I used to hate Saturdays. The day before Sunday, a pastor’s busiest and often most stressful day, it quickly became for me the day of dread, the day of hard mental and spiritual labor preparing for what was to come. Those difficult days have consisted of every emotional outburst from tears to anger. There have even been a few panic attacks. I anguished that I was not ready or worthy to preach or lead worship on Sunday mornings and I would weep and stress or just feel awful for the entire day. Throughout my eleven years of parish ministry I discovered Saturdays have exhausted me.
I finally decided I was either going to have to change how I spent my Saturdays or I was going to die from a heart attack with all the emotional upheaval. So, I prayed and I made changes. I became intentional with what I would do during that day before Sunday. I began to make sure that there were certain events built into every Saturday, events that raised my spirits, encouraged me, rested me, energized me. Now, as a parish minister still doing the same work on Sundays I have done for years, Saturdays have become my one day of the week that has been set aside as the designated “day of goodness.”
There is to be yoga or stretching of my body, breathing exercises, and some part of an hour spent outside. Some days I take a long walk. Other Saturdays I just sit in the back yard. Some days I ride my bike. I only allow myself to take in good things, both in my body and in my mind. This generally means no television, no trashy magazines or negative websites, and no junk food. I drink water and juice (a switch from my Monday through Friday usual diet sodas); I eat fruit and fresh vegetables; I talk to friends who have a positive effect on me and try to stay away from those who bring me down. I read passages that inspire me. I make sure the pace of the day is slow and easy. I allow for enough time to practice my sermon and go over the other events of worship so I don’t feel anxious or unprepared. I listen to or create my own music. I dance. I make sure that my Saturdays are restful and healthy and include taking notice of beauty.
After a year of my designated “Good Saturdays”, I am happy to report that this once-dreaded day has now become my favorite day of the week. I look forward to what has become a day of Sabbath instead a day of stress. I enjoy my easy Saturdays so much, the content, the activities, the beauty, that my Sundays are much lighter and more worshipful. I have even decided that I love my Saturdays so much that I choose to spend all my days in goodness. And with that decision, I have become intentional about filling all my days with good things, healthy things, beautiful things. And the result is that I feel better. I feel happier and more at peace and more balanced. And I now feel this way all week long. My cursed day has become my blessed day, my teaching day, and has led me to change everything about how I live my life.
“You must hate your job,” a person recently said when they found out I was a minister, “because you have to work every weekend.” I smiled, remembering how I used to think that way, how those two days were such a burden. “It’s not so bad,” I reply. “In fact, it’s not bad at all. My weekend work is actually the best work I do.”
Monday, August 23, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
An Unfulfilled Garden
Last year we had a garden growing in Albuquerque. Facing a number of difficulties in previous years when we lived about an hour north of there, I wasn’t expecting too much. After all, desert life isn’t known for its flourishing vegetable gardens. Last summer however, we lived in a section of the town known as the “North Valley,” an agricultural area situated near the Rio Grande. There are many horse farms, several fields of hay and lavender, a couple of wineries, and that summer, a garden growing in my back yard that far exceeded my expectations. There were tomato plants taller than I am and the leaves on the zucchini plants were as big as the tobacco leaves I remember from my grandfather’s farm in eastern North Carolina. Neither my husband nor I added any fertilizer. We didn’t do anything special other than turn the soil and build a little rabbit fence around the plants. We watered daily, pulled weeds as needed, but the plants went crazy and overran the plot, stretching across the fences. It should come as no surprise therefore, that every day in the month of August last summer I walked around our little garden expecting to find an amazing harvest. And here’s the thing, there never was much of one.
Those tall and full tomato plants only had a few tomatoes growing. Those oversized zucchini leaves with lots of blooms and thick stems actually bore only a few zucchini. And once I had gotten beyond my frustration and disappointment, I found myself saying something the folks in my profession like to say a lot. “That’ll preach.”
A church I heard about once wanted to raise three million dollars for a renovation project. They paid an architect to design their dream building which included an open and appealing narthex where visitors and members could relax and mingle before going into the newly furnished and technologically enhanced sanctuary. There would be new education facilities, a tiered music room, a larger and updated kitchen, roomy offices, and all kinds of architectural extras and landscaping possibilities to create a beautiful and modern church building and campus.
