Benefit of the Doubt

Dreaming big dreams....

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 01:58:00 +0000

I've been thinking lately about dreams--those goals and desires around which we shape our choices, our resources, our time. At a very young age, I sought to capture the joy of any single moment with a long-term plan--a compulsion natural to my personality, I suspect, and one I have been struggling to shake since then. I can still recall being eight or so years old, swimming lap after lap in the pool of a family friend. I would beg her and my mom to time me, certain that if I could continue to shave seconds off with each successive lap, I could somehow prove that I was a future Olympic athlete! If you love it, might as well make a life out of it--and be the best, performing at the pinnacle of possibility.

In truth, I haven't entirely lost this drive to somehow be "best" at whatever it is I am doing. In fact, part of my present job is to challenge more women to contemplate "the pinnacle of possibility." As I work in higher education, this takes the form of urging them to consider being a college or university president. I'm willing to accept that not all will choose the path, but I want every single one of them to believe that it is possible and make an honest, reflective choice. But do I honestly wish to be best, or somehow climb to the top, and would I wish this for my children?

I've been thinking it just might be time to make a new list of dreams. I sense this every time I pick up my guitar, and I form the earliest version of callouses that would suggest I am ready to become a serious player. I'll never receive a dime for playing the guitar, but gosh, do I love it. I'd like for my kids to one day remember me giving myself over to these kinds of passions. Matt and I are movie-obsessed--he more than I, but both of us have dedicated countless hours to independent films. (Last night was "Man on a Wire" about the French wirewalker who graced NYC with a walk amongst the clouds between the World Trade Center towers--surely this film in part inspired this post....) I love to think in the future that our children will remember us as curled around one another on the love seat downstairs, exploring the world and its possibilities through the lens of some cultural creative. I want them to know that I loved to dance--and though my public dancing days are likely over, it's time we revive our family "dance party" tradition we used to maintain each evening before bed.

What other dreams have we already fulfilled, or might we fulfill now--no future schooling needed, no funds stored up in the bank? Matt makes a mean margharita, and we have certainly been enjoying this talent over the last couple of weeks. I can manage to look in the refrigerator most any evening and create a decent meal out of leftovers. We've picked up a new bedtime routine--spontaneous song-writing, where the kids provide me with 3,4,5,20 seemingly unlike concepts, and I weave them all together into a bedtime song. Potty humor abounds, given that the kids are five and eight, but these precious moments are certainly fulfilling the dream of helping my children to smile just a little bit more each day.

I dreamt for me--and I dream for them--that I would live my life with a companion who would love me deeply and welcome all of me....and this dream is fulfilled each and every day. I want to soak up these moments more, be present for all of them. I'm not terribly concerned if people can say of me that I was the best at any one thing I did--but please, God, let it be said that I was the best at living my life, moment by moment, laid out before me as only I can notice, receive, and acknowledge.

Can you imagine a dream bigger than this? I surely can't....

Glory

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Sat, 10 Jan 2009 15:26:00 +0000

When we first brought a dog into the family this summer, the walking was a treasured addition to our daily routine. My shift was the morning; Matt's at night. While there were days when it was hard to wake to an earlier alarm, the reward was always so rich, I'd come home filled with gratitude that the responsibility of Ty was bringing me more fully into the natural world surrounding our home.

Our street is set just above the Farmington River, and the bend below our neighborhood leads into a section of rapids suitable for Olympic training. We see enough calm in the water to have our own hearts stilled, but enough action brewing to know that the river is powerful and swift--not for the faint of heart by kayak, canoe or on foot.

Whether climbing over fallen tree limbs beside the river, or hiking up the "mountainside" roads, we knew the summer walks were a gift that winter walks might not be. We celebrated wisely claiming the dog while it was still easy...when the difficult "Please don't make me go out there in that" weather was still months off.

Winter is upon us, and we have seen plenty of New England winter weather to remind us. Two snowstorms sandwiched Christmas in a world of white, and ice kept our kids out of school for some part of nearly every day this past week. There have indeed been mornings and evenings when the wind whips so strong and cold around the corners of our little Cape, neither of us is eager to venture out with the dog. But, oh, the reward when we do....as rich as the summer walks, if not more.

The bare trees leave us exposed to the neighbors, yes (something Matt typically detests), but down near the river, the world is raw and exposed to our eyes. This morning Matt saw a large tree gnawed to its core by a beaver only moments before. The waters swirl around ice formations that are dangerous, yes, but glorious, too. And while Matt has been the morning walker this week, I've had the privilege of the night--with nearly full and full moon guiding me along the ice-covered sidewalks of our still, silent village.

Last night I braved a night walk through a nearby cemetery. I typically adhere to a "don't do anything you wouldn't want your daughter to do" set of rules for where to walk and under what conditions, and on most nights this puts the darkened cemetery well out of my limits, but the moon was full last night and so light, the walk through the centuries-old stones was nearly as bright as day.

Having lived all my life in the northeast, I have seen tree branches after an ice storm before--the distinct, glassy coating that surrounds and separates every tiny branch (and can break off the largest of limbs if thick and heavy enough). I'm not certain I've ever seen the same under the light of a full moon, though. As I moved from the cemetery past the liquor store and pub (the local economy is thriving under the current economic conditions), I decided to extend my sojourn with the night sky with time in our backyard.

Walking circles around the heaven that is our yard, I was astounded at the trees. From just the right angle, every single ice-coated branch reflected the brightness of the moon in a dazzling shimmer of light that seemed a reflection of God Herself. I wondered at the metaphor of this display--do we show God's glory most when we are stripped bare, coated in an icy shield of doubt, questions, anger, authenticity? Is nature yet again teaching me that the cycle of budding new life, growth, and inevitable death and loss yields a glory not yet known or seen? Or was it simply a reminder that even the trees cry out in glory?

In the end, the lesson hardly mattered. I was simply glad for a dog named Ty, the privilege of the walk, and the gift of noticing what was and is and is to be....

September

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 01:19:00 +0000

Summer is such a richly indulgent season, with equally indulgent parenting on our parts. Stay up until 10pm? Absolutely! Head out to the pool at 7pm when showers and stories should already be underway? I'll race you to the car! Ice cream for dinner? It's dairy--it's protein. Scoop me a dish!

We have all been dreading the end of this time, but now that Labor Day has passed, and we have the first day of school under our belts, I feel an odd sort of relief. I'm showered, my teeth are brushed, the kids have been sound asleep for an hour--and it's only 9:30pm. The alarm will go off at 6am, and I (hopefully) won't push the snooze button for 48 or so minutes as I have for much of the summer. The dog will be walked, Kyra will be on the bus, and I'll happily sip my coffee as I drive to work on time with consistency. The pattern feels comforting....as though we are returning to a sort of health and normalcy.

I remember when Matt and I first fell in love (disregarding for the moment the three crazy years of my being in love with him, his being in like with me, and so on....). Being with one another was such a feast for the senses. The sight of him, even from a distance, created heat deep in me. Taste...touch...scent...it was incredibly indulgent to just be near one another, and we gave into all sorts of crazy urges. We'd stay up talking into the wee, wee hours of the night. We'd be participating in public life, together, but utterly absorbed only in one another. I'm certain there were hours where we sat in church, went to movies, enjoyed family dinner when we literally didn't hear a word that was spoken by another person. It was exhilirating, and it is still exhilirating for me to remember those days.

But just the same, as with summer's end, it was something of a relief to settle into one another with comfort, with familiarity. I can still find that heat, but I don't have to call the fire department every time Matt brushes by me. We indulge in one another, but we can also sit with the kids at dinner and actually hear the stories they tell us about school or the game they just played. We have reentered the greater world, and while we savor the times when we can shut out that world and dive into the banquet of one another, we are just as glad to return to this new pattern of togetherness when those nights or weekends come to a close.

