Gramma is dying. That’s the news I got last night. Hospice is coming to help her through the final stages of her life. I imagine she has helped others - family, friends, countless farm animals and companions – through these same stages. Anyone who has lived as long as she has knows how it plays out.
Gramma has lived a good life. She taught me how to live too.
Right now, one of the things she’s missing are her memories. I have some of them and I’m taking good care of them.
I remember sitting in church next to her, holding her hands. They were brown from the sun and from work on the farm. The knuckles were wider than the areas between them and her rings would spin around and around as I played with them. I wanted hands like that – hands that knew hard work but were soft and full of love as she held my face in them.
I remember her laugh. It comes to me, almost audibly, every day. It was a laugh that came from the most authentic place in the human heart. It didn’t hold back. It didn’t pretend to be polite and quiet. It was generous in its invitation to join in. It was real and it meant something.
I remember spending weekends alone with Gramma as a little girl. We would do chores around the farm and then she would play with me. She had a book of poetry that we would read aloud together and then she would encourage me to sing the poems. I would make up tunes and she would tell me it was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard. I believed her.
Gramma smelled like Triple Lanolin hand lotion.
It was Gram who taught me to knit. I must have been six or seven but she sat there patiently teaching me the long-tail cast on. I could only ever knit rectangles but it laid the foundation for coming back to knitting 36 years later. Today, when I knit, I come close to the peace I felt sitting on that brown, saggy couch next to Gram.
Gramma taught me to eat peanut butter on toast. Her secret was to put real butter - there was never any margarine in her house! - on the toast first. I still eat it that way.
The first person to ever ask if I was gay was Gram. It was before I really knew whether I was or not, but I never doubted her love for me and she was the first person I ever told the truth to.
When all of the grandkids were at the farm there were a lot of us. All girls until Jamie came along later. As night would fall in the summer we would beg Gramma for an empty mayonnaise jar. We punched holes in the lid, lined the bottom with grass and put a stick or two in there for good measure.
As dusk came we would begin the hunt for lightning bugs. With all those girls, there was a lot of screaming and giggling as the bugs crawled up and down our arms and we tried to coax them into the jar. Eventually the jar glowed with warm yellow light.
We would take the jar into the house and take it to the bedroom where all of us were camping out together. Gram would get us settled down for the night, kiss each of us and turn out the lights so we could watch our jar of fireflies as we drifted off to sleep.
One night, after repeating this summer ritual, Gramma did something so generous and outrageous I’ve never forgotten it.
We settled down and she turned off the light. Suddenly the room was sparkling! There were little glowing lights everywhere I looked! It was like stars, right over my sleeping bag! I was speechless.
Then I heard that laugh.
She had opened up the jar and set all those lightning bugs free.
This isn’t a eulogy for Gramma. It’s a tribute to the sparkle that everyone who knows her now carries in their soul. It’s a reminder that it doesn’t take a lot to be as generous and outrageous as she was that night when I was nine.
Gram, when it’s time, it’s OK to open up that jar and set your light free.
Thank you for being the first person in my life to love me without reservation and thank you for giving me these memories. I love you.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Things My Sister Teaches Me
I have a sister of biology. I also have a sister of choice. I’m scads closer to my sister of choice than I am the sister my parents gave me. My sister of choice is experiencing some life lessons that only those with infinite patience can ever learn anything from. And lessons that only those with boundless love can ever teach someone else.
Some things Ali has taught me:
That life brings you pain, but you can choose survival.
That if you wake up every morning smiling eventually people will want to kill you!
That courage comes and goes. . .but it never goes for long.
That the only way to move ahead is to keep looking in front of you – not behind you.
That the human heart is a wide, wide river of possibility.
To do the things that scare me. I’ll be stronger for it. I know this because she gets stronger every day.
That pinky swears are sacred oaths.
That forgiveness is a series of choices that you get to make.
That hope is the constant beating of your heart, even when all you can hear and feel and think about is the fear in your gut.