The only thing is that there is no way this church could raise three million dollars since a few years ago there was a split and half of the congregation left and they have never completely rebounded from the loss. Within the congregation there remain lots of unresolved issues, a good deal of tension, not a lot of support for the pastor, and no real mission outside of themselves. Still, several members think a newly renovated building, a good sound and light system, a big kitchen, and new furniture is the answer.
I don’t fault the church for wanting the change. At least members recognize there are problems to address. At least they are paying attention and making some attempt to improve their situation. At least they haven’t lost hope. And yet, I have to wonder, if they do manage to raise the money and build the “dream church” they are hoping for, will it ever really amount to anything? Will there ever be much of a “harvest” or any growth in the community to show or share if they fail to work on their deeper issues of identity and mission? Can they bear fruit if they aren’t healthy?
And yet, what do I know? Even after I had no harvest, I continued taking pictures of my beautiful tomato plants and sending them home to my family of farmers and gardeners in southeastern North Carolina. “Can you believe how big they’ve grown?” I wrote, always in hopes that no one wrote back asking to see a picture of an actual tomato.
Those tall and full tomato plants only had a few tomatoes growing. Those oversized zucchini leaves with lots of blooms and thick stems actually bore only a few zucchini. And once I had gotten beyond my frustration and disappointment, I found myself saying something the folks in my profession like to say a lot. “That’ll preach.”
A church I heard about once wanted to raise three million dollars for a renovation project. They paid an architect to design their dream building which included an open and appealing narthex where visitors and members could relax and mingle before going into the newly furnished and technologically enhanced sanctuary. There would be new education facilities, a tiered music room, a larger and updated kitchen, roomy offices, and all kinds of architectural extras and landscaping possibilities to create a beautiful and modern church building and campus.
The only thing is that there is no way this church could raise three million dollars since a few years ago there was a split and half of the congregation left and they have never completely rebounded from the loss. Within the congregation there remain lots of unresolved issues, a good deal of tension, not a lot of support for the pastor, and no real mission outside of themselves. Still, several members think a newly renovated building, a good sound and light system, a big kitchen, and new furniture is the answer.
I don’t fault the church for wanting the change. At least members recognize there are problems to address. At least they are paying attention and making some attempt to improve their situation. At least they haven’t lost hope. And yet, I have to wonder, if they do manage to raise the money and build the “dream church” they are hoping for, will it ever really amount to anything? Will there ever be much of a “harvest” or any growth in the community to show or share if they fail to work on their deeper issues of identity and mission? Can they bear fruit if they aren’t healthy?
And yet, what do I know? Even after I had no harvest, I continued taking pictures of my beautiful tomato plants and sending them home to my family of farmers and gardeners in southeastern North Carolina. “Can you believe how big they’ve grown?” I wrote, always in hopes that no one wrote back asking to see a picture of an actual tomato.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
The True Self
Recently, on a television talent show a young magician auditioned for a spot in the finals. He was nineteen, performed a very bizarre magic trick, and was favored by the crowd and selected to continue in the competition. After his performance, one of the judges asked him a couple of questions about his history and interest in magic and finally asked him who he aspired to be. The young man grinned and replied without hesitation, “me.”
I like the answer. It puts me in mind of the Jewish proverb that reads, “The Hasidic rabbi Zusia said, ‘When I shall face the celestial tribune, I shall not be asked why I was not Abraham, Jacob, or Moses. I shall be asked why I was not Zusia.’”
It seems that many of us spend a life time trying to be somebody we’re not. Especially for those of us who are second or third in the birth order, the comparisons with older siblings who may be talented or bright or popular may have set us up early with thoughts that we need to be more like somebody else. We learn somehow that who we are is not good enough, not interesting enough, and the only way we can succeed in school, in relationships, in life is to try and emulate someone we know who is or was successful. It is, of course, not a terrible thing to follow examples of those who model important qualities like kindness and loyalty, patience and civility. We could do with a few more dignified and respectful leaders. But in the end, we are who we are. And instead of trying to be somebody else, instead of trying to be who we think everybody wants us to be, wouldn’t it be more satisfying to know ourselves well and try to be the best at who we are?
