Purists and Potterers

Despite my best efforts, a rosebush planted this spring in the backyard of the parsonage has died.  Now, when I purchased this one, it was part of a multiple purchase of roses.  Some were climbers I had bought before and knew took little care and would grow well.  Others were what are called "knock-out" roses, bred to be easy to grow and with little trouble.  Another were called "Peggy Norman" roses--so hardy that they were still blooming and thriving after Hurricane Katrina and have been propagated multiple times, with the sellers donating money for continued rebuilding in New Orleans.  I splurged on a ground rose that I figured would cover a really bare area and look good.  Then, with my cart nearly full, I passed a set of extremely aromatic yellow/peach colored roses that caught both eye and nose.  

The informational sign promised exquisite flowers and enticing aroma and I just couldn't resist.  It was also delicate and demanded a lot of care, which it didn't get.  And so it died.

Now, not too long after I purchased those mostly easy care rosebushes, I read an article by a real rose professional, a purist where roses are concerned.  He turned up his nose at the kind of roses I had bought.  They were too easy to grow, he contended, and they lacked the spectacular aroma of some of the far more difficult and demanding ones, the one he cultivated.  

He is right, of course.  I don't have the highly aromatic roses, because the one that would have provided that is now dead.  In truth, I'm just a potterer, and most definitely not a purist where my garden is concerned.  I potter around the yard and flowerbeds because it is wonderful exercise and great for my soul.  I love watching seeds come up and seedlings take root and grow.  I'm totally delighted in the unbelievable taste of my homegrown tomatoes.  My dogs have also discovered how good they are, so it now becomes a morning race to see who can get to them first.  I don't begrudge them their treat--there are plenty for all of us.  My kitchen counter is covered right now with lovely yellow squash and I made some delicious marinara sauce recently using my abundantly producing basil and oregano plants.  But those are my victories.  There are lots of defeats.  I've yet to grow an edible cucumber, and my peppers just don't have good flavor or texture.  I routinely kill bedding plants and weeds are really getting the better of me in some of the landscape beds.  

I could do all of this better, with more skill and more attention, doing a far better job fertilizing, spraying, searching out new and even more difficult plants, and studying horticultural principles.  But being a potterer is good enough for me.  It nurtures; it provides; it gives me great pleasure.

Many of us have heard the statement, "If it is worth doing, it is worth doing well." While that sentiment may push people to excellence, to "purity,"  it has has kept many from trying things, because they knew they couldn't do something well.  Years ago, someone said this, "If it is worth doing, it is worth doing poorly."  Such words seem shocking, but I think make more sense.  If it is worth doing, then it is worth trying to do it--even if we don't do it particularly well.  We may get better at it; we may not.  But we lose a lot more by not trying than by going ahead and giving a shot at it, even if we muck it up.  What would I have lost if I did not at least try to grow some things?  Again, I'm really not a particularly good gardener--but the joy from this!

Sometimes I wonder if people stay away from exploring their spiritual lives and their relationship with God because too many purists have scared them away.  "Your worship and prayer must look like this!"  "You must believe exactly like I do!"  "You've left the straight and narrow.  God will get you for that."  "Here's your list--be sure each item is checked off daily.  Otherwise you won't grow spiritually."  

It might be a good thing just to be a potterer in the spiritual life.  Taste it, try it, make mistakes, explore the possibilities, run into some dead ends, and find the joy in the experience. Let us leave the fear behind of not being a "purist" or doing it well, and just see what happens. Remember that the potterer is the same thing as an amateur--one who does the task or plays the game or performs for the love of the experience--not the pay or status or other rewards.  The blessing is in the doing--and its all worth a try.

The Snake and I

So what is it about snakes?  Actually, what is it about words that start with an "sn"?  Like sneer, snail, snark, snoop, snit, snot, snippy, snafu, snaggle, snare, snarl, sneeze, sniffles, snipe, snivel, snicker, sneak, snore, snort, snitch, sniff, and probably lots more that don't just pop into my mind right now?  As for snakes in particular--there is one currently inhabiting the back yard of the parsonage.  I know it is going after the toads, which I want back there because they eat insects.  I hope it is also eating the mice, which I also know are there because occasionally the dogs will catch one and play with it.  

And it creeps me out.

It's just a three foot long black snake.  I know it is not interested in me, but I still leap in shock when I reach into a flower bed to pull weeds and it comes slithering out.  I don't want to accidentally touch it.  Just gives me the shivers to think about it.

I certainly don't want to be terrorized out of my back garden.  I suppose there is a place for the two of us to co-exist but I want to sneer at the snake and snarkily snoop out where it sneaks in and snippily snicker when I sniff out ways to snitch on the snake so it snail-like sneaks back out of my garden.  Terrible sentence just then--my writing professor would sniff snottily should he see it--too bad it won't sneeze out the problem.

I'm delighted when I see earthworms out there, and they are slimy and snake-like in form.  Is it because snakes really are sneaky?  That when we call someone a "snake in the grass" we do so because snakes can camouflage themselves so thoroughly and then slither out when we least expect it, kind of like snot rolling from the snozzle at the least convenient moment?

So what IS it about snakes?  Why are they almost universally hated or feared?  I'm sure it is no accident that the crafty one who offers temptation to leave God behind in the Garden of Eden is represented by a serpent--snake aversion is hardly new.  After all, even Indiana Jones is afraid of snakes, while nothing else seems to faze him.

Well, it's time to snarl my way through the end of this sniveling essay and leave the snake conundrum for someone else to snaggle with.  

Will welcome all suggestions--just make them snappy!

Monday Morning Quarterback

A week ago on Monday, I drove to Richardson to spend a few hours with my mother.  I brought her one of her favorite meals and we sat at the kitchen table chatting and enjoying our food.  On the kitchen counter sits a small TV, and she, as is normal to her, had it tuned to an all-day news channel, but with the sound off.  At one point, I glanced at it and saw in the corner of the screen this: "Police Chase in Dallas."  I asked her to turn on the sound. For the next 45 minutes, we sat transfixed as we viewed through the lens of a helicopter camera an extremely dangerous car chase all over the Dallas freeways.  By then, I was running late for another appointment, but didn't want to get on the freeway because of what was happening.  

As we watched, the driver turned off the freeway and ended up on Plano Road, heading northbound--toward the neighborhood of my mother's house.  He ended up being stopped after running a red light when a pick-up truck, the driver totally unaware of the drama unfolding in front of him, smashed into the felon's car.

Shortly after the end of the car chase, I headed out to my next destination.  I flipped on a news channel, curious myself about the outcome and concerned for the driver of the pick-up (he was not seriously hurt, thank goodness).  As it happens, I hit one of those talk shows that gives people a chance to voice their opinions.  I was fascinated by the amount of criticism that was heaped upon those giving chase to the felon.  Several people said, "Well, the officer could have cut him off earlier.  Makes no sense why he didn't do this."  The implication is, "If I had been that officer, I certainly would have done this!"

Hmm. . . I wonder about that.  We who were watching had the advantage of sitting in our comfortable homes, viewing everything from a bird's eye perspective, seeing much more than the officers in the high speed chase were able to see.  We had the advantage of hearing the commentator describe the location and the surroundings.  The officers on the chase had almost none of this information.  There are major communication difficulties between those on the chase and those watching the chase making it very difficult to keep the officers on the ground fully informed.  We also were not endangering our own lives or the lives of others by our decisions.  We just watched--and many decided that they, as watchers, could do this much better than the participants themselves.

I wonder.  I wonder how well they would have done, with limited knowledge, with their own adrenaline racing, with awareness of the danger to many--how well would they have done with the two brief opportunities that did arise where the run-away driver might have been cut off?  I'm betting that few, if any, would have done better.  And probably all would have caused much greater harm than actually did take place.  

But it is much easier to play Monday morning quarterback than it is to put on the gear and get out there on the field, take the hits, avoid the blockers, find the running holes and the receivers, and actually move that ball down the field while playing within the rules.

I ache for our political leaders, especially those who hold their offices with great integrity and personal sacrifice.  Every one of them has hundreds, thousands, even millions of Monday morning quarterbacks, screaming at them that they are idiots making stupid decisions.  I sit with my pastoral colleagues as we comfort one another.  Each of us chooses in the best ways we can to walk in holiness and obedience to God and leadership to our churches.  Each of us seeks constant improvement in life and service and looks for helpful critique and guidance.  And each of us has experienced attack that has simply left us breathless from those who know they could do our work far, far better than we do it ourselves. Frankly, before I became a clergy person, I did this quite often myself. Too many conversations about my church and its leaders started with, "If only he/she would do that this way . . ."

Monday morning quarterbacking springs from basic human nature--all of us deep down inside think we know better than God does what is best for us.  That is the nature of the separation between God and humankind.  We dictate to God how God may act, where God may act, for whom God may show love and compassion.  The more we do that, the more disappointed we are with God because we are not getting our own way.  

And then there is the joy of taking the descending way--the way of Jesus, who endured the shame, suffered the cross, offered forgiveness to all, and saw the resurrection on the other side of it.  The resurrection says, "God wins!!!!!!"  And when God wins, morning does dawn in hope and reconciliation and new life.  It really doesn't get any better than this!

Who Did Jesus Come For?

At the beginning of this week, I received a letter from a family for whom I have great respect.  They are a family of some wealth and privilege, fairly young, healthy, with intelligent and gifted children.  The kind of family every church wants. They wrote in their letter their extreme displeasure with me as a pastor, spoke disparagingly of my character, and withdrew their membership from the church.  Much pain in my soul--grief over their departure, grief over significant misunderstandings, grief over my own mistakes and immaturities.

