Clear Margins

Yesterday as we drove back from Williamsburg, my cell phone rang.  I was driving, and my spouse was sleeping, so we didn't answer the phone.  Then his cell phone rang, which woke him up and made me wonder if there was bad news we needed to know about sooner rather than later.

We got the message left on my cell phone; it was a nurse from the melanoma doctor's office who was calling to "discuss the pathology report."  I exited the interstate so that we could call back from a parked car.  If it was bad news, I didn't want to be driving.  It was 4:00 on a Friday afternoon, so I didn't want to delay making the return phone call.

Of course, the nurse was with another patient, so I left a message.  We switched drivers and made our way back home.  The minutes ticked on while we waited for the call.  I wasn't anxious that we wouldn't get a return call, and I wasn't too anxious about the nature of the test results.  I figured that the worst case scenario was that the doctor didn't get it all, and we'd have to do it all again.  Since it hasn't been too bad an experience, that, too, wouldn't be terribly awful--unlike say, if I had to undergo my broken wrist experience again.  I knew that the pathology was on the tissue removed, not anything that would reveal cancer elsewhere: it's not like they did a body scan of some sort while I was undergoing surgery.

Still, it was a relief to hear the nurse say, "Your margins came back clear."  And yes, I clarified, even though I was fairly sure what she meant--they got all the melanoma.  

I feel very lucky, since it's possible that the spot has been there since summer 2024, when it was diagnosed as a bug bite.  It did look like a bug bite, and it's possible that it was, and that the melanoma came in the same spot.  But it's also possible that we missed it for over a year, which means it had that much longer to grow deep and become more dangerous.

Last night, the steri-strips came off my surgery site.  I went home with the site covered in gauze and waterproofing plastic, which we took off 3 days later.  But the steri-strips hid some of the starkness of the surgery.  The melanoma doctor did warn me that it would be lumpy, but I was expecting something like the lumpiness of cellulite, not skin that looked like two ping pong balls had been inserted on either side of an indentation.  

The stitches are underneath and will dissolve, which means there will be less scarring and eventually no lumps.  Happily, it's my arm, not my face, so I'm not too worried.  I'm relieved that there's no bleeding and no pain--not even any discomfort.  I'm trying to remember that I am supposed to take it easy in terms of lifting for the next week (no lifting of anything over 10 pounds).

Let me stress again how lucky I feel.  It could have been so much worse.  It's not how I anticipated spending part of my winter break, but here, too, I'm glad it unspooled during December, instead of other times that would have been much less convenient, like last summer when I was working a full-time CPE internship at the VA Hospital.

World AIDS Day 2025

Here we are, World AIDS Day, in yet another year of our no-longer-new pandemic (COVID 19), a disease that's much easier to contract than AIDS, a disease that like AIDS preys on the more vulnerable in our society.

Maybe all diseases target the more vulnerable.  And our epidemiologist friends would remind us that diseases don't have emotions or calculations.  Diseases infect where they can, and in vulnerable populations, diseases have more opportunity.

AIDS is still a fairly fierce disease, even though we have medications that can keep people alive for decades--that's still a lot of disease management, which isn't a cure.  According to a UN Fact Sheet, 1.3 million people worldwide contracted AIDS in 2024 alone--that's just one year.  Since the beginning of this epidemic, 91.4 million people have been infected, and 44.1 million have died of the disease.

At this moment in time, COVID-19 isn't killing as many of us.  But it is still a disease to be reckoned with, a disease that leaves lots of wreckage in its wake.  Like AIDS, many of us assume that COVID-19 has been tamed or disappeared.  But like AIDS, some of us are more protected than others.

Dec. 1 is also the anniversary of the day in 1955 when Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on the bus to a white passenger. This act is often given credit for launching the Civil Rights Movement, but what many forget is that various communities had begun planning for the launch, even before they could see or know what it would look like.

In fact, for generations, people had prepared for just such a moment. They had gotten training in nonviolent resistance. They had come together in community in a variety of ways. They were prepared.

Someone asked me once how I had come to be such an optimist. I've always had an optimistic streak, but frankly, my whole world view shifted when I watched Nelson Mandela walk out of prison. I fully expected him to be killed, but again, my worldview shifted when I watched South Africans stand in line for days (days!) to elect him president. And he was ready to be president because he had spent those decades in prison thinking about how he would run the country and making plans.

I have seen enormous social change happen in my lifetime--in the face of such evidence, I must agree with Dr. Martin Luther King, who said the arc of history is long, but it bends towards justice.  

Some years, that arc seems so long and the bending so difficult to discern.  Diseases show us where we need to bend that arc towards justice, where there's still opportunity for progress.

Those of us who work towards social justice and human dignity for all know how long the struggle might be. We are similar to those medieval builders of cathedrals: we may not be around to see the magnificent completion of our vision, but it's important to play our part. In the words of that old Gospel song, we keep our eyes on the prize, our hands on the plow, and hold on.

Five Years of Morning Watch

Yesterday was the fifth anniversary of morning watch, the morning devotional time that I do for my Florida church and anyone else who wants to tune in.  I started doing it during the early days of the pandemic, when my church was looking for ways to stay connected.  I still went to church on Sunday mornings, where, for a few Sundays, a core group of us gathered to do parts of the service live and stream it to our members at home.

We also brainstormed other things we could do, like a Compline service. I volunteered to do something in the morning. One of the brainstorming group suggested that in addition to some sort of reading, that we have time for something creative.