Will autumn's gold bring indulgence, too? But of course! The canoe is strapped to the trailer, and we have plans to float and hike our way through the bounty of the harvest--but Sunday evenings will bring a return to "early to bed, early to rise," and really, I'm glad for it. Glad for all of it.

Blessing the room

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 13:36:00 +0000

Monday mornings are hard for me, in stiff competition with Sunday evenings. It's difficult to determine whether the actual return to work each week is more a struggle than the anticipation of leaving behind the home and family I so love. My resistance to leaving there (home) and being here (work) sometimes blocks my ability to work and accomplish what is before me to do in the here and now. In the interest of creating a new ritual, today I decided to bless the room--to literally ask God's light to shine in a space that sometimes feels more closed than open, more away from than toward. And in so doing, I want to bless there, and them, as well.

God of Light and Mercy, be with me in this space. I have been led here by your hand, and I have no place to be today but here. May I, too, be a light, and may I shine through each and every task that is before me. Give me eyes to see the opportunities to serve in love, to act for justice, and to bring hope to the hopeless. Even here, I am a minister of promise and opportunity--a new way to be, to know, and to love.

When my mind strays to other places, other times, forgive me--bring me gently back to the breath, to the moment, to now. I thank you for Matt--gracious, loving partner and friend; for Kyra--underwater-swimming, snuggling once again, almost 7-year-old; for Lucas--long, lean 4-year-old with a sweet "w" for "r" and energy from head to toe and back again. And yes, God, thank you also for Ty--walking companion, reminder of "now" and focus and the present. Help me hold them in my heart when I can't be present with them, and when I return to them once again, help me to have the same undistracted focus.

Thank you--for the gifts, for the struggle, for the learning, for the energy that is You moving through each and every moment. Amen.

Summer Camp: Then and Now

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 03:50:00 +0000

The RevGalBlogPals have brought a "Friday Five" that hits the spot! Here goes....

1. Did you go to sleep away camp, or day camp, as a child? Wish you could? Or sometimes wish you hadn't?

I'm not certain I ever attended day camp, but I know I went to sleep away camp at Pathfinder Lodge. Staying at camp for a week was so much my norm, it's actually the modern day inclination toward day camp that seems odd to me! My camp of choice was Pathfinder Lodge, an American Baptist Church in Cooperstown, NY. I can still picture one of my counselors, Debbie, with her hair in Princess Leia-like braids--blonde and beautiful, swinging her legs as she sat on the diving board....the same diving board that was wisely removed years later by my sister-in-law due to major safety concerns.

2. How about camping out? Dream vacation, nightmare, or somewhere in between?

I have mixed feelings about camping out as vacation. We own an amazing tent, and for the first few years of owning it, we'd actually bring it on every summer visit to Matt's parents' house. Before the kids were born, the tent was a place of passion! It's not nearly as pleasant to sleep as a family of four there, despite that it is large. Anyway, Matt's parents live on a large piece of property, and at the time we had essentially no yard--they were our camping destination of choice. But there were privileges in that arrangement, of course--access to indoor plumbing, a nearby kitchen, etc. I have camped in a more rustic environment as well, but those memories all seem to have rain in them somewhere....and it doesn't matter how amazing the tent is after days of rain. Things are just going to get wet!

3. Have you ever worked as a camp counselor, or been to a camp for your denomination for either work or pleasure?

Oh yes, yes, yes! I was a counselor and worked in the kitchen at Pathfinder. I have stated for years to Matt that when I die, I want to be cremated and have my ashes sprinkled in Lake Otsego--Pathfinder is just that special to me. (Of course, with my new passion for the Farmington River, we might have to spread the dust over a few favorite waterways!) My maternal grandfather was at Pathfinder as a counselor the night my mother was born--the very first year the camp was opened. My parents met there, and indeed I met my fabulous partner and spouse there as well. We married in the chapel right on the edge of the lake, and I am still stirred to walk into that space. The Spirit of God is just present there for me, and I suspect my faith was most significantly shaped by my time at camp.

My daughter and I went to Camp Wightman, CT's American Baptist camp, for the first time this summer. I was amazed to find myself in love with Wightman, too, and eager for Kyra and Lucas to cultivate a relationship to this place so they might have the sorts of memories I have of Pathfinder.

4. Most dramatic memory of camp, or camping out?

Dramatic? Hmmm....this one is a little gross. I am not a fan of vomit--I'm actually vomit-phobic. Anyway, one summer while counseling (bear in mind that I was a recent high school graduate....), a stomach virus hit camp. It hit camp hard--and it started in my cabin, with a sweet, chubby, blonde-haired little girl who threw up all over her bed. I wanted to run away, truly I did, but somewhere in me, a voice said, "You are the only mother she has right now," and I was able to hug her, wash her hair strand by strand, and essentially become the person I never imagined I could be. The vomit was everywhere that week....and the week after....and the week after....and eventually, when camp was entirely done, it caught up with me. Gosh, that was awful. And that night, precious Matt took care of me.

5. What is your favorite camp song or songs? Bonus points if you link to a recording or video.

This shouldn't be hard for me, but it is! There are many songs I loved and love--Rejoice in the Lord Always, This is the Day. I'm sure there are others, but they're alluding me at the moment. I'm simply grateful for guitars, a dark sky lit only by the campfire and fireflies, and the sounds of voices raised in praise.

On My Knees

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 01:10:00 +0000

Forgive the funky font sizes and changes....I'm feeling just lazy enough to leave them!

This morning at church during the sharing of joys and concerns, I spoke about the privilege of worship--the pleasure in being back in a church community we have grown to value and love after two weeks away. It's a hot day--and humid, too, most critically--so the congregation met in the basement fellowship hall. The air conditioning was the pull, of course, but the more casual worship environment was pleasurable for me as well. We're tighter there, sitting side by side, and sharing in worship in the space where we typically share fellowship--lemonade, coffee, a friendly word or smile--somehow brings this spirit of exchange into the service.

Last Sunday I had church on my knees, hunched over our garden rows, patiently pulling weeds to unearth one and two inch basil seedlings, the unmistakable scruffy leaves of a carrot top, and the bushy green signs of watermelon coming to life. God was as much in evidence in that garden as She was today in fellowship hall--my co-congregants were spiders and ants and birds and trees and dirt....luscious, heavenly dirt. And while I didn't encounter any grasshoppers, Mary Oliver's phrase about not knowing how to pray--but knowing how to kneel down in the grass--kept coming to me. It's been with me all week long. So here is this treasure of a poem from a treasure of a poet:

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

from New and Selected Poems, 1992
Beacon Press, Boston, MA

Copyright 1992 by Mary Oliver.

While searching for "The Summer Day," I found this new-to-me poem below, and it feels like a gift from God on this melancholy night when I'm struggling against returning to work tomorrow morning and leaving behind that garden and being on my knees in the grass. I suppose I do have the sort of spirit that carries a thorn--and that far too often I don't dare to be happy. But I do feel as though the world is somehow as it ought to be--as though what will be is what should be, even in the too-frequent losses and lamenting that follows. Somehow we are--Creation is--always straining toward life, toward energy, toward God. And Mary Oliver once again says it better than I ever could.

Morning Poem

Every morning

the world

is created.

Under the orange

sticks of the sun

the heaped

ashes of the night

turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches ---

and the ponds appear

like black cloth

on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.

If it is your nature

to be happy

you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination

alighting everywhere.

And if your spirit

carries within it

the thorn

that is heavier than lead ---

if it's all you can do

to keep on trudging ---

there is still

somewhere deep within you

a beast shouting that the earth

is exactly what it wanted ---

each pond with its blazing lilies

is a prayer heard and answered

lavishly,

every morning,

whether or not

you have ever dared to be happy,

whether or not

you have ever dared to pray.

from Dream Work (1986) by Mary Oliver

© Mary Oliver

Friday Five....on Saturday, of course!

