More Quotes from Leaving Church

"What made any of us think that the place we are trying to reach is far, far ahead of us somewhere and that the only way to get there is to run until we drop? For Christians, at least part of the answer is that many of us have been taught to think of God's kingdom as something outside ourselves, for which we must search as a merchant searches for the pearl of great price. But even that points to a larger and more enduring human problem, which is the problem of mortality. With a limited number of years to do whatever it is that we are supposed to be doing here, who has time to stop? . . . According to the Hebrew Bible, everyone does, for at least one full day every week."

[after she left the church where she had served as the Episcopal priest] "I decided to take a rest from trying to be Jesus . . . Today I will consent to be an extra in God's drama, someone off to the side watching the scenery unfold with self-forgetfulness that is not available to me at center stage. Today I will bear the narcissistic wound of knowing that there are others who can say my lines when I am not there, including some who can say them better, and that while God may welcome my willingness to play a part, this show will go on with or without me, for as long as God has breath to bring more players to life. Today I will take a break from trying to save the world and enjoy my blessed swath of it instead. I will give thanks for what is instead of withholding my praise until all is as it should be."

"We were not God, but we spent so much time tending the God-place in people's lives that it was easy to understand why someone might get us confused. As Christians, we were especially vulnerable, since our faith turned on the story of a divine human being. Those who became ordained were not presented with Moses or Miriam as our models, so that we could imagine ourselves as flawed human beings still willing to lead people through the wilderness. We were not presented with Peter or Mary Magdalene as our models, so that we could imagine ourselves as imperfect disciples still able to serve at our Lord's right hand. Instead, we were called to fill in for Jesus at the communion table, standing where he once stood and saying what he once said. we were called to preach his gospel and feed his sheep. We were, in other words, presented with Jesus himself as our model, so that most of us could only imagine ourselves disappointing everyone in our lives from God on down."

"Mother Church had little interest in the things that were interesting me. Her job was to take care of her family. Why should she get into discussions that might cause them to lose confidence in her? Why encourage them to raise questions for which she had no answers? Even more important, why wast valuable time rehashing things that had ben settled centruies ago when there was so much to do around the house right now? I understood her reasons, I really did. I was just looking for some way to stay related to her that did not require me to stay a child."

[using "center" to refer to the establishe church and referencing people of the edge such as Matthew Fox, Hans Kung, Martin Luther, Menno Simons, Joan of Arc, Francis of Assisi, Peter Abelard, Tertullian, Origen, Jesus] ". . . might it be time for people of good faith to allow that God's map is vast, with room on it for both a center and an edge? While the center may be the place where the stories of the faith are preserved, the edge is the place where the best of them happened."

Interactive Element

First go here . . . the treadmill video

Then check out John Mayer's new music "Waiting on the World to Change" at Itunes.

Finally listen to Melissa Etheridge's "I Need to Wake Up."

Allow yourself to think creatively. And then let me know . . . what does this suggest to you about working in community to affect change?

Things I've Learned About Myself of Late

-- I don't always like being a grown up . . . in fact, I rebel against it
-- I love watching young women find their voices and then using them
-- If someone surprises me with an act that I think is courageous, then I actually feel the need to do a high five
-- Laughing out loud in public is priceless
-- I care so much about other people's feelings that I sometimes ignore my own
-- Being open and affirming of other people is not a service I provide myself
-- Weight loss feels good
-- I will dance to the music even if I'm in an airport as long as it's my music on my ipod (in other words, Musak doesn't do it for me)

I love it when this happens . . .

I bought a book a month ago, started it, liked it but didn't finish it. This weekend I picked it up again and it was perfect timing. Just what I needed when I needed it. The book is called Leaving Church and it's written by Barbara Brown Taylor (who is a terrific human being, so I'm told by someone who has actually met her and who served an Episcopal church well for many years before finally "leaving church"). I'm so enamoured with the book that I'm going to offer up a few quotes from it and may even do that in more than one post. I'd love to hear what you think of what you see. Here go the first of the quotes:

"Before Christ Church, I thought that worship was something people cooked up by themselves. At Christ Church, I discovered worship that took place inside God's own heart. The divine pleasure was the pleasure of a mother with her baby at her breast."

"Being a priest seemed only slightly less dicey to me than being chief engineer at a nuclear plant. In both cases, one needed to know how to approach great power without loosing great danger and getting fried in the process."

"Yet even there I had some reservations about the whole setup. If the purpose of the church were to equip all God's people for ministry in the world -- as I was learning in seminary -- then what sense did it make to designate one of those people 'the minister' in a congregation? The minute you set someone apart like that, didn't you give everyone else license to say, 'Don't look at me -- she's the minister?
"In the same way, if the minister's job were to support church members as they engaged their vocations in the world, then what sense did it make to locate the person inside the four safe walls of a church? A mobile unit would have made more sense, like one of those libraries on wheels that goes wherever people need books. As strongly as I was being drawn to worship at Christ's Church, my heart remained in the world. I belonged amont the laity; not the clergy."

". . . being ordained is not about serving God perfectly but about serving God visibly, allowing other people to learn whatever they can from watching you rise and fall."

[on her consideration on being ordained] "As a layperson, you can serve God no matter what you do for a living, and you can reach out to people who will never set foot inside a church. Once you are ordained that is going to change. Every layer of responsibility you add is going to narrow your miistry, so think hard before you choose a smaller box."

"I know plenty of people who find God most reliably to books in buildings and even in other people. I have found God in all of these places too, but the most reliable meeting place for me has always been creation."

[on Celtic theology in which . . . } "God's 'big book' of creation is revered alongside God's 'little book' of sacred scipture."

"At least one of the purposes of church is to remind us that God has other children, easily as precious as we. Baptism and narcissism cancel each other out."

[quoting Arun Gandhi] "People of the Book risk putting the book above people."

"The whole purpose of the Bible, it seems to me, is to convince people to set the written word down in order to become living words in the world for God's sake. For me, this willing convesion of ink back to blood is the full substance of faith."

"My role and my soul were eating each other alive. I wanted out of the belief business and back into the beholding business."

"My quest to serve God in the church had exhausted my spirtual savings. My dedication to being good had cost me a fortune in being whole. My desire to do all things well had kept me from doing the one thing within my power to do, which was to discover what it meant to be fully human."

Conversationally Speaking . . .

Been doing a great deal of talking about prayer lately. Some of the discussions are related to what I do for a living and some of them because of how I live.

Since prayer is inherently a "talk with God" language plays a role. I know plenty of folks who feel the need to go into God talk when they pray. And you know what? Bless them! I don't care how they converse with their mother and I don't care how they chat with God.

But when they assume that their way is THE way, well . . . then we have a problem. Recently, a good friend suffered much from a verbal lashing she received because how she talks to and of God didn't conform to this woman's view of the "sacred." But my friend talks the way she talks and I would no more edit her prayers than I would edit the beautiful free flowing expressiveness of her life. She adds to me by challenging me to think far beyond my usual mental borders.

After hearing her account of how she'd been reprimanded, I then had to meet with a group of folks interested in encouraging prayer for my city. The meeting was primarily about how to launch some prayer opporunities. Administrative in nature, I discouraged a couple of city "prayer warriors" from attending. But one felt the need to pray for me. Now, having admitted that I was bothered with how my friend was corrected "in Christian love" I have to acknowledge that I'm about to point out something in my personal prayer warrior's approach that might be considered criticism. So hear this . . . I'm not criticizing! I'm saying this just IS NOT ME!!!

The woman prayed for me over the phone. She told God everything that she and I had just said to one another (so much for that whole omnipresent thing) and then after about four minutes she began what I thought was her approach to the landing field. In my circles, when you start "in Jesus' name" that's time to grab the purse and the keys so you can be first in line at the restaurants because this show is about to close! But not her, she got to the familiar phrase, said it and then began to recount several of Jesus' names, then she closed in again with "in your son's most holy name" and decided to start listing all of God's other attributes. We circled the landing field at least four times before finally concluding that prayer.

Later when I was discussing this with a friend, I admitted that I liked the fact that she has her own style, that it wasn't my style and that in fact, laundry list prayers of things God is already well aware of simply bother me. I'm more of a moaner (and please just mentally behave and allow me to use that word). I moan and groan to God. I don't have the words sometimes to help God know what's needed. But what little faith I have assures me that a being as great is God is supposed to be somehow understands. And many of my prayers are silent versions of "eh? you hear that God, yeah whatever you can do, great".

My buddy who got her verbal hand slapped for word choice, talks to Jesus like a lover. I think that's cool. I can't do it, but I'm glad she can. And even my "will she ever stop?" warrior gets kudos from me for doing her thing. So why do I beat myself up and feel that my way isn't good enough?

One more thing . . . I DO have a problem with the people who act like prayer is a magic decoder ring. If you do it right, and God is satisfied that you've broken the code, then the world is yours for the asking.

Nuh uh. Can't go there.

Ha??

Today's Houston Chronicle carried a story about how David Hasselhoff was good at making fun of himself before others beat him to it (a ploy fat girls like me learned VERY early on). I don't know exactly what all the fuss is about him but I do know that I appreciated a line that appeared in the story when the writer admitted that having come to know Hasselhoff it was a lot less easy for him to join in the sarcasm and attacks. Here's the quote:

"Humor comes from ignorance, naivete and emotional distance; every real experience cuts down on those skills. That's one reason that comedians get less funny as they grow older and that the smart ones -- such as Bill Murray and Steve Martin -- choose more serious work. So either I'm going to have to transition into a more serious kind of columnist or studiously avoid any emotional growth."