That faith is the choice you make when you can’t see around the next bend in the road.
That crocheting is faster than knitting. Sometimes we race.
That allowing other people to help you doesn’t just bring peace to your soul. It makes the one doing the helping stronger too.
That sister’s can pop into your life one afternoon on your front porch and move right into your soul. If you pay attention there's family all around!
I love you kid.
Some things Ali has taught me:
That life brings you pain, but you can choose survival.
That if you wake up every morning smiling eventually people will want to kill you!
That courage comes and goes. . .but it never goes for long.
That the only way to move ahead is to keep looking in front of you – not behind you.
That the human heart is a wide, wide river of possibility.
To do the things that scare me. I’ll be stronger for it. I know this because she gets stronger every day.
That pinky swears are sacred oaths.
That forgiveness is a series of choices that you get to make.
That hope is the constant beating of your heart, even when all you can hear and feel and think about is the fear in your gut.
That faith is the choice you make when you can’t see around the next bend in the road.
That crocheting is faster than knitting. Sometimes we race.
That allowing other people to help you doesn’t just bring peace to your soul. It makes the one doing the helping stronger too.
That sister’s can pop into your life one afternoon on your front porch and move right into your soul. If you pay attention there's family all around!
I love you kid.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
100 Things About Me • Part 2
26. I hate cold weather and snow. Well, maybe I like the first snow of the year when everything is clean and white. . .but after that – I. AM. DONE. WITH. WINTER.
27. I’ve always wanted a sister with whom I could giggle, share secrets and generally be silly. I finally found a sister in my chosen, not biological, family.
28. Feeding the birds brings me great joy. I’m not sure why. It makes me feel like a good caretaker of creation.
29. The trait that I like the least in human beings is the propensity to not speak the truth. If you have done it, admit it. If you think it, say it. If you say it, mean it. I find wishy-washy people intolerable.
30. My favorite type of ethnic food is Thai. Hot.
31. Vegetable gardening is my favorite way to spend a summer afternoon. We once grew 40 varieties of tomatoes, collard greens, 12 varieties of eggplant, brussel sprouts and okra. It was a blast!
32. The easiest way for me to worship God is through music. Good sermons are a spectacular creation of words and images that spark my intellect, but good music moves my soul.
33. Turning 40 was easier than turning 30.
34. For about 38 years I allowed various people and voices to live in my head and decide what I like, what I wear, what I listen to, how I view the world and above all, how I view myself. One day I said, “Today's eviction day, folks. Get out.” It’s a much quieter, more peaceful, more centered place in my head now. There’s a lot more room to just be.
35. I like to sing. I’m not all that good at it, but I do it anyway.
36. Every day I try to make a conscious decision to do at least one thing to take care of myself. I do it to make myself feel good and loved. Today I’m going to find the time to read a new cooking magazine.
37. I swear. I cuss. I use naughty language. Sometimes I even do it in my sermons. Mostly I do it because sometimes the only way to communicate the intensity of feeling that I have on any particular subject is to inject a *?@**!# or two.
38. I’m addicted to coffee.
39. Getting old scares me.
40. I appear to be more organized than I really am.
41. I wish I had enough time to take yoga class. In Toledo I found the best yoga teacher who taught me to integrate my breath and my mind. It was the most liberating, powerful thing I’ve ever done.
42. I love McDonald’s. I know, I know. . .I read “Fast Food Nation.” I still love McDonald’s.
43. I work in graphic arts and own a cleaning company. Neither of those things is my passion. I’m OK with doing those things just to pay the bills. They don’t give me my identity.
44. The best meal I ever ate was an omelet and toast that I cooked myself. While I ate it alone, I read the Stephen King book “It.” I have no idea why that meal sticks in my mind. It must have been 19 years ago.
45. The second best meal I ever ate was in a small restaurant in Chicago with Venessa, Jeff and Scott. I don’t know the name of the restaurant. I can’t even remember what I ate. I just remember what a nice evening it was and how good the food tasted at the time.