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 01:39:00 +0000

I just love the RevGalBlogPals. Peering in on their "11th hour preacher party" on Saturday evenings always fills me with a sense of relief (so glad I am relaxing at home rather than frantically writing a sermon!), a sense of envy (perhaps I'll one day be one of those sermon-writing folks!), and the realization that I have once again missed the Friday Five. So, a day late, but never a dollar short....

With their fine introduction leading me off:

"With this Sunday's gospel reading in mind, that wonderful revelation of Christ to the companions on the Emmaus road. I wonder where you might have been surprised by God's revelation recently. So, with no further waffle I offer you this weeks Friday 5: How has God revealed him/herself to you in a...."

1. Book--I have read some fine books of late. Most recent was "Take This Bread: A Radical Conversion,"* and I certainly found God quite explicitly in Sara Miles' story of an unexpected communion conversion. I'm also reading "Leading with Soul: An Uncommon Journey of Spirit"* by Bolman and Deal, and I love the happy surprise I feel when there is a message within that seems intended just for me. This is often how I recognize the ever-presence of God. In this case, I've been struggling with holding a project close to my chest, knowing all the while I need to open my circle wider and integrate some partners in more meaningful ways. I read a section on "authorship" and the gift it is to extend to colleagues the gift of authorship, and I realized I wasn't extracting from them--taking their time, their energy that could be otherwise spent in other ways. Instead, I am gifting them with the opportunity for involvement and meaningful authorship.

*Is it me, or does every book I pick up have to have a colon and subtitle??? Time for me to find a novel to read!

2. Film--This answer might seem odd, but we watched "The Business of Being Born" the other night, and I saw God as I remembered so vividly the beauty of the births of my children. I was gifted with two natural births, both different and unique....experiences that have no comparison elsewhere in my life. I remembered through watching the women of this film what it felt like to be in the throes of transition, fully present in the moment, aching to be in that "not yet" moment toward which and for which my body was stretching, and suddenly to have the calm (well, at least in the first birth!) of pushing a slippery, slithery human being from my body into the world. My gosh, is there any greater evidence of the divine than that? To be side by side with Matt as we celebrated our partnered births and our partnered life together was a gift.

3. Song--A seminary professor at ANTS (forgetting his name at the moment--so sorry!) wrote a piece that I learned at a workshop this past February. I returned home to teach it to the kids, and we sing it often. They sing it because they like the words and simple melody; I sing it because I need to. It is again about the "now and not yet" tension that is my life. The words are "We are going to a place where music falls and fills up everything. And though it might be a long time, I know it's gonna be alright. 'Cause we've already started to sing." It's a very modern-day spiritual, and whether I'm washing dishes at the sink, taking the sometimes lonely trek to work, or simply needing to take a deep breath and sing, it restores me.

4. Another person--Long pause....this should be the easy one, shouldn't it? I see God in our associate pastor, Amy, who has become a source of great encouragement to me. My friend, Cathi, passed along her ethics paper the other day, desiring to share that she happily found herself in the space of claiming the "rightness" of gay marriage. I affirmed her for her process, telling her that I would hope to affirm her process even if we didn't reach similar conclusions--but of course felt joy that we did and do. When she wrote about how profoundly my own journey has influenced her, I knew that God was somehow using my life--and that being "used" doesn't always mean being on the world's stage, as I so often assume. Sometimes it means just showing up, being oneself with integrity and authenticity, and letting the rest happen. And of course God appears in my family each and every day. That we love one another, lift one another up, and continue to bring the best of ourselves into this home is a blessing.

5. Creation--A single purple crocus has sprung forth in the middle of our expansive backyard. Need I say more?

Bonus answer: your choice- share something encouraging/ amazing/ humbling that has happened to you recently!

The other day I had the privilege of taking our new provost to lunch. She was happily asking questions; I was happily answering. Only later when I returned to my office and was again reviewing some of her accomplishments did I realize how little I had asked her--how little I had listened to hear the gifts she will bring to us. I'm excited to work with her--her arrival is in and of itself a huge gift. But giving in to the intoxication of being asked my opinion was a humbling moment. I am vowing to listen more when next I have the privilege of her company.

The Million Dollar Question

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 01:42:00 +0000

Today the RevGals have put out the million dollar question--a simple, "What would you do with it?" question, with five responses requested, as is always the case for the Friday Five! I've griped on my more family-centered blog about money--my sense that winning a bundle would ruin us, and my growing wish that we had more of it. The two sentiments are hardly in synch with one another, and more often than not I'm glad I'm not a lottery-playing kind of person (though we do typically buy one ticket if we're on vacation--the prospect of not returning to work on Monday is too sweet to avoid!). But if it were magically to appear in my bank account....Hmmm....

1. I want to be the sort of person who would say, "I'd tithe." That SO should be my reality. So in the spirit of "act as if," I'm going to put philanthropy front and center. The recipients of my gracious funds? Our church, certainly--and the church we attended for eight years before our move here. The fund I direct at a local university would be a beneficiary, taking the overly-ambitious fundraising goals I have before me out of the way! I've given money to Habitat for Humanity for many, many years now, and I see no reason to stop now. And the sentimental favorite? The camp where Matt and I met and married.... I don't know exactly what we would support there, but something unique and needed.

2. I must move on to the house. We are in a state of, ahem, deferred maintenance. And we are deferring further by the day! I'd put on the new roof and install new windows, but then there's a truckload of cosmetic changes I'd like to make--bathrooms and kitchens top of the list. Given that means are not the issue at the moment, construction would be exclusively green, of course!

3. I'd like to help our families with some small needs. Sadly, a million dollars seems not to go far these days, but I do see all of our relatives struggling in ways that we might be able to alleviate slightly.

4. TRAVEL! As an intentionally-one-income family, trips and vacations aren't part of our lives at the moment. I'd pick one place we'd all really like to go--perhaps a return visit to Sedona, sight of a favorite extended-family vacation many years ago--and I'd begin organizing our trip!

5. I'd set aside regular funds for nights out for Matt and me. While the long-term plans have been set aside to support a less-taxing lifestyle, it is probably most difficult to have given up the short-term plans we used to enjoy with regularity. I'd hire a good babysitter, I'd plan a regular night out, and I'd enjoy every minute of it!

Oh gosh--the ideas are rolling in....restoring my gorgeous Steinway baby grand piano, buying a headboard for our bed, on and on and on the list could go.

I'm off for a good old dose of gratitude, though, as I feel my life is already overflowing with riches. I'm so blessed.

Music and Mercy

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 00:59:00 +0000

Tissues are a must for me on Easter morning. The combination of an early rising, the glorious music, and the resurrection message--better felt than explained--leaves me in tears every time. Palm Sunday can be hit or miss, though, and I don't have many memories of being moved to tears once we get past the palm-waving processional. Today was a clear exception, and I was sniffing throughout--no tissues!

Sure enough, the weepy eyes began as our dear children walked down the aisle, most (including my own two) in absolute bewilderment, and others like dear L. from our Sunday School class. She skipped and waved her palm high above her head, shouting "HOSANNA! HOSANNA!" as the first bars of "All Glory, Laud and Honor" piped loudly from the organ. Children will bring me to tears every time. It is difficult for me to depict the power of the remainder of the service--how the choir's rendition of "Ride on, King Jesus" left such a ring in the air, the entire congregation seemed to pause, breathless; how a parishioner played a Bruebeck jazz piece that left me utterly convinced that jazz is the only form of music that can capture the dissonance of Holy Week--the praise, the despair, the longing, the possibility of resurrection. And then there was the message--part spoken sermon, with our minister extolling us to embrace the passion of the Sunday even as we take part in the celebration; part video set to strikingly perfect music. As he introduced the video, created by our ministerial team and some younger members of our congregation, Tom remarked that the ambivalence of this day--the paradox of Palm Sunday--cannot be fully captured in prose....and when words fail us, we must turn to artists. Image after image cascaded across the screen--of the cosmos, the beauty of nature, the absolute destruction of war and poverty, the hope of human connection to each other and all of creation, our continual crucifixion of our natural environment and our neighbors, and symbols of God's mercy. The music was ideal, if a bit unusual--Metallica's "Unforgiven" played in a moving strings version by Apocalyptica. The sounds washed over me as the sorrow of our brokenness--my brokenness--was relieved only by an equal measure of joy in Jesus' unmatched act of mercy. The service was crafted by human hands, but woven together by the Spirit of God....merciful, loving God.

