Take Time to "Wallow"

I think I need to tell my high school English Literature teacher how awesome he was. Plaid sport coats, bowties and a brush cut . . . along with a little smirk on his face—these are the things I remember about him as he stood in front of our class. He was an artist in every sense of the word; he loved the English language and music and for some reason he loved teaching high school seniors, most of whom had no interest in Shakespearean sonnets, much less how to write a heroic couplet .

I remember walking into class one day and telling him that our school choir was singing songs from “South Pacific.” I told him that I loved the song “Some enchanted Evening” and asked him if he loved it too, fully believing that he would tell me it was “schmaltzy crap.” Instead he said, “Love it? I wallow in it.” I’ve never forgotten his totally unapologetic response to a song that, as a seventeen-year-old, I thought was the most romantic thing I had ever heard. (I wonder what he’d say if I told him that a few years later I did meet a stranger that I had spotted across a crowded room, sent someone to introduce us, and we’re still together after forty years. Somehow, I think he’d wallow in that story too.)

For reasons that totally escaped my high school classmates, Mr. Haan made us memorize poetry. There were at least six things he insisted that we recite, including works by Shakespeare, Blake and Tennyson. I didn’t understand the logic behind memorizing these works either, but since it was an easy thing for me to do, I never minded being called up to his desk to recite the latest poem. And guess what? I can still do it, much to the annoyance of my family and friends. In fact, I even learned more than what was required of me because in the process I discovered that there’s something so beautiful about putting words together in poetry.

Shakespeare’s description of love in Sonnet 116 was pretty good when I first learned it, but now it has become beauty and truth borne out by experience. Love is . . . “an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken;” it is the “star to every wandering bark . . .” I’m thinking that a little Shakespeare along with I Corinthians 13 read at wedding ceremonies might be a great idea.

I’ve also thought a lot about Tennyson’s description of prayer when he says, “more things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.” He describes prayer as a “golden chain” that binds the entire world around the feet of God. I can’t find a more beautiful description than that and I never tire of reciting it. And, speaking of prayer, I can’t think of anything better (other than the Lord’s Prayer of course) than John Donne’s “Hymn to God the Father.” In this poem of confession, Donne talks about all of the possible ways he has sinned, confesses them and ends each verse by telling God that there will always be more. Donne asks God to remind him that at his death, the work of Jesus will be complete and his final sin—the sin of fear—will be gone. I wasn’t required to memorize this poem, but after Mr. Haan explained it to our class, I claimed it as mine. Whenever I fly in a plane—you know during those few moments of take-off when all of those crazy “what if” thoughts go through your head?—that’s when I recite it.

Let me tell you one more thing about poetry that I’ve learned recently. It can get you out of a jam. You see, I love studying church history, creeds and theology—that’s one of the luxuries of my life. However, when I have to write papers sometimes I get stuck with things that seem illogical. And let’s face it, there are things we believe that are difficult to explain and sometimes seem to defy logic. That’s when I pull out John Donne. It’s not that he can explain things any better, but he’s an artist and has the ability to celebrate those things that are incomprehensible. I could write a pretty long paper about the virgin birth, but when it’s finished Donne’s words “immensity cloistered in thy dear womb” speak to my heart rather than my logic. “Immensity cloistered”—I’ll never tire of that phrase.

Donne can’t really explain the Trinity much better than I can, and admits that reason “proves weak or untrue;” yet he can confidently say, “batter my heart, three-- personed God” because “I dearly love you.” He desperately wants all of the qualities of each person of the trinity present in his own life. And that’s what matters most.

I hope that there’s a little poet or a little artist in all of us—I have to believe there is. I know it’s different for everyone, but we tend to push that inner poet pretty far back sometime. I had a teacher recently, who taught a creeds and confessions class, that would periodically interrupt himself and begin to recite an appropriate poem while looking each of us in the eye. Talk about getting my attention! Maybe we should try that more often.

