Trip to the River

Sunday, July 18
Moments of Grace

4 years ago, I said to The Husband, “Our vacations are always going to where family is.  We need to find a place and go on a trip, just us and the kids.”  I searched for a place in the mountains, where The Husband could get his fill of fishing and where I could sit by mountain stream, watching waters rise.

We found the place. And it has been a place of healing, and joy, and numinous moments of experiencing God.

And … it has become a gathering place for family.  Shy of just one, all the members of both his family and my family will join us this week.  Privately, he and I sometimes get a giggle.  “Good thing we found a place for just us and the kids.”  But we feel blessed that they want to join us.  What a gift to our kids.  And to us, now that you mention it.

We arrived here midday.  First thing, before any unpacking, we have to come out to the river to make sure it’s still here.  It is.  Through all the tears and heartbreak we experience during the rest of the year, that river is constant.  It is always here, waiting.

My parents open up their cottage, leaving the doors ajar to let the fresh air in.  A rufus hummingbird wanders in, and gets trapped between a curtain and the window.  My mother opens the curtain, but he is too tired, and just sits there on the windowsill.  She carefully picks him up, and he sits there in her hand, his heart beating rapidly.  She takes him outside and sets him on the wood railing of their porch.  Immediately, he lifts up and flies away, zooming this way and that.  “I have held a hummingbird,” she says wonderingly, blissfully, the rest of the day.  Moment of grace.

There is a giant deck built over the river.  Our tradition that we insist on (not that we get any argument) is that the first evening is “wine and cheese night” on the deck.  When we arrived, it began pouring.  “Might have to do it inside,” my mother says. 

But the clouds blow away and the sun comes out, drying everything.  At 6, we come out of our cabins, and load the tables.  Smoked blue cheese, butterkase, sharp cheddar, brie, black pepper  cheese.  Shrimp dip, the same kind Mama made for our wedding; livervurst pate, mushroom pate, raspberry chipotle sauce poured over a block of cream cheese.  Chewy Texas sausage, chunked and seared.  Breads and crackers.  “This bread is wonderful,” my mom raves.  My dad agrees.  “Where did you get it?”  “The Walmart by your house,” I reply.  Outdoors is better than MSG.  Red wine and dry champagne, cokes for the kids.

“Look, look!” cries Bo Peep.  Across the river, a mule deer wanders, followed by a smaller fawn.  They look at us, then go back to their business of nibbling and wandering.  Grace.

After we have had our fill – and then some – a light rain visits.  We pack up everything and put it all away.  Dishes clean, we pour more wine and sit on the porch, the adults talking stories of when they were young siblings.  Our young ones listen quietly, secreting away little details of impropriety that they can use against us later.

We open the windows and go to sleep with a cold breeze slithering in.  In the middle of the night, Little Warrior comes in.  “I can’t get back to sleep.”  I allow her into the big bed.  She slides her arms around my neck and goes to sleep, koala style.  The Husband wraps his arm around my waist and we drift back to slumber.

Monday, July 19, 2010

“Now that’s what I call a baptism!” says The Princess.

I have just lifted my head from the river.  It is very cold, melting snow from higher up the mountain, but the sun is hot today.  We dipped our toes in the water – ooh, so cold!  But we couldn’t resist, she and I.  Others stood on the bank as we carefully make our way,  first to this rock on the right side near us, then to the rock in the middle.  She sat there, and I said, I’m going to go all the way across.  Her eyes lit up.  I made my way across, a little slip here and there, but never went down.  She, of course, had to follow suit, and did so, nimbly.  We sat on a rock and talked about how once you got used to the cold water, it felt good.  We were hot on top, cold on our toes.  “I’m going to sit in it,” I said.  She smiled broadly.  “Me, too.”  We sat down, the water now up to our chests.  “It tickles!” she said, giggling.  We talked about the water, and the rocks, about how we wondered how long they’d been there.  She bent over and dipped the top of her head in the water.  “It feels great!” she said.

We sat there a bit longer and then the urge to go completely under was just too much for me.  “Okay, I’m doing it,” I said.  I felt behind me carefully – wouldn’t it be my luck to conk my head on a rock like an idiot! – then slowly went backward.  Underneath, the water swirled all around and over me.  I come up and take a deep breath.  Refreshing, I think, in all the fullness of the meaning.  “There will always be waters to refresh you,” shimmers God.  I dip back again. 

“You’re crazy!” yelled Aunt GlamourGirl from the deck above us.  We smile and wave.

Our clothes completely soaked, we make our way back out, with a little lesson in physics.  “If you try to go back the way we came – upriver – it will be more difficult than if you make a diagonal and go with the flow, then walk back,” I explain.  The Princess sees the logic in that. 