Though I grew up with an eye toward justice, as I age, I long only for music and mercy....

Give it up

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 19:51:00 +0000

The following was written for our church e-newsletter, a reflection on my own Lenten practice, and how it has coincided and interacted with our pastor's sabbatical:

I'm sitting at my desk, indulging in a snack of raisins and pretzels....a Lenten practice of sorts. Since giving up all sugar for Lent, I'm astonished to discover sweetness in forgotten places: raisins certainly, but also bananas, a honey-based cereal I enjoy each morning, and even in the flavors of certain teas and coffees.

Despite being the child of a pastor, my growing up home was not a place where we typically "gave something up for Lent." We were more likely to take on an extra act of love or kindness, and even that was more my parents' effort than mine. So why now, as an adult, do I fast on Ash Wednesday, and deliberately choose a gesture of self-sacrifice as I walk my way toward Easter?

Somehow, in creating an experience of emptiness or absence, I discover new ways of being filled.

When fasting with spiritual intention, I discover that hunger doesn't overwhelm me. There are layers to that hunger, and as my body passes through each layer into the next, I contemplate longing and desire and connection and satiation. I couldn't explore these places without first clearing space for a short time and creating a purposeful emptiness. While the first few days without sugar sometimes left me gazing longingly at the tray of treats during coffee hour, I am now at a place where I appreciate the new tastes that spring forth from foods and flavors I had previously not regarded as sweet. I am not so much sacrificing as I am discovering anew.

Our senior pastor's absence from us, while not fully correlated with Lent, has been its own spiritual practice for us as a congregation. Who has stepped forward to fill us? Our new associate pastor's capable leadership certainly comes to mind, along with all of the visiting speakers, member pastors, and lay leaders who presided over worship and provided pastoral care. What empty places felt sharp and evident at first, but now barely noticeable? How have we learned to be self-sustaining?

Easter Sunday will come, and I'll face a choice--whether to continue my practice of "giving up," or to try to remember the lessons learned while indulging once again. It's a decision I have yet to make, but one I will make with intention. Our pastor will soon return. How will we exercise new strengths discovered in his absence? How will we cling to the discovery of new tastes and talents, even as we delight in his presence with us once again?

One primary lesson is evident to me: God provides. We have in our community all that we need, an abundance to be shared. I look forward to seeing how we reconnect with intention, and together discover once more the glories of Easter and the promise of the resurrection.

Whispers of a call

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 01:32:00 +0000

It's been a long, long time since I've written--as always, evidence that between work, my coursework, and a new computer-free Sabbath, reflection is happening more in my head than on this blog! With the kids quietly settled into bed and Matt at a church meeting (the board we share--deciding eventually that one of us a month was enough to have our family's voice and presence!), there is a brief pause. It feels a bit like the sigh in my day....that great big in-take of air to ensure enough oxygen is flowing to the brain of my life.

This past weekend I attended a prospective student event at a nearby seminary. This is a seminary with a great deal of history, as well as a cooperative relationship with the local seminary where I presently take courses. We persisted to gather despite snow and threatening road conditions, some enthusiastically "working the room" while others sipped luke warm coffee quietly in the corners of the foyer. I was somewhere in between. I knew one person there, and it's in my nature to introduce myself and make the first move, but it's also uncertain space. I'm still not entirely sure how to name what is happening inside of me, and the steps I'm taking to perhaps put the inside to the outside of me.

At no time was this more in evidence than in an opening session designed to meet a small segment of the people there. The instructions were simple enough--tell us your name, where you're from, and what you're doing at such-and-such seminary today. Ok, um, well....the name and where I'm from part came simply enough, and then I followed with an oblique mention of my current seminary courses, exploring my options for the future, etc. How to explain the lifelong monologue (no room for dialogue on this one--I haven't been terribly interested in listening!) with God about my willingness to do anything--anything at all--except this? And what of the Maundy Thursday service when I looked up at the pastors I love and was struck at the privilege of their role? And that moment at the Black Nativity as the choir belted out "Go Tell It On the Mountain," and my questioning, "help my unbelief" self suddenly rose up inside me and simply said, "The world needs Jesus." (Somehow this same self knew then she has a role in bringing him back into the world.) And then there are the images of bread--the realization that serving people at the communion table....facilitating their service to one another...is perhaps the one place where I can offer authentic hope and transformation to a hurting world. I could go on and on. But in that moment, a simple "exploring my options" had to do.

I was struck at the tentative nature of most of our comments. If we were in another setting--a business school or perhaps law--we would have spoken affirmatively. We would have said words like, "I've always been interested in numbers," or "I believe I have gifts to enact justice." But here, the choice seemed not so much ours as God's, and how beautiful it is that we are fearful and hesitant to name God's calling with too great a degree of certainty. It's there, though, for some, and I celebrate the woman who leaned over at lunch to describe her inexplicable desire to lay prone on the altar before God, receiving ordination into service--ordination formally denied her as a practicing Roman Catholic. And of course I could share back the images of the laying on of hands, of all those called before me naming my calling and empowering me with their touch. I wonder about an inner circle of women, and then the many men encircling them....would their touch feel heavy and burdensome, or like lightning flashing through my body, electrifying the moment? But what if it isn't so? What if this isn't to be?

And so I continue to whisper....utterings of a call both known and still unknown to me, hoping that God is somewhere there in the voices.

Friday Five....on Monday!

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 02:56:00 +0000

I'm woefully inadequate as a participant in the RevGals blog roll, but I love reading other people's Friday Five comments....and this week's was such a fit. So today, on Monday, the actual anniversary of my birth, I'm joining the Friday Five.

1. When is your birthday? Does anyone else (famous and/or in your own life) share it?

Well, I suppose I gave that away with my sentences above! While I don't know off-hand of anyone who shares my actual birthday, I've had two lifelong friends with January birthdays--one on January 9th and one on January 21st. I can't have my special day without thinking of them. I also have a couple of friends with birthdays exactly six months later, so we share birthdays/half birthdays in a special way. Today I'm thinking of them, too!

2. Do you prefer a big party or an intimate celebration for the chosen few?

Of late my parties seem a little too intimate--just the immediate family: me, Matt, the kids, and occasionally my sister. I like the idea of having a birthday celebration with this group, but then something special with a group of women friends--perhaps a dinner party or a pot luck lunch.

3. Describe your most memorable birthday(s)--good, bad, or both.

Oooooo....this is tough. Winter has been hard for a birthday season. I've had ice storms, snowstorms, and everything in between. While I suspect there are a few all-time lows (more than I care to recount), I remember well the year when we were on the verge of the first Gulf War. My father, a pastor, had a peace service at the church. Forever lamenting his call to serve the world and how it sometimes conflicted with being present for our family, I remember feeling (hear the irony/sarcasm in my tone) as though my day could never compete with world peace....and it wasn't a happy thought. This year has been a good birthday, in part because I'm slowly letting go of expectations. Fireworks don't need to erupt over the downtown skyline....surprise visitors from afar don't need to drop in. An ordinary day with some special moments can suffice--and today they did just that.

