Sunday, November 7, 2010
10 C's
It's been so long since I've written here. (a confessional beginning if there ever was one...in the vein of 'forgive me father, for I have sinned...') I'm not so sure that I even have something profound to say. The beauty of the moment is that I love what I'm doing. So much of my seminary education has spent pushing through from one assignment to the next. Quite frequently I have wished to linger over a particular reading or topic, but there is never time to do so. Parish ministry (via internship) still has me moving at a good clip, but I get to linger with people. What a joy. My curiosity for individual life stories and spirituality is SO real at this point. Today I had 8 confirmation students and 3 adult mentor/guides together for an overview of the 10 Commandments. It was an engaging time together. God's intervention into human history at that time is still pertinent to 13-year-olds and every adult in the room, all the way to 2010 and beyond. Thanks be to God.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
a psalm rescues me, or not
For starters, I am a "distributed learner" with Luther Seminary. That is one way of saying that I live in my home town, far from any ELCA seminary and pursue God's call on my life. The details amount to taking online classes, flying to MN for short term classes, all the while attempting to work, embrace family & friends and keep up a house and yard (...sort of). I'm time-and-energy challenged, but who isn't??
I find myself in a familiar anxious space: facing the end-of-term projects of one semester, while planning flight, books and expenses for the next on-campus time. There is always a backlog of all kinds of other tasks simultaneously. My cohort is posting our ritual protests (..."don't they know we need a break??!"). I have to admit that it's easy to get stressed and disoriented in the mix. So where so you go?
Psalm 94 got dropped in my lap this morning. I am grateful.
"If the Lord had not been my help,
my soul would soon have lived in the land of silence.
When I thought, “My foot is slipping,”
Your steadfast love, O Lord, held me up.
When the cares of my heart are many,
Your consolations cheer my soul....
...the Lord has become my stronghold,
and my God the rock of my refuge." (v.17-22)
And I'm thinking: 'yeah, Lord, my foot is slipping here. Help me regain some solid ground.' But I realize this psalm was not written to be my personal channel to God.
Who was this poet? What was the threat on his life? The powerful wicked ones are killing widows, foreigners and orphans. I am quickly confronted with the fact that my stresses are not of this magnitude. These are all the weak and marginalized folks whom God loves. Where is justice?! About the time the poet screams for God's vengeance, he calms down at verse 12. It's a Holy Spirit shift of the winds, as far as I'm concerned. He recalls God's steady hand, God's faithfulness of the past. All of what I have quote here is past tense.
And I pause. I feel a calming of the little squall inside me. Different trials and stresses-same God of faithfulness. When I recount the hand of God in my life, and among the lives of others, it shifts my thoughts in a powerful way. Like the psalmist, I am comforted to know that all the stuff that seems bigger than me is never bigger than God. God's Spirit brings comfort and focus. I won't lean on this psalm as my own personal "grab-hold-of-God's-promises" passage. Rather, I'm grateful to be reminded of the source of all hope. I know deep in my spirit that God is the One who holds me instead. "Peace that passes all understanding." It's real.
I find myself in a familiar anxious space: facing the end-of-term projects of one semester, while planning flight, books and expenses for the next on-campus time. There is always a backlog of all kinds of other tasks simultaneously. My cohort is posting our ritual protests (..."don't they know we need a break??!"). I have to admit that it's easy to get stressed and disoriented in the mix. So where so you go?
Psalm 94 got dropped in my lap this morning. I am grateful.
"If the Lord had not been my help,
my soul would soon have lived in the land of silence.
When I thought, “My foot is slipping,”
Your steadfast love, O Lord, held me up.
When the cares of my heart are many,
Your consolations cheer my soul....
...the Lord has become my stronghold,
and my God the rock of my refuge." (v.17-22)
And I'm thinking: 'yeah, Lord, my foot is slipping here. Help me regain some solid ground.' But I realize this psalm was not written to be my personal channel to God.
Who was this poet? What was the threat on his life? The powerful wicked ones are killing widows, foreigners and orphans. I am quickly confronted with the fact that my stresses are not of this magnitude. These are all the weak and marginalized folks whom God loves. Where is justice?! About the time the poet screams for God's vengeance, he calms down at verse 12. It's a Holy Spirit shift of the winds, as far as I'm concerned. He recalls God's steady hand, God's faithfulness of the past. All of what I have quote here is past tense.
And I pause. I feel a calming of the little squall inside me. Different trials and stresses-same God of faithfulness. When I recount the hand of God in my life, and among the lives of others, it shifts my thoughts in a powerful way. Like the psalmist, I am comforted to know that all the stuff that seems bigger than me is never bigger than God. God's Spirit brings comfort and focus. I won't lean on this psalm as my own personal "grab-hold-of-God's-promises" passage. Rather, I'm grateful to be reminded of the source of all hope. I know deep in my spirit that God is the One who holds me instead. "Peace that passes all understanding." It's real.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
the muse of classical guitar
After a long pause in this first effort of blogging, I was tapped on the shoulder this morning--it was time. My favorite public radio station had been left "on" in the bedroom. Long past the morning news, I had tuned it out while studying a variety of sources for my next seminary paper. There were books all over the couch...a cat who would skirt the edges to check out if personal attention was an option...'no chance' she decided, and headed back to the window to scope out any bird activity. I was deep in thought about pluralism in postmodern culture, when suddenly there awareness of the moment. I heard the melodious blessing of classical guitar. Sighhh....
