Blessed Be the Tie that Binds

I live a tethered life. That’s become my working shorthand for the complex web of relationships that have created and connected me in this life. And those of you who know me know that when I commit to a relationship, professional or personal, I tend to go all in. There’s not any part of my heart that is left fenced off, with a “do not disturb” sign on the gate. I associate this “all in” willingness with not being a lukewarm Christian (as we read in Scripture, lukewarm persons of faith make Jesus want to throw up – “"I know your works; you are neither cold nor hot. I wish that you were either cold or hot. So, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I am about to spit you out of my mouth." (Revelation 3:15-16).

This past summer, I almost lost the feeling of all my tethers. I was like some ridiculous life-sized balloon, adrift in the atmosphere, until I felt the steady tug and tie of two bright stars, grounding my life and calling me home – the love of my son and husband. Of course there were other tethers still there, but in that bleak moment, I confess that I felt like I was coming undone, all the knots were slipping. It is often the relationships we knit together in our lives that can become the echoes of God’s love for us. And sometimes we need those echoes to be as loud as a freight train!

So now, I find myself in another time of transition. I have been appointed to serve as the senior pastor at Krum First United Methodist Church effective January 1. You can read more about this transition from the perspective of the Krum church’s current pastor, Christy Thomas, here. For my part, I am so humbled and honored by the opportunity. I am also simultaneously breathlessly excited, shaking in my boots, and snipping the beautiful tethers that have bound me in ministry at First UMC-Denton. It brings this hymn to mind:

          Blest be the tie that binds our hearts in Christian love;

          the fellowship of kindred minds is like to that above.
          Before our Father’s throne we pour our ardent prayers;
          our fears, our hopes, our aims are one, our comforts and our cares.
          We share each other’s woes, our mutual burdens bear;
          and often for each other flows the sympathizing tear.
          When we asunder part, it gives us inward pain;
          but we shall still be joined in heart, and hope to meet again.
                                                                      United Methodist Hymnal #557

I was looking over the order of worship planned for January 5 at the Krum church, so I could have an idea of what lies ahead. Tears pricked my eyes as I read the liturgy through which that body of faithful people will welcome me as their pastor – that I shall baptize new Christians, that I shall preside at the table to feed the family of faith, that I shall lead them in ministry to the community and to the world – these are all things I knew in my head, but I feel blessed beyond compare that they are receiving me for this ministry. I am tying all sorts of new tethers of relationship.

This is the church I chose, our United Methodist Church, and this is what I signed up to do. Our theology is sound and we are still called to spread Scriptural holiness over the land. Despite all the global church’s warts and failings, the movement of pastors, so that each one’s unique gifts and graces might continue to build up of churches (i.e. the people of God) can be an amazing, Spirit-filled thing. And I’m all in!

Just a Day in the Life

I always know I find it intriguing when other folks share an average day. In my line of work, there really is no such thing as average, but I started this note yesterday morning, having no idea what lay ahead. So, here it is, just a day in the life:

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

6:30am – Andy's alarm goes off, roll over, go back to sleep
7:00am – my alarm goes off, reach across the bed to turn it off, and head to the bathroom for a quick shower
7:15am – out of the shower, head to the living room to see James, my 3-year-old son, is already up and sitting with daddy on the couch
7:30am – juice and Alphabits for James, bowl of cereal for mommy, kiss daddy good-bye
8:00am – dressed, made up
8:20am – pack up James’ lunch, remembering he needs wipes for school so I pack those, too
8:35am – pause Caillou so James can brush his teeth, then back to the couch to put on shoes
8:43am – out the door, only running a few minutes late…

9:02am – arrive at the church, put James’s jacket on for the walk in, grab my cup of tea, my work bag, and his backpack and make our way to Children’s Day Out
9:10am – make it to the church office, answer a question from our lead pastor, then head to my office to put my bag down and check some e-mail
9:20am – remember that I’m almost out of contact lenses, so call my eye doctor’s office to order more
9:30am – extended staff meeting, share the exciting things going on in my ministry areas (successful Alternative Gifts Fair, Advent devotional coming out soon with companion photo-a-day challenge that I’ve created, Advent vesper services, etc.).
10:55am – after staff meeting, touch base with a couple of staff members about some pastoral care concerns – a young woman who recently lost her baby and who I might be able to help and a young man who is homeless and in a medical crisis
11:10am – get the message from our receptionist that a representative from a Methodist helping agency has stopped by to see me
11:12am – work with a member who has dropped off their Salvation Army angel gifts, to make sure they are “checked in” although I don’t have the registration sheets…
11:15am – talk with a woman who attempted suicide last week, work to ensure her personal safety, offer referrals, pray with her, and get her where she needs to go today
11:35am – talk with our office staff regarding our big Evening in Bethlehem event coming up in a couple of weeks, promise to e-mail other staff and volunteers to coordinate details
11:40am – talk with a church member about seeing if one of our First Meal guests would be a good possibility as a house-father/mentor for young men getting out of prison
11:45am – work on my e-mails!

12:05pm – get a call from the Conference office
12:20pm – heat up my can of soup for lunch, find some chocolate cake in the fridge and cut myself a slice – take my lunch to eat with a few staff members in the main office
12:55pm – clean up from lunch, grab my things for the next meeting…
1pm – meet with our clergy, music director, and worship assistant for worship planning! We get all the way through Christmas Eve (very impressive…)
2:15pm – put my resources down in my office, then go check my mail. There’s a check for the conference clergywomen’s lunch for which I’m receiving reservations.
2:20pm – touch base with our director of communications & marketing to go over the Christmas offering brochure. Make a couple of edits. Brainstorm some ideas.
2:40pm – drop off a video to our lead pastor for his upcoming sermon series
2:45pm – get the request to write the weekly message from the pastor since I’ll be preaching this Sunday. I’m excited about preaching, but have yet to find time to write the sermon down, so this should be interesting…and I remember I’m leading Bible study tomorrow at noon on this text, so it may also be helpful
2:50pm – finally sit down at my desk again – need to finish some e-mails and follow through on some promises!
4:55pm – pack up my things and head down the hall to pick up my boy!