4. What is your favorite cake and ice cream? (Bonus points if you share the cake recipe). Or would you rather have a different treat altogether?

Hmmmmm....I don't know if I have a favorite. This year I made my own cake--an apple nut cake from a Moosewood cookbook. Yummy. I love anything with almond, and the catering service at a college where I once worked had an almond bundt cake to die for. Perhaps if I could find that recipe, it would become my favorite! And of course the ice cream should complement the cake, so usually I make my way to vanilla.

5. Surprise parties: love 'em or hate 'em?

When I was younger, I loved them--I had one surprise going away party, and one surprise birthday party. Now I'm wary, to say the least!

Bonus: Describe your ideal birthday--the sky's the limit.

WOW--I don't know where to begin! I suppose having a week's vacation right around my birthday would be spectacular. We're someplace warm--the Southwest, perhaps, or Hawaii, and friends are staying at the same resort or home. We all have our own living area, but shared space where we overlap as well. We walk the beach, ride bikes, hike, and the day is a sensory delight--vivid colors, luscious tastes, delightful smells. The kids are there, but I have time both with them and apart. Time alone with Matt is a must, as is time simply by myself.

Even as I'm typing, I'm aware that the ordinary day without "ideal" anything holds a real pull. A heavy, heavy snow fell last night and our front hedge was showing great damage, with more damage possible if the snow wasn't removed quickly. I raced out, pulling boots over my barefeet, and I spent a good half hour shaking snow from branches. With the vivid white all around me, and the sensation of the cold snow clinging to my sleeves and hair as I thrust each branch back and forth, I felt so wonderfully present and aware and alive--and isn't that what a birthday is all about? So ideally, I guess I show up for what is....

Happy birthday to me.

A core of fire

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Tue, 11 Dec 2007 11:46:00 +0000

That Tiny Flame

I think of James Clement (in The Love Letters and Certain Women) telling of the making of cider in the winter, when it is put outdoors to freeze. In the center of the frozen apple juice is a tiny core of pure flame that does not freeze. My faith (which I enjoy) is like that tiny flame. Even in the worst of moments it has been there, surrounded by ice, perhaps, but alive.

- Madeleine L'Engle

Many thanks to RevHRod for gifting me with this Madeleine L'Engle poem this morning. Our move to CT brought us within easy driving distance of Madeleine's home in the Litchfield hills, and though we never made the trek to that area while she was living, I do hope to go and see some of what inspired her. Unlike many people who appreciate her writing, I didn't grow up with A Wrinkle in Time; in fact, I'm not sure I've ever read it. (To prove my point, I had to visit another website to clarify the title--I had originally written The Wrinkle in Time!) The only L'Engle book I know without a doubt I've read is Two-Part Invention. From that moment I was captivated.

But I'm straying from the poem and my point, which is simply this: I've seen and experienced that core of flame within me. Access to that core has come only once, though I've glimpsed it or rubbed up against it on other occasions (most notably, when I gave birth to my two children)--and the gift of visualizing that flame, holding that core of fire in my hands, came in the midst of a great hurt. Though I don't come from a religious body that practices shunning, it's the word that best fits what a friend decided she must do to me based on my disclosure of differences between us. My way of being was....is....simply that offensive to her. Never mind the story of those differences--that is a post for another day. What I am remembering this morning, thanks to RevHRod and Madeleine, is the image of that core. Words cannot adequately capture the experience of holding a swirling ball of fire in my hands, fully aware that this is my essence--that this core of fire has always been in me, and always will be in me, and nothing of this world can harm or destroy that essence. As I held the fire in my hands, it was suddenly not only in me and contained by me, but surrounding me as well. And as the hurtful words of shunning from this friend swirled around me, they were dissolved by the flames. The flames surrounding me, mirroring what was in me, could not burn or harm me, but her words were absorbed before they could touch me. I envisioned them slithering around my body, serpent-like, coming ever closer to me and to that core, but as they approached, they were consumed....burned up....gone forever.

Deep in winter, with ice coating each and every branch, I know within me is That Tiny Flame, inextinguishable, everlasting, purely God, purely me, forever and ever. Amen.

Miracle-filled Monday

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Mon, 10 Dec 2007 11:46:00 +0000

What would it take for me to have a miracle-filled Monday? Good news from my father's doctor, as our hearts are preparing for something very bad indeed? A positive word from a friend whose parents, too, are waiting on answers? A complete recovery of the child of a friend who lives, suddenly, at the Children's Medical Center after the discovery of a rare and virulent form of brain cancer? Or would it simply be looking at all the day does bring to me with an eye for those miracles?

As I type, I hear my children's feet prancing like reindeer above me as they try to determine if it is morning-enough to rise. Their sound alone is life....the present....the miraculous. How do I cultivate those eyes? And must it rest on an experience of tragic proportions? Why must every hymn that truly moves me come out of the author's encounter with loss so deep as to threaten to shake the ground on which I stand?

I'm struck at the moment that primary teachers of this "the present is all" philosophy are the parents of Elizabeth mentioned above, suffering through the very largest of questions about the purpose of life, the intention for their daughter's time on earth....because as they see very dire numbers put on that time, they are cherishing her more and more and more. Loss is a continual threat and reality. Those of us not experiencing it simply lose sight of this current that runs beneath us.

How can I focus today on cherishing rather than fearing? What can I already see with grateful eyes?

*Saturday's performance of the Black Nativity, my sister's annual Christmas tradition--shared this year with the kids and me. There's a quotation about music reminding us of a truth we cannot yet know that struck me so fully as the swaying singers sashayed past us singing "Go Tell It On the Mountain," the opening piece. Their voices resonated at a place far beyond my mind, and I was living a truth I cannot seem to grasp with my head.

*The rising of the sun, new every morning. Though I'm in full Monday mode, wishing desperately for another day with my family, this day is new--there are discoveries to be made, contributions to offer.

*The warmth of our home--and the kids' valuing of this through our nightly prayers of gratitude. I'm proud to have a child who speaks about the importance of shelter for people, and what we must do to support people who don't have it.

*Lighting the Advent candles yesterday in church. Though in the moment I was too focused on keeping Lucas from kissing the candle and remembering who was reading what, I loved that as a family we were taking part in this honor.

*Baking my mom's candy cane rolls, a tradition that never fails to bring her to life for me each Christmas.

Wishing you a miracle-filled Monday....

To what to pay attention, and how?

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 05 Dec 2007 11:34:00 +0000

I've continued rising early, but with insufficient time to blog! Yesterday the kids joined me in sacred pursuits (or I attempted to still find the time sacred in the midst of their early, early morning company!), and today I hit the snooze button for 50 minutes before a shortened quiet time to be followed momentarily by getting ready to depart an hour early for work. It's condensed paying attention--the only kind in which I seem to excel!

This morning I am struck by the continual choices I make in how I see what is before me. My ability yesterday to greet the kids early with true appreciation--seeing their presence as the sacred gift of that day--is not necessarily the way I always greet such an "opportunity." On any given day, I might describe to you a marriage so distinctly different from my descriptions on other days, you might wonder if I'm speaking of the same people. So, too, my work--I choose my words and my outlook for different audiences sometimes....and sometimes I am the only audience, and still my perceptions shift and change.

There's a wonderful quotation about either seeing miracles nowhere or everywhere. I know what it is to swing wildly from seeing God at every turn to feeling God is absent from me....and in each state, it is easy to feel I will never shift and be in the other state. Today, when the absence is more palpable--when the frustrations and sadness and longing are overshadowing joy and possibility and hope, I'm going to try to quietly wait for the space to choose miracles once again.

