slowly sat down in plush, warm chair, he looked back up at the young woman, and with his eyes, his hands and his mouth, said “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

Seeds of Growth

My mom sent out an article today on potatoes and how they are becoming increasing popular as food costs soar. Potatoes hold a special place in my family's heart. They are the pride and joy not only of the Red River Valley of ND but my Grandpa Henry boasted their goodness as well. Grandpa also build steel buildings across ND, ID and WA...most of which held potatoes. Today Henry and I planted lettuce seeds in a small pot. These two events reminded me of a newsletter article I wrote nearly 6 years ago for my congregation. As the spring planting gets started and Henry and I watch our lettuce plants, I remember my Grandpa Henry and give thanks once again for all that he taught me.

I hope June and July have been good months for you. They have gone by fast for me. I had all these grand plans for the summer and here it is mid-July with barely one started.

Some of these projects weren't ones anyone would know about except me. (You know: become more forgiving, enjoy life more, be thankful...things like this.) They were little personal goals. Which are often, not the kind of goals that I like. You can’t really measure them. You can’t calculate them or even point to their progress.

I like to see things. I like to tangibly know that progress has been made. That’s perhaps why I am enjoying my garden so much this summer. Each day I know it is growing. I know when the bugs have gotten to it. I can tell when the bugs are gone. I can see progress when I weed. I know when it needs water. I like all this about a garden.

This past week our Gospel text was Matthew 13:1-9. In the parable, a sower goes out to sow some seed. When I planted my garden I was blessed with help from my grandparents. My grandpa has a certain way he likes to plant a garden. “Precision” doesn’t quite fully explain it. We measured and planned. We stopped short of getting out the level to see if the rows were straight. We made perfect circles for the cucumbers. The tomatoes and peppers are evenly spaced. We didn’t waste or lose one seed.

In Matthew’s Parable of the Sower, God, The Sower, doesn’t plant seed quite the same way as my grandpa. God seems to throw out the seed willy-nilly all over the soil. Truthfully, it seems a little wasteful. Some of the seed falls on rocky soil and some falls on good soil. Birds eat some of it; the hot sun consumes other seeds.

I have this image of God standing in the fields of our life with a huge, bottomless bag of seed—seed that is God’s Word of love, mercy, forgiveness and hope—and with an overflowing handful, God begins to spin. As God spins the Word is sent out all over our lives. It falls in every nook and corner. Not all of it will take root just now. We are made up of all sorts of soil—some ready for planting, some too rough and hard to take seed yet. God seems to know this and God doesn’t seem to think it is wasteful at all to keep heaping on the love and scattering hope. Over and over again God keeps replanting our lives with his gracious love.

I’m glad God isn’t quite the type of gardener I’m use to. If I had to wait for my heart and soul to be good soil before God planted it—I’d be a desolate plot of land. There’d be no growth.

No, God keeps sending out gracious love, knowing that sometime, somewhere the Word will take root and we will continue to grow.

Some days, I wish this growth was quicker or more visible…but mostly I give thanks to God that you and I are loved and forgiven in spite of our rough terrain. Thankfully, God keeps on spinning.

Do Me a Favor...

Because I'm me and it is killing me not to know who all is reading this,
humor me, please. Leave a comment if you read this...just your initials will do.

:)

Don't You Have a Daughter?

Why, yes, there is a new baby in our house. Not surprisingly though most, to all, of our attention remains on 'Big Boy' aka Henry. Because he has not grasped the finer points of "no" and "gentle," Henry and Emily are not in the same room at the same time unless one of them is confined to a chair (H) or held (E).

This weekend Emily spent some time in her chair in the hallway as Henry had run of the main rooms. At some point during a Saturday made up of laundry, tax conversations, budget talks, paperwork sorting, child and self care, Chad informed Henry that this type of thing never happened to Henry during his, oldest-child-pampered-life. Both Chad and I felt a brief need to call our siblings and apologize for any harm we may have done to them as oldest children--either physically or psychologically.

