This Is Not the End of You

For all who have survived and all who will survive
October 2021

This may be the end of what you thought would last
This may be the end of what you thought was "the real thing"
This may be the end of what you said "I do" to

But

This is not the end of you.

The words she used were hurtful
The things he did were harmful
The time and energy they took can't be replaced
The scars will remain, even after the wounds heal

But

This is not the end of you.

You believed the lie that it was your fault
You thought maybe it was true that you can't do anything right
You can't shake the feeling that you just didn't try hard enough

But

This is not the end of you.

You listen to me now:
You are worth so. much. more.
You are of untold value.
You--yes, YOU!
YOU are loved.
YOU are lovable.
YOU are beloved.

This is not the end of you.

There is hope. There is hope. There is hope.

Let this be the beginning of something new.

This is not the end of you.

October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. If you or someone you know is experiencing harm in an intimate or familial relationship, contact the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 800-799-7233 or www.ndvh.org. You can reach the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 800-656-4673 or rainn.org. Learn more about building healthy relationships and spreading awareness of domestic and intimate partner violence by visiting the One Love Foundation at joinonelove.org or the Domestic Violence Awareness Project at dawareness.org.

Dear Jim

You started telling me years ago that you wanted me to do your funeral. I figured you'd long outlive my tenure at your church, however, and that you would get to know pastors who followed me, too, and one of them would (and should) do your funeral. And truth be told, I fervently hoped I wouldn't have to do your funeral. You were the lay member to annual conference, a Sunday school teacher, a member of the choir, and one of the most faithful members of that church. You were proud of being one of the longest-standing members there. The church needed you (and you needed the church). It's kind of funny: even when you do so many funerals as a pastor, there are some people you think might never die.

So I'm writing you this letter too late, as these things happen. And I'm not doing your funeral...but this fact brings me no joy, and perhaps, I should have been willing to say yes, if circumstances had permitted. Life is full of these decisions we see differently on the back side, isn't it?

There's so much I would say about you, if I were doing your funeral, and so much I probably should have said to you...but that time has passed. I have so many memories of being your pastor for four years. I mean, I have lots of memories of four years at your church, but also, memories just of you.

You called me your "guru." You came to talk to me about everything and anything. It didn't take long to realize you were lonely. I remember you always wore your wedding ring, and very early on, you pointed out that you were not single by choice. You'd talk about your "first wife," Shirley, and it was obvious that you would have given anything for her to be with you still. I always imagined there are some things in your house that were left untouched, just the way Shirley had left them, as a sort of shrine, a way to call up her presence in your loneliest moments. Of course, I don't know that to be true...but from what I know, it seems possible. You loved her so much. And you missed her so painfully. I knew that. It wasn't hard to tell it, and I tried to be present for you in those lonely moments. Sometimes it was too much for me, though. I failed you, so many times.

You see, the thing about being a pastor is that part of your job is to lay bare some of yourself, so that others can feel comfortable doing that, too, and then it's hard to help people understand that the closeness they feel isn't really as personal as they think it is, after all. This doesn't mean pastors are actors or are being disingenuous; it just means we are always balancing how to care for others and share ourselves enough to help foster their spiritual growth in genuine ways, with how to protect ourselves in important ways, too.

But you and I had a different relationship from what I had with many other church members. When you asked questions of me, you wanted a real answer. You respected my opinion on lots of things, though I remember one time I noted I had read something in the Washington Post and you said, "We may have to work on your choice of reading material." You were ready to jump into whatever I suggested as a small group study or a new direction for the church. Few church members have respected my authority and training and knowledge the way you did. We didn't agree on everything, and you liked to parse concepts into so many pieces that it drove me nuts sometimes, but you valued what I had to say.

You brought me newspaper clipping after newspaper clipping, and magazine articles and church bulletins. You wanted to share all the ideas you got from everything you read and every place you went. I kept it all, while I was there. There was a box under my desk that held all the stuff from Jim. And I dutifully packed most of it and moved it with me 3 years ago. It meant something to you, and I felt it important to honor that, though you probably never knew that. Just recently, as I tried to clean the closet in my office, I came across a bunch of that stuff. Some of it I did finally pitch, but a lot of it is still there.

This week, as I prepared to record a sermon for the church I presently attend but do not work at, I had even said to myself, Jim will be happy he can actually see me preach this week. (When I was getting ready to leave your church, I remember you asked where you would be able to watch or listen to my sermons each week, but that isn't usually possible, in the ministry where I serve now.) I was excited that you could watch, this one time, and I made a mental note to be sure to send you the link. But then I got a phone call Wednesday evening, letting me know you had gone. And I can't stop thinking that I wish you were around to see this service, not because it's anything great, but because I know you would have wanted to.

There's so much more to say. There were days you were the last person I wanted to see and times I tried to avoid you. Your attention was sometimes disconcerting and probably inappropriate. You were protective of me, which was unwarranted and unnecessary. But I know all of this came from a good place and was borne out of a deep regard and love. And I wanted to appreciate it and honor it. I wanted to be the pastor you needed. I wanted to have the healthy boundaries I needed for me and my family, too. It is so damn hard to be a pastor and care for people and care for yourself in the midst of dealing with all the mess of your own life and a whole bunch of other people's, too.

I failed you, Jim, because I am a broken human, after all. But I was trying to do my best. And I haven't been your pastor for almost 3 years, but I hope you knew that didn't mean I stopped caring about you and hoping you were still growing in your relationship with God.

Maybe you did understand. If nothing else, I know the last time we talked, I did tell you I loved you. I meant that. And that's all I know to say now. I love you, Jim. May you rest in peace and rise in glory.

-Betz CE

"Nothing" Means A Lot

Currently, my "office" space is comprised of the end of our couch, a plant stand with a basket of desk supplies on top of it (wedged in between the arm of the couch and the wall), and the area surrounding the plant stand and an end table that sits near the end of the couch. Needless to say, it's a lot less space than the office where I usually do campus ministry and the office I've recently acquired on campus, for the one course I've been teaching.

As I sat on the end of the couch recently--the space where I spend my morning devotion time, where I sit and scroll through social media, where I read and write and watch TV, where I hold Zoom and Facebook Live ministry events--in a particular moment, I took note of the kitsch spread out on top of the end table, and noticed something kind of peculiar. Whenever I am not sharing the space with the cat, so he can look out the window (knocking down as many things as possible as he sits there), 2 little plaques are displayed, and recently, I've been leaving a note card from my sister there, too. All three of these happen to have something in common: the quotations on them include the word "nothing." There's this from Jane Austen: "There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort." And this from Maya Angelou: "Nothing can dim the light that shines from within." And recently, this scripture verse: "for with God, nothing shall be impossible" (Luke 1:37).