46. If I could start my “career” all over I think I would like to be a chef. Or a crime scene investigator.
47. I can’t dance. The last time I remember feeling comfortable on the dance floor was when I was four and standing on my grandfather’s feet as he did all the dancing. He bought me all the Shirley Temple’s I could drink and didn’t make me feel guilty for wanting more.
48. I want to see my grandfather “Pop” in heaven. I didn’t get too see enough of him while we were both on earth. I hope he’ll buy me another Shirley Temple.
49. I wish I had kept a diary of my life.
50. “Tiny Bubbles” is one of my favorite songs.
27. I’ve always wanted a sister with whom I could giggle, share secrets and generally be silly. I finally found a sister in my chosen, not biological, family.
28. Feeding the birds brings me great joy. I’m not sure why. It makes me feel like a good caretaker of creation.
29. The trait that I like the least in human beings is the propensity to not speak the truth. If you have done it, admit it. If you think it, say it. If you say it, mean it. I find wishy-washy people intolerable.
30. My favorite type of ethnic food is Thai. Hot.
31. Vegetable gardening is my favorite way to spend a summer afternoon. We once grew 40 varieties of tomatoes, collard greens, 12 varieties of eggplant, brussel sprouts and okra. It was a blast!
32. The easiest way for me to worship God is through music. Good sermons are a spectacular creation of words and images that spark my intellect, but good music moves my soul.
33. Turning 40 was easier than turning 30.
34. For about 38 years I allowed various people and voices to live in my head and decide what I like, what I wear, what I listen to, how I view the world and above all, how I view myself. One day I said, “Today's eviction day, folks. Get out.” It’s a much quieter, more peaceful, more centered place in my head now. There’s a lot more room to just be.
35. I like to sing. I’m not all that good at it, but I do it anyway.
36. Every day I try to make a conscious decision to do at least one thing to take care of myself. I do it to make myself feel good and loved. Today I’m going to find the time to read a new cooking magazine.
37. I swear. I cuss. I use naughty language. Sometimes I even do it in my sermons. Mostly I do it because sometimes the only way to communicate the intensity of feeling that I have on any particular subject is to inject a *?@**!# or two.
38. I’m addicted to coffee.
39. Getting old scares me.
40. I appear to be more organized than I really am.
41. I wish I had enough time to take yoga class. In Toledo I found the best yoga teacher who taught me to integrate my breath and my mind. It was the most liberating, powerful thing I’ve ever done.
42. I love McDonald’s. I know, I know. . .I read “Fast Food Nation.” I still love McDonald’s.
43. I work in graphic arts and own a cleaning company. Neither of those things is my passion. I’m OK with doing those things just to pay the bills. They don’t give me my identity.
44. The best meal I ever ate was an omelet and toast that I cooked myself. While I ate it alone, I read the Stephen King book “It.” I have no idea why that meal sticks in my mind. It must have been 19 years ago.
45. The second best meal I ever ate was in a small restaurant in Chicago with Venessa, Jeff and Scott. I don’t know the name of the restaurant. I can’t even remember what I ate. I just remember what a nice evening it was and how good the food tasted at the time.
46. If I could start my “career” all over I think I would like to be a chef. Or a crime scene investigator.
47. I can’t dance. The last time I remember feeling comfortable on the dance floor was when I was four and standing on my grandfather’s feet as he did all the dancing. He bought me all the Shirley Temple’s I could drink and didn’t make me feel guilty for wanting more.
48. I want to see my grandfather “Pop” in heaven. I didn’t get too see enough of him while we were both on earth. I hope he’ll buy me another Shirley Temple.
49. I wish I had kept a diary of my life.
50. “Tiny Bubbles” is one of my favorite songs.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
100 Things About Me • Part 1
In reading other blogs I keep running across these things with the same theme. I’m sure you will be quite fascinated. . .
1. I used collect metal lunch boxes from the 1970’s. I probably have 60 or so with the most valuable being the Disney School bus. Currently they are languishing under the eaves in the attic as I have nowhere to display them.