At first I thought about choosing the readings, and then I thought, why do this? I have Phyllis Tickle's The Divine Hours; she's done this work for me. I did the readings for the day, took a five-seven minute pause to do meditation, writing, sketching, yoga, whatever gets us grounded for the day. And then we came back for closing prayer, also from The Divine Hours, and I gave some closing thoughts, a benediction of sorts.  I did the first one on March 31, 2020, and I'm still doing it every morning.

The video is short enough that I think I can add it to this blog post.  Here's the very first episode of Morning Watch to air live, on this day in 2020:

It hasn't changed much. I do show the sketch I'm working on; my dad made a comment that he wanted to see what I was working on, so I started holding the sketch close to the camera.

I've continued to do morning watch, and it's interesting to scroll back through a selection of posts that Facebook gave me when I did a search. Here I am with much longer hair. Here I am in a variety of rooms (the house near the beach, the downtown condo, our Lutheridge house, my seminary apartment, vacation/travel destinations). Here I am with Christmas lights in the back, and here I am almost always with construction happening in the background. I won't link to all those posts, as I'm almost sure it's only interesting to me.

This blog post tells a more complete story of the early days. It also contains this link to the first day when I used Phyllis Tickle's work--on March 30, I had technical difficulties, so I didn't post that broadcast. It's gotten 187 views. Later broadcasts get much fewer views. But I hear from people who find it meaningful, so I'll keep doing it.

To be honest, even if I didn't get encouragement, I'd probably still do it. It helps me to stay faithful to this method of formation.

Masked Sermons

Yesterday I went back to church to preach and lead the service, but I decided to follow CDC guidelines and keep my mask on.  I wore the N95 mask, not one of my more comfortable masks.  I tried to keep a good distance from people, even though I wore a mask.  It felt strange, necessary but strange.

I have never given a sermon in a mask before.  Even in the South Florida church where I last led regularly in person, we would take our masks off as we read from the podium.  It's not the safest practice in terms of exposing those who came up to the podium later, but it was the practice we adopted, and it worked for less contagious forms of COVID.

I know that the N95 mask muffles speech more than other masks, so I tried to speak up when I gave the sermon.  I did have a microphone, but I still tried to project my voice.  After the sermon, I slipped out the side door to do a bit of coughing and drink from my Yeti mug of water.

I do understand why the issue of masking is so divisive.  Masks aren't comfortable if they're effective, and yet, they are effective at controlling spread of a variety of diseases.  

I am looking forward to returning next week when I can be unmasked.  

COVID Comes to Our House

 Most Sundays, I would be in the car headed across the mountains to preach at Faith Lutheran in Bristol, Tennessee.  This week-end, I expected to head across the mountains after a fun time at the Crafts for Christmas retreat.  My week-end plans were thrown into disarray when my spouse tested positive for COVID on Friday afternoon.

Unfortunately, it was after he had helped me bring the evening meal down to the Crafts for Christmas retreat.  I am hoping that it was such a brief exposure that those participants will be safe.  When we were driving back to the house, my spouse said that his throat felt rough, like he had eaten a whole bag of Doritos without chewing them.  I noticed his congestion, and I suggested that he take a COVID test.  Earlier, I thought he was congested because he's been smoking more heavily later, but with the addition of a sore throat, and knowing that we had been traveling, a COVID test made sense to me.

I was stunned when it came back positive, so stunned that we did another test.  And then, I did one too.  I was negative.

I walked back to the retreat and had two of the retreat leaders join me outside.  I told them what had happened and expressed remorse for not doing the COVID test before we came down.  The nurse among them had hope that the exposure would be so brief that no one would be infected.  I continue to be worried about the mutual friend that he hugged.

Because I'd been exposed, even though I was negative, we decided that it was best for me not to attend the retreat.  I went back to get the car, and they left the food that we'd just brought on the porch.  I had spent the morning buying and preparing food for 17 people to have a make your own Mexican main dish kind of buffet (think tortillas, chips, salsa, shredded chicken, and a pot of beans).  Happily it's the kind of meal that my spouse and I never get tired of, so we've been eating well all afternoon.

Yesterday, although I tested negative again, I strategized about Sunday worship service.  I sent the church leadership an e-mail that listed options, and they decided that I should stay home and send them the sermon for someone else to read.  I don't blame them.  Many of the church members are older.  Perhaps they are in more danger from the 5-8 children who attend every week, but I was clearly a disease vector too.

This morning, I tested positive for COVID, which really isn't a surprise.  I, too, had been travelling, and I've been around my sick spouse.  At this point, I have a bit of stuffiness and a headache, but it doesn't seem worse than non-COVID days.  If my spouse hadn't had symptoms, I wouldn't have taken a COVID test for my symptoms--they are extremely mild, at least this morning.  I might not even have seen them as symptoms.  Hopefully this experience with COVID won't be much worse.

I feel lucky that I'm taking seminary classes from a distance, so I won't need to miss class, the way I would if I was taking classes in person.  I feel lucky that the sick leave policies at Spartanburg Methodist College are reasonable.  My students have essays due in the next week, so it's easy to plan for my absence.  I'll be available to them by way of e-mail.

I know that I am lucky, that this experience could be much worse, and hopefully it won't be.  I am lucky that I am vaccinated, so the disease will be less severe.

Interior and Exterior Castles

 Yesterday was one of those days when I was in a strange mood, not necessarily bad or good, but just strange.  The day was book-ended by e-mails that I wrote, the old-fashioned kind that are more like letters, the kind that brings friends up to date with the pivots of the last month.  I had a video chat with a friend--sobering to realize that she came into my life when she took one of the best classes I've ever taught, the early Victorian Brit Lit class at Florida Atlantic University, a class of only English majors, who did all the reading and had riveting conversations about it.  It's sobering to realize because that was over 20 years ago.

