Corona Status: Southeast Florida and AWP

My church in far southeast FL doesn't seem to be worried about the corona virus threat--we still hugged when we passed the peace  We're countercultural that way.  We've often gone against the grain of larger society.  People lined up to be anointed with oil after they took communion--bread handed to them from the pastor's hands, wine/grape juice in individual cups. 

And it's not that we don't know about the disease.  We're a congregation of middle-aged to elderly folks--we understand the dangers of germs.  Even before this latest virus, we have bottles of hand sanitizer at key locations.

Still, I'm not as unconcerned as I might appear to be.  I understand that this new virus doesn't seem to be as virulent as the SARS virus, but it's still got a higher death rate (2-3%) than the regular flu (0.1% or is it 0.01%?).

The other night I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about how this kind of health crisis presents the perfect opportunity to introduce martial law and curfews and quarantines--why send people away to camps when you can force them to stay home instead?

I told myself that maybe it's good that I'm more versed in sci-fi plots than the current administration.  I'm not sure that Trump's current advisers have thought about the best way to seize more power. And who are those people, these advisers, again?  I've lost track.  

I told myself that maybe it was good that the current administration was more concerned about the health of various markets than in keeping humans healthy.  Maybe the concern with the economics will keep the higher ups from realizing that they have a perfect opportunity to shred the Constitution even further.

I thought of my own novel languishing away, the main character's spouse taken away during a virulent flu outbreak, the flu outbreak sued to suspend civil liberties.  When I developed that part of the plot in July, I knew that I needed a series of events to lead to the dystopian near-future of my novel.  I chose a series of things:  a bombing at the White House that harmed no one and a serious pandemic.

I started writing in a white heat of creativity and progress.  As my pace began to falter, I wondered if it was because the material scared me.  It wasn't the kind of fear that writers usually discuss:  fear of disclosure, fear of not being able to do the work.  It was fear of the future, because what I was writing seemed all too possible.

If I had been writing this novel in 2015, my fear might have been that people would dismiss the premises of the novel.

And now there's talk of whether or not people should go to the AWP.  The conference itself has offered people credit for next year, if they want to cancel this year on an individual basis.  I hope they don't cancel the conference.  I travel tomorrow.  I'm going regardless.

Most of us going to the conference work in schools, and many of those schools have a huge population of international travelers.  We're surrounded by disease vectors.  A conference like AWP doesn't seem like that much bigger a risk for those of us who are healthy.

It will be interesting to see what happens in the next few weeks.  I hope it won't be interesting in the Chinese proverb/curse kind of way ("May you live in interesting times").

Predator Priests

I will not be reading the full report on the abuses committed by Catholic priests in Pennsylvania during the last 70 years.  The details I've already heard on the news sicken me--the scope of the depravity is shocking.  Part of me is glad that I retain my capacity to be shocked at the evidence of evil working in the world.  Part of me is angry that there's still so much evil in the world waiting to shock me.

While hearing about abuses by individual priests would be bad enough, but not exactly newsworthy anymore, sadly, the reports of the networks created for the purpose of abuse is horrifying.  At one point during the news cycle where the story broke, I thought, if you read this as a plot in a work of fiction, you would say, no, that can't happen in the real world.  And yet, it did.

The larger story is the abuse of power and the networks of power that kept the abusers in positions where they could prey on children.  I try to think of the larger good that can come out of this:  in many settings where adults work with children, there are much more rigorous regulations to try to ensure that this kind of abuse can't happen to a new generation of children.  We are a society that no longer gives certain types of people--church workers, teachers, doctors--the benefit of the doubt, the assumption that they could never hurt someone.

But oh, how this story breaks my heart, over and over again.  I think of the huge swath of damage left in the wake of those priests--all of those victims!  And not just the victims, but the families of the victims.  I think of all the good church workers who are now seen through this ugly lens, all the good in the world that won't be done, because trust has been broken.

As my heart breaks, I offer several prayers.  One, of course, is a prayer for all the victims.  But I also pray for the priests, for the broken, damaged people who could do these things.  I pray for all the victims we haven't heard from yet, both those who were victimized in the past and for those who are still being hurt.  I pray for all of us who work with children--let our actions never hurt.  I pray for everyone who hears these stories and assumes that all church folk are like those predator priests.  I pray for the courage to keep being a light in the world where evil often seems to be in control.