2. I grew up in Georgetown, Kentucky surrounded by horse farms. I loved the house we lived in until 8th grade. There was lots of room to be a kid.
3. When I’m tired my Southern accent comes back.
4. When I was in 7th grade my dad quit his job to become a preacher and start a church. He was 33.
5. When I was 38 I didn’t have a job. Through a lot of orchestration – by God I hope! – I became a preacher and started a church.
6. My dad has never heard me preach.
7. I hate professional basketball.
8. I have more than 100 cookbooks. My favorite is Marcia Adams’ “Cooking from Quilt County.”
9. I played the clarinet and was pretty good at it.
10. I played the piano and was pretty bad at it.
11. There were four teachers that made a lasting impact on my life – first, fourth, 7th grade social studies and high school band. A couple of them I still wonder about.
12. I learned to read quite early. The first book I ever memorized was “Me Too.”
13. I get sad when I see people eating alone.
14. The 1974 song “Singin’ in the Kitchen” by Bobby Bare makes me cry.
15. I’ve been baptized three times. I kept waiting for it to “take.”
16. I have experienced unconditional love – my paternal grandmother and my maternal grandfather. Their laughter and generosity still teach me what it means to live fully.
17. When I was 11 I read “Gone with the Wind” six times. In a row.
18. I got to name our outside dog when I was a kid. I sat under my dad’s desk at work thinking about the perfect name for a black dog with a white stripe down her front chest. I couldn’t think of one until I found a penny under the heat register. Penny it was. She lived a long, long time.
19. My all-time favorite movie is “Shawshank Redemption.”
20. I love maps of the world.
21. I’ve never seen “The Wizard of Oz” and I don’t really care to.
22. I recently saw “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” and I wish I had those two hours of my life back!
23. If I were a character from Winnie the Pooh I would be Christopher Robin.
24. If I had a daughter I would name her Lilly.
25. My bellybutton is an “innie.”
1. I used collect metal lunch boxes from the 1970’s. I probably have 60 or so with the most valuable being the Disney School bus. Currently they are languishing under the eaves in the attic as I have nowhere to display them.
2. I grew up in Georgetown, Kentucky surrounded by horse farms. I loved the house we lived in until 8th grade. There was lots of room to be a kid.
3. When I’m tired my Southern accent comes back.
4. When I was in 7th grade my dad quit his job to become a preacher and start a church. He was 33.
5. When I was 38 I didn’t have a job. Through a lot of orchestration – by God I hope! – I became a preacher and started a church.
6. My dad has never heard me preach.
7. I hate professional basketball.
8. I have more than 100 cookbooks. My favorite is Marcia Adams’ “Cooking from Quilt County.”
9. I played the clarinet and was pretty good at it.
10. I played the piano and was pretty bad at it.
11. There were four teachers that made a lasting impact on my life – first, fourth, 7th grade social studies and high school band. A couple of them I still wonder about.
12. I learned to read quite early. The first book I ever memorized was “Me Too.”
13. I get sad when I see people eating alone.
14. The 1974 song “Singin’ in the Kitchen” by Bobby Bare makes me cry.
15. I’ve been baptized three times. I kept waiting for it to “take.”
16. I have experienced unconditional love – my paternal grandmother and my maternal grandfather. Their laughter and generosity still teach me what it means to live fully.
17. When I was 11 I read “Gone with the Wind” six times. In a row.
18. I got to name our outside dog when I was a kid. I sat under my dad’s desk at work thinking about the perfect name for a black dog with a white stripe down her front chest. I couldn’t think of one until I found a penny under the heat register. Penny it was. She lived a long, long time.
19. My all-time favorite movie is “Shawshank Redemption.”
20. I love maps of the world.
21. I’ve never seen “The Wizard of Oz” and I don’t really care to.
22. I recently saw “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” and I wish I had those two hours of my life back!
