Palm Sunday is coming!

A sermon I wrote in 2003 ... still appropriate.

What can be said about Palm Sunday? It is the Sunday immediately before Easter. It is a day when we gather as we always do; only this time we bring these silly palm branches with us. We do this as a way of re-creating in our worship space what happened with Jesus on that day that he entered Jerusalem.

It is right for us to gather up palm branches and to wave them, but as we do, we are in danger of forgetting what happens between today and Easter; we are in danger of completely missing Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. We are in danger of falling into the same trap that the disciples did on the first Palm Sunday.

They celebrated a king they thought they knew. They celebrated a king that within a week would die brutally and in humiliation. Now the question for us is, “Can we celebrate this kind of king ourselves?” Or do we wave our palm branches and sing our songs of victory only for the kind of king that we want instead of the kind of king that Jesus actually is?

So here is Palm Sunday and here we sit in our worship space and we wave our palm branches and we sing our songs of victory and we throw around words like “triumphal” and I wonder to myself if we really do know anything about this day at all. I don’t think that we do. The Bible tells us that only after this moment; long after this moment had passed, in fact, did the disciples understand it at all. We definitely have the same problem.

The tradition of this day is to wave palm branches and to shout Hosanna! But I think the tradition should be changed. As we wave our palm branches, we should be required to also read once again the stories of Jesus’ betrayal and death. Only after we do this will we truly understand this day! Only after we see this day through the lens of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday will we truly know our king!

In my mind’s eye, I can see Jesus riding into Jerusalem on that donkey, but I like to focus my attention on the disciples that day. There they are; walking through the streets with Jesus—heads held high, proudly drinking in the noise and the acclaim. They are hearing the people shout “Hosanna in the Highest!” and they are thinking, “Yeah...I’m with him!”

But again, John, the author of our passage this morning and one of those disciples of which I speak, makes it clear that as they walk along with Jesus in this make-shift parade and as they drink it all in, the reality is that they have no understanding of what is happening. Only after...only after the parade is done; only after the acclaim has passed; only after their hero has died in humiliation; only after he rises from the dead and especially only after the Holy Spirit comes, will they see. Only after this day will it begin to make sense. Only after will they see and understand.

Palm Sunday is about the Lord of the Universe riding into town on the back of a donkey. It’s also about a bunch of people called disciples who think that they’ve got that sight all figured out when really, they don’t at all. It’s about the disciples and you and me thirsting for a king on our terms and then getting a king on God’s terms. We gather today and we celebrate the triumphal king of God coming into our lives, but will we still be celebrating and standing up on Maundy Thursday? Will we still be saying, “Yeah...I’m with him!” on Good Friday when Jesus hangs on that Cross in our place?

The disciples fully participate with Jesus but are clueless as to the big picture. They are active in their support, but they don’t know what it is they are standing for and they are at a loss as to what is going to happen next. Jesus’ betrayal and death are inconceivable to them. They are participating in Palm Sunday; they’re doing it right, just like we do every year, but because they can’t see what’s coming next, they don’t have a clue as to what kind of king this is that they are celebrating and claiming as their own.

Last Wednesday, I was in a little parade of my own. It was the parade that is known as one man’s attempt to cross a bridge into the land that we call Iowa, and it has become a very difficult journey of late. I was in a severe traffic jam on the Centennial Bridge and I was one with the people. I was angry and impatient and frustrated and I could have easily and quickly found a hundred others right there with me who were feeling and expressing with their horns and voices the exact same thing.

Just like the disciples on that first Palm Sunday I was in a slow moving parade; just like the disciples on that first Palm Sunday, I thought I knew what I was supposed to feel; just like the disciples on that first Palm Sunday, I figured I knew what that traffic jam was all about, but in reality, just like the disciples, I didn’t know anything at all.

I didn’t know anything about where I was until after something happened. It was only after something happened that I began to understand. It was only after something happened that I began to find peace and perspective. It was only after something profound happened, that I was able to hold that traffic jam in its proper light.

The traffic jam that was the first Palm Sunday only made sense to the disciples after the crucifixion and the resurrection and the coming of the Holy Spirit and that traffic jam on that bridge on Wednesday only felt right to me after I turned on the radio. The disciples needed so much more to happen before they could understand the Triumphal Entry and before I could be right with that traffic jam, I was going to need to turn on the radio.

When I did, I was greeted by the sweet and classic soul sound of Earth Wind and Fire singing “Dancin’ in September”. On and on…dancing in September, never was cloudy day! I’m stuck on that bridge and I’m singing at the top of my lungs and I’m dancing in the best way that you can while sitting inside of an 88 Buick. I sat there for a moment, still singing, now living life in a complete state of joy in the midst of a terrible traffic jam and I’m thinking, there has just got to be a sermon illustration in here somewhere!

That song literally took me out of the traffic jam. I was stuck in traffic in the physical sense, but in the sense of the spirit, where perspective runs as pure as you can find it, I was free. That simple and wonderful song took me out of my confusion and anger and got me back in touch with the big picture.

Surely you see what I am getting at by now. Palm Sunday can be nothing more than a traffic jam to us. Palm Sunday can be a parade in which we celebrate victory as we define it. In fact, without the perspective of the whole story of Jesus; without the crucifixion and resurrection and the Holy Spirit; without the song that the whole story of Holy Week sings, this day is impossible for us to handle and impossible for us to understand.

Palm Sunday has a joyous feel to it. We like to come to church and feel good when we do. We like to sing songs with a joyful and triumphal sound to them and we like to leap from the triumphal sound of Palm Sunday all the way over to the joyous feel of Easter Sunday, but that is an enormous leap!

