We're In!

The new sanctuary, that is. We moved in time for Christmas Eve services, courtesy of many last-minute helping hands, and a conditional use permit from the city. (The building is fine - our parking lot isn't completed yet...a weather-related snafu.)

We had a brief instructional period with the sound system - and found out we needed more. We had the opportunity for a few people to learn how to run the heating and lighting system. The chairs were moved into place with lots of room to spare. Red and white poinsettias graced the new chancel. And we went forward with worship. Three services Christmas Eve, at 5, 7, and 10 p.m. Three different congregations - the first one focused on the children - the second larger and grander, with bells and choir, and the third with communion, and more than double the number of people we've ever had at that service.

I felt - out of place. I am no longer in a space I have come to be comfortable in - that I inhabit almost as naturally in my skin. I am, truly, in New Spaces (as we have called this building project). I get lost trying to find my way around the chancel, and discovered I have to reconsider how to best connect with my musicians. I am a stranger in a strange land! The comfort in that is we're all in the same boat. Everyone is new in this space. No one has a designated seat, yet - not even me. We're all starting on the ground floor. I hadn't expected a building project to be an opportunity to level out who's new, and who's been around forever. But it seems to be just that! None of us - or all of us - have seniority in this new space.

Most of all, though, it seems to belong to God. It is grand, but austere, with little ornamentation. The space is large and inviting, with room to stretch out. I can imagine God settling into one of the seats and smiling at us, as we fumble our way through this new beginning. I can imagine Jesus inviting us to sit for a spell, and have a conversation in this space. I can imagine weddings, funerals, baptisms - all life-changing events - taking place in this space for years to come. I can even imagine that within a few weeks or months, we'll have most of the bugs worked out, and will be ready to settle in a bit ourselves. But because the space belongs to God, above all, I thank God, for making this possible - for offering us this new beginning, with room for our neighbors.

Yesterday...

I went outside to get the paper, and watched the fog on the river. Only a small patch of it was present - just enough to cover the area between our house and the island. Just enough to envelop the flocks of Canadian geese that were making enough noise to make me wonder if they'd taken over the entire river. But I couldn't see - I could only hear them. And I wondered...did the presence of so many geese in one location cause that little bit of fog? Whatever caused it, they were as thoroughly hidden as if it were a moonless, cloudy night.

Later, as I was absorbed in morning devotions, I saw something stirring outside my window. I looked out to see thousands upon thousands of geese, abandoning the river and taking wing into the morning sun, just above that fog. The spectacle still fills my mind's eye - I can see the wheeling flocks, careening out of the fog and off to...who knows where?

On days when I cannot see - on days when things seem bleak and fogged in - I want to remember those geese. They may have created that fog - but they also had the capacity to rise above it, to wing their way to a place filled with sun. And as they moved from one place to another, they blessed me. Simply by being, they blessed me. May I remember, and learn to rise out of my own fogs, into the brightness that surrounds me, even when I haven't yet seen it. May I remember, and in that remembering, may I bless others.

Cold hands, warm heart?

There are days (and this is one of them) when I wonder whether or not I have this in reverse. Days when my hands are perfectly warm, and my heart feels like an icicle. Not like the Ice Queen in "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe", but more like the ice on a slowly clogging, freezing river. I'm trying to get somewhere...and the ice in my heart keeps clogging up any movement. I want to be free. Instead, I feel I'm held firm in the clutches of my own sluggishness and lethargy. On days like this, I want, more than anything, to experience the breezes, the fresh wind, even the gales of the Holy Spirit, breaking loose the ice jams and setting free the river, the fresh running water, that Jesus promises me.

It's Advent, and I'm waiting. Waiting for the breeze - or the gale. Waiting for the return of warmth in both hands and heart. Most especially, waiting for the stirring of the Spirit of God within me, and within the world at large. For God is at large in the world, and I long to see signs of that presence. God is at large in my life and my heart (even on days like this, I know the truth of it) and I long to be like the beloved in the Song of Solomon, with entire body and heart and mind turned toward, yearning toward, One only.

But it's Advent, and I'm still waiting. I remind myself that waiting is appropriate posture for time of the church year - but that doesn't stop me from wanting more. I remind myself that far better followers of Jesus than I have experienced spells of frigid hearts and temperaments - but that doesn't keep me from yearning for the thaw. But for now, I wait. And I sing, "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel." Ransom me. Bring me to rejoicing!

Countdown to....

We're getting closer and closer to moving into the new sanctuary. The doors are being hung, wood trim is being cut and put in place, the new audio system is taking shape, and there are rumors of carpet appearing soon. At times, it feels more like a countdown to Armaggedon than a countdown to something we've waited for for so many years! That's at least partly because I look at all the work entailed in moving from one space into another - and don't always remember to look at all the hands and hearts willing to help in that work. But they're there, whether I'm looking or not. They're waiting for the opportunity to pick up one small piece (or several large ones) and move them into a new worship space. They're waiting for the opportunity to help shape our lives together by helping to shape the space in which we share worship. The hands are there. I simply need to remember them...and be thankful.

Advent begins this Sunday - the beginning of a new church year, when we look forward not only to the coming of Jesus, born in a manger on Christmas day, but the coming of Christ at the end - or perhaps the beginning - of time. A new time. A new place. A new world, fully redeemed, completely made whole. We didn't plan to move during Advent, but I don't believe we could have chosen a more significant time, a more appropriate time. We've been waiting. Some people within the congregation have been waiting almost fifty years for this day. And now, here it is, right on our doorstep! The word from our construction manager is that we'll be in on Christmas Eve. But we won't. We'll be moving things before that day - starting to make the change into a new space while it's still Advent - while we're still remembering that we are waiting. And that is a good and blessed thing.