Epiphany Highs and Lows

I was expecting the pace of my work day yesterday to be a bit exhausting, but it wasn't too bad.  I got to the office and did some set up for the day--food, mainly.  Our Faculty Library Orientation at 9 went well; it's always interesting for me to see what our libraries offer.  New Student Orientation was a joy.  We had a good Faculty Development session where we exchanged ideas for keeping students engaged.  The 5 campus meeting about what needs to be done for the accreditation visit didn't leave me overwhelmed.  I did the clean up required after a meeting that involves food.

I thought the day was going well, better than expected, even.

But then, a colleague mentioned a shooting at the airport.  A few of us gathered around a computer to watch gruesome cell phone footage.  I slipped away to call my spouse.  I knew that he had no plans to go to the airport, but freakish things can happen.  Happily, my spouse had not left the house.  Others will not have the same good fortune.

I sent e-mail messages and Facebook posts/messages to let my various family members know we're OK.  My step-mom-in-law had some anxious hours, since I didn't learn of the shooting until hours after it happened, and she knew immediately.

When I returned home, I resisted the urge to turn on the TV.  Instead, we took our hamburgers to the porch and enjoyed a quieter dinner.  My spouse played his violin, and I made a sketch.  It was a good way to end a day that was both satisfying and disconcerting.

As the afternoon and evening progressed, by way of Facebook, I watched my friends across the Southeast talk about the impending snow--a fairly serious amount of snow for areas that don't usually get more than a dusting.  Later in the day, by way of Facebook, I found out that my South Florida friends are OK.

This morning, I'm baking orange-cranberry bread, both because I've got 2 brunch events this week-end and because I have some Tropical Carrot Juice to use up.  It has helped me feel like I'm righting the world a bit.

And writing the world:  I wrote a poem this morning about my spouse playing "Lift Every Voice and Sing" with the Christmas lights staring their icy stares, while Epiphany comes to a close.  I thought about having one administration leaving and one waiting in the wings (tweeting, tweeting, tweeting)--but then I decided to make references to ancient texts and far-away stars. 

The poem just sort of arrived this morning, although I thought about the elements of it as my spouse was playing.  What a delightful way to start the day:  writing and baking!

Words of Hope in a Time of Gun Violence

Another week, another shooting.  I have absolutely nothing to say.

No, impossible.  I have plenty to say.  Begin again.

We have been here before, and I don't just mean last week, with the Planned Parenthood shootings in Colorado.  The Advent readings take on renewed relevance in these days of mass murders.

Consider the first two verses from the Gospel text for last Sunday (Luke 21:25-36):


 21:25 "There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves.

21:26 People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken."

Clearly, our situation is not new.

On my way to work yesterday, I saw a Jeep with a spare tire cover that declared, "Fear not!"

Before I heard about the shootings, I spent the afternoon reconsidering those angel directions from our Advent texts.  I've always interpreted that angel greeting to mean don't be afraid of me, the angel who is speaking to you.

But maybe it's a more general directive.  Now I imagine the angel Gabriel saying, "Yes, humans, you have a lot that makes you afraid and fretful.  Put those fears aside.  Don't let them disable you.  You will always face fear.  Don't let it overtake you.  Don't let it blind you to the wonders that God has for you."

If it's not fear overtaking us, it's our impulse to numb ourselves to these horrible events.  How can people be shot at a holiday party?  Some of us will force ourselves to shrug and not think about it too much. 

But that's a sure recipe for disaster.  We don't want to let ourselves go numb.  All too soon, we'll be numb to everything:  the good, the bad, the ecstatic, the despair.  We sacrifice the good emotions along with the ones that make us uncomfortable.

Let us become modern prophets.  Let us see clearly our world in ruins.  Let us remember that God is often found in the rubble piles of civilization.  Let us remind our societies that God wants better for us than this--and we can do better than this.

It's good to turn to John the Baptist, as we will in the texts for Sunday.  We can be the ones calling for the rough places to be made smooth.

To paraphrase  the words of John the Baptist in a different verse (John 1: 20), we are not the Messiah.  But we have heard the words of the Messiah.  We believe the promises.  We know that God does not leave us all alone, orphans in a cruel, cruel world.