5:10pm – pulling out of the parking lot, singing silly songs, and heading home
5:25pm – arrive home, we watch the men across the street put up lights while we check the mail. Then we go inside and I try to figure out what’s for dinner – baked ravioli (nothing needed to thaw, easy, but takes a while to bake)
5:45pm – Andy gets home, James is chowing on some leftover macaroni and cheese since dinner is still a little ways off
6:20pm – Dinner time! James rejects the ravioli, so he gets to have as many cheerios as he would like. Argh, it’s so frustrating when he won’t eat what I cook!
6:25pm – a good friend calls. I talk with her for a moment while Andy oversees dinner eating.
7:00pm – out the door to run some errands
7:55pm – Home again, time for a quick bath for James since he also would like to watch “a little bit of Caillou” before bed
8:20pm – Little boy bathed, drinking milk, and in his pajamas. Do a quick run around the house to make sure all his friends and blankets are on his bed, nightlight and monitor on, etc.
8:30pm – James picks “My Many-Colored Days” by Dr. Seuss for his bedtime story
8:35pm – James goes to give daddy a hug and a kiss, then we go to his bedroom for prayers, night-night song, patting, and eventually, mommy leaving his room to do some chores!
8:45pm – start the dishes
9:05pm – done with the dishes, in my jammies, ready for some grown-up TV time with Andy.
10:00pm – Conan!
11:00pm – head to bed and get ready for another busy day!

For All the Saints...

All Saints is a church observance that falls on November 1 each year, but in my experience, is typically observed on the Sunday closest. This year, as I anticipate that worship service, my heart aches and throbs within me as I face a day to be in front of my congregation, broken and human. Each new strength test has given me this anxious feeling, especially when I see them coming for some time.

So, I decided to process the deaths of the men in my life before I get there, hoping that while I’ll still be my messy, human self that morning, perhaps I can preserve a bit of the face I’ll paint on since I definitely don’t have the complexion of a soap opera actress and I get rather red and puffy when I’m tearful.

I’ve done enough funerals to know that those who have died and gone on to glory were still human. As a wise Methodist pastor once said, you don’t make a saint out of a sinner at the funeral. You honor who they were. And we are all sinners and saints, simultaneously, falling short and beloved of God. So here goes:

My grandpa

 

I have such great memories of my grandpa, many of which I tried to share by sending him cards as the end approached. I wanted him to know that I remembered him even before he’d gone. He was a gruff man, never saying, “I love you.” He was a war veteran and didn’t sit with his back to any room. He had some falling out with his parents and left home. I always wonder about the unspoken stories of his life since he shared so many other wonderful stories. I remember lingering around the table after dinner when I was growing up to hear him talk about family I had never seen, tell dirty jokes, and laugh. There was always so much laughter.

This saint always believed in me and was so proud of me, no matter how I fumbled along the way. If I said I thought I might go to Dartmouth after my undergraduate work, that Christmas brought me warm gloves for northern climes. If I said I might like to buy a house after seminary, my graduation present was a significant gift toward a down payment. If I asked him to walk me down the aisle, he did so, even though he never liked being the center of attention, making jokes and letting me know if I wanted to turn around right there, it would be ok. He may have been a cantankerous old man and hard to understand at times, but I know he loved me deeply and truly. That is a gift to me, solid ground in a stormy world.

 

My dad

It’s hard to conjure up memories of my dad because he left our family when I was entering middle school. It was better for my parents to divorce, but I never did understand why he couldn’t or didn’t love his children enough to stay in our lives, in whatever way he could. I remember my dad taking me fishing – I would run up and down the creek banks, eating wild blackberries, while he trolled the eddies trying to entice some crappie to bite. I remember helping him grease a brown paper back with Crisco in preparation for the Thanksgiving turkey that would bake in the oven. I remember the bite of his belt and his admonishment not to cry. I remember him leaning over to kiss me good night with a halo of alcohol around him. I remember the faded green tattoos on his arms and the scars from many surgeries wrapping around his body. And then, later, when I was a grown up, I remember seeing him small and frail and weak and I felt the fear and bitterness toward him evaporate, leaving me with only regret and pity.

This saint reminded me that we are all broken, struggling in our own journey and often bruising those closest to us as we grope toward grace. When he died this year, the 20 year estrangement was finalized and I was left to wonder that that was all there was to our story. Really? That’s it? The man who helped bring my flesh and blood into being and I have no more than a handful of memories and some scabbed over scars to show for it. It’s a cautionary tale for how I am in relationship with others.  

My son

This story was over before it started. I remember so many things, though, like the joy of seeing that positive pregnancy test and always knowing the start date of my last cycle before his conception since it was my birthday. I remember drinking so much water I thought my bladder would burst so that I could be sure to see my little baby at a 13 week ultrasound since I was nervous that it might be twins, which run in my family. I remember wondering why I didn’t get the super-sniffer or the thicker hair that had accompanied my first pregnancy. I remember being startled when my waistline disappeared almost immediately, although I was losing weight. I remember the joy I shared with my husband, son, and mother when we got to see his ultrasound at nearly 21 weeks, and I saw that I was expecting another son. I still have the list of names we were considering and there’s a closet full of baby things in the room that would have been his.

This saint reminded me that I’m not in control of my life, however much I may struggle to grasp it, mold it, and even at times convince myself that I’m the boss in my corner of eternity. This world is broken, twisted and contrary to the good creation God made, and we all feel the aftershocks of sin. My heart continues to break and I still cry a good deal, but I also feel stronger, more faithful, and more compassionate. In this loss, which shook me to my roots, I had to reach further down, further into true reality, to find my bedrock in God.

I encourage you to take time this day, this week, this season, to consider what all the saints in your life have given you – good, bad, or indifferent. We are who we are because of them.

Domestic Goddess, part 2

Whenever I watch cooking shows, which is more like Hell's Kitchen than Food Network, I hear the experts talking about sweet vs savory. Since I figure my last post covers the savory side, here is something for the sweet fans. I love sweet things. Much to my figure’s dismay, they are right up there with noodles and potatoes.

(Quick aside, I heard this really funny kid's joke on the radio the other day. I like this kind of thing, so I can't help but share. Here goes: What did 0 say to 8? Nice belt! J )

So, usually I try to make something about my sweets redeeming, like at least having something of substance and nutritive value to try to counterweight some of the butter and sugar. And my urge to bake usually comes on at night, or during naptime, when I’m effectively stuck at the house, so I tend to make do with whatever I have on hand (or look for recipes that coincide with my available ingredients). I feel like a real grown up that the usual contents of my kitchen can make cookies and muffins! Forget the mortgage and parenthood – having a fully-stocked kitchen and getting the jokes on SNL will continue to be my measure of adulthood. Continuing on my domestic goddess spree, here are a couple of recipes I tried out recently: 

Recipe #1: Best-Ever Cowboy Cookies 

from Family.com

Ingredients

2 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
2 cups flour
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon cinnamon
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1 cup packed light brown sugar
2/3 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs, at room temperature
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups semisweet chocolate chips
1 cup chopped walnuts 

In a large bowl, stir together the oats, flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon. In a separate bowl, blend the butter and sugars with an electric mixer until smooth, about 2 minutes. Add the eggs and continue to beat until fluffy, about 1-1/2 minutes. Blend in the vanilla extract.  

Using a wooden spoon, stir the dry mixture into the butter mixture one half at a time. Mix in the chocolate chips and walnuts. Refrigerate the dough for 1 to 2 hours.  

Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Line a large, preferably light-colored baking sheet with aluminum foil, then grease the foil. Using a scant 1/4 cup per cookie, shape the dough into balls and place them on the sheet about 2 inches apart.  

Use your fingertips to flatten each ball to 1/3 inch thick. Bake the cookies on the center oven rack for 13 to 14 minutes, turning the sheet about halfway through. When they're done, the cookies should be very lightly browned and still look moist. Don't overbake them. Cool the cookies on the baking sheet for 2 to 3 minutes, then transfer them to a wire rack.  

Customizing Cowboy Cookies
Coconut Cowboy Cookies: 1 cup of flaked sweetened coconut, 2 cups of chocolate chips, and 1 cup of chopped walnuts.
Cranberry White Chocolate Cowboy Cookies: 1 cup each of white chocolate chips and dried, sweetened cranberries.
Peanut Butter Cowboy Cookies: 2 cups of peanut butter chips or 1 cup each of peanut butter chips and chocolate chips.  

With a modest name like “best-ever,” how could I go wrong? This was a good bake find on Pinterest since I was looking for something to make for a friend. When we met up shortly after the Brennan’s death, she came bearing cookies. They were great and I felt the need to return her container full. So, the night before we had a lunch date, I got the urge to bake and found I had all the ingredients for these yummy, substantial cookies. 

As I mentioned last time, I don’t have an electric mixer, but hand mixing this recipe worked fine. I don’t know that the stuff ever looked “smooth” or “fluffy,” but it did look mixed and they turned out fine.

  

I probably made a mistake in trying to bake two pans of cookies at one time. It meant that the baking temperature varied by location in the oven and I ended up over-baking them. They were still good, just a little harder than ideal. But, even after scooping out 24 scant ¼ cups of dough, I still had a lot left. I got the cookies off of one pan so I could send another in, and this one ended up with 16 cookies! So, if you follow the directions, anticipate over 3 dozen cookies, which is not a bad thing if you plan on sharing.  

Recipe #2: Seminary Muffins 

from All Recipes

Ingredients

1 egg
1 1/3 cups mashed ripe banana (roughly 3 good size bananas)
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/3 cup applesauce
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup all-purpose flour (I used whole wheat flour)
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 1/4 teaspoons salt

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 cup quick cooking oats

1/2 cup semisweet chocolate chips

1/2 cup chopped walnuts (I used semisweet chocolate chips)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Lightly grease one 12 cup muffin pan. In a large bowl, combine egg, banana, brown sugar, applesauce and vanilla. In a separate bowl, mix together flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt and cinnamon.

Gently stir flour mixture and oatmeal into banana mixture. Fold in chocolate chips and walnuts. Pour batter into prepared muffin cups. Bake in preheated oven or 15 to 20 minutes, or until light brown. Remove muffins from pan and place on a wire rack to let cool before serving.

 

This was a rediscovery since I remember making these muffins when I actually was in seminary (and wondering how they got this name since I found nothing really theological about them). The most disappointing part of this recipe is that it only makes 12 muffins. They are so delicious, I’ll likely double the recipe next time I make them. And be prepared, the cups look ridiculously full when you divvy out the batter evenly. But they don’t rise too much, so it just makes for large, hearty muffins.

I almost never make muffins without muffin liners, so I was nervous about that part of this recipe. With that in mind, I may have gone a little overboard with the Pam when I “greased” the pan. Blessedly, the muffins popped out of the pan easily. It was amazing and made for a great picture of beautiful, piping hot muffins.

The other adventure with this recipe was using some bananas that I had frozen as they started to turn dark. I had heard that this was a good way to have them on hand for baking later, but I had no idea how to thaw them in a timely manner. Luckily, my friend Google came to the rescue and I found a method here.

 

I popped them in the microwave for just a few seconds, since hot mushy bananas sounded yucky. Then I gave my son a bath and, wouldn’t you know, just leaving them on the counter they were thawed and ready to go. Be warned, if you’ve never used frozen bananas – they are a little gross. My advice is to let them thaw (with a jump start as needed), then open one end and squeeze them like a tube of toothpaste. The banana will just fall out of the peel. I put them on a plate so I could soak up some of the liquid that separates from the fruit so my batter wouldn’t be too loose.

The 1 cup of bonus ingredients (chocolate chips and walnuts) can be changed at your pleasure. I saw some other folks had used other kinds of nuts, blueberries, raisins, etc. I didn’t have any nuts in the pantry, so I just added a different kind of chocolate chip that I did have on hand (which is telling about me). I liked the two kinds of chocolate since they each have a distinctive flavor.

 

Hope you enjoy these recipes. What's your favorite sweet treat?

Domestic Goddess, part 1

It's been rather dark around here for a while, with good cause, but I'm ready to talk about something different. Every once in a long while I get the urge to be a domestic goddess which, in my mind, means taking the time to find and make good recipes to feed my family.

I like to cook, but this household chore often goes to my wonderful husband since he is usually home first and can get dinner going before James and I get home. And a lot of recipes get ruled out since I’m not such a serious chef that I have lots of the tools and tricks around – I don’t have a stand mixer or a shredder or lots of other things that turn up in some recipes, so I don’t even attempt some things.

Just a few weeks ago, I was feeling inspired and decided to loot my dear friend’s website since I know she and her family eat well (i.e. healthy AND delicious). So, here is my take on recipes from What’s Cookin’ with the Johnstons!
 

Recipe #1: Quick & Easy Hamburger Casserole

This recipe has two key words that make my day – quick and easy. Yes! This means that this may not be a one-day wonder. And, being both a Southerner and a United Methodist, I love a good casserole.

Ingredients
2 cups uncooked macaroni (I used whole grain noodles)
1 lb. ground beef or turkey (I used turkey)
1 can tomato soup
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 medium green pepper, chopped
2 cups shredded cheddar cheese
1 cup French-fried onions
1 can diced Italian tomatoes, drained

Cook and drain macaroni according to instructions on box. Brown ground beef and green pepper; drain. Mix soups and meat in a large bowl. Add macaroni and stir. Place 1/2 mixture in a greased 2-quart casserole dish. Sprinkle with 1/2 cheese and onions. Top with remaining mixture and cheese. Bake at 350 for 25 minutes. Top with rest of onions and bake 5-10 minutes more. 

This turned out beautifully, as you can see, and was very delicious. My son, who is a good eater but is sometimes hesitant to try new things, was asking for seconds. It may have had something to do with the French-fried onions...

Recipe #2: Tacozanga

(from Rachael Ray)

This one caught my eye with its fun name. Exploring further, I was excited to see it looked like something I could actually make.

