Ten Days

Ten nights have come and gone since she made her wishes known --

Subsequent mornings have come and gone since they started this new and unknown path --

And, on this morning,
the tenth one,
she most likely left with Vivian and
most definitely went home to Jesus.

Our world is blessed tonight for her having been in it
and
Our world is less tonight for her having left it.

We are more for having her with us
and
We are less for having her gone.

And Jesus is with each and every one of us --
On this side of the ten days and on the other side -
Now, Aunt Maggie's eternity.

Tonight

Every musing I had during the day to write about tonight has vanished.

Every single one gone with the phone call from Uncle Fred.

All is now focused into one point of light, one deep prayer, one hope for comfort.

Hospice care begins tomorrow for Aunt Maggie.

Some ammo with those groceries, Mam?

There are basically three options for grocery shopping in my little town. And, as it happens, I go to each one every week for specific things. The big box store has decent deals on basic staples, but I don't buy fruits, vegetables or meat there. The big food chain store has pretty good fruits and vegetables, but they've also had a few meat recalls. The smallest of the three is a locally owned store with its own in-house butcher so this is where I buy our meat. Although this makes it sound like I have the best choices in the world, I must insert a small protest here --- I really miss Trader Joe's and all the other great food stores in Tacoma! And, we all know that Trader Joe's will never come to Utah because grocery stores can't sell wine here. I could drive ten hours to the closest one in Portland, Oregon, but everything would spoil by the time I got back. Ah, but I digress. Back to my immediate grocery situation.

Due to the same ol' same ol' in each store every week I've gotten quite complacent about cooking. Actually, I've gotten into a downright culinary rut. I'm trying to climb out, though, and today I found a delicious crock pot recipe for Mediterranean Meat Loaf. Upon reading it I knew a couple of the ingredients might be hard to find, but I set out to do it. When I pulled into the parking lot of the smallest store I started chanting to myself -- feta cheese and oil-packed sundried tomatoes over and over. Somehow I thought that chanting might make these things appear on the shelves. I didn't have much hope, but lo and behold there they were! I gathered up my treasures and triumphantly headed to the check-out line.

While I was waiting I glanced to my right to the now familiar ammo shelves. That's right - this store sells ammunition for hunting rifles, shotguns, and even handguns. Yep, it's right there on open shelves between the weekly cereal specials and the check-out line. It's not enclosed in any sort of case. If you want to, you can pack it into your cart between the milk and bread. Actually, it's part of the Utah culture of preparation. Many, many people around here have a three year supply of food in specially constructed containers kept in the specially built storage room in their basements. They religiously rotate foodstuffs and other living essentials every month. They're literally ready for anything. But, just in case they don't have everything they need they can pick up some ammo (along with their prescription and toothpaste) to snag that buck or turkey or elk for the freezer.

And there I am with my little pile of feta and sundried tomatoes. I agree, it makes for an odd picture, but this urbanite is hanging in there. I'm going to go hug my Trader Joe bags now.

Pink Measuring Cups and Spoons

While shopping at Home Depot last month I picked up some crazy things for my kitchen: pink measuring cups and spoons. I thought they'd add to my expanding collection of unusual kitchen items. Last Spring I picked up a set of red everyday dishes at our church rummage sale. Red dishes - now that's sort of wild for a woman whose original dishes (almost thirty years ago) were neutral colored stoneware! I love my used red dishes and my paltry meals actually look more appetizing on them, too. So, the pink measuring cups and spoons seemed like a good addition to the kitchen. The fact that the manufacturer donated a portion of the purchase price to the Susan B. Komen Breast Cancer Research was an added bonus. Tonight I used them to mix up a new muffin recipe from the back of a raisin box.

While measuring the flour, oatmeal, raisins, salt, cinnamon, milk, oil, apples, etc., my mind and heart recalled the phone call this afternoon and anticipated the drive to Salt Lake tomorrow. Mixing the batter I started to wonder --- how do we measure a life? How do we figure out which ingredients we need to heal this damn disease? How do we decrease the amount of pain and misery? How do we measure all that she means to us? How do we feed her with hope? How do we combine the right stuff for his weariness, fear and uncertainty?

My little purchase of pink measuring cups and spoons might have dropped a few pennies into the breast cancer research fund, but it's late for so many. It's late for Carrie who left us in 1991. It's late for Aunt Maggie in Salt Lake battling stage four breast cancer in her bones for the past month. When I bought these little things I didn't know Maggie would be sick again. I thought they'd just be for fun in the kitchen. Now, they measure far more than flour and sugar. They measure love, hope, faith, and trust.