In the afternoon, I had a video chat with my spouse.  In some ways, it was about the purpose of church, the purpose of preaching, social justice and charity.  We've been having this conversation for 40 years, and I'm happy to say we've finally resolved it all.  HA!  We will never resolve these issues, and there are days when I don't fully understand why we care at all.

My spouse was in one of those "the only kind of preaching that should come from the pulpit is THIS kind of preaching."  I was in a mood to remind him that the world is full of damaged souls who can't respond to that kind of preaching, that go out and transform society kind of preaching, because they need to know and hear and believe that God loves them, that they are valuable.  We weren't disagreeing, exactly, but I do feel we were exhausting each other.

Part of me felt snarly, because neither one of us is out there transforming society, doing justice, breaking the bonds of oppression.  I don't feel like I'm in a position to criticize others who are similarly sitting on the sofa, working on other projects, yet taking care in smaller ways.

And then I watched a lecture for World Religions class about Buddhism, which further scrambled my mood.  To clear my mind a bit, I went for a walk.  It was just at sunset, and I was happy to be reminded of how beautiful the light can be.  I watched the lights come on in houses that cost more than I will ever be able to afford.  I checked the moon; I know that Jupiter and Venus are about to be closer in the night sky than they will be again all year, but they weren't visible yet.  I kept walking, and as the sky got a smidge darker, I saw them, old friends of a different sort.

And just to make my mood even stranger, I came home and read this NYT Magazine piece about the COVID oral history project.  I ate some of my baguette, ate pricy cheese and olives, and thought about what a topsy-turvy time we're living in. 

Today I need to sit myself down and focus on some writing tasks.  I've done the fun ones, and now I need to get the Teresa of Avila paper done.  She's not my favorite, but we had a choice of 3 works, and I like the others even less; I am not spending one more minute of my life engaging with Jonathan Edwards, thank you very much.  It's this angry god theology that's got us in so much trouble--and I know if I write that kind of paper, my Church History professor will slam me for it.

So, onward to interior castles and beyond!

Back to School

Yesterday I got my hair professionally cut for the first time since 2020, cut and highlighted.  The hair stylist also blew it completely dry and straight, which is unusual for me.  I was surprised by how much lighter and bouncier my hair felt when we were done.

As with all activities that I once did pre-Covid but never resumed, it felt a bit odd to be back.  It was a morning appointment, so it wasn't as packed as it could have been.  There was plexiglass around the hair washing stations, which I hope they keep.  The woman next to me coughed, and it was nice not to worry about that.

While I waited for the highlights to sink into my hair, I read Celeste Ng's latest book.  Later, when I finished it, I made this Facebook post:  "If you need a novel that reminds you of the power of words and language, that convinces you that you do believe in the power of words and language, I highly recommend Celeste Ng's latest, "Our Missing Hearts"--it also will remind you of the power of love, the power of perseverance, the reasons why librarians may yet save us all, and how poetry can surprise us. And it's an interesting commentary on modern life, even as it reads like a dystopia, in the time honored tradition of Margaret Atwood and Octavia Butler."

It is an amazing book.  I read it because my mom had checked it out from the library and saved it for me, knowing I would be here and could finish it.  I'm so glad I did.  One of the main characters is a poet, the kind of poet that most people are, having one slim volume of poems published by a very small press, not much in the way of sales--until it all blows up in so many unpredictable ways.

Today I head back to my seminary apartment, where I hope things have not blown up in ways either predictable or unpredictable.  I'm taking a heavy load of classes, so I will spend this whole semester continuing to hope that I can avoid things blowing up.  I want to take these classes while I have the opportunity.  Life has taught me that these chances won't always be here:  faculty leave, courses are scuttled for a variety of reasons, and my life as a student could change (will I live on campus or near by?  Will I have to forgo some classes so that I get requirements done?).

This week has been the one where courses are opening up in Blackboard, and I'm getting the first look at syllabi--I am so thrilled!  The course titles and book lists led me to believe I would be thrilled, and I'm happy that the syllabi continue with the promise.  Although Wesley Theological Seminary is back in session today, I don't have Wednesday classes.  I'll make my way back to my seminary apartment, put things away, get organized, and go for a walk or two.

It is a good life, although it does feel like a sabbatical from "real life," even as it also feels like a preparation time for a different "real life."  I know that I am a lucky woman.

Creative Days, Creative Ways

 My Covid test this morning is negative, so I'm heading down to Williamsburg to spend a long holiday week-end with my parents.  I don't have any symptoms, but with this new, more transmissible variant of Covid running wild across the planet, it seems wise to test.  I haven't been in contact with many people since returning from vacation and doing some grocery shopping, but since the Montgomery county library system has free rapid tests, there's no reason not to test.

I do wonder if we will ever get to a point where I don't feel this need to test, where I'm not aware of disease risks.  Of course, I was aware of disease risks even before this latest pandemic.  Between disease risks and the risks of violence that come with being female in a patriarchal society, I'm often deciding to stay in.

For the past few days, as I've decided to just stay put and do some quilt piecing, I've wondered if I'm really just lazy.  Yesterday there was a steady wind that just cut right through me, so I decided to abandon my plan of going to the MLK site in downtown DC, as it is an outdoor memorial.  I thought about a museum, but getting there requires a fair amount of walking on either end of the Metro ride.