It wasn't always this way. For several years since my husband's death, when anything of the sort hit the airwaves, I'd launch for the tuner buttons...another station, please. There's got to be something better. Something that doesn't jab me with pain.
Cary had loved classical guitar. He had sketchy music know-how from childhood piano lessons, preferring to memorize the pattern of a melody rather than deciphering music. But sometime in his early early 20's he heard Spanish guitar and he was totally hooked. He loved the precision, the song that poured from a zillion details, the tonality that seemed as near as a heartbeat. He decided there and then that he would be a classical guitarist. He bought a guitar, took advice from others and endeavored to learn as much as he could on his own. Then, he saw the Master in concert. Watching Andre Segovia through his field binoculars, Cary was enthralled with learning the best of classical guitar technique. He formed a plan to study guitar in Barcelona: he made contacts with a conservatory of music, found lodging, fueled the dream. Suddenly, a hand injury at work brought everything to a halt.
Enter: One Occupational Therapist filling in for a colleague in an outpatient hand therapy clinic. One would-be classical guitarist, currently working in the trucking industry. He speaks with ease of trusting God. Cut to the chase: A playful and intriguing relationship, a loving marriage, two dear children. The classical guitar dreams were set aside for an engineering degree and the life of Husband, Dad and Electrical Engineer. Really, it was the stability he'd always wanted. No regrets. The guitar rarely came out of the case.
We had a collection of classical guitar music on cassette tapes and vinyl that I was compelled to give away. My daughter learned guitar in a college elective class. She gladly received Dad's instrument. My son took up the same, but quickly transferred his acoustic skills into the plug-in version. I kept changing the radio selections. That is, until this summer. Seven years later, after layers upon layers of forgiveness and healing, God opened my senses to receive the melody again.
People often say that "time heals" but I believe that to be simplistic and dodging the point. It was only when I leaned into the pain-- cried through hymns, paused, prayed, knew God's presence, found joy in sunlight and Spirit, wrote, painted, identified with the Psalmist, found good listeners, breathed deeply, played in nature, enjoyed friendships, listened to others' pain, and prayed some more-- that I regained a new sense of self. Through it all, God revealed a greater truth about my husband's love. I can delight in hearing classical guitar again. It's a lively and emotive background-- not my own choice of soundtrack--but certainly a blessing. I receive it gladly and keep living the day.
It wasn't always this way. For several years since my husband's death, when anything of the sort hit the airwaves, I'd launch for the tuner buttons...another station, please. There's got to be something better. Something that doesn't jab me with pain.
Cary had loved classical guitar. He had sketchy music know-how from childhood piano lessons, preferring to memorize the pattern of a melody rather than deciphering music. But sometime in his early early 20's he heard Spanish guitar and he was totally hooked. He loved the precision, the song that poured from a zillion details, the tonality that seemed as near as a heartbeat. He decided there and then that he would be a classical guitarist. He bought a guitar, took advice from others and endeavored to learn as much as he could on his own. Then, he saw the Master in concert. Watching Andre Segovia through his field binoculars, Cary was enthralled with learning the best of classical guitar technique. He formed a plan to study guitar in Barcelona: he made contacts with a conservatory of music, found lodging, fueled the dream. Suddenly, a hand injury at work brought everything to a halt.
Enter: One Occupational Therapist filling in for a colleague in an outpatient hand therapy clinic. One would-be classical guitarist, currently working in the trucking industry. He speaks with ease of trusting God. Cut to the chase: A playful and intriguing relationship, a loving marriage, two dear children. The classical guitar dreams were set aside for an engineering degree and the life of Husband, Dad and Electrical Engineer. Really, it was the stability he'd always wanted. No regrets. The guitar rarely came out of the case.
We had a collection of classical guitar music on cassette tapes and vinyl that I was compelled to give away. My daughter learned guitar in a college elective class. She gladly received Dad's instrument. My son took up the same, but quickly transferred his acoustic skills into the plug-in version. I kept changing the radio selections. That is, until this summer. Seven years later, after layers upon layers of forgiveness and healing, God opened my senses to receive the melody again.
People often say that "time heals" but I believe that to be simplistic and dodging the point. It was only when I leaned into the pain-- cried through hymns, paused, prayed, knew God's presence, found joy in sunlight and Spirit, wrote, painted, identified with the Psalmist, found good listeners, breathed deeply, played in nature, enjoyed friendships, listened to others' pain, and prayed some more-- that I regained a new sense of self. Through it all, God revealed a greater truth about my husband's love. I can delight in hearing classical guitar again. It's a lively and emotive background-- not my own choice of soundtrack--but certainly a blessing. I receive it gladly and keep living the day.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
the non-tech Mom steps forth
I will admit that I've never been on the growing edge of any form of technology. Yet here I am creating a blog. It's about stretching into new things and and having no notion of outcome. It's all about process and experience. And much like a painting, or even travel to a strange place, I refuse to idealize what will happen. There is a weird mix of anxiousness and wonder that comes with either. And so it is with writing, too. Mostly I want to shock my tech-savvy kids that this is even happening.
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