To those who have time to hear

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Mon, 03 Dec 2007 11:10:00 +0000

While I'd like to claim that "paying attention," the theme of yesterday's sermon and blog, is quite possible at night--perhaps even that night is the superior time for soaking up truth, there is a continual Biblical theme that puts morning as the time to greet the day and God. I'd rather night because I'm more naturally a night person--I can easily stretch one hour into two into three with a good book or a movie we've been desperate to watch. Just as easily, I slap the snooze button a half dozen times each morning. On many a day we are chastising our kids for not moving more quickly toward the door for school, but we are equally to blame. We just do not want to get up in time to move through the morning with ease.

I remember a time when I woke early on a regular basis. It was pre-children, I was frustrated with my work situation, and I needed a space to set my soul to a new dimension each day. I would rise in the darkness of the morning, put on the tea kettle, grab my journal and a devotional book, and sometimes even squeeze in a run before all this began. (Yes, running is also something long since fallen off the "to do" list--I could blame the kids, but the choices made are mine!) Though it was a stressful time in my life, a time filled with questions of whether or not I had a purpose, whether I would find contentment in work, whether I was bound to a life of perpetual restlessness and dissatisfaction, my primary memories are of the mornings--the stillness, the peace, the quiet. This Advent, I'm going to find my way back to mornings and see if once again I can experience some of the peace of that time.

I set the alarm for 6am--just enough time to get in a short reading and prayer--enough to claim that I was UP! See me, I'm UP! But God had other ideas. Lucas cried out at 5am, unable to get himself fully nestled back into his cocoon of covers. I went back to bed, grateful for one more hour of sleep, but I could not settle. Finally, after 20 minutes, I got up. I'm not one to rush into prayer, you'll see. I went to the basement, emptied the ashes from the woodstove, folded a load of laundry, hopped on the Cardioglide for a few minutes, and only then did I come upstairs for my cup of tea. I opened a copy of Max Lucado's "God Came Near"--I have wonderful memories of sitting with my suitemates in my first year of college, surrounding a contraband candle as we read aloud from this book about the miraculous arrival of Jesus. Given that I've been in a mind (rather than heart and soul)-driven place of questions about the audacity of believing in such a person....such a story....such a possibility, this book seems right.

And indeed it is. Hear the words of yesterday's blog, and then hear the message waiting for me this morning. "Off to one side sit a group of shepherds. They sit silently on the floor, perhaps perplexed, perhaps in awe, no doubt in amazement. Their night watch had been interrupted by an explosion of light from heaven and a symphony of angels. God goes to those who have time to hear him. . . Those who missed His Majesty's arrival that night missed it not because of evil acts or malice; no, they missed it because they simply weren't looking." (God Came Near, Max Lucado)

This Advent, I'm going to make time....I'm going to try to make time to hear God's arrival.....to see God's arrival. I'm already feeling rewarded.

Pay attention

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Mon, 03 Dec 2007 02:01:00 +0000

Our senior pastor has been on sabbatical for two months. He's returned for Advent and Christmas, and then will depart again for another two months. It's a model created of necessity, but one that has some real advantages. We get to peer into his thinking, and we have him for this very fresh, alive month--none of that, "I can't believe I'm back here already," energy. Instead we have, "I can't believe I get to head off once again in a month!" I suppose it's as though I went to work on Monday, and by Monday evening was back off for the rest of the week.

His sermon today was entitled, "Pay attention," and was about the seemingly-apocalyptic Matthew passage, the chapter and verse alluding me at the moment. The sermon was an urging to keep our eyes tuned to what is immediately before us--to be living so fully in this moment that we do not miss God's whisper of an arrival. It was a far cry from the "You've Been Left Behind" video series we used to watch as comedy amongst liberal-leaning friends at my Christian college. The message was in essence this--it is not so much that we will literally be left in the field as another is whisked away beside us, but rather than we will simply miss the opportunity to see what is truly there to see. We stand side by side with someone looking through a different lens, and they see, live and experience--and we miss the forest for the trees....or more appropriately given his message, we miss the trees for the forest.

This message was on my mind as we raked sodden piles of leaves in anticipation of tonight's snow. The sky was gray, spitting sleet periodically, and the still air felt anticipatory--there's something about to happen. I set the rake down for a moment, settled onto the edge of our back porch, and looked to the spindly, black branches of the trees reaching toward the sky. I was waiting--trying to pay attention. But while my eyes were pinned on the sky, it was beneath me that I could feel the hum of the universe. The energy of our collective existence was suddenly so palpable, I envisioned those giant trees crashing to the ground as the hum continued steadily on. As almost always happens when I am still, I was not only aware of the vibrations of energy below me and all around me, I was aware that I was in a dance with these vibrations--I was a part of the vibration myself.

With Tom's suggestion before me, I aim to pay attention this Advent. I am to wake early, brew a pot of tea, read wise words from people who stir me, and know that God is forever entering...forever arriving...forever wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. I will celebrate not only being witness to the energy of God's presence and arrival; I will celebrate being part of it. Amen.

For fun....

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Fri, 21 Sep 2007 04:09:00 +0000

noreply@blogger.com (Ecotistical) — Fri, 13 Jul 2007 04:14:00 +0000

My wedding ring must come off. And, then I eventually put it back on. This is not a mind trip, or an indication of a failing marriage. In fact, it’s oddly about my exercise routine, which includes getting in the pool to swim laps a couple times per week.

What I have come to realize, however, is that the act of removing the ring (and then putting it back on my finger) has become a ritual of sorts. I say, “of sorts” because I am – unfortunately - not the type of person who exercises with the regularity I ought. Thus, the act is only as ritualistic as my actual time spent in the pool. Still, over the course of the last two years of swimming, I have gone through this act enough times to think about what the ring means to me.

Coming out of the pool, I am usually invigorated. Whether it’s the middle of a hot summer, or the third Thursday of shitty snowfall in March when I can barely stand the sight of snow, a swim will completely alter my psyche… and only in the best of ways. I am almost always invigorated after a swim. Even if it’s nearly impossible to get to the pool, I feel better once I’m done with my swim. That is simply the effect water has on me. So when I emerge from the pool, with more energy than when I arrived, I am in an altered state. This place, or state of mind, is what contributes to the energy I feel when putting my wedding ring back on to my ring finger.

I am, in that moment, a better version of me. My heart beats strong. My lungs feel expanded. Since I have taken a warm shower, followed by an application of Lavender lotion (applied in the sauna during the winter months), I also feel that “ready to start my day” feeling that typically accompanies such a routine. I also feel like giving myself a little pat on the back for having gotten myself into the pool in the first place; I suppose there is some sense of pride in the completion of my swimming routine.

At some point, I began to associate all of these feelings with not only the completion of a swim, but with the placement of that ring on my finger. And of course, it wasn’t long before the ritual of putting on my ring reminded me of how good it is to be alive – not only after a swim, but in general.

And so, it is in all of the acts which are part of a seemingly mundane swimming routine, that I have adopted a ritual – one that renews my physical self, and that also renews my spiritual self. I never realized that stripping away such a beautiful symbol would actually come to reify its symbology in my life, and to ultimately make me the (better) person I am becoming.

Being

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Fri, 13 Jul 2007 02:54:00 +0000

There's no doubt about it. When presented with the choice of "being" or "doing," I know deep down I want to choose "being." I want to be (there's that word again!) the sort of person who "be"s naturally. (How's that for a twist of grammar?) Truth-telling now, though. I'm a doer, through and through. I'm the sort of person who hears the story of Mary and Martha--of Mary celebrated for sitting attentively at Jesus' side while Martha hustled her way through dinner preparations--and gets angry that Jesus reinforces Mary for "doing nothing." While I know how good it is to sit with a Mary at my side, I am still consumed with the question of how all the tasks at hand were completed to allow her to be there. As I said recently to my counselor/spiritual director, "How can I relax and still get the vacuuming done?" It seems I only imagine myself effective when there's a cloud of activity and stress surrounding me. Oh Martha, Martha, Martha--I hear you, sister.

