drive, drive, drive... let it ride!

Last week I drove across the country with my college roommate. Crazy good times! Though I am not a fan of car time, it was wonderful to spend time with K and see the sights! Here are two of the many stories:

To entertain ourselves along the way, we devised a number of stunts that would be done at random. One such stunt was to write K's cell phone number on marshmallows to throw into passing cars. Having driven many hours without finding a suitable recipient, we went to dinner alone at a local pub. Much to our joy, the wait staff was incredibly handsome! So we lovingly passed one of our marshmallows (the extra large kind) to our server, who gave it to another server. And, again, much to our delight, the server called K after work. They went out and partied till the cows came home! Dreams do come true, boys and girls.

We were excited to hike and explore the vortices in Sedona, Arizona. Apart from the desert dryness, high altitude conditions, and rocky trail, we were prepared for the Great Outdoors. Our first hike was going to be an easy 1-mile out and back. Lovely gentlemen offered us a ride to the trailhead, so we hopped in and took off. As we hiked around a mesa, time seemed to be passing slowly. Hadn't we already been out here for 30 minutes? Was the trail slowing us down? Doesn't the sun seem to be scorching? And then some hikers behind us told us that we were on the wrong trail. We were on the 4-mile trek. Oh well. We would have brought more water, hats, etc. But the scenery was great, so we kept going... and going... and going... until we thought that we were headed the completely wrong direction. We crossed the road and tried to hitchhike back to our car. We: two remotely attractive, well-dressed, young, single women. And no one picked us up. Not a soul. People actually laughed and pointed as they drove up the mountain. Perhaps they thought that we were joking. Then, in my zealousness for flagging down a motorist, I slipped and fell face-down onto the road. With a jeep passing inches from my head. And still no one stopped. When we finally arrived at the top, someone actually dared to say, "Aren't you glad you walked?" Seriously?! I wonder what would have happened if I had been wearing my collar?

I highly recommend a long, slow trek on rural highways. We saw Americana at its best. Old ladies who taught us life lessons, old men who needed some excitement, Native Americans living simple lives, cute boys in almost every state (New Mexico had a dirth), and strange road signs. Colorado was stunning and Flagstaff, Arizona was a nice surprise. Can't wait to visit again.

me under a tree on our long walk around the mesa

faux pas

At this week's conversation set in the local pub, we were discussing the discipline of fasting for Lent. Folks chimed in about giving up chocolate, television, and various other things. One man said that he gave up sex for Lent and it made Easter all the more special. Everyone giggled. I said, "Well that does make the Halleluiah better. You can say, 'Christ is risen!' with some excitement." Thinking only about the liturgical refrain of "Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!" Not thinking about the connection between risen-ness and sex. Everyone got very quiet with a long awkward pause. Not realizing what I had done, I just went on to the next question. haha! It took me until the next day to figure out the connection. Now I am very embarassed. I've considered apologizing, but think that it may be best to let this dog lie. Oh well.

booted from BINGO

Another funny tale for my collection:

Last Saturday I volunteered to help some older folks play BINGO. The coordinator encouraged me to arrive early, bring prizes, and greet people as they arrived. I looked forward to spending the Saturday morning playing and chatting with people. I arrived as instructed and began setting up, but was waylaid by a resident volunteer determined to show me how things were done. Though I was grateful for her wisdom, I felt confident in my instructions. "FINE!" she snapped, "you do it your way," and threw the box at me. At this point my blood pressure began to rise. What was about to happen? Things settled down. Everyone found their seat. After calling a few games, I felt good about the rhythm. People seemed to be in the zone... until... at the end of one round, a woman at the back table yelled, "Mildred, would you please call?" (Mildred was the woman who initially took offense.) Everyone gasped. Several "well that's rude" exclamations. She must not have liked my style. I chipperly said, "That'd be great. I'd love to play!" I don't know what I did, but apparently it wasn't up to her snuff. Who knew that BINGO was so serious? I guess that BINGO calling isn't really my Calling.

Why do we excuse older people's behavior? As if life experience suddenly gives permission for thoughtlessness or bad manners. Plenty of older folks are more than gracious, but no one cares to correct bad behavior in the grouches. I understand if it's due to a medical condition; however, I have little tolerance for rudeness from anyone of any age.

life lesson #276

Hallowed days, Christmas Eve and Easter are both treasures and booby prizes of ministry. They are the days most hoped for and most feared. This year I wanted to leave town as soon as worship ended, knowing that I would be tired, but glad to get away as soon as the festivities were done.