Shooters in the Sanctuary

At 5 a.m., I am glued to the radio, wishing for more information, feeling that irritation about every story that isn't about the shooting in a Charleston church last night.

I lived in the Charleston area for five years.  My first thought was that no one I know would have been at a prayer meeting that started at 9 p.m. at an A.M.E. church.

But I lived in South Carolina for 9 years before moving to the coast of the state.  My spouse and I started thinking of all the people who might, in fact, have been at a downtown church for a prayer meeting.

I've been seeing Facebook posts that remind me of how interconnected we all are, as humans, and how small a place Churchworld is.  The pastor went to the ELCA seminary in Columbia, South Carolina.  Facebook reminds me of how many pastors I know who also attended that school.

Of course, even if I knew not a soul, even if the shooting took place in a different country, I'd still feel that sense of shock.  A shooting--at a church?

And my cynical self says, "Why not a church?  We have shootings at elementary schools."

We ask, "Is nothing sacred?"

At first, it seems nothing is sacred.  But as the morning progresses, and I see more and more Facebook posts imploring us all to pray for Charleston or posts that express deep sorrow, I have to answer, "Yes.  We still hold much sacred."

I don't find reason for joy when a man walks into a sanctuary and starts shooting.  But I do find comfort that this shooting still makes so many of us respond in shock and horror.  We want to believe that children can be safe at school.  We want to be able to gather after darkness descends and not be gunned down for our efforts.

Nope, that's not the world we live in.  When we gather to pray at my church after dark, we lock the doors.

But I can remember that the world we live in is not God's vision for this world.  We live in a creation that's in progress, not one that's finished.

And the sorrow and lamentation of so many people means that I am not alone in longing for a world that is safer.  We can--and probably will--worry about how to make it safer.  We might even argue that safety is an illusion.

Christ does not promise us a safe life--quite the opposite.  But Easter promises us that death doesn't have the last word.

Notes of Hope in a Week of Bad News

My inner sociologist has found the last week interesting, as the crisis in Baltimore grew worse and worse and then a curfew seemed to solve much of the immediate problem.  Despite having a B.A. in Sociology, I really don't understand riots that end in people burning their own neighborhoods.

Oh, I understand the anger.  Most of us do.  I understand the frustration of the slow pace of social change, of feeling unvalued.  I understand the nihilistic joy that comes from destruction.

It intrigues me that so seldom in U.S. history do we see people torch government buildings.  Perhaps they are more protected or perhaps riots escalate and no one says, "Hey, let's move this demonstration to the true source of our misery."

It's hard to move a group, especially a group that's in a bad mood.

In these days, those of us who have ever worked for a better world may be feeling discouraged.  We may wonder if anything that we do will make a difference.

So, I wanted to offer two quotes of consolation.  I listened to the latest episode of the radio show On Being; Margaret Wertheim is part of a huge project, Crochet Coral Reef.  She talks about why the project is important and how it is a metaphor:

"One of the things about the reef project that I feel is important is that it's a constructive response to a devastating problem. I think most people, as I am, are completely freaked out about the problem of global warming. What can we do? Can we do anything? And the reef project — the Crochet Coral Reef project is a metaphor, and it goes like this: if you look at real corals, a head of coral is built by thousands of individual coral polyps working together. Each coral polyp is a tiny insignificant little critter with almost no power of its own. But when billions of coral polyps come together, they can build the Great Barrier Reef, the largest living thing on earth and the first living thing that you can see from outer space.

The Crochet Coral Reef is a human analog of that. These huge coral reef installations that we build with communities are built by hundreds and sometimes thousands of people working together. So the project capitulates, in human action, the power and greatness of what corals themselves are doing. And I think the metaphor of the project is, look what we can do together. We humans, each of us are like a coral polyp. Individually, we’re insignificant and probably powerless. But together, I believe we can do things. And I think the metaphor of the project is we are all corals now."

And to return to theology, which often informs my thinking on social justice:

Easter promises us that our efforts will not be in vain. In Surprised by Hope: Rethinking Heaven, the Resurrection, and the Mission of the Church, N. T. Wright says forcefully, " . . . what you do in the Lord is not in vain. You are not oiling the wheels of a machine that's about to roll over a cliff" (208).