All my life I have thought I was an extrovert because that’s the role I took on as a child. I knew it wasn’t completely comfortable for me to be in large gatherings or in front of others but I continued to be the extrovert because I thought that’s what I should do, what was expected of me, what was most rewarded and honored. It was only when I became middle-aged and began to really know myself, my tendencies, my passions, my weaknesses, that I figured out I didn’t really like being out front. I don’t like large groups. I’m actually an introvert who has learned how to be an extrovert. And now that I know who I really am, I can still use my extroverted skills; I can lead when I need to lead, speak in public when I need to speak in public, but I no longer need to try and be that great extrovert when that’s not really who I am. Knowing this and honoring this has become a source of great relief in living my life.
It is not easy to face our true selves. Sometimes we wish to be different, wish to have other talents or gifts than the ones we have. Sometimes we hide behind pretenses for a long time. And yet, peace comes when we know and honor ourselves. Even as we seek to improve our human nature, seek to be kind or patient or loving even though that may not feel natural, let us not be unhappy with ourselves; let us celebrate our uniqueness of our creation. There is delight in being true to who we really are. That is, after all, where the real magic lies.
I like the answer. It puts me in mind of the Jewish proverb that reads, “The Hasidic rabbi Zusia said, ‘When I shall face the celestial tribune, I shall not be asked why I was not Abraham, Jacob, or Moses. I shall be asked why I was not Zusia.’”
It seems that many of us spend a life time trying to be somebody we’re not. Especially for those of us who are second or third in the birth order, the comparisons with older siblings who may be talented or bright or popular may have set us up early with thoughts that we need to be more like somebody else. We learn somehow that who we are is not good enough, not interesting enough, and the only way we can succeed in school, in relationships, in life is to try and emulate someone we know who is or was successful. It is, of course, not a terrible thing to follow examples of those who model important qualities like kindness and loyalty, patience and civility. We could do with a few more dignified and respectful leaders. But in the end, we are who we are. And instead of trying to be somebody else, instead of trying to be who we think everybody wants us to be, wouldn’t it be more satisfying to know ourselves well and try to be the best at who we are?
All my life I have thought I was an extrovert because that’s the role I took on as a child. I knew it wasn’t completely comfortable for me to be in large gatherings or in front of others but I continued to be the extrovert because I thought that’s what I should do, what was expected of me, what was most rewarded and honored. It was only when I became middle-aged and began to really know myself, my tendencies, my passions, my weaknesses, that I figured out I didn’t really like being out front. I don’t like large groups. I’m actually an introvert who has learned how to be an extrovert. And now that I know who I really am, I can still use my extroverted skills; I can lead when I need to lead, speak in public when I need to speak in public, but I no longer need to try and be that great extrovert when that’s not really who I am. Knowing this and honoring this has become a source of great relief in living my life.
It is not easy to face our true selves. Sometimes we wish to be different, wish to have other talents or gifts than the ones we have. Sometimes we hide behind pretenses for a long time. And yet, peace comes when we know and honor ourselves. Even as we seek to improve our human nature, seek to be kind or patient or loving even though that may not feel natural, let us not be unhappy with ourselves; let us celebrate our uniqueness of our creation. There is delight in being true to who we really are. That is, after all, where the real magic lies.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
A Prayer for Graduates
“Though I speak in the tongues of humans and of angels and have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains but have not love, I am nothing. And if I give away all that I have and even turn over my body so that I may boast, but have not love, I gain nothing.” (1 Corinthians 13:1-3).
God of love, we thank you for these, your beloved. We thank you for their accomplishment of graduation, their achievement of finding their way to this milestone. We thank you, God, for all those who helped them make it this far. For mothers and fathers, for grandmothers and grandfathers, for teachers and coaches and counselors, for friends and parents of friends. We thank you that somewhere along the way, they have known love, been touched by love, and continue on the lifelong journey of learning how to love.