When we do, we are jumping over Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. When we do, we are skipping over everything that happens there and everything that those moments hold and we are celebrating the wrong kind of power, the wrong kind of victory, and the wrong kind of king. Palm Sunday can only be properly understood and worshipped only after we experience and understand everything else that Jesus is first.

It’s a wonderful thing to come to church. It is a wonderful choice to make. Yet without the perspective of the crucifixion; without the perspective of the resurrection; and especially without the perspective of the Holy Spirit, we are just a group of religious folks participating in the strange ritual of waving leaves in the air.

This passage from John is about Palm Sunday; it is about the Triumphal Entry, but more than anything else, it is about perspective and our propensity to miss what God is doing because of what we lack in that regard. And what we lack on this day, as much as anything, is exactly what the disciples lacked on that first Palm Sunday—the perspective that only the big picture can bring; the perspective that only the whole Jesus story can bring; the perspective that comes only after you accept not only what this Palm Sunday is about, but also ultimately to what it leads to in the end.

Yes! This is Palm Sunday, but it is also just a beginning. It is a beginning that we can’t understand without the Cross and the empty tomb, but it is also a beginning that leads the true followers of Jesus ultimately to the place of fulfillment, purpose and truth. But it all happens only after we shout “Hosanna!” with the true perspective of the entire Jesus story firm within our minds and our hearts.

In September 1985, a celebration at a New Orleans municipal pool was held. The party around the pool was held to celebrate a summer without a drowning at any New Orleans city pool. In honor of the occasion, two hundred people gathered, including one hundred certified lifeguards. As the party was breaking up and the four lifeguards on duty began to clear the pool, they found a fully dressed body in the deep end. They tried and tried to revive Jerome Moody, but it was too late. He had drowned surrounded by lifeguards who were celebrating their successful season.

What an awful legacy! What an awful final chapter to have—drowning in a swimming pool surrounded by lifeguards! This isn’t a fable; it really happened! It really happened in New Orleans and it really happens in churches on Palm Sunday every year.

We are celebrating, but do we have our eyes open? We are celebrating, but do we have perspective? We are celebrating; we are shouting, “Hosanna!” but do we know what it is all about? That man died in that swimming pool that day not because the people didn’t know what to do, but because they weren’t paying attention at all. It is tragic because it happened, but it is even more tragic because of why it happened.

Up until this point in the service, we have sung the right songs. We have sung “All Glory, Laud, and Honor.” We have sung “Hosanna, Loud Hosanna.” Our hymnals tell us that these are the songs that we are supposed to sing on this day. The songs and their familiar melodies tell us how we are supposed to feel. Now we are going to sing a song that we aren’t supposed to sing on this day.

It is an African Spiritual, which means that black slaves composed the words to this song even though they didn’t know how to read or write. It is a song that was sung by slaves in the midst of great sorrow. It is a song that is written in honor of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. It is a song of responsibility and one that calls each of us to take ownership of the true meaning of Easter and the true nature of the Kingdom of God.

This song is called “Were You There?” Were you there when they crucified the Lord? Were you there when they nailed him to the tree? Were you there when they pierced him in the side? Were you there when they laid him in the tomb? If you weren’t, and if you are not willing to go there today, it will be impossible for you to celebrate Jesus as you should. It will be impossible for you to know what kind of king Jesus really is. Only after we let Jesus wash our feet; only after we go to the Cross with Jesus; only after we see that empty tomb for ourselves, can we wave these old palm branches in the proper spirit and celebrate the coming of the King of Kings. Amen.

God is in the Details

The car door slammed on my legs, and locked so I couldn't open it. Little did I know just how lucky I was ... I merely screamed, tried to honk the horn, pounded on the window, after watching the black sedan squeal tires while leaving the scene.

It was 10:25 a.m. Sunday, Feb. 12, 2012, and I was going to church. So I could make the door before the service started, I parked on the street. The sedan turned into the alley just across the street, and at first I thought he (or she) was going to church too, then the car started backing up, to turn around. Whether the driver saw my car, or me, is a mystery. At least to me. But I had opened the door and put my feet on the ground so I could hurry out as soon as the sedan cleared. The sedan slammed into my car hitting the door about six inches from the edge, the rest of the bumper damaged the quarter panel behind the driver's door.

My hands shook as I dialed 911, making several mistakes while trying to hit the right buttons. The operator was just as calm as they are on TV shows, and I mentally compared the several minutes I would have to wait to giving birth and decided I could do it. But I still screamed a bit, and pounded on the window, some of it from anger, most of it from pain.

A minute before the EMS ambulance pulled up with two hunky firefighter-paramedics, two women heard me and asked if they could help. "I can't open the door," I said. One of the women, who identified herself as a doctor later, opened the door from the outside. Such relief ... I can't begin to describe it. The EMS guys lifted me onto a stretcher and put me in the ambulance, and even though the hospital was less than a mile away, they checked my vitals, started an IV, and after some questions, offered me morphine. (First I called Art to have him find Marvin and bring him to the ER ... holding one finger up to the paramedic who was asking me questions! ...That's me, always trying to be in control!)

The legs were not broken and now, 17 days later, the swelling is mostly gone, although the color of my skin is darker and there are bruise scars that are likely not going away.

I relived the incident while trying to go to sleep for two or three nights. I thought of what could have happened. If I had been a few seconds earlier or later, no accident. If I had been standing outside the car, the sedan would have crushed my hips and upper legs ... perhaps killed me. If the sedan had hit the door in the middle, my legs would have been broken.

I'm not thinking about that at night anymore, but perhaps God was in the details of this accident, just like a near-death experience my friend Beth Elly Baumgartner posted on Facebook this morning:
OMG!! Driving to work this AM on I 75 a car came out of nowhere, did a 180 across 3 lanes of traffic right into my lane! Luckily I swerved to miss it during rush hour!! Lucky to be alive right now!!! Wow I'm still shaking!!"