Ok, so his tongue is implanted in the facial area ... but isn't there some truth in this? When we know someone and the origin of their foibles, isn't it more difficult to laugh at them when they are down? At least it's true of me: The more I know about how screwy life can be, the less likely I am to smile when someone seems bent on screwing up.

I Grew Up Poor

A widowed mother, getting a job at 13, thankful for the extra gifts folks gave us at the holidays -- this was my childhood reality. And I don't blame it, scorn it, or repress it in shame. In fact, I'm proud to be a survivor.

However . . . neither do I hide my delight when a few decades later I get to enjoy the good life. Such was the case tonight.

My friends Robin and Richard were in town. They know both good food and good wine. Tonight they chose Tafia to celebrate their return to what was Robin's fair city before she vacated the premises for San Francisco and married bliss.

I didn't even look at the menu. I simply gave myself over to their expertise. Educated in both the grape and the kitchen, I knew that the two of them would take care of me. Little did I know that one foodie resonates with another and when you are in the right shadow at the right time you can benefit. And benefit I did!

Monica Pope is the chef/ower of Tafia. I have followed her career from her days on Montrose at Blvd. Bistro and I'm somewhat impressed by the fact that her sister is a producer at the David Letterman show. Plus she has helped establish the return of the Farmers Market in the city and I love that as well.

So, when she stopped by our table to welcome us, I was in mild infatuation. But when, after Richard regaled her with restaurant talk and recipes he'd tried and wanted to try, she sent a gratis appetizer, then main course, then dessert ... well, I was delighted to be among the "beautiful people."

I can lay on the sarcasm with the best of them. I can caress disdain like a long haired cat in purring mode. But when the elite offer me free food while I drink good wine and enjoy stimulating company ... well! color me impressed! High cotton is what my momma would call it and I'll chop it all day long if it offers up that kind of bounty.

A Bouncing Baby Boy

Mark and Nadine have a new little boy to join Noah in their amazing German family. Meo is adorable and his photo now graces my office door. I may not be quite old enough to be his grandma but I've decided to lose the vanity and live into at least the doting great aunt role! Warning: I could be obnoxious about this!!!!

Remember Pee Wee's Word of the Day?

"Effortless" -- that was the description he used. I heard the word the rest of the day.

The Fray sings it slowly sans percussion in their Top 20 pop entry and you can't help feeling like you're falling into it. Trouble is the word refers to losing someone and what it takes to do so.

Effortless -- I applied it to my friendships and it seems to fit. I want knowing me to be effortless. Need a job? I flip through my mental rolodex and make a connection or two. Wanna play? I'll keep up with the gang's wants/needs and insure a relatively stress free experience. Conversation at the midnight hour? Sure. Whatever? I'm there.

E says I want from someone what I give. She says that I make folks a priority and that I'm looking to be someone's priority. She's right (wise girl that e).

But I forget the effort it takes to be effortless. And so I want what's not possible -- a place in someone's heart and mind without him having to go to the trouble to clean up a few things and make room.

"Doing unto others as I would have ...." has never been difficult for me. But I've come to realize that I see that as an act requiring reciprocation and it's not. My thoughts have tended toward, "if I do unto you, you'll do back unto me." Not true, is it?

Definitely not effortless!

A Celtic Prayer

Christ be with you, Christ within you
Christ behind you, Christ before you
Christ beside you, Christ to win you
Christ to comfort and restore you
Christ beneath you, Christ above you
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger
Christ in hearts of all that love you
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

-- used at the funeral of my friend's brother

Definitely Different

The funeral was to be brief and at graveside. I was invited to represent the friends of the family with a few reassuring words. The pastor was offering the same spirit from the church family. And my ex husband delivered the bulk of the comfort with an emphasis on how faith gets us through the hard times. Three "ministers" (don't quite see me in that category usually) and we all knew the threat of Houston heat far outweighed anything we could say.

What we didn't factor into the equation was the rain. Actually, make that monsoon! A shower minutes before we were to leave the facility where we first gathered kept us inside a bit longer. Soon the sun was out and we took to the cars and traveled the winding path to the graveside. That's when the skies opened up.

Walking to the tent-covered grave pretty much meant I was soaked from the beginning -- even though I was walking with my friend under a sunflower shaped umbrella. And being soaked meant that my sheer skirt and blouse -- chosen because they would be cool in the heat we KNEW would be there -- were now sucking against my backside. Pinching them away caused just enough breeze that within minutes I was shaking in the "cold." That went well with the winds that were blowing through, the water dripping through the cracks in the tent and the rains now blowing sideways into the family seating area.

I reached to wipe away the water pouring down my back and noticed that my hair was completely drenched. But all of this mattered very little because I was absolutely focused on not embarrassing the family. Which meant I had a mantra going on in my head, "Yes you're slipping out of your heels but whatever you do DON'T LEAN ON THE CASKET. DON'T LEAN ON THE CASKET. DON'T LEAN ON THE CASKET."

I may not be ordained but that just didn't seem to be appropriate funeral protocol.

After the three of us shouted down the elements to deliver our thoughts, the rain finally subsided. My friend told me later that her brother would have loved the shower. I was glad, in fact happy that she could see it that way, but I still wanted a towel.

Photographs and Memories

Sunday's paper revealed that a photo gallery in town was closing a show of photos collected from the Houston, It's Worth It campaign created in 2004. During that hot summer, some folks determined that they would ask what made living here worth it. You can see some of what happened in that campaing at www.HoustonItsWorthIt.com. This summer they went from words to pictures and with just a few hours to spare before closing, I was able to take it in.

Seems the initial campaign acknowledged the following 20 "afflictions" before posing the question of worth: the heat, humidity, hurricanes, flying cockroaches, moquitoes, traffic, construction, sprawl, refineries, ridicule, pollen, air, billboards, flooding, image, property taxes, short springs, long summers, potholes, no mountains.

The photos made me (and many others from the sound of it) laugh, smile and genuinely beam with pride as we collectively determined where some of the shots were taken or let it be known with numerous expressions of surprise "Oh, I've been there!" The shot of the three women in Muslim head dress watching a young man play pool reminded me of just how diverse we are. The gay pride parade had a couple of entries. As did the Art Car parade. Then there was just the right angles that were used to capture the beauty of downtown juxtaposed against a Fourth Ward two-story shack.

And enhancing the pictures were the quotes also hanging clothesline style throughout the space. I copied a few of my favorites:

"Houston is like your crazy grandma who smells funny. You know she can still cook up a storm, tell a good joke or two and she *knows* she's crazy. It's only the outsiders who wonder why you love her and spend so much time with her."

"It's an international city: the traffic of LA and the climate of Calcutta."

"Houston is worth it because if you are here, you want to be here. The heat, the mosquitoes, the traffic -- sure, they might bug you, but you have more important things to do than whine about the weather. Houston is worth it because it knows YOU are worth it."

"If Houston were a person perhaps she would be a stubborn, tough, irreverante drunk. She would also be deceptively smart and unbelievably generous. If I were lucky enough to have her as a friend and we were separated, she would be one of the few who I would call weekly and visit as often as possible just to stay grounded."

For me, Houston is definitely worth it because of days like today -- days when I needed to know that life keeps on. Today I realized that rather than initiating moments I had fallen into a pattern of simply letting life happen to me. AND had therefore determined that was unacceptable. I need a balance of both making things happen and experiencing what comes. So on this Sunday, I re-discovered all that I love about this town. I read a newspaper that takes more than an hour to get through just the headlines. I rode my bike along a bayou and though sweating like crazy and nearing dehydration, celebrated my fellow cyclists, the street people sucking in what shade they could find, and the story teller I was listening to on the radio. I went to a movie alone and then to another with a friend. I laughed aloud as the audience moaned at the kiss in Talledega Nights (you'll know what I mean when you see it) and hugged my playmate that much harder when we determined that perhaps this wasn't really "our" kind of movie. I saw some great photos and spent a leisurely supper dissecting everything with a couple of friends.

Even grocery shopping in this town makes me smile.

So here I sit. The fridge and my heart are full. This was not the day I intended a week ago. Then I was going to New Mexico and returning tomorrow rather than helping with a funeral. This was not the day I planned yesterday when I was going to take my friend to church for a little comfort. Circumstances changed and I did go with the flow. Until, that is, I knew it was time to determine the flow.

I hope all my friends and family experience days like today . . . in whatever form makes them grateful. Because gratitude serves as a market -- that yes, "this" is worth it!

Yet Another Reason I Love Houston

White Linen Night in the Heights . . . If you're a quirky little community open to lots more personal expression than Main Street, you still need a bit of commerce to keep the doors in that perpetual state of openness. And so, the Heights regularly invites the rest of Houston to peek in at all that makes them unique. A community-wide cocktail party is the result. Galleries, shops with dust collectors and antique stores add wine and edibles to their offerings and live music plays in the streets.

Roger, Stan and I decided at the last minute that this was my prescription for overcoming a rather down day. We were right!

I mean who wouldn't feel better after hearing Elvis-wannabes deliver a decent blues sound, watching young black women body painting young (and might I just say 'beautiful') black men as angels with pecs, and discovering that one shop was harboring a 102-year-old celebrity . . .but I don't actually know why everyone wanted his autograph.

Introductions Not Necessary

"Karen, meet the Short End of the Stick."

"Oh, we've met. Several times. In fact, what are you doing back here?"

"You keep inviting me."

Line Worthy of Repeating

Ushered last night at The Great American Trailer Park Musical now playing at Houston's Stages Theater. Following the theme of the day (see earlier blog entry) it too was a celebration of the power of women's ability to survive. I laughed aloud during most of the over the top performances and word play within the tunes. One of the most memorable?