We ask for you to encamp your angels around your beloved. Protect them from evil. Keep them wise in their decision-making. Teach them to be kind to themselves and to others. Be near to them when they call.
As they say goodbye to what they have known for so long and move into new places or at least new circumstances, help them to care about the world and its creatures. Create within them the desire to care for the stranger across the street and the stranger across the border. Remind them to care for their family especially the old ones who will desire their tenderness and the very young ones who will need their friendship. Teach them to care about the things that matter and teach them NOT to care about those things of little consequence.
Give them courage to speak out against injustice, strength to make it through difficulties, wisdom to know what is required by and needed of them, and joy that sustains them through sorrow. But mostly, O God, keep them in love. Keep them in love with you and the world. Keep them in love with truth and seeking righteousness. Keep them in love with the earth and sky with their rainbows and full moons, flowering trees and running streams. Keep them in love with birds of the air and animals that creep and crawl upon our sacred lands and swim in our beloved waters. Keep them in love with the laughter of children and dancing and holding hands.
Open their hearts wider and deeper so that this will be the generation that teaches the rest of us what it means truly to love.
In the name of love, we pray, Amen.
God of love, we thank you for these, your beloved. We thank you for their accomplishment of graduation, their achievement of finding their way to this milestone. We thank you, God, for all those who helped them make it this far. For mothers and fathers, for grandmothers and grandfathers, for teachers and coaches and counselors, for friends and parents of friends. We thank you that somewhere along the way, they have known love, been touched by love, and continue on the lifelong journey of learning how to love.
We ask for you to encamp your angels around your beloved. Protect them from evil. Keep them wise in their decision-making. Teach them to be kind to themselves and to others. Be near to them when they call.
As they say goodbye to what they have known for so long and move into new places or at least new circumstances, help them to care about the world and its creatures. Create within them the desire to care for the stranger across the street and the stranger across the border. Remind them to care for their family especially the old ones who will desire their tenderness and the very young ones who will need their friendship. Teach them to care about the things that matter and teach them NOT to care about those things of little consequence.
Give them courage to speak out against injustice, strength to make it through difficulties, wisdom to know what is required by and needed of them, and joy that sustains them through sorrow. But mostly, O God, keep them in love. Keep them in love with you and the world. Keep them in love with truth and seeking righteousness. Keep them in love with the earth and sky with their rainbows and full moons, flowering trees and running streams. Keep them in love with birds of the air and animals that creep and crawl upon our sacred lands and swim in our beloved waters. Keep them in love with the laughter of children and dancing and holding hands.
Open their hearts wider and deeper so that this will be the generation that teaches the rest of us what it means truly to love.
In the name of love, we pray, Amen.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Wishing for World Peace
There’s a wish list on the refrigerator at the church where I serve. People working in the kitchen write down the items that run out and that are needed for fellowship hour and potlucks. This list is written on a narrow pad of white paper and as the top page fills up, items get marked off, the page is torn away, and another one takes its place. No one told me about the list. No one has explained who takes care of handling the requests. I’m not sure exactly who is in charge of supplying the items; I just know that for my past seven months of service here what is asked for is received, what is empty gets filled, and what is missing is replaced.
One day, I walked into the kitchen and noticed a new item had been added to the list. Just beneath the requests for measuring cups, sugar, and a white tablecloth, someone had written, World Peace. I suppose it was just a joke. I must say it brought a smile to my face. How amusing that someone wants world peace AND a tablecloth. And yet, after thinking about it, maybe it wasn’t meant to be funny at all. Maybe someone had noticed that when trash bags and plastic spoons are listed on these pieces of paper attached to the refrigerator, the items suddenly appear and maybe that someone decided that if crackers and salt, tea and creamer can magically happen, peace can too.
Finding peace, creating peace, is of course, nothing like shopping for kitchen items. You don’t just order up peace for the universe in the same way we pick up grape juice and cookies. But as I’ve considered the listed item and decided it was probably a joke, it concerns me that people of faith don’t even hope for it any more. Maybe we have decided it is no longer a prayer worth praying. With our own young men and women fighting on two battlefields for over a decade, stories of civil strife and tensions rising across borders, with the history of the world numbered by wars, maybe we’ve decided it isn’t even worth our wishes, even isn’t worth a petition for grace.