Ingredients
3 tablespoons vegetable oil, divided
2 pounds ground turkey or ground sirloin
1 zucchini
2 carrots, peeled
1 onion, peeled
3 cloves garlic, peeled
3 tablespoons chili powder (I used 1½ tablespoons)
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 tablespoon coriander
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 cup beef stock
6 (8-inch) flour tortillas
3 cups shredded Monterey Jack (or other Mexican blend cheese)
1 bag of shredded lettuce

3 tomatoes, seeded and chopped

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

Heat a large high sided skillet over medium-high heat with 2 tablespoons vegetable oil. Add the meat and brown, 5 minutes. While meat browns, grate the zucchini and carrots with a box grater (or shredder attachment on the food processor, if you have one of those). Add the vegetables to the meat and shred in the onion and garlic. Season the meat with chili, cumin, coriander, salt and pepper and cook 7 to 8 minutes more to soften vegetables. Stir in beef stock. Grease a 8 by 13-inch baking pan with vegetable oil. Layer in 3 overlapping flour tortillas and top with 1/3 meat, 1/3 cheese. Repeat the layers twice and bake 10 to 12 minutes to brown cheese. Top with lettuce and tomatoes, cut into squares and serve.

This also turned out beautifully and I love that there are hidden veggies for a bonus nutritional punch. I don’t think I had the right size pan, but I just did my best to overlap the tortillas, which is really the idea. In her recipe, Leanne adds scallions to the toppings for the finished dish, but since I don’t really associate that with Mexican food, I left it out. I also put salsa on the table to top when serving, but it had such a good flavor, we ended up not using it.

We sliced squares, then let each person add their own toppings, which was helpful with the little boy. This, too, was a hit for all ages in our house. The sensitive palate of the 3-year-old was also my motivation for halving the amount of chili powder. I thought it was very flavorful. My husband liked it so much he made it when his parents came to visit last week.

Coming next: this domestic goddess tackles the sweeter side!

Like a Weeble Wobble

I don’t know that I ever played with a weeble wobble. I’m an 80’s kid, so I think they might have been in decline as I was doing my serious playing. But I love the premise: a toy that never stays down. Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down.

As I’ve moved through the last few weeks, I’ve recognized my own weeble wobble nature that’s grounded in my faith. Despite the dark days and even darker nights – the fear, anguish, pain, and

anger that I’ve felt – there’s something within me that refuses to stay down. Like a capsized boat, I’ve been turned upside down, but there’s an irresistible force that continues to turn me rightside up.

I like to think of myself as a strong, capable person, but I know there’s no way I am righting myself by my own doing. I’m sure someone well-read on human nature could say something about humanity’s preference for status quo and homeostasis or the innate resiliency of the human spirit, but what I feel is not denial for the sake of status quo and definitely not a return to pre-July 4 life. Rather, what I feel is strength beyond my own and glimpses of clarity in the midst of the mire.

In church yesterday, the most striking moment of this occurred as we prayed the Lord’s Prayer. As a pastor, I’m used to being out front, speaking clearly, leading pieces of worship – sometimes in the moment, sometimes considering what comes next. But yesterday, I spoke more softly, sank into the prayer, and let the chorus of voices around me propel me forward. This journey through grief happens despite my attempts at control. And sometimes I am able to coast on the current of my community, which is a blessed gift.

So, I’ve come to the conclusion that I can never right my own life. Whether it’s this current storm or some other that comes along, every human life gets turned upside down at times. Fortunately for all of us, God cast us a line, turns the world rightside up, and gives us the ability to rise like eagles through the work of Christ. It's a work in progress, but thanks be to God.

Tomorrow I travel to Arkansas to attend my father’s funeral service on Wednesday morning. For those of you keeping score, that makes three big losses in just over three months. One of my friends said it must feel like salt in the wound, and it does in a way, but there’s also the odd sensation of having reached almost the bottom. I know there’s more I could lose, and in some of those dark nights I wonder how much pain can live in one body, but in the sweet light of day I know that I have been deep, deep down in the pit and I am surviving. Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.

Where everybody knows your name

So, if you’ve been keeping up, you’ll know that our family lost a beautiful, perfect, planned, wanted, beloved baby on July 4. Since then, lots of things have been helping me make it through each day while other things ping a deep, visceral response that is less thane helpful. And a lot of days, I find the coping things are art of one kind or another.

I’ve always been a woman who likes to sing, dance, whistle, read, write, and draw. I’m more successful at some than others. And I do get some funny looks at church, when I’m walking down the hall whistling as I head to my office, but if you listen closely, you’ll often realize it’s a hymn. I’m a nerd like that.

One that was in my head in the days following Brennan’s birth and death was the Cheers theme song. Don’t ask me why. But I think it’s because I wanted exactly the opposite. Here are the lyrics:

     Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got.

     Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot.
     Wouldn't you like to get away?
     Sometimes you want to go

     Where everybody knows your name,

     and they're always glad you came.
     You wanna be where you can see,
     our troubles are all the same
     You wanna be where everybody knows
     Your name.

I definitely wanted to get away, but I wanted to go where nobody knew my name. I’m a pretty public person, I don’t mind being vulnerable and open about things, and folks who know me in real life will tell you I’m a huge extrovert. So, finding a place to get away means going somewhere where nobody knows me – nobody expects anything of me, nobody thinks it’s weird or unprofessional if I’m weepy, nobody does the sympathetic head tilt and asks how I am.  

The Saturday after the birth was my first full day home. And I was really thinking about being at my church the following morning. Physically, I was fine, so why shouldn’t I be there? And it dawned on me – because everybody knows my name. I needed somewhere I could be anonymous and alone to work through the first bit of grief. I had nothing to give, as a pastor, since I was needing so much. When I talked to my lead pastor to let him know I wouldn’t be there, he was surprised I was even considering it.  

But where else would I be on a Sunday morning but in church? So, while I knew I couldn’t face my own wonderful, loving congregation, I decided I needed to be with my brothers and sisters in Christ somewhere else. So I looked up the service time for the United Methodist Church closest to my house and made the plan to go. Andy didn’t want to go, which is fine with me. We all cope differently. He honored God by taking James to play in the park that morning. 

So I got up that morning, looking grief-ful and tried to put myself together for my first real public outing. Ugh. It was not fun. Part of the nice thing of being a pastor, most of the time at my church, is that I never really worry about what to wear because I wear a robe in worship. And part of the other yuck of it was that my body was still all rounded from pregnancy but I couldn’t bear to wear maternity clothes. 

I drove to the church, avoided parking in a visitor spot, and tried to go directly to the worship space without drawing any attention. Silly me. Part of the beauty of our connectional church, especially for an extrovert like me, is that lots of people really do know my name. I didn’t realize that at this church, the entryway was also the gathering space prior to worship. So there were so many people. And the pastor, a sweet colleague of mine, saw me almost immediately. Yikes! I really didn’t mean to shove my grief in his face on his first Sunday in his new church. So, I gave him the briefest of hugs and practically ran into the worship space, claiming a spot on the very back row. 