Beth is a teacher in Cincinnati, OH, and a mom, wife and great human being. While it's bad theology to say God was responsible for saving my legs, or helping Beth avoid an accident, I do believe God might give a nudge now and then. God does have a plan for each of us, and if we're really paying attention, we might actually see it and follow that path! May God be your details as well. Happy Leap Year Day.

Home

"Home is where you hang your hat." While Marvin's been saying that for decades, I never thought he really meant it, because I thought I'd be in a wheelchair before we moved to town. Well, things are changing. As one gets older, little things are a nuisance to do, like driving to town all the time, and especially at night when my vision is not as good. When I gave up choir a couple of years ago, it nearly broke my heart. But not a tear was shed, at least not by me. A few choir members still ask me to come back, but they aren't crying!

Anyway, Marvin has finally come around to thinking somewhat like me ... his gardening days are shrinking. Most of it this year will be on the deck. The hard, backbreaking work he's always been able and willing to do is a lot more difficult than before. But he's not crying either. We both see it, at ages 71 and 73, as a part of life, getting older.

So sometime in the next year or so, we will probably be moving to Rock Island...when we find the right house with a big enough yard for a workshop for him, and hopefully an office for me. It won't be as remote as this unique home in which we live now ... out of sight from people ... but we're looking for at least a ravine where deer will travel by and where we can feed the birds. So my family can count on being asked to help us move!

We won't have the pond at our back door (pictured), or the 900 square-foot deck, the great view, the privacy so great we don't need curtains, or so many precious things that I couldn't list them all.

What about the cats, you say? Well, that's why we need a big enough house ... natch. Mama can live in the workshop, and Sam, Boxy, Oscar, Spook, Birdy, and ..... ta ta ta ... Jack can stay in the house. Just don't tell anyone we have that many cats, or we'll be like that poor woman in Geneseo with the 10 rescued dogs ... fighting with officials and neighbors.

But I will be back in choir ... and we can go out to eat at night without squinting. I can't wait!

Obstacles

"For a long time it had seemed to me that life was about to begin - real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be got through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life."

I don't know who wrote this thought. I saved it as an idea for a blog entry even though I haven't felt this way for a long time. But I do own the idea that obstacles are our life and that we need to just get past worrying about it. My obstacles have been mostly self-imposed. First, I got married instead of going to college. But in my generation college was not as important. We were better educated in public school in that era. I had four years of Latin, learned to write and was a math wizard. Didn't realize how well those attributes would serve me in later life. Whatever I did, I knew I could do it and do it well.

Second, each new interest was an opportunity. I joined Junior Women's Club in Rossville and continued in that organization to become a state officer after we moved to Moline. Barely of age to drink, I led a county-wide discussion for the White House on the needs of children. I can't remember how that came to me, but it started me on the path toward working for children's causes all my life! I raised my three kids and became a great square dancer with Marvin. He was hot in a cowboy hat and boots!

Third, we loved our lives together but we moved from small rural town to the Quad-Cities in 1969. Marvin packed all our belongings and the family in a big truck. We stopped in Champaign with the cash for the new car that I then drove, with kids, the rest of the way to Moline.With work at the Bullock office, Marvin's new position as a mill manager, and new friends and lots of fun ... all was well. No obstacles, right?

I had left the church in Rossville, led by a conservative fundamentalist pastor that I could no longer tolerate. He kept trying to tell me about his marriage problems as a way to get close to me. From the pulpit I heard no answers, just rules. No guidance and lots of obstacles to serving God. A man named Carl Ericson removed the obstacles and we became Presbyterians after moving to the farm in 1972 and where I still live. There I led the charge to open a public library in Sherrard. One day a woman came in with an opportunity that would change my life. I became a correspondent, then reporter, then editor for The Dispatch. In 1990, I crossed the street to marketing at a local hospital and worked in that field until I retired in 2000. Since then I've helped found the Boys and Girls Clubs of the Mississippi Valley and Spring Forward Learning Center and still serve on those boards. I also have been active with the Presbytery of Great Rivers for many years, serving in various capacities.

By facing all obstacles that I encountered, whether they be personal relationships or professional challenges, I've made my life what it is with the help of God. Through each crisis, most not told herein, I've turned to God for support and guidances. There's been failures and successes. I believe that with the grace of God I'm still on a journey. And that's enough to keep me moving, obstacles or no!

In the Wildwood: Prayer and Ordination Standards

In the Wildwood: Prayer and Ordination Standards

Prayer and Ordination Standards

Prayer, eh? Ok, prayer is a conversation between me and God. I may pray while I'm driving or sitting at my kitchen table watching the birds and other creatures of God's creation. I may not be Scriptural about it, but God doesn't care as long as I recognize God's love and glory. I am in awe of God, so naturally that is there. I'm not big on formal prayer, and that's what Sunday morning would be without that list of names that the congregation shares in the morning prayer. A lot of people lift up their concerns about their loved ones or issues they care about most .... and have been praying for all week. They want me to pray for them too. A friend argues that it's not a proper way to pray and that people drowse off. If people are lulled into sleep that's not because of the list, it's because they're relaxed. I've done it, but usually not during prayer. Even if they aren't drowsy, the mind wanders. That has nothing to do with the list should be used or not. I would venture to say that for everyone there, the list ritual is one of the most important parts of worship. Too often we think what may seem "sloppy" forms of worship are wrong. Who are we to say? I once was impatient with people who are rigid in their lifestyles ... like the folk who wouldn't meet after church (in another congregation), because they had to have lunch at noon, on the dot. I have mellowed.