So, how is Emily?

She's very, very easy.

She sleeps and eats pretty well...mostly sleeps for 3 to 4 hours at night. (Although there have been too many two hour shifts for my liking.)

She is pretty serious about life. She almost looks grumpy but I think she is just contemplative.

Because she is big for her age I have to remind myself that she's just 6 weeks old, but she also just looks wise. As if she already knows 'stuff.'

She also thinks she is older than she is...pushing up to a stand on our laps, pushing off our chests with her arms, trying to roll over to her tummy with her feet..she's got places to go.

This weekend she began to smile at us (laugh at ?) and it was so much fun. Her whole face lights up and she gives us this gummy grin.

Her eyes are a steel-blue and getting larger. She is losing what hair she had. It is, rather was, dark.

Over the last few days she had begun to stay awake longer...just hanging out.

She coos.

She SPITS UP like no other...I go through 3 or more t-shirts a day. It just flies out of her mouth.

She also chokes on her food and scares me as she turns red trying to cough it all up.

As Henry says, "My baby, tute." (Cute.) Yes, yes she is. We love her and give thanks she's here among us. (Even if it is in the hallway.)

How Are You?

One word.

Tired.

Ok, two...

VERY Tired.

Missing a Generation

This morning, a very cute English couple in their 80's held the door for me, my stroller and my two year old as we entered a coffee shop. They walked with canes and spoke with wonderfully intoxicating English accents. The man asked Henry his name right off and while Henry said it, he whispers so softly that even if he could say "Henry" in an intelligible way, the man never would have heard it. So, I repeated it. The man immediately said, "Wonderful," he knew a Henry the Fourth back in England. A bond was formed.

After we paid for our coffee, cinnamon crunch bagels, and one cream cheese Henry chose a seat very near the couple. It became very clear that they were regulars to the coffee shop and that the man was use to "holding court." Many people stopped to chat with him and those who didn't were drawn into the conversation whether they came with their laptops to enter virtual conversations or chat with the flesh and blood people across from them.

The man had a new topic to address during his rein this morning..Henry, the Second as he was dubbed. He introduced Henry to everyone and my dear son dutifully smiled and shook a few hands. Eventually conversation drew the couple's attention away from us and we began to eat our bagels.

Henry loves to spread his cream cheese by himself. "Me do." And so I let him try. I also let him eat gobs of his cream cheese right off the knife. Today, the "man across the way" looked up just as Henry was about to stick the knife in his mouth. "Henry, that's not how we use knives...you'll cut your mouth," he bellowed over to us.
Henry stopped mid bite. Put the knife down in utter shock and looked up at me. Then he began to whimper. "Why man? Why man?"

Why did the man correct me? Why did the man notice? Why did the man care?

Now, there are plenty of situations where I would have been ticked off by a complete stranger parenting my child, but somehow I was touched and relieved that someone else became the 'heavy' this time. Because let's face it, we aren't suppose to eat cream cheese off our knives. (Gobs of straight cream cheese aren't great for us in general..) It is a lesson he'll have to learn and it probably is best he doesn't learn it by cutting his mouth. And let's be even more honest, I haven't corrected him because it keeps him quiet, allowing me time to get a sip of coffee and a bite of bagel.

I realized that this is what parenting must have been like generations ago..back when people spoke up for everyone's children. For better or worse you got parenting from all adults, not just those who gave birth to you. I also realized the power that a different accent, walking with a cane, wrinkly skin and wild gray hair can have on a young child. At least in Henry's case he paid attention. And Henry rarely pays attention to harsh critique or correction. (He's all about redirection and finding the positive...any rebuff or harsh word is met with deaf ears and a closed mind.) He stopped eating with his knife, casting a quick glance at the man each time he spread his cream cheese on the bagel.

When we finished, Henry took a sticker over to the man and placed it on his coat sleeve. A huge smile from both of them, and a good-bye hand shake, ended the visit. I looked up at the clock and took note of the time of day. Perhaps we'll pop in again around 10:30am next week, the help was much appreciated.

