the dream of a garden memorial

I dreamt that I walked in soft green grass,
the whisper of wind in the trees.
The flowers all nodded their sweet hello
as they welcomed the buzzing of bees.

I dreamt of a tree whose leaves unfurled
and gathered my sorrow within
And took it from me and gave me instead
peace and innocent comfort again.

The sun touched my hair in gentle warmth
while the breeze brushed my cheek so soft
Now lightened inside, my heart once more whole
No more burdened by such grief and loss.

I stood and I turned to leave that place
with its sweet peace and timeless lore
Understanding again, she is not here
I will see her in heaven once more.



~ A true dream, written the morning after the death of fellow Luther Seminary Classmate and DL Cohort 4 member, Rebeccah Whitlock  September 11, 2014.  

Knowing how...

"Knowing how is more important than simply knowing that." ~Mary Hess

Indeed.  For years I knew that rearing children is hard.  Knowing how it is hard is what helps me get through it.  It is in the knowing how that I am able to find what is going wrong and try to fix it.

When we only know that, we miss out on the understanding that comes with the process in which something comes into being.   More easily, we take something for granted and even more so, we discount the value of it. 

Some critics argue it is "the advent of digital technologies that has diluted and made more fragile our religious formation." They fail to recognize that while one process of religious being is no longer as easily brought into being, another process will evolve- has in fact, already evolved.

Those who eschew public gatherings, who have disdain for the traditional within the Church now have access.  They have a way to not only know that, but to know how Christ Loves them.  They can see Christian community without the familiar trappings- they can find it in obscure places and they can connect, creating new community. 

They would not find this if we did not have this digital technology.  They would be stuck only know that there is a God who loves them, but until they know how, the gift is often lost on them in the midst of tradition that turns them away.

For more on how to integrate and consider the impact of digital revolution on religious formation and community, read Engaging Technology in Theological Education, All That We Can't Leave Behind by Mary Hess, 2005.

Being Less Perfect, More Human, Hope.... and M.E.

Don't get me wrong.  There are days, where  no one can do right, nothing goes right and the world is against me.  Those days remind me of a song my mom used to sing to me when I was in those moods.  Of course, I just looked up the lyrics and none of them quite match, but it is close.  Here is our version:

No body  loves me.  Every body hates me.  Gonna eat worms until I die.  Big ones, fat ones, squishy, squirmy, skinny ones.  Gonna eats worms until I die.

Now that is pessimism at its squirmy, squishy best.  For the most part though, I am an optimist.  That doesn't mean crappy stuff doesn't happen in my life.  It does, often with fireworks too.  But I choose the positive outlook because if I get caught up in the negative, I will just not get out of bed anymore.

This also means I have to let go of perfection.  The other day someone said I needed to learn to be let down more.  I laughed.  He then mentioned he thought I must not be let down much based on how I act when I am.  I have to say, that made me want to laugh harder. It isn't because I am not let down- a LOT.  I think it is because I still hope.  No matter how many times I am let down, I still hope.

I am not blind to the ugliness and let downs in life.  They happen.  I cry.  Then I sigh really deeply and move on.  That particular hope is gone.  But I have many, many more down in this Mary Poppins magic bag of mine.  I am not caught on the perfection, but I sure can hope for it.  If I don't aim for perfection I will never get it, will I?  I think we will often fall a little short of aim, so I aim higher.

That does not mean I expect perfection out of others, but I allow and hope for the very best of them- and myself.  Madeleine L'Engle asked in my study today for us to list the times we have failed miserably.  Honestly, I sat there stymied.  That doesn't mean I haven't failed.  I have.  Over and over.  But it does mean that I am not caught up in the failure, I don't dwell on it or, at least, not for long.  I let it die its wormy death and go on.

Aiming for perfection and expecting it are not necessarily tied to being perfect or not accepting less than perfection.  Just as well, it can be closely tied to imperfection, forgiveness and  hope.  If we but hope, we can get up, dust off and move on.

I choose to hope.  It makes life a little sunnier and adds more possibility than you can ever imagine.

What does real love look like? Seminary, Cohorts and M.E.

What does love with forbearance and forgiveness look like?  What does love lived with passion and open eyes look like?  Can the two be one?

My cohort may never forgive me for this one, but I pray they 'get' it... In fact, I am pretty sure they will.

In my cohort of over 20 people we have all kinds.  We come from all over the country.  Not everyone would choose to spend time as 'best-ies' outside of school, but we have found a common connection beyond our call.  It is called love.