There is a big controversy in the Presbyterian Church USA because of a change in the ordination standards. I've voted for the change since it created because it was enforced only to try to shut out gays and lesbians from ordination. But the rules required chastity except in marriage, so an older couple living together because marriage would cost them too much in taxes, or a gay in a committed relationship, or any number of other possible situations would deny ordination of elders and ministers. But few, if any, of the non-gay situations were pursued in the church courts.

I love my conservative friends in the church, and talk regularly with as many as I can. I would really be saddened to only talk to people who agree with everything I say and believe. What a boring world that would be! My prayer today and every day is that we can concentrate on what we share in common as Christians, and agree to disagree about the rest. And all the children of God said, Amen.

"I am only one, but I am one. I cannot do everything, but I can do something. And what I CAN do and SHOULD do, by the grace of God I WILL do."

Pretty good way to live, I think. Sometimes doing something is difficult. Today I used tough love on a friend, and will do it again if I think she needs it. We all have faults, but what we can and should do, we must do. Amen ....

Why do I write this blog? I started with every intention of writing sort of a memoir, but so much of what I could write, I shouldn't write! It's too personal or too difficult, too painful or indescribable. Much of my life is spent alone, with only the cats to keep me company! I'm a pretty organized person, so I handle many tasks daily, communicating with or serving various causes I believe in; dropping a note on FaceBook in reaction to a friend, colleague or grandchild; planning for various things; making certain I keep up with family events. Is that enough in the big picture of life? It is what I can and should do, so maybe it is. I don't know how to change, or want to, so that's what I will continue to do.

Marvin told me last week that he didn't know what love meant until he met me. What an amazing thing to tell someone you've been married to for nearly 52 years! I think of all the pain we've shared in reaction to others and imposed upon each other. But through such events when many people would separate, we've always hung in there. It's comforting to be in the evening of your life and marriage with a person who says such things. I can only pray that all who read this blog can experience the same in their lives.

Well, this is pretty scattered today ... maybe next time I'll find a topic to stick to! Until then, I pray you, too, will do what you can and should do! Amen.

Brothers

My brother George, Marvin's best friend, died June 3. I was in Arizona on vacation, coming down with a cold when the call came at 4:30 a.m. Arizona time. He'd died at 4:30 a.m. in St. Louis. His wife Sharon called Marvin, then she called me because Marvin said I'd want to be woke up. George was the last sibling either of us had left, and the closest to my husband. 45 years of fishing trips and various adventures brought them closer together than most people have the privilege to experience. Marvin's taken the first trip to Missouri since then and he's wept over what will not be again. But while I was gone, he grieved alone. I was with family and keeping touch with George's through the next few days, so it was easier for me. We expected the death. We drove to see George the Friday before, and sat for two hours talking with him. When we left, George stood with difficulty, to reach out to Marvin for a hug goodbye. We returned to Springfield for the night to visit with Sheila and Morgan, then home on Saturday.

The Big Piney River in Missouri, so much a part of our family vacation history, brings back more memories of George than any for Marvin. Tonight he talked about many of his good times with George, the talks of family and events sad and happy. Marvin saw him through three wives, listened to his woes, and may have been the only person George fully revealed himself to. And the reverse was true. To lose a brother is one thing. To lose your confidant and friend is another.

Tonight I grieve for both of them ... maybe on the river of heaven, they'll have another float trip.

Marvin will have one more float trip with George in this life ... to scatter his ashes on the river. He'll await that call.

My own memories of George date from about age 4 when he took me on a roller coaster. When he was visiting my folks he'd take me to a cigar store in Danville to watch him play cards (Mom and Dad weren't supposed to know!). I have many stories of him with us after we married. George taught my kids how to play cards, took Art with his family to Florida on vacation, loved my kids as much as his own. He was a flawed human, as are we all. He was often irritating to be with, but never to me. He always treated me like his beloved little sister. He made mistakes that he tried to rectify before he died. I think he did a pretty good job of it. He was a better brother than I was a sister.

But Marvin was the brother he could love unconditionally, and receive love in return. They both should be honored for that bond. I do that here, this day, with these words. May all who read this do so as well.

Not just visiting

"I look upon everything as a brotherhood and a sisterhood, and I look upon time as no more than an idea, and I consider eternity as another possibility ... When it's over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms ... I don't want to end up simply having visited this world. - Mary Oliver, from her poem "When Death Comes""

It's coming on Christmas, that wonderful time of year when light enters our lives midst the cold of winter. I'm not quite ready because my gifts, a letter to each of my children and grandchildren, are not yet written. What to say, I ask during busy days of doing the things I'm responsible for and those tasks I've taken on with that sense of call I've always had. I liked Mary Oliver's poem quote, taken from a daily missive I receive from Sojourners, a Christian website and magazine that addresses the issues of the day. Mostly I agree. Yeah, I'm a liberal Christian, believing that the congregation of God is open to all of God's created people. Those of us who've opened the door to God are given a great task, many tasks really. But all are part of the concept of amazement that Oliver wonders at, all of us are empowered to really make a difference in the world if we but step out and do it.

When I was a little girl on a small farm in east central Illinois, I often dreamed of great things ... well I thought my prince would come and take me off to the magnificent heights of a wonderful life! But when I examined the clouds while laying in the hayfield and pondering the future, I always knew I would be making a difference somewhere, sometime. Like Oliver, I don't want to be remembered as just visiting this world.

Don't confuse this with doing good as a goal for my life. God has always been there at the intersections, guiding the decisions, pushing in the right direction, helping me to see success even in failure. Perhaps that's because God doesn't measure success in the way our society does. God, after all, came to die on a cross. Just how much of a model of success could that be? Instead, doing is the calling. Visiting is not an option.