“It’s just human nature,” I’ve heard folks say. “As long as there are people and greed, people and religious differences, there will be battles fought.” Maybe. But maybe not. At the very least it seems to me we ought to keep asking for peace. We ought to keep working for justice, finding solutions to poverty and hunger to help ease the tensions, create new ways to deal with the strife. It seems to me at least that people of faith should once again imagine that love is stronger than hatred and peace can overcome chaos. People of faith should at least pray for world peace.
But maybe that’s just a naive and silly request. Perhaps I should imagine only teaspoons and paper napkins, communion cups and Kool-aid will appear at church and in the world. Maybe we should keep our expectations low and our lists manageable. After all, when it comes to kitchen supplies, there is somebody making that happen. Somebody can handle those needs.
Still, I walk in the church kitchen, take a look at the refrigerator and notice the one item not marked off the list and I say a pastor can dream and there’s no danger in asking. There’s nothing wrong with claiming what we need and requesting a little help. Sugar and world peace, I’d say we could use a little of both.
One day, I walked into the kitchen and noticed a new item had been added to the list. Just beneath the requests for measuring cups, sugar, and a white tablecloth, someone had written, World Peace. I suppose it was just a joke. I must say it brought a smile to my face. How amusing that someone wants world peace AND a tablecloth. And yet, after thinking about it, maybe it wasn’t meant to be funny at all. Maybe someone had noticed that when trash bags and plastic spoons are listed on these pieces of paper attached to the refrigerator, the items suddenly appear and maybe that someone decided that if crackers and salt, tea and creamer can magically happen, peace can too.
Finding peace, creating peace, is of course, nothing like shopping for kitchen items. You don’t just order up peace for the universe in the same way we pick up grape juice and cookies. But as I’ve considered the listed item and decided it was probably a joke, it concerns me that people of faith don’t even hope for it any more. Maybe we have decided it is no longer a prayer worth praying. With our own young men and women fighting on two battlefields for over a decade, stories of civil strife and tensions rising across borders, with the history of the world numbered by wars, maybe we’ve decided it isn’t even worth our wishes, even isn’t worth a petition for grace.
“It’s just human nature,” I’ve heard folks say. “As long as there are people and greed, people and religious differences, there will be battles fought.” Maybe. But maybe not. At the very least it seems to me we ought to keep asking for peace. We ought to keep working for justice, finding solutions to poverty and hunger to help ease the tensions, create new ways to deal with the strife. It seems to me at least that people of faith should once again imagine that love is stronger than hatred and peace can overcome chaos. People of faith should at least pray for world peace.
But maybe that’s just a naive and silly request. Perhaps I should imagine only teaspoons and paper napkins, communion cups and Kool-aid will appear at church and in the world. Maybe we should keep our expectations low and our lists manageable. After all, when it comes to kitchen supplies, there is somebody making that happen. Somebody can handle those needs.
Still, I walk in the church kitchen, take a look at the refrigerator and notice the one item not marked off the list and I say a pastor can dream and there’s no danger in asking. There’s nothing wrong with claiming what we need and requesting a little help. Sugar and world peace, I’d say we could use a little of both.
Monday, May 24, 2010
The Seeds We Plant
The Seeds We Plant
We moved into the church parsonage here in eastern Washington late October of last year. It’s about fifty years old but an adequate house situated only about three blocks from the church where I am serving as interim pastor. The front and back yards are small, with landscaped flower beds wrapping around the house and garage. No one told us what was planted in the beds. No one told us what to expect once winter ended. In the last few weeks at least a hundred bulbs have broken through the thawed ground and although there has been no bloom, I am confident that soon this house we call home for a few more months will be surrounded by color, bathed in the hues of spring. We live in a beauty imagined and created by the hearts and hands of others.