We are not perfect.  We drive each other nuts even as we drive each other on in joy. Here is a short list of some of our better or worse attributes (you decide if they are good or bad, it is all perspective):

Some of us are:
Sociable         Talkative             Timid                Private              Boisterous              Methodical
Studious         Loud                   Meek               Confident          Artistic                   Capable
Skilled            Experienced        Expressive        Modest             Flashy                    Articulate
Simple            Detailed              Humble             Joyous              Self Conscious       Self starters
Driven            Affectionate        Bubbly              Frustrated         Busy                       Calm

You see, we are all kinds of things.  Sometimes annoyingly so, even to each other.  But in those moments that would drive anyone else mad, we are blessed with this amazing grace that lets us see past the annoying part and LOVE the person in front of us.  They are part of us, they are us.  We know no matter how good they may be at something we are not good at, that they are a little doubtful of a different, weaker, skill of attribute of their own.  We know we all bring something to the table.  More than anything, I have seen tremendous patience.  It allows us to breathe, to listen and to HEAR and see each other and what is really happening around us, not just what is colored by our immediate reaction.

This group of people is full of imperfection and disagreement.  One of my closest friends in this group goes NUTS every time she finds out I have not started a 10 page paper that is due in 5 hours- because she is a planner and does her work methodically and carefully.  I on the other hand vomit words on paper and try to sort it out.  It works for me. Hers works for her.  The best part?  We both get A's but if we tried it the other way we would fail miserably.  The lesson here is that we could really drive each other to distraction with our differences, but instead, we love each other all the more.  We (or at least I do) find great comfort in the difference that we see with eyes wide open, full of passion and yet, in forbearance and forgiveness.  (She really needs to forgive me for the white hairs I am giving her when she finds out about these papers... I will buy her hair dye as a token apology next time I see her.)

We are NOT this way because we are future pastors... but we are this way because the Holy Spirit allows us to LOVE with eyes wide open, with deep and convicting passion, with forbearance, and most importantly, with forgiveness.  I could not ask for more.  Now I just wish I could bottle that for the world.

What Happens After? Sermon for August 25, 2013

 Luke 13: 10-17

Cinderella got her Prince Charming. So did Snow White, Belle, Sleeping Beauty and Juliette.  

The problem is that is always where the story ends.  I much prefer the  Shrek storyline.  (hands on who has seen this one… if your hand is not up, I will see you at blockbuster after coffee hour).  The story line of Shrek II specifically dances with the question about what happens after happily ever after.  It addresses life after with the imperfection of diapers and bills and the craziness that makes us sit back and wonder "who did I marry?"

 

Let me read again what happens here that leaves us asking this question:

Luke 13

The woman was healed, stood up and praised God. But then what? 

As I pondered this passage this week, I kept thinking my love of fairy tales must be going overboard.  I went through site after site looking for someone else who asked the same thing- so to be honest, I am on my own here unless you are with me.  So, do you wonder too?  What happened after they all went home that Sabbath?  It is the ultimate season cliffhanger,  JC style.  

I also notice everyone in the story got so caught up in the Synagogue Ruler’s temper tantrum that we forgot about the woman.  She got healed, praised God, and that was it.  Never heard from again. Talk about a one hit wonder, and the shortest 15 minutes of fame ever. 

Now I am sure it actually raised a bit of ruckus for a while with those who knew her.  She probably was ecstatic at first.  I mean,  think about it, she could stand up straight after 18 years.  That is no small thing if you have ever lived with back pain.  
 

Lets take a moment though and look at some other things we should know about this text.  If we go back to the Greek word, ασθενειας  used here, it is best translated as "infirmity or un-firm" in our language.  But that doesn’t tell us what kind of infirmity.  In fact, it might actually read better if we called it "the results of depression."  The type of infirmity historically referenced here in the original language is the kind caused by mental distress and depression.  It is the kind you see when you can tell through body language that someone is dejected, lonely, sad, depressed and hopeless; drooped shoulders, downcast eyes, a person literally as curled into themselves as they can get and still be upright.  

What amazes me, and it shouldn’t, is that Jesus saw her.  The synagogue was  bound by strong social rules.  Men and important figures were always up front.  Women and the unimportant, in the rear.  Bent and infirm, this woman was more than likely the lowest of the low on the social scale.  So this woman was in the rear of the room and he noticed her, calling her forward.  

In that moment she must have felt an odd mixture of fear and joy.  

               Jesus noticed HER!  Oh no! Jesus NOTICED her!

 I don’t even think she really understood what was happening until he touched her, when she stood up, and she immediately praised God. 

And then in her moment of glory and joy,  Mr. Buzzkill pipes up and says, “Hey, you have 6 other days to get healed lady, do that some other time.” Immediately the attention is turned from her.  The Synagogue leader was exerting his right and power over the way things went in the synagogue on the Sabbath.  I wonder if he was jealous?  Or was he just upset over the planned day not going as he expected?  I think a little of both.  But don’t you wonder, what happened afterward for this man too?  He not only exerted his power, but then got shot down big time in front of all those folks- and they agreed with Jesus' actions and words.  Talk about an ego buster. So what happened to him?  How did the rest of his day go?  
 