After the muffins were done I washed and dried the pink utensils. With each stroke of the towel I said a prayer for Maggie's comfort, health, healing, peace, hope, and faith. Her eye is clear and her faith is strong, but her road is difficult. Perhaps you'll join me in this prayer -- for Maggie and Fred of Salt Lake. God knows who they are and where they live. Thank you.

The World Series vs. Death Education Certification

Every Fall the non-profit Association of Death Education and Counseling offers an online certification test for professionals working with death, dying, and bereavement. Since 2004 my goal has been to take this test, but each year things like vacation, moving, health concerns, etc., have gotten in the way. But, this year I filled out the application in June, gathered letters of recommendation from colleagues, paid the substantial test fee, and was accepted to take the test. I bought the three big textbooks to study and received the online study guide in August. I figured out how many pages I had to read everyday to meet the deadline and I made sure I didn't have anything else scheduled for November 7, 2009. Then, I started studying and keeping notes online. Then, I stopped studying. What happened?

This certification in Thanatology is something I've wanted for a long time, but I decided not to follow through - at least not this year. I can take the test next year; but, what happened this year? My steam, my drive, my passion for this field of knowledge have all been shelved for awhile. And I know exactly what put them on the shelf.

I've just come through a very challenging period of 24 months where various medical specialists here in Utah had diagnosed me with a chronic and disabling disease. However, within the past few months they concluded that their diagnosis was in error. My sentence of an unpredictable and incurable condition was lifted. Perhaps it had been there and the Lord healed me. Perhaps it was never there. All I know is that it's no longer part of my daily world and hence, my heart and soul need time to heal. A season for enjoyment and thanksgiving is now what the doctor has ordered. Hence, certification tests dealing with death, dying and bereavement couldn't be part of this season.

Instead, I found myself totally engrossed in the baseball playoffs and World Series. Our first choice being the Dodgers, of course, but they didn't get too far. I learned a great deal about pitches on the outside of the plate, fast balls, change-ups, curve balls, sliders, and the finer points of stealing bases. I was perfectly happy to sit for hours watching all of the games. Perfectly happy not to read heavy books and make notes about terrible situations brought about by terrible disease. I was perfectly happy to hold my breath when one team or the other had bases loaded with two outs in the bottom of the ninth with the tying run at the plate. Living in the moment, playing in the moment, and rejoicing in the moment won the past few weeks of my Fall season. Without a doubt, the World Series beat taking the test in a sweep of 4-0!

Jesus and the Crowds

Have you ever noticed how many times there's a crowd hanging around Jesus? There are some pretty interesting characters in these crowds and one of my favorites is Bartimaeus. Let's call him Bart for short and try to figure out what was happening when he begged Jesus to restore his sight.

First, Bart was already in one crowd -- the one calling for help. Jesus was moving down the road with another crowd in tow -- the one feeling very confident in their faith and position within Jesus' circle. Second, when the two crowds met conflict erupted. "Help me!" "Don't bother Jesus right now." "Heal me!" "Go away because he doesn't have time right now." The bantering continued until Jesus himself stopped and said "Call him here." After Bart made his way out of one crowd and over to the next one Jesus asked him the most incredible question, "What do you want me to do for you?" Now, there's a question that should stop us in our tracks. But, Bart had an immediate and clear answer "Let me see again." Jesus told him, "Go, your faith has made you well." Right away Bart could see and he joined up with the crowd following Jesus -- straight into Jerusalem. Was Bart in this crowd that cheered Jesus on Palm Sunday and condemned him to death a few days later? We don't know. The text doesn't tell us how long Bart hung with this crowd.

A couple of weeks ago we discussed this passage in the Sunday morning adult class that I lead. Each week we read the Sunday text out loud from three different versions and discuss what strikes us and how God is speaking to us. Inevitably, when we have about ten minutes left I ask (and write down on the big paper), "What does this mean for us today living in this little town where the predominant culture and religion are not Christian?" On this particular Sunday I asked the group, "What's our answer to Jesus' question, "What do you want me to do for you?" They replied "Help us feel better about moving into the new building for worship" "Help us be less anxious." "Help us deal better with changes in the church." While all of these things are quite legitimate for our congregation right now and some folks need more support than others to make the necessary changes, I hope that all of us had much bolder answers held close to our hearts. I hope we were shouting inside "Let me see again! Heal me! Unloose my chains and make me step out into your big, beautiful world, Lord." Yes, I'm sure this was the request of our hearts, but being Presbyterian we had to keep it all decently in order. However, it seems to me that the crowds with Jesus were rarely decently in order. Hum........

Feeble Apology

People in small towns use their local newspaper like a really big newsletter. Letters to the Editor primarily consist of "Thank you for your support of the high school fundraiser last Friday night...Thank you to all the community participants in the local golf tournament... Someone left a dog tied to my car the other day...How can we help the local school board? etc, etc, etc" We don't have earth shattering issues around here to deal with so the paper becomes the town bulletin board. I've always thought it was a little, well, small town, but today I became one of those submitting something to the editorial page. My piece was short and to the point. It'll run this Wednesday or next Wednesday - they didn't really know. I dropped it off about an hour after the incident that precipitated it.....