"I'm going make like a nail and press on."

Finding Beauty in the Midst of Ugliness

The funeral director entered the room and his face registered surprise. At first I thought it was directed toward the six-month old baby happily banging on the well-polished conference table. But soon I suspected it was more. Now, I'm fairly sure I was looking at awe.

And, frankly, we were awesome.

The mother of the deceased, his sister (my friend), his niece (and the baby's mother) and I were seated around the table. As friend and driver I was honored when yet another seemingly nervous gentleman mistook me for the child's grandmother (and believe me, for me to receive that one well truly demonstrates the emotional power of the moment!).

I wondered what was causing the reactions we kept getting. Possibly, they were amazed at the ability to simply stay composed addressing one of the most horrific things that can happen to a mother -- burying her child. Perhaps it was the generational picture they saw reflected in the room. Maybe it was the fact that we finished one another's thoughts . . . assisting when needed, staying silent when that was best, even laughing when the moment called for it. Whatever . . .

I finally determined that the simplest answer was the best. Most men are amazed at women. And they should be. Once again we proved their suspicions correct . . . there is something mysterious and mystical about us.

We clean up the messes. We care for one another. And we survive.

Suicide Sucks

A friend's brother did the deed that I despise because of all that's left in the wake. Please say a prayer today . . . or speak aloud to whatever peace-giving power you hold dear . . . and bathe my red-haired playmate with some degree of calm, a vast amount of freedom to just be, and ask that she make it through this guilt-free.

I'm So Over . . .

I'm so over "should" --
Directives determined
By someone else
Certainly not me

Having adhered to their
"straight and narrow"
and colored in their
"black and white"

I now long for curves
And hues vibrant and bright

I'm so over "should"

Here's a Discussion I'd Love to Have . . .

I have no idea if this book is any good, but I'd love to get some of my most thoughtful friends together for a discussion of just this article alone!

And just in case you are not even tempted to follow the link, here are a few teaser quotes:

'Sanity does not immediately strike us as a fascinating idea the way madness does,' he says, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes closing in concentration as they will throughout our conversation, 'even as an alternative word to mad, sane is so blank. But, it seems to me that either madness is another word for human nature, and that we are all very strange and life is, as it were, maddening, or, we are capable of actually being something else. Now, what is that something else? That is what I am trying to explore and I think that it is actually very obscure, and neglected.'

. . . we take our sanity for granted, that only when it is dramatically ruptured - by grief, depression, breakdown - do we think about it at all. Like Bill Wyman's famous definition of a great bass player - you would only realise how good he was if he were to stop playing mid-song - sanity is defined mainly though its absence.

'One of the more distracting things about capitalist culture,' he says, with total seriousness, 'is that there is no stupor, no time to vegetate. What I would suggest is more time wasting, less stimulation. We need time to lie fallow like we did in childhood, so we can recuperate. Rather than be constantly told what you want and be pressurised to go after it, I think we would benefit greatly from spells of vaguely restless boredom in which desire can crystallise.'

Early Advent

I see myself as a shepherd child standing at the manger, gift in hand, confused as to whether the baby before me is a new playmate or a king.

Metaphorically Speaking . . .

If you knew before you started the feast laid out before you that you would spend days recovering . . . that you'd be restricted to only the path between your bed and the ceramic tile of your bathroom floor, would you still indulge?

If you were guaranteed both the winnings and the lotto curse of losing more than you started with, would you buy the ticket?

If you could see clearly the crash ahead, would you continue to climb behind the race car's wheel?

This I know -- I would, I have.

My friend Ken

what a clever guy . . .

Crazy Talk

Is talking aloud to one's self truly a sign of taking the curve? If so, does the nice jacket with the long sleeves come in earth tones 'cause white is just not my color!

Sunday night after a particularly sweaty workout I had quite an animated conversation with me in the bathtub. Smiling at the absurdity of it all but somewhat enjoying the company, I acknowledged that when one lives alone, sometimes these moments can't be avoided. Still I felt a wave of sadness at the idea of just how alone I sometimes am.

Unless of course it's a Monday like last night when I met up with the young woman whose wedding I'm coordinating/stage managing/whatever. Or tonight when I have to go to both Weight Watchers and then usher at the Alley Theater. Or Wednesday when I'm heading out to Tomball to help Ken and Becky move into a new house. Or Thursday when I once again show people to their seats at Stages Theater or Friday when I leave for New Mexico.

So . . . maybe I'm not so alone after all, huh? Still . . . if that jacket does come in different colors . . .

Someone's Got Some 'Splaining to Do

Am I the only one for whom a tube of Super Glue is an "I Love Lucy" episode waiting to happen?

In the Moment

I want to be a woman known for living in the moment, for extracting every drop of life from each instant, for engaging in rather than simply observing opportunities.

And yet . . .

I struggle with a reality that suggests life in this moment has implications for the next, that every change changes everything.

And that struggle is yet another reason why I wouldn't make a good Buddhist.

Sometimes I Listen to What They Say

"They" say, 'write what you know'
So
Here goes . . .

Fear
Loss
Guilt
Shame
Grace
Calm
Joy
Breathless anticipation
Celebratory release
Acceptance
Amazement
Surprise
Passion
Trust
Sanctuary

Wonder what next week holds?

Control Issues

If I tell you something
That's not a question
Then don't assume
I'm waiting for your answer.

Information is only power when I give it to you

For some unknown reason . . . even to myself
Today I did just that -- provided both information and power.

Anyone willing to offer up a good swift kick to my backside????

Another way of looking at it . . .

I've lost a little over four pounds and $720 with Weight Watchers. Not bad.

(I was on my way to WW in a new location when I didn't pay attention, didn't see the pothole, and didn't realize how very bad my poor little Toyota was hurt )

Trust Me, Trusting Him Matters

So, yeah, I'm a woman living alone. And yes, I did get burglarized recently. And, quite honestly, there are nights when I would love to know that someone was going to call and check on my status . . . not out of obligation but simply because there's a bookmark with my name on it in their mind's "favorites" file.

But for the most part, I spend my life feeling safe and secure and loved. I even like to share out of the bounty of all that and enjoy helping carry others' loads when I can.

So when that position of "readiness for whatever" is threatened, even slightly, and it's personal, not someone else's crisis, well, I find it hard to breathe. At this very moment, I'm having trouble with the whole concept of inhaling.

I just got word that I broke a strut on my car. Clueless as to whether I even spelled that right, what I know is that one pothole yesterday afternoon is going to cost me more than $600.

Gasp!

Do I have the money? Yes. Do I wish I didn't have to spend it on a car when there are so many folks I'd like to spend it on other than myself and my day to day needs? Absolutely!

But you know what makes this slightly better? I trust the guy who called and told me that my car was in need of some immediate special care. I trust this whole operation. They make it their business to take care of their customer's concerns . . . especially women. There's no discomfort when you walk into this place. The manager knows my name. I still have to look at their coveralls and the stitched in names to remember who is who. But without benefit of even a peek at his records, he was chatting with me and ready to make sure I had my car back at the "ideal" time.

That was, of course, before the discovery of "the strut".

While some may suspect that as a strong, self-sufficient, divorced woman, I might at times be a man-hater. The truth is that I'm not. While I primarily work with the male population and specifically with pastors, I don't hold men at arm's length, in distaste, tsk-tsk-tsking their every move. But I know that there are plenty of guys who say what they need to say in order to get what they truly believe they need/want. So my eyes are always open.

And yet, I trust my mechanic.

Go figure.

Now how does that go again . . . ? inhale . . . exhale . . . inhale . . .

Allow Me to Translate

The man moved his way to the front of the line seemingly oblivious that there was a line. Smiling broadly, he told the registrar exactly what he needed and got it. No "excuse me." No "ha! I beat you" either. Just oblivion.

Later during the conference the crowd split up and those of remaining in the room had an opportunity to change seats. I found an empty table and was about to place my things at my selected chair when Mr. Oblivious approached.

"Can I join you guys at this table?" he said.

Looking around at the nine other empty seats which held no other "guys," I simply said, "Sure."

He placed his things and himself at the chair directly beside me. Remember now . . . nine other options for chairs and he's positioned himself at my side.

[Spoiler alert: For those of you who might be thinking, "he's hitting on her and she's the oblivious one" let me beg to differ. He's not. He's not interested in anything but whatever he's focused on in that moment. I'm there but I'm invisible and grateful to be so.]

Within seconds I'm blessed further. Because I have no intention of engaging Mr. Oblivious in conversation, I'm thrilled when someone he was sitting with earlier joins him in this better seating arrangement.

They begin to talk.

I'm not eavesdropping at this point, but if you are seated beside me and if you don't choose to lower your voice, there's not much I can do.

I learn:
-he's just back from "the field"
-his organization told him that he couldn't return until he 'took a year to receive some mentoring and for healing'
-he thinks his organization was simply 'wiping their hands of him'
-he cannot understand why, with his degrees, no one will hire him

"OH! Can I take that one????" I want to scream but don't. "Don't you speak organizational code, dude??? These people know you're nuts!!!!!"

Sometimes I Like to Share . . .

But yield who will to their separation
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future’s sakes.

Two Tramps in Mud Time
by Robert Frost

Post Party Thoughts

I love it when you see people with new eyes. I'm taking responsibility in the change of view, because it's not really a matter of the person having been different when it was your thinking that caused you to define them.