But I wasn’t fast enough. Their lay leader came by to give me a hug. Another lay person, who leads their church’s mission team for my church’s Sunday morning feeding ministry, came by and wordlessly dropped a box of tissues off in the seat next to me. Then, as worship started, I saw the pastor’s wife go by, being directed to her special spot by one of the ushers. I smiled despite my circumstances; worship was exceptionally full, probably as a “see the new guy” kind of Sunday. 

Then the pastor’s wife saw me. And I know their story, which includes the loss of a child. Not like our story, because every story is distinctive and unique, but close enough for us to resonate. She came back to the very back row where I was sitting, where I was desperately trying to draw an invisible screen of anonymity around myself, and asked to sit with me. I said, “But you’re an important person, you should sit up front.” She shrugged and sat with me. She worshiped with me. She didn’t say anything after she sat down, besides the responses and singing the hymns. She didn’t judge the tears streaming down my face. She was the best friend to me in that moment that I could have asked for. Like Job’s friends, before they mess up, she just came and sat with me in my pain.

It’s an uncomfortable place to sit. I admire the people who can do it because, honest to God, I want to flee this place myself most of the time. But this is my life, so I can’t run from it. And I realized later, that even though I really thought I wanted to be alone, there was a reason I felt the need to worship that day. I needed the connection with God and community to be reaffirmed because grief can feel awfully lonely. So praise be to God for the grace I found that day. I pray you find the grace you need this day and every day.

Running the Course

Grief is a weird thing. I’m so glad I captured Brennan’s birth story in my previous post. Every birth story is as particular and unique as it is universal. And we don’t tell our stories often enough. Especially the ones that are painful. I realized, following Brennan’s birth and death, that I had joined another unique social group. Before the birth of my first son, women did not tell me their birth stories or give me advice, but my expanding waistline bridged that gap and I was able to hear many good and helpful (among the cruel and unhelpful) things. Similarly, this time I was opened to hear stories from those who have walked a road like this one before. It hurts me deeply that there is so much pain out there, but I have also been able to find strength and hope that life continues, often in beautiful and grace-filled ways.

So, one of the things I wanted to discuss today are the helpful vs. unhelpful things that you can do for someone who is grieving, keeping in mind that my list is not a universal list, but just a start.

DO

• send notes, texts, Facebook messages, and call.
• Even if I don’t answer, which is usually the case for phone calls because I can’t keep it together for a conversation about this, it means a lot. It means that the death was real, that it’s important, and that I’m not alone in this. And the people who continue to touch base with me, even weeks later, make me feel better. Brennan may have died, but the impact of his life and death have not been forgotten yet.
• hug.
• I’m not usually open to lots of physical touch, but in grief, this is one of the best things. Better to show me you love me than to try to explain why this happened.
• offer to help.
• I haven’t been able to figure out what to tell people to do, it feels weird and un-American to ask for/accept help, but the offers are appreciated.
• if you feel the need to say something, simple is better.
• The best things people have said to me have been: “I love you.” and “I’m praying for you.”

DON’T

• try to explain why this happened.
• Let me tell you this – there’s no good reason why this happened. Death may be a welcome friend at the end of a glorious and well-lived life, but the death of an infant or child is tragic. I can’t explain it and neither can you.
• tell me I look good or, really, any comment on my physical appearance.
• I may look good to you, but in my particular circumstance, I’m a little furious with my body in this moment. My body was a traitor, it sustained an injury without my knowledge with led to a fatal malfunction. And I’m mourning the loss of my baby, the loss of my pregnancy, and my body is a brutal, constant reminder that I am no longer pregnant. So, yes, I may be regaining a waistline, but I’ve lost so much more.
• rush me to think about the future or project a future which may or may not be
• Some people want to ask about or predict future children, as if another child will make me forget the one that I bore. Brennan was a special, unique, one-of-a-kind baby. While there may be more children for us, someday, our hearts are not ready to consider it. And nothing will diminish the loss we have experienced. 

The worst, well-meaning thing that was said to me came on the Monday following his Thursday birth. I stopped by the office with my husband, to pick up a few things, to look through my e-mail, to make sure things would be ok if I was out of the office for a while. And one of our sweet ladies came up to me and said, “I lost a baby, too. I was Catholic at the time and the priest said to me, ‘God needs little roses in his garden, too.’” I held it together for the moment, but the grief and the pain were raw! The honest response that I wanted to shout was NO! But, what I said, because I’m her pastor, was, “I understand that may have been helpful for you, but I just don’t agree. We can talk about it more another time if you like.” 

I don’t agree because I don’t think God is a monster. If I truly believed that God was a micromanaging sadist who literally caused some to die out of season, some to lack clean drinking water or food, some to be murdered, some to be raped – I would not be a Christian! To read more about my thoughts on things being all a part of God’s plan, everything happens for a reason, etc., see this blog post from last year, ironically around this same time of year. 

So I keep running this course, letting the grief run its own course in me. I keep busy. I play with my first son. I do dishes. I run errands. Most of the time, the grief is turned way down in the background. But every once in a while, it swells unexpected and I have to take a moment to either embrace it and work through another piece of it OR stifle it down and stuff it away, knowing I’ll have to unpack it later. 

Some things that have made the grief swell:

• The first time I drove by the hospital where Brennan was born…and died.
• Walking by the baby room at our church’s daycare program, where we had already put a deposit down for Brennan’s spot.
• Touching my tummy.
• Realizing there’s no reason not to eat unpasteurized cheese, drink alcohol, eat lots of fish, breathe paint fumes, etc.
• Seeing Brennan’s name in the church worship guide and a white rose on the altar to recognize his death.
• Realizing that’s one of the few places his name will ever appear.
• Knowing his name will appear for our All Saints recognition…and there’s no good photo of him to share.
• Wondering if Brennan will grow up in glory or if he will always be an infant held in God’s arms.
• Erasing my due date and projected maternity leave from the church’s long-range calendar.
• Reading a book that I should read with James to explain what has happened and knowing there’s no way I can read it to him.
• Feeling like Andy and I literally lost of piece of ourselves.

The strangest thing that happened this past week was on Saturday, when I took James to go pick peaches at an orchard about an hour away. We got out of the city, got out of our usual routines, and did something entirely different. I realized I hadn’t yet taught James where some food really comes from, like that peaches come from trees, not just the grocery store. So we walked through the high grass, scattering the grasshoppers. We picked peaches that he could reach. He carried a little bucket. We shared a bowl of homemade peach ice cream afterwards. And I felt happy. Then I felt guilty. Now, I know I should not feel guilty for feeling happy, but it was just such a strange feeling. A little glimpse of something other than the sea of ok and not-so-ok I’ve been swimming in lately. The course continues.