I was running a bit late this morning because I couldn't find my keys. I found another set and got in the car to leave. As I drove down the street I noticed a big dog limping along and I was curious what his story might be. As I was contemplating his situation I inadvertently became the catalyst for disaster in another animal's life. The little black cat ran out into the street and before I knew it he was under my tires. In a mere second I watched his death throes in my rear view mirror. I went back to do what I could, which was nothing other than calling animal control and gently pulling him to the side of the street. He didn't have a collar so I don't know where he came from. I felt perfectly terrible. The last, and first, animal I ever ran over was a misguided raccoon on Schuster Parkway in Tacoma about 11PM one night on my way home from Seattle University. What a dreadful thing it is to run over an animal.

Not really knowing what to do next I thought about the editorial page. I whipped out a short letter describing what happened and offered my apology to the unknown cat owner. I don't know if the person will see it, but I hope they do. It's sad enough to lose a pet, but not knowing what happened is even worse.

Today I was grateful to live in a small enough place that has a public forum big enough to voice my feeble apology.

Segregation Unit

I'm not sure why she came to mind this evening while I was preparing dinner. But, every once in awhile she pops into my awareness and I spend a few moments with our experience.

It was a snowy night in 2001 in Gig Harbor at the women's state prison. One of the women I visited on a regular basis was suddenly in the segregation unit. Making my visit to her was the first time I'd ever been in the solitary unit building. It actually sat parallel to the Chapel, but at first glance the two worlds couldn't have been more different. I signed in and waited for an officer to take me to wherever I would meet with her. He showed up and took me into a very small booth and closed the door behind me. Next, she came into the booth in full shackles on the opposite side with the glass between us. There were very small holes along the bottom of the glass for us to talk through. As she entered the booth she put her cuffed hands back through a small opening in the door as it was closed. With the door locked, the officer on the other side unlocked her cuffs and then she sat down.

She told me about the fight that landed her in segregation, who did what, how she didn't do anything, how long she might be in there, how hard it was to lose all of her privileges, and she was so close to getting out. She needed help getting in touch with a Pastor in Marysville. She gave me his name and number and I told her I'd try to reach him on her behalf.

We weren't allowed very much time and as it was getting shorter I asked what she wanted to hear from the Bible. She gave me a text and I read it to her through the glass. For prayer I placed my right hand on the glass and she her left. I prayed for her strength, safety, and sanity. The officer opened the door behind me and escorted me out. I signed out of the building and stepped out into beautiful, huge, delicate snowflakes drifting down.

I just happened to turn to my right and saw her framed in a small window. She was still sitting on her side of the booth. They hadn't yet come to take her back to her tiny, solitary cell. Her hands were still free. Looking so afraid, so alone, so forlorn, and so small she waved good-bye. I raised my right hand and made the sign of the cross through the snow to her. She bowed her head.

Through the big flakes I walked back to the Chapel for the remainder of that night's chaplain work. On the way back I realized there really was no difference between the Chapel and the segregation unit. God's grace can permeate any wall, any handcuff, any glass, any building, and any heart.

I Want It - You have It - I'm Taking It

Twice a day I prepare two bowls of food for our dogs. Tahoe is a 9 month old Black Lab who's close to 60 pounds. Shasta is a 9 year old Australian Shepherd/Blue Heeler who seems to be shrinking to about 50 pounds. Since Tahoe moved in over Easter weekend (not really recommended for the Pastor's house - won't ever do that again) the two of them have come to terms, made peace, and generally get along. Shasta is comfortable roaming all over the house, but Tahoe can't get it together to descend the basement stairs. Thus, she hides out in the basement and he lives on the main floor. Ah, we are now a family with a dog on every floor.

Meal time, though, is in the kitchen and they each have their own kind of food. Shasta has the senior type that limits her protein, calories, etc., to keep her fit and healthy. Tahoe has the carb loaded puppy food to make sure he gets to 100 pounds. Once I put the bowls on the floor (or out on the patio when the weather is good) basic rules of behavior take over.

I think we're all familiar with these rules. The first one is "I want what you have" and the next one is "I'm taking what you have." It goes like this: Tahoe starts eating and Shasta just stands there staring at her oh so boring and familiar food. Tahoe takes a break and walks away. Shasta wanders over in a very casual manner (so we don't notice) and starts chomping away. When Tahoe comes back he sees his place is taken so he goes to her bowl to finish her food. When it's all said and done he hasn't gotten the nutrients he needs and she's gotten all the ones she doesn't need. I do my best to referee this event, but often other things have my attention.