At the end of the week, I sat in my office with an older man who gave me the privilege of hearing his life story.  He grew up with an alcoholic, abusive father, quit school and left home early, took a long-running turn to drugs and alcohol, had multiple marriages and divorces, experienced the death of daughter of a gunshot wound from her mother's boyfriend's gun, and has a felony conviction and prison time behind him.  His sister and her partner--and how those words raise hackles in the eyes of some of most religious of people--took him in a few years ago, got him to AA, and helped him get back on his feet.  Such means of grace these two women were!

We talked about the gospel, the good news of Jesus Christ.  We talked about the invitation to enter into the life of grace through Jesus.  I asked him, "Have you ever been baptized?  Do you know what it means to be baptized?"  He answered, "Please tell me what it means."  And so we discussed that it is an outward sign of the inward grace given to him by God where all is forgiven and he is totally one with God again.  And so I asked him, "Do you want to be baptized?"  And he said, "I've been waiting for you to ask me.  Yes, I do!"

So, it seems that this church, this embodied community of Christ, has lost one very lovely family with future and hope and possibility in front of them and gained one beat up older man with a life of regrets and pain and abuse behind him.  Which did Jesus come for?  Both, of course.  In Jesus day, which would have been mostly likely to have received him gratefully?

An intriguing question.  Would be interested in some comments.

Assuming Truth

"Are you calling me a liar?"  I looked at the person who spoke those words to me, and was stung--not by the words so much as by what I had just said.  It was something to the  effect of "I don't believe you."  By saying that, I was indeed calling that person a liar.  The starting point for me in that conversation was, "I'm suspicious of you; I'm distrustful of your words."  Essentially, I was receiving what was said with a, "prove to me that you are telling the truth" stance.

Yet many years ago, I learned a basic communication principle:  assume that the person with whom you are speaking is telling the truth.  This is the absolute foundation for conversation that leads to healthy openness and closer relationship.  Assume truth, not lie. Believe the best about the other person, not the worst.  

Many of us find this challenging, mostly because we ourselves don't always speak truth well.  Because of that, it is a pretty easy leap to think that others may also fudge the truth a bit or even skate over into outright lie.  More, everyone has at some time or another experienced the stab of betrayal by the apparent lies or mistruths coming from unfaithful friends, spouses, relatives, bosses, clergy, and loved ones.  

So, assuming that the other speaks the truth demands careful intentionality in conversation.  It means receiving statements from others as true even when we want to yell out, "Liar!"  

Why should we do this?  Think about it.  Who would you prefer to be around:  someone who believes what you say is true or someone who asks you to prove every statement?  Most of us really do prefer that others receive our words as truthful. Angood place to start is by treating the words of others as truthful.

But we all know it is just not that simple.  It is especially so when we work from a history of deception or sense of feeling tangled in a web of lies.  We don't want to be foolishly naive, yet approaching conversation with distrust rarely leads to a good outcome.  

Here are a few suggestions:  First let us all speak with love for God, and with respect for ourselves and for others.  We do best if we start by treating everyone else in the ways we want to be treated. 

Second, be trustworthy in your our own speech.  Let us get to know ourselves so well that we speak out of our inner reservoirs of truth and confidence.  We need to know own minds and take responsibility for what it in there.  This means saying what we think, not what we think is in someone else's mind.  It means being honest about our abilities to trust.  It means discovering what it will take in order for us to trust again when we have experienced dishonesty and betrayal.  It may mean that conversation will have to be at a minimum until we decide that we will trust again.

Third, as we are willing be held accountable for what we say, we have the privilege of asking others to be accountable as well.  When others have been caught in deception and outright lies, we do right by asking for clarification on those statements and seeing we if can find out why they might be true to them.  There is often a deeper truth behind deception, a fear that speaking truth will lead to being beat up or castigated in some way.  Go beyond the surface and  see to find the motives of the heart.  

I wish this were an easy process.  But frankly, I find little about living as a faithful Christian to be easy.  I do, however, find it rewarding and exhilarating and full of joy and happiness.  That's worth a bit of effort.

An Ode to Air Conditioning

The air is hot and so am I.  Work in the yard and garden is restricted now to just the earliest hours of the morning, and even then, I come in drenched with sweat.  Like most other people, I'm keeping the temperature in the house much higher than I have before, but the compressor still seems to run most of the time anyway.

At least it is comfortable.  I know what it is like to live in this area without air conditioning.  When my folks first moved to Texas, they rented a large house near downtown Dallas for a couple of years.  The house was quite old, and built to help deal with the extreme heat.  Deep porches and awnings over the windows kept the sun's rays off the interior windows.  Windows themselves opened easily and were situated to maximize any possible breezes.  Deciduous trees were strategically planted to provide the best shade in summer and the most sun in winter.  An upstairs screened-in porch provided some nighttime relief for sleep.  Smaller rooms could be closed off from one another, so when we did finally break down and purchase a window air conditioning unit, we could keep at least one section comfortable.  Even with all this, the house was just pretty darn miserable for the summer months. 

I don't know who invented air conditioning, but I surely am grateful to that person and to all who have improved the temperature control systems over the years.  Without those systems, this city and many others in the deep south would have stayed quite small. 

Discomfort is a great motivator for creative minds to get to work and come up with ways to relieve it.  I often hear of people speaking of "comfort zones" in a negative or disparaging way, as though there is something wrong with comfort itself.  I think comfort is very much like money--there is nothing intrinsically wrong with either.  It is only when money and/or comfort become the object of our worship and the center of our affections that they become problematic.  As the Bible says, "the LOVE of money is the root of all evil."  Not money--money itself is necessary for many things.  It's the love of it, it is the making of it the center of our lives that causes problems.  Same with comfort--by all means, let us seek to be comfortable.  Let us enjoy our comfortable settings, comfortable rituals, comfortable patterns, comfortable relationships.  They only become wrong when comfort becomes more important than giving honor to God and living in right relationship with each other.

As I muse a little more on my comfort, I am forced to confront the fact that there are some who have little.  Some do not have air conditioning in their homes, or can't pay for the electricity in order to run those the units they do have.  This looks like a hot summer coming up.  People will die from unrelieved heat, especially the vulnerable elderly.  I wonder if all the comfortable ones would consider making a daily check on the ones that they know that may not be as comfortable.  Do you have an elderly neighbor?  Friend who might be in such financial straits that they can't afford to cool their living spaces?  Why not give them a call, make sure they are OK, invite them to spend the night or find some cool daytime relief at your place?  A little move out of your own comfort zone might save a life.  Just something to ponder as we seek first the kingdom of God, knowing that in so doing, all things are added to us.

Tired of Being a Pastor

I am very tired today of being a pastor, even as much as I love this church.  I'm weary.  I'm tired of people refusing to talk with me, and hearing about things being said about me and my pastoral leadership only after the fact.  "Did you know such and such is leaving?"  "Do you know about all the controversy and unhappiness?"  Well, no, I didn't.  Sorry.

I came to this church three years ago, and found a lovely community of people with dashed hopes stuck in the most unworkable church building I had ever seen.  I came and did what I was told to do:  get the building built.  With my type of entrepreneurial personality, with my love of the impossible challenge, with my passion for spreading the news of the Good News of Jesus Christ, it was a good fit.

And so we did it.  Unbelievable hard work, extraordinarily sacrificial giving, countless volunteer hours, a spectacular building committee, all undergirded by prayer and the leading of the Spirit of God:  we did it. 

In the midst of doing this hard work, the incredible people of this church have created new ministries, found new ways to reach out to their neighbors, new ways to care powerfully for one another.  Our membership has grown by 25%, our ministries have grown with a far larger percentage than that.  So many more children finding out about Jesus through these good people.  Our elderly and shut-ins are getting more care and attention than ever.  Almost daily right now, someone says, "I've got an idea for another ministry."  And I say, "It sounds like you are hearing the voice of God.  Go for it!"

Now, I am still who I was when I came here, although I'm older and deeply weary.  I still have the entrepreneurial personality, I still love the impossible challenge, and my passion for spreading the Good News of Jesus Christ centers and drives my life as it has since I was twenty years old.  But now . . . I keep getting this sense that they got what they needed from me, and suddenly I'm supposed to morph into a passive little pastor who spends her time making sure everyone is comfortable and unchallenged.  I'm sure this is a stretch, but I admit it, I'm hurting and hurting badly.  Wounds bleed today.

For weeks now, I've been working 13 hour workdays.  I collapse into a muddled heap when I get home.  People say, "you need more time off."  Yes, and then I'm supposed to ignore those who contact me with urgent health or life and death issues?  With crumbling marriages who need just a bit of time and help to see their next steps?  With dreams for expanding Kingdom work and deserve support and guidance?  My writing ministry is gaining significant attention, and bringing in more people who then offer their services and gifts for the growth not only of this church but of the whole God-with-us world of grace.  I should stop this?  As for preaching weekly . . . how many would really like the responsibility of preparing a creative message week after week after week seeking to interpret ancient literature into modern understanding in a way that fully engages people of wildly mixed ages, interests and educational backgrounds?  And then, remember, the number one fear of most people is that of public speaking.  But I do this multiple times a week.  I'm not immune to that fear any more than anyone else is.