Through the magic of technology, my spouse and I watched movies together, and I worked on quilt pieces of various sizes:

 

I'm going to keep creating these, as they delight me.  Eventually, I'll create a quilt out of them all, with long strips between the panels, much like this quilt:

displayed at October 2020 Quilt Camp at Lutheridge

At some point, I also need to get back to doing the actual quilting on my other quilt project.  Winter is a great time to have that weight draped over me, as I work on doing the quilting.

The nice thing about having projects of varying sizes is that one is more portable.  I stashed some of the smaller pieces in my backpack, with my tin that contains a set of small scissors and spools of thread.  

It's also nice to have a variety of projects that feed my creativity.  I began the day writing a poem, and in the middle of the day, I sent some poems out into the world.  Then I finished with stitching.  Ah--heaven!

So, it's not laziness keeping me home in these long, cold days of winter--it's the appeal of a creative day, in many creative ways, in my snug seminary apartment.

Video Sermon on the Baptism of Jesus

Yesterday, through the wonders of technology, I was able to preach the sermon at one of my church homes in South Florida, even though I'm in my seminary apartment in Washington DC. And through the wonders of technology, you, too, can hear/see it on my YouTube channel; go here to see it.  To read it, go here.

My pastor asked me if I would read the weekly reflection that I wrote on the baptism of Jesus as the sermon for Sunday, and I was able to do a bit more with photos and the recording.  It's shorter than most of my video sermons, but I decided not try to expand.

I watched the worship service live, which I don't always do, and it was interesting to watch, as my pastor asked the congregation what had stood out to them.  I'm not sure they got exactly what I was trying to say, or maybe they couldn't believe it.  God loves us as we are?  Before we transform ourselves into the people God wants/calls us to be?  But they were intrigued by the idea.

My pastor said he was blown away by this part:  "God loves you the way you are right now, not the future you that will be better adjusted, thinner, more accomplished, more worthy. Some theologians would go further and say that God created you because the world needs the you that you are right now, in all the ways you are so original and the ways that you are imperfect."

Our imperfections could be our strengths!  I was listening, and I thought about where I first came across that idea, in Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time.  I've known this idea since 5th grade, and I still don't always believe it myself.

As we enter into the 4th year of this pandemic, another year of polarization on all levels, it seems ever more important to believe:  God loves us, right here, right now.  We are uniquely equipped to transform the world into something more like what God intends.

Strange and Yet Familiar

What a strange week it has been in so many ways.  And yet, in some ways, the strangeness feels familiar.  Here I'm thinking the news of the FBI raid and classified documents hundreds of miles from where they should be stored, in the possession of Donald Trump in Florida--in some ways, it seems unprecedented, and in other ways, I shrug and say, "Of course it goes this way."  Traces of polio in the NY sewer system?  Of course it goes this way.

All yesterday, my brain returned to Salman Rushdie, who was attacked on Friday night by a man with a knife.  Yesterday morning, the news came that he was on a ventilator, and I dreaded where this story was headed.  But this morning, he's speaking.  Still, his injuries are so severe that in some ways, it seems shocking.  Yet in others, it seems like the logical outgrowth of the times we live in--and a fearsome road sign.  How does this trajectory end?  In armed civil war, as in the nineteenth century in so many countries?  Or with more of us taking more precautions of all kinds?

As I thought about Rushdie, about attacks on artists, my thoughts drifted to my own work.  While my mean inner voice sneered that I needn't worry, my rational brain thought about my work that would challenge those of a traditional Christian faith . . . or those with a traditional view of gender . . . or those with specific views of what should be taught in the classroom.  While most of us won't face the kind of severe threat that Rushdie has faced (hopefully we won't), we are none of us as safe as we might think we are.

I have been getting back to poetry writing, after a season of being mostly away--in part because of my broken wrist, in part because of moving.  Three weeks ago, these lines came to me as I thought about my spouse and myself and the ways that we have such different interests and how it can be hard for me to understand his approach and how he might be baffled at my midlife shift to seminary:

He's never seen a wall

he didn't dream of moving.

She rewrites every sacred text.

I thought these lines might make a good poem, and I tried.  That approach went nowhere in the first incarnation.  

But as I read updates and tweets and posts from the Churchwide Assembly* for the ELCA (which is the group of moderate, mainstream Lutherans which is one of my current worshipping preferences), my poem went a different direction and became something more interesting.  I had a glimpse of it and wrote this tweet:

"Wrestling with a poem that will include this line: 'She rewrites every sacred text.' It will include chickens and drying herbs and a churchwide meeting in a far away place. And some sort of art with fabric."

I am at the point with this poem where I am not sure if it is finished.  Does it have more to offer?  Should I just leave it alone?  It feels like I have more to say, but I'm not sure exactly what or how.  Once I might have been sure I would sort it out.  Now I am just as likely to wander away and never come back to this poem.  Is that O.K.?  Is some essential part of myself being lost?

Yesterday, I ordered books for seminary classes this fall, lots and lots of books.  I made this Facebook post:  "Just ordered all my books for Fall seminary classes and am now enjoying multiple freak outs: Can I really read all of these books in one term? Can I really do this work? Each book is inexpensive, but all of them together cost how much? And I know that the answer is that I am a strong, capable woman who can do this work and afford these books, but my inner freak out voice is not easily banished. Note to self for future terms: perhaps order the books one class at a time, instead of all at once."

Again, a process so strange, yet so familiar--I've successfully completed one year of seminary studies.  Why am I having anxiety now?  And yet the anxiety is familiar.  And perhaps that is why my brain returns to these patterns, so strange, yet so familiar.

*For more on what a Churchwide Assembly does, see this post on this theology blog.