Last night I saw a woman shine in ways I'd never seen before. She's so good at going with the flow that I didn't know she could handle the spotlight so well. She didn't demand it. She didn't steal it from someone else. And she was more than willing to share. But for a few moments, all eyes were upon her and she handled that responsibility with a finesse I didn't know she possessed.

I also saw a couple love. Not in a grand gesture kind of way. But nevertheless, the emotion I felt as I they simply touched each other's arms while exchanging abbreviated info (because lovers have their own language, don't they?) in a quiet conversation of not even a minute . . . it was grand. I wanted to stop the world for just a few more minutes and allow the intimacy to be acknowledged by the heavens.

So after last night -- which of course means I'm talking about this morning -- I woke up thinking of significance. I am coming to a place where I can accept that love between one singular individual and me and in the way that society accepts it may not be in the realm of the possibilities. Now, don't get all fretty on me. I don't mean that I don't experience love. I do and it's phenomenal that I can be accepted and embraced and truly loved by so many. But that's the downside of that word. "Love" isn't enough to convey all the variations we may mean. But if we're talking about one-on-one, let's spend the rest of the time we have with each other, you're the most important person in the world to me love -- well, I can't see that on the horizon for me.

And I'm truly ok with that because that whole thing is a mystery to me anyway. What I've realized that I want is significance. I don't want or need to be your "only" anything. Perhaps because I'm not that sure I can give it. But I do want to understand the significance of me in your life.

I don't have to be your best friend. But do you count on me as part of your first line of defense?
I don't have to be your wisest confidante. But does my opinion matter? and will you occasionally heed what I say?
I don't have to be the love of your life. But do you find pleasure in my being with you in this moment in time and will you remember me for always?

Last night I experienced a slight shift in significance. I saw a woman transformed and a couple unite. Neither happened before a crowd of witnesses. Yet something was added to my perspective and I was significantly impressed.

So I thought of a few things at a workshop . . .

Spent some time this week with several folks who truly believe that individuals can make a difference in the world by living their convictions.

Some focus on the environment -- they use alternative fuels, make their own clothes, and are making conscious consumer choices. Some focus on the poor -- they not only offer food and clothes and medical care, but they are trying to address the systemic issues that help to create poverty. Some focus on change -- they work with community groups to encourage volunteerism and an understanding of issues. And some focus on what I will call the "edge" people -- they embrace those that society chooses not to and in so doing becoming the very thing they embrace.

The group was made up entirely of Christians. And since only a few did all of the above, it was mostly a time spent in trying to understand whoever represented an "other" to you as well as get some more clues in how to do what you do better.

I admire the people who were there and who each day live what they believe.

I also have to question one aspect of that belief system. Get a group like this together and at some point you going to hear talk of suffering and sacrifice. And if you listen hard enough, that S&S speak is going to hint at something that bothers me: Jesus suffered on the cross. We are to be like Jesus. We must suffer.

I don't think so.

Those who know me know that "obedience" isn't something I'm drawn to. I tend to think it has something to do with father issues and having to grow up so early. But I value it, even if I don't always act on it. Still, I'm more inclined to say Jesus lived in obedience. We are to be like Jesus. We must obey.

That's a HUGE leap for me to express as a value but I guess I do and I've come to it out of rejecting this "suffering syndrome." I don't want that badge for my Girl Scout banner and I'm not going to go all gushy on you if you list the litany of ways you've sacrificed for the cause, made you and your family (who may or may not share your enthusiasm) give up and give in, and how you're waiting not for an earthly reward but the day when it all makes sense in heaven.

Uh uh. Not for me. For what little I believe specifically about God, I have a pretty strong grip on this one -- God isn't somewhere over the rainbow. God's gift to us that we can be guaranteed of, and not even leave to a matter of faith, is this life. I intend to honor that gift.

And ultimately, when it comes to talk of "getting outside one's comfort zone" I believe this . . .

We are all unique for a reason. If my comfort zone is your mission field -- one you'd suffer through in order to serve -- then really allow me.

Your pain is no one's gain.

I Saw A Young Man with Great Passion

The thin young man adds to the sense of his utter linear-ness with blonde dreds, a bandana, glasses ala Clark Kent, and clothes he made himself that hang across his curtain rod shoulders and down, down, down. He's not a tall drink of water in the ooo la la category. He's simply very tall and very thin.

He's also very passionate about . . . well just about everything.

Must be nearing or even slight past 30 but that's based on life experiences he quoted. Not solid evidence. I didn't card him.

He's mastered a masters, spent time in a megachurch on staff, worked with Mother Teresa, gone to circus school, can breathe fire, written a book, helped save a deserted Catholic church building for the homeless families who had settled there (complete with media coverage), reclaimed an abandoned house in Philadelphia in a community just off the street where the prostitutes hang out, fixed up said house, and now lives there while working with the community to bring about transformation.

Oh, yes, and he just got back from Iraq where he visited with natives and troops, assuring all of the love of Christ, and even surviving a wreck and less than ideal situations for medical care.

This man cares. He's looking forward to getting home and playing with the kids in the street with the open fire hydrants serving as their main source of entertainment and cooling.

This man reads . . . and retains seemingly every word on the page.

This man shares . . . sales from his book go to the community. He's part of a collective that allows the uninsurable to pay for medical care.

This man teaches. We've spent the last two days listening.

This man is somehow more than a man.

If Christ really does live within, then he lives within this man.

Semantic Sea

Waves of possibilities, options, alternatives, unverbalized assumptions
& simplistic wordplay
Collide
&
Clobber
The comber in search of treasure

Look out!
My perspective allows for the warning

But the roar of what is
Wipes out
The aid.

And chaos comes crashing down.

Surviving

Three years ago I got an email asking for prayer for an Ethiopian family. The infant girl was having problems which turned out to be colon related. For three years, I've received periodic updates on her condition. The severity of her illness and the lack of proper and available medical care in her home country often seemed to be a death sentence.

Today I opened an email with the following information:
Dr. Marc Levitt did about 6 1/2 hours surgery on this 3 year old. He found
several inches of colon acting like a plug and the colon above that was
inflated and damaged due to 3 years of filling up like a balloon. In
summary, he cut out about 18 inches of bad colon and then reattached the
good colon.

The surgery was made possible because people in the U.S. connected to people in Ethiopia with whom this family was connected collected the funds for travel and then doctors donated their expertise. This little girl will now be healthy because of the kindness of strangers.

The day I received that first prayer request I felt less than capable of expressing a coherent plea for her. In fact, I probably uttered something along the lines of "may her death be as painfree as possible."

Recognizing that my conversations with God were less than on hospitable terms in those days, I sent the email to three mothers I knew -- three women who would lay down their lives and take out a few if necessary to protect their children and any other child within their sphere of influence.

And each time I got an updat, I'd forward it on. Sometimes I'd add a note of semi-hopefulness. Sometimes I'd apologize for filling their in box.

Today one of them wrote me as soon as she got the news of the successful surgery.

We celebrated.

And I had an aha.

In my dark times, I tend to put one foot in front of the other in the faintest hope that that matters . . . that simply being is better than giving up. I'm glad that even when shadows fall all around me, I still sense that there could be light.

Some would call that faith. I call it survival.

Promise?

Perhaps reneging on the promise of a promise is harder for me to forgive than a broken promise itself. Broken promises are inevitable, so my grace abounds. But when the courage to commit never materializes, just the hint of a possibility . . . well, I can do a mental 50 yard dash with that one and be so far down the resolution track that the sharp pain of racing alone stabs and stabs hard.

This realization was birthed in a week filled with potential. I checked out a website for ethics thinking I had a companion for my social justice journey. My visit was diasterous. Of the 18 colunmists listed as contributors -- one, and only one, is a woman. And in the three lines describing her she's mentioned as having been a one-time director of a board and a wife and mother. None of the other writers were treated to the description of being husbands and fathers.

My next disappointment came after I had actually made myself vulnerable -- something I rarely do. Known for my independence, I thought it might be necessary to point out to a friend that I needed something -- a shoulder, a hug, a prayer -- I wasn't being too picky. The offer came quickly. "Let's get together for a drink. Tonight . . . if all goes well with the paperwork I'm doing while in town."

The call never came. I took care of myself once again . . . first hair therapy, then a workout and finally with the satisfaction of knowing that I'm still ok.

Still . . . promises matter . . . at least mine do.

Rainbow Clues

When I stepped onto the streets of Mexico City early Sunday morning, I quickly realized that I would be powerwalking alongside a half marathon. I couldn't detect much of what was being shouted over the loud speaker but I did discern that I was starting at what would be the end of their runs. I thrilled at the thought that I would have many sights to engage me as I accomplished my exercise for the day.

My other delight was in not having to worry about directions. The route I chose this day was an avenue that ran much of the length of the city -- Paseo de Reforma -- and included a very wide sidewalk that featured occasional parks at its side.

About four or five blocks from my hotel, I saw an old church. What caught my eye was actually the bright rainbow banner than hung outside one of the stained glass windows. I found myself getting choked up at the image and the bravery -- a church proudly proclaiming itself open to the gay community.

I wasn't that surprised at the location however. We had already discovered that our hotel was less than a block away from several gay bars. Several young men sought to make us smile with their antics one night as we sought out a restaurant.

Since I was in exercise mode, I didn't take the time to stop and explore the church -- what denomination, if any, it might be. Instead, I resolved that I would return later with my friend who I hoped would enjoy a photographic exhibit that the Museum of Art had posted outside along the avenue.

I did tear up when I told her about the church. She was impressed but wasn't quite up to another walk (having asked much of her ailing knees by climbing one of the pyramids the day before). So I took off on my own for a stroll and to investigate.