The others have all gone elsewhere now, back to the cabins, walking dogs, or throwing horseshoes.  The wind hits our sodden clothes and we shiver.  “Let’s get in the hot tub!” I hiss at her.  “Shhh!”  We go around the back to where no one can see us, and hop in, wet clothes and all.  The warmth feels good, but it is obvious that the shared secret with her mama feels even better to The Princess. Someone walks near, and we duck down, giggling. 
---

Dinner that night is by Mother-in-Love.  “Taco Mountain” she calls it.  We heap our plates appropriate to the name and dig in.  It’s delicious.  The strange ingredients in it – pecans and coconut??? – make the dish.   Trust me.

Here you go.  This recipe feeds 25, making it perfect for a potluck.  (You can also shrink the amounts.) And yes, there’s beans in it.  But it’s not called chili, it’s called chili sauce.

Taco Mountain
serves 25

2 bags Fritos, crumbled
1 large box rice (cooked by direction)
chili sauce (recipe below)
1 lb cheddar cheese, grated
2 heads lettuce, shredded
7 tomatoes, fresh cut in small sides
3 onion finely chopped
1 jar green stuffed olives, chopped
1 pkg chopped pecans
1 package shredded unsweetened coconut
1 jar hot sauce
2 or 3 oz doritoes

Place all on table in order.  Stack in plate in layers, like taco mountains.

Chili Sauce

4 lbs ground meat
3 chopped onions
2 cans chopped tomatoes
1 large tomato sauce
2 cans tomato puree
4 Tbsp. chili powder
2-3 tsp garlic  powder
2 23oz Ranch Style beans

Combine.  Simmer 1 hr.

Tuesday, July 20

We are on a 2 hour trip within our trip, to go to another town to go rafting.  Gentle rafting, since we’re taking the children.  Aunt AdventureGirl, who conceived and provided the trip, is sitting up front with The Husband, looking at a map and discussing this and that with her brother.  I sit in the back, idly trying to get a signal on my iphone so I can check my email for the first time in 2 days.  I finally get one as we get to a small city.  Something unexpected, that makes my day brighter – I have an RSCC appointment for October. 

We get to our destination, which is at the end of what will be our raft ride, climb aboard an old school bus that takes us upriver to the start of the raft ride.  Apparently one of the guides is Jeff Spicoli. 

We divvy up children to adults, strap life jackets on all of ourselves, and hop in.  Our guide is a former army psychologist, working on her Ph. D. in psychology.  She spent two years working with soldiers as soon as they would return from Iraq or Afghanistan.  Her eyes grow dark.  She has scars of her own from that work.  I tell her about one of my friends, of whom I am very proud to know.

She turns the conversation back to the river and guides us in our oar-ing.  We get to a calmer spot and pile out of the boat to swim around.  The current carries us and the boat down the river.  Even with the life jacket, Little Warrior is a little frantic.  “Just float on your back,” the guide coaches her.  To float on her back, backwards, offers too little of a feeling of control for LW.  We compromise, with me floating on my back, and her partially on my stomach, on her stomach, facing forward.  She looks like a baby turtle.

We swim, we float, we get back in and raft through a tiny bit of rapids.  We hit a big bump and The Husband nearly gets bounced out of the raft.  I grab the hem of his shorts and pull him forward long enough for him to regain his balance.  For the rest of the day, I remind him that I saved his life.  He goes along with it, agreeing that that was indeed what happened. 

We have lunch on the riverbank, then finish our journey.  The Princess wistfully looks downriver, where the longer, white water rafting trips take place.  “Please, can’t we do that next time?”  I am raising an AdventureGirl of my own.

The sun has mostly dried our clothes, so we don’t bother changing when we get back to our cars.  AdventureGirl goes with her mother and her gentleman friend, and The Boy, who is prone to car sickness.  The girls and I want to take the high road back to our cabin, so The Husband takes us another way, high through the mountains. 

I am with The Princess.  I want to go farther.

Wednesday, July 21

We get up early to say goodbye to AdventureGirl and GlamorGirl.  After a quick breakfast, we join my father in going to a fishing spot upaways. 

The Princess did not want to go fishing.  A couple of years ago, she was at a girl scout camp, and a friend got a hook in her hand by walking behind another girl fishing.  “Pops will show you how to be safe,” I tell her.  We make a deal – she will give it another try, and if she doesn’t like it, that’ll be that.  And no matter what, I will take her out in the river again.

Pops has been fishing since he was 2 ½.  Literally. His family would tell stories of this little punk kid fishing.  Our vacation trips always included some type of fishing.  Mountains, lake, ocean – always, there was fishing.  He is 80, so he has been fishing 77 ½ years.  He gently explains to all the girls, but especially The Princess, how to be safe.  “You always stand on the left, since most fishermen will cast on their right.”  I remember the old thing that used to be said about which ear to pierce if you were a heterosexual male:  “Left is right, right is wrong.”  I repurpose it for a better use.  Little Warrior solemnly repeats it after me; she knows her right from her left.  “Left is right, right is wrong.”  She sits down on Pops’ left.