Does anyone understand this?  Can anyone recognize how very hard it is to be up in front, utterly vulnerable to constant criticism, to have every word, every action held up for scrutiny, to have every decision questioned?  To have people really say, "You just work two hours a week."  It is easy to say, "But you choose this work."  And I answer, "this work chose me."  However, right at this moment, I fully understand why the ministry of Jesus lasted only three years, why the crucifixion happened by then.  I just hope I can leave this pity part and find the resurrection as Jesus did. 

Sadness and Separation

I recently accompanied a friend to the Denton County Courthouse.  When we entered the courtroom, a trial was taking place.  The judge called for a 15 minute recess, warning the defense lawyer that he might want to make sure his client understood her fifth amendment rights before taking the stand.  During the recess, four divorces were finalized.  Four women, each with an attorney to make sure all was done legally, saw the end of something that had been entered with hopes of romance, togetherness, joyful companionship, and shared goals and dreams.  Somewhere along the line, those dreams shattered.  The fractures in the relationships were no longer repairable.  There is no such thing as an effective relational glue when one or both parties continues to violate vows made at the time of marriage.

Divorce--the very word brings sadness.  Something that was once united by mutual commitment divides into two usually warring parts.  The ramifications of divorce rarely stop in the judge's courtroom, especially if there are children.

For a long time, the church has stigmatized divorce.  This stigmatization springs from passages in the Bible that seem to forbid it absolutely. Goodness knows, no one wants divorce.  But even God found divorce necessary at one point. In Jeremiah 3:6-11, a disturbingly graphic portion of the Bible speaks of the faithlessness of the nation of Israel, and God's choice to divorce the nation, to separate from such a place.  As sad as divorce is, there periodically comes a time when the relationship itself is more evil than the sorrow of divorce.

This week the news headlines spoke of a young mother who had phoned the police, insisting that her baby daughter had been abducted.  It turns out that her boyfriend, father of the child now growing in her womb, probably killed the young girl and disposed of her body in Lake Lewisville.  The mother says she was terrified of him and went along with the scheme because she didn't want to be hurt.  Such a statement makes it clear:  sometimes relationships have crossed over the line into evil, and must end. 

When relationships are maintained with violence or threats of violence--and keep in mind that violence takes many forms, only a few of which are physical--then evil becomes the relational glue.  I speak out of my own hard experience here.  I remember only too well a phone call I received when the news of my divorce many years ago became public.  This person, whom I had trusted as a spiritual leader, called me "an evil and unrepentant woman."  The violence had been hidden too well.  Since I was the one who finally said, "no more," and initiated the proceedings, I was the one who, in the eyes of the church, was technically at fault. 

The evil one--very much stigmatized.  As I write, the memories of much horror comes sweeping over me again.  To stay would have made me a good church woman.  A dead one, more than likely, but a good one nonetheless.  To leave, to choose life over death, to believe that God could still love me with this mark upon me, took an enormous amount of courage. 

We all carry scars of living in this challenging world upon us.  We are not called to live unscarred or untouched lives.  We are called to work out our salvation in the midst of our trials, and to find in our scars the hope of redemption, the promise of life both now and everlasting.  To all who have endured the most searing and devastating of broken relationships, the divorce, I remind you:  you are still beloved children of God.  Do not let anyone tell you something different.  When you find life on the other side of death, you have simply followed Jesus through the crucifixion into the resurrection.  Thanks be to God.

Put Them to Work

The latest fashion among child rearing experts is to bemoan the lack of free, unscheduled time among children and adolescents.  Time to daydream, create, come up with their own games, set their own rules, work out their own relational problems.  Yes, those things are important . . . but I was pondering the purpose of the break from school this summer and thinking perhaps we need to take a different lesson from history.

Summer breaks were originally scheduled in the school year when the primary means of support was the family farm.  All farmers and gardeners know that there are times when the workload is nearly non-stop if the crops are to be properly sown and properly harvested and stored.  In an agrarian society, therefore, all hands were needed at certain times, including those of children of all ages.  Breaks from school were scheduled NOT to give the children and youth any downtime, but precisely because they were needed to work, and work very, very hard.  It was hard work or starve the following winter.

If school breaks were actually designed to give relaxation, they should be scheduled at the times of the year when relaxation is most likely.  Here in Texas, we should be having longer breaks during October and April/May when the weather tends to be the most beautiful and all can be outside playing and creating and day-dreaming.  Instead, we have them in the worst of outside weather, leading to either overly bored children, forced inside by the heat, or overly frantic children and parents, leaping from one activity to another, straining both peace and pocketbook.

I think we should just put all the children and youth back to work.  Turn their summers into long, grueling work days, done without pay and for the corporate good.  Then they'd realize what a privilege it is to be able to go to school, to learn, to better themselves, to find preparation for productive adulthood.

It's time to put them to work, building community gardens, helping the aged and infirm, the older youth pitching in to care for their younger brothers and sisters and for other children in the neighborhoods.  They could mow lawns, keep the city parks clean, do simple repairs, get together, sing and play musical instruments and take their music to nursing homes, run errands for the homebound, and hundreds of other things that may not keep their bodies from starving over the winter, but might keep their souls and minds from starving over the summer.

Just a thought.  

Out of Sight, Out of Mind

Dogs, according to dog whisperer Cesar Milan, live fully in the present.  There is no past or future for them.  So, whatever happens happens right at that moment, without regard for future consequences, and, apparently, without learning much from the past.

Now, I have two dogs--a yellow lab, Jake, and a golden retriever, Lacey.  They were rescue dogs, found running across a highway near Roanoke by a couple of friends of my husband's.  These dog lovers picked them up, took them to an emergency vet and discovered that the animals had microchips implanted with their owner's information.  When the owner was contacted, he refused to take them back, citing his frustration at their wanderlust.  He had chased after them one too many times and was washing his hands of them.

We ended up with these beautiful, friendly, well-behaved, and, it appears, remarkably unrepentant (I'm trying not to use the word "stupid" here) animals a few weeks later.  It didn't take long before we discovered what their former owner knew all too well:  if there is a way to escape the backyard, they will find it, and off they go.  Once they leave, they have no idea how to get back--so the chase is on.  They've been picked up by animal control more than once.  I've managed to find them just before they got picked up several other times.

Now, if I'm visible, even a wide-open gate will not tempt them to leave.  As long as they can see me, they feel safe and at home.  I've established myself as their alpha in the pack, and they follow me everywhere, not letting me out of their sight.  But should I disappear . . . I just took a deep breath here because I know only too well what happens.  A couple of days ago, I was getting a tool out of the garden shed when a gust of wind blew the door shut, enclosing me in there.  By the time I found what I needed and emerged, maybe one minute later, Jake and Lacey were long gone.  It didn't matter that I'd been working outside for several hours with that gate wide open, because they had been able to see me that whole time.  For them, living completely in the present, out of sight means out of mind. 

I'm just not sure that we humans are all that different.  We also quickly run off when we lose our awareness of the presence of a Holy God.  We can forget about God as easily as Jake and Lacey forget about me.  Out of sight, out of mind. I wonder if God gets as frustrated with us as I do with those dogs. We run off, happily sure that we can find our way back when we want to, and completely unaware that the chances of our getting badly hurt or lost forever are very, very high.

We are not dogs, however.  We can take steps to ensure a greater awareness that our "alpha," that is, God, is present.  By going to church weekly, finding opportunities to serve others, disciplining our minds and souls into the awareness that we are not alone, but are part of the interconnectedness of the entire created world, held together by the power and love of our Creator God, we can discover our own safe place.  Sounds like a good idea to me.

And, by the way, should you see Jake and Lacey running around, just call them to you--they'll happily come.  And then call me:  214-418-9541.  I'll be out looking for them anyway.

They Have Crossed a Line

This came out from the Associated Press last week:  "A fiercely debated, nine-year investigation into Ireland's Roman
Catholic-run institutions says priests and nuns terrorized thousands of
boys and girls in workhouse-style schools for decades - and government
inspectors failed to stop the chronic beatings, rapes and humiliation."

I looked at parts of the 2,600 page report--mainly skimming the abstract and seeing how much detail went into the reports.  Although some students tried to bring to light was what happening during the worst of the abuse, the report concludes that "church officials always
shielded their orders' pedophiles from arrest amid a culture of
self-serving secrecy."

Tough reading.  Tougher on the victims.  And I'm filled with disgust at the perpetrators, probably mostly dead now, and their highly placed protectors.

A number of years ago, I read a business book by Lawrence Miller titled, Barbarians to Bureaucrats, which spoke of the life cycle of civilizations and of business institutions. The title of that book and some of the lessons within have stayed with me. The author contended that civilizations, businesses and institutions of all kinds go through predictable cycles, moving from the entrepreneurial, i.e., "barbarian" stage, through the building and vital growth and stabilization stages to what he calls the bureaucratic stage.  This is the time where the maintenance of the institution becomes far, far more important than anything else, including ethics, creativity, and moral responsibility for the decisions being made.  At all costs, the institution itself must survive.

I would say to you that when a church, be it the huge Roman Catholic church with its millions of members and masses of wealth, or the smallest independent church with no outside connections and barely able to pay bills, has reached the point where institutional survival is the primary goal, then it is time for it to die.

I say that because Jesus spoke so clearly to this one: those who seek to save their life in this world will surely lose it.  This type of bureaucracy that says, "We must protect our own no matter what the cost to others so we can stay alive," becomes a source of huge, huge evil. 