Teaching the Language of Religion

Pastor Pam Fickenscher wrote this entry a few months ago on her blog...I really liked her thoughts comparing teaching/introducing religion to teaching a language, and wanted to "save" it somewhere,

"Brain, Child (a literary magazine on parenting) this quarter featured a funny but ultimately unsatisfying piece by Moncia Crumback, who discovered that her son’s grandparents were plotting a secret baptism. Mother and father met at a Lutheran college and left that institution “a lot more liberal and a lot less Lutheran.” (I understand that those two “L’s” don’t go together in some people’s minds, but it irritates me that this sentence prompts no further explanation).

As a pastor, I have seen all too often how grandparently zeal for “getting it done” can overwhelm any meaningful conversation in the family about what baptism means, or the parents' religious intentions for their children. I applaud the Cumbacks' recognition that, given their own lack of commitment to Christianity, they have no business baptizing a child. We pastors really don’t want anyone to be put in the position of lying to themselves, their family, or to God.

On the other hand, I find the author’s description of their spiritual plans for their children less than honest. They will expose their children to the stories of a variety of faiths, they say, and when their children are grown “they can choose.” I have heard this approach defended many a time, often from people who are equally clear that they would be appalled if their child grew up to, say, drive a Hummer or join the Republican party.

Let’s be honest. To expose your child to a lot of “stories” and “philosophies,” but no living community of faith or ritual practice, is to instill in your child a quasi-religious philosophy, namely one of secular skepticism. While it’s entirely possible that such children will grow to some day commit themselves heart and soul to a traditional religious faith, they would not be following in their parents’ footsteps as they do so – and odds are good that such a conversion would cause family tension. Their children will indeed choose, but their parents have made a clear bid for what they hope that choice will be.

Religion, ultimately, is a very human endeavor, a bit like language. I know some very committed interfaith families, but they work very hard at teaching their children more than one language of faith – and that includes interaction with community, holiday celebration, Scriptures, and ritual practice like worship. It is the difference between raising a child bilingually and saying you will expose them to a half-dozen languages and let them pick one later on.
I appreciate the respect the church is granted when people are honest to God. Let’s just be completely honest that non-belief is also passed down."

Balancing the Calls

As someone who has made a decision to take a "sabbatical" from full time pastoral ministry while my kids are very young, I found this article of interest. The author writes that this choice..."is a clearer, more definite answer to the issue of pastor-motherhood. To keep home and family at home, separate from work and public life sets a compelling and straight-forward boundary for the contemporary family." That's me, compelling and straight-forward. Ha! But, she goes on to say, she doesn't want to put her ministry on hold. She also goes on to demand many things that any woman who has a career and children want...society to allow us space to balance these demands.

It wasn't that I wanted to put my pastoral ministry on hold. I've had to explain to many a (sorry, but true, male) colleague that I haven't lost my sense of Call but rather it is just, to be honest, what I felt God was calling me to do at that time and place. It didn't feel better for 'me' and my goals, but it felt right for some larger picture. It was a leap of faith like any we take in life. But then, I tend to divide my life into compartments--Right now I do X, The next phase will be Y. And am chaotic enough in my own being that the idea of balancing all the demands of those people made me break out in hives. (babies, husband, family, and THEN on top of that...congregational members...uff da.)

Because I've never been a mother who had a call in a church, the idea of being judged by a congregation on my parenting as well as my preaching added a new dimension of...what, fear, annoyance, to the mix. I tend to think that the church is called to be counter cultural. We speak of 'family time' and valuing the spiritual gifts of everyone. We lament that families don't have time for church, we decry the state of parent /child relationships in today's fast paced world. But I wonder, as the author does, if we do any better in supporting clergy in their personal lives. If we did we could show everyone a different way to live. Which is part of what we are suppose to be about, right?

Those of you out there...how are we doing?

Sneaking Jesus...

