Love, Light and Little Details

She squinted her eyes and scrunched her nose and then sat in what felt, to me, like eternal silence. I could tell that she couldn’t hear me. So I dialed up my speaking volume and said with great enunciation, “So how are you feeling today, Miss Peggy?” “Not so good, not so good,” she hollered back at me. But she said it with a smile, so I knew that the situation wasn’t too dire at the moment. “What’s wrong? What doesn’t feel good?” I bellowed, using what little bit I know from my voice teacher husband about using my diaphragm muscles to get the sound out. “Oh, nothing much,” she admitted. “Just feeling lazy today.” “Lazy is okay!” I reassured her. Then, I pointed to the vase of brilliantly colored flowers the church had sent for her. They were velvety red roses with indigo blue, bell-shaped blossoms along slender stalks. I knew that this could at least be a talking point with Miss Peggy. “Beautiful, beautiful,” she responded. And then she began to leaf through the worship bulletin I had brought her from the previous Sunday. She mumbled, “I just love getting these. . . .”

And this is how it goes. This is what we do. This is, in fact, part of what I do in pastoral care. Pastoral care feels like one of the oddest “jobs.” I’m learning more and more each day how to do it–through experiences that are simply awkward as h*#!, through the gentle guidance of pastors much wiser than I, and through trying and failing and trying again. I’m learning that it truly is the little things that matter, that show love and care. Birthdays, anniversaries, surgeries, graduations, defeats, triumphs, fears, joys. It’s life. And it’s glimpses of God’s love and grace that we find–or that find us–in this life.

I’m delving into this “job” today. How are things with your calling?

Good Friday homily

April 2, 2021

We believe—and we say we believe—that Jesus is God’s Word made flesh. We believe that he was truly and fully God, while being truly and fully human. This is a great mystery. Nothing we can prove. Something that could make our brains ache if we think about it too hard, too deeply. It’s beyond us human creatures. 

We celebrate Jesus’ divinity and humanity at Christmastime, when our hearts swell with joy. When we sing along with the angels. When everything feels magical and fresh and new. When we gaze down at the precious baby, whom we believe to be God in the very flesh. 

But on Good Friday, we gaze on Jesus, and we see the full weight of humanity bearing down on our God-in-the-flesh. He feels incredible physical pain and suffering. He feels incredible emotional pain and suffering. He knows what abandonment feels like. He knows what injustice feels like. He knows what hopelessness feels like. He knows what fear and sadness feel like. For any time any of us humans may have cried out in the last year, “I can’t breathe!”—whether from a deadly virus or from cruel injustice or from the weight of anxiety—Jesus cries out, too. For any time any of us have suffered violence, Jesus bears the marks of violence on his body. For any time any of us have felt broken, alienated, mistreated, disillusioned, terrified—Jesus’ heart aches along with ours. 

We humans have great hope in the promise of Easter—that pain and darkness and death are not the end of the story. They do not have the final word. But today is not Easter. It’s still Friday. And Friday is still part of our journey. So we sit in silence, holding the pain.

Yet, there is still a goodness in Good Friday. Our comfort today is that we have a God who knows what it’s like to be fully human. Who knows our pain and chose our pain. We have a God who truly is with us. Amen.

So apparently, on St. Patrick’s Day, preschoolers get really excited about leprechauns secretly visiting us and making mischief for us. (As a mom of two young ones, I truly am learning something new every day!) Our little girl went to school this morning with a green striped dress, white frilly socks (a la Irish lace), and my green glitter hairband in her gingery brown curls. I, of course, am wearing green myself as a celebration of the whatever percentage of Irish that ancestry.com discovered in my genes. 

And, right around lunch-time, I had the sudden pressing need to stop by our local drugstore and buy St. Patrick’s Day goodies to surprise Little One when she returned from school. I found shamrock socks, glitter shamrock and rainbow stickers, and a few other creative activities to keep her preoccupied and delighted while Mommy and Daddy finish their respective workdays. And then I saw friends posting pictures of leprechaun “footprints” around their homes—much like the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus making a visit and leaving surprises. So here I sit with the sides of my hands covered in dried, bright green paint from making tiny faux footprints on paper cut-outs strewn around my office floor. And there was gold glitter, too. And I love it. Because in creating joy for her, I also found great joy myself. 

So how did this desire to be so festive all of a sudden emerge?

Because I’ve been preparing to teach a class this evening at church on a “Lenten journey through Narnia,” and tonight’s topic is “Living with What We’ve Been Given” . . . or contentment.  And there’s a question from the study guide about “Do today’s children get too many toys or too much amusement?” The answer could be Yes—with all of the gadgets and tech toys and privilege that some in this world do enjoy. But the answer is also No. We need to let our children be children. To delight in Play—which is also Work for the child, as Madeline L’Engle said somewhere in her book Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art. We need to let children revel in imagination and creativity and joy. To celebrate when we have the chance to celebrate. And we adults need that, too, quite often. And it’s our mission, too, to help others find ways to celebrate and live in the fullness of life . . . this life with its soaring heights and painful depths, its darkness and its light. 