The Roman Catholic Church is the mother church to my own denomination, The United Methodist Church.  We've both got gigantic institutional problems.  But the all-male Roman Catholic priests, bishops, cardinals and ultimately the Pope hold considerably more power over their church members than do the male and female clergy of The United Methodist Church.  The powers that run the Roman Catholic Church have stepped over a line.  They have said, by action and deed, that it is far, far more important to protect evil within their midst than protect the innocent child under their care. 

Not long ago, a young girl in a South American country, nine years old, was raped by her stepfather and found to be pregnant with twins.  After agonizing consultation, her mother and her doctor decided that the 80 pound child could not possibly carry that pregnancy to term without extreme harm or possibly death, and an abortion was performed.  The Roman Catholic hierarchy promptly excommunicated the mother and the physician, while the rapacious and evil step-father was not condemned, for his sin was far less serious in the eyes of the so called holy men who make such decisions. 

A line has been crossed, and it is time for all to say, "This has gone too far."  Those who make such decisions will face far harsher judgment from God than my own censure, of that I am sure.  But any organization that declares itself in any way connected to a holy and righteous God and then systematically destroys the innocence of children while patting the perps on the back has lost its way. 

And we wonder why the church is losing its influence. 

To Remember Well

Last Monday was Memorial Day.  My husband, his sister who has been staying with us for a long overdue visit, and I drove to the National Cemetery south of Dallas to put flowers on the graves of their father and aunt, their father's sister, both of whom served in World War II.  We joined many others at that beautiful spot to honor those who have served their country.

The beautiful day blessed us as we stood at their gravesides and offered our own blessings and words of thanksgiving for their sacrifices and the sacrifices of so many others buried there. 

My husband and his sister had spent many hours during this visit discussing their upbringing in a clearly troubled household.  Although their parents stayed married for over 60 years, the marriage was turbulent and often violent, with that violence expressed from parent to parent and from parents to children.  A lovely exterior of an accomplished family masked some pretty awful interior scenes.

This is hardly an uncommon situation.  Domestic violence is rampant, hidden and rarely reported.  It's not new, or limited to only certain socio-economic classes or ethnicities.  It's everywhere.  People with power have abused that power from the beginning of human history, and power comes in many forms.  It can be physical, emotional, spiritual, financial.  Those with power can use it to empower others.  Or they can use it to trap others and beat them down.  There was much beating down in their household of origin.

The memories of such experiences stay, and the discussion of those memories can often lead to freedom and healing.  But that freedom can only come when those doing the remembering decide to stop blaming their own problems on those who have gone before.  Instead, they must make intentional choices to stop the cycle of blame and violence and find their own freedom from it before such evil is perpetuated to the next generation.

Jesus said, "You shall know the truth, and it shall set you free."  Part of knowing the truth is holding onto our memories and remembering well.  We must remember those who laid down their lives for us so that we are indeed free.  And we must also remember injustices, not to play the victim or lay blame, but so that we ourselves with act justly.  That kind of truth does indeed set us free.

Just in Case

Our church is holding a yard sale at the end of May to raise a little extra money to finish out the furnishings of our new building.  As I've also got numerous house guests coming shortly and am motivated to clean before they come, I have grabbed the opportunity to sort out drawers, closets, cupboards and garage.

A yard sale is a form of barter.  It's out of the mainstream retail economy, and serves multiple purposes.  Those doing the selling clean out things and rearrange now more spacious storage areas and feel lighter in the process.  The buyers acquire needed items for a bargain.  Prices are flexible, what doesn't sell is donated to charity.  Generally everyone goes away happy.

But the questions!!!  As in, "why have I kept this?"  And "why on earth did I purchase this?"  Or, "what WAS he/she thinking when gifting me with this?"  Sorting and cleaning comes fairly easily to me.  I'm not much of a pack-rat and the only things I tend to accumulate in excess are books, gardening implements, and office supplies.  Nonetheless, certain things in my closet gave me pause as I debated whether to keep or sell.  The lovely shoes that are wildly uncomfortable--but perhaps they should stay, just in case.  The clothes that I paid way too much for, and never really liked--but perhaps they should stay, just in case.  The very nice outfits purchased several years ago which are classic in style but are just a little snug--but perhaps they should stay, just in case (and there is not a woman alive reading this column who doesn't understand that one). The decorative item that doesn't fit this house--but perhaps it should stay, just in case.  The kitchen appliance purchased in a moment of wild fantasy that I might actually cook someday but has never been used--but perhaps it should stay, just in case.

Just in case . . .the future brings something for which I am not prepared.  So I hold onto things I don't really need or even necessarily like just in case I might need it or like it or use it someday.  But in the meantime, it hangs or sits, gathering dust, when someone else could get wear, pleasure or use from it.

A number of years ago when I was serving at another church, a woman came into my office and asked for funds to rent several storage units.  If she didn't do something quickly, her house, inherited free and clear of any debt and worth quite a bit, would soon be sold for unpaid taxes. She wanted to get it in shape for a normal sale so she could get caught up financially.  I sent someone over there to assess the situation.  As I feared, her house was piled to the ceiling with only narrow pathways for navigation.  She had frittered a sizable inheritance by purchasing stuff from TV shopping channels.

We presented the option of getting some work crews over there, sorting it all out and selling as much as possible.  She declined.  She was unwilling to part with a single thing.  I declined to give her the funds for storage facilities.  I know that she suffers from a type of mental illness.  I also know that everything was there, "just in case" she might need it someday.  That "just in case" was destroying her.

It's time to live freely, enjoying the necessities, which all of us are abundantly blessed with, and savoring the luxuries, which all of us have in one form or another.  Get rid of the rest.  Remember that the Bible says to lay aside the sins that trap us and slow us down.  This way, we can run with endurance the race that is before us and reach the goal of perfection in faith.  We sin when our stuff traps us.  Time to get free.

Cell Phones and Individual Freedoms

Last week in Boston, a trolley went ran a red light and hit another trolley. Forty nine people were injured. According to the report in the Boston Globe, the operator of the trolley that did not run the red light was text messaging at the time. He looked down at his phone to do so, and when he looked up and saw the other trolley in the intersection, he couldn't hit the brakes in time.

Now in response, all trolley operated are told that they may not even have a cell phone in their possession while operating these vehicles. There is more. The National Safety Council wants all cell phone use completely banned by those driving cars. Even hands-free units will be forbidden. According to some recent research, just talking on a phone brings about greater impairment of driving skills than driving while under the influence of alcohol. According to one report, "brain scans show the phone conversation sucking the driver's mind from one world into another."

I suppose they are right. Certainly, a phone conversation can be a major distraction. Of course, so are children. Especially when there are at least two of them and the two are siblings and each knows exactly how to punch the hot button of the other. Tell me that an adult with two screaming children in the back seat can drive with full attention on the road . . . and I'll tell you that you are dreaming.

I'm reading the pro and con arguments of cell phone use while operating a moving vehicle, and the children comparison always comes up. I'm hardly so original as to be able to think of that one by myself. So, do we ban children from the car? One person who did suggest this also said that it might be the solution to childhood obesity since the children would have to start walking everywhere. However, I suspect we will not find child passengers banned. But I bet more and more cell-phone use regulations will be coming our way.

Now, those who have been reading this column for a while will know that somehow, I believe there must be a response to this situation that reflects "God-with-us" living: that awareness that the kingdom of heaven is all about us. Our responsibility is to open our eyes and find it in the midst of cell phones and trolley accidents and injured people and screaming babies and the simple convenience of being able to be in touch with those important to us with great ease because of our cell phones.

So what WOULD Jesus say about all this? What kind of story might Jesus tell his followers as they face the complexities of modern life and realities? How would Jesus speak of our often long commutes and the time pressures and the ease of using the car time as a way to catch up on multiple conversations, both business and personal?

Should we, in the name of Jesus ban cell phone usage in order to stop a possibility of driver distraction? Do we limit our individual freedoms even more? It was certainly a good idea to bring about laws that impose more penalties on those caught driving under the influence of alcohol. That is a limitation of our freedom as well. I know that the Bible speaks often of the freedom offered to us in Christ--freedom from the laws of sin and death and the freedom to live with life-giving righteousness. Wouldn't it be nice if we could all exercise the freedom that self-control gives and voluntarily limit ourselves from cell phone use while driving instead of waiting for even more limiting legislation to be passed? I suppose I'm dreaming now, but I do know that a society guided by godly self-control is a lot more fun to live in than one girded by draconian laws.

Let's Shut the World Down

Fear has won.  We are shutting down.  All, just in case . . . just in case someone gets sick and dies, or, more likely, someone gets sick and sues the school district or the county or church or business or what ever organization was so irresponsible to actually hold an event where someone might, just might, pick up a virus and pass it on.

Yes, the swine flu is contagious, as are all types of influenza and lots of other illnesses as well.  And yes, there are concerns that the relatively mild version going around now may hit again next fall/winter with a vengeance.  But if that is the case, wouldn't it be far better to get the mild version now and have some immunities against a more virulent mutation that might, maybe, perhaps, show up next fall?  Or would that be too much common sense thrown in the mix here?

Frankly, I think we need to stop driving our automobiles.  Completely.  Because if we keep driving cars, there's a definite possibility that someone, somewhere might have an auto accident and get hurt or fatally injured. I also think we absolutely must stop eating in restaurants.  Because if we keep up with this habit of eating out, someone, somewhere is bound to get food poisoning.  I also think we should all stop cooking.  Because if we
insist on continuing to prepare our meals at home, there's a definite chance that
someone, somewhere is going to get hurt in the kitchen.  I also think we simply must stop getting medical care.  Because if we continue in this pernicious habit of going to physicians when we are ill, there is a definite chance that someone, somewhere is going to get misdiagnosed and will suffer horribly as a result.