So when I write those letters, my heart will remember the poem ... and God's gift to me. I pray I can share that truth in a meaningful way. Merry Christmas!

The spirit within us

Last week I took a class on spiritual direction and, as always, learned something new. I had never thought about the difference between our spirit and our soul. I learned that spirit is the vital dynamic force of our being, given by God and that which brings our soul into living reality. And the soul is the very essence of our existence. The Biblical reference was Ps. 42:1 "As a hind (a deer) longs for the running streams, so do I long for thee, O God." God is the water of our spirit that nourishes our soul.

The longing is something that all of us feel and understand. We question the meaning of life, whether we will go to heaven, the knowledge that when we die, we do it alone, and much more about the human condition. God is the only answer to that longing. God loves every human being on earth, and gives each of us the strength to live through anything if we ask, and sometimes despite our failure to ask. When we ask for healing, God gives us a friend to talk to, or a doctor to address our physical ailments. When we ask for answers to problems, God gives us wisdom. When we are weak, God holds us. When we are fearful, God gives us courage.

The one thing God never is, is indifferent. Eli Weisel, an Auschwitz survivor and Noble Peace Prize winner, wrote in his memoir "Night": "The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference."

To feed my soul, I must banish indifference from my spirit. A friend sent me one of those chain emails this morning, and my finger hovered over the delete button. The story was about a violinist who played in the metro station of Washington, D.C. on a cold winter day. The beautiful notes of Bach filled the air. But no one stopped to listen. A few dropped coins or bills, a total of $32. Only the children tried to stop an hear the music, until their parents dragged them on, all a rush. The musician was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world, and he was playing on a violin worth $3.5 million. Tickets to hear him were $200. The Washington Post arranged for him to play as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people's priorities. The writer asked what this says about us. Are we indifferent? Do we not recognize beauty or talent in an unexpected venue?

What else are we missing?

That longing I mentioned before must be how God feels too, longing for us to notice that beauty, that gift that he gives to us every day. We really don't want to miss that!

Interruptions

Stephen King and my friend Susan Albert Wittig say that a writer must write 2000 words per day. That's about 10 pages. Sometimes that's easy and sometimes it's not. Susan was interrupted with a power outage and cleanup after a storm when she was alone in her Texas hill country home. Stephen, I'm sure, finds his own interruptions ... not just the big one where he was nailed by a car on his daily walk. I, for one, am interrupted by my need to write about something significant every time I open a blog post. How silly is that? So perhaps I should talk about interruptions.

So here I am, telling the page about my days ... Monday I trusted all my most precious old photos to the post office to mail to my brother George in St. Louis. Some of his children are visiting starting today. I am so happy that is happening because those relationships were interrupted many years with conflict. Family itself can be an interruption, because as children become adults their lives are too full of other things to spend a lot of time with parents. And when family visits, routines are interrupted. So even love can be an interruption, but a happy one!

The saddest interruption in my life just now is that I have received notice that my sister Louise has Alzheimer's Disease, and has been institutionalized for two years. Louise left home when I was a toddler and has always lived in Washington state. To explain why I didn't know she was ill is somewhat embarrassing. You see, I don't like her. There's no rule someplace that says you have to like your sister. I adored the other one, Imogene, despite our differences and disagreements. Louise was so controlling and manipulative that my anger could never be appeased. Every time we have been together has been a struggle. After our last visit, taken at the behest of Marvin, I swore I would never see her again. I instead chose to think of her walking her dog every day ... and manipulating her family. Louise was 85 this year. And I sent her a birthday card. Maybe that's why her daughter Diane asked her dad, Tom, if we had been informed of Louise's demise. Diane wrote a note to me and my brother (it's a good thing we haven't moved). But Tom doesn't answer the phone. Shall I interrupt his peace with a letter? I always adored him. So I guess I will.

Interruptions should be for good reasons, but aren't always. I hope this interruption in the lives of my family who read this will offer some thought of relationships, and how they are interrupted. Instead of resenting, we should take advantage of the moment. Therein lies the rub for me with Louise. I never forgave her interruptions. And it's too late to take it back. So here I write my regret. And ask forgiveness.

The spirit speaks

It's Pentecost, and the sermon has the usual spin...the Christian Church is born under the influence of the Holy Spirit. Those early folk were accused of drinking new wine when they started spewing words in everyone's language. But, as God raised those bones to life in Ezekial, the Spirit brings to life a new language, a new people.

My first experience with the Spirit was when I was 15 or so. I had been naughty, actually quite vicious, to a girl my age named Marjie. She was cute, little and quite sweet, but for some reason or another I didn't like her and sort of plotted nastiness. (One of those mean girls, I think, but I was not a movie star!) Now I was pretty popular, involved in most everything, and had a lot of influence on my friends and others. But I was obsessed with doing evil to Marjie, until one day in the girl's restroom and Cora Lee. She was sort on the fringe of my circle of friends so had little influence on me before that day. But Cora Lee talked to me in language I could understand, "You better quit treating Marjie so mean or people won't like you anymore." My heart was opened to guilt and shame, and I changed. I later understood that day to be an encounter with the Holy Spirit. The Triune God tries to reach into our hearts each day, in every way. The Holy Spirit is the most insidious part of the three and it found the language of my heart. Now, I am embarrassed to say, Marjie doesn't even remember that I was a meanie. But I am glad I changed.

The Holy Spirit has been there at every crossroad in my life, such as sending a friend to ask me to become a correspondent for the newspaper. That led to the best job in the world, writing for a living! The Holy Spirit was there through the nudging by Marvin that we go to the Presbyterian Church a couple of miles from our new home in rural Sherrard. That life-changing moment has led to an amazing joy in serving God through the church.