And how did the rest of her life go? 

 Suddenly she is able to do an awful lot of things she could not do before.  If we read this right, not only is she healed physically, but  also of the infirmity, the depression, that made her this way.  So she has a whole new attitude folks.  

Now let me ask you… the last time in your life you felt a huge personal change and you got home or went to school or work the next day- how did people take it?  What about a few days later?  Did you get to a point they kind of looked at you and said, “ok, that was all well and good, but we need to get back to normal now.”  What about when you go back home or to a reunion?  You may have had a HUGE change in your appearance, life or frame of mind, but you are treated the same as before.  Does that help you succeed at keeping your new perspective?  Does it help you stay on track?   Me Either. 

Cynthia was born with scoliosis.  By her early teens, her spine was curled like a pig tail and a rod was  inserted into her spine that she still has to this day.  Although she was deeply loved by her family, she knew she was different and even though doctors were working on keeping it minimized, it was still obvious that she had something different going on physically.  And we all know how kids are to each other.  

But Cynthia, she is tough.  And she fought back the only way she knew how.  By being mean.  I mean, really, really, mean.  She has told me how she was nasty, vicious, cruel and hurtful- all on purpose.  Because if she struck out first, others would still be licking their wounds as she walked away relatively unscathed.   

She was raised in a Christian home by two of the kindest, sweetest, most nurturing people I know.  But she ran from God.  And man oh man did she run.  She did her best to destroy her spirit to match her own image of her body.  I won’t go into details, but let’s just say, if you can imagine a way to offend God and other humans, she did it or she tried to. Because she was hurting inside.  She was infirm.   She was bound and she was broken.

Then one day she realized it was time to get off the pity pot and get right with God.  What she was doing wasn’t working and she knew deep down inside that she had Jesus and a chance to start over. 

 Today she is one of my dearest friends,  fiercest of my supporters, and most brutally honest with me as a sister in Christ.  Her life is on the right track and she seeks to honor God in every word and step. She lives the gift of a healed woman. She knows Jesus has healed her.  She may still be physically ‘broken’ to the world, but she is spiritually healed.  Unfortunately, her soul still suffers.  

BUT, even though she was healed, she left a path of destructive consequences that are still piercing her life.  Her good and healed life.  She didn’t get a ‘happily ever after’  While she still cringes at her own x-rays and broken body,  she did get healed of her infirmity- the one inside that was destroying her far worse than anything physical ever could.  And the best news is that every time those barbs of consequences bite into her, she drops them back at the feet of Jesus and the Cross.  She is healed regularly, sometimes daily, or even minute by minute.  But over and over again, she is healed.  

When Jesus told the bent woman to stand up, that she was healed, he knew there would be more.  She would go home and face the changes, good and  bad that came with no longer being  infirm.  She would have to train others to look at her differently, but to still see her as the same woman in many ways.  She would have to learn how to be a more productive person and to fit into the fabric of her social world in a whole new way.  But when she would stumble, she was not left to her own devices.  She had Jesus, and she had his gift of life, of healing; over and over and over.  

So what does this mean to us?  Now I am not saying we get a free pass to intentionally act stupid and still be right with God.  But it  does mean, when we  leave church today and  backslide by calling someone a choice name for cutting us off in traffic, or you don’t pick up that Bible to read it tomorrow morning, like you keep promising you will do every Sunday, or you forget to pray over your meal at lunch later in the week, it is okay.  Those are the small things... when you lie to a friend, when you steal on your taxes, when you are sexually immoral... it is not right, but it will be okay, because if you are already saved, you are unbound and already in possession of healing and that healing is not a one time deal.  It has a lifetime warranty. Because of the cross You can keep using that promise over and over. 

How being full of holes can actually be more whole... and M.E.

We tend to think that something with holes is incomplete, less than perfect or damaged, right?  I mean, the underwear with holes get tossed, as do the socks.  If my pool has a hole, I have to patch it or it is useless.  If there is a hole in my heart, I am broken.  Or not.

Being full of holes can actually be a good thing too.  I have a tomato plant in a container.  It gets watered well by the sprinklers and I noticed that it was gaining and holding water.  It turned out I forgot to punch the holes out in the bottom.  The roots were starting to rot away because they were stuck in their own juices.  I also have a pasta strainer that doesn't have very good holes on the bottom, so it doesn't drain away the pasta liquid without a lot of help.  If it doesn't drain right, the pasta gets all sticky and goopy and useless.  And of course, my neighbor would argue the holes in his t-shirt are perfect air conditioning.  There is a purpose behind being full of holes.