We are at the children’s fishing pond.  I leave the girls in Pops’ experienced hands and wander down to the lower pond where The Husband and The Boy are.  The latter is 14 now.  He is no longer permitted to fish at the above pond.  He is frustrated – he can see a nice-sized rainbow trout swimming just below the surface of the water.  It mocks The Boy’s attempts to catch him.

Back at the above pond, Bo Peep and Little Warrior are playing in the tiny creek that feeds the pond, while Pops and The Princess get some serious fishing in.  The Princess has already “caught” two – Pops tossed the line out, hooked a fish, then gave it to her to reel in.  He is teaching her how to cast and reel in on her own.  They are using small spinners, but the pond is full of plants, so it’s a trick, to learn to begin reeling in as soon as the lure hits the water, so that it never goes too deep, never gets hung up.  “She has the most natural instincts about fishing than any kid I’ve ever worked with,” Pops confides to me.  “She just gets it.”

Toss, reel, toss, reel.  The Boy and Husband aren’t having any luck, so we decide to call it a day.  “One more cast!” says The Princess.  She casts, gets a strike, sets the hook, reels it in.  As she brings it in, she’s hollering, “I did it all myself.  ALL of it!  Didja see?  I did it all myself, with no help!”  Others around the pond chuckle. 

A few more casts, then we gather up what we brought in.  Bo Peep and The Princess go with Pops in his car, LW and The Boy with The Husband and I.  The way back is right at the edge of the mountain most of the way.  The Husband is driving very slowly, and thank goodness, as we come around a curve and nearly hit a large doe.  She looks at us thoughtfully, then turns and walks back down the mountain.  As she does, an itty bitty spotted fawn pokes its head up to take a look at us.  Then it follows Mama, down down the mountain.

--

When we arrive at our cabin, we see that Brother Lizard Eater is here with his wife.  They are in a cabin we’ve never used before, so I and my mother go check it out.  Her eyes are sad.  When we are away from the children, she tells me that a realtor came by our cabin while we were gone.  It is being sold.

I am heartsick.

The Princess comes up, reminding me of my part of the bargain, to take her to the river.  We go down, carefully wade across the cold waters, and sit on a large rock by the edge of the water.  I cannot help myself.  I weep.

The Princess is the private type herself, so she doesn’t pry.  I weep for the past – this was where we came after LW had cancer the first time, it was where we came after she had it the second time. 

I weep for the future plans I had in mind.  Next year, I will be doing CPE, but The Husband and kids were still going to come.  And the far off future dreams … on the way up here, Sunday, The Boy said, “Wouldn’t it be cool if we keep coming here, and then we grow up and bring our kids here?”

The Princess is quiet.  I thank her for letting me letting my emotions out.  I assure her that no one has died, no divorces, nothing like that.  She really wants to know, though.  I don’t know if it’s the right thing, but I tell her.  She weeps a bit, too.  Then we talk about the wonderful memories we’ve had, and how this might mean that we find an even better place. 

I remember the words given to me a couple of days earlier. “There will always be waters to refresh you.”  They take on new meaning today.  There will always be a place for me to find healing, find God, be refreshed.

We cross back over the river, calm and more at peace.

Thursday, July 22

Up early for another goodbye.  Mother-in-love and her gentleman friend (I really need to name him, he is a lovely man) continue on their 4 week trip.  “I’ve got the dates written down for your thing in October,” she tells me.  “I’ll be there for whatever you need me to do.”

A day to laze.  Brother Lizard Eater and his wife, Bitty Thing, come over to our cabin and make breakfast tacos for all of us.  Bitty and I lounge around til 11:00, drinking coffee, having girl talk about makeup and their recent move.  They have a very different marriage than ours – no children, and they split their time between three homes.  We talk about the need to keep communicating, especially in situations like theirs, where they frequently are not in the same home at night.  We discuss the concept from How to Improve Your Marriage Without Talking About It, that the vast majority of issues between men and women come down to a fear of abandonment (women) and a fear of being shamed (men). 

The children flit in and out, down to the dock (but never the river, unless with an adult), to Bubbe and Pops’ cabin, racing around the property. 

I eventually stir myself to take a shower, then walk down to have a mimosa with the rest of the grown ups.  We sit on the porch of my parents’ cabin, solving all the problems of the world.

Buffalo burgers and bratwurst for dinner, topped with New Mexican green chile.  Afterwards, we go down to the river where The Husband (former Eagle Scout) has built a large campfire.  I play guitar, we all sing, and the children are stuffed with s’mores til they can ask for no more.  A distant roll of thunder and a bit of lightning say it’s time to call it a night.

Friday, July 23, 2010

We chat with the landlady and any hopes that new owners will continue renting out our cabin are dashed.  It is time to find a new place.  New adventures await.

Wanted:  4+ rustic cabins, all on same property.  1 to sleep 6 people, the others to sleep 2 each.  Mountain location and river/lake mandatory.  Maid service unnecessary.  Kitchen appropriate to a riotous multigeneration family that loves to cook, drink, and eat.  Property must have memories of its own, with room to spare for new memories.