There's lots more examples, but my point is that the Holy Spirit is there every day, guiding us in every way. So don't be stubborn! Just be willing to take a risk to find your way to serving God!

Motherhood

Tomorrow is Mother's Day, a time when many mothers reflect on their past as mothers. Some  of us have regrets, but those feelings are more often pushed aside by pride. As I look at my mother life, I sometimes think I shoulda, coulda, done it differently. Then I see bad mothers, and I realize that my regrets are silly. I tried to teach my children to be responsible for their decisions, and that I expected them to be good to themselves, which meant to also be thoughtful and kind to others. Whether they remember it that way or not is irrelevant to the point – I tried to teach my values, and they had the responsibility to accept that or create their own values. And they did.

I guess all of us are influenced as parents by the parents we have. I've already written that my mother totally believed in me and that helped build a self-confidence that brought me success in life. Her faith helped build my own, in a God that has given me strength in adversity and pain. Not to mention Dad whom we all adored for being so perfect that Mother could never quite match him. My kids have seen that in their parents as well, although both of us are far from perfect. We are, like our parents, human and therefore bound to make mistakes.

So what makes a perfect Mother? It's not cookies, although they are nice. It's not meeting your every need, although she will likely try. All mothers are perfect if they practice unconditional love; if they let you experiment with life; if they remember what is was like to be young and support you when your life choices are painful. Mothers' hearts weep when their toddler goes missing in the super store until the loudspeaker describes her kid at the customer service desk. Mothers weep more during junior high, when kids' hormones cause the emotional chaos of great joy and deep depression. When she has young adults, she weeps over their troubled marriages and careers. And God forbid, but if her adult child becomes ill ... the weeping must give way to great strength. Because anything else is unacceptable.

Most mothers do all this and much more, balancing careers and marriage or other relationships with aplomb. I'm proud to be a mother, and I am in awe of my daughter Sheila and my daughters-in-laws Susan and Debra as they shine the Motherhood light in their homes. I am proud they are in my life, and proud of the model they've provided my grandchildren. For the new generation, tomorrow and every day is Mother's Day, filled with unconditional love!

Nicknames

In some circles I'm known as the "Goddess" with minor variations such as Goddess of the North (no one has ever attached Goddess of housework or something derogatory!). The nickname started 20+ years ago when I was acting city editor for the Dispatch/Argus. I remember a summer of 12 hour days at the office, smoking too much, eating too little, and losing at least 25 pounds (no tragedy ... for the second time in my life I was down to a size 10, yeh!) My job was to oversee all the reporters and assign/edit their stories. Some were rookies, others were veterans. My favorite rookie was from Kansas and her twang easily identified her when she called to say her story was in my queue. So I'd call it up, ask her questions, make some changes and forward it to the copy editors for another review before placement on a page. The Kansan (whose name escapes me) would always respond to my suggestions with "Kaareen, you are such a Godeeesss (think long and twangy)."

The name kinda stuck around, but I didn't use it a lot during a 10-year sometimes miserable stint as a marketing professional at Trinity. It surfaced occasionally, but not often.

Goddess became more prominent in my friendship with my pastor, who, younger than my kids, needs to be teased now and then. He came up with the name Bishop of all that is good and faithful (or something like that) as his moniker in response to a proposed change to the Presbyterian constitution. So I always tell him that Goddess trumps bishop on the theological pyramid. So he tried to change it to Goddess of the North, which still trumps bishop but is not as high as the original. 

JD, the pastor, and I have done some good things together for the church and community. When we discuss things, he says, "Well, that's right (or do these people quake) because after all, you are the Goddess (no twang, he's from Moline.). You get the idea, I have fun with it.

I don't think I ever shared this moniker with my family before (well, maybe Sheila)! Oh, well, now I am. Most people call me Karen, a few like my brother George say Kay. Another few go with KayBee. No great shakes with those affectations. I think Goddess is much more definitive!

I'm sure God is not offended by such frivolity! 

Thinking about childhood

I was born after my oldest brother, Arthur Paul, died. He was 17 when he came down with some kind of "blood poisoning" and was buried in 1938. My sister Imy always said I saved Mother's life. Apparently Mom rocked and grieved for much of that period until Sept. 5, 1940 when I was born, the sixth child, and unplanned, but the first born in a hospital. I don't have memory of the early years when we lived in Oakwood, then north of Danville. My memories start with the big old farmhouse south of Bismarck where Dad and Mom bought their first, and only, farm of their own. That 120-acres was meticulously cared for ... Dad was always weeding, even picking up twigs from the yard. Occasionally he would trust me to hoe the corn rows when I was older. I usually found a place to lay down and contemplate the sky. I loved to think about all the places I would go someday. An avid reader, I envisioned similar adventures filled with dashing, handsome men. My parents felt that what I did is what I kid should be doing ... playing and dreaming.

Raised alone since my brothers and sisters were grown, I was deliciously spoiled, but they didn't have a lot of money, so the spoiling was more in the permissions I enjoyed. I only remember being reprimanded by my Dad once. I was forbidden to ride my bike to visit the neighbor kids after supper, and sneaked away while they were playing cards with the parents of those kids. I don't think Dad raised his voice when he sent me to my room upon return. But I knew I'd done something wrong. 

Going to a two-room schoolhouse provided a sound basic education. If you didn't get it the first time around, you heard it again for three more years. My 8th grade class had 8 or 10 kids and we knew one another better than kids do in bigger schools. After WWII and the atomic bomb, people were afraid of the possibility of nuclear war. So many people built bomb shelters, or stored things in their cellars, hoping to survive attack. At school we were taught not only about tornados - go to the hallway, sit with your knees to your chin and cover your head – but in case of bombs, to take the first place to hide, under your desk. Now really, was that going to help? I think not. Of course we are still at risk of nuclear attack and terrorism, but I don't think people pay much attention anymore. I certainly never knew what alert we were under during the Bush years since 9/11. 