I would have missed lot in my life if I had never learned to appreciate poetry or any of the arts. We don’t always have to be logical you know. A lot of people believe that artists will change the world and I’m starting to think they might be on to something. Whether it’s true or not, I’m grateful for that high school English Literature teacher, and I’m going to continue to read and recite poetry because it’s given me clarity in life, it makes us all like each other a little more, and . . . it has also kept me out of a few jams.

The Time-out Chair

So, did you know that there’s actually a “time out” chair in heaven? I’m pretty sure that’s what one of my commissioned pastor classmates told me. Okay, so maybe he didn’t exactly say that, but that’s kind of what he implied when he said that my behavior here was going to have some eternal consequence for my husband. No . . . he really didn’t say that either—I guess I better start from the beginning.

Isn’t it amazing what a well-placed “good job” or an “I’m proud of you” can do? And isn’t it also true that one bit of negativity or perceived “judgy” behavior can quickly put doubts in our minds? Affirmations and discouragements—they’ve all taken on many different forms in my life, and have sometimes come from the most unlikely places. I’ve always responded well to praise (who hasn’t?) but one of the things I’ve begun to recognize is that, not only can I respond positively to criticism, I can learn and grow from it and eventually (ouch) even be grateful. When I decided to embark on a new journey a few years ago, I gained a lot of insight and help along the way from those who were my cheerleaders, but also from those who didn’t quite understand.

I’m relatively impulsive, but I usually don’t make major decisions based on a “whim.” However, when I first decided to follow in the footsteps of my new friend, Jan, that’s probably what many were thinking. When I first met her a few years ago she told me that she was a nurse . . . and a commissioned pastor. I knew that she was close to me in age and that the pastor thing was relatively new for her, and something deep inside of me said, “You’re going to do this.” Even I was shocked at the intensity of my reaction, but there was no turning back. I knew that his was no “whim,” but it was the Holy Spirit speaking clearly through my own passion.

When I brought the subject up to my husband, I barely had a chance to explain what I had in mind when he said, “Do it—I’m with you on this one.” (He had no idea that this was going to put him in the “time out” chair.) My close friends, my kids and my pastor all expressed joyful support which made my plunge into this crazy plan a lot easier.

And so, just a few short weeks after my sixtieth birthday, and feeling the weight of great expectations, I began my first classes. I loved studying and writing papers and I loved learning from some great pastor/teachers. All of the creeds and catechism that I had learned as a child came back and breathed new life into me. I was more organized than ever and believed that I was able to accomplish almost anything. And when my final paper was written and all of the oral exams were complete, I celebrated—with my friends and family, but also with a deep joyful satisfaction that God was completing a work in me that He had started many years ago.

But, as I’ve already hinted, not every part of this journey was filled with encouragement. I know that there were those who didn’t understand my decision and those who aren’t sure how they feel about women being pastors. I’ve wrestled with this myself and I can’t even say for sure how my parents would feel about my choice. I think they would be in that awkward place of “proud disagreement.” One of my required classes was a huge struggle for me because I felt “tolerated” but not accepted by the teacher and by the solid group of male students. As I fought my weekly insecurities, I gained a new level of appreciation for those who are misunderstood. I learned to speak up without giving up even when my voice wasn’t heard.

I learned a lot from those who were going through the program with me. I figured out what kind of pastor I wanted to be, and what wasn’t going to work. I also learned that not everyone was my fan. There was one classmate in particular that I suspected fell into this category. We disagreed on almost everything except a shared assessment about the way some people treat their pets. (Sorry if I just lost the animal lovers.) But when he and I started to talk about women as elders and pastors, the conversation was harder and more hurtful than I anticipated. There are many people in my life whom I love and respect who would agree with him to a degree, but when he told me that my call to become a pastor was merely a case of my heart deceiving me as scripture warns, I was dumbfounded. He also went on to tell me that my husband would be held accountable for allowing me to follow my “deceptive heart.”

I was kind of shaken by all of this until my pastor told me that my husband would only have to spend a little time in the “time out” chair when he got to heaven—whew! That’s a relief for both of us. Seriously though, during that painful conversation, I learned things that I never would. I’m continually examining my heart, to make sure I’m not being deceived; I‘m also learning not to question God’s call in other people’s lives—they can figure out their own hearts.