In addition, we must, we simply must stop reading books, magazines, journals,  or newspapers that might stimulate our mental activity.  Because if we don't, it is possible that we will disagree with the author and might experience anger and say something unkind about someone else and then be liable for a slander lawsuit.  Or even worse, we might have to change our minds about something and discover that what we've been thinking is true for so long just isn't true at all.

Mostly, we must, we simply must ban the Bible.  No one must read this book.  Way too many people have read it for themselves and have discovered that the perfect love offered by God to all of creation is so freeing that fear is left behind.  What a terrible thing to know the power of freeing love in a world that says, "be scared of everything and live in terror of the possibility that someday, somewhere, you might have to suffer or even die."  Yes, too many people have read the words of hope in the Bible and said, "If Jesus could lay down his life for me, how can I do less for others?"

There are reasonable guessimates that at least 27,000 children die a day from starvation.  That's about one every 3.2 seconds.  At the time of the writing of this article, one person in the US has died of swine flu.  But in less time that it took you to read this sentence, another child just died the horrible death of not enough to eat to sustain life.  That's real.  That's not some bogeyman of "it might happen" out there.  Instead of letting fear shut us down, why don't we let the love of God free us to really follow Jesus? Those who focus on saving their own lives are doomed to lose them, because fear drives that need and makes it impossible to love others.  But love . . . real, perfect love given by God, will drive out all fear and give us the courage to embrace all of life and discover real joy as we willingly lay
down our lives for others so that the least, the littlest, the last and
the lost of the this world may experience the kingdom of heaven.

Tuesday afternoon, last post from London

Well, in less than 20 hours, I'll be heading back to Texas.  It's been a glorious trip, full of fun and some rest and a great time with family.  And, of course, re-living what it is like with two small children in the house, coupled with the many inconveniences of doing this in a foreign country.

Today was Joshua's first day back in nursery school after a long three week spring break.  He's in the afternoon session (12:45 to 3:15), but had gotten back into the habit of afternoon naps while on vacation, so we were a little concerned about how he'd do today.

All school children here wear uniforms, no matter how young.  He goes to an all-male preparatory school for boys 2 1/2 to 13.  Their uniforms are a monogrammed deep maroon sweatpants and sweatshirt (for winter), white collared shirt, gray short pants (all year around), gray socks, black shoes, and a blue topcoat.  Once he gets to first grade, he will "graduate" to a sports coat and tie on school days.  He looks adorable, of course.

To make things just a little easier for Adriana, I told her I'd stay here so she could put Sammie down for his nap first and then take Joshua to school by himself.  Just as they were getting ready to head out the door, she realized that in his last minute potty visit he'd managed to do a major dribble on his clothes, so there was a frantic un-dressing, and re-dressing to get him out the door in time.  About 2:45, Sammie and I went back to the school with Adriana to pick him up.  The school is less than 2 miles from here, but with all the torturous tiny streets to get there, takes at least 10-15 minutes.  Parking is a nightmare--typical London situation.  We finally found a semi-legal space about a block from the school and waited there about 10 minutes until time to get out and go get him along with all the other mothers.  Everyone gathers outside (and it was cold and sprinkly), until let in one by one to pick up the youngsters.

Joshua was delighted to see us and seemed to have had a good day.  As a treat, Adriana promised him we'd go by the bakery and get something on the way home.  As we are working our way back through the street maze, Sammie cries out "Poo-poo!  poo-poo!  Poo-poo!  Either he had just had a poo in his pants, needs to have one and is actually telling his mother in advance, or is just trying to get her full attention while he sits on the potty for a while.  None of them good options at the time.  Adriana decided Joshua was the priority and continued to head toward the bakery.  After the scariest drive yet (up a very, very steep hill with a standard transmission with cars parked so close on each side that there is literally inches of clearance--and two way traffic to deal with) we get to bakery and to the amazing surprise of a parking space nearby.  Just as she gets the car parked, the rain started to fall heavily. 

Undeterred, we head to the bakery, where Joshua's tiredness begins to really show.  He's impatient and demanding, and wants to eat there what we purchased there.  Mindful of Sammie's potential poo situation, Adriana and I agree to head home, so back out in the now pouring rain we go, Adriana with a child in either hand and me trying to protect the treats and bread we just bought.  

Things went downhill from there, culminating in the mother of all temper tantrums for Joshua, which Adriana dealt with quite well and quite firmly.  We both agreed he was too tired, but even that could not excuse the extreme of his behavior.  First and only spanking since I've been here--and a well-deserved one, I had to admit.

For a few moments now, all is calm and the boys are playing happily together.  Soon it will be bath time, then a light meal for the boys and I shall get my bags packed.  Jonathan left this morning for a quick trip to Greece, and so I've said my goodbye's to him.  Unfortunately, there is just about no way to take public transportation to the airport from here so Adriana and the boys will drive me in the morning.  I hate that she had to do this, but here's my option:  getting on a completely packed train with two suitcases, wrestling them to the  train station onto a packed train (and I never exactly explained that the trains stop only for 30 seconds at each stop and there is a BIG GAP from the platform to the train steps--simply no such thing as a physically impaired person riding the train) to the unbelievably busy Underground at that time of day (and that means getting them down steep stairs and trying to stuff them on the trains already stuffed like sausages with people) with two underground changes before finally getting the express to Heathrow.  That or a $150 taxi ride.  Oh well, the boys love being in car and think the airport is great fun.

Will be back in Krum somewhere around 2 a.m. Thursday morning--which will be 8 a.m. my body time, and should be a sleepless night.  Such is life, such is travel.  Been a marvelous time.  And time for me to come back.  

Well, Rocio and Katie and Grace have come over for a bit to play and to say goodbye.  So I shall say, "goobye" as well.

Thanks for reading.

Saturday, April 25

Just a simple family day today, domestic, good conversation, just good to be here with them.  Samuel had a very bad night last night--fussy much of the night, so we were all tired this morning.  This doesn't stop Adriana from doing the usual:  fresh squeezed orange juice for all, breakfast freshly cooked, as usual, for each as well. 

 

I do my best to keep up with her in the kitchen, cleaning after each meal, and today doing multiple loads of laundry. I also told Jonathan that I wanted to get the garden planted today and figured I could do it in about two to three hours without help, and about ten hours with help (remember, my 'help' is 16 mos, 3, 5 and 7 years old, assuming the cousins came over today as they generally do daily).  Since he needed to work on a presentation for work, and Adriana needed to do some shopping, and I actually get quite a kick out of teaching my helpers about the garden, we all decided I'd take the longer, slower route. 

 

As it turns out, Samuel decided to have a terrible morning to go with his terrible night, so Jonathan juggled him for a while as Joshua and I began to get the vegetables planted in the beds we prepared a few days ago.  Eventually, Samuel fell asleep, and a little later, Katie came over, so Joshua and Katie worked alongside me.  Joshua quickly figured out exactly where he could and could not step so he wouldn't hurt the little seedlings, and Katie turned out to have a very gentle and aware touch with the plants.  I think she'll make quite a gardener someday.

 

Later, Jonathan and I went out and purchased several bags of bark mulch and Katie and Joshua did a marvelous job helping me to spread it out.  We did both a small vegetable garden in the back yard and cleaned out and planted a small flower garden in the front yard.  

 

A little while later, Samuel woke from his nap (fortunately in a better mood) and went outside to play. Naturally, he headed straight for the vegetable garden and sat down in the middle of it and began to dig.  It was just too cute to get upset about--and Jonathan now knows for sure he needs to get a sandbox built for the children.  But a few of the plants will surely make it, and if nothing else, things got cleaned out and weeded. 

 

All the adults have shared laughter and conversation today about child rearing and its impossibilities--little ones will indeed have temper tantrums and there are no real good ways to deal with them.  Adriana told me about how her father handled them (we really don't want to go there), and I pulled out memories of the days when I just knew I was going to go over the edge with my own frustration with the children.  Miraculously, most of them do grow up despite our parenting to become reasonably mature and contributing adults in our society. 

 

We had another simply beautiful day here today but the forecast is for rain tomorrow.  We plan on worship in the morning and then I know Jonathan and Adriana must do their weekly grocery shopping sometime tomorrow.  Perhaps while Samuel is napping and I can stay here with him. 

 

I feel very much a part of this sweet household here.  Certainly, I miss some of my conveniences and routine and will be glad to return to them and I miss Keith very much, and yes, it is much more quiet and orderly at home.  Actually, after one particularly rough time this evening with all four children here (generally, Rocio and or Ian and the children all eat together here on weekends.  This house is bigger than theirs, and it is easier to get together.  Adriana and Rocio just trade off on cooking), I mentioned that having 36 children at our church's Children's Day Out might be calmer than this and everyone got a good laugh out of that.

 

So, that's the news from London today.  Just Kingdom of Heaven living with family and friends and being still and watching the children play and enjoying an unusually lovely English spring day.

 

 

Friday April 24 in London

At 9:30 a.m., Adriana and I slipped out of the house.  The boys were busy with Rocio and it is best not to say a formal "goodbye" which tends to exacerbate Samuel's separation issues.  We walked to the train station, picked up a day pass apiece and boarded the train about three minutes later when it pulled in.  This sure does beat having to be at the aiport an hour before takeoff, by the way.

