In Charge

            Groggy does not even begin to describe my state this morning despite a good night’s sleep.  My morning brew quickly became two, yet I knew that I needed an additional kick-start to my day.  (Aren’t you glad I dispensed with the rhyme?)  So I decided to make an unplanned trip to Oak Harbor.  As I drove, I asked God, as usual, to be in charge of my day.

            First stop was the church office, which is aptly named the Blue House since it is blue.  I needed to spiffy up my Sunday School room, so I headed on up the stairs.  At the top I ran into someone I had never met, Marjie Winters, who teaches the adult Sunday School class.  We had a delightful conversation.  As Christian education elder, I’m pretty sure that I am supposed to know everybody involved with Sunday School, though I don’t yet.  (To be honest, what I don’t know about what I’m supposed to do would fill a book.)

            Kelly, our summer intern, was at her desk in the alcove.  She and I had a nice conversation, too, and she helped me by taking some empty cardboard boxes down to the recycling bin.  (I didn’t know where it was—inside a small fenced-off area--despite the fact that I’ve walked right past it almost every Sunday for four years.) It didn’t take long for me to straighten things up in the room and check on supplies.  I noted that the only Bibles in the 7^th-12^th grade room were children’s Bibles.  Having a hazy memory of being a teen myself, I was pretty sure that Bible covers geared to preteens were NOT going to be a smash hit with my group.

            After more conversation, this time with our youth pastor, Bethany, I headed out just before lunchtime to my next destination:  the RV and manufactured homes business on the north side of town.  No, I am not in the market for either, but I really like wandering through them and I’ve been promising myself for a long, long time (four years) that someday I would go take a look just for the fun of it. 

            On the way, though, was the WAIF Thrift Store, which I haven’t been to in at least a month, so I decided to stop there and look around.  The sign at the front door was promising:  50% off books and 25% off everything else in the store today.  I decided to look for Bibles.  To my surprise, I found four NIV’s in almost-new condition:  two with camouflage covers and two with hot pink covers.  Never one to hurry through a thrift store, I meandered my way through and found a book by Henrietta Mears (she was THE Sunday School expert of the twentieth century), a wicker magazine holder, a battery-operated wall clock, a pretty mirror, and a great 16-ounce coffee mug.   (Just think:  now two cups of coffee will mean 32 ounces!)  Total spent:  $15.55. 

            I was feeling really good as I headed on to look at RVs and manufactured homes.  That was fun, but it wasn’t long before my stomach started screaming for food, so I headed to Whidbey Coffee.  Iced coffee and a Greek yogurt parfait made a perfect, reasonably guilt-free lunch.

            Since Walmart is close by, I decided to make a stop there and ended up getting a mere eight or nine items.  Ready to head on home, I thought to first check my cell phone just in case the Sunday School curriculum order was in.  Nope, nothing from the local Christian bookstore, but there was a message from the church office.  I decided to check at the bookstore anyway. 

            Voila!  When I got to the bookstore, the order had come in only minutes before, so I brought it on over to the Blue House along with my thrift store Bibles.  To make things even better, our new 4^th-6^th grade teacher was there in her Sunday School room.  We commiserated over the state of the storage cupboards in her room, which she was bravely trying to clean out.  Old Sunday School materials from the 1990s were no surprise, but we did wonder about the chemistry sets, goggles, and fishing pole.  I delivered to her the children’s Bibles from my room.

            I just had to show off my thrift store Bibles to our summer intern.  Then I saw our youth pastor, who shared some helpful ideas, and I found myself back in the main office getting more stuff done and delegated.

            As I drove the twenty miles home, I just kept smiling, happy over how the day had gone.  It is really nice not to be in charge.

           

God is in the Details

            It was a last-minute effort.  Vic, filling in for our church pianist, had emailed asking if any of us flutists would like to play along on Sunday morning’s music.  I was the only one able to be there.

            Not long before the ten o’clock service, Vic handed me a flute part for “He Looked Beyond My Fault,” to the tune of “Danny Boy.”  We only had the chance to run through it once before playing it as part of the prelude.  Then, after I played along on the first hymn and two congregational responses, I was done with my musical contribution for the morning. 

            Bob and Donna Fraser, sitting in the pew behind me, quietly shared a stunning bit of information with me.  After the sermon, during praise and prayer time, Bob shared it with the whole congregation:  two days ago, they had to have their beloved canine companion of fourteen years euthanized.  His name?  Danny Boy. 

            How lovely that a little bit of last-minute music touched two grieving hearts.  Coincidence?  No.  Providence?  Yes.  God is in the details.