So that’s briefly a story of my recent adventure. I’m so grateful for the affirmations that came from everywhere: people from my church who were excited to hear about what I was learning and actually attended the oral exams; those who were patient when I was too focused on studying and got a little cranky; my family who insisted on throwing a “fancy” party in spite of my urgings to keep it simple. And the list goes on.

But I’m also grateful for the difficult times and the challenging people. Don’t get me wrong—I never felt persecuted, rather compelled to pause, pray and refocus before proceeding. If it had been too easy, I would believe that I had done this on my own and that’s far from the truth. There were lots of people who attended the commissioning service held in my church and I felt loved and affirmed. But I was also keenly aware of the “cloud of witnesses,” that surrounded me –especially those parents and grandparents who perhaps observed from that place where the “time-out” chair is no longer needed, remembered or mentioned.

Relocation

I'm one of those rare people who have made only a few major moves in my life--two to be exact. Yes, once out of the home where I grew up into a home a few miles away, and seven years later, almost 200 miles away to a place I knew nothing about. Marriage was the reason for the first move, my husband's career was the reason for the second. Both were scary and adventuresome.

I suppose I could adjust to the nomad type of life if I had to, but I kind of like the stability and predictability of staying in one place. I remember when I was little every now and then my sister and I would rearrange our bedroom. I would lie in bed and try to adjust to the new perspective. It was always weird.

That second move that I made, happened half a life-time ago now. We had just turned thirty and Ron had the opportunity to run the Petoskey branch of Coca Cola. We jumped in with both feet. We had no idea how difficult it would be to say good-bye to family and friends. As I watched the moving van pull away from our home in Jenison to head north and hugged both of my pregnant sisters good-by, reality started to set in. Other relatives showed up at our new home to help us move and those good-byes were even more difficult. There we stood gazing out of our living room window--all five of us--waving and crying. The thought of it still makes me cry.

Fast forward a few months. Some of those same family members came up to visit us that summer. They were shocked as we walked together through the streets of Charlevoix, seeing that we had already connected with so many people, as if we were at "home." We were happy and we had no regrets. It had been the best decision for our family.

We often talk about how that relocation has changed us. We have life-long friends that we never would have known with whom we have shared grief and joy. I know that there was one little boy that Rhonda met every day at the kindergarten door of the elementary school that has become my wonderful son-in-law. In our loneliness, we immediately found a church where our gifts were discovered and put to good use. The most important change however, was our dependence on each other as a family. We learned very quickly that "we" were all that "we" needed and that we could make it on our own.

This past Christmas has been all about relocation as well for me. With our children grown and wanting to spend Christmas in their own homes throughout the state, we've begun the habit of celebrating at one of their homes. After all of the grandchildren were asleep in various corners of my daughter's home, the adults tiptoed into the kitchen, ate dessert, and whispered and laughed quietly about memories of Christmases past. Hysterical laughter is hard to suppress, but we managed. Williams' Christmas Relocation turned out just fine.

My church made a decision to relocate this year as well. We decided to move our Christmas Eve service to the high school auditorium. Relocation can really mess with our traditions, especially where holidays are concerned, but here's why we did it: we wanted to be able to invite those who might not be comfortable in church to come and hear about Jesus. And you know what? I'm proud of my church, because we understood that. In spite of a little bit of grieving, we were willing to give up what we held dear. "Silent night," sung to the glow of battery operated tea lights instead of real candles, was just as beautiful when we saw the big picture.

After all, Christmas is about relocating isn't it? I'm pretty sure that a young expectant couple didn't want to relocate to Bethlehem that close to the baby's due date, and later experience the inconvenience of relocating to Egypt to protect that child's life. And then there's the obvious--Jesus being asked to relocate and come here for us. I remember our good-byes to our family and I'm trying to picture the good-byes when Jesus left heaven. The reality of relocation must have hit pretty hard and He knew that He had little to look forward to. God didn’t look down a few years later and see all the new friends Jesus had made—instead He saw a small group of faithful followers, a lot of curious on-lookers, and many enemies.