In this season of birth and new growth and in a place gardened by others, I am reminded of the power of planting seeds. I am reminded of the hope that emerges in the hearts of planters, how diligently farmers and gardeners rake and plow and dig and make way for life. Every year lovers of the earth go to nurseries and stores, purchase the seeds or bulbs that offer possibilities, and in faith, with care and hope, drop them into the earth in joyful anticipation. Most plant gardens for themselves but some folks, like the anonymous members of this church, hearty ones who love to landscape and care for church properties, plant their bulbs and seeds for others.
It is the same in spiritual gardens. We plant seeds of kindness, faith, hope, joy, love, peace, and patience in our own hearts, hoping to enjoy the bounty of our work and desire. We plant seeds within our souls, toiling with tools to grow spiritual gifts that we look forward to see come to fruition. We pray and study and meditate and practice for us to become patient, to become kind, to become people of peace and love. It is the harvest of our work for our own souls. But we also plant seeds in the hearts of others, in temporary places, in organizations, places of worship, in souls of those who may or may not ever know our names. We plant seeds without having to reap the bounty. We plant seeds without needing to watch the garden grow. We plant seeds letting the hope of what might come, the power of what may spring forth, the joy we expect for someone else, to be reason enough to keep planting.
I’m sure I could ask the church membership who planted these bulbs that grow in perfectly-spaced rows, filling the beds in the front and back yards of the parsonage and someone would give me names; but likely, I will not. Instead as they pop and bloom I will think of the people in my life who planted seeds within my soul and never saw what grew. I will think of grandmothers and teachers, the parents of my adolescent friends, the authors of books that shaped me, the countless words of wisdom from others that fell like seeds in my soul and have finally begun to bloom. I will think of planting my own seeds, being kind to strangers, writing words of hope, working for justice and peace, and learn how to be content with just the planting. It takes faith to grow a garden you don’t get to harvest. It takes faith to plant a seed. I know because I live this season in the center of someone else’s hopes for spring.
We moved into the church parsonage here in eastern Washington late October of last year. It’s about fifty years old but an adequate house situated only about three blocks from the church where I am serving as interim pastor. The front and back yards are small, with landscaped flower beds wrapping around the house and garage. No one told us what was planted in the beds. No one told us what to expect once winter ended. In the last few weeks at least a hundred bulbs have broken through the thawed ground and although there has been no bloom, I am confident that soon this house we call home for a few more months will be surrounded by color, bathed in the hues of spring. We live in a beauty imagined and created by the hearts and hands of others.
In this season of birth and new growth and in a place gardened by others, I am reminded of the power of planting seeds. I am reminded of the hope that emerges in the hearts of planters, how diligently farmers and gardeners rake and plow and dig and make way for life. Every year lovers of the earth go to nurseries and stores, purchase the seeds or bulbs that offer possibilities, and in faith, with care and hope, drop them into the earth in joyful anticipation. Most plant gardens for themselves but some folks, like the anonymous members of this church, hearty ones who love to landscape and care for church properties, plant their bulbs and seeds for others.
It is the same in spiritual gardens. We plant seeds of kindness, faith, hope, joy, love, peace, and patience in our own hearts, hoping to enjoy the bounty of our work and desire. We plant seeds within our souls, toiling with tools to grow spiritual gifts that we look forward to see come to fruition. We pray and study and meditate and practice for us to become patient, to become kind, to become people of peace and love. It is the harvest of our work for our own souls. But we also plant seeds in the hearts of others, in temporary places, in organizations, places of worship, in souls of those who may or may not ever know our names. We plant seeds without having to reap the bounty. We plant seeds without needing to watch the garden grow. We plant seeds letting the hope of what might come, the power of what may spring forth, the joy we expect for someone else, to be reason enough to keep planting.
I’m sure I could ask the church membership who planted these bulbs that grow in perfectly-spaced rows, filling the beds in the front and back yards of the parsonage and someone would give me names; but likely, I will not. Instead as they pop and bloom I will think of the people in my life who planted seeds within my soul and never saw what grew. I will think of grandmothers and teachers, the parents of my adolescent friends, the authors of books that shaped me, the countless words of wisdom from others that fell like seeds in my soul and have finally begun to bloom. I will think of planting my own seeds, being kind to strangers, writing words of hope, working for justice and peace, and learn how to be content with just the planting. It takes faith to grow a garden you don’t get to harvest. It takes faith to plant a seed. I know because I live this season in the center of someone else’s hopes for spring.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Finding What Was Lost
It is Easter and I have been thinking about resurrection and finding life where there has been death. I have been thinking about heaven and what it might be like when we pass from this world to the next.