Grooving

            Grooving to Broadway show tunes on my flute, I’m enjoying Wednesday morning.  And then my cell phone rings:  time to groove some more.

            Instead of swaying to a tune, I’m smiling with my daughter.  Talking with her is always a treat, and today she has lots to share about how God is answering prayer.  Our great, generous God not only provides cinnamon rolls and socks but peace and financial solutions.  He gives opportunities on both the giving and receiving end of ministry.  He’s raining peace and provision on my daughter and son-in-law as he laughs with joy.

            After lunch, I need a little nap before heading down the road to my one o’clock flute lesson.  I set my alarm for 12:59 p.m. and lie down, still smiling.  I leave the house at 1:20, but it is not until I arrive in Oak Harbor that the truth dawns:  it is 1:50, not 12:50 p.m., and I have missed my flute lesson.

            There is no time to fret:  two is my time to play those Broadway tunes for the residents at Home Place.  Mom proudly conducts in the air from her chair.  Pretty soon, she stands up and offers her place to a friend, then sits down at a nearby table.  Someone to my right whistles along—perfectly on pitch.  Another makes a failed attempt at singing.  Polite applause follows each piece.  A woman wanders by, speaking rapid-fire, unintelligible syllables.  Another woman comments upon a Broadway composer whom I do not know.   She talks about her flute-playing granddaughters and extols the Suzuki method as I clean my flutes after I’m done playing.    Then I sit at a table with Mom and a couple others.  A gentleman inquires about my practice routine and lessons.  He wants to know what groups I play in.  A woman shuffles up with her walker and asks when her daughter is coming.  Eventually, it is time to leave.  Mom walks me to the door and we give each other another big hug.

            When I get home, I send an email apology to my flute teacher.  My memory glitch is worrisome, but my brother assures me he has done similar things before.  So I guess I’ll just keep grooving to the music and to the God who never forgets.

             

Here Is Why I Love My Church

Here is why I love my church:

A young man speaks during prayer request time, thanking God for church—it is his first time here—and breaks down as he adds he is going through a divorce.  Following the service, he is surrounded  by people waiting their turn to offer him comfort.  

The sermon is ignited by the Holy Spirit.  Ephesians 4:25 – 5:2 comes alive as we are reminded of the power of words and encouraged to use our words to bring hope and healing.

  

A talented trio sings the special music and the offertory.  The medley of old gospel songs energizes the congregation with joy.

The crowd gathers in fellowship hall for coffee and finger foods.   The young man has received the promise of Divorce Care ministry, countless hugs and words of encouragement, and a safe place to return.   God’s extravagant love is at work.

Experience Now; Process Later

            I have always been an “experience now, process later” type of learner.  I’m all ears as I listen to what is being taught.  I’m making connections within, nodding my head in agreement, taking it all in.

            And then I go home and think.  Stray bits and pieces start to fit or not.  Other experience enters into this silent conversation with self.  Gradually, I integrate some parts, discard others, and piece together fragments.  The puzzle builds itself. 

Last weekend I attended a two-day conference, “Abandonment & Doubt:  The Unexplored Virtues,” featuring Peter Rollins, who is founder of the ikon faith group in Ireland and part of the emergent church movement.

            While it is true that the weekend resonated with me, in the days since I have gradually realized that my ruminations are different than Rollins’ (or at least what I understood him to say):  He reframes doubt and uncertainty as humility, and abandonment as relinquishment of human striving.  I see them as something else.

            Doubt and I are close companions.  During the dark night of my soul, doubt seemed to be the only thing of which I was certain.  Out of the sense of abandonment--when I felt that God could not be trusted and when I could not believe that God was good--sprang a surprise:  in the midst of despair I still hoped for grace.  Gradually, that hope became faith in God’s immutable grace. 

            Uncertainty is still on my page, but it is no longer an agonized uncertainty.  There are pieces of orthodox Christianity I do not understand and about which I have no firm conclusion.  Instead of forcing myself to believe what I don’t, I think and pray and wait.  God is big enough to handle my uncertainty:  He is the one with the answers, not me.  I’d rather be honest than posture before people, pretending to be pious.

            Praying and living from where I really am instead of where I think I should be takes conscious effort.  It’s easy to slip back into the old habit of pretending to God and to myself that I am Miss Perfect Christian.  When I’m angry/bitter/unforgiving/depressed, instead of trying to cover up my real state of mind and emotion, I talk about it with God:  I admit that I am not where I want to be, that I cannot get there myself, and I that I am willing for Him to keep working on my attitude.  This, you may guess, is an ongoing conversation.

