A Prayer for the New Year

Here it is, the new year.

I have seen so many of these.

But really, this is just the day after yesterday

and the day before tomorrow, 

like any other.

We've done this before.

The creation of a calendar which follows

the earth's revolution around the sun

made this day significant.

Pretty cool, actually.

The spinning through space part.

But still, it is an opportunity 

to pause and reflect

on the past year and to be intentional

about the year to come.

For me, in this season of my life,

what does it mean to use this

bookend on the passing of time

to be intentional?

Let me try.

This is a time to count our many blessings 

and figure out how we can share these 

with others.

A time to remember 

that God's hope for the world

has nothing at all to do with the 

social and political constructs

we have carefully and stubbornly built.

Take a glimpse at the universe

as a reminder of how small 

our perspective really is. 

How little we really

truly understand.

And so I pray.

I pray (seriously) for world peace.

I pray (intentionally) for love, 

the kind that doesn't judge.

I pray (hopefully) for compassion

and generosity.

I pray (humbly) for 

mercy and forgiveness.

I pray (earnestly) for 

enough for everyone.

These are not just words, 

defined and sometimes

tarnished by religion.

They are actions

founded in love.

And while I have breath,

I should be doing what I can.

And so I pray.

Feeling overwhelmed 

because the task is so big

and I am so little.

Ah, there. I feel your hand in mine.

Yes, yes we can do this together.

(Even when our beliefs don't 

line up exactly

or look the same.)

We can do this together.

We have work to do.

 

Underestimating Faith

She doesn't like the questions, 

because to her and her mother before her,

faith is something private, personal,

experienced in actions 

not explained in words.

Still, she allows the questions

because, maybe, she wishes she had 

asked more of her own mother.

And so she answers the best she knows how.

Which is perfect.

She helps us imagine her

as a young girl. long hair in braids, 

sitting with her mother Sunday after Sunday, 

in a church that did little to nourish her soul.

(But perhaps it taught her 

that showing up is the first step.)

The sermons, as she remembers,

did not even begin to unlock 

the mysteries of the Divine for her.

But she discovered them later.

God does that. 

Small beginnings, one after another -

a year at a Christian college, 

then a class at the University of Iowa, 

that looked at the Bible as literature.

God's word disguised 

as a Humanities credit.

God does that too.

Married in her husband's childhood church, 

they moved around too much in the early

years of life together

to join a congregation of their own.

She tells us of visiting St. Andrews the first time.

remembering the cold metal folding chairs 

in the fellowship hall

(there was no sanctuary at that time).

She recalls the screaming kids

the chaos of that first visit.

She did not plan to go back.

Funny thing is, that's where they ended up.

And it was then that her faith deepened 

with Bible studies, women's retreats, 

singing in the choir, 

teaching Sunday school, 

getting involved in the church leadership,

putting together dramatic performances,

seamlessly linking her beliefs with 

her passions.

The small tributaries - 

her father's church,

her mother's church, 

her husband's family's church,

and finally her own church - 

all fed into something larger, 

unexpected, always changing.

A sacred place with gentle twists and turns.

God works that way.

Now at 90 years old

she gets up from her pew and walks

the familiar path up to the altar 

to receive the sacraments,

like she has, so many times before.

Perhaps when you 

grab the corners of your faith

and hold it next to someone else’s

it doesn't seem to measure up.

But to those who know her,

her faith is easy to see.

The questions make her uncomfortable.

They always have.

Still, she seems glad we asked.

The Gospel as Told By a Woman

They weren't present at the Passover meal,

but they might have been the hands that prepared it.

(You can always find them in the story

but you often have to look past the main characters.)

They gathered at the foot of the cross

paralyzed by heartbreak and grief

as the light of the world was snuffed out

and the world became dark.

They headed for the tomb

at daybreak as the Sabbath ended

driven by the need to care for their Lord's body

and became the first witnesses 

of the resurrection,

delivering unbelievable news to the disciples

and really, the world.

What I would give

to hear the story of God's love through Jesus,

told by these woman.

The women who loved deeply enough

to be there, in the midst of the suffering and hate.

Bearing witness as it turned into

the Greatest Love.

Come, listen.

Spare Change

I sat in church on Sunday morning, a welcomed visitor, feeling at home, experiencing worship through music, scripture, and a sermon that took off from where my morning devotions had taken me earlier that day.

Midway through the service I heard it announced that this month's change offering was going to Noah's Ark Children's Ministry Uganda, the place my daughter and her family live and serve. The offering plate was passed around and loose change and bills were collected from the small congregation.

I watched a young boy carry the offering plate to the front of the church, reaching up high to set it on the altar. The image of that young boy transposed itself in my heart and mind to the children I have come to know and love at Noah's Ark. Young boys of similar age, worlds apart, loved by the same Father.

My heart was filled in unexpected ways that morning. God does that.

From the generosity of a small congregation, into the hands of a young boy, pausing at the altar, and landing in the hearts of children whose world is defined and limited by poverty.

The offering plate held more than coins that morning. It overflowed with love and hope. 