Anyway, we did a lot of walking to start with, saw Big Ben the House of Parliament and Number 10 Downing Street and Buckingham Castle and took a fascinating side trip (fascinating for me) to the Methodist Center which was built in 1912 as a central worship place/meeting hall for Britain's many Methodists.  A sweet guide gave us the royal tour and told us that this was the building where the United Nations began, among other things.  It's large meeting hall serves both as a worship center and as a multi-purpose room and is used for concerts and many other things.  As a matter of fact, Andrew Lloyd Weber, creator of many fabulous musicals, got his start there.  His father had been organist there for many years and Andrew wrote "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" when he was 18 and it was first performed at the center.  She also took us on the roof balcony and we looked down on Westminster Abbey.  It is from that balcony that TV broadcasters set up their equipment when they are shooting things happening at the Abbey.  So now I'll know . . . 

We decided we wanted to go to Harrod's, the famous department store.  After several starts in the wrong direction (our maps weren't particularly good and I was totally turned around--the cars driving on the left completely switched my brain and I couldn't figure out north from south or east from west all of a sudden), a nice passerby sent us in the correct direction across St. James Park and Green Park where we picked up a bus and rode to Harrods.

Now that department store is an experience!  It's just huge, full of high end luxury products (and guarded by hundreds of security guards), and has anything the discriminating shopper would ever want--at prices that are clearly for the rich.  We saw some of the most lovely little girl clothes--I picked up a dress that would be adorable on Kate, David and Shawna's daughter.  It was a measly 200 pounds--approximately $300 in current American dollars.  A steal!!!!!

After a bit of shopping there, Adriana needed to come back home to get the kids.  I was pretty tired--I've not been walking that much in a long time and we had probably trekked close to five miles by then, but I really wanted to see St. Paul's Cathedral, designed by Christopher Wren after the original one burned in the great fire in London.  An extremely kind doorman at Harrods directed me to the bus stop ("Of course, darling, I'm glad to help" he said), and told me to take the number 14 to Piccadilly Circus and then transfer to the bus for St. Paul.  I went where he told me, the #14 showed up a couple of minutes later, and I boarded and sat down by an elderly man.  I pulled out my bus map trying to figure out how to transfer busses.  My seatmate saw what I was doing, kindly inquired about my destination, graciously explained how to make the transfer ("get off the bus, go back 20 yards to the currency exchange, turn right and go up the street to Regency street, cross the street and catch the #15 or #23") and then explained that the Piccadilly Circus stop would be three stops after he got off.  Then we started talking about what I was doing here, and had heard of the very fine school where Jonathan did his MBA last year in France, and gave a couple of suggestions of places to take tea on Sunday.  I think perhaps I was sitting next to an angel!

Anyway, I did exactly as he said, the #15 bus showed up in about 30 seconds, and dropped me off at the fabulous St. Paul's Cathedral about 30 totally traffic clogged minutes later.  London really does have huge traffic issues, even with such good public transportation.  I was late getting to the Cathedral and they were not giving any more tours for the day and were telling people to come back tomorrow.  I explained that I didn't want the tour, but was a United Methodist Clergy and just wanted to come in and pray a bit and look around quietly.  She said, "You are clergy?  Then come on in--there is no charge. You just can't take a tour."  

So I got to spend a lovely time just sitting in the nave listening to a boys choir and the organist rehearse for a performance later that day and enjoying the spectacular beauty of the place.  I walked around a bit, and went down to the crypt, looking at the memorials of some of the people buried there.  I could have gone up to the top and seen the "whispering galley" where sounds from there travel all over the cathedral, but it is nearly 300 stair steps up, no such thing as turning back, and just decided I'd best not try it.  Normally, I think I could do that since I do climb a lot of stairs each day, but I was pretty tired and my feet were hurting.  Time to figure out how to get back home.

I knew there was a tube station near St. Paul's and figured the best way to get to Victoria Station to get the train home would be to take the underground.  One very kind policeman sent me in the proper direction, but I still couldn't quite find it and two more extraordinarily kind police not only guided me to the tube station, but also told me exactly which trains to catch ("Catch the red line to Oxford Circus, and then pick up the light blue line to Victoria.")

Once I got to Victoria, I came out of the Underground and headed for the train station, where 15 minutes later, I boarded my train south for Carshalton Beeches, the train stop approximately 1/2 mile from Jonathan's house, managed to walk home without getting lost (more complex than you'd think:  streets are a maze here, no simple blocks, nothing meets up with the street in the way you think it will, multiple dead ends, and no way to take a simple drive around the block. You just can't do it.).  

Joshua opened the door for me when I rang the doorbell, and I kind of stumbled into the house, very tired, but having had a great day getting a small sense of London.

So much kindness shown to me and to Adriana today.  And we still have simply gorgeous weather here.  Supposed to rain on Sunday and I still haven't managed to plant their garden. Perhaps tomorrow--am running out of time.  Just four more days here and I'm heading home.

Thursday, April 23, "My Big Fat Greet Wedding"

Today is Rocio's, Adriana's sister, birthday.  Party for her started last night when she went out with some friends, took the wrong train home and didn't get back to her house until 1 a.m.  She came over here this morning to see the balloons and decorations for the "cake" this afternoon.  "Cake" means, "come over and have some cake and celebrate."  So at 4:00, "cake" began when two of the Colombians cousins, currently working in England and improving on their English, arrived, Rocio and her two girls came in, and an English friend, Jo, with her two boys, 7 and 5 showed up.

Adriana and I had arrived home one hour earlier after spending the morning/early afternoon at a great children's park/petting zoo which is only 20 minutes from here but which took the proper English voice on Tom-Tom, their GPS system, over an hour to guide us to after first bringing us to a surgery center and then to an elementary school.  Anyway, both the children fell asleep on the way home, and we stopped and got gas ("petrol") for the car and then the cake (where I fell asleep waiting in the car with the children) and got back here.

Adriana set up their inflatable bounce house in the back yard, the exuberant cousins and Rocio strolled in, immediately kissed everyone several times, the energy level rose about 3000%, and the English friend, Jo, and I looked at each other with understanding.  The party had begun.  

Two hours later, sated with cake and juice for the children, and, fortunately, only one bottle of wine shared among the adults, the Colombians and the British family left, and Adriana and I worked on calming Joshua and Samuel and starting preparing them for bed (we're not doing very well).  There is still yet another party at Rocio's house later.  I've got to beg off.  There is no way I can do this.  Jonathan is slated to keep the children, and considering how wired they are, will probably appreciate my presence in the house.

Samuel's separation anxiety is at fever pitch right now.  When the cousins showed up, it just made things worse because they've kept him before when Adriana and Jonathan have left.  In just two weeks, Adriana and Jonathan are planning on a week away at Jonathan's best friend's wedding in the Dominican Republic and the cousins and Rocio will be caring for the children.  Can't imagine how they are going to be able to cope.  Sammy is on the verge of deep hysteria every time his mother gets out of his sight.  Tough time.  And periodically, Joshua feels the need to copy him, leading to some pretty wild moments around here.

Par for the course with the household of two small children.  I keep telling her that it will indeed get better.  Both are amazing parents, and doing a spectacular job with the children.  They do indeed get civilized in time.  But it doesn't happen quickly.  

I'm planning to go to London tomorrow, probably alone.  There are just some things I want to see, and trying to take the children would make for a tough day.  We could ask Rocio to take the kids . . . but I'm not sure it would work.  However, I know Adriana could use a break away from them.

Raising kids this age really needs lots of hands.  I could never have managed without the help of my own mother.  Thank you!

In Yorkshire, Wednesday, April 22

Tuesday morning, I accompanied Jonathan on his daily train trip to London, and then managed to brave the London Underground at rush hour to get from Victoria Stationto the King Cross Station and pick up a train there for my hour and 45 minute trip north to Yorkshire to visit my friend, Keva Green, here.  While I was at Victoria station, I noted a sign saying something about the possibility of a strike on Wednesday, April 22.  That is today, when I was supposed to come back to London and then back to the house where the family lives south of London.  I just checked and have noted the Victoria Station is closed, and so am going to try to change my train ticket and stay one more night here rather than trying to get off the subway earlier and then try to find out how to get to the train at a different stop. 

 

The Underground was a definite London moment.  Jonathan pointed me to a down escalator and said, 'Get the Blue Line going north--it will be four or five stops away.'  Obediently, I headed down with hundreds of other Londoner's and saw a huge crown trying to get through the turnstiles to the Blue Line.  I asked someone there if this was the proper place to get to Kings Cross and she said, 'no you need the Yellow Line.'  So I battled my way through the crowd to head to the Yellow Line and saw a transportation officer on my way and inquired of him.  He said, 'You need the Blue Line.  Do you need to get there urgently?'  Since I had only 45 minutes to make the train connection, I answered in the affirmative.  He looked at my sympathetically and said, 'you'll find it a bit crowded.'

 

That was the understatement of the year.  I stood packed with the crowd as full train after full train arrived, with just a few getting off and a few more getting on.  Finally, I was at the front of the crowd, on the edge of the platform with the 10 foot drop to the subway bottom right in front of me and hoped, 'please, no one shove or I'm heading down.'  I managed to push my way onto the next train, and it slowly emptied so that I even had a seat for the last couple of stops.  Catching the actual train to Doncaster 30 minutes later was a piece of cake next to this.