I once heard a story of a clay pot that was broken.  It was tossed to the side, useless as it no longer held water.  Until a windy day came.  And the light kept going out because of the wind.  They needed a wind 'break' that would not cover and extinguish the flame, while still letting the light out and air in.  The broken pot suddenly had purpose- very important purpose.  Its holes let the light out and the air in.

Much like my tomato pot, if I am not hole-y enough, I am sitting in my own juices getting all stinky and root rotted.  There is no room for fresh water to flow in and through.  There is no way to allow my insides to breathe.  I fester.  The holes are helpful.

Sometimes I hear people talk about the day they will be better Christians.  But first they have to read the Bible more or start going to church they say.  The truth is, that would be depending on us.  There would be no room for the Spirit and gift of salvation to move through us and in us.  We would be doing it alone and if that is the case, we will only get root rot.

We need to open up to our holes.  God still has purpose for us with those holes.  That is what they talk about when they say salvation by faith, not works.  We cannot open our own holes, life does that, sin does that.  But we can embrace the holes first, and let God move through them, like fresh water, bringing nutrients and flushing away the nasty stuff.  That tomato plant isn't doing anything different but the fruit of it is affected by allowing the holes to do their job too.  Then it can produce fruit as a by product.  Our salvation is the same.  It is not in our control, but when it is gifted to us, when we need it because we are full of holes, it becomes this amazing gift that frees us to do what we are supposed to do.  Just be us, and grow fruit by being us.

Don't think you have to get to church first, or pray more, or read the Bible more.  Not that those aren't important, they are.  But they are not what gets you right with God.  God is.  You just have to sit back and be hole-y.  In that, you will be made whole and holy.

Imperfection and M.E.... sharing the TMI at church

I have attended many churches in my life.  The moving has created an opportunity to see and experience more fully how people do and see 'religion' differently.  One aspect never changes though.  Perfection.  Or rather, expectation of perfection.

Whether you attend a service that is dressed to the nines or wear jeans and t-shirts to church, there is still an expectation.  We don't want to see imperfection.  We don't really want to know what is happening in our neighbors home- that might get messy and we would have to give up our precious time to help or support.

We don't want to know the pastor is lonely or struggling with a bully in the congregation (yes, there is always one and pastors won't tell you who it is, but trust me, they are there and they are mean because they can get away with it because pastors won't be mean back).

We sure do not want errors in the bulletin or errant slides or heaven forbid, a bad sound system or musical gift.

We want perfection.

As I read M.E.'s thoughts for today, she speaks of false expectations and at first I was caught up in the friendship side she mentions.  But after some time in silence and meditation I read the passage again and the words "we have false expectations of our holy days, of our churches" jumped off the page at me. Immediately I knew I was guilty of that.  I want my church holidays to deliver some meaningful, emotionally laden and personally life altering experience.  That is not what the church is for.

The church is also not a place for us to put on a face of perfection.  The fact is, you go to church with people who suffer.  They fight inner demons of alcohol, drugs, cruel fists, sexual yearnings and more.  They are not perfect and neither is your pastor.  We are just human.  All of us.

A few places we have been my first complaint to Lance was that I felt like I wasn't being 'let in'.  Really.  I was welcome to help at church and worship there but the personal lives were bricked off like Ft Knox.  I wanted relationship. I wanted personal.  I wanted real.

 How can I pray for you when you won't tell me?  But why on earth would you tell me if I am going to judge or blab about town? I get it. No wonder we build those walls thicker at church than at home.  We are afraid of the judgement.  I know that feeling very well.  I am blessed with a daughter who knows no sense of secrecy when it comes to 'life'.  Her greatest desire upon being hospitalized for depression was for us to tell people where she was and why.  She figured they might be able to find their own inner demons and fight them if she shared hers.

 The hardest part was being so transparent to others at church and her school.  Let me tell you, offering up in verbal prayer to the whole congregation that your daughter is hospitalized for suicidal thoughts is not easy.  It had me quaking in my boots.  I remember thinking, they really will think this is TMI (too much information) but my heart yelled at me, "this is not about them, this is about Sandy and what she wants and needs to heal!"

So I did it.  I prayed for her safety and health and spirit out loud.  I shared with her friends and then, I left service crying several times over the weeks she was not with us. What I found though was not judgement. (*Caveat, there was fear deeply wrapped about the 's' word- and that is another blog for another day- shame and suicide).  Instead I found arms of solace and even more shockingly, as I shared, more and more people came to me crying themselves for the pain they had never shared with another soul or outside their little families.  They worried for grown children, for teens at home.  They mourned their own years of despair spent alone and afraid.  Some of these wounds were dozens of years old!  One woman had watched her little brother go through this when she was a teen, now she is in her late 40's.  Not one word to anyone else in all these years.

