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...

Donuts and desolation

Last night I received a difficult phone call...followed by a difficult e-mail...followed by the blessing of a good night's sleep. When I awoke this morning, both situations were commended yet again to prayer. Brief prayer, I confess. Still, lifted to God. Then, while reading and praying my devotions, a beautiful vision of sunlight over Wallula Gap, heightening every ridge and valley and rock outcropping. And still...desolation. An overwhelming sadness in my soul, in the midst of thankfulness for the beauty.

Today I arrived at church to find four crews working on the new building. The ones hanging drywall, the ones doing masonry, the ones doing siding, and the ones tearing up the road and preparing for sidewalk, drainage, and whatever all! I toured, I showed it to a parishioner, I viewed, I was happy with what I saw. And still...desolation. I went to get donuts for everyone working. So many maple bars, so many cream filled, so many sugared or glazed. I love donuts. I rarely eat them any longer - but I love them. I told all the crews they were there, left them on the chancel, and was glad for the smiles and "thanks!" I got. And still...desolation.

I wonder if the desolation, the sadness, the ache that will not go away simply because I will it away, is God's reminder to me of those who cannot so easily attempt to escape those things that overwhelm, that threaten, that cause disruption and disturbance. Perhaps the desolation is a reminder that others are in that space, too, and of my call to pray for them. The list of those I know who are there is long - very long.

So I bring them before God, one at a time, asking for both God's presence with them and God's presence with me, that I learn to minister and serve as I am called. I am still desolate - but I am also thankful. I know these people because of my call, and they enrich my life in ways I had never anticipated, never expected.

For now...desolate...and thankful.

Welcome Them All

I've been wanting to spend some time by myself, lately. Just me and the garden...just me and a trout stream...just me and a good trail. I'd settle for just me and a good book! So Jesus' words in this coming week's gospel story are a challenge to me. "Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me."



Children weren't considered to be of much worth in Jesus' day. And though that has changed tremendously in our day, I find myself wondering who it is we believe is worth little. Who is it we don't feel deserves our welcome? Who is it that remains perpetually on the outside? The answers vary, from community to community, from culture to culture, and they certainly vary among individuals. But the ones who have come most into my view in the past few months are those with emotional, intellectual, and psychological challenges. Those who are considered of little worth, because it seems they offer so little to society. Those who are easily cut from needed services, because we really don't care about them that much, and figure they'll never repay what it is they may cost us in taxes.



Until you get to know the real people behind the labels. Those with bi-polar disorder who self-medicate with drugs or alcohol, just to try to feel "normal". Those who have a criminal history, who are fighting to make a life for themselves and their children, against long odds. Those who have a mental handicap, who may be cared for by a parent - until the parent is too old. Who will care for them then? Those who are simply growing older, watching their lives dissolve one precious piece at a time, leaving them only with memories - and few choices.



Some churches do very well with people like this - but many of our communities of Christ-followers do not. We prefer people who won't frighten off the folks who choose to attend, and who can bring something to offer. (We somehow manage to look past the gifts of those that are labeled.) We prefer, actually, people who won't frighten or challenge us. And when we do this - when I do this - I am no longer following Jesus. I'm simply following my own preferences, with no concern for those Jesus specifically put into my path, and therefore into my care.



To my brothers and sisters in Christ, I say this. There have been, and will yet be, times in your life when you will be that child, in need of welcome and care and nurture. If you have not trained others to love, have not learned to love yourself, have neglected to welcome anyone sent you by Jesus...

Chaos!

I came back from vacation on Sunday - a very nice service, a good day, lots of space. Then came Tuesday. We're building a new sanctuary, and I had an 8:00 meeting with the electrician, the contractor, and the building committee. The sound tech showed up as well - then in walked the person in charge of security, data and phones. So we meet - while the roofers are working on both the current and future sanctuary roofs. Have you ever tried to meet in a hollow shell of a building, while the roofers are at work? (They gave us twenty minutes - then started in again.)Meanwhile, out back of our offices, a huge track-hoe was digging the new sewer line - right through my son's Eagle project. (He was not happy when he found out on Wednesday.) And the electrician said yes, the pendant lights in the current sanctuary could be used in the new one - and the next thing I knew, they were all taken down. (We may not have any lights at all in the sanctuary this Sunday!) They had to come down when they did. We just weren't expecting that - not yet, anyway. And they are all currently stored in my office!

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, two congregants are getting ready for major back surgery, one is recovering from a hip replacement, one from a cracked rib, and one from a dislocated shoulder. There is a congregant newly in hospice care, and several who have just lost spouses. People are dealing with children who have bi-polar disorder, new moves or anticipated moves into assisted living, and a couple are looking at vocations for ministry. One person is giving up her involvement in a long worked-on, long held dream - so it will have a better opportunity to grow. Another is pruning back her involvement in many things so she will have an opportunity to heal. Still another is taking a new position at work that will have unknown effects on everything else he does. Life is chaotic, to say the least. And I'm trying to keep my head above water, and above all, learn God's priorities for my life. God, in the chaos, in the confusion, in the midst of all the demands - what is your call to me?

I know it's not the building. I've got a few pieces I need to do, and do well. The rest belong to everyone else. And as much as it has to do with the people God has sent me, and as important as that is, I still have a call to connect with those I haven't yet met. I had one good opportunity for that this week, and another is coming up next week. I've joined a community board that will meet quarterly, dealing with GLBT safety issues. The police were there, the health district was there, the college was there, the youth center was there...and I was there, too. I'm not so involved as many of the other folks were, but I was glad to be present, and to be able to connect with others who are wanting to make the community a safe place for everyone. As a person of faith, I can add an important voice to that conversation. Then, next week, I've got a young adult meeting with our District Superintendent. What does church mean to you? Tell us about your life of faith. If you were going to attend a church, what might it be like? What would matter most to you? Some of the people coming already attend a church - but some do not. We'll talk, at least for a while, and learn from one another. I'm even thinking of meeting in our unfinished new space - a good place for such a discussion, I think...