23. If I were a character from Winnie the Pooh I would be Christopher Robin.
24. If I had a daughter I would name her Lilly.
25. My bellybutton is an “innie.”
Friday, December 01, 2006
Hard Lessons
I’m learning some really hard lessons about what it means to be a pastor lately.
I love the people in our church. Most pastors do. Those people who are called to pastoral ministry are usually people who love other people. (I say “usually” because I’ve met a few pastors who are more comfortable sitting in their studies, surrounded by books and papers than they are in their sanctuaries, surrounded by people. Those types of clergy haven’t been the most effective leaders that I’ve ever met.)
But, like any other relationship – friendship, familial, marital – pastoral love is difficult. No matter how much I love the folks in my congregation, there’s nothing I can do to make them heal.
When someone comes to me and talks of pain and heartache, all I can do is point them to the love of God that I have experienced. When they tell me of choices they struggle with, all I can do is offer them my life experience and my prayer. When they talk of addictions and broken relationships all I have to give is my support and my listening ear.
I can offer strength, but I can’t make them choose life. I can recommend therapists, but I can’t force them to realize that fear is a thief who only steals and never gives. I can listen and give counsel, but I can’t force someone to offer his or her brokenness to God and take even one step towards healing.
It’s a heartbreaking moment for every pastor when they realize that there are people in their congregation who want someone else to do the work of healing FOR them. These are moments in which I feel like throwing in the towel. These are situations and conversations that make me want to shout with frustration. These are the choices that I witness in which I wish I could take the person by the shoulders and shake them until they wake up.
But it wouldn’t do any good.
These are the moments that I wish I was one of those pastors who sat in my study, surrounded by books and papers – not by people. But I’m not.
Fortunately, these are also the moments in which God breaks into my soul and reminds me that once upon a time I was a person who wasn’t ready to heal. In the not so distant past there were pastors who looked at me and wished more for me. There were pastors who laid the groundwork for my healing, but weren’t able to actually facilitate it. There were pastors who were, no doubt, frustrated and angry and ready to give up on me.
When I remember those things I slowly regain hope.
After all, as I preached last week – we only see a very small piece of the picture of life. Only God is able to see the whole.
I love the people in our church. Most pastors do. Those people who are called to pastoral ministry are usually people who love other people. (I say “usually” because I’ve met a few pastors who are more comfortable sitting in their studies, surrounded by books and papers than they are in their sanctuaries, surrounded by people. Those types of clergy haven’t been the most effective leaders that I’ve ever met.)
But, like any other relationship – friendship, familial, marital – pastoral love is difficult. No matter how much I love the folks in my congregation, there’s nothing I can do to make them heal.
When someone comes to me and talks of pain and heartache, all I can do is point them to the love of God that I have experienced. When they tell me of choices they struggle with, all I can do is offer them my life experience and my prayer. When they talk of addictions and broken relationships all I have to give is my support and my listening ear.
I can offer strength, but I can’t make them choose life. I can recommend therapists, but I can’t force them to realize that fear is a thief who only steals and never gives. I can listen and give counsel, but I can’t force someone to offer his or her brokenness to God and take even one step towards healing.
It’s a heartbreaking moment for every pastor when they realize that there are people in their congregation who want someone else to do the work of healing FOR them. These are moments in which I feel like throwing in the towel. These are situations and conversations that make me want to shout with frustration. These are the choices that I witness in which I wish I could take the person by the shoulders and shake them until they wake up.
But it wouldn’t do any good.
These are the moments that I wish I was one of those pastors who sat in my study, surrounded by books and papers – not by people. But I’m not.
Fortunately, these are also the moments in which God breaks into my soul and reminds me that once upon a time I was a person who wasn’t ready to heal. In the not so distant past there were pastors who looked at me and wished more for me. There were pastors who laid the groundwork for my healing, but weren’t able to actually facilitate it. There were pastors who were, no doubt, frustrated and angry and ready to give up on me.
When I remember those things I slowly regain hope.
After all, as I preached last week – we only see a very small piece of the picture of life. Only God is able to see the whole.
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