 Like everyone else in the world, I am no stranger to pain.  Who has not been broken by personal sin and by the sin of others?   Huddling in a self-protective shell is my typical response to pain.  Wounds are deep and sometimes just when I think they are finally healed, they begin bleeding again.  However, I have found that bleeding and brokenness do not mean defeat; they mean that God is doing a deeper work.

            There is hope in the gospel of grace.  I do not need to stay mired in pain, in abandonment, and in doubt.  Yet I do agree with Peter Rollins that certainty and satisfaction can become idols--when arrogance rules.  Pride refuses to admit problems; it demands perfection.  It rushes to judgment; it insists upon control.  It refuses to listen lest it be proven wrong.  Pride pretends to be immune to weakness; it boasts strength and victory.  It must win at all costs.  Pride always proclaims my rightness and pronounces your wrongness.  However, it seems to me that uncertainty and dissatisfaction can become idols as well if we glory in our doubt and wallow in our pain, if we proudly cling to our brokenness, and if in the name of authenticity, we engage in naval-gazing and forget about worship.

            In worship, pride gets upended.  When we encounter the triune God, we find hope.  The Man of Sorrows Who Is Acquainted with Grief knows our pain, knows our sin, and knows our posturing—but He still loves us.  He is the one who can bring us to truthfulness about our lives.  We don’t have to cover up before Him; we do have to let Him uncover us with His love. 

            And in the face of such extravagant love, we don’t lose our identity.  We find it.

Because of You

Dear Anne,

            Tomorrow I turn 57 and, as always, I’m thinking of you. 

            I’ve lived longer than you already.  During this past year, I would occasionally count off the months to compare.  You made it just past three months into your 56^th year.  Each extra month I get seems like a bonus.  Remembering how your life was cut short, I remember to cherish my life.  My way of making the most of my life is to make it meaningful, be receptive to holy nudges.  I don’t know that I’ve ever believed I was “captain of my own destiny”; rather, more and more I sense that the truest way to live is to cooperate with the Divine Providence.

            Because of what you left me, I have two beautiful flutes and weekly lessons that spur me on.  It’s hard to imagine my life before all this music.  Thank you.

            Because of what you left me, I have a very comfortable bed, new kitchen appliances, and no debt.  Thank you.

            Because of what you left me, I was able to give generously to my children, my church, and ovarian cancer research.  Thank you.

            And because of what you gave me through our adult years, I have happy memories.  Yes, I know that most of those were phone conversations when we went months and even years without seeing each other.  Those phone greetings still make me smile and bring a tear.  You would say, “Janis!!”  and I would say, “Anne!!”

            But I also remember, in particular, our visit to Whidbey Island in July 2007.  And my visit to you in North Carolina in March 2008.  And our family reunion in Kentucky in May 2008.  And the weekend with you in Seattle at the ovarian cancer research symposium in September 2008.  Those times are precious beyond words.

            And, of course, I remember the difficult privilege of spending the last two months of your life with you.  We didn’t talk much because you couldn’t.  I trust you felt my love in the long silences, in how I would stretch your feet, help you brush your teeth, hold your hand, and advocate for better care for you.  Because you needed me, I could give the gift of presence.

            So tomorrow I enter an age you never saw.  Remembering you and because of Jesus, I will give it all I have.  I will remember your words—“don’t wait”—and live into each day to its fullest. 

            I am glad we are sisters.

                                                                        Love,

                                                                        Janis

           

Up at Seven, Functional by Nine

            I’m waking up later (seven instead of six), which means that it’s only taken a month for my week in Eastern Standard Time to wear off.  And, even though I went back to bed at eight, here I am ready for the day at nine. 

            To tell you the truth, I’ve been worried about my health this past month.  Sleep, fatigue, and muscle pain have all increased.  It’s the malaise of flu without the virus.  A visit to my doctor day before yesterday promises to solve the mystery.

            Whether the blood work shows any problems or not, she offered a clue to my lack of well-being.  It is a well-worn word with which I am highly familiar:  stress.

            My first response was that I couldn’t be stressed; after all, my daily life is peaceful if not occasionally a little too uneventful.  Dr. O’Neill reminded me that stress is like an onion:  it peels back in layers.  Well, evidently the outer layers have peeled back enough to reveal some inner layers:  some old grief and older memories.

            Now, that knowledge does not make me less tired or feel better, but it does give me hope.  I imagine struggling along a sandy beach and Jesus picking me up.  Actually, when I think about it, I realize he has never put me down.