Now, first, the inclusion of "nothing" in all of those statements reminded me of all the times I've read students' essays this semester that talk about "everyone" and "no one" and all the other over-generalizations that young writers are prone to use. (Did you know that all "older" people are opposed to tattoos and unusual hair coloring? Also, everyone of a certain age is under pressure to post everything they do on social media; were you aware of this?!) It struck me as ironic that I've populated my own "inspirational spot" with a trove of (over?)generalized quotations. Are they true? Are they overstatements? Do they have any accuracy? (The writing instructor in me need to consider the ethos of these claims!)

Well, maybe these comments weren't intended to hold up against this kind of scrutiny, and that's OK. In this moment, I think what they all have in common is that, ironically enough, that little word "nothing" actually opens up a crack in the dull hopelessness that creeps in about 11:00 each morning (if not before). If it's true that there is "nothing like staying at home for real comfort," maybe it's OK that I can't be at either of my offices and see any of my students in person. If it's true that "nothing can dim the light that shines from within," then maybe what I'm doing here isn't a complete waste of space and time and energy. Maybe, even though I'm not physically saving lives on the front line of this pandemic, there's some kind of light that I'm shining to make the world a better place, anyway. You see, it's easy to feel like whatever I am doing--and some days, it feels like I'm "doing" precious little, other than keeping my children from killing each other--is just not that important. But a little "nothing" reminds me that whatever I manage to do just could be brightening up a darkness in someone else's life that I don't even realize.

Of course, that last quotation I mentioned, the Bible verse, means something deeper than Jane Austen's statement and a little bit more specific than Maya Angelou's. "For with God, nothing shall be impossible." This "nothing" should be rooting me right now. When I think of the suffering others are experiencing, when I see the unemployment numbers each week, when I read about the dead and the injustices being perpetrated in this country, even amidst the pandemic (#BREONNATAYLOR #SAYHERNAME), things seem pretty dang dark. I don't know or understand all of what God is up to, but it doesn't exactly seem like enough, to me. I pray for the same things day in and day out, and they don't seem like enough. Nothing seems to change. In some moments, nothing seems possible.

But "for with God, nothing shall be impossible." I should be expectant with hope that there is possibility for healing, wholeness, and justice--even when that's not what it looks like, right now. I should be reminded that the things that have seemed unlikely, unreasonable, and even out of the realm of possibility have been happening, from the beginning even until now. After all, this statement, as quoted from the gospel of Luke, was made to a young girl who was about to become pregnant out of wedlock with the baby who would be the Savior of the world. I guess if she could put her faith in it, so can I. Sometimes "nothing" means a lot!

It's Monday Morning. I Already Messed Up.

I started writing more blog posts a couple weeks ago, to give myself something to do, other than scroll through social media and get dragged in to conversations that are better left alone. I was trying to do something that would be positive, rather than stay stuck in the negativity that this time so easily breeds.

Today, before 8 a.m. on a Monday, I had already failed. Rather than thinking about and writing something positive on this blog, I mindlessly scrolled through Facebook, found a post I disagreed with, commented on it, then congratulated myself on my superior intelligence and critical thinking. Not surprisingly, I highly doubt that person will be reading what I post on my blog now. Why would they? Was what I said necessary? Was it charitable? Was it how I should be spending my time and data usage?

The short answer to those questions is definitely "no." And I could easily allow that to turn a pandemic Monday into a manic Monday and hate all the things I do that annoy me (imagine what else annoys everyone else, too!). But I'm not going to. I said what I said. It wasn't the nicest thing, though it could have been much worse. I'm not going to engage further. And I'm going to move forward. Just because I messed up at 8 a.m. on Monday doesn't mean 8:01 a.m. couldn't be better. I am determined to make the rest of the day better. It can only go up from here, right?

Care Comes in Packages

Do you remember that book about 5 love languages? I read part of it, or did a workbook related to it in a small group, or something like that, but anyway, it said one of my love languages is giving gifts. I don't know how much else about that book is accurate, but this much is true: I like to give people things. This proclivity is not without its hazards, especially when you have limited resources...

Anyway, today I am celebrating that part of my job--my calling, actually--involves giving people stuff. Usually at this time of year, I'm about to go buy a bunch of snacks and goodies for students, and prepare to make pancakes on a Tuesday night, and figure out how we'll celebrate our graduating students. This year, the pancakes only happen with my family. There won't be a spa night with pictures of pretty awful-looking facial masks. I won't buy a cake twice the size of what we need, in an effort to make sure we have plenty for all the partying we will do for our last week together. This year, I will entrust the "EIU alumni" mugs to the Postal Service, for safe delivery to our graduating students, instead of handing them out myself. It's a bit of a bummer.

But still, what I can do right now is send my students stuff to remind them that they are loved, to give them a break from the stress of the end of the semester, and to make their day a little brighter. I am thankful that I can send them stuff because of the support and care of all sorts of people who give money to churches that support EIU Wesley Foundation and who give money directly to EIU Wesley Foundation. Care comes in packages right now. And that is fine with me.

On Being Hopeful

Yesterday was a horrible day. Let me qualify that: I did not fight to save anyone's life, watch anyone die, suffer any horrible pain, or say goodbye to a loved one, so I understand that my "horrible day" pales in comparison with that of so many other people's day.

Still, both children ended Sunday pretty badly, and Monday morning started with attitude from the 8-year-old and the 4-year-old's super power--being impervious to his parents' requests/directives--in full swing. At some point in the afternoon, I abandoned the children entirely into the care of their father and spent over an hour organizing my beads and jewelery-making supplies...not because I planned to use them, per se, but because doing that seemed no less futile than anything else that actually rightfully demanded my time or attention.

Needless to say, today showed up needing a new infusion of hope and positivity, perhaps like no day quite had needed it before. During breakfast, it occurred to me that our dog exhibits the most enduring hope of anyone in our household, even in the least likely circumstances. Now, it's true that most of the time she is intensely hoping that the 4-year-old will drop his food, or that one of us adults will toss her a forbidden bite of human food goodness. Her hope is far less complex or deep than what I am working on regularly. But still, I suppose it doesn't hurt to see how she hopes, then aspire to something like that: hope that arrives with each new day, each new meal, each potential pat on the head (well, maybe not that last one). Where are you finding hope today?