Rock a Bye, Baby

This is the song that I’ve been singing to our son, James, for the past couple of months. Ever since I started to clean out the bedroom full of junk that would soon need to be a nursery for our baby due in mid-November. So, the glider that I’d bought at a yard sale was moved out of that room and into James’s room. And he loves it.

Just over a week ago, I rocked James before putting him to bed and sang this song to him:

Rock a bye, baby, in the tree top

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall

And down will come baby, cradle and all 

It’s a horrible song, but it was the one that came to mind the first night I rocked him and he requested it every night after. And just over a week ago, I was the most contented, happy person as I sat and rocked my two sons – the one in my lap and the one in my womb. I sat in wonder as I contemplated the perfection of that moment, the peacefulness of the space, the life flourishing in and around me. It was amazing.

And then, last Tuesday, July 2, everything changed. Here is the disclaimer: this is a story of loss. I’m writing it for me. But I’m putting it here because another story of loss, which I came across on Facebook many months ago, helped me. So, if this can do any good in the world, I’ll put my words where they can be seen, no matter how painful it is.

That Tuesday was pretty typical – meetings in the morning and afternoon, sandwiching a quick lunch break of running errands – picking up the sonogram disk from the appointment on Saturday, buying presents for my sister’s baby shower, and grabbing a quick lunch in a drive through. I picked up James, touched base with my husband, Andy, and started a couple of side dishes for dinner when I got home. With a couple of pots on to boil and James firmly ensconced in front of the TV, I went to the bathroom. And I felt something start to come out that shouldn’t. In shock and amazement I saw and felt something like an exam glove filled with water. I heard the sizzle of things boiling over on the stove as I hurriedly tried to shove this thing – could it be my bag of waters?! – back up where it should go. Then I waddled back into the kitchen to rescue part of dinner, all the time feeling like something was wrong.

When Andy got home, he noticed the smoke in the house. I hadn’t even noticed it. I left dinner to him and went to lay down and call my midwife. They wanted me to come in immediately. I waddled back out to tell Andy and he put dinner down – unplugged, incomplete – grabbed James and off we went. It was surreal. When we got there, I went in, nervously sat on the exam table, since any movement seemed to make things want to fall down again, while Andy occupied James in the next room. The midwife took one look and said we were going to the hospital – yes, that was my bag of waters and it was not where it should be. That was when I started crying.

On the way to the hospital, we called a family friend who was amazing. She met us at the hospital, took James, went by our house to grab the diaper bag and everything else he may have needed for an extended stay, and took him home with her, where she had left in the midst of preparing dinner for her family. Then Andy and I walked into the hospital. It was an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. We were planning to go to Arkansas the next morning for a weekend filled with baby showers for me and my sister.

I knew things were bad because of the speed the team tackled me when I identified myself. I was stripped down bare, put into a gown, and put onto the bed. They started an IV, they inserted a catheter, they ordered a sonogram, they took a blood draw. All of this was strange for a person who is so healthy. Then they turned me upside down, talking around me about wanting to have gravity on our side. This is called the Trendelenburg position. It’s not comfortable, since it puts the weight of your body on parts of your body that were never meant to bear it – shoulders, neck, head. But if it was going to help my baby, by all means.

They did a pelvic exam and the midwife who had received me looked bleak. I remember someone saying that there were fetal parts in the vaginal vault. Good Lord, no! Why was my baby not up where he should be? So the sonogram came and we were all able to see the beautiful strong heartbeat, the movement of his arms and legs, and the fact that my cervix was completely dilated.

By this time, a doctor had arrived, and sat by my head to explain that this was called an incompetent cervix – one that opens of its own accord, with no pain, before it is time. I knew about this condition, I had treated my first pregnancy like a research project and was reviewing my notes through this second one. I had thought it was unkind to call a cervix incompetent, but I hadn’t thought twice about it. Now here I was. If there had even been a bit of the cervix left, they may have been able to sew it up and provide hope for a longer pregnancy and better outcome. But it was a full 10cm. Nothing left to pull together.

We called our parents. Andy’s parents drove through the night to us. My mom flew in in the morning. I sent Andy home around 9 so he could pick up James and put him to bed at home. And all the time I cried. Oh, my poor baby. I felt so sorry for all of us. The doctor had ordered a sleeping pill for me, if I chose to use it. I didn’t – as painful as this all was, I wanted to be in my right mind for it all and I never wanted to hurt my baby through using drugs – even just over the counter stuff.

I left the TV on to keep me company. I had my phone, so I texted with Andy a bit. I fell asleep around 1am. His parents arrived and he came back to the hospital around 3am. I decided we might need a name sooner than we had expected, so I looked online for something. I didn’t want to use any of the names we had been considering – solid, family names – because I didn’t want those names to die with our son. So, I searched by meaning and came up with a list. Andy and I decided on Brennan – a man of sorrow, a tear drop. That is truly what my second son became. 

The next morning Andy left to take James to play school. We wanted to keep some things normal. My mom arrived a little after 8am. We cried. My mom grilled the doctors – if I could keep the baby inside me for 48 hours, I would be transferred to another facility that specialized in high-risk pregnancies and premature babies. The doctor said my baby was pre-viable. He explained, but I knew what that meant – he couldn’t survive on his own yet. But if we could make it a few more weeks, the outlook got better. I started to ask questions about quality of life for a baby born that early and we decided to cross that bridge if/when we got there.

So that day passed. I ate a little, I slept a bit, I cried more. I asked Andy to bring James to see me that night. I had told Andy earlier how glad I was we had him – so grateful for this vibrant, smart, wonderful little boy. So James visited me in my room, although in my upside-down position, I couldn’t see him well, couldn’t hold him, and he didn’t really want to come sit with me. I can understand – hospital beds are no fun. Then they left, my mom stayed with me, and another night came. I slept a little bit better than I had the first night. I don’t know why. I think part of me was coming to terms with what was happening. I think maybe I was beginning to get a grip on the inevitable. Especially when I started to wake up with cramps. I had a feeling this was not going to end with a transfer to the other hospital…

The next day was a lot like the one before. Early morning blood draw, almost edible food, kind nurses and doctors that looked at me with compassion and sadness. I knew I was a sad case for them. I couldn’t help but ask them about the other people in the labor and delivery unit – how many babies had been born? How were they doing? I wanted desperately to know that life continued in healthy and beautiful ways around me, even if I was trapped in this pit.