They say dogs share a high percentage of our DNA and based on their eating practices I tend to agree. Seeking what others have and making plans to secure it is an exercise humans engage in on a very regular basis. The seeking and securing can be as inconsequential as buying the same hose attachment my neighbor uses on her flowers. But, seeking and securing can also result in irreversible consequences brought about by our endless appetites for power and control. Consequences that we set in motion by our own appetites, desires for more, and lack of respect for others ripple across our human landscape in visible, but more often invisible, waves.

Twice a day it's clear to me what my dogs are up to with their food bowls. I wish I could say the same about myself and everyone else in the world. I want it - you have it - I'm taking it. God help us.

Small Town - Big Stuff

Yesterday I drove past a car parked in town that I hope, I really hope, isn't my car of the future. Every seat was covered with towels to protect or hide whatever was beneath. I notice how older people cover chair and couch arms to protect the upholstery and I just hope I never have the urge to do that.

Yesterday a very nice electrician spent half the day replacing about 23 outlets in our 50 year old house. After he left we plugged in the vacuum to clean up the mess and found that 8 outlets in the family room didn't work. I called the company at 9:30 PM and the owner actually answered. This morning the electrician called at 8AM (it's Saturday) and he was here at 11:00 to fix all of it. He also checked the electrical box, tightened a few things and called it good. There was no charge for today's visit.

Last night we had dinner at a good Mexican restaurant whose owners are originally from Tacoma. The food was excellent and except for the fact that we can't get a glass of wine or a beer in this town, it was all quite good. The place was packed and all the little families looked quite happy.

This morning the president of the Mormon church announced the building of five new temples across the globe. They make these announcements every six months at their general conference meetings in Salt Lake. I've been home today with a sore throat and cold, but the following words pulled me right off the couch, "Five new temples will be started. One of the two to be built in the U.S. will be in Brigham City, Utah." The benefit to our economy will be huge and the faithful of the LDS church are beyond thrilled (based on online comments to the local papers). It'll be their 14th temple in Utah and the 3rd one in the northern part of the state. They didn't say where it will be built in town. The impact of this will effect us on many different levels. My guess is that no one outside of Utah has even heard about this. But, for those of who live here the implications of this one event in the life of this town and the lives of the different Christian congregations will soon begin to unfold. Huge. Challenging. Extraordinary.

So, all in all life in our little town this weekend has included a good meal, a good electrician, and an announcement from the dominant religion/culture that will reshape our external world in very big ways. Very big ways.

On the Heels of Harvest

There is no safe and holy space right now for my remaining family. Just about everything has come undone, been uprooted, and destabilized with a familiar and yet new and foreboding depth. The details are unimportant, but their lessons are not. Coming face to face with the reality that what I have to offer is not welcome, what I know is not valued, and what I have to worry about is endless has been quite humbling. And, in the middle of this whole mess is my Dad's vine.

It sits in a big blue pot I put its several pieces into almost 8 years ago. The pieces were just clippings from a gorgeous vine in his beautiful vineyard overlooking Flathead Lake ~ Partridge Hill Vineyard. Every year since the shoots have sprouted leaves, flowers, buds, and small clusters of Pinot Noir grapes. This year's harvest was 1.5 pounds. Not much, but a piece of the life my Dad sowed with his own hands. Each year I eat the grapes in a sort of communion with Dad. This year the past month, has been hot and I picked my little harvest a little late. But, soon after the picking every single leaf turned brown, dried up, and blew away. Normally, the Autumn colors on the vine are lovely, but no colors this year.

As the painful and ugly continues to unfold between my family members, the vine has done something very unexpected. Hundreds of new, delicate, perfect, bright green leaves have sprouted from the branches. Today is the first day of Fall and the vine looks like early May. I don't understand this and I must confess that the other night I stood by it asking, "Dad, do you have something to do with this? Why is the vine, now with its harvest past and its work done for this year, sporting such a great collection of new leaves?"

The vine has been a source of strength and hope ever since Dad suddenly died on a cold Autumn night in November, 2001. With the mess my family is in now, I long for his voice of calm, his presence, and his ability to soothe the waters. I miss him terribly. I want to stand next to him and feel his strong, tall frame infuse reason and rational thought into our fragile situation. The best I can do is stand next to his vine, touch its leaves, sense his love, and trust God who has birthed new leaves on the heels of harvest.

Finding myself in this tenuous family situation is very hard. It looks like we're reaping what's been sown for decades. I want to keep planting new seeds, but my seeds aren't being sought or received. This painful harvest may well continue; but now, for me, it's graced with beautiful, fresh, new, green leaves on Dad's vine - his voice, his inspiration, his presence continues. God does birth new life on the heels of harvest and quite unexpectedly so.