Yet, He still would have said that relocation was good. I think it was pretty awesome. Jesus taught me this Christmas that some of my traditions need to be given a fresh assessment and that when I’m called to relocate, it can be pretty amazing.

It Only Hurts When I Walk . . . or Sit

It’s only appropriate that I woke up this morning in pain. As I limped my way into the bathroom and lowered myself onto a toilet seat that felt like it was six inches off the ground, I never questioned my actions from the previous night that brought me to this place. I had postponed a goal of water skiing one more time in my fifties to the eve of my sixtieth birthday, and I deserved to feel this way.

I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with water skiing. I love it because it’s hard and I learned to do it. I hate it because it scares the crap out of me. However, there is a certain exhilaration in skimming across the water on a hunk of fiberglass, looking at the mountainous wake and saying out loud to myself, “no guts, no glory.” When I fall, I forget to breathe out—I breathe in and generally come up gasping and choking.

I should have known I’d have a little bit of trouble. Three pins in each of my recently repaired feet, fused joints in a couple of toes, and some extra weight made it difficult to even get the skis on, but we did—I say “we” because it was a group effort. The rope came along behind me and I said “hit it,” and I didn’t get up. I said “hit it” at least seven more times and then I heard and felt the hamstring go. I wasn’t sure if I really was hurt badly, but I knew it would be wise to quit. Did you know that cool water camouflages pain? Getting the ski off my left foot and getting back into the boat—once again a group effort.

So . . . today my butt and leg hurt. I walk like I’m sauntering, but with great concentration. I’m using the handicapped bathroom stall at work. I’ll never get out of the recliner alone. Am I upset? Heck no! I could be depressed and discouraged, but at least I tried. My dusty O’Brien ski has been washed clean in Elk Lake and it’s in the back of my car. I’m going to try to use it again . . . but not today.

Instead of feeling old, I feel adventuresome. An ice pack and some Aleve are helping me cope with the irritation. (Incidentally, the ice pack leaked on to my chair, so please don’t believe any rumors of my incontinence that I’m sure may be already out there.) This pain will either go away or will remind me that I’m actually pretty gutsy.

I’d like to propose a toast to myself on this day! Are you with me? I have so many things to celebrate! So as I enter this decade, I’m hanging on and saying, “Let’s hit it!”

The Blogs I Never Wrote

My friend Doug reminded me the other day on facebook, that it really was time to write a new blog. The last one I wrote was in February during Lent and that really is pretty pathetic. It’s not like I haven’t tried though—I started lots of them, but for some reason I couldn’t finish them. I just went through them and I have no idea where I was going and what I really wanted to say.

I found one about my youngest son and his habit of collecting stuff—Simpson guys, Pez dispensers, to name a few. I even talked about him falling asleep with the Sears Wish Book open on his chest, dreaming of the toys he wanted and sometimes talked me into buying for him. I have no idea what I was trying to say; maybe something about not getting what we wish for, or wishing for the wrong things, I don’t know. But I’m sure it would have ended with God somehow. It always does you know.

Then I started a blog about my husband. It was pretty good and I don’t know why I didn’t finish it. Probably because I didn’t want to brag—yeah let’s go with that. He did something really special for me for Valentine’s Day, but I can’t tell you because it would be bragging. But it involved text messages from lots of people telling me how much he loved me, and also photo messages from him in various places carrying a sign that said “I love you.” What kind of guy would stand in Meijer’s produce section and ask a stranger to take his picture with his little sign? My guy. I should finish that one sometime.

Then I started to write one about the song “Red Solo Cup.” A friend of mine who can’t seem to stay sober for any length of time was singing this song one day. I told her that she should think of a new favorite song that might have a better influence on her life. I’m sure that I threw out some good churchy songs and she probably felt judged. The next day I was working on memorizing Psalm 16 and when I got to the verse, “the Lord is my chosen portion and my cup,” suddenly I found myself singing “Red Solo Cup.” Oo-ooh, now there was a blog just waiting to be written: God’s cup of joy versus the world’s fake cup of happiness. I never got anywhere with that one—let’s just say that even God thought it was a bad idea. Besides, the Gaithers' had already handled that. (Quietly humming, “fill my cup Lord, I lift it up Lord . . .”)