As I lowered the mask of perfection, what I saw, felt, heard and experienced was a freedom.  For me, yes.  But for those around me too.  When I took that first step (coerced by mothering instinct alone) I gave them permission to open up too. This allowed my daughter's and my cry for help to be their cry for help in those moments.  Together we grieved and found solace. That would not have happened if I had maintained "perfect" standards.

Don't get me wrong, church is not the place for broad, personal, verbal confession, but it is a place we should find imperfection and we must follow that up with the gifts of grace, mercy and absolute forgiveness. Let's let the message really work.... but first, we have to admit we are imperfect.  

M.E. and Remembering what I Forgot and The Impossible

Today (day 2) M.E. writes, "One of the great sorrows which came to human beings when Adam and Eve left the Garden was the loss of memory, memory of all that God's children are meant to be."

In the following questions we are asked to ponder the impossible we have to do in life and when God enabled us as well as how we know our will is one with God's as we ask in the Lord's Prayer.  For a moment I was stymied.  I don't recall doing anything I thought was impossible.  Does that mean I don't accept challenges from God?  Am I that chicken and don't hear God?  Then I realized. Hello?  I am in seminary.  A place I never thought I would be.  Then I realized, it is time to share some of how I ended up here.

You see, for many years I was interested in pursuing politics as a profession.  When I was looking to join the Air Force, I wanted to go in to be a political spin person, like Olivia Pope in ABC's Scandal.  I wanted to be the one who helped turn what didn't look so good or was dangerous for the American public to know into something innocuous and insignificant.  For years! In Savannah, I even had a wealthy gentleman from church tell me he would fund my first run for the Chatham County School Board (talk about a political good old boy system!).  That would have been my first 'in'.  But we moved.

In New Jersey I watched my Great Aunt Ruth die of cancer and in those drives to visit with her I had a lot of time to think and pray.  I also had a pastor, Dave, who was convinced I was supposed to be in seminary when I was thinking it was my husband who was supposed to go.  By the time I watched those shovels pour dirt onto Aunt Ruth's casket, I knew where God was calling me and it was not Politics.  A little sad, I gave up that dream and began discerning a call to ministry.

When Lance asked me recently if this made me happy to be in seminary and if being a pastor would make me happy I had to answer yes and no.  It made me sad at first and that was the no.  But I told him I could be very content being a pastor and that was even better.  He replied he did not want me content but I explained to him that this was a far better happiness.  See, deep down inside, what I want more than I wanted a career in politics was to follow God's will for my life.  In giving up politics and following a call to ministry, I am not doing something I do not want to do.  I do want to do it.  Better yet, is the knowledge that God wants me to do it and that brings a peace and joy so deep down in my soul I cannot express it thoroughly enough.  So more than politics, I want to be a Pastor, because God has called me to that and is equipping me for that life.  In a way, this is my 'impossible' scenario.  I know I would be a rotten pastor on my own.  But God is giving me all the gifts and skills I need to do God's will.  In that then, I am pursuing my dream and achieving the impossible WITH God.

Oddly enough, a few years ago I helped get the walk on Washington and annual Press Conference on the Capital lawn off the ground.  Talk about political.  I had to call all the secretaries of all the US Representatives and Congress to see if I could send an invite to them to speak at this instead of the 9/11 10th anniversary event the next day in NYC.  If you think anything is impossible, ask for a representatives personal schedulers email!  Easier to get the rep's email but not as effective.  I managed the over 200 calls over the weekend for those who would speak to me.  By the time all was said and done though, I was wiped out and ready to cry.  By the time I opened our press conference on the lawn I was so done with politics that I think I still have post traumatic stress over it.  In those moments of clarity, I realized, God had blessed me with that side job as I was entering into seminary that coming fall .  It let me see that the dream I had for myself was not at all what I thought and it reassured me that my will now is in line with God's will.  Talk about doing the impossible again... but only WITH  God, not on my own.

I may not recall too many impossibles in my life, but I think that is because I have learned to forget that I am alone.  God is with me, walking beside me, carrying me when I am weak or unable and that, that is what I am remembering that I forgot in the Garden.  

Crossing the Mojave

Also known to my son Graham as the MO- Jayv  rather than Mo-Ha-Vey desert.  The interstate that transects it is a daunting road to drive.

On our recent move to Los Angeles California, we came in via I-40, which crosses the Mojave Desert.  This is not country to mess around in.  You better have a plan before you cross it.  Which we apparently did not, and we are darn lucky to be here talking about it no worse the wear.

My first words of advice are:  Trust your GUT.   If you think you should get a bit more gas before traversing this barren (but God blessed and painted)land, then you better dagon listen up!

I did not realize we needed more gas.  I got in to drive just before the California border, to drive my family to their new state by the mama born there.  I didn't pay much attention to the gas because I was hell bent on getting us to the border before the last wisps of evening sunset were blackened out by the night. I needed them to see California as they entered it. 