Low Technology, Low Energy Day

Yesterday I got up to discover that we had no Internet, and that was to be the case all day. In some ways it was strange not to be connected, but in some ways it didn't really matter. Yesterday turned out to be a very low energy day for me. I got shot number two of the shingles vaccine on Wednesday, and as I had been told it might do, the shot hit me very hard yesterday.

I have also been fighting off a cold, I think.  My spouse has been sick for over a week, but my cold seems less severe than his. Or maybe I have allergies. We both did an at home COVID test and it came back negative.

Yesterday, I went to the store early before the hordes of people could get there so that I could get us some more cold medicine, and then a few hours later I went to the library to pick up and enter library a book I had on hold. My spouse decided to take a nap around 11, and I thought about how bone weary tired I was and decided to take a nap too. I woke up a few hours later, stayed awake another few hours, and was back in bed by 5:00 PM. I slept through the night until about 3:00 AM. That's an amazing amount of sleep for me.

Yesterday I also felt chilled and achy, but since I don't feel that way today I'm thinking it was an aftereffect of the vaccine, not an early sign of flu.  I also have been feeling a lack of appetite--another strange symptom for me.

We have gone for over two years now without getting any kind of cold, flu, or other normal sickness. I had forgotten what it is like to feel under the weather and to wonder what might be coming my way. And now of course, the “is it cold or is it COVID?” question hangs over us all.

I do wonder if I would have given in to my urge to sleep if the Internet had been functioning. I do realize how often I use the Internet as distraction. Yesterday I got more sleep and more reading done then in a normal day. Some of that was due to my tiredness because of the vaccine and fighting off a cold, but some of it was because I didn't have the distractions of my online life.

It's good to shake up my routine, but at the same time I'm happy to have my Internet back. Now to catch up on everything that I had to let go yesterday.

Prayer Chapels, Synod Assemblies, and Storms

Soon we will put the last load of stuff in the car and head off to Synod Assembly.  Our assembly at the Florida Bahamas Synod is likely to be very dull, compared to other Synod assemblies that are happening. I am thinking of the Sierra Pacific Assembly, which is breaking so many hearts in so many ways. This year I am grateful for a dull Assembly. Most years, I am grateful for a dull Assembly.

A few months ago, I got it from call from the assistant to the Bishop of my Synod, who asked if I would do the Prayer Chapel. That means being in charge of setting up prayer stations, and I was happy to say yes to the request. I'm headed there not being sure of this space but my stations are flexible. Because it is a dull assembly year, with no election of the Bishop and no social statements guaranteed to provoke discussion, and because it is held over Pentecost, it won't be a high traffic time for a Prayer Chapel. In short, it's a good year to be the one in charge, and it's my first time in charge so I'm glad it's a low key year.

We also have a tropical storm bearing down on our state, so I'm not sure what that will do to attendance. We are leaving early in the morning so that I have time to set up the prayer Chapel. I don't know what decisions others will make.

We will only be gone about 60 hours, but we have packed a lot of stuff. It's not an assembly that has much in the way of free food, and I don't think the hotel has a free breakfast bar.  We're taking food so that we don't have to buy a lot of meals. In the past, at more well attended assemblies, it's been almost impossible to get a meal in the hotel restaurants because they get so crowded with Assembly participants.

It's also a time of rising COVID numbers, so I feel some hesitation about being in big groups. I am double boosted, and I'll have a mask, but I am still wary.

I just walked outside, both to get some masks from the car and to get a wider sense of the sky. There's been some rain overnight, but right now we are not deluged. Hopefully we'll get out of here ahead of the weather.  I'm glad we no longer own our house in a flood zone. I can leave our condo and not be worried about flooding--that would not have been the case with our old house.

The Trip to Quilt Camp

 I am writing this from Lutheridge, the camp in Arden, North Carolina, which is in the mountains near Asheville.  How strange to think that just 48 hours ago, I was at the desk that was once my grandfather's, that I was writing down in South Florida.

On Tuesday, I got up very early, brewed the coffee that I would later pour out on the North Carolina pine needles, put the last batch of stuff in the car, and headed north.  It was a fairly easy trip:  the road construction that I encountered was very early in the morning when the traffic was light, and along the way, all of us drivers managed to avoid accidents.

I got to Columbia, South Carolina just after my grad school friend got home from teaching her morning classes.  During the last few hours of my trip, the public radio station in South Carolina had broadcast messages about various state offices closing early, the message brought to us by the department of emergency preparedness at the governor's office.  How strange, I thought.  I visualized a map of South Carolina, wondering if the counties were near each other, and the answer was yes and no, as the announcement broadened the number of counties.

My friend had had students leave her class early because their children's schools were being let out early because of possible thunderstorms.  We shook our head at this modern life.  I looked at the skies and brought my overnight bag in, along with my computer.  About a half hour later, the skies opened up, and I was glad I did.  There was a crack or 2 of thunder, but we didn't think much about it.  It was cozy to eat soup and sandwiches assembled on sourdough bread while the rain poured down.

Later in the afternoon, the tornado watches were elevated to a warning.  Again we looked at the skies and the maps.  We thought we were out of range, but we made a plan, just in case.  We talked about what would happen if we went to the room below ground, and a tornado came.  Would the house be lifted off of us?  Would it collapse down on us?

Happily, we never had to find out.  I am aware that others were not that lucky.  All the way up I 95 I heard the horrible reports out of Ukraine--so much death and destruction.  And this morning, I'm reading about the destruction wrought by tornados across the very route that I drove on Tuesday.