So I stopped writing because I kept getting stuck and couldn’t figure out why. In the meantime, I’ve been working on a “Faith-walking” course that I’m taking. It’s really heavy and I have lots of homework, including a daily “spiritual workout.” I committed to a lot of reading, prayer and solitude. I’m great at reading, so-so at prayer, but I kind of suck at solitude. I’m catching on though. If I read, follow that with prayer—gotta write those prayers down though—then when I’m done, I hear Him. Sometimes when I see the way yesterday’s prayers were answered I hear Him. Sometimes when I read another devotional and take a few notes, I hear His message coming through several times in one day. And if I pay attention or, as Frederick Buechner says, “listen to your life,” I hear God all day long. And when that happens, my heart is full . . . and yes, my cup is full too.

So when my friend Doug gently chided me about not posting a blog in many months, I felt compelled to tell him why. I told him that for some reason God was telling me to stop talking for a while. The world really doesn’t need to hear what I have to say right now. I believe that getting stuck in my writing is just another way God is speaking to me. I think He wants me to listen more and speak less and I guess I’m okay with that. And do you know what my friend’s response was? He said, “Sounds like the start of a blog post right there, one I'd enjoy reading!”

So, there’s the truth as I know it today. Someday maybe I’ll tell you more about my son’s nut cracker collection or about the last crazy wonderful 37 years with Ron, heck I might write new lyrics for “Red Solo Cup” that could be sung in church. Maybe . . .

The Waffle and the Transfiguration

“This is awesome! This is amazing! I need to slow down because I just don’t want this to end!” These are not words I overheard while on some exotic vacation—no, I overheard this while eating breakfast at church a few weeks ago. Apparently the waffle with the creamy, buttery pecan sauce was beyond delicious. At the time, I laughed because my friend Linda does not normally express herself about anything with that much drama! In fact, I started teasing her that perhaps she should go home and journal about her feelings and let some of that emotion out.

So last Sunday my pastor preached a sermon about Jesus taking Peter, James and John up on the mountain where they all had a phenomenal religious experience, complete with a visit from Moses and Elijah. Pastor Chip compared Peter’s desire to stay, with our own desires to spiritually stay in those places where we felt heightened emotion and closeness to God. He even used the phrase, “it’s so good, and you never want it to end.”

All I could think about was Linda and the waffle. I wished that we could have started the sermon with Linda giving the “waffle testimony.” It would have started something like this: “So one time . . . I was eating this waffle . . . and it was so delicious . . .” She has assured me that I could never have persuaded her to do it, but every time I see her I still think about it and we laugh about the story that could have been told.

I continue to think about and be challenged by those mountaintop experiences and how they’re really not a bad thing—in fact they can be life-changing. There are those moments that come out of nowhere, catch you off-guard, bring out emotions that you didn’t even know existed, and then they’re gone with little chance of bringing them back. But are they really over?

I remember one of those moments that happened when I was in high school. Since I went to a Christian high school, you might expect that I was surrounded by people who spoke openly about deep and important things and whose priority it was to learn everything we could about God. That really wasn’t the case—we were pretty typical high school kids. But, we did have to go to chapel twice a week (where we didn’t always behave well).

On one particular day we had an “exchange chapel” from another Christian school and heard some students tell us their own stories of faith. I don’t even remember those students—their stories don’t stand out in my mind, but when the opportunity was given for us to share, I do remember the first person from my school that went to the microphone and it changed everything. Something happened in the gym that day that no one could explain. Other students came forward, stories were told, guitars appeared and spontaneous, praying, crying and singing erupted. Suddenly we were able to share from our hearts our struggles and our joys. It was emotional.