Even in the midst of chaos, a purpose, a direction, a polestar can be found. And it always resides in God's call, God's will, God's creativity - ever new, ever constant, ever faithful. Chaos is the birthplace of new creation. May it be so in our lives.

Lazy Days of Summer

Vacation is coming up the end of this week. I usually do vacation by going as hard as I can, as long as I can. Fishing, hiking, boating, viewing wildlife, identifying wildflowers - that's all part of my summer vacation. And it goes from before sunup until after sundown. I don't want to waste a single minute!

Not this year. This year, I'm planning to incorporate a fair amount of Sabbath time into my vacation. Time to let my body rest, as well as time to let my brain and my emotions get some rest. Time to read some, relax some, play some, sleep enough, really get rested. When I get restless, I can always grab the pole and hike out to the Gros Ventre River to fish. I usually don't catch anything there - but there are bank beavers, and I can watch kingfishers and swallows. The canoe is coming with, so there will be time on the oxbow to see pelicans, sandhill cranes, osprey, maybe even some otters - and always a beaver or two. Even moose, if we're lucky.

There will be afternoon thunderstorms and bright, sunny mornings. The road to camp will be covered with bison - unless they've already moved on. We're even talking about a canoe trip on String and Leigh Lakes. There's good fishing there, and there are always mergansers with babies on String Lake. Active - yes. But also time to simply relax, just be, simply experience the beauty that always surrounds us when we go to the Grand Tetons. Time to sit on a beach, sit in a canoe, sit in camp. Time to read a book, read the game trails, read the waters. Time to watch the skies, watch the Perseids meteor shower, watch the wonder that surrounds us. From the tiniest wildflower to the grandest Teton - we watch everything intently, and with gratitude.

Rest. Time away. Time to simply be, and to be thankful. Real Sabbath time calls me into a thankfulness I don't always enter otherwise. Real Sabbath time - on vacation, or simply on a day off, reminds me of the rest God entered into on the seventh day, blessing it, and declaring it holy. It is a holy and a sacred thing to rest. Our culture doesn't always recognize this. I don't always recognize this. But when I do recognize it, I am able to enter into thanksgiving, praise, and an openness to the presence of God in my life that sustains me, that brings me rest. God grant me wisdom, to always set aside time for Sabbath!

Profoundly moved

Scripture this week begins with the telling of the death of David's son, Absalom, and of David's mourning for his son. "O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Would I had died instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son!" In the paper this morning, the photo of a mother, grieving for her sixteen year old son, drowned in the Columbia River while swimming with friends. A name given - is he our Carlos - the one who used to attend Scouts? Is he our young man? We don't even know yet - but we weep with that mother, "O Carlos, my son, my son, Carlos!"

And from there we go to Psalm 130, known by its Latin name, "de profundis", out of the depths.
"Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice!" The Psalms are my refuge when I no longer have the words to speak to God. One of the psalmists will have found those words, voiced them already, and they are collected for me to use, for us to use as community. The "de profundis", often used in funeral masses, is one I return to, time and time again, at times of loss, tragedy, or sin. It reminds me, not only that others also experience the depths, from which it seems we can scarcely be heard, but it reminds me as well that my hope is in the Lord. I am called to watch and to wait for God's steadfast love, and power to redeem.

But the losses are no less profound - the depths are no less deep - the sensation that we are not connecting with God is no less present. When I am in the depths, "de profundis", I am indeed profoundly moved - but I am often also immobilized. Each person responds differently to tragedy, to loss, to separation. I tend to respond with an inability to respond. It is then that I count on a praying community to hold me. It is then that I depend upon those who love me and care about me to hold me up before God, offering me their strength, their prayers. And through the steadfastness of that community, I am able again to voice my own complaints, my own praises and my own laments to God.

It is a holy thing, to do this for someone else. To enter into their depths, their lament, and offer them to God as if they are your own - that is sacred work. May you enter into that work, as God calls you to enter it, and offer your voice when your friend, companion, or loved one no longer has the ability to voice for themselves their lament. Allow yourself to be profoundly moved by others, and bring them, with a full voice, before God.

My life in pieces - and bits

Yesterday - a text from my husband, on the far side of the country, telling me that he just found out his brother-in-law is dying of cancer. He's searching for Hospice support for the family - who just happen to live in Virginia, where Dave was sent to work for a week. No coincidence, that.



And then - a long conversation with a good friend. Life in bits and pieces...lots of silence...and God present in the silence as much (or more) than in the conversation. Then helping another friend move from a house she really liked - and would have preferred to stay in. Followed by a long conversation on the cell phone, while out in the garden, going over the bits and pieces that come into play following a divorce.



Today, this verse from Psalm 73. "When my heart was grieved and my spirit embittered, I was senseless and ignorant; I was a brute beast before you. Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand." (NIV) And again today, the walls are going up for a new sanctuary. And yet again today, a new baby, Chloe Elizabeth, is born.



Bits and pieces. Lately, I've been gathering them up in an attempt at "Praying in Color" - drawing out and coloring my prayers. A week and a day into the attempt, I have a clear memory of those I am praying for, and the direction my prayers are going. Some are filled with pain, some have the promise of peace, all have at least a bit of the light of Christ added to them.



"Gather up the fragments", Jesus said, "so nothing may be lost." Bits and pieces. I'll gather some of them here - and entrust them to Jesus' care.