I didn't make it to the photos before my time ran short but I did end up at the church. I looked through the locked gate to see a sign posted in Spanish assuring me that this establishment didn't discriminate in regards to race, religion, age, or sexual orientation. I found myself impressed with such a bold statement by a church and also perplexed that we live in a day when such would have to be posted.

Then my eyes caught the posters pinned to the doors. Picking my way through what Spanish I knew on the announcements, it hit me. This wasn't a church. This was a bar -- a gay bar -- inside what was once a proud congregation.

So the permanent placard regarding discrimination wasn't from the church, I concluded. The bar wanted their acceptance made known.

Two evenings prior I had heard a British pastor speak of Mary's drying Christ's feet with her hair and challenging Baptist leaders from around the world heed the lesson of the story and to be more welcoming.

I wondered if any of them would be willing to fly a banner of their own?

Not sure if i'm back or not but . . .

I climbed to the top of the Pyramid of the Moon and the Pyramid of the Sun outside Mexico City. I huffed and puffed every step of the way but I did make it. And I celebrated by facing each direction from the top of the Sun and silently voicing my gratitude for (a) the physical ability to have made the climb, (b) the sense of adventure that caused me to have to make it, (c) and the friends that support me even though they are no longer able to endure such a test of their bodies.

Later in the day, our little tour group traveled to the Basilica. Three buildings represent the history of the people who embrace the Virgin of Guadalupe. One sits atop the hill and was built in the 14th century or so. The second looks very much like every other cathedral in the world except for the fact that it's sinking. You can face it and see a difinite leaning toward the left. And the third is circa 1970s and is very much alive today.

The guide told us the sinking was partially caused by the fact that the facility was built on a pyramid. Didn't take me long to deduce that even in the 1600s it didn't pay to try and build a church on top of the context rather than alongside it.

Often I see things from a perspective gained from looking at several directions. Many might disagree with my conclusions. But nevertheless I'm grateful. I like the view from where I am.

The Time Has Come

Feels to me like this blog is over. I have thoroughly enjoyed the experience but other new adventures await and I'm not able to give this the time I have in the past. If you're a friend who chooses to stay in touch via the blog, I PROMISE I respond promptly to all emails. If you are a stranger who dropped in on me now and again, I wouldn't mind getting to know you as well. All emails are welcomed. My address is kc04@houston.rr.com.

blessings on you all . . .

I'm Walking Once Again!

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you already know that I volunteer at an AIDS hospice in Houston. This year the annual AIDS Walk will benefit the efforts of Bering Omega (hospice, dental clinic and more) even greater than in years past. So if you would like to support the cause, go to my profile page and make a donation. You'll feel good all over, I promise!!

Science Isn't My Thing and Yet . . .

She said, "My kids were both having to study the law of the conservation of matter at school. We got to talking about the fact that it means that all that has ever been created still exists in some form . . . even the fingernails of Jesus are still floating around out there or has already taken on a new form."

Me interrupting, "So that means the body of Christ is still out there somewhere but just may have taken on a new form, right?"

Us, "Hmmmmmmm. . . ."

Don't Thank Me

Twice this week I've been told, "Thank you for your patience. I'm sorry you had to wait."

That's assuming a great deal, don't you think?

Am I patient simply because you didn't hear my angry thoughts and detailed instructions on how you could vastly improve the ineptitude of your system? Or because you didn't see on my face the utter amazement I felt as employees ignored requests or worse, provided incorrect information?

My silence does not indicate patience. So if you must thank me, get at least that much right.

How about . . .

"Thank you for not revealing how utterly frustrated you are with us at this moment."

or better yet . . .

"Thank you for not taking 'customer service' too seriously. Obviously, we don't either."

Crop This

Been thinking alot about perspective lately. As a result, I've been looking at alot of photographs lately.

I LOVE the crop function!

I can take pounds off a person just by using that little dotted line to reframe the shot. Then moving the mouse to Image/Crop . . . voila! Magic happens at the touch of a button.

I can also force someone to focus. "Forget the grass in the foreground. Ignore all that trash behind the flower. LOOK!! See it, and only it."

But visual doesn't translate into verbal does it? No matter how hard I try, I can't take away your pain. I can't make you see what you cannot see.

I can't fix anyone but me.

Taking on that perspective changes everything. I can move you toward new thinking with questions but I can't make you think a certain way. I can suggest possibilities but I can't make you accept a new path. I can offer options but the choice in the end is yours.

So my definitions are evolving. Evangelism has nothing to do with the end result and everything to do with storytelling. Church has nothing to do with membership and everything to do with community. Friendship has nothing to do with forever and everything to do with now.

At least, that's way I'd crop it.

I'm Not Going There

It's too easy. And anyway, the professional comics are just having too much fun with it. So all I'll ask is that you read this slowly and aloud:

The Vice President of the United States shot a 78-year-old man in the face . . . while hunting quail . . . on a farm . . . that raises quail . . . to be shot at . . . by the Vice President of the United States and 78-year-old men

'Nuf said.

Wisdom?

Perhaps one definition of wisdom is learning from your past. Last Thursday I traveled to Newark, NJ to work with an African American church on vision. The experience was incredible and I walked away from those 50 or so leaders having learned as much as I shared.

However, I walked away a day early.

On Friday evening we heard the news of the impending snowstorm. We checked to see what changing my Sunday flight to Saturday would cost. When we discovered that Continental was going to waive the cost of changing flights, we knew this HAD to be a big one coming our way and made the change.

Yesterday, under the blankets in my very own Houston home, I heard and saw the impact of the storm. I had flown out just as the first flakes were falling.

I have been in the air or in a foreign country during all of the following: Tinnamen Square, the Oklahoma City bombing, Tropical Storm Allison, Sept. 11, and more than a few internal squirmishes such as strikes, etc.

This time I got out while the getting was good!

Whew!

Talking the Walk

The minute I left Walk the Line, I called a friend with Louisiana roots.

"Hay! This is Kay-run. And I jest left that movie 'bout Johnny Cash and feel absolutely a-okay 'bout reverting back to my true Tennessee twang for at least a couple o' minutes. Since you're 'bout the only one who can understand me when I talk lack this, I thot I'd call and say how much I liked it. And I did . . . like it, I mean."

Tresblogging on a sick day . . .

My stomach didn't want to cooperate with me being in an upright position today so I left work after a few hours and headed for my couch. A bit of rest and I'm not standing but I can at least allow the laptop to merit its name.

In my search for amusement I once again fell in love with Waiter Rant's wit. While tagging Chardonnay as the "Missionary Position of White Wine" may not be Exhibit A in defense of his incredible storytelling, I did have to giggle in the reading of his insights into the public's drinking habits.

Oscar Talk

Today's paper listed the Oscar nominations and when I got to the documentary category my eyes were failing to pick up all those tiny newsprint commas and the list became a strange run-on sentence that somehow "spoke" to me:

Darwin's Nightmare Enron:The Smartest Guys in the Room March of the Penguins Murderball Street Fight

Perhaps those not living in the Houston area and so therefore void of the daily updates on who's who and what's what regarding the Enron trial will not share my amusement, but I was, yea verily, amused.

YES! I get this ... don't always like it but I get it

Waiting
from www.vaux.net
and reworked in The Complex Christ

As Sarah waited...Ninety years for a son to fulfil God's promise.
We wait in hope for what we thought had been spoken to us.

As Moses waited...40 years in the desert
We wait for emptiness and humility

As the Prophets waited -- 1000 years of salvation promises
We wait for the signs of presence

As Mary waited...9 months of her 14 years for the child of God.
We feel the birth-pains, yet fear for the child.

As John the Baptist waited -- scanning the crowds for knowing eyes
We long for an experience of the Divine

As Jesus waited -- 30 years of creeping time,
40 days in the throes of temptation,
3 years in the midst of misunderstanding,
3 days in the depths of hell . . .

So now, we wait.
Our turn to toil on levelling mountains and straightening paths.
Our turn to watch time's horizon.
Our turn to hope that He who promised is faithful, and will return.

Travel Shots

According to Karen's rules of travel, the perfect travel photo has to (a) hide all you want it to hide while (b) show all you want it to show (including that you were actually IN the place you said you were going to) and (c) suggest a story in need of telling. Having now shown my photos to a few folks, I've selected the following as my two favorites. The first is from Vietnam. The second is from Cambodia. Comments are open for you to help break the tie.

Vietnam

Cambodia

Inspiration Takes Many Forms

Michelangelo is said to have said, "I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free."

I was powerwalking on the treadmill and listening to a leadership video when I heard these words Friday afternoon. I had to smile at my much too plebian application, as I rewrote the quote for my own purposes:

"I see a sexy, vibrant, woman of maturity and wisdom in the sweaty mass on this treadmill, and I will push until I set her free."

Sunday I ran several miles for the first time in months. Chip, chip, chipping away . . .

Beautiful!

He used it! The pastor mentioned in the previous post incorporated the video into a reflection on how Christ radically reached out to the outcasts of his day.

Some people watched and saw the sins of the people portrayed. Some people saw their own sin. Some people saw more similarities than differences.

Sometimes the church is a beautiful thing.

Beautiful?

When is it ok to use what some might consider "profane" to challenge people to consider the sacred?

I was confronted with this question today as I recommened Christina Aguilera's video "Beautiful" to a pastor who wanted to underscore that Jesus reached out to the outcasts. The visuals to this haunting song offer glimpses of an anorexic girl checking herself in the mirror, a teen boy with no muscle mass trying to beef up, a cross-dressing man, two men kissing, the bloody end to a fight, and a young black woman tearing the pages of a magazine out and burning them.