We bounce between the different cabins all day.  Bubbe’s breakfast casserole at our cabin, drinks at Uncle’s, conversation on Bubbe and Pops’ porch.  A game of horseshoes.  The Princess and The Boy and I wade across the river one last time.  I find a gorgeous green rock.  “It’s your Awesome Stone of Power,” The Boy proclaims. 

I bet you wish you had an Awesome Stone of Power.

There is talk of more fishing, but what I want to do is curl up and read a book.  I feel a little guilty – I can read a book anywhere.  Nature solves the problem for me, delivering a powerful rainstorm, complete with thunder and lightning.  The thunder echoes off the mountain walls.  We putter around, doing laundry, a little packing.  By evening, it is cold enough for a fire.  A glass of wine, a book, a fire, and my family.  It is my favorite “emotion,” – cozy. 

Tomorrow morning we will pack up and stop at the double ponds to go fishing one more time.

The last time.

Drunk With Dancing

I got a wonderful surprise yesterday, when the Hysteric Cleric showed up to see me preach. 

The kids and I were discussing yesterday's service (they are fine critics), and The Princess commented on the Hysteric Cleric's dancing.

First, I have to mention that the HC is the only person I know who can compete with me in sheer, unadulterated lust for good music.  We are a bit competitive when it comes to finding a new jewel of a song, but happy to share.

Where the HC has me beat is in dancing.  He has no inhibitions.  NONE.  AT ALL.  He would dance in the face of Satan, if the song had some soul in it.  Including, or especially, at church.

"I think that he was drunk on dancing," noted The Princess.  She was quiet for a minute, then added thoughtfully, "I think more ministers need to be like that."

Just realized

Just realized this little tidbit:

This is the longest LW has gone in her entire life without cancer. 

Off to celebrate with some Mexican food.  Olé!

NED

No evidence of disease. We have beaten our record.

Waiting

1:25 Waiting.

We've had lunch, given the samples of blood and pee. Now, we wait for our appt to hear the results. Appt was scheduled for 1:20, but they never happen on time. The Husband has to leave at 2:30 to pick The Princess up from camp. Please hurry, Doctor. I feel better when I'm not the only one receiving the news.

11:00 We stop in the chapel I can say a little prayer. I see the shadows of the younger me's ... A couple of them are weeping, several are joyous.

11:20 we go up to the cancer floor to see if they can take her labs so she can get her iv pulled. They squeeze her in.

11:40 The Husband took Bo Peep in to the office today. They're in the area, so they're coming over to lunch with us. LW can't wait to tell Peep the exciting news. They gave some pink adhesive tape which is great for making Barbie tops! Whoo hoo!

Gulp

9:00 time for the donut ride. She slides in and out the ct ring. Hold your breath! Now breathe. The nurses talk about what a pro she is.

9:20 I think it's time to go. A nurse approaches me, awkwardly. "My boss would like to talk to you ..." I blanch. She continues on, something about ... Pictures? Huh?

"This isn't about her scans?" I confirm. The nurse realizes her mistake. Oh no no no, she reassures me.

They are asking permission for LW to be a model for their new website. Ohhh. LW is patient with the photo taking, very cooperative. She even magnaminously gives her autograph to a nurse who requests it, since she'll be "famous." "I'm already famous," she whispers to me.

10:13. We go down to the cafeteria. Apple jacks for LW, coffee for LE.

Live blogging via iPhone

5:30 am. The alarm rings, seeming way too early. I get up, wash my face. My evangelical friends talk about putting on the armor of God each day. It's a warrior imagery I've never cared for, but today, the idea of fortification sounds good. I settle for nice jeans and a blouse.

5:50 am. I do a quick check of email to find loving comments here, wall posts and facebook comments of love,thoughts, and prayers. An email from Father Mac that he'll be in prayer for LW this morning. I lean forward to turn off my computer and hear metal clank. I look down to discover my body firmly dressed in a suit of silver armor.

6:00. On the road. "I woke up, it was a Chelsea morning..." from the speakers. The grey sky denies this.

6:35. It is not raining, but swirling around downtown, up ahead, are dark clouds, so low I can't see the tops of the skyscrapers. I steer our car into them.

6:45 The rain is coming down so hard, I can barely see in front of me. But even thicker are the memories. That's where we used to stop so I could put emla on LW's port. There's the overpass I watched them build.

We stop at the light in front of Methodist hospital and I am between worlds. Methodist is where LW got radiation. Methodist is where I hope to do my chaplaincy next summer.

7:00. We are here. We park in the same space we've parked countless times, where I would unpack a car laden with objects to convert a hospital room into a home for 6 days.

7:15. In full mama bear mode, I begin warning every nurse we see that we need their best needle person to put in LW's iv, the FIRST time. My phone chimes intermittently as friends facebook their love and concern. They make us smile.