On Productivity

Let me just say a few words about productivity. I've been hearing a lot about it recently. There's a million tips out there for how to be productive if you're working from home right now. There seems to be a line of thinking that if you are working from home right now, you have a whole lot of free time and should also be learning a new skill or otherwise improving yourself. Then there are those of us who have about twice as much to do, now that we're working from home. And I know plenty of people who can't work from home, and many who are working even harder at their away-from-home jobs right now.

So, yeah, here's what I think about all this conversation about productivity: you do what you have to or are able to do, and I will do what I'm able to, and maybe we can quit trying to tell each other how we're supposed to be doing this thing that none of us have ever dealt with before.

Oh, and I made myself some earrings yesterday because being creative feels like a better thing than trying to be productive all the time.

I wonder what it would be like if we could talk about how to "be" more and how to "do" less. What do you think?

Learning to Be Loved

Last night, I was part of a wonderful conversation about vocational discernment, led by Grant Swanson of Garrett-Evangelical Theological Seminary. Now, honestly, I'm at a point where I can really get into talking about vocational discernment because I am at a good place right now. Working in campus ministry has been a goal for a long time and, while I am certainly by no means perfect at what I do, I feel like I am in a place where God has been calling me to be for a long time. It is amazing to feel this way! For years, though, I knew the frustration and pain of feeling like I kind of knew where God wanted me to be, but I didn't have any idea how I would ever get there. Suffice it to say, I know the joy and trial that vocational discernment can be!

We worked on 4 different questions during this conversation, and the first one was to determine a 6-word personal mission statement. If you know much about me, you know that I have a B.A. and an M.A. in English, and that I rarely ever say things in as few words as possible! Telling the "short version" of a story is a pretty foreign concept to me! How can I say anything in only 6 words???? Well, I did, though. I did what I was told to do (because I am also a rule follower), and this is what I came up with: "Learning to be loved by God." It seems kind of incomplete--because 6 words is not a lot of words!--but it is also a truth that I've been working on for some time. It probably sounds weird: how does someone learn to be loved by someone else?? It seems kind of like a basic recognition that I am missing: why can't this person who espouses God's love for all people just know that she is also loved by God? Well, I'd rather not get into all of the answers to that question right now. If you read very far down this blog, you'll probably find some answers. What I want to say is that I think this has always been one of my greatest challenges, and right now, when everything has been turned upside-down, it's even more essential. I cannot do everything I would normally do. There are days I feel like I am failing at both paid jobs I have and all the other "jobs" I try to do on a daily basis right now. And when I get that way, everything feels like it's going to fall apart and maybe I am just a waste of space. So, from here on out, now that I have identified this mission statement, I'm going to pursue it with all I am. I may never be perfect at anything, but maybe I can stop trying for that and start living more like I'm loved. After all, learning how deeply one is loved loved may just be a key to learning to love others more deeply.

Looking for Hope

One of the most difficult parts of this pandemic for me is the prohibition against being with other people. While I am so thankful that I have a home and a family and jobs that allow me to work from home, I miss being able to gather with other people for worship and socialization. (Even though I'm an introvert, I do enjoy being with other people sometimes!!) I highly value community, and I am missing that a lot. Online meetings are good, and the best we can do right now, but I miss being in the physical presence of others.

But there's something going on that makes me feel better and reminds me that community still happens, even if it doesn't look like what I'm used to. I have no idea where this started, but I am loving the hearts that people are putting up in their windows. It makes me feel like we might all be connected, even from our own separate spaces. Even though I don't know the people who live in these houses, I am thankful that they would tape up paper hearts in their windows, that they would reach out to the rest of the world in this little way. It gives me hope. It makes me feel like we are together, even though we're apart right now.

How are you finding hope right now?

Not Alone

Though I hadn't seen a soul on the whole of my morning walk, I suddenly realized I was not alone. As I neared the stretch of road that borders a creek, I saw the flick of white tails and sudden motion moving away from me. My arrival had startled some deer lurking along the creek, hidden from my view by their coloring and the naked, early spring trees. I tried to take a picture of them with my cell phone, but they moved off too quickly, into the denser growth.

Though I thought they had moved on for good, I saw them again just a little while later. They had moved down the creek a ways, then up into someone's backyard. There were three of them, and they weren’t too far off. I realized that even when I thought they'd gone, the deer had still been pretty close the whole time. When I noticed they had appeared again, I thought to myself, maybe that's what God is like—Father, Son, Holy Spirit—right here, nearby. Maybe I don’t have to focus on all the seeking for God that I’ve been doing—like looking for unicorns.

I know we're taught to seek God. I've done a lot of learning and a lot of teaching others how to seek God: how to enter the presence of the Holy with intention, how to read the scriptures and listen for the Spirit's calling, how to attend to Jesus' presence in worship, fellowship, and everyday life. It seems like a reasonable thing for a pastor to do.

In fact, for a number of years, churches have developed worship services focused on people they call “seekers.” It became a thing to try to be the place that offered exactly what people were looking for, whatever that may be. Pastors and other leaders focused on offering answers for these seekers. It seemed like faith became based on our own efforts to understand God, and the church a place that made it as easy as possible to get to that understanding. Worship services and other events were scrutinized under the lens of “does it make sense to the seekers,” always referring to a certain group of people, usually those who had little exposure to the church as children or youth, and who weren’t very familiar with “traditional church.”

Of course, this is not the genesis of the whole idea of seeking. Scripture does tell us to seek God; how else will we learn what it means to be faithful and how it looks to live righteously? Jesus even says, “Seek first God’s kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.” There is certainly room for seeking in the Christian life—and not just for those who don’t know “what it’s all about” already, or who haven’t been involved in church that long. We’re all called to be seek God faithfully.

Sometimes, however, I think we try to make a spiritual life entirely out of the seeking, when it's just as true that we need to understand in the depths of our souls that we have been found, already. While what we do does matter, the whole thing isn’t up to us. Even when we feel all alone, like we’re not finding what we’re searching for, God is there—maybe camouflaged by the brown-gray trees we're in the midst of, maybe standing in plain sight, just not where our distracted eyes are looking at the moment: a deer, not a unicorn—with us, in the common things. We're not alone.

Yes, seeking God may be important, but the joy and hope of the Christian faith is that God is seeking us all the time. As "A New Creed" says, "In life, in death, in life beyond death, God is with us. We are not alone. Thanks be to God."*

*"A New Creed." United Church of Canada, 1968 (rev. 1980, 1995))

Finding Joy (day 1)

Today, I am finding joy in tulips. I first noticed them blooming a lot on Easter Sunday, as I took my morning walk. I was reveling in the sight of plastic Easter eggs on people's lawns, patiently waiting for little ones to awaken and go looting for Easter treasure, when something else caught my eye. At first, I thought it was more Easter eggs, then I realized it was a large stand of vibrant, colorful tulips in a yard. I am thrilled that more than a week later, they are still standing strong, joined by more friends, brightening the cool spring days.