Our teachers and principal were smart that day. They cancelled class and let us stay on the mountain for a while. It was a day that most of us have not forgotten. When we came down that afternoon and went home, reality hit as it always does. Some parents questioned the sincerity of such an emotionally charged event. Other wonderful adults helped us set up an evening event where we sang and studied the Bible. The group was large at first and then slowly shrunk down to a faithful few.

It wasn’t long before that mountaintop became a distant memory. We could never recapture it even if we wanted to. But as I look back, it was the well-timed event that sent me off in the right direction. I joined my church, signed up for a mission trip, and continued to spend time with friends that I knew would encourage me to follow Jesus. It’s the defining moment of my faith—when I publically claimed what I had privately believed. And my guess is that I’m not the only one. Forty-some years later, I’m pretty sure that the “exchange chapel revival” is also the defining moment for many of my classmates.

We can’t stay on the mountain, but we can’t downplay the importance of those times. Jesus knew what his disciples were facing in the near future. He knew they needed that moment. He knew what my high school classmates and I would be facing in the future and that we would need our moment too. And as for my friend Linda . . . I think He just wanted her to enjoy that really good waffle.

Jesus, Bev and Ralph Lauren

It was one of those “surprise” snowstorm kind of days—you know, the kind where the snow comes down in huge flakes and builds up like heavy cement on the ground? We had cancelled all activities at the church and I was alone in my office when I heard their voices. I immediately wished that I had already left for the day, or at best had locked up so that I didn’t have to deal with folks who still thought we had our normal Wednesday night activities. I curiously I went into the hallway to see who had braved the winter evening and there stood a couple that I had met while working at our church’s breakfast club last Friday morning. We had given them a coupon for a free dinner during our all-church Wednesday evening activities.
They were smiling, happy and delighted to be inside the warm building, even though the sign on the door and the empty parking lot told them there would be no meal served. Apparently the county transit bus has rules that people may not have a round trip ride without getting off the bus once, so the driver had insisted that they needed to get off and they would be picked up “later.” (Question to self: Do I wish to let the county know that this makes no sense?) I’m sure they have their rules for a reason, but I was immediately relieved that I had left the building unlocked.
We had to call the county back and let them know that a “pick-up” was necessary and they told us they’d be back in thirty to forty minutes—say what? Oh well, I realized that I was going to stay a little while longer. The couple was unperturbed.
Let me just say now, that one of our wonderful kitchen women had already started on the Wednesday night meal and, when we decided to cancel, she graciously finished her task and divided it amongst staff people who were delighted to take shepherd’s pie and salad home. I had my own stash in the refrigerator.
As I visited with the gentleman, I learned facts that turned them from strangers into Jesus himself. While the woman tried on all of the clothes that were hanging in the lost and found to see if anything fit, the gentleman told me about their living situation in a camper where they had no running water. An electric heater and frying pan were their luxuries. I know exactly where they live and it broke my heart. He also told me that he normally earns enough money in the fall to make it through the winter, but he had been hospitalized with spinal meningitis and had been unable to work at all. He was grateful to have a place to live and that his landlord allowed them to keep their dog.
Okay, so here’s the part where I gave them my meal. Can you believe I was still a little sad to give it up? Come on, Bev’s shepherd’s pie is pretty sweet and I could already taste the spinach salad! Ironically my pastor and I had just been talking about the Fruits of the Spirit and I mentioned that self-control was probably the most difficult for me—I even mentioned food. Dang—I hate when that happens!
So my meal was gone and I was starting to be okay with it. The woman, who had been wandering around the church made her way into the choir room and began to play the piano—no song or anything, just messing around with scales. Suddenly it dawned on me that I had left a pair of jeans in there for one of the choir members to fix for me. I envisioned her coming out with them in her hand, or even wearing them and telling me how badly she needed them. Come on God, not my best jeans! They're Ralph Lauren's from Macy’s and they weren’t even on sale! Thankfully, she didn’t ask, but I’ll never put them on without thinking about her.
After more conversation, a little bit of snow-shoveling from the woman who couldn’t sit still, and a total heart re-adjustment for me, the bus arrived. I went home a different person. I ate cheese and crackers and left-over pork loin for dinner. It was delicious and I was grateful!