So we crossed and I was thrilled.  And then we passed the sign that said "Next Services 53 miles."  As I passed the exit, I looked down and to my dismay, I was less than a quarter tank full. Now mind you, with the speed limit at 75 and a late hour,  the day  and trip long, we just wanted to get to our destination.

I was doing about 80 (slower than most traffic by far).  Yup.  Looking like the Clampets headed to Beverly Hills, we were loaded up.  The winds were whipping and it did not take but a few miles for me to start doing math.  Our car says that it has 2 gallons left once the light comes on for gas.  I figured I probably had at least 20 miles left before that would happen so we were going to be fine.  I was not considering the speed nor the wind resistance.  Within a couple more minutes the light came on. 

Mmm hmm.  Crap.   It's okay, you can say it.

As the numbers figured in my head,  I thought about reducing speed but didn't.  Yet.  After about 10 miles, as the gas gauge was now firmly in the red, almost level with the empty line, I knew I had to do something.  So, down it went.... to 55.  Now I was simply drawing out the misery and inevitable and trying not to hum "I can't drive 55!"

It was pitch black, the only lights were the those of cars in the distance heading away or ahead of us.  Like a spotlight, the shone against the deepest black you have ever seen.  No  moon.  The stars were amazing!

As we rounded a curve or peaked a rise I would think, surely this one will show the gas station.  But to my dismay, it did not- and we would view a valley or canyon ahead of us that was many miles wide, cavernous and black as pitch.  

Neither Lance nor I spoke a single word. The children, silent or sleeping only added to the deafening awareness that we were highly likely to run out of gas in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night. 

Now, you are thinking how hot a desert is unless you grew up around them.  In the winter, the desert can get snow. It gets COLD. Really Really cold. Snow Cold.  Hypothermia Cold.  And we had not packed any winter coats with us.  Not one.

I was beginning to wonder if AAA would bring gas out there.

Rise after rise, I would hold my breath, then let it out in a silent long sigh as yet again, no lights were seen.  The needle had now fallen well below the empty line.  I am pretty sure it was now indicating 'Hell', not 'empty'.

In my head I was like a teeter totter.  One minute I was claiming that there was going to be enough- just like the oil in the lamp, which many now celebrate as Hanukkah, surely God would make sure there was enough in our tank. Then the other voice spoke up and it went something like this: You DUMB broad!!!  Do you really think you can compare being stupid and forgetting gas with being trapped in the temple in battle and insufficient oil?  You will be damn lucky if you coast in on fumes.

I would respond with simply begging.  Dear God, please let there be enough.  I know we screwed up... but please. please, let there be enough.

And then it happened.  We topped a peak and there in the distance were lights that were not in the line of cars that snaked across the valley.  YES!!! Those HAVE to be it!! YAY!  I will pay $10 a gallon if I have to.

As we got closer I kept waiting for the engine to sputter, thinking at least we were close enough to walk now.  But it didn't.  It kept going, nice and smooth, right up to the gas pump, where gasoline was $7 a gallon if I recall correctly.  Lance reached out as we reached the exit, touching me for the first time in 53 miles.  Smart man. Any sooner and I would have gone poltergeist on him I am sure.  Instead I was simply thankful.

As he pumped more then enough gas to get us the other 50 miles again, I  trotted inside the store only to notice the sign with the hours.  8 pm was closing.  It was currently 7:46.  15 minutes from closing and NO gas. Mmmhmm.  We sure were lucky.  Those few minutes I kept us at 80 mph were probably our saving grace that night.

On a side note, I kept saying to God that if he wanted me to run out of gas, that if there was someone for me to minister to along the way I was willing and not too focused on my own drama.  Funnily enough, the gal behind the counter ministered to me.  She blessed us and told us to have faith, it would all turn out just right.  

Okay, as big of a smile as that put on my face, I walked away thinking, ya know... I really could have received that message just as well without the drama and stress that brought me to it. Maybe.

So, lesson learned.  DO not ignore your gas gauge as you approach the Mojave.  You might not be as lucky. 