For many of us, the most difficult part of Jesus' mission that he gives us will be the willingness to believe that the arc of history bends towards justice, as Martin Luther King reminded us. The arc of history also bends towards beauty and wisdom and love and mercy.

Some of us are so beaten down that we forget. Some of us would have no problem being crucified for our faith, but it's much harder to believe in God's vision of a redeemed world and to work to make that happen. But scripture and thousands of years of theology makes it clear, as Wright says, "We are called to live within the world where these things are possible and to agents of such things insofar as they lie in our calling and sphere" (248).

I'm glad to wake up this morning to hear that Baltimore was quiet again last night.  But clearly, we all still have work to do in bending our current arc of history towards justice.

Isaiah 40: 1-11, Written for the Modern Day

I have found much of the coverage of recent events to drive me to despair, and I find it's often everyone's enraged speech and action that makes me feel most hopeless.  I like nuanced conversation and analysis as much as the next person, but we're not getting much of that in the worlds of popular culture. 

However, I found the following on a pastor friend's Facebook page.  It made me think of all the possibilities, of rewriting prophecy for the modern day.  So much oppression surrounds us.  I read the following and thought of victims of trafficking, victims of sexual abuse, victims of domestic violence . . . sadly, the list could go on and on.

But for today, I'll simply re-post this:


A re-reading of Isaiah 40:1-11 for this Sunday:

Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Ferguson, to Brooklyn, to Staten Island, and cry to them that they have not been forgotten, they are loved deeply and from the Lord’s hand hope shall be given.
...

A megaphone cries out: “In the streets prepare the way of justice, make straight in city parks a highway for our God. Every empty lot shall be a home, and every Trump tower shall be rent controlled apartments; unfair minimum wages shall be living wages, and riot gear will collect dust. Then the presence of God shall be unveiled and all people shall see it together, for the mouth of God has spoken.”

A voice says, “Cry out!” And I said, “What shall I cry out? Is it for the unjust deaths of Eric Garner, Michael Brown, Akai Gurley or Tamir Rice? Or the giant gap in economic inequality? Or that America’s democracy is owned by the Koch brothers and other corporate elites?” All people are fragile; their constancy is like the flower of the field. The grass withers, the flower fades; WE CAN”T BREATHE…but the breathe of God infuses hope and rises in communities where truth cannot be suffocated. For the end of police brutality is at hand.

Get us up to the main streets, O Ferguson, bearers of another world; Shout with strength, O New York City, heralds of justice, shout louder, do not fear; say to the police departments across America, “BLACK LIVES MATTER! BLACK LIVES MATTER!” See, the God of justice comes with might, and her hands serve the lowly; her comforting presence ushers in change. She will bring water for those too tired to shout anymore; she will rub the feet of those too tired to march anymore, and she will carry all in her bosom, and gently lead us to a new heaven and new earth, one without murders by choking or trigger happy cops.

The Wisdom of God for the people of God.
(thanks to Tim Wotring for writing) Thanks to Heidi Neumark for posting on the ELCA Clergy page.

Comfort on the Day after Shootings at an Elementary School

In the aftermath of a tragedy, like yesterday's shooting at the elementary school, it's hard to know what to say.  Many will ask how God could allow such a thing, and I would remind us that the God I worship doesn't want to see 20 children shot.  The God I worship doesn't want to see anyone shot.

The larger question might be how any of us allow such a thing, and conversations could spiral off into issues of gun control or mental health issues.  But here, on my theology blog, it seems more appropriate to remind us all of God's promise that death will not have the final word and that evil will be overcome.  Even on days when we can't believe the Good News, God assures us that the redemption of the world is underway.

I found it fascinating that I began the day writing this post about Isaiah 61.  At the end of the day, it still seemed an appropriate Bible passage for a day of such bad news.  So my husband and I lit the candles of the Advent wreath and read the passage out loud and prayed that God would bring beauty out of the ruins, new life out of the devastation.

This morning, I found that my post on apocalypse and our response had posted at Her Circle.  Of course, as I wrote it earlier this month, I had no idea that such a tragedy would occur the day before my post would appear. 

