(not so) Ordinary Time

Time's a funny thing.  Either we're bemoaning the lack of it, or like parents in the summertime, wondering how to fill the excess hours of it.  We lean forward to wonder what is next, or wander through past memories wearing our rose-colored glasses.  It is so very hard to live in the present, and isn't that what time itself is measured by...this present moment?

Today my mind is on my sister-in-law as she will be admitted to the hospital this evening to be induced.  Tomorrow, we will anxiously await news of the arrival of our new nephew, and then we'll journey as a family on Wednesday to meet him and celebrate in person.  Our lives are marked by these transitions, and yet, before them come the real moments of change that go unnoticed.  I'm remembering my last day before children.  John and I had lunch with others to celebrate a friend's birthday, and planned to go out for ice cream after a routine doctor's visit.  We were not expecting the early birth of our son, and so our last day as a childless couple passed by in a flurry of appointments, work, and errands.  I wonder how we would have marked it differently if we had known what was to come.  We were eagerly anticipating becoming parents, but the thing they never tell you (because you wouldn't fully understand) is how pivotal that change is.  You are never the same people again.  Your time is not your own, and your focus is not on you as an individual or a couple.  You will think and feel differently.  You will be forever tied to this tiny stranger who has captured your heart.

We have emerged from those bleary early years of sleepless nights, helplessness, and tears (and the babies grew out of it, too).  What threatened to break us at times has made us stronger together.  There are times that we despair at the relentless nature of the work of raising thoughtful humans, and we are still exhausted much of the time, missing time for ourselves.  And yet, we wouldn't wish away these precious gifts, even though they come at an often painful price.  I read somewhere a father describing the "unrequited love" we have for our children, and I agree, bearing the scars from hateful words carelessly thrown at me in anger.  I am bruised by legs kicking in anger and frustration.  I am often frustrated, fearing that we are not getting through to them.

There are moments that make it worth it, when I can see their God-given potential shine through, when they are wrapped around me in love, and I am grateful for these fleeting gifts.  When I hold her as I once held her infant self, and her arms and legs dangle beyond my arms and I have to stop and freeze the image, knowing a time will come when she will no longer allow me to snuggle her like this.  These are the moments I want to mark; these are the transitions that matter.  She wants "Momaw"-Maryn dates and loves to make art.  He is learning to ride his bike without training wheels and has a new-found love for Harry Potter.  They are eager to share the events of their day with me when I get home.  These are not momentous events, but the stuff of daily life that is always changing.  But, for now, this is what holds us together.  This is the love, always present within us, that opens our eyes to all the wonder and blessing in this ordinary time.

More than words

There is something about art that speaks more deeply than words.

It's said that a photograph that speaks a thousand words, and this one speaks volumes to me.  It tells of inside jokes and stories, the feeling of being away from home for the first time, and yet finding your place.  It's the experience of being apart for years, and then coming back together and feeling like no time has been lost at all.

freshman hallmates Jessica Lin Lenkong, Amy Shelley Olson, and Jenny Frazier Call at Amy's wedding in May

I spent time yesterday wandering through the "Papercuts" exhibit at the Eleanor D. Wilson Museum of art on the campus of Hollins University.  It was exquisite, and again, words can't convey the depth and the wonder it invoked.  Through the common medium of paper, the artists had created entire communities and worlds of both beauty and destruction.  One piece involved making circles of colored strips of paper and arranging them on the floor in a flower-like pattern that was actually a reconstruction of the pattern of the Exxon Valdez oil spill.  Another took beloved paperback Harlequin romance novels from her childhood, stitched the pages together with gold thread as one large sheet, and then cut out the "naughty" parts, revealing beautiful designs in their place.  With each display, there was a story, and a person making meaning of his or her experiences, creating beauty from a life that is not always lovely.  It was fascinating to talk with the museum's director as we shared our own connections with the pieces and I learned how others had related to the art during the exhibit.

We connect over the different layers of meaning beyond the surface, if we're willing to go deep enough to explore it.

I think this desire to find meaning and create beauty, even in the ugliest circumstances, is what draws me to religion.  There is so much in life that can't be captured in mere words.  There is too much pain to be explained, and too much joy to describe.  When I was a "scientist" (and I use that in the loosest possible since as I was a miserable and fumbling one), I wanted to seek answers and draw connections.  And yet in my experience, it was more about classifying and categorizing.  Things were broken apart instead of joined together.  I longed for community, for a shared story that would allow me to explore, even if I never found all the answers.

As a minister, I've discovered the joy of mystery, and the power of stories.  I will never have all the answers, nor would I want to.  Instead, I am a privileged witness to individual stories, that, if I'm really paying attention, I understand to be not individual at all, but part of a larger communal story.  We are all seeking our place in the story, and my great joy as a minister is sharing the message that every story matters, and every one is welcome.  As we join our stories, we begin a journey full of wonder, beauty, and mystery, that goes on forever...

Storms without and within

It has been a stormy summer.  Not the gentle storms that draw you to bed with a good book and the promise of lulling you to sleep, but ones of house-shaking thunder, and wind that uproots trees.  It has rained so thoroughly for so many consecutive days that areas that rarely see floodwaters are buried beneath the deluge.  Our yard was a swimming pool for days, and now the swampy smell persists.  Others have not been so lucky and have been bailing out basements, discarding soggy carpets and rugs, and mourning the loss of stored memories.  We clean up and move on, but all around us, images of destruction persist.  I pass by roads that are pitted, and hear of sinkholes that have closed down others.  The boards on the bridges of my lovely garden at work were bowed up from the force of the water beneath.  The shoulder of the road that takes me to Hollins is misshapened, the asphalt bubbled up from the force of the storm.  It boggles my mind that an element as light as rain can create such damage.

I think of the elements that sneak into my life, seemingly harmless, and yet wreck havoc with my mind and soul.  There is jealousy and guilt, revenge and regret.  I harbor anger and resentment against others that only breaks me down.  There are things of which I can't let go, even though the weight drags me down to the ground.  My mind and my heart are cluttered, even though the outside surfaces are spotless.  I am selfish and self-centered, and feel betrayed when I'm a victim of others' thoughtlessness.  There are so many storms within that uproot the good seeds I plant, and tear holes in the foundations of the life I try to build.

Each day I must continue the work of cleaning up the messes.  I pray for wisdom and peace, and for a spirit to live and work in peace with those around me.  I work to forgive others and also myself, grateful for a new chance in each new day.  I clean out the muck of the past, and seek out restoration and hope in new beginnings.  It is not easy, and the job is never complete as new means of destruction always find their way back in.  But I hold out hope for redemption, that each day is a new gift from God to accept who I am and continue working on who I will be.

The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases, 

his mercies never come to an end; 

they are new every morning; 

great is your faitfulness.  

"The LORD is my portion," says my soul, "therefore I will hope in him."  

(Lamentations 3:22-24)