Safe and Holy Spaces

At eleven in the morning we created a holy space, a safe place for their grief to take the next step. They came together to cry, to laugh, to memorialize, to sing, to remember, to pray, to ask for God's strength, and to begin letting him go - letting him go after 80 years on this earth. We set the candles, made the music, helped the family into the grief-filled space they never wanted to enter. We served a lavish feast to celebrate his life and to give his children hope ~ the hope they'll need to get up tomorrow and every morning thereafter. We did the best we could to assist them through this most dreaded hour. The very same hour we'll all face one day or another.

At four in the afternoon I made my usual Saturday phone call. The morning's service in my heart and fatigue pounding in my body the typical greeting sounded, "Hi Mom, how are you?" and it went up and down from there. "Did you make that appointment and meet with that person?" "I did and he said everything is just fine." "Oh, you didn't make the changes we talked about the last two weeks?" "What changes?" My heart sank as my head exploded. She didn't remember. She didn't know what I was talking about. Her notes had failed her. All my efforts and certainty had been for not. I had to start over. I didn't have the energy. I could barely recount the situation.

In the morning I helped to create a safe and holy space for another family. In the afternoon I could barely stay within the fragmented, age-tormented space of my own family. All energy was depleted with no reserves save tears, my own tears. It was all I could do - cry out the uncertainty, my sadness, and my huge efforts to shape her life into something better between now and when I'll be the one in the front row of the church grieving my last parent. We've come to this moment in our little family after a million previous moments. All that we've said and done are the building blocks of what we have, or don't have, to work her thickening fog of dementia. Try as I might, I can't seem to pull the safe and holy spaces together for us. Even as I type these words I know how foolish it is to think that I can affect great change in the course of her life or anyone else's for that matter. It isn't up to me.

At seven in the evening the best I could do was to dig a small hole with my hands to get the tall stake in deeper. The dirt felt good. The young, red bark Aspen in the back yard was leaning. Branches were swooping towards the grass to hold conversations never intended. Pulled back straighter and taller with stake and string, the branches returned to their graceful splendor blessing the wind and heat passing through its leaves.

This day began with taking care of others and ended with stabilizing a tree. As for the middle of the day, my exhausted and only choice is to leave it in God's hands which hold my little family. Maybe God is pulling me back and straight, like the swooping tree, from conversations never intended. Only God's hands, not mine, can create the safe and holy spaces my family needs to make this long and difficult journey.

Those Work Shoes

When I worked in downtown San Francisco for the law firm I wore dresses, nylons and those prim and proper pumps. When I worked in Dalton, Nebraska for the educational service unit I wore the basic school teacher uniform of comfortable pants, shirt and rubber-soled shoes. When I worked for the social service agency in Tacoma in the old convent I wore - whatever. When I worked for the hospice in Puyallup I wore good clothes, good shoes, and generally tried to look my best. Well, when I moved to Utah and started working for an early intervention program that provides services to developmentally delayed and disabled children birth to three years old, my shoes became quite important. In this work I make home visits to see children and their parents. My shoe wardrobe now has three seasons: sandals or flip-flops in the heat, slip-ons in the mild weather, and snow boots in the winter. All three seasons have one very important common characteristic: Whatever is on my foot must come off quickly and easily and return to my foot in the same way. Why? Going into people's homes involves, well, going into their home. This means I knock, they open the door, I enter and gaze upon their floor. More often than not it's a beautifully, just vacuumed, immaculate carpet (adhering to the high cleanliness standards of the LDS faith) but, once in a while it's a not so clean, sort of scary floor. In any case, I learned early in this job that removing my shoes was the ultimate sign of respect to the home and it helps me sit more easily on the floor with the little one I came to see. (Plus, walking through someones house in the winter with de-icing chemicals stuck to your boots is sort of rude.) Now, based on my previous work history it's been a weird transition to doing my job in my socks or bare feet. My sock drawer has had to stay in tip-top shape as well as my bare feet. Doing work in this way kind of makes you one of the family - one of many families around here. And it has its humorous moments, too. Like the day little Tab carried one of my sandals to me while I was talking to his mother at the kitchen table. He said "Go?" Then there was little Hannah who decided to wear my flip-flops around the living room. It's all pretty entertaining. And, you'll be happy to know, not once have I left a home visit without my shoes - at least not yet.