I want the pastor to use the video. I understand if he doesn't. Only he knows if the message will be lost in the medium. We'll see . . .

From the Sufi Poet Rumi

The poem -- Whoever Brought Me Here -- begins like this:

All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.

ABCs of Grace

A pastor-who-prefers-not-to-be-called-one and friend of mine helped me work through some nagging worries yesterday. In the process, he said something like this, "God is the a to the z. Sometimes people want only one letter. Often what keeps them in their rationale way of thinking and far from the beauty of the complexity is fear."

I truly believe that God is constant, unchanging. But we humans . . . we're a different lot. I'm thankful that what I believe/know of God is far from where I once was. That my sense of God's a-to-z-ness is evolving. I still harbor fear . . . of rejection, of ignorance, of being wrong about the whole lot, but I'm no where near the beginning anymore. And little by little, as the people of God share who and what they are with me, I move closer to the z.

Heaps and Heaps of Irony

Celebrants of Martin Luther King Jr.'s life may relish his view from the mountaintop but, in Houston, they have to get over the heaps of irony that stand between them and the annual parade.

Seems that those seeking to honor a man dedicated to fighting segregation had to submit to a court-ordered integration of their previously separate events.

And, the day after the forced experiment, one leader once again stood alone in the permit line to be the first/primary/solitary(?) organizer for next year's focus on togetherness.

Random Weirdness

I'm at the office and I hear on the radio a Karen Carpenter song followed by "Don't You Want Somebody to Love?" by Grace Slick.

The jarring juxtaposition to these two 70s icons seemingly singing about the same thing and yet somehow . . . not . . . reminded me of any number of spiritual/religious/church conversations I've had where if everyone in the room could have had conversational x-ray vision we would have seen clearly that we didn't really see each other at all.

More Great Quotes

Legislation is about the exercise of power; education is about the exercise of empowerment. -- Kester Brewin in The Complex Christ

For the simplicity on this side of complexity, I wouldn't give you a fig. But for the simplicity on the other side of complexity, for that I would give you anything I have. -- Oliver Wendell Holmes

My Feelings Exactly!

The fish-trap exists because of the fish.
Once you've got the fish, the trap can be forgotten.
Words exist because of meaning.
Once you've got the meaning, the words can be forgotten.

Chuang Tzu

I've been a "professional communicator" for more than 20 years now. After countless meetings determining themes, titles, vision statements, etc, after seemingly endless hours fretting over commas, periods, and word choice, I now more than ever add my "Amen" to the above.

Not as Sssssstrange As It Looks

While looking at photos, "e" mentioned that something was throwing her about the photos of me. "You're wearing t-shirts," she concluded. "I never see you in t-shirts in everyday life."

There's a reason for that. I'm rarely called upon to wear the following in everyday life either:

IF YOU COUNT A DOG AS A FRIEND . . .

Don't read any further . . . just skip down to the new photos I've added since I finally got the disks.

But if you've got the stomach for it, I'll tell you that when my Vietnam-born eye doctor asked me last week (during the exam that resulted from the fact that Air France lost my baggage . . . uh, have I mentioned this already?) what the strangest food I ate in Vietnam had been, I answered truthfully, "I don't really know. I didn't ask."

I tell you this because this photo is of the open air market. All living creatures besides human that you see here will be sold for dinner purposes. While I did see them post-butcher, as far as I know, I never consumed them.

A matter of perspective

When we first arrived in Vietnam, our guide began to recite our itinerary. When he explained a few of the sites we'd see, our worldview shifted, if ever so slightly.

"Of course, after the American War . . . " he explained.

For a few moments we didn't hear anything else. Then, we simply nodded at each other and said quietly, "Definitely a matter of perspective."

(The photo is from the walls of the Hanoi Hilton where prisoners of war were kept during the French and American Wars.)

Just in case you're keeping score . . .

I've decided to use names in telling some of my travel stories. Not using them was a rule I had for myself because it eliminated my having to ask permission to tell some of my tales. But rules are made to be re-written, don't you think?

Christmas Spirit with a Twist

Roger and I were in a small northern mountain village in Sapa, Vietnam for Christmas. We discovered they had a Catholic church and determined that the least we could do would be to drop in and see if they were having some sort of service.

"Some sort" would be an adequate way to describe what we found.

A mass may have been planned for later but we didn't notice any signage saying so (of course, it may have been quite evident to anyone who could read Vietnamese). When we arrived, however, there was quite a bit of action.

The sound system was blaring Vietnamese music. Yes, the twangy, screechy stuff that I'm sure is amazingly beautiful if you can hear it clearly and understand the intricacies but over a bad system just sounds loud and even hurts a bit. A few foreigners were sitting in the back on the wooden pews but otherwise the seats were empty and the crowd was gathered at the front of the sanctuary.

Making our way to the front -- guided by the string of Christmas lights draped from manger to the bright star of lights hanging dead center above the pulpit area -- we found folks vying for the next opportunity to make a donation and have their photo made with Baby Jesus . . . in the manger.

We decided we didn't need to take anyone else's turn from them so we, too, went to a pew and sat waiting. Not much changed for several minutes other than my head began to suggest that if the music continued at its present volume an ache might be forthcoming.

"I don't think I can take much more of this," I shouted to Roger who was by my side.

"Me either," he shouted back.

"How about we say a Christmas prayer and move on?" I yelled.

"Ok," he loudly countered.

And so we gave thanks for being where we were, for the friends and family who love us even when we choose to be in places like Vietnam for Christmas (and maybe even because we do), shared a kiss on the cheek and exited the building.

We proceeded to some of the shops and I found the perfect gift for my pastoral family -- a manger scene complete with a water buffalo carved from soft stone. Not really into bargaining, I went with the second price suggested by him.

Roger on the other hand decided that his purchase was worth wrangling over. So the young artist began to wrap my manger while alternately listening to and ignoring Roger. Soon he had me set.

"There's one more thing," the 20-ish salesman offered.

"I've bought all I need, really," I said.

"No, not for you to buy . . . for me to give. I put a Christmas Eve gift in your bag for you," he said.

Surprised, I replied, "Really? How sweet! What was it?"

"A laughing Buddha," he answered with not a trace of irony in his voice.

Buddha and Jesus on Christmas Eve in Vietnam . . . perfect, I thought.

With gratitude in my heart and Roger's bargained for but sans bonus Buddha under his arm, we made our way to our Christmas Eve dinner . . . Italian pizza in a small cafe with a blinking Christmas tree and ABBA blaring over their sound system.

Perhaps not a Silent Night, but in many ways a Holy one.

Coincidence? I Don't Think So

Baggage Service . . . initials are BS.

Should tell you something.

Today, Air France informs me (after 20 minutes on hold listening to a looping BAD music clip) that the four bags we checked in Hanoi were all listed as having made it to their final destination of Frankfurt, that they have no record of ever telling me the lost bag I reported had been found, and that I can fax in my inventory of all that was lost.

Now that I've spent some time with Air France -- checked out their website (where the looping voice message eventually tells you to go due to the "unusually high number of calls") and discovered that due to the "unusually high number of calls" they don't allow contact via the web -- I've begun to wonder what constitutes "unusual" since if you've had time to put the phrase on voice mail and add the phrase to your website, you might surmise that it's the "usual" high number of complaints you were dealing with. Of course, then, you'd have to consider what kind of system generates such errors and well. . . that would just be so . . . SERVICE ORIENTED that I'm sure you just couldn't handle it.

Viva La Air France?

I lost my hiker's pillow I got at REI, my travel bottle of my favorite cologne, a t-shirt, and a pair of sunglasses in my 27 days of travel.

Air France lost my bag containing Christmas gifts for half my friends.

They assure me it's on its way to me even as I type.

Sure.

Phonetically Speaking

Aw koon
Aw koon chiran
Suers day
Leehi
C'moon
Sin ciao
Chem toy la ban

These are but a few of the phrases I tried to retain during my brief stint in Asian countries. The last is particularly significant because my traveling companion Roger and I learned on our first excursion together that we had better learn the terminology for "we are friends" early on. Otherwise assumptions would consume us.

And assumptions are reasonable. Two adults of the opposite sex traveling together must be married or in some kind of intimate relationship, right? Well, no, not in our case. While Roger knows most of my intimate secrets we are simply very good friends who have found a way to co-exist during travel -- something many longtime relational companions find difficult to do. And as someone so profoundly put it, "It's nice to have someone wait with your backpack when you have to go to the toilet."

Assumptions, however, translate into a queen sized bed when we need two twins, seats together on the plane (and, yes, I seem to always be assigned the middle), and other irritants that we can easily resolve if we quickly learn the "chem toy la ban" of whatever country we're visiting.

When we first meet other English speaking foreigners, our revelation is also another great way of discovering a bit more about the way they think. To date, we've never encountered resistance or argument to our situation. Of course, given the rather out of the way locales we tend to visit, we've found most other visitors to be rather open-minded and curious enough about cultures and mores that we barely merit a blip on their curiousity radar.

Jen, Steve, Kimberly and Conrad are good examples.


We first encountered Kimberly by the fire in Sa Pa, Vietnam. She was recovering from the overnight train ride to this northern mountain village and had ascertained that her socks were way to damp to don. So she was attempting to dry them with the newly established warmth of the fire we'd just had rekindled in the hotel lobby. With all the boldness a 10-year-old with Thai-tied locks could muster, she launched into a in-depth explanation of what she was up to and why.