Our preacher was also my teacher, so I couldn't get by with too much mischief! Church was a big thing for us, and I tried to stay awake, even during revivals. Some of it stuck with me, because I was much more religiously inclined as a teenager ... but that's later. Little did I know that I was receiving more education than Mom and Dad had obtained growing up in Kentucky. But both were life-long learners, teaching themselves about the world and its people.

Horses were the best part of childhood for me. I'd always spent a lot of time pampering whatever animals we had, kittens with sore eyes, chickens, calves ... always knowing that the chickens and cattle were someday going to be supper. Ember was the name of my Tennessee Walker, and she loved me. We spent hours wandering around the countryside. Whenever my sisters and brothers would come with their kids, they begged for a ride. Ember was an angel with the kids, but she apparently thought adults were a nuisance and if the adult was inexperienced, all the better. One time my brother's wife rode her at an unplanned gallop around the pasture. I stood in the horse's path to prevent Ember from ramming the rider's leg into the door frame to her stall. I became interested in training horses, so Dad had Ember bred and a gorgeous filly, Flicka, was the result. Training her was not easy ... I had the bruises to prove it. One kick landed on my thigh leaving it black and blue from groin to knee for the summer. Bummer! 

Eventually, of course, I became more interested in boys than horses, and Dad sold the two mares. They ended up at a Kentucky horse farm.

The point is, my childhood was wonderful ... filled with the love of good parents and siblings who teased and taught me. Sure, I had the same uncertainties every child has. But love triumphed and their absolute belief in me made me who I am. 

I wish every child had that kind of home. 

The soul in despair

Everyone has, or will, at some point in their lives experience the pits of despair. While the dictionary defines despair as the loss of all hope, I think one must feel terribly alone as well. My most vivid memory of despair was more than 35 years ago. We were building our house near Sherrard, and because the home we sold in Moline closed before we were ready, we were living in a small motel out in the country. It's still there as apartments. 

I fed the kids instant oatmeal and took them to catch the bus at our new property where I spent much of the day varnishing, staining, or whatever task was needed that I could do. We're talking subfloors and no toilet yet, so it wasn't easy. I also tried to keep up with my volunteer duties without benefit of cell phones or email. I remember quite a bit of phone booth calling. As I recall, I was organizing a walk to raise money for a charity among other things. Marvin went to work, then came to the new house to work on it, along with the kids. We cooked supper  over an open fire, then back to the motel for homework and bed. We all remember that work with pleasure, building our home on a hill, clearing brush, future plans for horses and cattle and pigs (even chickens just one year - too messy), and of course dogs and cats. The red fox that followed us on our first walk across our 160 acres was a symbol of all that could be good in that place.

One night Marvin and I decided to leave Frank in charge of his younger siblings and go out for dinner. We argued about one thing or another ... while we share the same values for the most part, sometimes my choices just are beyond his capacity to tolerate or understand. The walk was probably one of them. Can't remember and it's not important. The argument was terrible, and we had to quit when we got back to the motel. So with unresolved anger and pain, I sat on the bathroom floor and wept. Now weeping is different than crying, and sometimes noisier ... certainly with more depth in feeling and need for smothering sobs in a towel. There I am, alone, in despair, praying for relief. And trying to do it quietly so I would not wake up the children who were sharing one of the two beds in the room. I still remember the pain of it. 

Despair has come again for me, and certainly for him, but that's his story to tell. Do I continue to challenge Marvin's patience and understanding? Certainly as much as he challenges mine. Yet we still hang on to our separate truths, as well as find common ground on the most important ones. Neither of us are quitters, so we stayed married, and have found great peace and companionship spiced with a bit of dissonance. Sort of like a good book, fine food, or time with nature.

Even in the pits I always feel a connection with something beyond. Is that God? I like to think so. I know that alone in that bathroom that night, I felt a presence. God finds us no matter where we hide. We all need to step into that light and reflect it on others. The three most important words are "I love you". Or are they "I forgive you." We need to say both of them freely. 

Hope in a meow!

Spook is a hopeful cat, and persistent. Each day, several times per day actually, she stands by the door, looks at me and says "meow", becoming a bit more persistent each time I ignore her until I finally let her out. A few minutes later she's back, looking disgusted that the white stuff is still on the ground freezing her toes. On a warmer day, say 30 degrees Farenheit, she and her mom Oscar (that name is another cat tale) will stay out for an hour or more near the house. They don't wander the ravines in the wintertime. So the small creatures holed up there are safe for now!

Spook has reason for her hopeful attitude as the survivor of a wild animal attack that broke her leg and killed two litter mates when she was tiny. Just her sister Birdy managed to escape unscathed. Spook stayed wild as a kitten while Birdy (yeah, another cat tale) decided she liked us. About half-grown, leg healed but unbending, Spook climbed trees and did other cat things. One day Marvin heard that meow and found her about 15 feet up a tree, stuck on a thorn. Hmmmm, what to do... the tree was in a ravine, and a ladder would not be a safe idea. So he nabbed the dip net and nudged her off the thorn. She fell, of course, expending another of her nine lives, and snarling all the way, went to hide and lick her wounds. 

Meanwhile, Oscar had another 5 kittens that same year, meaning we had 8 unspayed female cats and I shuddered to do the litter math over the coming years. So Marvin got the dip net again, trapped the two snarling wild ones into a cat carrier and we took all three to the vet for spaying. And the litter to find homes for them. Thank God for the Quad City Animal Welfare Center.