Where are you finding joy today?

Seminary May Have Saved My Life

I arrived at Duke Divinity School to begin my M. Div. degree in August 2006. To say that moving 300+ miles to start a degree program may have saved my life sounds a little dramatic, I realize. It may be true, though.

I was in a pre-orientation program at Duke, and I remember that as we introduced ourselves on the first day, we were supposed to share one fact that no one in the room would know about us. My fact was that I was supposed to have been married about 3 weeks earlier. As I shared that, I realized I wasn't exactly devastated that I hadn't gotten married...but it did feel like an odd place to be, to say the least.

To be honest, I had tried to end that relationship months earlier and had come to the conclusion that it would have to wait until I moved away from the guy who wouldn't leave me alone. Ultimately, I was right. The relationship was on its last leg when I moved and 2 months apart ended it definitively--from my perspective, at least. Thankfully, I had made friends at Duke who talked me through the immediate emotional fallout of what I had been through, convincing me that I was not, in fact, damaged and undesirable beyond repair. Thankfully, when I started having a lot of anger about what had happened to me, Duke had a good counseling center for students and I got the help I needed. Thankfully, it just so happens that I had met this other guy who actually showed me how I should be treated (I married him instead, a while later). And perhaps best of all, I was, in fact, 300+ miles away from the man whose words and actions had chipped away at my boundaries and created deep fissures in my emotional stability and my self-esteem, for over a year...and I was safe. He had never been physically violent, but you never know what abusive words might eventually lead to.

What's the point of all this? Well, it's all to say that I didn't stay in the abusive relationship I found myself in because I already had a plan to be going somewhere else, far away from where that relationship started, and by the time I met him, not even he could deter the path I was on. I was lucky. I got out because I had a place to go and I could get there, and I had the means to survive without him. Going to seminary was the ticket I needed to get out of an abusive relationship.

Now, I don't wake up every morning and think about the fact that I survived intimate partner abuse; after 13 years, there are plenty of more important things that take up the space in my brain. I read some articles recently that made me think more of that "why doesn't she leave?" question people looking in from the outside of abusive relationships often ask, and I cannot stress enough (along with the writers of those articles) how misled that question is. She (or he or they) doesn't leave for a million different reasons, many of which those on the outside of the abusive relationship would not understand or consider valid. It doesn't have to do with intelligence or education. It's not because she's a glutton for punishment. It's not because she doesn't mind the abuse. Abuse steals everything--self-esteem, self-sufficiency, self-confidence, healthy boundaries, a sense of identity separate from the abuser, relationships with people other than the abuser, and in many cases, the physical means for leaving. The reasons "why" abound...but they also don't really matter!

So, don't wonder about why people "let" themselves be abused. Don't imagine you know better. Don't think you're smarter or worth more. Just don't. Sure, she has her flaws, but being abused is not just "her fault." There's much more to it. This Domestic Violence Awareness Month, if you want to help, donate to a shelter--be sure to ask what they need, instead of assuming you know. Listen to someone's story and don't give advice, as though you know better. Take a stand and refuse to let your church or religion or other beliefs be the reason that someone is held captive in an abusive relationship (hint: lots of Christians use supposed biblical precedent to tell women, especially, not to leave abusive partners). Quit asking the wrong question. Practice compassion and unconditional love. That's really hard to do, but I think it's always worth the effort. I mean, it's what Jesus did...

Seminary may have saved my life. Many women and children and men won't be able to say that. And it's not their fault. You could help save their lives.

Celebrating an anniversary!

Today is an anniversary for me! It's not the one I usually think about this time of year, though (that one is 2 days from now, and, as has been the case more often than not, Brock and I will again be apart on our wedding anniversary...welcome to life in ministry!).

Nope, I am thinking in these late hours of June 12th about another anniversary in my life. Eight years ago today I was ordained an Elder in full connection in The United Methodist Church. It was Pentecost Sunday. It was awesome.

I never meant to become a pastor, though. I only did it after a few years of resistance to the call and because I could no longer do anything else.

I serve in a church that is a human institution, broken in many ways. I have hope for the future of that church, and I have hurt for so much that is going on within it. Some folks think I am wrong for some things I believe. Terms like unorthodox, heretical, disobedient, and even rebelling against God get put out there when people who disagree with me talk about people like me--someone who believes in the full inclusion of members of the LGBTQIA+ community in the life and leadership of the church. In 10 years under appointment, I have been called these things and so many worse things, all by people IN the church. I don't wonder why so many people my age and younger stay away from the church. There are times I have only gone to church because I had promised to keep showing up...because I was the pastor.

God has never stopped showing up, though. The Holy Spirit hasn't quit breathing into the broken fragments of all our lives. The disturbing and disruptive winds of Pentecost still blow. I have trouble believing that the Holy Spirit works things out by 53% to 47% votes. I have trouble believing that the Holy Spirit condemns young people, like several of my students, whose faith bears fruit far beyond their years, just because of whom they are attracted to. I'm not comfortable with a lot of things about my church right now...but I imagine that may just be where the Holy Spirit needs me (and all of us?) to be, for the winds to blow some more.

So, I guess I'll wait and see what happens next. And I will trust in God's grace to lead me, like I did 8 years ago on Pentecost...like I did 2 years before that, when I was commissioned and started serving my first 2 little country churches...like I did 6 years before that when I said to my campus minister, "Um...what do I need to do if I think maybe God is calling me into ordained ministry?"...like I did when I was 13 years old and my pastor asked me to decide if I was ready to be confirmed...

The Holy Spirit sure does get in there and mess things up, sometimes. Tonight, I am thankful for that, as scary and uncertain and wonderful and awesome as it is. So here's to 8 or 10 or 30 more years, trying to follow where you're blowing, Holy Spirit. I sure am tired, and I have no idea where this thing is going, but if you're in it, I want to be in it, too. Come, Holy Spirit. Amen.

Everybody Wants to Feel Special Sometimes

We moved a while back, which meant we left behind a number of people we had gotten to know and appreciate, and one of those was our pediatrician. Dr. Landon had seen us through a lot with both of our munchkins. He was very kind and very thorough, and he always acted happy to see us. He told jokes, which was not necessarily my favorite part of visits with him, but it was unique, at least. A visit with Dr. Landon left me feeling like he knew my kids and me and cared about us. Upon mentioning this to a friend who was also a doctor, she noted that he probably said these same things to all of his patients, that he likely treated everyone the same. This revelation left me in a quandary. It feels good to feel special. Thinking that Dr. Landon had a special interest in our family, or some kind of special connection with us, felt good.