I remember reading once that heaven was the place where things that are lost would be found. I like that thought because throughout my life I have lost a lot of things. Some of those things were able to be replaced, keys and books, for instance, articles of clothing, pieces of jewelry, poems or photographs. Others were not. I may have bought something new to take the place of the thing that is missing, but somehow it never fully satisfied me in the way the first thing, the lost thing, had done. Other things could never be replaced. Friends, for example, people I cared about who wandered in and then one day out of my life, leaving without a forwarding address. Moments of unfettered grace in which I can’t exactly call up the circumstances any more but I still know they happened. My innocence that fell away in pieces and my naïveté about the intentions and motivations of some people that seemed to have been lost in one fell swoop. I have lost, and regret having done so, the way loved ones, dead now, looked when they were content and what it was that used to make me laugh so hard that my face hurt.
I lost my fearlessness when I fell off the back of a motorcycle and I lost my need to be the best or win first place when I discovered that not everything in life is about winning. I lost the knowledge and anticipation that my plans will turn out as I expect and the notion that bad things won’t happen to good people. Not all of the things I lost, therefore, are missed or necessary or important. But sometimes I would just like to see them again just to remember what it was that I used to think was so wonderful about them. I don’t know if I’ll ever get that chance, of course because even though I believe in heaven, I don’t really know what it will be like. And if I’m honest, even in this season of Easter, I don’t know if Jesus physically rose from the dead either. I guess somewhere along the way I lost the need for that kind of certainty too. If pushed I would say I like the thought of heaven as a grand place of love and sweet reunions and I like the thought of Jesus, up from the grave, skipping down the street holding hands with a friend who didn’t go anywhere and laughing about what he had missed in the three days he was gone.
Truthfully, part of the reason I’m a pastor, a bearer of good news, is because I’d like to be the one to tell him, “don’t worry, one day soon, you’ll get it all back.”
I remember reading once that heaven was the place where things that are lost would be found. I like that thought because throughout my life I have lost a lot of things. Some of those things were able to be replaced, keys and books, for instance, articles of clothing, pieces of jewelry, poems or photographs. Others were not. I may have bought something new to take the place of the thing that is missing, but somehow it never fully satisfied me in the way the first thing, the lost thing, had done. Other things could never be replaced. Friends, for example, people I cared about who wandered in and then one day out of my life, leaving without a forwarding address. Moments of unfettered grace in which I can’t exactly call up the circumstances any more but I still know they happened. My innocence that fell away in pieces and my naïveté about the intentions and motivations of some people that seemed to have been lost in one fell swoop. I have lost, and regret having done so, the way loved ones, dead now, looked when they were content and what it was that used to make me laugh so hard that my face hurt.
I lost my fearlessness when I fell off the back of a motorcycle and I lost my need to be the best or win first place when I discovered that not everything in life is about winning. I lost the knowledge and anticipation that my plans will turn out as I expect and the notion that bad things won’t happen to good people. Not all of the things I lost, therefore, are missed or necessary or important. But sometimes I would just like to see them again just to remember what it was that I used to think was so wonderful about them. I don’t know if I’ll ever get that chance, of course because even though I believe in heaven, I don’t really know what it will be like. And if I’m honest, even in this season of Easter, I don’t know if Jesus physically rose from the dead either. I guess somewhere along the way I lost the need for that kind of certainty too. If pushed I would say I like the thought of heaven as a grand place of love and sweet reunions and I like the thought of Jesus, up from the grave, skipping down the street holding hands with a friend who didn’t go anywhere and laughing about what he had missed in the three days he was gone.
Truthfully, part of the reason I’m a pastor, a bearer of good news, is because I’d like to be the one to tell him, “don’t worry, one day soon, you’ll get it all back.”
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