I left the office at lunch, wanting to get a nap, finish packing, and shower before returning to church. As I ate, a torrential downpour began outside. I was glad for the rain and impressed by the volume of water. It occurred to me that I should probably check the basement because of the amount of rain that fell in such a short amount of time. As I went downstairs, I could see the reflection of light in water... a strange sight inside one's house... Much to my dismay, puddles had appeared at the end of rivers flowing from the edges of the basement walls. I grabbed a mop and industriously thought that I still might be able to get the water up with time to take a nap. But the water kept coming. I mopped a little more. The water kept coming. So I left the house to buy a wet vac. 3 hours, 30 gallons, and no nap later, I returned to church. Merry Christmas. Wasn't I in a great mood to sing "Gloria!"?!

Life's lesson learned: some messes are bigger than mops.

superstar girls

I will never be one. I do it in my own way, but I will never truly be one. You know, the ones who always look amazing. The ones whose kids are always well-behaved. The ones whose hair is always perfect, whose husband is cute and sweet, and whose house is well decorated. The ones who put the almost unnoticed final touches on things. They are the ones that are still beautiful despite their imperfections. They are the REAL popular girls. The cool kids of adulthood.

Today my inadequacies were lifted up in the small form of a beautiful, iridescent orange ribbon. A magazine was left on my desk with an article marked for my perusal. Instead of the post-it that I would have left, instead of a dog-eared page or a smashed-open spine, there was a magical, shimmery, orange ribbon marking the spot. Left in such a casual way that it just happened to be within arm's length when the reader decided to send it my way. But left in such a way that it is clearly an intentional inclusion of loveliness and speciality into the day. It was charming. I loved it.

But even as I loved it, I wondered why I didn't choose to add a certain finesse to similar, unimportant things. Then social conditioning around gender caught up to me; I began to ponder my failures as a Southern woman. How did I not learn this? Why isn't this an innate quality?

Even though I don't have special scrap ribbons for packages and letters, I try to bring my own je ne sais quoi to life. I cry with friends, am an unabashedly loud singer, ask hard questions, and refuse to accept the status quo. It may not be glamorous, but that's me.

There is a Season

"... In an achievement-driven society, life is not a thing of seasons; life is a product to be perfected and perserved. To this mind, it is never possible to simply go on, past the things of the past to the realities of the present. No, those who live by measuring-sticks rather than by the meaning of the present moment are intent on gaining and grasping. Letting go is not virtue to them. Letting go is loss..." -- so sayeth Joan Chittister in There is a Season

Her words have stayed on the top of my mind since I read them last week. In her introduction to the famous Ecclesiastes passage about everything having a particular time and season, she unpacks how our understanding of time has limited us in our relationships to self, God, and others. As she encourages us to see time in cycles or seasons, she leads us away from the count-down mentality that we often use. I confess that I often fall victim to the sales pitch of life as product. Constantly trying to improve, become wiser or stronger, more compassionate, more reflective, and on and on, I tend to live as if life were something to be achieved. As if there would be a top 10 at the end of time.

There is much to be said about her book. Let me commend both it and the artist to you:

Joan Chittister's There is a Season with artwork by John August Swanson.

http://www.johnaugustswanson.com/

Swanson's artwork can be purchased through the National Association for Hispanic Elderly at: http://www.anppm.org/NonProfitStore/

and while you're at it, bring a doughnut, too

It's true. There's no hiding it. The pastorate, as a profession, continues to be an Old Boys Club. (And, one could further argue a particular age, marital status, and family system.) I knew what I was getting into. I saw what I was up against. There are plenty of folks to counteract the OBC mentality, but it is not uncommon to attend a gathering and feel strangely out of place. They are often stuck in their conversations about how bad their sermon was and how much time they should have spent preparing. At a recent conference I found myself swimming again in a sea of salt-and-pepper hair, khaki slacks, and penny loafers. The conversation was intended to be about churches are growing. I thought, "maybe these guys are different..." But as I chatted with folks about my work as an Associate Pastor, I was saddened. Several of them sang the refrain, "Well, I could use an Associate." In the same way that you might say, "well, I could use a maid." Or, "That tie would go really well with my suit." This really frustrates me. As if I don't do the same amount of work that they do. As if I don't have the same qualifications. As if I am just a ruffle on their dress. Though they will protest and make penitent gestures, I sincerely doubt that they actually believe I (or other Associates) are their equals. I doubt that many of them would give up their "senior" title. I doubt that many of them would lower their salary to their associate's. I doubt that many of them could stop using "I" language in favor of "we" language.

Why do we buy into this hierarchical model? It isn't biblical. I wish that we could drop descriptors in front of "pastor" or use only "co-pastor" language. A verbal change is often needed to move into new space. There is no reason to have titles that maintain broken understandings of self and power. All are one. Sainthood of all believers. Keys to the kingdom. Come on, folks, we can do better!