Our Geography

Living here is all about the geography of this land. Today was one of those hot, huge blue sky, open western front sort of days. Driving north this morning to Tremonton for home visits I was completely absorbed in the Wasatch - the mountain range - with its 9000' peaks. The road was good, my Jeep was flying, and I felt like a wild west woman. My return to Brigham this afternoon had the same feel of wide open spaces and places. After work the evening unfolded into the mundane and yet the unusual. The dogs needed a bigger water bowl in the backyard and I decided to check out the selection at the one and only hardware store in town. At least three very nice people asked me if I needed help. One of them took me to the pet supply area and explained, "This large bucket is just right for my dogs." "Oh, I have a black lab and a blue heeler." "Why, me too. They both love this bucket right here." "Hum, I wonder if Shasta would put her head into a bucket that deep." "Oh, sure she would. My dog does." Well, that was all the endorsement I needed, having this brief conversation with a complete stranger about our beloved dogs. I settled on the slightly smaller bucket, paid my little bill, and left the one and only hardware store in Brigham City. I carefully maneuvered around the enormous truck offloading hay bales in the parking lot. Next, I needed to make one of my weekly visits to the closest fresh fruit stand along the 'fruit mile' from Brigham to Willard. This area has been known for cherries, peaches, nectarines, etc., for decades. When we first moved here I didn't understand all of this, but now I've got it down. Just last week the good peaches started coming into the stands. Oh, and the corn arrives by the forklift load every morning, too. We've eaten tons of corn this month, but I'm not cut out of the same cloth as my good pioneer neighbors. I don't buy and buy and buy in order to can and can and can. No, I shop like the urbanite that I am and only buy what we'll eat within the next few days. Tonight's purchase was corn, peaches, green beans, and one cantaloupe. I got back into my Jeep and headed north back towards town in the 93 degree 6:30 pm heat with the sun still blazing across the desert floor. I made the all-to-familiar turn towards the angst of my world - walmart. No, I won't even capitalize it because I don't like going there, but in our small town with only one store for this and no store for that, we don't have much choice. I went to get essentials like milk and some other things. My head goes wild with questions every time I go into this store. How did that poor old man end up in that scooter at the door checking receipts? Why do so many of these people look so unhappy? Why are so many of them unhealthy, morbidly obese, and battling to just get through the store? What happened in their lives to end up like this? Why does that mom have six kids with another one on the way? How are these people supposed to feed their huge families and raise healthy children? How little are they getting paid and why am I shopping here anyway? Back out into the still hot evening and on my way home I reconnect with the essential geography of this place. Contrasting the small hardware store, the friendly fruit stand and the big box store experience was easy. Understanding it was something else. In the geography of my life I zoom from here to there in my big wild west way and in my travels I see some of us are doing better than others. Some of us have the time and spare money to buy dog buckets at the hardware store. Some of us have time, transportation and money to spend on fresh fruit picked just this morning. Some of us can barely get from one point to the next without grand effort and little fanfare. Some of us study the school supply list and wonder how we'll buy everything every child will need. Some of us buy whatever we want, whenever we want without a thought about anyone else. All of us live here, there and everywhere. Over the years I've wandered the geography of many places. Each unique and beautiful. Each full of all the people I met and saw this evening. As we are morally and ethically bound to one another when one struggles, so do we all. When one soars, so do we all. When one beseeches God for mercy, so should we all. When one revels in the beauty, grace and hope of place, so should we all. So should we all.

Balancing Saturday

After posting "Violent Speech" yesterday I had to quickly get ready to attend a wedding. My friend Barbara picked me up at 2:00 and we headed for a St. James Catholic Church in North Ogden. The eldest daughter of our church music director was getting married at 3:00. I have to admit I wasn't really in the mood, but I'd made the commitment to be there so off I went.

The visual and auditory feast of this wedding renewed my faith in humanity and trust that God is holding all of us very close. The church was beautiful. The red-washed cement floors drew me threw the large glass doors framed in bold wooden beams. Seeing the baptismal pool in the floor immediately soothed and softened the sharp edges I'd brought with me. We sat in silence waiting for it all to begin. And then, the young groom and his best man came down the aisle to the front - in Scottish kilts! Amazing. Next, the handbell choir from our church started ringing the processional. The young women were beautiful; but the bride, the young and beautiful bride in her stunning white gown and long train on the arm of her father (in a kilt!) was extraordinary. A full Catholic wedding mass was celebrated and the striking poses of the lovely bride and her handsome groom kneeling for the Eucharist and kneeling in prayer were breathtaking. As they were announced to the congregation for the first time as Mr. and Mrs. two bagpipes peeled forth with the recessional. It was fabulous. Simply beautiful, exquisite, and fabulous.

Everyone (i.e., Catholics, Protestants, Mormons, etc.) cooperated, everyone was joyful, everyone was reverential, everyone did as the Priest requested, and everyone rejoiced in the beautiful promise of this newly married couple. Balance was restored once more as the truth of grace, the promise of love, and the hope we all carry in our hearts for a better world won this particular Saturday in August. Thank God.