So let’s get messy with paint and glitter, and let’s celebrate St. Patrick’s Day or something—anything. Let’s get lost in bringing joy to another, and may leprechauns surprise us with joy ourselves. 

We publish a monthly newsletter from our church, and this is the brief article I shared as an encouragement during the season of Lent 2021. As I was typing it, I thought to myself, “This would make a good blog post, too!” And I just love candles. I really do. (As evidenced by the number of candle pictures I post on this blog.) And, as I mention in the following article, the dear friend who makes candles is the lovely lady behind The Sudsery Soap Studio. Check out her gorgeous candles and soaps on her gorgeous website at http://www.thesudserysoapstudio.com. Light a candle. Take a soothing bath. Love yourself, and love others. We’re going to get through this together.

————————————–

            One evening, recently, I lit one of my favorite candles and put it on the kitchen counter. Just because I love candles. There’s something so special for me about lighting a candle . . . seeing a blackened wick change and burst forth with a golden glow. And, over time, the wax surrounding the wick starts to melt and pool, and a warm, beautiful fragrance starts to fill the room and wrap around me like a hug. I especially love this particular candle, because 1) my talented and creative friend made it and 2) the scent is spicy and sweet and cozy, like toasting marshmallows over a campfire. The ironic thing, though, about my lighting of this candle is . . . I can’t smell it now! I lost my sense of smell and taste with my recent bout with COVID. I knew that, the other evening, but I lit the candle anyway. 

            Perhaps this will be my guiding thought for this Lent of 2021. The world might seem dark. We’ve lost things, great and small. But we light the candle anyway. Because it sends out light and hope. It creates warmth—even if just a little bit. It offers the promise of a lovely fragrance—even if we can’t experience it right now. Even if we can’t experience it quite yet. It reminds us of people and things we love, and it sparks a sense of community across time and space. So we light the candle anyway.

            Friends, let’s journey through this Lenten season together. Even if the days seem dark, we walk together and we walk with God. We learn and grow together as we go. And let us fix our eyes on the hope ahead. Let us light our candles . . . anyway.

This is not a make-up tutorial. But it is a reflection on how I’m making it through. 

This morning, I made the bold decision to put on make-up. It’s an investment of time—but not too much time, really—in the hectic schedule of the morning. And I’ve become a devout believer—perhaps thanks (?) to life in a pandemic—that people don’t need make-up. We’re beautiful as we are, and we don’t need cosmetics to cover us up and/or make us better. But this morning, it was a deliberate choice for me. It was my choice . . .  to care. To give a you-know-what about something. To care about details. To care about myself (supposedly, the make-up I use is healthy and natural and nourishing and all those good things). So I pulled out the multitude of little jars of powder and all the accompanying brushes that claim to achieve their various tasks, and I methodically and deliberately applied it to my face. With as much concentration and devotion as I might handle prayer beads, I tap-tap-tapped the powder into the jar lids, swirled the brushes in my flesh-colored dust, and pressed the powdery brushes onto my skin. And then, as a final, joyfully defiant flourish, I applied mascara to my eye lashes. And even put on earrings, too!

I did this little ritual, because life is hard. There are so many good things happening in my life, but there are some painfully important elements that are missing, too. Admittedly, I’m not experiencing life in all its fullness right now. One loved one is deeply hurting physically and emotionally right now. Another loved one just suffered a brain aneurism and stroke yesterday. Disease and division, hate and fear, and twisted realities hover all around me—around all of us—right now. And, honestly, even though I’m a pastor and supposed to have all of my stuff together so I can take care of other people—sometimes, all of those awful things in our world feel like they’re about to do me in. My heart hurts. My soul aches. And I, in comparison with many in our country and in our world, actually have it pretty good and privileged. . . . 

A very dear and faithful friend sent my husband a message recently with the words, “Jesus, I trust you.” And he and I both are trying to take that to heart. But last night, in my mind and heart’s space, I cried out, “God, I don’t trust you!” This morning, over our coffee-time reflections, I shared that with my husband. I admitted, “I’ve either come to a point where I don’t trust God any more. Or maybe that was my confession that I haven’t been trusting God—but want to.” He said, “I believe it’s the latter.”

So I’m falling back on stuff I learned years ago in divinity school. Spiritual disciplines. We call them disciplines, because we do them, even when we don’t feel them. I’m choosing to pray today. To be intentional about even a few moments of personal quietude and listening to a Spirit greater than I. I will find some words that someone else has written to guide me in prayers. Because I just can’t do it myself today. 

Buffalo horns and red banners and gas masks and guns and people filled with fear and people filled with anger . . . so much anger. These are the images that still haunt me a week later, as I sit at my desk in my new Associate Pastor’s office. Anxiety and disgust and disappointment were my initial feelings. And I still feel those. But I’ve struggled with “official” words to say, as a pastor, to respond to what happened this day, last week, at our nation’s Capitol. 