I've been reflecting on that desire we have to feel special to people recently. I remember a long plane ride next to some guy from England, whom I thought might ignore me the whole time. When he finally did talk to me, we learned a little bit about each other. We exchanged email addresses. I wrote him a few times after that. For whatever reason, I couldn't abide the thought that he didn't have any interest in knowing who I was. Maybe it was my own issues that caused me to want that human connection, but I think there's a place in all of us that wants people to think we're unique, special, someone they need in their life--someone they should inherently be interested in.

I've thought also about a time when I did something hurtful to a friend of mine. Eventually, in remorse, I apologized. I confessed feeling like a terrible friend and not a very good person. His response was something along the lines of, "We're all terrible people. That's why we need God's grace." Those were not exactly the words I was expecting, though, considering that he was in seminary at the time and eventually became a Lutheran pastor, they seem pretty on point for him.

So many things we do make us feel not very special. It's a lot easier to feel like a real screw-up than to feel special. Maybe that's why we like it when we do feel special, and why, all to often, we make it to mean more than it does. After all, don't we practically pay people to make us feel special? Don't we like it when a server at a restaurant makes us feel like we're the best customer they've had all day? Don't we expect people in "helping" professions--doctors, teachers, pastors, social workers, etc.--to act kindly and make us feel good or better about ourselves, in some way? Yes, we have so many ways that we can feel unique, so many connections we make with others that feel special, whether they really are, or not.

What is it about us that makes us want to be told we are good people? We want to feel special...but the truth is, we're kind of a lot like everyone else. I think that's the conundrum of faith, in some ways. Knowing God has the effect of making us feel both special and minuscule at the same time. If God made all the things, then what would make me think I am a special thing among all of those? The universe sure is big. I sure am small, compared to it. But then, that's why scripture is more than just one story about God, more than the creation of all things. Scripture tells us that God is far away...but also near. We are each part of a creation whose breadth and depth we can't ever understand. AND we are beloved by the God who created all of that. We are each so special...just like everyone else.

Huh? Yeah, that's the thing about God, right? How can God love all the things so much? How can God make each and every one of us feel so special? Maybe that's one of those questions to save up for heaven. Until then, maybe it's better to think a lot about how much God loves us each, how special we all are to God, and then try really hard to remember that all of that applies to everyone else, too. That sounds like enough work to keep me busy for a while...

What Does the Fox Say?

It's been a couple weeks since we've seen them. They were so cute and adorable, 5 little foxes running and playing in our backyard, with their beautiful mom keeping a watchful eye. It was inevitable that they would leave, of course. That's the way things go--they are wild animals, after all. Their presence in our backyard, taking up residence under our shed for two weeks, taught me a couple of lessons, though, so I share those with you now.

It was late on a Tuesday that we first heard the sound--I thought it was some dog gone hoarse, barking when we let our dog out at night. It was a very eerie sound. After we heard it for 3 or 4 nights, Brock finally saw the fox one morning as he was tracking down the dog on her trek through the backyard. Not long after that, cute little fox babies started showing up, popping out of the hole their mom had dug under our shed.

Two or three times a day they would come out and play, depending on what else was going on in the area of our backyard, their mother keeping a watchful eye, running off if any threat arrived, as the kits scampered back under the shed. She'd run far enough to be out of danger, but close enough to see when the coast was clear and then return.

I understood her concern. I wished there was a way to let her know that I wasn't really a threat to her, that I thought she was wonderful and beautiful, and that I would do anything I could to help her. I also wanted to let her know that I understood being concerned about the kids playing in that yard: I only have 2, and I get worried they're going to get hurt or fall down the hill and land in the creek/drainage ditch...stuff like that, you know. I can't imagine how it was to try to keep track of 5!

In my musings about the momma fox, it began to dawn on me that the fox was teaching me some things about God...or God was teaching me through the fox, is probably more like it. That fox was beautiful; I was thrilled just to see her roaming around the backyard, watching her kits, barking (or whatever it is) at my dog. She was this delightful, amazing gift. I felt silly about it, but I wished there was some way I could make her understand how wonderful I thought she was and how much I would love to make sure she was protected and provided for, if there were any way that I could. This all seemed slightly unreasonable, though--I mean, she was a wild fox, and she showed up in my yard, dug out a spot under our shed for her babies, and made our home her home, for a while.

I began to wonder, is this how God feels when looking at me? Does God find delight in seeing me be me, doing the things God made me to be able to do? Does God think I'm beautiful and lovely? Does God desire the best for me, long to see me safe and flourishing? Does God wish I would understand all of that? Maybe so. Maybe this is the beginning of understanding it better than I already thought I did.

As for the foxes, I'll be looking for a flash of orange in the woods all summer...maybe I'll catch of a glimpse of them in the wild, doing what God made them to do...

Oh, and if you're wondering what the fox says, watch a women's tennis match--that loud scream/grunt so many tennis players make these days is the closest we've come to finding a similar sound...

But It's Not Fair!

In the "better late than never" category, here is my sermon from my Longest Night of the Year Service on December 21. If you've read much of this blog, you know that I post this sermon every year. Now that I'm in campus ministry, I did not have a Christmas Eve service because I had no students to have a service for! This was certainly a change for me, and I am grateful that the pastor of the church I now attend allowed me to lead a Longest Night Service in his church.

Without further ado, here are some thoughts for these long winter nights...

“But It’s Not Fair!”

Luke 1:5-25, 67-79

Longest Night Sermon 2017

As a parent of a 6-year-old, I am learning a lot about what is not fair in life. Maybe you are familiar with this…maybe not. Here are some examples: It’s time for bed…but that’s not fair! It’s time to put your video game away…but that’s not fair! No, you can’t eat dinner in front of the TV tonight…but that’s not fair! (The list goes on, as you can well imagine.)

Sometimes, I think that of all the people in the Christmas story, Zechariah had the most reason to judge the unfairness of his situation. I can’t blame him for being scared out of his mind when an angel showed up, and for asking what the angel thought were too many questions--for wanting a little more information. Who wouldn’t?!