 

Trains are boarded 15 minutes before they take off.  The announcer will say which train is leaving from which platform and people stream forward.  Seats are reserved, so I found my seat--two forward, two back with a table inbetween.  Precisely at 9:30, the train took off.  No warnings about taking the seats, or fastening seat belts (there were none).  No security checks, nothing.  Actually quite nice.  I noticed that most people brought their own food on and I was wishing I had because I had been too nervous about this to eat breakfast.  However, a trolley did come by in a few minutes with some (very expensive) snacks and I got something to eat and enjoyed the quiet ride north.

 

During the ride, the ticket taker came around and punched our tickets (no one checks them when getting on the train).  Each time someone gave her the proper ticket, she would say, 'Smashing!' as a great compliment.  Not understanding that there are really two tickets that need to be handed her, not one, I did not received the affirmative 'Smashing' but a simple 'very good' when I finally produced the correct document.

 

The stops at the train stations are very short--probably not more than 30 or 45 seconds--just time to get off and the next group to get on.  I departed at Doncaster and shortly afterward, my friend Keva found me and we headed to where she lives, about 20 minutes away in one of the many, many villages around here. 

 

I enjoyed a fellowship meeting with her and a couple of local clergy (one Salvation Army and one Anglican) and then we headed out because I wanted her to show me the churches she serves.  Because of the huge shortage of local clergy, she preaches in 21 different churches each month and has primary pastoral care for three.  We drove from church to church, many with fairly large buildings (the one she lives next two has a sanctuary that will seat 300).  With each of them, she would say, well, ths one is worshpping about 20, that one has 7, that one is doing well with 40.  The only ones with any real hope of life are those where worship teams have been established and they are doing much more lively worship and using PowerPoint and projection.

 

It was an enlightening and sobering few hours.  Many of these churches, just like our UMC's in the US, had vital and overflowing ministries not more than 30 to 50 years ago.  But they refused to flex with the times, buildings got old and fell into disrepair, and depression settled over many of them.  They were led by factions who systematically kept people out. 

 

One building in particular reminded me forcefully of the building we in Krum have just left.  Remants of the former charm were there, but the whole setting seemed oppressive and unwelcoming.  Keva has nearly killed herself here seeking to bring new life.  In building after building, she spoke of renovations that she has spearheaded, of ministries started, of some hope returning.  One in particular, the Princess Street church, was in disastrous shape.  The District wanted to close it and just give up.  But the people decided to give it one last try, got some help from another church and bought remodling materials, used free labor (people working off petty crimes), completely repainted, refloored, recarpted and refurbished the kitchen.  New energy is flowing in there, younger people are showing up, and there appears there might actually be a future. 

 

Will write more later about the day, but need to join Keva shortly for her Wednesday morning Communion service here and then we'll head out.  I've been chatting online with Jonathan while I'm writing and he has suggested an alternate way home for me, so will head back to London this afternoon as planned.

 

Look Right and Baby Gates

I've been meaning to write since I got here about the experience of driving, or in my case, riding in a car here.  Of course the first issue is that the steering where is on the right hand side of the car--I've finally learned that the passenger side is on the left.  And right turns, not left turns, are the ones made against traffic and are by far the most treacherous.  I have a feeling lots of foreign pedestrians have been hurt here by doing our normal, "left, right, left" look before crossing a street.  On many streets, the cross walks have "Look Right" in painted in huge letters on the pavement.  Look right--that's where you'll get run over if you don't--and apparently pedestrians do not have the right of way.  

OK, streets are narrow.  Two way streets are barely wide enough for two cars to pass by each other, and all the cars are small.  No Texas sized pickups in sight.  On most of these narrow two way residential streets, people must also park in the street.  Remember, they are barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other anyway.  Add cars parked on both sides of the street and try to figure out how two way traffic gets by.   Go ahead, see if you can picture this.

What they do is never part right across the street from each other, so cars just weave in and out of parked/unparked/parked areas, stopping periodically to let opposite flowing traffic get through.  It's an amazing dance and requires expert depth perception (which I do not have, and that is why I find this so terrifying).  There is often just inches of clearance, and all drivers keep a hand on their driver side rear view mirror so they can flatten it against their car when necessary.  Despite this, people seem to drive very, very fast around these streets.  Most intersections are roundabouts, and I still have absolutely no idea how anyone figures out who has the right of way.  When I see a stop light, I'm just grateful.  At least there is some order in the intersection.

This has all brought me to questions of safely and self-regulation and just learning to trust that others will work with you.  In Jonathan's and Adriana's house, there is a very steep set of stair steps to the landing where the study is and then a short flight to the actually second story.  They have installed very, very sturdy baby gates at each end of the staircase.  The baby gates themselves are extremely treacherous--we have to step over an iron bar about four inches above the step to which they are attached, and because the stairs have a narrow tread, it also means that the first step up and the first step down are pretty unusable.  

Now, Joshua has no problem navigating up and down--he's lived too long now in multi-story environments to be bothers by this.  But Samuel, "The rocket," who has no fear, will scamper up them quickly and then just as quickly think he can scamper down them--and has already taken one major tumble.  For his sake, either the top or bottom gate is securely fastened (and I do mean securely--it takes an adult two hands to open the gates) depending on where he is.  At no time is he given free access to the stairs. This is rule number one and there are no exceptions.  

So, naturally, in order to keep Samuel safe, the adults must be put in a precarious position, especially when going down because of the location of the iron bar.  I've almost fallen more than once myself.  Personally, I think this is the right thing to do, and it also means that the children can be left alone either upstairs or downstairs for short periods of time without and adult because of the secure gates.  

But I'm even more fully aware that there is no such thing as a fully safe environment.  We have to accept some risk tolerance or no one can ever move again.  The children pretty well can wander indoors or out, especially with me here, but clearly Adriana can't keep her eye on them every moment.  And there are more steps outside, steep ones leading to the upper part of the back garden.  I remember that I used playpens a lot to corral my children when necessary, but that is not part of the mindset for Adriana as a parent, so these children are having to learn a great deal of self-regulation at an early age in order to stay alive.  I'm actually quite impressed with what they do know for such young children and occasionally wonder if we've so over-protected ours in the USA that we've taken all the adventure out of life.  Truth is, unless these children learn a decent tolerance for risk and risk-taking, they'll ever be able to drive a car over here, and that would be a huge loss to them.  

Just my evening musings.  Dinner is nearly ready and the children, I write hopefully, will be heading for bed shortly.  Otherwise, the witching hour will soon begin!

Monday, April 20, In London

It's been a gentle, delightful day.  With much, much trepidation, Rocio and Adriana left me with Grace (5) and Joshua today for a while as Rocio needed to work and Katie needed to get her eyes checked.  We know there is no way Samuel will stay happily with me, but I told them I'd be fine with the other two.  The three of us had a great time and learned the "no smile" game which just delighted both of them (look at each other with frowning faces and insist that no one smile).  Later, Adriana came back and then left me with all four children (thankfully, Samuel was napping) while she got some desperately needed time alone and to do some shopping.  Katie, Grace, Joshua and I headed for the garden and began to work on the vegetable bed.  Actually got very little done, but we all had a blast anyway.  

Grace continues to scold me for not studying Spanish, and Joshua continues to try to please me by working very hard on speaking English to me.   Clearly, he understands every word I speak to him, but has to work on responding back in English.  However, he is making great progress and is very proud of himself.  I'm really touched by his eagerness to work on this.

The housekeeper was here today, bless her heart, so the house was being cleaned from top to bottom as I played and dug with the children--and as we kept dragging dirt back into the house.  Adriana came back after a couple of refreshing hours for her and here is where I saw the immediate contrast between her style of child-rearing and mine.  Both are clearly good and effective, but, oh so different.  

I had worked on calm and harmony, teaching the children about gardening and encouraging them to work along side me as we dug out spaces to put heavy ceramic stepping stones to define the flower beds.  We talked about sharing tools and freely handed them back and forth as we needed it.  We talked about the difference between the weeds that needed to be pulled and the plants that I thought we should keep and I told them it wasn't the end of the world if they accidentally pulled one that was a keeper.  They wanted to know, "What does the end of the world mean?" and we had a philosophical discussion on the meaning of the phrase.  

It was a quiet, peaceful, adult oriented time.

Shortly after Adriana got home, everything changed.  Because it was another warm and sunny day, she also wanted the children outside, so she set up a small portable bounce house and sent the children out to play in it. Later, she brought out a pile of play dough and was going to have the children use it, but they were too busy by then playing creatively with the then collapsed bounce house and making up stories about it.  Totally child oriented, much, much higher energy.  Both effectively teaching the children, but doing so differently.

Tomorrow, I'm going into London with Jonathan in the morning and then shall somehow figure out how to "catch the tube" to another train station (Kings Cross) and pick up a train to Doncaster where I'll spend 24 hours with a friend of mine before catching another train to London, trying to figure out how to transfer to the station where Jonathan will be, and then riding back from London with him.  I keep telling myself, "they speak English here  Someone will help me.  I can do this."

I may not be able to write again until Wednesday evening, so may not post anything for a for a couple of days.