8:00 LW is drinking contrast and interestedly watching Alice fight the Jabberwock on the hospital movie channel. And we wait.

It's a curious thing, to know that the next day, your heart might break into a million pieces.

Or rest with relief.

Shrugging Off

They call it "shrugging off" and in preparing for ministry, we are taught to be aware of others doing it, so that we may help people to move out of it, and be more authentic.

It's when we act as if something big is a mere trifle.  "Mary," we say to the woman who has suffered a heart attack, "How ARE you?" 

"Oh, it's really no big deal," Mary says with a shrug.  "Just need to eat better and get more exercise."

Of course, being taught this doesn't mean that we necessarily model authenticity.  Ministers are perhaps the worst -- "Oh, I'm fine," we say.  "I'll be back in the pulpit next week."

It is a teeter-totter for me.  On one hand, I don't want Little Warrior's cancer to define her, or define me.  And it is a conversation-stopper, I can tell you.  And life goes on.  It is not something that guides all that we do.  It was a normal part of her life, for us. 

"It's not like it was the worst thing to happen in my life," I think to myself as I type this.  And I stop.

Of course it was.

And even if we wanted to just shrug it off, pretend it was just a couple of blips, reality intrudes. 

Little Warrior goes in for scans this Thursday.  It's always hard, always.  This one, a little more so.  Because this is the appointment -- 1 scan shy of the 2 year marker -- where she relapsed.  I still remember going down for scans, eating a salad while she had them done, telling The Husband that I would be surprised if anything showed up.  Fool me twice ...


I spoke to a mentor recently about being gentle with herself.  It's advice I've given before.  And when I'm talking about another person, I truly believe in it, and understand it.  But I'm not really sure what being gentle with myself means.

Maybe it means indulging in a little bit of navel-gazing on my blog.  And not shrugging it off when a friend says, "I'll pray for LW."  And being honest when someone asks me about it.

"So, you had no idea, the last time," a friend asked.  That's right, I tell her.  With the recurrence, there were no symptoms, the only sign was a dark spot on an MRI.

"I don't know how you and The Husband do it," she says.  "How you live with the fear."

And this time, I don't shrug it off.  "It's damned hard," I say. 

"But we're the lucky ones," I add, my thoughts going to those who have something much harder, impossible to shrug off.

Universalism and Mission

I am a Universalist.

I am a "missionalist."

And I find it very difficult to speak of one without speaking of the other.

One of the dangers of being missional, if you are a Christian, is that they will call you ... (dramatic intake of breath)

A universalist.

Few of the non-UU missionalists will admit to being a universalist, but what is interesting is how many do not quite deny it, either.  They are coy.  They plead humility, something I wish more of us would do.  "Hey, God can do anything -- I certainly can't say he won't save everyone," they say.

But they eschew the label.

I embrace the label, I roll it around me, enjoy its soft comfort, its organic feel.  I am a mother and I will admit that I naively just don't understand how any loving mother could not be a universalist.  It just comes to something so simple and basic for me.  This love I have for these four little creatures -- no matter what they could ever do, I would not want them to suffer eternal torment.  I would not want them to be separated from me for eternity.  I will always love them.  No matter what.  And how could "heaven" be "heaven" to me, if I knew they were suffering? 

"But is that what you believe?  That we're all going to heaven when we die?"

Not exactly.  And frankly, it's not something I spend much time thinking about.  And this is why I am a Universalist Missionalist.

To quote Rebecca Ann Parker:  “…it’s not just that we’re moving on towards a heavenly world,
a world in which we have fully embodied the beloved community. It is also that heaven is here and now, and it is a matter of realizing it and participating in it.” 

In The Social Implications of Universalism, Clarence Skinner explained,

A new valuation is being placed upon life. We accept the world for the joyous place it was
meant to be. We like it, despite the fact that belated theologians look upon it with inherited
suspicion … The dominant motive, therefore, is no longer to escape from earthly
existence, but to make earthly existence as abundant and happy as it can be made. Modern
religion …must speed those readjustments which will make life here and now justify our
hopes.

I am hanging out, talking with, and taking classes from other missionalists, all of them Christians.  They have come from all directions:  Southern Baptist, AME, non-denominational, Episcopalian.  For all of us, the heart of being missional is that we believe in inhabiting and working in the Kingdom of God.  Right here and now.

Don't like Kingdom?  Or God?  That's fine.  Many of them actually use the term "Shalom."  Shalom, in its deep and rich meaning which far exceeds the simple translation of Peace.  Wholeness.  Harmony.  Unity.

I have written before that my goal in life is to try to love the hell out of the world.  This is simply a response to the fact that I feel like the world tried to love the hell out of me.

“All persons are children of a single family, members of a single tribe, heirs of a single hope, and bearers of a single destiny, namely, the care and management of all of God’s creation.” 