On Tuesday, I had other thoughts as I drove up I 95.  The last time I drove up I 95 was in January, when I went up to LTSS to finish my certificate in spiritual direction.  Back then, I still owned a house in a flood zone in South Florida, although I was hopeful that we would actually close on selling it the following week (we did).  Back in January, I was still employed in my full-time job, and I was beginning the think about whether or not I should sign up for online seminary classes since it looked like my job would not continue.  Six weeks later, I had been severed from that job and signed up for a mix of online and onground classes, and I've submitted a request for on campus housing.  When I last drove north on I 95 in January, there were rumblings of war in eastern Europe, and as I drove up on Tuesday, there were rumblings of war crimes and news of utter devastation.

On Wednesday, we had a leisurely morning, and then I got back in the car to finish my trip to Lutheridge.  My month of retreats continues!  Here I am at Quilt Camp.  I last attended in October of 2020, the first large-ish gathering I attended since the pandemic started.  Back then, we didn't have vaccines, but I felt safe-ish because there were only 13 of us, we had open windows and high ceilings, and we were able to be as distanced as we wanted.  We were in the dining hall because a local elementary school group was using the Faith Center for school.

And now, here we are; I have had 4 vaccine shots, so I feel fairly safe.  We are in the Faith Center, which has much better lighting.  As I overheard conversations, I am struck by how many of us have gone through life-changing stuff in the past year or two--some of it in a good way, some not.  Would we have gone through the life-changing stuff if there had been no pandemic?  I have no idea.   I can only speak for myself--the pandemic reminded me that I may not have as many decades left on this planet as I want to believe that I do.  But other elements came together too--I found my dream program at Wesley Theological Seminary, and if that hadn't happened, I don't know that I would have decided that now is the time to go to seminary.

It has been wonderful to be able to travel--I was able to do my Tuesday night class, my Wednesday night small group session, and my Wednesday night class from a distance.  Tonight's class has been cancelled.  If my professor had to cancel a class, I'm glad it was this week.

It's strange to think that last week, I joined my Thursday night class saying that I had gotten a 2nd booster shot and was starting to feel chills, so if I shivered, just ignore it.  We had a brief, pre-class, discussion about booster shots and travel, and then my professor headed off to London for a conference.  And now, she's cancelling class.

As I said, I'm happy to have extra time for other pressing tasks--that might be a funnier pun if I ironed.  But it's hard not to wonder what's barreling our way that we are not seeing.  But let me not allow my brain to go down that path.  I am trying to live in this current moment, surrounded by cloth, friends, and the mountains.

Video Sermon on Simon Peter's Mother-in-Law and Service

Two weeks ago, my church went back to meeting remotely.  While I do miss seeing everyone, it's clear that this Omicron variant is everywhere and so very communicable.  My church is made up primarily of older folks and people who are immunocompromised, so it's wise to meet remotely.  

Another plus:  I get to make the occasional video sermon.  I do it differently than the taped Zoom call kind of sermon delivery.  I make small segments, and I think about what I'm filming as I deliver the words and what images would go well with those words.  It's an interesting exercise in creativity that I don't get to experience often.

For today, I created a video sermon that considers Simon Peter's mother-in-law.  You may or may not remember that she is healed by Jesus, and then gets up to serve everyone.  My first and more traditional response is to see her as an oppressed woman.  But since I spent much of the week thinking about her, this thought bubbled up:  what if she's a wise elder, teaching Jesus, showing him a new direction for ministry?  Here's that video segment.

To see the whole sermon, go here.

Hello Anxiety, My Constant and Different Friend

Today is my first day of my second semester of seminary classes.  Last week, when I was cleaning out a pile of papers at my desk at school, I found a note that I had written in August, a note on a to do list that said, "Please let me be able to do all of this, plus seminary classes."  Happily, I was able to do it all. 

I feel similar anxieties today.  And yet, they are also different.  Since time is short, let me write about my anxieties, in the hopes of banishing them.  Tomorrow, I will write a more upbeat post about what I'm studying.

Back in August, I was still expecting to be losing my job at some point, although there was talk of keeping the Hollywood campus open.  I didn't feel particularly anxious about my ability to do my job, or about my job interfering with seminary.

Today, my campus is under construction, which produces its own anxieties.  At some point, my job duties expand, and I can't decide whether or not they will require significantly more time.  There will be more people on campus, another feature which makes my anxieties bloom.

Back in August, I had some fear of not being able to do the work.  Now, having done the work for one term, I don't feel those same anxieties.  But I am taking one additional class, so there will be more to do.

Back in August, I worried about the pandemic and all the ways it might interfere.  Then and now, I'm taking classes remotely, so there's some safety.  But if I get a case that lingers, I do worry about what that will do to my progress.

Back in August, we hadn't yet put the house on the market, although we had hoped to put it on the market in early August.  We spend all of fall semester hoping that we were close to selling it.  Today, we still have that hope.  We signed our share of the paperwork yesterday, and hopefully we will finish this process in the next few days.

Well, let me start the work of the term.  Let me write go write my self-introduction for my seminary class Discussion Board threads--the term begins!

The Despairs of Mid-January

 I was going to write a cheery "What I Read on My Winter Break" kind of post, but I am feeling a bit of despair this morning.  Let me try to write my way out of it, or at least write my way into making sense of my despair.

I am also feeling a bit of guilt, because I feel like the things causing me despair aren't life shattering, the way a death would be.  But let me get it on the electronic page, for the good of my mental health.  In future years, I'll be happy that I recorded my life with some degree of honesty.