As the days grow short, and cold, our longing for home, for being settled, only seems to increase. A place of shelter and of warmth, of comfort and of safety. But for those of us in Riverview this year, our longing for home is bringing us into a countdown to the new, the unexpected, the untried and yet untested. It is bringing us to the brink of God's new adventure for us, giving us the opportunity both to shape, and to be shaped by new forms, new surroundings, new neighbors. God give us the courage to live into that newness with joy, with full abandon, and with delight!

Wonders to behold!

It is, as Winnie the Pooh might say, a blustery day here in the Tri-Cities. But blustery days keep the waterfowl on the river, and there are wonders present here! The swans are back, quite early. Yesterday Dave and I counted thirty-five of them. My most thoughtful husband, knowing I would be out of town for a week, and knowing we can't count on swans to stay very long, insisted that I get in the car, and we go to Casey's Pond, which held not only that flock of swans, but also canvasbacks, widgeon, buffleheads, and assorted ducks too far away to identify.

Then, this morning, while scanning the river to see who was present (Canadian geese, assorted ducks, coot, the usual flock of pelicans) I came across an unusual sight. Thirteen blue herons, all gathered together! I see them in groupings while in rookeries (my favorite one is a bridge over the Snake River) but I've never seen so many in one place, simply standing in the shallows, probably staying out of the wind. And thirteen - what an appropriate number.

I know - not many people share my fascination for what happens outside my window. Not everyone is entranced by the migrating flocks, as I am. I am, it might be said, a bit of an "odd duck" myself, for loving such things. Yet in them I find a connection to God, a thankfulness, a delight in the presence of creation that settles me, and gives my soul refreshment. I invite you to look out your window, be it from a highrise, from a country cottage, or within a suburb. Just watch, for ten, twenty, thirty minutes. Let me know what comes into view. We'll share in those wonders together...

Leaving home

This weekend was spent at a church camp, on retreat, with about 25 people from the church I pastor. We worked, we played, we worshiped, we goofed off. Some people got extra hikes and extra time to sleep...some came home needing to rest up. All of us had to leave home to spend time together. It was a choice we made. Our ages ranged from six to seventy-something, with some representation of all decades in between. Our interests and backgrounds varied as widely as our ages. And still, we all chose to leave home, to spend time with one another.

Granted, this wasn't your usual retreat. The understanding from the outset was that it was "all activities optional". In other words, we came to do some work, but you don't have to do it if you don't want to. Feel free to do something else. So the youngest played games, spent time in the craft cabin, and went fishing. The eldest got those extra naps. (Well, some of them, anyway.) The twenty-somethings went on a hike with the fifty-somethings. And we all worshiped together, in really different ways. We read Psalm 19, then went outside with bags to collect things to make a collage with. We read John 21, then played with the right side of our brains by using crayons, colored pencils, clay, and paper. We read Genesis 1, then rejoiced in the creativity we've been given by God. We didn't have to leave home to do all this - but it was easier to do in a new setting.

Some of the biggest changes in my life have been initiated by leaving home. Going to college, of course. But even more so, leaving my home state and travelling across the country with my new husband. Leaving homes in Maryland, then Kansas, then Kentucky as we followed my military career around the U.S. Finally, leaving my Army home and returning to my home town to farm and to work as a nurse, and raise a family. Most recently, leaving even that home, the one we'd built from the ground up, the one with views of Mt.Rainier and Mt. Adams, and going to Pasco to serve a church.

My biggest transitions have all happened when I left home. And in each of them, God has found space to work in me in new ways. Perhaps that's why the small leavings - the retreats, the vacations, the short-term work away from home - also seem to have such potential for awakening me to God's presence in my life. Is this the same for you? When you leave home, do you also encounter God in new ways? Let me know your thoughts on this...let's share about the gifts of both newness and stability.

A few moments away...

I live across the road from a wildlife refuge. This time of year, the ducks and geese are migrating, the sandhill cranes fly far overhead, the cormorants leave for warmer climes, and the swans come through on their way south.

Over the past two weeks I've taken some intentional time to notice who all is out there. A hiking trip yielded a kingfisher, two canvasbacks, and the beginning of what will be huge, overwintering flocks of widgeon. A boat trip, poking into sloughs, discovered a loon, a red-necked grebe, a pied-billed grebe, and a pair of western grebes - along with the usual assortment of ducks and geese. No eagles yet - but I know they're coming. Lots of pelicans - huge, with white plumage streaked with black. And the occasional egret - I haven't gotten out the glasses and books to figure out which one.

Last week a friend and I took a nineteen mile hike along the rivers in this area - the Columbia, Snake, and Yakima. She commented on how rarely we see egrets in pairs. About ten minutes later - there was a pair, roosting in the top of a snag, near the grounds of a stately old mansion.

I live in the midst of rivers and wildlife, of desert beauty and open spaces. To see it all, I only have to walk out the door of my house, or walk a few short blocks to the river from the church. To see it all, I only have to open my eyes to everything surrounding me. It's there, whether I choose to notice it or not.

So is God. I just don't always take the time to notice God's presence. Yet God is present, whether I choose to notice or not. And not even a few moments away, but as close as my next breath. God is there. Grant me grace to open my eyes - to spend the moments in awareness - to be present to all that surrounds me. Especially to God...