Well, the winter of 2007-2008 was cold, so we started letting everyone inside with Sam and Boxy, our so-called indoor cats. Spook and Oscar now think they are housecats too and Spook, lanky and awkward, loves to sit in laps. But she still hopes for the outdoors, and lets me know about it daily. I join her in that hope that warm weather will return in a few weeks (49 days until spring, yeh! but whose counting!).

Spook's courage as a kitten, never daunted by the crippled leg or humans trying to catch her, as well as her hopeful sorties for the Sun are a great example for us to encourage ourselves and others. Whether advising our children, grandchildren, friends, or strangers, even ourselves, we should always pursue dreams, and be not afraid to take risks. Hope is definitely found in Spook's meow and in our dreams. Be courageous! Go for hope! 

Sea shells by the sea shore ...

Two years ago we decided the whole family should take a vacation in celebration of Marvin and my 50th wedding anniversary. So the 12 of us traveled by plane to Florida on Dec. 26, 2008, and for four nights and days vegetated on the beach and by the pools of the beautiful South Sea Island Resort which encompasses most of Captiva Island near Fort Myers. Great food was a bonus and great company with one another a blessing.

Our condos faced the Gulf of Mexico and the well-cared-for beaches were a constant source of joy. Yeah, I know there's something elemental about the ocean, frightening for its immensity and amoral power, yet awesome in its color and the amazing gifts it bestows on those who seek it. Having fished the Bering Sea, I am well aware of the fear factor and seasickness! Yet I yearned to feel the sand and salt water and to find the sea shells raved about on the resort website. So every morning we walked the shoreline, trying to hit low tide so we could attempt to pick the best from behind a beach shelf, which is covered with water during the day. Everyone found shells, of course, with concentration and a bit of reaching! I even fell into the water fully clothed because I was determined to get a conch shell! Did I quit? Nope! Those waves that kept giving and taking back couldn't keep me down! 

The shells and striving for them could be considered a metaphor for life. When one reaches for a goal, sometimes one acquires it. Sometimes one may become so immersed in the striving that one is soaked in the work and oblivious to the rest of life. And sometimes the goal is taken back by the waves of perdition. Perhaps then our goal should be continuing to strive. To reach yet again for the beautiful shell was our purpose on the beach. To reach for our life's goals again and again is our purpose here on earth. We just need to not let the waves take our attention away from those we love, or discourage us from striving. 

During this New Year, I plan to remember the sea shells by the sea shore ... and my family's striving!

Living on ...

Surely all of us want to be remembered, that's the way we continue to live after death, at least in the earthly sense. If one believes in eternity, then life continues anyway, just in a different form (believe me I don't mind leaving behind pain for that!). But the topic is memory. Perhaps my granddaughter Shannon calling the other night reminded me of that. She asked me the names of my grandparents and parents. Well the latter was easy, but I had to look up the names of the three grandparents who died before I was born. So maybe that's how long one lives on in this earthly setting, as long as your grandchildren can remember you.

However, the most I remember about the grandmother I sort of knew ... Frances Smith of London, KY ... is that she chewed tobacco and was as delightful as a child when she came to visit us in Illinois because of the traffic in front of our house near Bismarck. Sh lived in a log cagin with two rooms, heated by a fireplace with an outhouse in back. I remember the snug warmth of feather comforters near that fire in the bedroom that held several beds. She had raised 8 kids there. My mother learned to cook there, starting at about age 4 in the lean-to back porch. The cemetery where Frances Bruner Smith was buried next to her husband Roland, was next door to the cabin I loved to visit. I thought Kentucky was a big adventure, handsome strapping woodsy men, lots of coonhounds and holy roller preachers railing fire and brimstone. I think one of the preachers was an ancestor, but most were more like the first described, especially my uncles.

So what will my grandchildren and hoped for great-grandchildren remember about me? Those memories are still happening! But there are some cool early ones. Will Aaron remember falling from the third bunk at Synod School? I had put a mattress on the floor where he would fall so he wouldn't break his determined 7-year-old neck on our first trip together! Will Kelsey and Morgan remember our being stuck on an interstate after a blizzard in north Arizona? The road crews just let the snow melt ... it always seems to by afternoon! Will Shannon and Jessi remember the adventures right here at the farm? Carried those lunches and small bags to gather outdoor treasures. 

Have I ever said anything wise to them? Or memorable? Hmmmm... that's something to think about while we still have memories happening. Whatever they remember, the important thing is that we have been together. They know their grandmother. That's a great way to be remembered. 

What do 50 years bring?

Marvin and I will celebrate 50 years of marriage on Sunday, Dec. 7. Actually we started celebrating over Thanksgiving when Marvin reached the magic age of 70 and will be continuing to be joyful until after Christmas when all the family vacations in Florida. Four nights and five days of family will be a fitting tribute to our time together. If married folk produce 10 family members they are proud to claim as children and grandchildren, then what else has meaning in life? Really!

We have accomplished other goals: good jobs, our own companies, a few good friends, and many meaningful activities. But children always make the difference, at least for me. We've both affected the lives of many children besides our own. But a long marriage isn't about doing stuff, it's about being silent together as well as talking through a shared meal. It's about trust even in despair. It's about enjoying one another, and of course, there's love. We have loved each other through pain, sorrow and anger. We don't give up on marriage, even when divorce sounded so much easier. Perhaps tenacity had something to do with it. Perhaps it was the memory of our parents saying that we must be patient and work at marriage. I don't know, really. We have found what makes being together work, but would never presume to tell others how to do it. Not all marriages are made in heaven, but surely more of them should be working than the statistics show! 

Saturday night we will dine out at our favorite expensive restaurant and toast one another. I am toasting a healthy, happy, frustrating, and long-loving marriage. I pray that it will continue to become all these things and more! Well, maybe not the frustrating part!