-- Living a Vision, Walter Brueggemann

When LW had cancer this last time, the World came to my doorstep.  Total strangers, many of them.  They sent cards, good deeds,  hats, handmade clothes, prayers.  Cancer is hell, and hell was physically in LW and emotionally in me.  And the World tried to love it out of all of our family.  The World, made up of Christians, UUs, Jews, none of the above.  People of all different income and educational levels.  And all different politics.  They all had Love to give.  They gave it abundantly.

“The very notion that the church can be successful apart from an improved world reflects a
disconnect from God’s mission and even raises the question of whether or not people who think
this way are even recognized by God as his people.” -- Missional Renaissance, Reggie McNeal

For me, God is a process.  A persuasive verb.  An arc that bends toward justice, if you will.  And this force of love, running through all who will open themselves up to it, calls us -- each of us, little "events" ourselves -- to be the hands and feet of God, of love, of whatever you want to call it. 

“God loves everyone. No exceptions. It’s that simple.” -- Micah's Porch Website

I am watching people be struck with the bolt of lightning that is missional thinking, in my missional theology class.  I can't tell yet what it is that causes the change.  But it's dramatic, like when you're at the eye doctor and the fuzzy bits of glass in front of your eyes suddenly get flipped the right way, and suddenly, you can see like you haven't seen before.  It's a whole other way of imagining "church."  I know when it happened to me.  And I saw it happen to a classmate this week.

He is an older man, already an experienced AME pastor.  I have known him for a while, and he has always been full of confidence, with a loud, booming voice.

Monday night, his voice was quiet.  "I am ashamed," he said.

"I have a church drawer full of laminated cards I made that have 'God's plan for salvation' printed on them. I have just realized that Jesus did not present a 'Plan for Salvation.'  Instead, he told of the plan for making the Kingdom of God."

But his face glowed.  And later, the professor asked this provocative question:

"Is God's grace bigger than 'bad belief'?"

No one would say No.  And I swear, you could see some minds opening.

I believe God's grace is bigger than anything.

But then, I am a Universalist.

Imagine a Religion!

Imagine you're a UU student in an evangelical seminary.

Imagine someone in one of your classes says, "After reading your paper, I think I'm a Unitarian Universalist."

Now imagine ... it's the professor.

Yesterday, it happened.

Just a stick

It was just a stick, that looked like a snake.  Phew.

In other words, benign. 

How YOU doing?

So, about that snake ...

Okay, so, after being careful not to look into the woods last week, I took a walk this week, still keeping my eyes firmly on the path.


And stepped on  a snake.  I don't think it's poisonous.  But we're sending it to the lab to be sure.

okay, okay.  there's a certain point at which a metaphor exists solely to give you a headache.

I was, in truth, taking a walk on my beloved trail when I got the phone call.  Damn iPhone. Appointment with a doctor tomorrow at 8:20 am, biopsy at 9:00. 

I'm not too worried, as long as I keep on my rational head.  My mom had the same ezakkle thing back in the 80's, and all was fine. 

It's the Night Before, though, and occasionally my rational head falls off my body, so blindly, I stumble around, and sometimes, rather than putting my rational head back on, I pick up my biggest-fears head and put it on, kinda like when you get dressed in the dark and accidentally put on one black shoe and one blue shoe.  Not that I've ever done that before.  Anyway, you can't prove it.

And my biggest fears head brings up all those other experiences we've had, the ones that resulted in, "I'm sorry, but it's malignant ..."

The BFF-DRE thinks that, just like when you do jury-duty time, you get a certain period of time where they don't even call you, putting in cancer-time should earn you a credit.  I vote for that.

Anyway, The Boy is about to come home from Band Fish Camp and then the entire family must, by law, dance like crazy to "School's Out," as is our tradition on the last day of school, which today was.  So I need to go take off this head, which frankly, doesn't fit very well anyway, and screw my rational head back on. 

I'll be sure to hold it on very tight during the dancing.

Choosing Where to Look

A friend of mine, Stoic Joy, and his wife, Mrs. Joy, take walks on the same trail I do.  Last week, he told me, "We saw a big snake there last week."

I blanched.

"It was in the woods," he added comfortingly.

I don't know if I'd call it a phobia, but I am veddy veddy scared of snakes.  I grew up in snake-infested woods and had too many times of taking dogs and cats to the vet, swelled up to three times their normal size, due to copperheads and cottonmouths.  (Incidentally, don't bother taking your cat.  Unless things have changed, there is no anti-venin they can give that's more effective than the cat's own natural anti-venin.)

But I love this trail and in a short time, have become mightly dependent on it for my spiritual needs.  "I'll just keep my eyes on the path," I told myself.  "And not look into the woods for now."  So, I went on my soul walk, listening to Jennifer Warnes' cover of Leonard Cohen's If It Be Your Will, gifted to me by the Hysteric Cleric.

(The best gift you can give me is a mix CD with songs that are spiritually or emotionally significant to you.  I think it's the adult version of pricking our fingers and becoming blood brothers.)