In those 9 months that Zechariah couldn’t speak, I wonder how many times he thought to himself, “But it’s not fair!” Did he see Elizabeth struggle with her pregnancy and want to comfort and reassure her, but couldn’t because he couldn’t speak? Did he see his neighbors with questioning looks and want to say something to them…but he couldn’t speak? Did he hear the news about Elizabeth’s relative Mary and want to say something about it…but he couldn’t speak? It hardly seems fair for an old man who had been faithful all his life to go through what Zechariah went through…just because he wanted to know more. As an inquisitive person, myself, I am totally sympathetic to Zechariah’s interest in asking for more information from the angel.

As a person who thrives on order, I am sympathetic to some other ways that Zechariah may have felt things just weren’t fair. Here, he and Elizabeth had been faithful people all their lives long. He was even a priest, and yet they still had no children! Of course, they had no knowledge of biology and fertility issues…they just knew that the one blessing they most desired had not materialized, and it didn’t look in any way hopeful, before the angel showed up that day. Now, how is that fair?

I know a number of people asking that same question this time of year—a number of clergywomen whose deepest desire is to have babies of their own, yet they find themselves preaching about Elizabeth and Mary, year after year, with no miracle child to rejoice over, themselves. It is painful…and it seems totally unfair.

We gather here tonight with a lot of “but it’s not fairs” crying out from our souls. Though this is “the most wonderful time of the year,” it doesn’t seem fair that Christmas is coming and that person we have loved for so long isn’t here to share it this year. Though every TV commercial is about giving or getting the perfect gift, the bank account balks at spending money to give those gifts, and it doesn’t seem fair. Though we want to sing “Joy to the World” with joy, our minds and our hearts are heavy with the burdens of the every day, with the weight of caring for our bodies and souls and the bodies and souls of others. We see friends struggling or grieving, and their hurt doesn’t seem fair. We know of church members who face insurmountable odds, grief too painful even to mention, and we want to know from God why things are so unfair. Though we talk about the Light of the World, we feel like people walking in darkness. It’s just not fair. Maybe we’re all there with Zechariah, and that’s why we came here tonight. We want to know how God is really going to make things right, after all that has gone wrong. We see where there is darkness that longs for light. We wish we could avoid it ourselves, and protect others from it, too. But we know we can’t. We want to know why this world is still so broken, after all this time. And we want God to fix it—and to fix us—now!

Zechariah had 9 months to wait, to see what would happen, to meet this promised child, to be able to share his thoughts aloud again. Maybe in 9 months, I will understand more how it’s going to make me stronger, or my friends, or family members, or church members, that all these unfair things have happened. Maybe in 9 more months, my friends who want so badly to have children of their own will have different news or a different understanding of how God is calling them to be parents, even if not of their own children, or a peace that they desire so much right now because of this emptiness they feel without a baby to hold. Maybe in 9 more months, my friends who grieve this Christmas will have found more strength from the journey of grief, from getting themselves out of bed each day, even though knowing it would be another day without that loved one who has died.

After 9 months, Zechariah could talk again. I bet he had a lot to say! Because it just wasn’t fair, what happened to him! But that’s not what he talked about, as the scripture tells it. He didn’t rant and rave about what he’d been through, what God had put him through, how life seemed unfair. No. He prophesied. Instead of all the “it’s not fair” thoughts, Holy Spirit words tumbled out of his mouth, proclaiming praise to God, recounting a history full of God’s goodness and mercy, and seeing into a future no one would have guessed but everyone would dream of.

Zechariah’s story reminds us of something the Bible shows us time and time again: that even from those who despair and who face what may seem unjust, for those who are righteous, there is somewhere deep inside of them the knowledge that God is good and that there will be reason to praise God again, after the silence, after the darkness, after the waiting, after the pain. We see this in the psalms—that the psalmist is willing to cry out to God and say things about what he thinks aren’t fair—things we have been told you should never say to God! And most of the time, the psalmist says the hard things, shouts out his feelings and his discontent with his situation and even with God…but then almost always ends up by recounting how good God is. Zechariah’s story ends up this same way.

It’s dark tonight. We feel a bit broken. We may feel like people who have no ability to say what needs to be said, not because an angel came and visited us but because life isn’t fair and darkness gets in there, disorients us, pours fear and anxiety into the holes in our souls where Christ’s light should be shining through. Zechariah sat mute, perhaps in a personal darkness that seemed entirely unfair. Let his words remind us that the darkness does not win, that what we are waiting for gives us the hope to face new days and even dark nights: “Because of our God’s deep compassion, the dawn from heaven will break upon us, to give light to those who are sitting in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide us on the path of peace.” (Luke 1:78-79 CEB)

The light will come again. Life may not seem fair yet, but we wait with hope for the day that the light dawns, that justice and peace reign, that all things are redeemed, and that God’s deep compassion pours over all creation again. We wait with hope. Even when it’s not fair. Because God is good. Because God is with us. Because Christ will come again. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Meeting Jesus

I wrote this a little while ago, and it's finally making it here...

As I was leaving the food pantry yesterday with both kids, Jesus caught me, needing a ride to the doctor. She was a woman, probably in her 50s, with thick, curly hair, tan lines on her feet from other sandals, and a penchant for sharing more information than people wanted to hear. She wouldn't get into my car until I had cleared the entire floorboard in front of the front passenger seat. Her cell phone fell apart--the battery cover coming off and the battery falling out--as she got in the car. She claimed she was waiting for the public transit, but that driver was taking lunch, and the doctor had called and told her she needed to come in and see him. She said she didn't know why, but she hoped it was nothing bad. She rattled on about where she lived--in that yellow trailer on the corner in the mobile home park just down the street, but she really didn't like it there--that she had to go to Kingsport in the morning and wouldn't have time to eat breakfast before that long drive...she asked what I thought of "that clip," referring to the solar eclipse that had happened the day before. She talked about how long she had been going to church and how often she prayed. When I dropped her off, she offered me money for gas, but I declined, noting that we are supposed to help each other out. She hugged me and thanked me and told me she loved me. She said she was hesitant to pick up hitchhikers, too, but that she's a nice one, she's always nice to people and she loves everybody. Yeah, I'm pretty sure it was Jesus. I almost missed him. I'm sure glad I didn't, though.

Let's Go Now!

Let’s Go Now!