In her squeaky Australian lilt, she advised me that her 7-year-old bother Conrad was quite the bother all the while attempting to slap him headside with the aformentioned wet sock.

Soon Roger and I were hearing of their travels to date and their intentions of overnighting in a homestay. Later that day after we'd trekked several kilometers in the misty rain and lunched in one of the fire-warmed, battery powered, mud floored, thatch roofed homes, we thought of this quite sweet family and what they might encounter. Then later as we appreciated the Christmas Eve warmth of the down comforter in our cheap but adequate hotel room with its red hot floor heater, we said a Christmas prayer for them.

The next day in the open air market we ran into them once again. As I engaged Conrad (with Kimberly looking on) in a hand slapping game I'd often seen my brothers attempt, Roger learned that the overnight had been delightful. Beneath the covers in the upper loft of the fire warmed mudbrick, they'd soon beat the shivers and even enjoyed a bath while standing in a tub.

At that point, we surmised that they were our kind of people.

We met them again on a museum tour and Kimberly's became the missing head on the ancient sculpture thanks to Roger's lift and my photography skills. The parents were looking a bit weary when we next encountered them at the tombs. "Daddy's a bit cranky," was the kids' assessment. Jen declared it to be nearing "beer-thirty" on her watch.

At the King's pond, Kimberly asked about my "husband's" reaction to something.

"Husband? Oh, you mean Roger! He's not my husband. He's just a friend that likes to travel as much as I do," I explained.

To which mother Jen replied, "That's the better way, isn't it? Trips with friends rather than husbands. No worries about the usual stuff, right?"

To which her husband Steve injected, "Ahem!! It's not like I'm not standing right here you know."

And with a conspiratorial nod in my direction, she smoothed it over with, "Oh, you know what I mean, Luv."

We began suggesting that one of us were stalkers but we couldn't quite agree that we were stalking them or they us as over and over again we'd hear our names shouted and the children would appear.

We thought New Year's Eve would have been delightful with them but our crisscrossing itineraries departed ways at that point. Though we saw Steve in the distance at the market that day, he was too far away to connect with. And we figured we'd missed our chance to part with a final goodbye.

But some things are simply meant to be.

As we waited for our airport lift in the lobby of one of our favorite hotels, we were checking email and keeping an eye on the courtyard as messages slowly downloaded. That's when I saw Steve's bright orange Thai style shirt, long baggy shorts, and sandals stumbling down the sidewalk in an attempt to keep up with the continually stopping Conrad. I called out and the foursome all turned my way.

"Well, finally," Jen said. "We thought we'd look out for you as we made our way to the beach but we were giving up."

We invited them in for a tour of what the deemed a much better hotel than the one they'd been assigned, for some photos and for the exchanging of contact info, all the while regretting the missed opportunity of ringing in the new year with new friends.

The kids were getting antsy as Roger continued to collect details about the parents' careers (she's a travel agent and he's a contractor in the tiling business). So I played one last game (this time from my childhood) with Kimberly just before we loaded our bags in the car for the ride to the airport.

"Say say little playmate.
Come out and play with me.
And bring your dolly free,
climb up my apple tree.
Slide down my rainbow
Into my cellar door
And we'll be jolly friends
forevermore." (Clap, clap, clap)

I Should Have Captured This at 4:30 a.m.

At 4:30 a.m. I wrote wonderful re-entry blog. Funny, clever, entertaining . . . I practically applauded my efforts when I mentally jotted down the last line.

However, that "mentally" point is the kicker 'cause when I sat in front of the computer almost 12 hours later (that would be now) I couldn't recapture any of that scintillating dialogue I planned on offering you.

So . . . let's just note that I'm back and still processing all that happened during the 27 days that I was globe trotting.

Here's an appetizer tray of what I hope will be much more food for thought in the days to come:

-- After touring several areas where war was part of current history, I was struck with the reality that governments go to war and people suffer from it. I know my time in Germany, Vietnam, and Cambodia was short, but I met no enemies, only fellow pilgrims just as confused as I am regarding whether power corrupts or only the corrupt gain power.

-- ABBA is alive and well and on every sound system in Vietnam.

-- Slightly chubby, over 40 white women touring Asian countries need to be secure in their personhood because around every corner is a reminder of your realities. Example: When noting that all the vendors in the market were calling out to me as "Madame" and that I had never been "madamed so much in my life," my guide informed me, "It's because you're old."

-- Western breakfasts can't hold a skillet to German ones. That's a meal!

-- Never assume that "massage" means exactly what you think it does.

And on that note, gotta go. More later I promise. And this time, if I write a masterpiece in the early a.m. I'm capturing it on paper first because an old broad like me can't be depended upon to remember a thing!!!

Homeward Bound . . . But Taking the Long Way

I'm at a keyboard in Cambodia and will head to Hanoi Vietnam this evening. An overnight there will be followed by an 11 hour trip to Frankfort, Germany with a brief stopover in Paris where we'll change planes in less than 55 minutes! Keep your fingers crossed. On Saturday we head home. Yea! Rah! Happy Dance. I've loved every second of this trip but I'm ready to be in familiar surroundings.

At least for a little while.

Trips like this can't help but change you if you're remotely open to all the world holds. I'm thinking this one was a good one for me but I don't know how the story is going to unfold. We'll see.

A www pause for celebration

Internet cafes are wonderful things. I'm in the old quarter of Hanoi and for a few cents can actually connect with a world half away. Let's see . . . how to sum up the last few days . . . hmmmmm . . . How about a few word pictures? There was the young woman half my size that beat me to death, popped every vertebrae, and twisted my appendages in directions they aren't meant to go the first night I was here and we decided that after 11 hours of flight time we should try a massage. Maybe we will decide differently in the future since "massage" seems to have many connotations!

We had a wonderful guide the following day and, yes, we saw Uncle Ho's body lying in state as well as his homes including one on stilts. We toured an ethnic peoples museum and learned there are 53 here in Vietnam.

We've sampled the food from the streets and so far so good intestinally speaking. I loved the rice and cabbage we had today at small tables just inside a street cafe. The mouse scurrying across the floor opened the door to some brief language lessons and the owner and I bonded over a Vietnamese phrase book.

Today we went to the Hanoi Hilton. My God . . . how can mankind continue to believe that war is a good idea???

Tonite we enjoyed coffee with a young woman from Britain who is teaching English in Japan and on holiday here. Last nite we enjoyed jazz with an Irishman and his young Vietnamese guide. There's a conversation on every corner if you are willing to engage. And of course, with my partner (for those of you who know him) there's always a willingness to engage.

Love to all who read this . . . I think of you at every moment of contemplation and believe it or not with all the pagodas, temples and historical points of reflection here, I've thought of you often.

Farewell to Germany

Tonite is our last evening in Germany. We spent most of today in the Black Forest. Snowballs, walks, snowfalls like none I have ever seen before, sliding down a hillside, German food in a fire warmed restaurant, and silly to profound conversations throughout the day. Now we are blogging, responding to email, and just being . . . after a small plates meal that we picked up at the supermarket (breads, cheese fondue, peppers, pickles, bacon, salami, and more cheese).

I need to return to what is most important . . . this moment and these people. But since Vietnam is probably not going to be a blogging point I wanted to say blessings to you all. And I will return January 7.

Postmodern Indeed

Consider this . . . I'm just back from a German theater where I saw a French film about a monastic order who live in silence and the only occasional sounds we heard in the three hours were chants in Latin, a brief explanation in French, and nature.

I came away with a haunting feeling . . . the order allowed the filming after 16 years of considering it. Time for them was critical . . . their days were based on order and yet they were very far removed from what we might consider the demands of society. I could not embrace this life of separation. For me, creation is to be celebrated with folks like those who attended the film with me, walked the Christmas market with me, and over a coffeehouse brunch, challenged me to consider what I can do about an AIDS ministry in India. In other words, I'm too engaged to become so disengaged. Yet . . .

To be one's true self is a celebration. And, thus, tonight I celebrate the monk, the pastor, the missionary, and the passionate observer. God bless us one and all.

Two Roads Diverged . . .

The thought hit me about mid afternoon . . .

Two roads diverged in the woods and I made sausage in Germany and that has made all the difference.

We were given all kinds of options for the play time we get to experience now that much of the work is done but easily the best choice was to travel to a nearby village and spend the afternoon with my hosts' family making sausages. They hired a butcher who does this every year and he is a character. The English speakers among the family call him a German redneck because his stories are so colorful. After watching him handle the sausage packing and engage with my traveling buddy on all things male and hearing his stories of being the chief at the nearby prison's kitchen including a bakery where the baker has only killed three people . . . well, I might have to agree with their assessment.

The basement was filled with the large family and friends, the heat coming from the kettle that resembled an overgrown pressure cooker, two cutting tables, and the various paraphenalia that the butcher needed. His skill with the knives might have been enough to intimidate but he also barked orders with a smile and so I often scooted from one side of the room to the other when he merely looked in my direction but he also offered up some of the prize pieces for me to sample when it came to eating time. I spent at least a half hour cutting fat in small pieces for the later sausages he would form. At times, I had to leave the room because the smell and the heat was a bit overpowering but the experience was amazing.

The amazing part was not what could be done with a pig . . . I grew up in town but had country cousins so sausage making was something I had some knowledge of. It was this family so enjoying their day together. Six adult children with the brightest smiles and incredibly generous spirits, parents who embraced us even though the language barrier was there, a grandmother who fulfilled the image I had of an Oma and the sprinkling of friends who knew enough to be glad we were there.