This morning I woke early when Matt left for his morning basketball league. I've been working long days Monday-Thursday in hopes of having a bonus day with the kids on Friday. My hat is off to the many women and men who work hard labor jobs with long shifts or, more difficult still, work more than one job. A few ten hour days in a row and I'm ready to crash. By this morning, my body was craving an extra few minutes of sleep--but my spirit was craving something more. I crawled out of bed, raised the blinds, and climbed back into bed to sit and meditate. Silence. Birds calling and singing. No children's footsteps. No spouse's grunts and groans at too much early-morning sunlight. I kept resetting the alarm, imagining I might still squeeze in those few minutes on the snooze bar. But my spirit continued to ask for time.

I dressed, made a cup of coffee (to counteract the lack of added sleep!), filled my cereal bowl and headed for our back deck. With travels to Boston for our anniversary (last week) and to New York for the funeral of my oldest friend's father (this week), I feel distant at best from my yard. With long days at work, I'm contributing little to the woodchuck/weed hunting consuming Matt's days as he struggles to feed us, rather than the animals, with the garden. Sitting in the midst of the stunningly tall trees, following the flight patterns of the birds from branch to branch, I felt truly home. I was rewarded instantly for showing up, staying silent, and being attentive. I glanced at our clothesline, and there was our hummingbird flying in for a visit. She looked like a Martha, of course--all business, buzzing up to that feeder as though there was no time to waste with a visit or attention to me. But I, for once, felt like Mary--laundry still in the washer, kids still sound asleep in their beds, fully present for the moment before me.

Called by God

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Wed, 23 May 2007 18:38:00 +0000

I remember a humorous conversation I had with Matt just a few years ago in which I described why I was most certainly "doomed" to be called as a pastor. I provided the succinct, overarching statements that might grace the header of my resume or pastoral profile: passion for connecting people across differences through dialogue, love of theological thought and exploration, skilled public speaker, seasoned writer (with a love for devotional writing, in particular!), pianist and singer, beginning guitar player, capable administrator with years of relevant experience in a comparable field, and a desire to relate to the deepest longings of people and communities. With a self-satisfied nod, I said, "Can't you see it? I'm marked! It's inevitable!"

If you can read that these statements were said without real joy--a distinct emotion from humor--you might well have been in the room with us. As the child of a pastor and grandchild of two, I felt, quite literally, the fear of God each time I imagined serving in the world as I saw them serve. I watched my father and grandfathers come of age in mostly rural protestant churches where clergy members did everything: shovel snow, CHECK; mow the church and parsonage lawn, CHECK; prepare Sunday's sermon, CHECK; serve as hospital chaplain, CHECK; bake bread for communion, CHECK; answer the phone and door at all hours of the day or night, literally taking money from personal bank account to help parishioners and strangers meet financial needs, CHECK; baptize, marry, counsel through divorce, bury, CHECK. I could go on and on. Without strong personal boundaries, or seminary training to establish these, their churches took over their lives. I grew up bearing the consequences of an often unhealthy model of servitude. It was not a call I was in any way prepared to answer. If the phone was ringing, I was most decidedly unavailable.

My childhood and adolescent dread shifted into the bemused, but doomed mentality depicted by my conversation with Matt. And then, it shifted again. During the Maundy Thursday service just over a year ago, I watched as the pastor and associate pastor of my church broke bread for communion and raised the cup into the air, and I experienced a palpable, dramatic shift inside. Planted in me was not dread, but a sense of the honor of their role--the gift of their service. I considered the many pastors I had encountered personally, and the gifts each had offered to me. I thought about Tom, the chaplain who married us and who regularly extended himself as a listener and wise questioner as we sought to adapt to the changes in one another and in our relationship. He might have saved our marriage with some critical, well-considered pieces of advice....he certainly empowered us to save it for ourselves. I thought about John, and the meditation group he initiated--the regularity and sacredness of which created space for me to discover some profound truths about myself and who I have been created to be. I thought about Marlene, serving our church as a volunteer associate pastor after a debilitating accident. Her astute observations about faith were formative in my life, and the selflessness of her service was truly inspiring.

The shifting continues still, as I casually wade my way through seminary courses, exploring what it feels like to be in that environment. I am certainly curious more days than I am fearful, and this openness will yield something rich to my life even if I don't seek to pastor a church one day. In a recent conversation with a woman who is, for me, part therapist and part spiritual director, I was describing the evolution of my thinking over all these years. Looking up, hoping against hope once again that she would respond with some sort of answer, I saw her wry grin as her eyes said to me that she would again respond to me with questions--I would not walk home with the tidy package I came seeking. After she asked me to respond to a series of forced choice questions (e.g., now or not now? being or doing? inside or outside?), she spoke to me words of my true calling. She said, "You will never make any choice, have any role, pursue any study that will make you more the essence of God than you are right now. This is who you are called to be--Jennifer. Fully Jennifer, here and now." Days later, my current pastor reiterated the same essential message in an email to our church community in which he commented on his morning inhaling of the sweet lilac bush outside his home. "A lilac being a lilac--this is the Divine Essence."

Will I someday be called as a pastor? Perhaps. Have I already--in fact, always--been called by God? Indeed. And I'm relaxing, breathing, inhaling and exhaling my way into a full answer to Her call.

Veiled Community

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Tue, 08 May 2007 01:30:00 +0000

For the past nine months I've been part of an intentionally formed and crafted group of women exploring feminist spirituality. When every chair in the circle is filled, we're 35 or so women, drawn from the greater Northeast region (at least at this moment in our lives), but otherwise representing every walk of life. We are oldish (late 60s) and youngish (early 20s), fattish and thinish, whitish and blackish, and lesbian, bisexual and transgender. Most intriguing, however, is how this previous set of identities intersects with our religious identities, for we are Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, and Jewish-curious, to begin with just the short list of how we likely name our faith.

To create more meaningful, engaged encounters with one another, the entire group is divided into wisdom circles. While chosen at random (a word that has new meaning in the quantum universe in which we dwell), the circles are actually quite representative of the whole, providing each of us with up-close and personal encounters with nearly all the faith identities sitting in the circle of the whole. These wisdom circles create a manageable space to reflect on the readings, but the most public expression of our grouping is the creation and implementation of rituals for the entire group during one of our gatherings of the year. In addition to designing the act of ritual, the wisdom circles craft visual complements to the weekend's theme.

Month after month, the mandalas positioned at the center of our circle have become more and more elaborate, and the rituals have extended past a simple litany and song to become sermons, choruses, seed plantings, champagne toasts (fit for a queen, with crowns upon our heads!)....I could go on and on. As our group was designated for the final month of circle-created rituals, we had entirely too much time to both generate our own ideas, and compare our in-our-mind creations with the groups before us. When our weekend finally arrived, I think it is safe to say we were all ready to be done. Email planning, personality co-mingling, and that strange tiredness that comes with shaking off winter and throwing ourselves headlong into spring had left us more in a state of stress than joy.

The rituals themselves were delightful, and the garden scene created by our most passionate visual artist was enough to convince me that indoors and outdoors had switched. But I felt disconnected, a state brought on by the final stresses of our collaboration and a personal encounter with the sometimes closed nature of our typically open circle. The feelings weren't washed away as I pushed my sunflower seed deep into the moist, black soil and asked God if She would make me more forgiving and open, ready to fully engage once again. When we separated into wisdom circles to further explore projects of leadership we had undertaken in the year (the source of my personal encounter with closed thinking in an open space), I was more than happy to suggest we retreat to the home of the Muslim member of our circle, certain that meeting her children and touring her apartment would distract us from the conversation.