2016 Christmas Eve Sermon

Luke 2:8-20

At the church-related elementary school I attended, the kindergarteners always acted out the Christmas story while the older classes narrated, reciting from the King James Version of Luke 2. At the appropriate time, the angels stepped onto a riser about the same height as the kneeling rail, so I suppose they were to appear as, in some sense, suspended in the air. The spotlight shone on them as the good news was pronounced to some poor shepherds down on the floor. The heavenly host consisted of 3 5-year-olds in converted white bed sheets with nylon wings and gold and silver garland halos. The year I was in kindergarten, my twin sister and I took our places on the riser, and the video evidence will forever show that my sister did not assume the appropriate cherubic posture quickly enough to suit me, which resulted in a swift elbowing from me and an emphatic show of standing the proper way. I am certainly thankful YouTube did not exist then!!

I wonder, what was it like when that first angel appeared to those unsuspecting shepherds? Was there any sort of warning? Did the hair on the back of their necks stand up, like when lightning is about to strike nearby? Did a vortex appear in the clouds, like in a science fiction movie? I imagine that when the heavenly host appeared to the shepherds, there was more coordination than 5-year-olds elbowing each other, jostling for the appropriate position. Though we think of angels as sweet and beautiful, with really nice singing voices, there must be something more to them than that: something very frightening. Perhaps you have seen the movie Dogma, a late-90s spoof on Catholicism, where an angel appears in bedrooms in the middle of the night, with a great deal of commotion, loud noise, a deep booming voice, and some fire and smoke. (You haven’t seen it? Well, don’t go rent it this holiday season…unless you already know who Jay and Silent Bob are and you like their movies…) While much of that movie is very irreverent, perhaps they are on to something with how angels appear: there must be something terrifying about a member of the heavenly host showing up on earth! There’s probably good reason the shepherds quaked, as the song says. Here was heaven, coming to earth suddenly, unstoppably, forcefully, even, as a whole host of them show up and start singing—singing not of their work but of what God has done, off yonder in a manger somewhere, a baby born to save the whole world. It was good news, but it sure was a surprise!

We don’t know much about the shepherds. Maybe they were outlaws. Maybe they actually owned their own sheep and were just working-class guys. Undoubtedly, they were smelly and dirty, and very unusual guests in a home in Bethlehem in the middle of the night (or did they arrive after daybreak—how long did it take to walk there?). No matter how much they might not have fit in there, though, they went—because when the heavens are torn open and God’s glory is revealed, you go—“Let’s go now,” they said. “Let’s go now and see it!” And they headed out, maybe still a bit scared, also very excited…and not skeptical. They didn’t say, “Let’s go see if this is really true. We’ve never seen angels before, so we don’t know if they’re really trustworthy…” Nope. They got themselves up off the ground and headed out: “Let’s go now to Bethlehem and see about what God has revealed to us!” And off they went!

Few people that I know of have ever seen anything like a messenger from heaven breaking through the atmosphere and setting up a racket to get their attention and sing about what God is up to. We’re just not that attuned to heaven coming near to earth—it seems a bit out of place, most of the time. We’re asked to believe a lot of things at this time of year. It seems that just the time some kind of feel-good story makes the news, someone’s questioning or debunking it. How much can we really believe? In our ordinary lives, angels don’t just interrupt our work or our sleep; bushes don’t burn without being consumed; donkeys don’t talk; the sun doesn’t stop in the sky. Though we may look for God in many places, so often we are attuned to how very “normal” our lives are. What is supernatural seems unlikely, maybe even unwelcome. What is not “normal” must have a scientific explanation. Everything can be explained. Everything.

But Christmas is a special time of year. Maybe we expect a random miracle, this time of year—or a brief glimpse of heavenly light, a faint sound of angel’s wings fluttering by. For all our explaining and planning and doing what we normally do, we stop at Christmas and expect something big to happen—maybe just because we know the story and we believe it, despite the skeptics. Hearing the Christmas story year after year makes space in our lives for the wonderful, the strange, the mysterious, the unexpected—the surprise of the supernatural—even despite ourselves, sometimes. One wonders if the angel tried to appear to shepherds in another field, but they were asleep or too busy to pay attention…not so for us, in this moment. In this moment, no matter how much we may have ignored it the rest of the year, we hear the angels; we know that heaven has touched earth. We may have been busy the whole rest of this season. Maybe Advent has come and gone and we hardly paid attention. But we’re here tonight. We have gathered expecting something. Finally, we have stopped and come to the place where we know heaven and earth meet because God is here. Though we may not expect God to show up anywhere else, we know for sure that God will be here, in church, especially on Christmas Eve. And we hear the good news now, too. With the shepherds, we see the angels show up—it’s scary and amazing and exciting, all at once! The news is that the world has been changed, that heaven has come down to earth, not just as angels breaking through the skies, but as a baby, placed in a manger, in some tucked away corner of Bethlehem, to some quiet, unknown parents (and they’re not even married yet!).

“Let’s go now,” the shepherds said. “Let’s go now and see about what God has revealed to us.” And after they went (with haste!) and saw, they told everyone there what they had seen and heard, and they left, praising and glorifying God. Once they saw the Savior of the world, they weren’t done being excited! They kept on praising God for this good news, even as they went back to the place they had come from—back to their normal lives, with smelly, dirty sheep…maybe checking the heavens every now and then, just in case…just in case…

Let’s go now. You and I. Let’s gather before the manger and see the creator of the universe, come as a helpless baby. Let’s gather and see the one who is able to redeem us, to make us spotless before God. Let’s gather at his table, hear the words of life and grace and love and peace we need to hear—not from angels but from the very Savior himself. And then, let’s go. Let’s go out into the world, glorifying and praising God, along with the shepherds…along with the blind who see and the deaf who hear and the lame who leap…along with the oppressed who are freed and the hungry who are fed…let’s go now, and share the grace and love of God. Love has come. Christ is born. Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors! Merry Christmas!

Darkness Will Fade

Darkness Will Fade

2016 Longest Night of the Year Sermon

December 21, 2016

Isaiah 9:2-7

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.
    On those living in a pitch-dark land, light has dawned.
³ You have made the nation great;
    you have increased its joy.
They rejoiced before you as with joy at the harvest,
    as those who divide plunder rejoice.
⁴ As on the day of Midian, you’ve shattered the yoke that burdened them,
    the staff on their shoulders,
    and the rod of their oppressor.
⁵ Because every boot of the thundering warriors,
    and every garment rolled in blood
    will be burned, fuel for the fire.
⁶ A child is born to us, a son is given to us,
    and authority will be on his shoulders.
    He will be named
    Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
    Eternal Father, Prince of Peace.
⁷ There will be vast authority and endless peace
    for David’s throne and for his kingdom,
    establishing and sustaining it
    with justice and righteousness
    now and forever.

The zeal of the Lord of heavenly forces will do this.