The answer is... suck it up and drive on

Many a time I am asked, "How do you do it?  How do you live with a man, give him your heart and bear him children, all while knowing he may leave for battle and never return?"  They even ask, "How does he do it?  How does he live with the fact that his job may take his life?"
All too often I want to say, "we don't".  But we do.  We just don't think about it too often and when we do, we pull up our big girl panties, suck it up and drive on.
That is what got every soldier through every battle.  That and the knowledge that 'someone' was back home, praying they would return.
Recently we were blessed to see a dear friend home on R&R (rest and relaxation in the middle of deployment for those non military).  When it was time for us to go, I hugged him and whispered in his ear, "Come home safe. Come home whole.  Not in a box.  Please."  As we walked away all I could think was I love his wife dearly, but I did not know if I would have her strength to help HER through that if it were to happen.
The point is, it happens.  So we cannot ignore it.  We don't "not think about it".  But we do avoid it when we can and live this life, this day, this moment.  We savor this kiss, this hug, this great marital intimacy, NOW.  We even find a way to savor the fights and frustrations.  I may complain that my beloved leaves his dirty underwear on the floor (apparently this is not an uncommon male trait), but as I do, I say a silent prayer of thanks, "he is here to do this, capable to do this, may he always be so."
I teach my children to be proud.  I cry when the National Anthem is played, when any patriotic song comes on.  I teach them and myself to let ourselves be caught up in this moment.  Why?  Because someday, that moment may be all we have left to remind of the one we loved and lost.  But we cannot dwell on it.
I make sure our ducks are in a row. Every good Army wife is trained too.
  Do you believe me?  Our training is subtle, but constant, and as necessary as theirs.   I know where all his paperwork is.  I know whose name is on every policy and what it will deliver should that day come.  I know how to put his ribbons back in order for an open casket.  I know what to expect if that black car pulls up and a chaplain and another officer get out. I know how long I have in housing, how long it will take for the first gratuity to fly in loved ones, what protection is granted us- and what isn't (Westboro baptist thugs) I know these things because if- that ever looming 'if' that is asked all the time of me- if it happens to us, I might be able to lean on that training when nothing else will work inside my broken heart and mind.  My training will be what I act upon by instinct.  And should I never need it, I am surrounded by my sisters in arms, who might need me to be there to gently guide them through in case their training just didn't quite kick in.  That applies in reverse too, which is why I am so invested in training Army spouses (God forbid in all this, but I am being real here.)
So there you have it.  We live with it.  We don't ignore it, we cannot.  It won't let us.  But if we let it consume us, we will drown. What we can do is treasure here, now, and today.  We allow ourselves our moments to delve deeply into the subject, like Memorial Day, when we remember all who have given thier life before us.  We let ourselves shed a tear.  We must do that- to honor them, to remember them.  Then we must let the others take on that task the rest of the time so we can do our job- which is not just to protect and serve, but to live.
Last night a friends husband shared that his mom always tells him"Carpe Diem". I wish that I could, I certainly try.  The thing is, we cannot ignore, we cannot dwell, and some days, we just cannot seize the freaking day.  All we can do is pull up those big girl panties.... suck it up.... and drive on.   That my friends is the answer to how we do it.

facebook gave me roots

We hear it all the time, "facebook ruined my marriage, my friendship, got me fired...".

Well apart from the fact that a computer program cannot do those things, I am here to say that facebook has done something really good, really true, of value, of moment, in my life.

I am a Brat.  yup... proud to say it.  Military, Army to be specific, Brat.  It is what I know.  It is what I do now, I am a BratBride.  I traded one ID card for another.  I had a civilian life once, many years ago, before my parents remarried and I was given a prefix to my sponsors ID#.

To be fair, that first life was when I was young, by the time I was 12 I was a Brat.  But the moving started much earlier.  I love my parents, let me just say that.  I am not trying to be unfair or mean, but the fact is, in general, every time my parents split up or got back together we moved.  So we could argue my training for Army life began early. Add to that, my father is a GOOD solid German Norwegian.  In good Scandinavian style, "we" don't speak about family, it might be gossip.  But that rule also stopped me from learning about my heritage. I lost an invaluable treasure trove of stories about who I am and who I come from.  I know what I learned from my mom's side and can only IMAGINE what I would feel if I had been able to connect to my fathers family in the same way.  I didn't even know what I had lost until I lived in Wisconsin.  There the women of my church and quilting group taught me old family recipes.  They shared thier stories of thier families in that odd womanly way that doesn't qualify as gossip somehow.

Let me back up though.  I have always felt like I had no roots, no home.  Once told that there is no way anyone doesn't have a place they truly call home, they said emphasized by asking where I want to be buried.  In all honesty, with a straight face, I answered, " Dig a hole beside my body and role me in."  I was and still am serious.  I have no place I call home.  None.  In face, I have few places I can go where anyone would recognize me if I showed up today.  My life is that ephemeral. Thus, I have no roots.
That is, I didn't.  Until facebook appeared.

Somehow, the roots to my high school- that no longer exists (due to BRAC, Base Realignment and Closure started in the 80's) were found through this neverland of the world wide web.  There have been reunions, there are groups, there are close friends reconnecting and recalling the fun.  Even the icky stuff too- but all of that is required to have roots.  You know, it takes poop to make good plants grow deep roots too.