Violent Speech

Many years ago a man in our church called our home late in the evening. As he talked with Rod about his depression and despair there was an unusual sound in the background. The more Rod listened the more he realized what he was hearing. The man was dropping bullets on his kitchen table as he spoke. Eventually he talked about loading the gun and going outside with it. When he dropped the phone we ran like hell to another phone to call the police. Gratefully, the police pulled up just as he was raising the gun to the side of his head.

This morning Rod was in the local McDonald's in our very small town when he witnessed the following: A middle-aged couple asked for the manager and demanded that he change the "Communist News Network" (CNN) currently showing on the TV. They demanded it be changed to Fox News. They demanded it be changed or else they would leave. The manager explained he couldn't change it as it was part of the McDonald's satellite package. After their loud demands were witnessed by children and families, they walked out.

This afternoon Rod was in a local sporting goods store in another very small town and this is what he witnessed: Two men looking at ammunition and speaking loud enough for people to hear, "That coon is ruining our country." And they went on from there. When they tried to buy the ammo, the owner of the store threw them out. He told they were recorded on security cameras and they should never come back.

Two startling incidents of violent speech echoing the national media conversation about race, politics and power occurred in very small places today. How far will this go? How unruly, unkind, and inhumane will we become as we sort through our dilemmas? How close is that gun and where are those bullets? Is anyone, at any level, running like hell to stop this violent conversation that so many apparently feel justified to engage in? And who will take responsibility if/when this violent conversation ends in a burst of rage?

The Marine Looking for Work

On a regular basis, all kinds of people knock on Rod's office door at the church. They need food, they need money, they need gas, they need a place to stay, they need a bus ticket. They just need. Some of them make the circuit and come back around to our little town on a regular basis. Their stories aren't so true. Once in awhile, though, there is a true story in the bunch.

This morning the Marine called the church first and asked if there was any work he could do. He already had a bus ticket, but he wanted to make some money before he left on the next leg of his trip. He explained that another pastor in town had already told him no. Three bishops also told him no because he has tattoos. One is the Marine Corp emblem on his shoulder. He was emphatic that he wasn't looking for a handout. He wanted to earn his money. Rod said, "Sure, come over. I can find some yard work for you to do."

Rod has an excellent, shall we say, internal crap detector and he can tell when someone's giving him a story. This young man certainly has a story and it rings true. On leave several years ago he found his wife with another man and their two year old daughter in the bedroom. He attacked the other man and ended up with an assault charge. His military career ended right then and there with a dishonorable discharge. His marriage ended and he hit the road. He's been traveling for several months. This twenty-something veteran is without his home and without his family. His goal is to make it to the Wyoming oil fields. He's trying to get his head together. He's trying to make it right with God; because, he followed orders and killed people in Iraq. He'd never seen a dead person before he went to war. Now they live with him all the time. He struggles to figure out how God can forgive him. He thinks that doing work at churches will help him.

He worked extremely hard in the heat today and he'll be back tomorrow for a couple of more hours. He'll have some money in his pocket when he leaves on the bus headed to Wyoming.

We aren't always so gracious towards and accepting of those in need. Sometimes we're like the bishops who make judgments based on appearance. Sometimes we're like the other pastor in town who didn't have the time or couldn't make the effort. But, sometimes we say, "Sure, I'll hear your story. I'll give your some work. I'll bring you some water in the heat." Sometimes we can bring grace to the burning wounds. We pray tonight, that this young veteran will feel a little more intact, stand a little taller tomorrow, and know that God is here for him and ready to hold his crying heart.

The Gentiles and Their Lawn Mowers

First, let me give you the Utah definition of Gentile. Here it means anyone who isn't a Mormon. This means my Catholic friend, my non-church going friend, my Baptist friend, my Lutheran friend, and all the good Presbyterians I worship with each Sunday are all Gentiles. Sometimes we stand out in a crowd; but sometimes, too, we blend right in. Some of us have been told, "You're so nice. You could be a Mormon." However, I don't believe any of us have ever heard that on a Sunday.

We're curiously identifiable on Sundays. We're the only ones watering our yards, mowing our grass, pulling our weeds, and generally being outside before 5:00 pm. Granted, our Sunday yard transgressions aren't so conspicuous in larger Utah cities, but in small towns, hoses and mowers reveal our true identity.

None of my neighbors has actually said anything to me about this because they aren't outside on Sundays. But, if they did comment I'd recall to their memory Jesus' healing on the Sabbath. It's meant for worship, rest, recreating, and healing. For some of us, the Gentiles in this land, being outside in our yards is quite refreshing and life-giving. Recreating on the Sabbath by working our lavender, rosemary, hibiscus, and fruit trees is alright. It's quite alright.