Confession time. I’ve been sneaking BB tiny pieces of my communion bread for about nine months.

I'm quite the rebel, aren’t I?

I don’t know why this is considered rebellious behavior, but it feels like it is where we worship. In my pastoral roles it has been the ‘norm’ to offer the meal of grace to all the baptized. It was up to the parents as to whether their child took communion, and as it turned out most kids over the age of three held out their hands for the bread on Sunday mornings. In third grade everyone went through a (First) Communion class and we went deeper into the meaning and history of the sacrament.

The argument against inviting children to communion never holds up for me. “We’ve never done it that way before.” “I didn’t get communion until I was Confirmed.” "They haven't been through a class." “They aren’t old enough to know what is happening/understand/hold it sacred enough…”

I’m not out to make a huge scene or completely stomp on other people’s communion piety. I’m not advocating mashing up bread and juice for infants. I wouldn’t give it to Henry if he was in a rotten mood and prone to throw it on to the ground. Parents need to teach what communion is, model its importance and know their child.

But I happen to believe that God meant the sacrament to be for all the baptized. If we are going to baptize them, we should offer them food for their faith journey.

This week BB added “church” to his list of pretend play. We has been cooking, building fire trucks and playing baseball for quite awhile, but this week he began processing around the living room with paper towel rolls and calling it a cross. He has started to shake our hands and offer the greeting, "Peace, Mommy." "Peace, Daddy." "Peace, Enemy." And yesterday out of the blue he came over to me, reached up to my mouth with two pinched fingers and said, “bdyftrist.” I didn’t get it at first and as I racked my brain trying to decipher “Henry speak” it hit me… “Body of Christ.” Nothing like reducing your mom to tears as she catches up on the mail.

Tonight, as I was trying to make dinner, and feed EG all the while trying to keep BB from “vacuuming” up his sister with his pretend vacuum for the 11th time, my voice got a little loud as I ordered him out of the kitchen. He went to his play-kitchen, fiddled with some cereal boxes and came back to me with his little pinched fingers reaching up to me, “bdyfrist, Mommy.”

Of course you know I want to make the case that this has some large theological meaning--that BB was offering me forgiveness and mercy in my weak moment. Perhaps, even reminding me of God's ultimate grace and mercy. Relax, it may have been a sign of grace but I also know that he could have offered me pretend pancakes just as easily. What all of this new 'play' does show me is that somehow his faith life is developing. He is beginning to understand that what happens at the altar is important. That he is a part of it. That it, is life changing.

That whatever 'it' is, it might help you out when you’ve gotten yourself into some trouble. "bdyfrist" for Mother and Son.

Just Getting Around to Lent

Some of you who read this blog, also read Bread and Wine as a Lenten Devotional. Here is a link to discussion on the book.

I highlighted this quote as well...

"Truth to Tell" -- Barbara Brown Taylor

This essay is full of quotable quotes, the kind that cause you to wince. Here's one:

A cross and nails are not always necessary. There are a thousand ways to kill him, some of them as obvious as choosing where you will stand when the showdown between the weak and the strong comes along, others of them as subtle as keeping your mouth shut when someone asks you if you know him.

You Don't Just Leave...

As the brouhaha over Sen. Obama's pastor, Rev. Jeremiah Wright, and the Democratic race continues on...I wish I was around people who could talk in complete sentences but alas, that is not my current audience. So I share some thoughts here, with...hum, myself.

I find it to be so telling of our society that the media (and Sen. Clinton) felt the only option Sen. Obama had was to leave the church. As if congregational life was all about the pastor. As if church was a movie that we get up from and leave in the middle of if the tone and message doesn't suit us. In most of the congregations that I have been apart of, the members hang in there, sometimes in spite of the pastor, knowing that the priesthood is much larger than just the pastor. Hop over to Trinity United Church of Christ and you'll see a whole lot of reasons why one might be a member there. You'll also note that at TUCC there are many more pastors to guide one on their spiritual journey besides Rev. Wright.