I had a bit to think about.  I am just thrilled, thrilled, thrilled in my life right now, convinced I'm where I'm supposed to be, in the time I'm supposed to be.  And ... yesterday I got a call.  Next week, I have to go in for a repeat mammogram.  A little sumpin' suspicious on my left side.

No need to comfort me, I'm fine.  There's many things it could be, and this is way too early to worry.

I'll just keep my eyes on the path, and not look into the woods for now.

The Thrill of the Missional Church (and a great teacher)

Have you ever been so excited, so happy, you felt like you could just burst into tears?  Yeah, okay, but in the middle of a class?

I'm there.

What a long, strange journey it's been, and bound to get stranger.  When I began at this seminary, I wrote:

I feel stripped raw, and completely alone, which I am. I know it's for a reason, the being alone... I know that it's part of the process, for me to have no one whom I can turn to for guidance ... heck, the fact that we lost our minister the month I started school -- obviously, I need to be completely and utterly alone, with no support, so that I can find what I need within me.

Oh, honey, I think.  You didn't even know from stripped then.

But I can remember sitting in class, with this fundamentalist professor, wanting to burst into tears as he taught a theology that was just so hateful to me.


Last night, I sat in a class, thrilled to the very marrow of my bones.  Father Mac and I sat together, both of us just giddy from excitement. 

In addition to both being theologically liberal, we have both been bitten by the missional bug.  Actually, we think it's more like the red and blue pills in the Matrix.  Once you've begun looking at church in a completely different way, in a missional way, you can't go backwards.

We've got us a missional teacher.  And I mean, the real deal.  Former Southern Baptist minister, who walked away from a 400 member church because of all his questions.  And now does "church" is a wholly different way. 

Last night, I witnessed a few students' heads exploding.  It was AWESOME.

Just a few of the gems:

• “God’s spirit is big enough to guide us all.  And is big enough to protect us from going down the wrong path.”
• "The life of a follower of the way of Jesus, is a life of journey.  God will be moving us away from a life that is comfortable." 
• "I don't believe that Post-moderns don't believe in absolute truth.  Postmoderns DO believe in absolute truth.  But they don’t believe that science, religion, or YOU possess absolute truth.  You believe it’s true, but you can’t prove it.  Postmoderns say, 'Be honest that you can’t prove it, and be less certain.'
• If your church is built on Reason and Certainty, postmoderns won’t come back. We have to learn to embrace the mystery of God.  And embrace some humility.  
• The only harshness Jesus displayed was to the church.  If we have a view of God that he is angry and wants to punish someone, we didn’t get that from Jesus.

And tons of other great stuff, that I'm sure I'll be writing about.

When Father Mac and I left class, we didn't clasp hands and begin jumping up and down like excited schoolgirls.

But we both wanted to.

Grab Bag, including Surprises!

Grab bag of various and sundry:

Was at a UU event this Sunday and a UU theologian was leading us in a very simple exercise in being in the moment, and feeling what we're feeling.  The third thing to do was to place your forefinger of one hand on your opposite hand, then sit with that, and examine how the hand felt, how the finger felt, where they connected.

One participant was incensed with this and when it was time for people to comment on their observations, she spoke of her anger at an authority making her do this, and she didn't know why, and then Hitler and the Brown Shirts were brought into it.  (No, really.)  At the end of all this, she slightly admitted that maybe she had issues with authority, but was proud she wasn't a sheep.

I consider her to be a particular kind of angel (that I'll explain when I have more time) but feel that the fact I didn't run out screaming and immediately quit seminary is perhaps a good sign.  Was this a test? "Smile, you're on MFC camera!"


--
Sunday brought a great gift!  Two, actually.

I'd gone to my home church (this is my year of "traveling" -- I'm usually either preaching at another church, or visiting a church) because a friend of mine was in the pulpit for the first time.

There was a couple seated in front of me, visitors.  During the "greet your neighbor" time, we introduced ourselves to each other.  They both seemed vaguely familiar.  She leaned forward and asked, "Are you a seminarian?"  Um, yes.  (It shows?)  She then asked, sotto voce, "Lizard Eater?"  Shocked, "Yes!" 

Well, what do you know, we already knew each other.  It was Liz Hill, co-author of Singing Meditation, whom I'd worked with (online) on other UU stuff. 

I also knew her husband, through the blog-o-verse, though I hadn't connected that they were partners.

I had a fabulous time chatting with them after the service. I committed the hopefully forgivable sin of outing Matt as a UU minister and dragging Liz to several people so she could tell them more about Singing Meditation and the workshop she'll be giving at GA.  

--

I didn't get as much time to talk with Matt and Liz as I would have liked, as I had an important date with ...

Chuck E. Cheese.

Chucky and I have quite a history.  When The Boy (now 14) was little, I was in a playgroup that would occasionally meet there.  It's not so bad on a weekday.  Back then, you could buy beer there.  I don't think I ever did, but just knowing it was there made the experience more bearable.