Sunday Morning Worship, April 19

As a female pastor, I'm still an object of curiosity to Adriana and Rocio, both raised Roman Catholic and educated in RC schools in Colombia.  During lunch yesterday, we had some conversation about their spiritual lives and their willingness to abide by certain Roman Catholic doctrines, particularly the ban against any kinds of artificial birth control.  Essentially, they were told by the nuns who taught them to ignore that requirement, which they have both quite firmly done.  We also talked about the differences between Methodist (in England), United Methodist (in the USA), Anglican (state sponsored religion here) and Roman Catholicism.  I was talking with them about the serious decline of the Methodist church here and they both surprised me by saying that the Catholic and Anglican churches in this part of London are bursting at the seams with families and children.

Here's why:  The RC and Anglican churches have started very, very good schools, and the only children who are permitted to register MUST have parents who attend church so regularly that the priest is able to recognize them and know their names.  So, if a parent wants his/her child in the best schools around (and I'm guessing the tuition is pretty reasonable), they'd better get up on Sunday morning and attend church.

I had at first asked Jonathan if he would consider taking me to London today so I could go to St. Paul's Cathedral for worship, but changed my mind--it would be a pretty exhausting trip and it meant not having the time with the children.  I then asked him if there is a Methodist Chapel nearby where I could go.  He found one, and then said, "Mom, stop being a Methodist for the day and go to the Catholic church with us."  This led to a discussion about whether or not I could participate in the sacrament of Holy Communion there.  Church law forbids it:  first, I've not been baptized RC; second, should I choose to convert I am divorced and the first marriage not annulled.  This, according to church law, makes me forever unable to communicate there.  Now, Rocio and Adriana both insisted it was up to me, if I felt in my heart that it was right that I should do so.  I'm also aware that open communion was practiced at the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris where Jonathan and I attended worship last year.  But I do know church law . . .

Anyway, after a good night's sleep, we got everyone dressed and in the car and headed to the Roman Catholic church.  As we got near, I began to see what they meant by children:  multiple families with little children were making their way to the service.  As in lots and lots of babies, toddlers, pre-schoolers, and elementary aged children.  Few teens, naturally.

We walked in and were handed a hymnbook, a book of liturgy, and various pieces of paper with announcements, schedules, and a sketchy order of worship.  Very sketchy.

Because we got there just before worship began, I didn't have time to get my bearings with all this paper and books, and never was able to get caught up.  

The sanctuary area was high ceilinged, with stone floors, wooden benches, padded kneeling rails, an inadequate sound system and bouncy acoustics.  Bouncy, as in, every time a child cried or fussed or whispered or was shushed, the sound went all over the place.  At the beginning of the service, children and parents were encouraged to come to toward the altar and then went to Sunday School until the Eucharist began.  Jonathan and Adriana took Samuel and Joshua and I was left to try to figure out what I was supposed to do at any given moment.  While much of the liturgy is quite familiar, the need to jump from a printed page to a liturgy book to a hymn book and back again was so confusing that I really did give up after a while and just enjoyed the flow of worship and tried to do what the others were doing.  

The prayers and homily were essentially impossible to hear.  Even though a lot of the children went out, many others stayed and their voices were constant.  Nevertheless, I quite enjoyed it and had a sense of the presence of God in the midst of the chaos.

These children will all be going to this church school.  In school, they will learn their academic subjects and they will also learn the liturgy and the meaning of worship and why the priest does this or the acolytes do that or the responses are such and such.  They will learn their Bible stories and even if they can't hear the priest, they will have some sense of the reading because they will have been taught these things day in and day out.  They will know why they kneel for certain parts and stand for other parts of worship.  They will understand why the children who are not yet confirmed get a blessing rather than the Host when coming forward to receive during the Eucharist.  Sunday morning will be a routine, essential part of their lives that will fit seamlessly into their academic lives.

It's a brilliant move on the part of the RC and Anglican churches here.  They know that we must, we must, we simply must reach the children if there is to be hope for the words and grace of Jesus to yet permeate the world.  And this nation needs it--its culture is in serious trouble and is collapsing under the weight of immorality and ignorance.  The church may yet triumph here. Yes, I know that many of these will leave the church as teens--but they will have the foundation laid for them and they will return and they will know that God is, and that God is good, and that salvation is ours as a gift from God--and that we must cooperate in the process of salvation.

Now, considering how confused I was, and considering that I didn't get greeted, nor did anyone seem to know that I was a visitor, and no one gave me a brochure, or will be calling me later because there was no visitor info card to fill out, would I go back if I lived here?  Yes. First, I'm well educated, understand the liturgy and could figure it out by next week.  But that is a unique situation.  Second, because I do enjoy the sounds of children in worship--I find those voices to be the voice of God calling us to mission and future.  Third, even though I did in the end choose not to communicate, I sat in awe and an awareness of the mystery of salvation in God during the Eucharist.  

But were I not already churched, were I unaware of the power of the mystery because I had no background, and no explanation was given, were it necessary for me to feel that I was welcomed and affirmed when I came, had I needed an entertaining, smooth, professionally led service then I would not come back.  And that is where most adults are now--no background, no understanding of the mystery of God, a strong need to be entertained and a sense of entitlement and expectation of someone knowing their name and "making them feel welcome" and lots of follow up and multiple invitations to show up so that perhaps they'll put some money in the offering plate and help pay the bills . . . then I would not come back.

Personally, I wish that every single person who thinks that just anyone can come into a worship service and find it a welcoming, understandable and friendly place would take a few Sundays and attend worship at someplace radically different from their knowledge, upbringing and culture.  It could be quite an eye-opener.

.

Saturday Afternoon, April 18

Last year while I was in France with this family, laundry became my mission.  I would and did wrestle those washing machine into submission, dealt with constant flooding and left the family for at least one day all laundry washed, sorted, folded (put not put away--no closets there).

Here, it is the garden.  Adriana and I got the giggles together yesterday as we were sitting outside on a gorgeous day as she finally told me they had hoped I'd do something about their yard and get a vegetable garden started for them, but didn't want to tell me ahead of time so it would look like they were bringing me over here just to work.

Well, by not telling me, I also didn't pack any work clothes.  In fact, I, the master of the light packer, may have truly outdone myself.  As in one pair of jeans, one pair of shoes, a few shirts and a couple of nicer pants, one skirt just in case, and a limited supply of other necessities.  Nothing I could garden in and get dirty.

When I first mentioned this, Adriana in all her beautiful skinniness turned to me and said, "Oh no problem, you can wear something of mine!"  Since two of her would still not make one of me, I thanked her graciously for the compliment and said perhaps we could find a place that sells cheap clothing and just get something that I can get dirty in and then throw away when I leave.

Yesterday (Saturday) morning, Jonathan kept the children while Adriana, Rocio and I went to a nearby garden center to get some plants, some tools, and, I kept insisting, some work clothes for me.

Now, before going on with this, please know that EVERYONE gardens here.  In their small lots are profusions of flowers and green, green grass and cascading shrubs and vines.  Few yards (they are all called gardens here) look neglected, although some get more care than others.  So when we drove into the garden center, I landed in gardening heaven.  And by the time we drove into the one Rocio chose for shopping, we had passed at least five others--all within two or three miles of their houses.  This is MAJOR INDUSTRY here. 

I happily picked out necessary tools, found some knee pads and garden clogs for my feet, and we bought a profusion of vegetables and flowers to dress up the front and add even more beauty to the back.  However, we didn't find any work clothes and had to get back to the house because Jonathan was getting ready to cook out and needed us back there.

As I said, it was a gorgeous day--light blue skies, temperature around 65 degrees, gentle breeze.  The two families gathered around outside to eat and drink and relax.  Joshua and Samuel, sated by sunshine and good food, both fell asleep and were carried in for long naps.  I wanted to start working and asked if one of them would drive me to a shop where I could get some things.  (I will NOT drive here--that is a whole 'nother story).  Then Rocio says, "O don't worry--you can wear some of mine."  OK, Rocio, if possible, is even skinnier than Adriana.  I'm thinking:  do these women not have eyes?  But she said, "I have just what you need.  I'll go get it for you."  A few minutes later, she brought in a bag of old paint clothes, including a pair of stretch pants, beautifully paint spattered, that my some miracle did manage to make it around me with adequate comfort, and some old sweaters of Ian's (Rocio's husband) that will work fine.

Jonathan and I, and eventually, the children and Adriana, then spent the rest of the lovely afternoon cleaning out some overgrown beds, clearing a space for the vegetable garden, planning how he can build a sandbox for the children.  Jonathan is a bit naive about how much strength it will take to haul several thousand pounds of sand up a very steep hill to the sandbox location.  After some conversation, he has decided to hire help for that part of the construction.  We had bought Joshua some tools and a set of gloves for him, knowing he would want to mimic what he saw me and his dad doing, and he had a great time.  He was helping me pull some weeds and chattering happily in Spanish.  I apologized to him for not knowing Spanish and asked if he would be willing to speak to me in English.  He gave me his happy smile that lights up his lovely face and began to talk in English to me.  Clearly, he understands all that is said to him in English, but his spoken vocabulary is still limited. Nonetheless, he is now working to speak only English to me and this will be a big help to him when he goes back to nursery school at the end of April when the long spring break is over.

The long nap meant the children were extremely difficult to get to bed last night, but it was finally accomplished, and Jonathan, Adriana and I set around the small kitchen bar and ate leftover and shared a bottle of wine and told stories.  One that will be the family legend is how Adriana told Jonathan that she was leaving him THAT DAY if he didn't get her moved out of their New York apartment as it was becoming increasingly rat infested.  This was when Joshua was about 15 months old and she was seven months pregnant with Samuel.  He most definitely took her at her word and had them in a different apartment by the next day.  Good thing they can laugh at all this now!