--The main thing causing me despair is that it looks like another contract on our historic house that we are trying to sell has fallen through.  It is a very strange housing market in South Florida.  The presence of so many investors means that it's a hot market.  But it also means that buyers aren't afraid to change their minds or make demands that will make sellers change their minds.  Ugh.

--I remind myself that we've only had the house on the market a total of 2 weeks.  We get an offer, the house is tied up for 4-6 weeks, the deal falls apart, we list it as for sale again, we get a few offers 24 hours later, and the cycle begins again.  Ugh.

--We are lucky, in that we have resources.  We are not desperate.  I do begin to understand why houses in our neighborhood go on the market and then later sell for so much lower than what it seems they should be worth.  It's exhausting, and I see why sellers might settle for a much lower price, rather than face the process again and again.

--I am also feeling despair about the state of the pandemic.  Here, too, I realize I'm fortunate.  I can limit my exposure to other people.  I am vaccinated and boosted.  I have masks.  In the commuter student seminary student housing, I saw an old poster that listed the COVID symptoms, and once again, I realized how futile it seems to know if we might have symptoms or allergies or psychosomatic aches or stress.  Not a day goes by when I don't feel sniffly or headachy or sore throaty.  Even if I could get rapid tests, it doesn't make sense to use them each time I feel this way.

--Part of what's making me feel headachy is the construction at work.  That's also making me feel despair.  I worry that all that made our campus cozy and welcoming is being destroyed.  There's not a thing I can do about it, but try to keep everyone's spirits up.

--I suspect that another underlying part of my despair is post holiday despair.  I've spent the last 8 weeks seeing family and friends in person, which I don't get to do very often these days.  We've had better food, twinkly lights, time to read, time for conversation.  I've used up every scrap of vacation time that I have, and now I need to accrue more.  And in my current job, I will never be able to accrue the amount that I need.

--I hear the voice of my spiritual director asking, "How are you praying about this?"  Let me remember to pray about all of this, the despair and disappointment, the dreams for the future, the restlessness of my soul.

Second Christmas Eve in a Global Pandemic

Here we are at Christmas Eve, a very strange Christmas Eve as a much more contagious variant of COVID-19 is ripping across the country.  As far as I know, our Christmas Eve service will go on as scheduled.  We can likely spread out across the worship space and keep the in-person crowd safe, and we'll livestream for the ones who need to stay away.

It's a very strange Christmas Eve, but humanity has had a variety of strange Christmas Eves.  In some ways, the message of Christmas Eve is even more important during times of stress.  Many of us hear the Christmas Eve message as something warm and cozy, but surely something warm and cozy was not the kind of message delivered by the angels to the shepherds.

Earlier this month, I made this sketch.  I hadn't intended to include the manger and the stable that appeared:

Do you see the descending dove in the picture?  The dove appeared before the manger.  I've returned to this picture often in December, meditating on the message it contains.  I'm also intrigued by the river rolling through the middle of the picture, the river that contains planets.  Or do we just see circles?

But I digress.  Back to the Christmas Eve message, God incarnate, God wanting to know us so deeply that God takes on human flesh.

God come to be with us in person?  God choosing to be born to poor peasants living at the edge of a powerful empire?  What can it all mean?

Here's what Richard Rohr said in his daily post this morning:  "I believe it’s all a school. And it’s all a school of love. And everything is a lesson—everything. Every day, every moment, every visit to the grocery store, every moment of our so-ordinary life is meant to reveal, “My God, I’m a daughter of God! I’m a son of the Lord! I’m a sibling of Christ! It’s all okay. I’m already home free! There’s no place I have to go. I’m already here!” But if we don’t enjoy that, if we don’t allow that, basically we fall into meaninglessness."

That message, too, is not one that worshippers will likely hear tonight.  Perhaps worshippers won't hear a sermon at all or maybe it will be a Christmas pageant.  Maybe, like the Peanuts gang, we'll hear the story from the Gospel of Luke, no homily necessary.  Maybe we'll get our message in song.

I am grateful for times of quieter contemplation, so off I go, a Christmas Eve walk in the morning coolness, a time to think about the twinkly lights, the sun that rises every morning, and the ending of a year.

The Winter Solstice, the Omicron Variant, and the Feast Day of Saint Thomas

Today we celebrate the life of Saint Thomas. It's also the Winter Solstice. It's the time of year for doubting, as we finish a year full of doubts and dread, a year that many of us thought would bring some kinds of closure (in terms of politics, in terms of disease).  But here we are, at the end of the year, dealing with disappointments and more pivoting to be done. Those of us in the northern hemisphere may feel that the dark will never recede. It's a good day to celebrate the most famous doubter of all.

Who can blame Thomas for doubting? It was a fantastic story, even if you had traveled with Jesus and watched his other miracles. Once you saw the corpse of Jesus taken off the cross, you would have assumed it was all over.

And then, it wasn't. Thomas, late to see the risen Lord, was one of the fiercest believers, legend tells us, Thomas walking all the way to India.

I wonder if Thomas is near and dear to the heart of the more rational believers. We're not all born to be mystics, after all. I worry about our vanishing sense of wonder. We've all become Thomas now. We don't believe anything that we can't measure with our five senses.

We've spent significant amounts of time recently even doubting what we can measure with our five senses. We've spent even more time arguing about what it means to measure. We seem to be in a time when we can't even agree on some basic truths, let alone more complicated information.

The more I read in the field of the sciences, the more my sense of wonder is reignited. I continue to be so amazed at the way the world works, both the systems we've created and the ones created before we came along. The more I know, the more I want to shout from the rooftops, "Great show, God!" (long ago, when my friend had small children, they would shout this refrain whenever they saw something beautiful in nature, like a gorgeous sunset; I try to remember to shout it too).