To say that darkness has seeped in a bit this year would be an understatement. It seems the darkness has been busy extinguishing bits and pieces of light in my life for quite a while, and I hardly even noticed it until recently—kind of like when the light fixture in your den keeps having bulbs burn out and it’s not until you’re down to 2 and you can hardly see across the room that you realize just how dark it’s gotten in there. Sometimes, the invasion of darkness is quiet and slow and almost unrecognizable…

All of this makes me wonder if Isaiah’s “people who walked in darkness” even knew they were walking in darkness. It makes me think of my childish impressions of what people call “the dark ages”: Were there really no lights then? Did everyone just stumble around blindly, grasping for things? Did the sun not shine for a whole epoch of time?

That’s silly, but still I wonder: how do we know when we’re people who are walking in darkness? Maybe it’s not until we see the light that we realize how dark it’s gotten. Our bathroom light fixture has two bulbs in it; one had been out for quite some time—I had forgotten it was even there—and when the other one blew, we replaced both, and we were amazed at how bright it was! We could see ourselves in the mirror again!

Isaiah says,

“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.
    On those living in a pitch-dark land, light has dawned.”

This time of year we don’t have to imagine what walking in darkness is like. As the literal darkness comes upon us, there are many who suffer mental and emotional distress just from the lack of daylight we experience. When we set our clocks back the first of last month, we may have been surprised by the darkness that seemed to come out of nowhere, but we’ve gotten used to it by now, most days.

But no, Isaiah’s people weren’t stuck without sunlight for years and years. They seemed without guidance, without one to lead them home, without the presence of the God they had had to leave behind in Jerusalem. They walked as though they couldn’t see where they were going because God seemed so far from them. They lived through war and political maneuvering that left them without much hope for the kind of life they felt promised by the scriptures they had always read, the God they had (almost) always worshiped.

If you haven’t stumbled around in the dark recently with the threat of stepping on Legos, I’d say you’re not missing much. Though many of us seem to have a knack for finding darkness on our own, its undeniable creep gets to us all, at times. Isaiah doesn’t promise that the darkness all goes away, but he does proclaim the arrival of a light that, at the very least, holds the darkness at bay. This light makes it possible to see where one is going, to have a sense of direction and purpose, to find hope even when much of life seems uncertain.

Isaiah speaks of one who is to come, who will be called Wonderful Counselor—that is, whose decisions will be wise; Mighty God—that is, a son of God; Eternal Father—that is, one who will care for the people of Israel; and Prince of Peace—that is, one who will no longer wage violence and war but a way of life that sustains the value of the people, rather than oppressing them. For Isaiah’s first listeners, this would have been a king—a real, true king, one of David’s line. This child who was born would be an earthly ruler anointed by God to shepherd the people Israel. So many years later, we hear these words differently…

In the midst of darkness, we await a Wonderful Counselor, whose wisdom will turn our hearts to the right and set us on paths that lead to life. We await a Mighty God, whose power will not be like the grasping, insecure power of rulers who seek to dominate and control others, but whose might will deliver us from the brokenness we continue to wage upon ourselves and each other. We await an Everlasting Father, who will care for us in ways an earthly father could never even imagine—one whose protection, nurture, support, and even discipline will be life-giving and life-changing. We await a Prince of Peace, whose peace will engender freedom and wholeness for all people. In the midst of darkness, we know with Isaiah the hope that darkness will fade, that one will again come into our lives who will brighten up all the darkest corners of us and turn the deepest midnight into light. Indeed, that one has come…and will come again!

If you find yourself in darkness this season…if the darkness has crept in, just a little bit, or overwhelmingly, take heart—have hope—a child is born to us, and he is everything we’ve been waiting for in the dark. And his light makes the darkness fade—sometimes slowly, as his love gently takes us back over from darkness; sometimes dramatically, as we see what has been hidden in plain view and turn back to his ways.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness will not overcome it.” Thanks be to God. Amen.

Confessions of a PastorWifeMom

I haven't written a blog post for a long time. I confess I've been a bit preoccupied with a few things...

There was a moment of joy, the thrill of being out all by myself, sometime at the end of May or the beginning of June. I forget exactly when it was. The newborn was all set to be without me, for at least an hour. I left the house by myself, for the first time since said child had arrived on the scene on April 13th (the day the stomach virus that had made its way through the 4-year-old and the husband finally got to me). It was the last time I got my hair cut. That was just about 6 months ago.

6 months. In that time, I have contemplated scores of blog posts. I've even started writing several of them, typed with one hand on my cell phone, while the baby nursed (I found 3 nearly finished ones in the Memo app when I saved this one there...I mean, I'm writing this one on my phone while I wait for the pharmacy to get both the prescriptions the pediatrician's office sent in earlier, after both boys were diagnosed with walking pneumonia this morning.) I keep thinking there will be a time when I will get everything done. Won't the day come when I feel like I have accomplished all I wanted to, as a pastor, as a mother, as a wife...a responsible adult...but I confess it feels like I am always waiting for the time to show up when this will all happen. And I confess that waiting and trying to do it all leaves me frustrated, more often than not.

You know how many things I've started in my life and never finished? More books than I can probably count (books I started reading, not books I started writing, just to be clear!). Multitudinous art and crafty projects. Plans for what to do with old high school t-shirts. Scrapbooks from any time period--I've never finished a one. Add to that the number of times I haven't cleaned the house and you might wonder what I ever do with any of my time...

My family could answer that: I work. A lot.

But you know what I want to do with my time? I want to write (well, and read, too). I would love to find the time some of my colleagues find, to publish, either on the internet or in actual book form, nearly every thought it seems they have. In fact, I have a Bible study on the book of Joel that I think may just be worth publishing, now that I've reworked it and taught it several times. I even joined a professional organization almost expressly because it has an agreement with a publisher, and I thought that would be a way to get this Bible study at least considered for publishing. I still haven't figured out how to do that through this organization, but at least I've gained some colleagues and found some useful Facebook groups, anyway.

Sometimes I wonder if everyone has these dreams they fully expect never to realize. I assume they do...but then I know some people do get published, and some do find themselves in the ministry setting they've always longed for. Some people do feel like all of their gifts and talents are being used to the best of their ability. So, I don't know what I should do differently. I know I need a haircut. I know I don't regret that the time and energy I have left after I spend too much of it on the church/denomination and other organizations I serve goes to being a wife and a mother--and sometimes that's not nearly enough time or energy for either of those. I want to write...but I want to love my children and my husband more. I guess that's not too bad of a thing to confess, after all. And maybe it's just the season I'm in right now. And that's ok.

But I sure could use a haircut.