Yes, God does that. 

Boz, Bozley, Bosco, Doofus

It didn't matter what name you used - he never came for any of them. 

Twelve years without learning what the word "come" meant. (Yeah, he probably knew. He also had it figured out that we couldn't stay mad long. And he was right. He trained us well and to hear him tell it, we weren't always fast learners.)

He came to us from a rescue agency, four months old. When we arrived to pick him up, he was lying on his back on a couch, all four legs in the air. At first we thought they drugged him and we'd find out why after we got home. Turns out, that was just one of his preferred positions.

As a youngster, he honed his skills at thievery, extending his home range beyond our five acres and bringing home treasures from the neighbor's yards. The one he was most proud of was a self-feeding dog station (almost as big as him). Took a few phone calls to find the owner of that one. Thankfully his zucchini phase was short-lived.

We called him our antidote to an empty nest because he arrived when our youngest headed off to college. Our girls referred to him as Brother. He participated in all family events, but never looked at the camera for group photos. He was the main character in the Great Thanksgiving Day Massacre. (Ask my sister-in-law about that one. It's best told over a beer.)

Together we put on miles and miles in the forest behind our house, or on the trails, and nearby logging roads, so many places. Places I would not have had the courage to explore on my own. (I apologize profusely to all the animals he chased. Refer to paragraph one - he never came when called.) 

He made "Goof Camp" extra fun for our first two grandkids, and stuck around long enough to meet and briefly entertain the next two, mostly by Skype. He was an excellent Uncle to our daughter's Sadie Bear, as she attempted to chew off his legs for no apparent reason, other than they were there.

They were quite the pair and together outweighed me, which made walking them on leashes a significant challenge and often involved cuss words. We had many firsts together, like when he ran me headfirst into a tree. The emergency room doctor acted like that wasn't unusual. (He must have had a similar dog at home.)

Like many dogs, he had an affinity for rolling in all things with disgusting smells and had a ridiculous fear of baths. Although we were told his genetic make-up contained many things including lab, he was convinced he couldn't swim. He was, however, a top-notch wader.

He considered fetching a ridiculous pastime and would not participate. (Sitting on command and other tricks fell into the same category.)

Bozley made friends with everyone he met, and made sure that anyone who arrived at our house left covered in dog hair. He usually moved over a little to accommodate guests on his couch.

He trained my husband to put extra treats in his dog food AND he made him sing made-up songs when he fed the two of them. (This is a man who, at one time, thought dogs belonged outside. And definitely not in our bed.)

He was always, always, always so happy to see us. He hated suitcases. He loved going for rides and sticking his head out the window. He did not enjoy wearing birthday hats. He never held a grudge. 

We tried to let him know how spoiled he was. That not all dogs enjoy the freedoms he had. He listened politely, thumped his tail. And fell asleep.

Now this little house feels awfully empty. If we're being honest, we probably always hope (on some unspoken level) that we'll outlive our pets. But that doesn't make saying goodbye any easier.

So thanks Boz. It was a hoot. You done good ol' buddy. You done good.

Being honest

If I am being honest,

and if you listen carefully,

you can hear it.

My voice mixed in

with the shouts of others.

First it joins from the edge

of the procession, 

shouting "Hosanna!" 

in a cacophony of hope.

And then, later, 

you can hear it again.

But this time is comes from

a place within me that 

I like to keep hidden.

(Where you find selfishness,

envy, and greed.)

Perhaps it is only whispered,

but still, it comes from my lips.

So ugly I can't even write it down.

Thank God this is not

the ending of the

story.

The Prayer of a Sixty-one Year Old

 Dear Father,

Thank you for every single one of

my sixty-one years.

I hope for more time on this earth

because I truly love seeking the things not of this earth. 

A spiritual paradox.

Faith, family, and friendships grow stronger 

as relationships grow deeper, roots intertwining.

Thank you for the people in my life

(and for those I have yet to meet).

May I listen to their stories with gentleness and compassion.

Life is different at sixty-one. 

I notice reverence has become a more constant companion.

Everything is holy and sacred when you remember to notice.

Be still. And know.

I try.

Even though it startles me at times,

I thank you for my gray hair and wrinkly skin,

reminders that I have lived.

That I am alive.

This place in my life finally allows me to recognize

it is the questions I love discovering.

Having the answers is not so important.

Adopting a posture and an attitude of seeking.

Counting on your promise that when we do that

you will be found.

My perspective and my capacity for understanding 

change with time but you remain constant.

For that I am so very grateful.

Learning to lean into your love. Again and again.

And then again.

Releasing and receiving, both.

I think about the plans you had for me

when my mother first held me in her arms,

and I wonder how many times I have resisted those plans. 

How many wrong turns taken.

Missed opportunities.

And still, 

you motion for me to come into your arms

in a loving embrace that I will never outgrow.

Now I begin each day

trying to be more careful and intentional.

Trying to notice you at the center.

Trying not to waste the moments.

Sixty-one years.

The world has changed.  And so have I. 

But not you.

Thank God.