Here's a quote from that piece:  "The Protestant reformer Martin Luther says that the proper response to knowing that the world would end the next day is to plant a tree (referenced in N.T. Wright’s Surprised by Hope: Rethinking Heaven, the Resurrection, and the Mission of the Church p. 209). That advice is as good today as it was 500 years ago. The theologian N. T. Wright would tell us when we need encouragement to do great and/or beautiful things, to remember that it all becomes part of the ultimate redemption of the world."


And here's how I end the piece: 

"In the finale of season 1 of The Walking Dead, a CDC scientist reminds the group that they will lose everything if they go back into the zombie-occupied world. But really, isn’t that what we all face? We know that everything we love will be lost sooner or later, whether that be to something as global as the Holocene Extinction or as mundane as the death that happens to us all or something mystical, like a Mayan curse.


The task we all face is to build a meaningful life in the face of this knowledge of certain doom. We may follow the path of theologians, social reformers, and/or artists—or perhaps we’ll chart a new way unique to us. But attend to the task we must. And in the process, we’ll do the important work of transforming the world from one of apocalypse and doom to one of creativity and new life."

Here's what my pastor (Pastor Keith Spencer at Trinity Lutheran Church in Pembroke Pines, FL) posted on Facebook yesterday afternoon; I found it one of the most moving things posted in the immediate aftermath:
Even though I walk through the darkest valley,

I fear no evil;
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff —
they comfort me.
Psalm 23:4

Yearning for Hope: Disconnected from Debates

Tonight is the night of the last presidential debate, but I will not be watching.  I have a guilty confession, although you may find it strange that I feel guilt when disclosing: I am deeply disconnected from this year's election.


Once I couldn't get enough. I not only watched the debates, but I taped them and made my students watch them.  I loved the debates and all the post-debate analysis, those written by my students and those written by the professionals.  In past election years, not only did I watch the debates, but I engaged in countless hours of debate myself.


Part of it is that I fall asleep early these days, especially if the T.V. that we're watching is boring. But part of it is a different kind of weariness. I'm just not interested in politics as blood sport anymore.

Once I felt that candidates wanted to win, not simply for the sake of winning, but because they had dreams of how to make the country better. I may not have agreed with those dreams, but at least I could have told you what they were.

Yes, I will still vote. No worries there. I know how many women struggled for so many years (centuries!) to secure this right for me. I understand how the choices affect me. At the very least, the president will make some Supreme Court decisions. At the most, the president will lead us in a certain direction and make sure to get things done.


I feel like a bad citizen. I feel like a pale version of myself.  I also feel like the candidates are pale versions of not only themselves, but the leaders our nation needs.

Maybe my detachment a healthy development. It's good to remember that it's bad to bet on one human to save us. It's early for Advent, but I remember the words of John the Baptist: "I am not the Messiah." I find it comforting to say those words when my to-do list overwhelms me.

Perhaps those words will be comforting now. These men are not the messiah, no matter how much we'd like them to be our saviors.

Just as it's unhealthy for women to expect that a handsome prince will come along to transform them and sweep them off to the palace, it's unhealthy for us to expect that politicians can save us. We each have a significant amount of work to do in our own communities, just as those running for national office will have a significant amount to do on the national level.

So maybe my disconnected attitude is not as disastrous as I worry it might be. I'm not disconnected from the woes of the nation, after all.

And I'm willing to be happily surprised, to be astonished out of my apathy about national politics. I'm ready to be jolted by hope.

But it's time to stop looking in the wrong places.  I don't need to wait for a political season to be jolted into hope.  Every Sunday as I participate in the Eucharistic wonder, I can remember the central message of Christianity:  this fallen world is redeemable, and that salvation is underway!

If politicians could channel just a smidge of that kind of hope, perhaps I wouldn't be disconnected in the way I am this year.

Political Conventions and Church Assemblies

Today we've watched the Republicans try to decide what to do about their convention.  To be fair, I'd have made similar decisions; with Saturday's forecast, it made sense to delay the convention.  It was difficult not to smile at the outcome.  In this article, Dana Milbank notes:  "Completing the cosmic joke, the weather would have been fine for a convention in Tampa on Monday: gusty, with intermittent showers and sun. But minutes before the 2 p.m. start of the abbreviated session at the Tampa Bay Times Forum, the wind and rain picked up and the National Weather Service issued a tornado warning for Tampa’s Hillsborough County. By the time the brief session ended, the sun had returned."

