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.