Later, my host took us to a nearby monastery. We were freezing as the German skies finally decided to offer up the snow we'd been wondering if existed. And as we walked from room to room holding the audioplayer near our ears for the heat and the details of what we were seeing, we could easily imagine centuries ago and the stark life of the monks. I had to laugh at the fact that the monks at the monastery were not meat eaters and I ate more meat products today than I usually manage in a week!!!

We returned to sit around the huge table and enjoy some of the results of our labors (actually, we did very little but I'll pretend I had something to do with the labor). Pickled anything here . . . cucumbers, herring, sauerkraut . . . is so unique and delicious and so very unlike our U.S. version that I tended to be more engaged with those items than the meat but it was an incredible sampling.

The night concluded with conversation both silly and stimulating. Two roads indeed . . .

Wein & Noodles & Other Delicacies

A photo would never capture the atmosphere. A paragraph cannot contain the utter exuberance of the experience. But words are the tools I have to work with, so I will stumble my way through a description of how a night with friends, both old and new, in a small village pub has easily secured its place in my top 10 travel joys.

The day had offered brief sprinkling rain on and off. The wind demanded to be acknowledged. After three hours of Christmas markets and tourist shopping, I was ready for the evening's change of scenery. We traveled to a small village, the village of one of my host's birth, and pulled in front of a winery. Try to disengage from visions of rolling California hills surrounding some ranch style home at this moment because I'm in Germany and that just won't do. The building was surrounded by what looked like stucco covered townhomes and I got a sense of Santa Fe meets Greenfield (my hometown) as we proceeded to the door by passing the horses lodged where a two car garage might be positioned in the U.S. Climbing the stairs, we emerged in a room of hard woods . . . walls covered in animals and farm utensils, heavy tables, booths with small cushions that slid beneath you should you opt for that side of the table.

The table nearest the door was long and filled with heavy men with little hair and loud voices (probably made louder by the 7 hours advanced wine drinking they'd been involved in before we arrived).

We sat and then a younger version of Santa Claus . . . he of the salt and pepper beard, receding hairline and dimples that appeared with every word uttered along with an accompanying twinkle in the eye . . . arrived to welcome us. I nodded in acknowledgement though not a word was understood. ( Later after several of the aforementioned gentlemen decided to share some of their stories with me, my group commented on my ability to offer the appearance of complete understanding in what for me is simply a barrage of consonants!)

Our Mrs. Claus was no white haired version however. She was tiny, but dark brown hair touched her shoulders and she was the lead entertainer who, with her guitar, led us through a few German favorites, a parody of Downtown featuring the village's name, and then several John Denver tunes. Their son was the wine guru who in stark contrast to the older crowd softly explained the nuances of the crisp, clean German wine I could easily begin to call my favorite.

The meal consisted of sausages, pork, schnitzel, sauerkraut, and the most incredibly rich and delicious potatoe noodles carrying a name amusingly translated to 'little boys' willies' and an applesauce. I was in heaven and sang so.

We were offered the chance to blow a 20 feet horn and I took it. We were encouraged to sing and we did. Some among us took the guitars and the Devil's Violin (a percussion instrument that included a wood cutting of its name) and alternated between their own compositions and others.

The night had no agenda but enjoyment. What a divine appointment, what a delicacy.

A Cafe Moment

The curls and long limbs of the slender actress were wrapped around the keyboard and in the darkness of the cafe the computer screen became her spotlight.

The joy that usually exudes from the eyes, mouth and seemingly every pore of our organizer is muted as she too stares intently at her connection to the world . . . one in which there are more conflicts that she would this day care to confront.

The proper artist sits before his Apple preparing perhaps to update the blog he's neglected?

The Germans are improving on piano and drum, offering background ambience to this moment in time . . .

Which I am relishing . . . and life is exactly as it should be.

MultiMedia Museum

The museum features things with buttons and lights and images that are sure to make grown men with their love of electronic toys ignite with glee and this girl was pretty impressed as well. I was most intrigued with television monitors featuring the bottom, middle and top of a young woman who was transposed into images of an old woman with the use of a black spider form. Hard to describe but it was amazing given that the women were nude.

The other wow for me was the projection that showed bubbles on the wall and we could interact with them. Again . . . hard to describe but cool.

Today is more meetings . . . was up to midnight last night with church folks discussing what's next for them . . . and then we play!!!

Definitely in Learning Mode

The couple who are hosting me in Germany have a 2 year old and he's my new language teacher. How's that for humbling? Plus I am typing on a German keyboard where the z and the y have traded places from where I'm used to finding them and there are other cool keys like these . . . ä, Ö, ß. This makes for much slower typing and is again a reminder to slow down and take it all in.

Today is a day for dialogue about this art project that is focused on encouraging folks to examine their associations with faith and religion and to own their journey even if it doesn't look like everyone else's. Should prove to be interesting.

So far my major impression of Germany is the wonderful smell of baking bread . . . ahhhhhhhh.

Not All Gifts Have Bows

A woman, a stranger in fact, approached me today while I was having a breakfast meeting with one of my favorite Hispanic pastors. We usually laugh a great deal as both of us attempt to improve our fluency in the others' language. (He's making great progress . . . I'm not.)

She said, "Pardon me. I just want to interrupt for a minute and say that your hair, those earrings . . . well, you're just beautiful."

My mouth dropped open. I smiled and was trying to think how to respond beyond "thank you" which were the first intelligible utterances that came forth.

She said, "I'm sure you know that, but I just wanted to tell you."

I looked at her and then at her waiting friend who was smiling broadly with the knowledge of how rare a gift this woman was giving me. I said again, "Thank you" but it was mostly to her back as she had done her good deed and was now walking away.

I want to be that kind of woman . . .

So I offer you, my kind blog readers, the following gifts without bows. These are my Christmas wishes for you:

• laughter -- the kind that makes you wipe away tears, the table slapping, please stop because I can't take anymore laughter
• quiet moments of true awareness -- so rarely do we get that this moment is a memory in the making, I pray you carry an added measure of awareness with you in these next few weeks
• hugs that hold longer and mean more than just hello -- good wishes are . . . . well, good, but tangible evidence of how close to one's heart you are kept . . . that's a great thing
• stories of who you were, are and could be told to you by those who love you most
• folks to listen to the stories you tell
• to know without a doubt that you are loved.

I'll be away for several weeks and will blog if possible. If not, 2006 is when we'll next encounter one another. I plan on having an incredible experience on the other side of the world. Hope your holidays are everything you want them to be.

Here's One for You . . .

You're driving along and you've just stopped at a red light when a truck gets the green and takes off. Immediately, a large plank falls from the truck and lands in the road. Next, a young man rushes into the road to grab the plank.

Do you think:

(a) What in idiot to risk his safety just to get save a few bucks on a piece of wood?
or
(b) What a nice guy to remove the risk of the plank and insure the safety of others?

Your choice on this one reveals alot about you don't you think?

The Lion, the Witch, and the (large piece of furniture in which clothes are stored)

My buddy in London sent me a link to The Guardian's take on the new film on C.S. Lewis' Narnia. OUCH! She'd been telling me how "secular" her adopted hometown has become but I don't think I quite understood. This article makes it a tad bit clearer.

If you don't get a chance to read the article take a look at this excerpt:

Disney may come to regret this alliance with Christians, at least on this side of the Atlantic. For all the enthusiasm of the churches, Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ bombed in Britain and warehouses are stuffed with unsold DVDs of that stomach-churner. There are too few practising Christians in the empty pews of this most secular nation to pack cinemas. So there has been a queasy ambivalence about how to sell the Narnia film here. Its director, Andrew Adamson (of Shrek fame), says the movie's Christian themes are "open to the audience to interpret". One soundtrack album of the film has been released with religious music, the other with secular pop.

Most British children will be utterly clueless about any message beyond the age-old mythic battle between good and evil. Most of the fairy story works as well as any Norse saga, pagan legend or modern fantasy, so only the minority who are familiar with Christian iconography will see Jesus in the lion. After all, 43% of people in Britain in a recent poll couldn't say what Easter celebrated. Among the young - apart from those in faith schools - that number must be considerably higher. Ask art galleries: they now have to write the story of every religious painting on the label as people no longer know what "agony in the garden", "deposition", "transfiguration" or "ascension" mean. This may be regrettable cultural ignorance, but it means Aslan will stay just a lion to most movie-goers.

When Worlds Collide

I don't want to live in "White Saturn World" . . . where the lone inhabitant is behind the wheel of her large collection of mechanics and matter and she suddenly determines:

"I don't want to be in this lane. NOOOOOOOO . . . I want to be in that lane and I'm going NOW."

And without benefit of space or blinker, she bolts.

Yes, I'm quite content in my world where I'm fairly sure that I'm not the center of any universe and feel the need to occasionally pay attention to those around me.

(This rant brought to you by the second near fender bender I've had this week!)

Lessons from AA

I heard someone say recently that when she was at the bottom of her alcohol addiction and making her way back (now 17 years sober) she refused to believe in the “God of her understanding” because that God had ticked her off in her teens and she attributed some of her downward spiral to things she believed he’d done. But she was persuaded by her mother's faithfulness and determined that while she couldn’t put faith in that God she could put faith in her mother’s faith. And that was the “God of her understanding” for quite a while until she finally found her way back to an even more personal understanding.

That story jolted me because it’s reminiscent of where I’ve been. After the divorce, I let go of most of what I’d known and attributed to the "church" world. Then gradually I believed in the fact that others I loved and respected believed. Eventually, I found something to hold on to that was mine . . . though not always easily defined. Now there are days when belief comes easy and days when it doesn’t.

Guess, that "one day at a time" stuff has a message for me, too.