Some of us might wonder the Republicans decided to hold their convention in a coastal city at the height of hurricane season. But recent years have shown us that few cities are safe from weather surprises.


The larger issue: why have a convention at all? We know who the nominee will be. What is the point? Why spend all this money?

I’ve had similar thoughts about church assemblies, both at the synod and the national level. Some years, clearly we need to meet. We have elections to complete, decisions about who will provide leadership. Some denominations need to vote on how to spend the money that the Church collects. Some denominations meet to train members in various issues. Some denominations need to vote on social issues periodically.

But in this age of technology, do we need to meet in person? Do we need to spend the money and stress the various environments by descending on a city?

I can only vaguely imagine how much the political assemblies are costing. I shudder to think. When I go to Synod Assembly, it costs several hundred dollars for the hotel room, and then there’s the registration fee of over $100. I spend even more on food. And there’s the cost of travel: gasoline and wear and tear on the car. If we calculate the time off that I have to take, the cost continues to rise.

I understand that it’s good to assemble. I understand that we can network and get good ideas and do trouble shooting—I understand that some of us need to do that in person. But the harder question: is it really worth the cost?

On the national level, the stakes rise. The costs go up, the travel takes more time, some of us must take more time off.

We might argue that the national assemblies only take place every few years. But the question still remains. Is it worth it?

Who Is a Minister?

I'm still puzzling over the recent Supreme Court decision about Cheryl Perrich, the teacher in the Lutheran school, which you can read about in this article from The Washington Post.  I'm most puzzled that the female teacher in question was considered a minister in her Lutheran school--especially once I found out that the school is part of the Lutheran Church--Missouri Synod tradition.

Why did this fact make me take notice?  The Lutheran Church--Missouri Synod does not ordain women.  More traditional LCMS churches don't even let women read from the Bible in the pulpit.  Yet the school claimed that the teacher was a minister?

True, her training went far further than that experienced by many teachers:  "Perich joined the school as a “lay teacher” in 1999 and then underwent extensive religious training. She became a 'called' teacher, expected to perform her job 'according to the Word of God and the confessional standards of the Evangelical Lutheran Church as drawn from the Sacred Scriptures.'”

I can't shake the feeling that there's more to this story, but I must confess I'm more interested in the Human Resources side of the story.  The teacher left on medical disability leave for over a year; not surprisingly, the school did not hold her job for her, and as I understand the law, the school was not required to do so.  The Post reports:  "When she threatened to sue to get her job back, she was fired for 'insubordination and disruptive behavior.'”  Why was she not simply let go for dereliction of her teaching duty when she didn't return from medical leave?

It's hard for me to see the discrimination here, but like I said, there may be more to the story.  Did she ask for reasonable accommodation?  Did the school take pity on her and try to keep her employed, only to find themselves baffled at a worker threatening a lawsuit?

The courts ruled unanimously, which makes me think that the case was fairly clear-cut in First Amendment terms.  The school called the teacher a minister, the teacher disagreed, the Supreme Court has just decided that she was a church leader.  Will this case have far-reaching implications?

Some of the Justices don't think so:  "Justices Samuel A. Alito Jr. and Elena Kagan wrote separately to make clear that they do not think the term 'minister' is central to courts determining who is covered by the exemption. Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Hindus and Buddhists rarely use the title, they wrote."

So, will later cases revolve around how a minister is different from a chaplain, a pastor, a priest?  Will the Justices need to think about church founders like Martin Luther, who coined the term "the Priesthood of all believers"? 

The newspaper article points to all sorts of inconsistencies, again making me think there's more to the story.  The teacher "claimed a special ministerial housing allowance on her taxes."  And again, I come back to the idea that the LCMS doesn't recognize women as ministers, which makes me wonder what the school is thinking.

It also makes me wonder if the Supreme Court thought about that fact.  If you don't ordain women, can you claim the exemption that the LCMS school claimed?  I would say no, although I would support the school in its claim to have done no wrong, based on what I read in the article.

I wish I could come up with some snazzy conclusion that would tie up all the loose ends in this blog post.  I wish that writing this blog post had helped me clarify all the points which left me confused, but that hasn't happened.  I remain where I was at the beginning, wondering about all the parts of the story that haven't been covered.