Take note of these comments as well:
Rev. Martin Marty says this about Rev. Wright.
And Mary Hess has a number of other very interesting links--scroll down a few entries.

As an aside, I sat next to Rev. Wright during the taping of Sen. Obama's first visit to the Oprah show. I wouldn't jump right to "warm and pastoral" in describing him. But hey, I was just the wide eyed kid in a pink jacket asking about 'hope' in her first television appearance.

How's Big Boy?

People are constantly asking "How's Big Boy?"
You tell me...
*He's spent some time hurling his Fisher Price people around the room. I felt sure he was aiming at me specifically.
*He stutters "No, no, no, no" before most sentences...whether it ends up he means 'no' or not.
*He wants to feed his bear via his belly button.
*He is also very bossy about which shoulder Chad should put the burp cloth on when holding Emily. (It is the right side, just so you don't make the same mistake.)
*His timeouts are getting pretty frequent as we work on 'no throwing" and "no hitting." Lucky for him, he has a mother who understands what it feels like to have so much pent up emotion you just HAVE to hit, throw, yell or bite. :) (We get over it. Eventually.)
*He is very quick to get the Boppy when I sit down to feed Emily.
*He pronounces her name as "Enemy." (Or Enema.)
*He nods when people ask if he likes his baby sister. (Why do people ask a two year old this? What's he going to say? And what are they going to say should he say, "No. She's ruined my life.)
*He delights in giving her kisses. Good 'delights' and two-year old rascal 'delights.'

Lent 2008...Just Giving up.

Lent Five Years Ago:
I took up daily trips to the gym and gave up lunch on Wednesdays. (I don't know why, I just did.)

I spent weeks before Ash Wednesday planning mid-week Lenten services.

Created altar cloth and other 'arty' projects with youth from our congregation.

Worshiped each Wednesday, spent the week studying Biblical texts and reading devotional material.

Holy Week was just that--Holy. Each day was rich in meaning and I took time to pray and reflect.

Spent Holy Saturday night in nervous anticipation for Easter and the celebration awaiting us.
Easter was alive and wonderful--new life seemed possible.

Beyond all my church activities, my house also reflected Lent and the Easter season. I took down many decorations and set out simple meditative displays for Lent. For Easter, I set up some bunny paraphernalia, but also signs of 'new life' and bright baptismal themes were scattered around.

Lent and Easter Now:
First of all, tomorrow is EASTER? Huh??

Lenten services attended: ZERO

Lenten devotionals read: One...but I only read the authors I knew and loved. I read 5 chapters in one sitting and then let it lie next to my bed for the next five weeks.

I gave up nothing and made no move to "take up" anything either.

Maundy Thursday passed me right by, I remembered it actually happened by a reference to it during the Good Friday service.

On Good Friday I did take the kids to an event at church. I spent the time in holy reflection of how loud my two week old is when she eats and self flagellation over how incapable I was of watching my 2 year old. I did give sincere thanks for the body of Christ that took care of Henry during the event.

I also spent Good Friday at the mall, with a disturbing number of other people I might add...
I could justify my presence by attempting to explain why I like Carter's onesies (sold at department stores) better than the ones at they have at Target, but I won't go there. I SPENT GOOD FRIDAY AT A MALL people..."Father forgive them for they know not what they do" comes to mind.

Holy Saturday was spent making up a grocery list for Chad, wondering just when time nap-time could humanely start and reflecting on how the "honeymoon" phase of life with two kids might be nearing an end.

Tomorrow we will attend church, eat a ham and hopefully say a prayer of thanks for God's gift of new life. The house isn't decorated. I have nothing to wear to church. I've done nothing to explain the significance of the day to my son. My heart is no where near prepared for the mystery and gift of Easter, but never has there been a year where I give greater thanks for a God who knew my heart would never be ready for such a gift and gave Himself for that very reason. Perhaps the main point of the season hasn't completely escaped me.
He is Risen!
He is Risen, Indeed!! Amen.