Over the years, we'd go, usually for classmates' birthdays.  And then cancer came, and Chuck E. Cheese became the symbol.  For the kids, he was the symbol of all sacrifice, because for Mama and Daddy, he was the symbol of all things germy.  A kid on chemo means nobody can go to Chuck E. Cheese.  No to the parties, no to the visits.  No, no, no.

During LW's recurrence, we watched a lot of PBS in the hospital, which is sponsored by Chuck E. Cheese.  No ads, just those little things at the ends of programs:  "Chuck E. Cheese, where a kid can be a kid."

My kid couldn't be a kid.

So, this year comes, and LW has been pestering me for months.  Could we go there on her birthday?

We went yesterday.  Divided up the tokens amongst our 4, got a special sticker designating LW as the birthday girl.  They climbed the tubes, played the games, ate the pizza, got the prizes.

I tossed a basketball into a hoop multiple times and remembered how much I enjoyed the game.  I think The Boy and I'll be playing a lot of HORSE this summer.

---

Today, Little Warrior is five.  It is an incredible milestone for her parents, her grandparents, aunts, uncle, and friends.  We didn't know if we'd ever see this day.  That night when she was 6 months old, when we found ourselves placed on the pediatric oncology floor ... we couldn't see this day. 

For her, it is an incredible milestone, because Mom let her polish her fingernails all by herself.

And that's how it should be.

Take Time to Think About Death

Is that a bummer title?  Sorry.  We often don't want to think about death until suddenly we're thrust into it, having to deal with the death of a loved one.

I've shared in the death journeys of too many families over the past 4 years.  And yet, it has been an honor, to see so many different ways of approaching, and dealing with, the death of a child.

My heart broke a little more than usual this week.  A young teen, SaxGirl, who had the strength and spirit of 50, finally was released from her fight, an amazing kid whom we'd known since the beginning of our own journey.  She fought it off for six years.  She came extremely close to death at least once, as her body reacted not to the cancer, but to the "saving" chemo.  So close her family was making plans ... and then, she pulled through.  So many times, she pulled through.  And lived life, exuberantly.  And then another routine scan would deliver bad news.

I won't tell all of this last journey.  It was very long.  But both she and her mother awed me with their approach that this was simply another part of life, this death journey, and they were going to do it as well as they knew how.  With music, and people that loved her.

The first time I read about a family doing anything other than just leaving it all up to the funeral home was in UU minister Kate Braestrup's Here If You Need Me, when she talked about taking care of her husband's body, all the way through the cremation.  Ms. Kitty talks this week about going with a family to the morgue as they washed their son's body.  For me, it feels like this would be more healing than what my parents went through -- identifying the body, the bag being zipped back up, the ashes delivered to a funeral parlor.  My friend, Bad Bad Man, prefers to be called an "undertaker" rather than "funeral director."  Because undertakers "undertake" those holy things families in modern times can't, or prefer not, to do.

SaxGirl died in her mother's arms.  Later, at the funeral home, her mother and grandmother washed her body, as mothers and grandmothers have done for generations.  Her father accompanied her body to be cremated.  They all rejoiced at the cancer being incinerated to tiny bits.  Yes, there can be beauty in death.

Little Warrior is at that age where she's asking questions about death.  "So, everyone dies?" 

Yes, I tell her.  Everyone dies.  Some people just die sooner than others.  But we all die.

"Well, what if I live to be an old lady?" she asks.

Calmly, I say, "I really hope that you do."

"I do, too," she says.

Monday, she turns five. 

Missional Church

BEEEEEEP.

"Thank you for contacting The Journey.  Lizard Eater is unable to come to the blog right now, as she's busy writing a paper about Missional Theology and Unitarian Universalist ecclesiology, soteriology, pneumatology, eschatology, and missiology.

Please enjoy this short video until her return."

THOSE animals

Went for another soul walk today.  Didn't see any animals.  Probably because there were several people walking or running on the path. 

I walked along, peering in vain for a bird, a turtle, a squirrel -- any kind of animal.  Where are my gifts???

Humans are animals, breathed the wind.

Oh.  Yeah. 

Unlike with other animals, I didn't take any pictures of the human animals.  They might think it strange.  The non-human animals probably do, too, but they haven't figured out a way to report to the YMCA manager that there's a strange human, possibly dangerous, taking pictures down by the pond.

There was a man with a dog down by the edge of the water.  Both were well-behaved.  I think the man was training the dog, but it might have the other way around.

Three people, walking abreast and talking animatedly, came toward me.  They seemed disinclined to break formation.

Round and around I walked.  There was a jogger with a yellow shirt that I crossed paths with about three times. 

Time to leave.  I came upon a man who had just caught a nice-sized trout.  His eyes lit up when he saw me.  He was going to throw it back, but obviously wanted someone to show his catch to.  I get that.  "Spoon?" I asked.  "Spinning lure," he said.  He added that he'd had to walk all the way around the lake to catch it.  I'm not sure why.

Dang.  I bet he would have let me take his picture.