So today, as the earth leaves its darkest time and inches towards light, let us raise a mug of hot chocolate to St. Thomas, who showed us that we can have doubts and still persevere. Let us raise a mug of hot chocolate to solstice celebrations and all the ways that the natural world can point us back to our Creator. Let us pray that our rational selves live in harmony with our sense of wonder. Let us also offer a prayer of gratitude to those around us, Divine and ordinary humans, who don't cast us away for our inability to believe, to trust, to accept.

Here's a prayer from Phyllis Tickle's The Divine Hours: Prayers for Autumn and Winter for this day: "Everliving God, who strengthened your apostle Thomas with firm and certain faith in your Son's resurrection: Grant me so perfectly and without doubt to believe in Jesus Christ, our Lord and our God, that my faith may never be found wanting in your sight; through him who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen."

Leaving the Land of Excess

The close of a holiday week-end, with the best parts behind us, at least for me.  Today is a travel day, and tomorrow the getting ready to re-enter regular life day.  These are not the parts of Thanksgiving that make it one of my favorite days.

Part of our family group left late yesterday afternoon, and those of us staying in North Carolina made a delicious turkey tetrazzini from the leftovers.  I had made progress on my seminary papers during the afternoon, so that was a plus--a non-traditional part of Thanksgiving, but likely to become a regular practice over the next few years.

The day began with news of a new COVID variant and ended with news that the variant has now been labeled omicron and is a variant of concern, the most serious designation.  Markets crashed.  More news of the death of Stephen Sondheim, and I have already seen so many eloquent tributes that I will not attempt to add my own.  

So let me head down the mountain, with leftovers packed in ice for the long trip south.  I've e-mailed my papers to myself in case something happens to the laptop during the long trip.  Let me return to the land of sensible eating and exercise, much as I would like to live in the land of excess.

I fear we are in for some hard times ahead, both as a nation and as individual humans.  But isn't that always the truth of our situation.  Thanksgiving reminds us that humanity has come through tough times before and found ways out of no way--and yes, even as I'm typing these words, I realize that some of us have come through much tougher times than others and that some have not found a way, but humanity as a whole has, at least for now.

Important Reminders from a Stranger Thanksgiving

When I look back on my life, I'm sure there will be many contenders for strangest Thanksgiving of my lifetime.  Perhaps I will think about last Thanksgiving, the one in the first year of the pandemic where we all stayed home.  Maybe I will remember the year when I didn't bring any of my sewing supplies, one of the only years when I didn't travel with a quilt in progress, and my cousin's child was counting on me to help with the creation of a tree costume for the pageant (no problem--off we went to one of the many craft stores in the area).  But this year has been pretty darn odd, and may well end up one of the contenders for strangest Thanksgiving.

The holiday itself has been great, full of the usual stuff:  a great meal, a football game of sorts, great conversations, various projects, children who are growing up too fast.  But some of our family members decided that the pandemic is still not under control enough to gather as a group.  I support that decision, but it's still strange to be here without them.

In fact, we had a bit of a COVID scare.  Both of my cousins have children too young for the vaccine.  One of them had sniffles a few days before they came.  The rapid test said the sniffles weren't because of COVID.  We didn't get the results of the more reliable test until Wednesday morning, so on Tuesday, the day when we all arrived, my parents spent the night in a nearby hotel.

On Tuesday as we drove north, my spouse got a phone call to tell him that his favorite uncle was at death's door.  That uncle has been at death's door before, but this time seemed different.  And sure enough, Wednesday morning we got the call that death had come to claim him.  We spent some time thinking about the implications as my father-in-law and stepmom-in-law made their way to Indiana.  Would we go to the funeral?  Would we need to buy some funeral clothes?  What is the bereavement leave policy?

All those conversations needn't have happened.  If there will be a memorial service, it won't be this week-end, and thus, we would make different travel arrangements from South Florida, instead of from North Carolina, where we spend our Thanksgivings.

In some ways, spending a Thanksgiving where sickness and death keep intruding is a potent reminder to be grateful for the time we are given and to keep trying to make the most of it.  Small children do that too, and I confess that I prefer the small child to deliver the message that time is fleeting.

As I'm writing, I'm thinking of other messages that came our way during the day.  I'm thinking of Shanghai Rummy, and the message that even if you're winning or losing, one decisive round can change the outcome; it's a hopeful message or a sobering one, depending on which hand you held.  I'm thinking of the minimalist fire pit my spouse made and the fire that refused to catch flame.  I'm thinking of the bird that baked for hours but the juices still didn't run clear at meal time; however, fifteen more minutes at higher heat made for a cooked turkey that was still tender. 

I suspect that every day is full of these kinds of reminders and metaphors, if only we had the eyes to see.  When people wonder why I continue to write long blog posts, that's one reason, that it helps me to pay attention.

Today the festivities continue, in their subdued state.  We will continue trying to make the most of our remaining time together.  There will be leftovers and more good conversation and time for an outing or two.  There will be time to work on papers, for those of us who have papers to write.  

I will be thinking about Rahab (in the book of Joshua in the Hebrew Bible) and our current political situation, but I won't bore my relatives in talking about it.  I will say that it's strange to be working on that paper about Rahab and comparing New Testament versions of the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus during the same week that the verdict came back from Georgia in the Arbery case--my essays will be slightly different because of that.

Happily, I still have time to write that paper, which means I can take time away from my computer and revel in togetherness time.  The strangeness of this holiday reminds me to prioritize that time.