Sometime that morning I felt a bit of fluid. The doctor came to see, but couldn’t tell if my bag of waters and broken or not. Regardless, I felt in my bones that this was the day. A little before noon, I felt the bag of waters slip lower. I told my mom, she called the nurse, and again things flew into double-time around me. I was so calm for some reason – the inevitable had arrived. The doctor examined me and I was right – the bag of waters was coming down and out. Somehow Andy was there and came to stand by my head. Just before noon, I was pushing, without any cue or help from contractions. The worst part of this was knowing I was signing my baby’s death certificate. He slipped from me with the bag of waters intact and I could feel the fluttery movements of his legs against my thighs. He was born breach. I pushed again and felt a pain at the top of my pelvic bone. I reached down with my hand, pushed down, and his head emerged, still in the bag of waters. “When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall. And down will come baby, cradle and all…”

The first night in the hospital, we had asked the doctor what the baby would look like if he came this early. She had said he would be a fully formed baby, but with very little fat, about the size of a can of Coke. She said that it would be up to us what we wanted to do afterwards – if we wanted to see him, if we wanted to hold him, etc. Andy and I decided we would not want to see him. It would just hurt too much. And I already knew everything I could know about my baby boy from the life he had lived within me.

Even so, when that moment came, as the doctor caught my baby and the nurse reached forward with a blanket to wrap him up – my eyes instinctively sought him out. Andy covered my eyes with his hand. And I broke. I sobbed. In that moment, I should have heard the wonderful cries of a newborn, but instead there was only the sound of mourning. My mom decided at the last moment to see him and followed the nurse from the room.  

The doctor looked over my legs to ask if I would want to have the baby baptized. I know this is an essential tenet of salvation in some faiths, but I am confident that God loves all of us, knows us intimately, even before we are born. “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you…” (Jeremiah 1:5a). So I said no because I knew that God was there in the delivery room, weeping with me, and catching my son.

Our second son, Brennan, was born at 12:08pm on Thursday, July 4, 2013. I’m not sure how long his

little heart continued to beat after he slipped from my body, but I know it probably wasn’t long. The doctors said that a baby at 21 weeks would not feel pain yet, and for that I am grateful. If there is at least one thing I could do for my son, it would be to bear the pain for both of us. And although the bruises from the blood draws are fading and the raw skin of the catheter bandage is healing and I’ve already packed away all the maternity clothes, I know the pain has only just begun.

I feel like a bit of a ghost. Sometimes I’m surprised by the woman in the mirror – her face is pale, her eyes are puffy and pink, her belly is still softly rounded, and her breasts are full of milk for a baby who died.

But this is grief. I knew it before in a professional way. I had experienced it in different, more appropriate ways in the passing of my grandparents. But this is horrible. No parent should lose a child. That is not the way life should go.

I’m going to stop here for the time being. Writing this is good for me, as much as it hurts. And, like I said, if it helps someone else, it will be for something.

When Strength Fails

I’ve hit the wall. It's hard to say that since I really do pride myself on being a strong person. But I realized it this morning as I flew about the house trying to pack up my son’s lunch, brush his teeth, get his shoes on, get him slathered in sunscreen, remember to bring diapers to daycare, put on my own shoes, think about meeting the family later that morning to plan a funeral, wonder how I’m going to write two sermons this week, regret getting in from a meeting last night at 10pm…

I’ve hit the wall. I was short with my son this morning when I really didn’t need to be. He doesn’t understand that I sometimes have to go get ready while he eats breakfast. Or do I? I kick myself and say I should maybe just get up earlier. He cried because I put his sunscreen on; I cried because we were going to be late out the door, which meant that I may not get to walk him to his classroom and assure myself (probably more than him) that he’s in good hands and ready for the day ahead.

I’ve hit the wall. The overriding emotion of this day so far has been anger, with a close runner-up being sadness. There are so many things to do and I just don’t know how I’m going to get them done. Worse, I’m not sure I care very much about them.

So, shortly after getting to the office, after considering letting myself have a good cry (and opting out since I do have some professional meetings today and little time to repair the damage it would do to my face) and putting my head down on my desk to feel the cold, hard surface against my hot cheek, I remembered what I’m supposed to do.

When I hit the wall, I’m supposed to turn to God. And while God won’t take care of making dinner tonight or put together the weekly newsletter or watch my son while I just go to the bathroom, God will take care of me. The stuff I really need, the sense of peace and joy that’s just beyond my reach right now, is possible with God’s help.

So, God, please help me, because my strength is failing and I can’t see my way out at the moment. And if this middle-class, home-buying, recycling wife, mother, and pastor can’t find the way out, I pray that you are even more present and known to those who really are hitting the wall.

“Have you not known? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless. Even youths will faint and be weary, and the young will fall exhausted; but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.” – Isaiah 40:28-31

Have you hit the wall lately?

Clergy + Woman

This year, I am serving as the co-convener (i.e. vice chair) of our conference clergywomen’s group. It is quite an honor for me since this was one of the key groups that helped me through seminary and the ordination process simply by their presence. I was invited to a lunch when I was still a candidate and found the wisdom, courage, and faithfulness of the women in the room extraordinary and inspiring. I felt like I could do because they had done it.

So here I am, miles down the road, helping to lead the very group which was such a means of grace to me. This year we’ve done a few new things – we’ve devised a purpose statement and a logo. The purpose of the North Texas Conference Clergywomen is to advocate for and build relationship with other clergy women. And this is our logo:

There are a few significant things about it to me. There is a deacon and an elder/local pastor represented by the stoles, signifying that both are ways that clergywomen live out God’s calling in their lives. The stoles are red, which is the same color given and worn during an ordination or Pentecost service, symbolizing the outpouring of God’s Spirit upon the individual. The shoes are red, too, in fond remembrance of many clergywomen who have had the courage and audacity to be women in the pulpit, all the way down to their shoes. Finally, one hand is reaching up while one is reaching back, signifying how we are always in a mentoring relationship, receiving wisdom from those who have gone before us and offering it to those coming after us.

This year, we’ve also informally decided to have a “red shoe Monday” at Annual Conference to bring our logo to life, as one of my clergy sisters put it. They don’t have to be heels, they don’t have to be high, they can just be red. A statement of solidarity and support with and for one another. And I couldn’t be more excited. Because, in all truth and honesty, I am both clergy and woman.

I am clergy because I have been called by God to be set apart for this responsibility of leading in word, order, sacrament, and service. I am clergy because other brothers and sisters in faith, from the SPRC that first approved of my candidacy to the Board of Ordained Ministry that recommended my ordination, have agreed that I am called by God. I am clergy in my church, where I preach, teach, laugh, hug, cry, plan, advocate, lead, and serve. I am clergy in my community where I advocate for others and partner with others of various stripes and hues. I am clergy even when folks of other churches say I’m not.