I Echo Her Silenced Voice

In my previous blog I wrote an entry about my 2007 encounter with an old barn in Vale, Oregon with the quote "I must keep writing to remember who I am. ~ A Pioneer Woman" painted on its side. Vale is one of the hundreds of small towns on the old Oregon trail. I was deeply struck by this quote and wondered where it came from, who wrote it, why she wrote it, etc. A couple of weeks ago we again drove through Vale on our way home from Oregon. All morning I anticipated seeing the barn again with the big white lettering painted on the side. As we approached town I started looking and searching for it. I needed to see it again to shake my own writing malaise. We drove through town, I looked and looked, and just as quickly we drove out of town. I realized the road had been redirected. It now passes by shops and cafes. Economic reasons, perhaps, moved the road closer to places to spend money and away from the place that challenged my writer's soul. The barn was nowhere to be seen. The pioneer woman's words are no longer visible. Her voice from another century is silenced. But, I know it was there. I saw it with my own eyes and heard it with my own heart. Her words may be gone from the side of that old barn. The barn itself may be gone. But, her truth has been passed to me and now I try to echo her voice saying, "I must keep writing to remember who I am."

Crawling Wasps

This entry comes under the category of "Living in and trying to tame the desert."

I do not like wasps. Rod is highly allergic to wasps. We get lots and lots of them in the spring and through the summer so this year I hung three wasp traps. They're attracted by the smell and fly into this contraption which they can't get out of. By now, there must be 300 little wasp corpses hanging in the bright yellow containers in my yard. Sometimes I watch them fly around and around, but then I actually feel sad they can't get out and they're going to die. This sadness doesn't last long, don't worry. I thought the traps would take care of all of them until, one day, I walked into my study in my bare feet and there was a wasp on the floor. He wasn't flying, he was barely moving, but he was alive on the floor. In quick fashion I dispatched him down the toilet. Then, the next day I came into the room and there was another one - in the exact same place. This happened over and over. I tore the room apart looking for a nest and nothing came up. I had the exterior of the house sprayed and still these half-drugged wasps kept showing up in the exact same place. Tahoe, our black lab, started licking the spot to the point of separating the carpet fibers. Down, Tahoe, down. Then, we went on a two week vacation. When we returned I checked the room - no wasps. Ah, they must have given up. Then, I turned on the air conditioning because the house was frying after two weeks of big heat. Twenty minutes later I went back in the room and there was another half-dead wasp! It was an ah-ha moment -- the wasps were coming through the air conditioner. By the time they were sucked through the system and blown out through the vent they were practically dead. And, they always landed in the same place. Whew - what a ride that must have been. The next day Rod flushed the A/C with water and lots of nests came floating out of it. I think these particular wasps knew the pretty yellow containers wafting in the wind were bad news for them. They thought themselves pretty smart to hide and build nests in the A/C unit. They are cagey little pests, but we'll be ready for this trick next year. And this is one of those moments I have to ask, "Now, why exactly did Brigham Young think this was a good place to settle?"

The Waiting Woman

Two evenings prior I'd been slaving away washing the filthy floor in the church kitchen. I really didn't think it was important to do because, after all, the wedding reception was going to be held in the other building. But, nonetheless, I washed the floor of its vacation Bible school food and footprints. It was blasted hot in there and I kept muttering about how unnecessary it was to go to all this work.

When I came into the church on the evening of the wedding I entered through the kitchen door. I was startled to see the bride sitting at one of the small tables with her seventeen year old daughter. They were holding hands. I'd never seen her so beautiful. The space and the moment were private and holy. I made my quick hello and good luck and exited into the sanctuary. People arrived for the ceremony. Many had never been there before and they, too, happened to enter through the kitchen door. All through it she remained at the table with her daughter. To this point, her choices in life had dealt her painful blows. At this point, she was on the precipice of a new life, a new choice, a new future. Slipping into my pastor's wife thing I sat in the back to help Aunt Millie and Grandpa Joe in the door and to their seats. The pastor met with the groom and his sons for prayer before walking to the front. They stood and waited. One son went to the keyboard and started playing amazing music. I turned to my right to see her still seated in the kitchen. She was radiantly filled with hope ~ time stopped for a moment. Leaving her old life at the kitchen table, she rose with her children by her side, walked across the clean floor to start all things new. They walked towards me and then turned to go down the aisle. As they passed I instinctively stood and found myself motioning for everyone to stand. They did, she walked, and met her future at the end of the aisle. It was a beautiful and emotional wedding service. These two people were so very happy to be together. Everyone was moved by their love and their joy. And for the moments she spent beforehand, in anticipation, in loving conversation with her children, it was only right that she be sitting on a chair on a perfectly clean floor. It was the honor and respect she'd earned and deeply deserved. Next time I'll just be quiet and mop away.