So many people seemed immediately to have just the right words to say, as they posted on social media. I’m a ponderous person, so it sometimes takes me longer to find the words. I remember seeing a clever description of last Wednesday’s events as the “Epiphany Insurrection”—a burningly ironic name, I suppose, as the Church celebrated Epiphany that very day. . . . Epiphany being that time when the Wise Ones encountered Jesus and gave him gifts. When barriers were broken down between “us” and “them.” When we celebrate the Light breaking into this crazy world with its pain and darkness. But last Wednesday was so much the opposite of all that. There was division . . . a cruelly hardened “us versus them” mentality. There was hatred and violence, the antithesis of peace. There was darkness for our country that was noticed around the world. 

But Epiphany also means an “A-ha!” moment. And my “A-ha!” came from seeing the banners with the words “Jesus 2020” emblazoned on them. And it made me wonder: where was Jesus in all of this? Was Jesus on the campaign trail now? Was he—a brown-skinned Middle Eastern peasant who spoke of God’s love and justice and peace and a different kind of “kingdom”—being represented there?

And it made me realize that my new “job” as an Associate Pastor at a new church is going to be pretty hard. I work for that name that had been put on those banners. As a pastor, I am representing Jesus. I represent God’s love, truth, peace, justice, hope. . . . How will I represent Jesus with love and integrity to all people—those who cheered on the events of last Wednesday as well as those who were appalled by them? And I would say “and everyone in-between,” but is there an in-between nowadays? 

Journey with me as I ponder this, as I stumble and pick myself up again, as I reach out to others along the way. As I figure out how to do this ministry thing with the “Jesus” label in a painfully fractured world. . . .

“He’s teething up a storm!” the pediatrician said, when we took both of our children—3 years old and 5 months old—for a doctor visit two days before Christmas. Both children had been sick with cold-like symptoms, and—as we know—even “simple” cold symptoms are nothing to mess with in a pandemic. It turns out our 3 year old had a sinus infection, and, with several doses of bubble-gum pink liquid antibiotic later, she’s bounding around the house and playing pretend with baby dolls, princesses, knights, and dragons as much as ever before. And our baby boy is…teething. It’s still a rough and painful-looking time for him, especially at night. But now we have a name for it. And ways to handle it, like infant pain medicine and cold wash cloths and (safe) chew-able toys.

Over Advent, as I’ve struggled with the state of the world, I’ve found my grounding and glimpses of God’s still-there goodness in my children. The darndest, delightful things my singing, dancing, galloping, hugging 3 year old says and does. The sweet coos, ferocious squeals, and heart-melting, sunbeam smiles of my 5 month old.  And on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, I remember holding my infant and feeling some of the awe that Mary must have felt, cradling her newborn baby. This child, whom angels and prophets and shepherds and magical astronomers declared a world-changing king. And he must have been so tiny. And he probably spit up a lot on that lovely blue robe we often see Mary wearing. And he had lots and lots of diapers to be changed. And he drooled and fussed through the night while his parents worried and held him gently, wondering helplessly what was wrong…until a pearly tooth popped through his swollen gums. 

This. This baby—with movements, sounds, and facial expressions, growth and pains and joys just like my own baby—is the One that many of us believe to be the Savior of the world. Savior—such a tall order in a tiny form. Just a baby. But what a dynamic way to see, truly, that God-is-with-us…in our drool and spit-up, in our pain, in our anxiety, in our beauty, in the moments our hearts could burst with joy and wonder. I hold my baby at 5:whatever in the morning, and I feel and know that God was and is in our flesh. God is with us, God is with us….

“St. Anthony joins me on Tuesdays. I’ve got you covered.” A dear friend sent me those words in a text message this morning, and those words are giving me life today.  

“St. Anthony joins me on Tuesdays.” Now, you have to understand that I’m not Catholic. The saints haven’t been a part of the fabric of my faith as I’ve grown up from little Southern Baptist girl to Presbyterian pastor. To say one has been spending time with a saint is foreign language. In fact, it may sound pretty dangerous to some. In my younger years, I remember hearing some church folks say—with a mixture of scorn and horror—that Catholics “worship the saints” or “worship Mary” (i.e., blasphemy to a southern, Bible-belt Protestant). But I also remember a Catholic spiritual director who visited my seminary class a number of years ago. She helped me realize that when Catholic Christians pray to Mary or the saints, they see it as talking to a good friend. Just as if I would go to a trusted friend and say, “I’m struggling with something. Please pray for me. Please pray with me. . . .” I must confess (pun intended), I don’t know exactly who St. Anthony is. (Google assignment to self for later today.) But I already feel safe with him. Because he’s a friend of my friend.

“I’ve got you covered.” It’s a wild and crazy world we live in now, isn’t it? But what a comfort to know that there are friends who will say, “I’ve got you covered.” I know that my friend has, with deep sincerity, lit candles in the solitude of a worship space for me and my family this morning. I know that he has truly lifted me and any of my concerns to a reality bigger and beyond this powder keg of an earth. He has reminded me that love and kindness and goodness will triumph, will endure. He has brought me a glimpse of peace and hope.

From a simple text message, I feel surrounded by love and comfort. And so the thoughts that are guiding and compelling me now are: Who’s joining me on this Tuesday, and how can I “cover” someone else?