And, even in the midst of all these ways I am clergy, I am a woman. There’s no denying or getting around it, and I don’t want to! From the bra snaps in middle school, to the arguments with my mom about what I could and should wear in high school, to the adventures of college, to the awakening to the femininity of God in seminary – I am a woman. It’s challenging and wonderful and simply the hand that I’ve been dealt. I embrace who I am as a woman, all the curves and power of my body, all the ways my embodied experience informs my knowing and theology, and how my presence and leadership can be different (in a good way) from my male colleagues. I know great prices have been paid by others so that I can stand to preach today; like my right to vote, I acknowledge the sacrifice of others.

Now, just because you get a body, doesn’t mean you get a typical personality. I don’t like stereotypes. But I have talked with a couple of clergywomen colleagues who have either forgotten or want to dismiss that they are women. It baffled me, so I dug to find out more. For the one who had forgotten, she didn’t think of being a woman as a key part of her identity. I can understand that; we all build our identities from the various roles we assume. For me, being a woman is key to my understanding because of my relationships as wife and mother. I love those relationships, although they are probably far from what some would consider traditional, so I embrace who I am in them. For the one who would dismiss, she said that she wanted her embodiment to be secondary to the presence of God through her. And while I appreciate her humility and understand the motivations, I don’t know that we can ever get around this embodied experience of life.

God put us in these bodies! We are created male and female. And while there are layers upon layers of stuff – perversions and traditions and stereotypes and God alone knows what else – there is something to be learned and cherished from life in a body. It is in bathing bodies, our own and those who are dependent upon us – that we can learn to appreciate the gift of baptism. It is in feeding bodies, our own and those who are dependent upon us – that we can learn to appreciate the gift of communion. We have a God so great and so amazing that humbled God’s self to the experience of human life – from birth to death and all the great messiness in between.

So, while I will never imago Christi as my Catholic brothers explained is key to their understanding of priesthood when we spoke as chaplain candidates years ago, I know I am created imago Dei. I bear the image of God, from my blow-dried hair to my polished toe nails in high heels in church. I bear the image of God, from my ponytail to my sneakers on mission trips and playgrounds. I bear the image of God, from my tangled hair to my bare feet when I comfort my son in the middle of the night. I am clergy + woman, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Do you think about your embodied life? Where are the challenges and joys? Where is God in the midst of it?

While I run this race...

“Who called you on the journey of ministry?” While it is obviously God who calls people, there are others who helped along the way - SynchBlog Day on 4/4 – Who Called You? #Explo13 #UMC

YES, while God does the calling, it is through the wise words, compassionate ears, and helping hands of living, breathing people that anyone gets where they’re going. And that includes in ordained ministry. I’m participating in a SynchBlog to get the word out about Exploration, an event for young adults age 18-26 to hear, discern, and respond to God’s call to ordained ministry in The United Methodist Church, and the question above is the prompt for today.

Recently, I wrote about what it felt like to be there, to have this sense of having arrived at my destination. I am an ordained elder in full connection in the North Texas Conference of The United Methodist Church. This was a goal it took eight years to attain. So, if you are considering this path, listen to the wise words of one of my former district superintendents: You can think about the things to do as hoops to jump through or doors to pass through. It’s all up to you. You choose your perspective and whether or not you value the journey as much as the destination.

With that in mind, I looted my ordination paperwork to help me answer today’s question:

God has called me throughout my life, but many times I couldn’t hear the call clearly because I couldn’t accept that I could be the person God was calling me to be. I grew up in an area in Arkansas where I never saw a clergywoman, so I never knew that was a possibility for me, although I used to joke with my friends that I would start my own church someday since I was usually disappointed or frustrated by my experiences in churches.

One day in the spring of 2003, I was reading a news story about our soldiers around the world. I remembered the many friends I had had in high school who had joined the reserves or the guard thinking only of earning some extra money for college, not that they would ever be putting their training to use. Suddenly it struck me what a hard life that could be, separated from your family and the familiar, doing things that are totally the opposite of who you really are. I thought how much they need a reminder of the presence of God with them, even in the midst of violent conflict and that perhaps I could be that reminder.

I immediately smothered that idea. I had never known any female pastors until I had begun working at First UMC - Denton in November 2002. I told myself I did not know enough about the Bible or church in general to be a chaplain. Certainly the need was there, but I was clearly not the right person for the task. But the idea would not go away. Maybe God was calling me, but I did not feel qualified.

I was inspired by the pastors at our church, especially Rev. Lisa Greenwood who was a wife, mother, and amazing associate pastor. In June 2003, she went on to be a senior pastor at another church and has continued to be a source of inspiration for me. In 2009, as I was preparing for commissioning, I asked for her to be my mentor in residency, to which she generously agreed. She has been a spiritual running partner on this ministry journey.

For months I struggled with this sense of call. I decided I needed to talk to someone about it, so I asked Rev. Andy Stoker, another one our associate pastors at that time, to meet with me. I was apprehensive about talking to anyone about this calling, since I knew it would change the relationships I had with others. But as soon as I spoke to Andy, a sense of relief came over me. As I continued to speak, I felt great excitement and joy. I felt I had discovered my God-given purpose in life. Andy became that first spiritual running partner, someone who knew the road and could help me run the race.

Despite the snags and snares I encountered in my candidacy process, including people in my own tradition who advise me to read the Bible to see what it says about women in ministry, implying that to be a dutiful wife I need to give up this aspiration and quietly stay at home, and people in other traditions who condemn me for seeking ordination at all, I continue to find strength and encouragement in God and in brothers and sisters around me.

I have realized that I may never be perfectly prepared, but I have reconciled myself to this since God never promises us an easy path, just to accompany us every step of the way. This is the good news for those who seek to be in leadership in the church. Every good that comes from our small effort is by the grace of God through Jesus Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit.

The other realization that I came to over the course of my candidacy, which included the chaplain candidate program with the Air Force, is that while my initial calling was through military chaplaincy, I never want to close myself to God’s call. I believe that at that time, I was receptive to God’s call to chaplaincy when I may not have even considered any other idea of ministry. I still don’t believe that I have God’s final word on my life. My calling may include other ministries someday. I want to stay open to the Spirit’s guidance.

When I was ordained, on June 6, 2011, it was Andy and Lisa who carefully placed the red stole around my shoulders. I was elated, honored, and humbled to be taking my place alongside them as colleagues, as co-workers for the sake of the Gospel. Now, recognizing them and so many others who have helped me along this way, I am intentional about offering a hand to those who are just starting out on the road. Because we all need a little flesh and blood embodiment of God while we run this race!

Oh, Lord hold my hand while I run this race. / Oh, Lord hold my hand while I run this race.
Oh, Lord hold my hand while I run this race, / I don't want to run this race in vain.

Oh, guide my feet while I run this race. / Oh, guide my feet while I run this race.
Oh, guide my feet while I run this race, / I don't want to run this race in vain.