 I have found many a dear friend on here.  Some, we find, we read up on each other and we then settle into a non-interactive connection again.  Others, who may not have been my closest confidants, are now quickly becoming the ones to whom I go for support, connection, encouragement and truth.  I know the rules.  I don't do that with the guys.  I have a loving hubby and I am not willing to risk that.  But that doesn't mean I won't add a guy to my friends list.  They are a root too.  Maybe one of those tiny ones, but they count.  They are a part of my past, a part of my now and will be a part of my future, even without facebook.

I have connected with cousins.  I have been shown pictures I did not know existed of me as a young girl.  I have found distant relatives through my grandfathers cousins!  I am finally, creating my own "web" of roots- and facebook is to credit, not to blame.  It has been a blessing in my life.  It has connected me with my college pals in Kansas and Minnesota.  It allows me to participate in Bible study groups.  It has let me learn who my husband is and has given me a key to that treasure trove of stories in my father's family, so that now I may share this with my children. I finally feel almost confidant enough to reach out to family in Minnesota to ask if I may come visit, to see family history in person, to see faces that look like mine, hair of flax that looks like my children's.
Yup... for once, facebook has done as good as an inanimate object may.  This Brat has finally found some roots, in spite of my lifestyle.  Thank goodness for this marriage wrecking, job losing, friend turned enemy making site.

breathe.....

For Jeannie, and all who live a day of life missing a loved one who has gone on before us.


You took that breath last night in awe and wonder at amber moon light.
Missing those loved ones now a memory, wondering if connection yet exists.

You breathed them back into you- and sighed them out to the universe.

When we breathe we share infinite atoms that all life has breathed in before us.
That breath during birth shares the last of another and wraps us together eternally.

When you wonder if they will live on, will they be there in Three hundred years,
you can know deep inside, to the very atomic makeup that is Jeannie,
they are still here- and not just with you, but with me.

When I breath in this Christmas, with joy at the smiles of my children,
I will share that love of your loved ones.

It is said when we breathe we are speaking Gods name
and  when we consider breath the most silent and ultimate of gift
it all makes sense in that great cosmic way.

When we say goodbye to this earth, we do leave our love behind,
and it is given and remembered when we sob in grief, when we shout in ecstasy, and when we sigh in exhaustion.
They are in every moment of our lives yet.

Do not wonder my friend... know. And breathe.

my grandma

For my Grandma T;

Upon this last breath I give her up and trust her to the Lord's embrace. She will feel no more of these worldly things that cause us hurt.

Her pearly white locks will be full of color and youth, her eyes sparkling with joy and excitement as she wanders her grandfathers shop of second hand goods on the end of eternity street. Her soft wrinkled skin will be firm with the color of springtime blossoms reflected in the perfection.

She will know the names of all those who passed before her- the ones she has poured over for years- and now she will have a face to go with. She can ask the questions of them that sit open in those books of history with no answer we know now. And we will envy this knowledge with a smile.

She will sit at a table with her mother and daddy; engaging in loving banter, laughter and joy. She will prepare a place for her lover, her child, her progeny, and wait patiently for us to join her- enjoining us to wait for our time and not come too soon.

She will no longer roll beside us in her scooter, will not guide us over the phone, will not chide us lovingly for a poor choice. She will not holler "Worth" with that disapproving voice when he tells an all too colorful family story... nor will she call out, "Worth" when she seeks his guidance, his voice, his wisdom to balance with hers.

She will not dance with her granddaughters for now. She will no longer crochet an afghan to wrap around us on cold nights when we cry our tears over her passing and her personalized patches sewn with love on each one will become a legacy to future generations.

She is tiny again, a wraith of beauty that no one needs peach colored glasses to see clearly- they will all see her as her beloved did for over 58 years. She now lives in our memories as all too human and frail- not the woman of strength and character we knew- but one whose strength we only now begin to grasp.

Her loving arms will not hold another generation and her missing birthday cards will be the most painful moment of each of our birthdays for years to come. There will be no more PTA baths- instead her lithe heavenly form, slipping gently into sweetly scented pools of crystal clear water that slide over her skin like silk and she breathes deeply and swims with no effort as far as the eye can see.

We will catch our breath as we feel the tears run down our cheeks, struggling to swallow, grasping for solace in words that right now are so lacking in solace... and yet.... we are filled with joy for her- with love that words cannot express our respect, honor, awe, tribute and adoration.

Instead of locked to a chair, taking each breathe from a tube, she will run, ski on one ski, rebuild an engine, climb to a roof, and never, ever need to worry that she cannot breathe.

Now she will dance with cousins long gone, fish with her daddy, walk with our Jesus and know a peace we could not give her here. She will be free, glancing back with a loving expression as if to say- "you will be okay, I taught you well. It is time for you and me both to fly."

And then she will.