As we giggled our way through her home, curious about whether taking off our shoes was religious or cultural (she's Turkish), whether her children spoke Turkish, Arabic or English, or whether this outspoken, veiled woman used her same sharp humor and wit at home, we began to find one another once again. We piled into her bedroom and, quite spontaneously, she selected and adorned each of us with a hijab. We had known her head only by the elaborate, decorative scarves that shaped her beauty, and yet here she was before us, short-haired, out of her hijab as she placed one upon each of us. In full color and splendor, we retreated to her kitchen table and simply spoke about our lives....current challenges, requests for prayer, compliments and playful jabs. We were once again wise in our togetherness.

We crossed the small lawn from her home to our classroom and delighted in the expressions of surprise from some of the other participants. We were converted not to Islam, but to the space of true togetherness. While she had crossed over to us in many forms at many times, we had taken a small, symbolic gesture to cross to her and honor her tradition. And for the first time in some time, I sat fully present in the wider circle. The gift of her veil returned to me my voice.

God's voice comes in light and dark, in community and solitude, from our full revealing and from a moment under a veil. Sometimes, if we're present, we hear and we truly listen.

Musing about Messiness

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Sat, 28 Apr 2007 02:27:00 +0000

As we experiment with our new life as a one-income family, we've become mildly addicted to Freecycle and the free section on Craigslist. A week and a half ago I stooped to what Matt regarded as a new low (despite his participation!). We drove across town to collect frozen entrees from a woman who had tried one but hadn't been satisfied. As we splashed our way through the rain to collect our still-frozen treasures, Matt questioned if it just might be possible for us to live fully off of freecycle for any length of time. We haven't yet attempted the experiment, but in the week and a half since, we have happily collected a set of shelves for the garage, a smaller set for the screened-in porch, and tennis rackets for me and the kids. Treasures surface continually.

One such treasure is the book The Sisterhood: The True Story Behind the Women's Movement by Marcia Cohen. Offered at the same address as size 34-34 men's Old Navy pants on craigslist, I decided to claim both....the pants for Matt, the book for me. I've been shuffling through over the past couple of months, fascinated by a read that only benefits from its datedness. Published in the late 1980s, The Sisterhood lacks the unifying gloss of some later accounts of the women's movement, focusing often on the flaws and faultlines within "the movement" and the individuals comprising it.

While I have been well-acquainted with accusations that the primary voices of the women's movement neglected women of color and lesbians, I have never before had a front row seat on the sheer messiness of the conflicts. In striving for a palatable "center"--a set of beliefs and demands that could be embraced by a majority--anyone seemingly on the margins was typically further marginalized by a movement that, in theory, should have represented all. The lesson? We are all simultaneously oppressed and oppressor, silencing some even as we attempt to break silence with and for others. The still photographs depicting women united in seeking abortion rights or equal pay for equal work in no way capture the full picture of that time, just as no movement can fully capture the nuanced expressions of a shared message when it takes root in individuals of such varied identities.

Progress is not a clear, straight-ahead path. And few of us, if we claim our full truth, fit neatly into a community, a movement, or a church. In recent months, I've encountered this messiness in many circles. Dynamic and fascinating when read in a text, the experience of feeling marginalized and "outside the circle" is disconcerting at best, and sometimes quite painful. While it is natural to gravitate toward like-minded communities, and all of us need circles in which we are welcomed fully and whole, there is also something true in sitting on a set of pews that can barely hold together under the weight of our difference and division. We feel the pain. We sit there anyway.

Easing my way back in....

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Mon, 23 Apr 2007 13:26:00 +0000

After a week's vacation at home with my family, it's always a transition to come back to work--even if I love the role and the institution. Are we unique in imagining that we could craft a perfectly good life with all four of us at home? I suppose not....but the shared nature of the experience means no less impact. I actually cried last night as I kissed the kids while they slept in their beds. A week with them was a reminder of all I miss each day as I drive over the mountain to work. And health insurance and mortgage payments aside, I do actually believe we could have a blissful life riding our mountain bikes around the yard and cooking colorful, thoughtfully-prepared meals. And blogging....of course there would have to be blogging!

Recognizing that I was dragging my feet a bit today, driving in on a brilliantly bright and sunny day but living elsewhere in my mind, I decided I should start my day with gratitude. So after changing my voicemail and email to say I've checked back in, here I am.

Thank you, God of breath and creation and light....this is surely a day brought into being by You. Remind me that every day is a gift from You, and that I am a being created by choice and with choices. I can view my responsibilities as opportunities, and the conversations I'll have today as a chance to serve as light to the world. I can pause and breathe and look out my window. I can feel my feet on the earth and lower my shoulders, easing out the tension I hold, both imagined and real. I can see You in every encounter.

I am thankful for....

....my clever, courageous daughter who was weaving her way through a playground thick with bigger kids than she to make her way back to school after her own vacation.

....my usual parking lot being closed this morning. Parking across campus gave me an opportunity to say hello to a dear friend, and to enjoy more of the outside air on my way to the office.

....the gentleman who cleans my building. His wide smile each and every day is a continual reminder that I choose who I am, how I feel and what I present to the world.

....coffee. Enough said.

....all that awaits me at home this evening, made all the more precious by my time away today.

....now, the present, this moment.

Blacksburg and Baghdad

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer) — Fri, 20 Apr 2007 00:02:00 +0000

I have been uncomfortably silent the last few days, simply because the events in Virginia defy words....and I haven't wanted to fill the silence without acknowledging the Virginia Tech tragedy. I look at the senseless loss through so many lenses; it's difficult to know with which voice to speak. There is Jennifer the mother who already tends toward anxiety when I think of my inability to keep my children safe. There is Jennifer the college administrator who immediately begins playing out the "If this were my institution...." questions. There is Jennifer the believer who tries somehow to find sense or meaning in something that so clearly has none. There is Jennifer the skeptic who finds far more questions than answers. There is Jennifer the pastor's daughter who struggled throughout childhood with a clergy father's commitment to staying close to the grief-stricken, serving primarily in the presence of loss....loss was omnipresent in my growing up years, and my relationship to the dead and their survivors is complex. And there is Jennifer, the citizen of the United States (with noble intentions of being a citizen of the world) who some days is deeply aware of the tremendous privilege of living middle class and white in a country where we presume peace, where violence is hidden on city streets or in far-away countries.

The lens which has struck me most these past few days is this last one. Days after I literally gasped and burst into tears at the early report that 22 people had been killed on a university campus, I clicked on CNN to see the headline for the war in Iraq. The death toll I remember in my mind was something like 178 people, killed primarily in Baghdad. And while I certainly had a moment of pause, there was no kick in the gut--no hand to my mouth in shock and despair. Why? There are some obvious answers--our country's collective apathy and desensitization to a war that seems easy to oppose but much more difficult to end, and my ethnocentric empathy that zeroes in on the losses of people who look and live like me come right to mind. I'm not certain I could open my eyes in the morning and climb out of bed if I absorbed the names, faces and histories of the people lost in the most recent bombing of Baghdad or Fallujah, but I do wonder if I would be a better person. We scroll the local headlines, reading the stories of the hometown fallen heroes, but what of the chaos we've created? If I could look at the Iraqi death toll with an image, a name or a story submitted by his or her childhood best friend, could I honestly watch this war from my living room rather than the streets in protest?

I've been talking to my daughter about war, something I never imagined possible with a five year old. But after her school sent letters to the soldiers ("They keep us safe," I believe was how she understood their job.), and we visited an Air Museum filled with fighter jet relics, it became something I simply had to do. We give the barest of details--people fighting to stop rulers who are out to hurt rather than help people--and share our own conflicted sense of whether it is okay to hurt people in the name of stopping the hurts of others, but it pains me to know that she is growing up with a war abroad that simply must have a wider impact on our conscience, and a war scene at home that seems impossibly close.

God, forgive us. Some days we do know what we do....