Spinning through Advent

I love Advent!  I bought my first Advent wreath when I was in my late teens and faithfully lit the candles during my prayer time before bed (yes, I was a church nerd from a very early age).  There is something about this season of watching and waiting - of slowing down and paying attention - of preparing room for the Christ child to be born anew in my life - that deeply attracts me!  After many many decades of observing Advent I have familiar rituals that have worn deep tracks in my soul.  I begin preparing in early November so that when Advent arrives, I’m ready!  But with this preparation also comes expectations - maybe, if I plan carefully enough I will finally be able to slow down and have an Advent filled with peace and tranquility!

Last year Advent was a season of dislocation and pain.  By the time Advent arrived a large percentage of my belongings were in storage pending the move (including my Advent wreath).  I kept one beloved devotional on my nightstand, but the readings did not speak to me at all.  I felt cold and numb and a bit like I had spent too long on the spin cycle of a human-sized washing machine. Disoriented, I stumbled my way through Advent.  And then before I new it Christmas had passed and it was Epiphany - and I had begun a new chapter of my life in Cuyahoga Falls.  I had completely missed the seasons I love (I’m also a big fan of Christmas and Epiphany).

Time and the love and kindness of this new community helped me to reorient and settle into my new surroundings.  As time passed, I found myself looking forward to welcoming Advent into my life again this year.  I ordered my favorite beeswax candles and set out my wreath.  I took the beloved devotionals off the shelf and moved them to their appropriate places.  I front-loaded as many administrative tasks as I could so I could free up time in my schedule for the pastoral care emergencies that always happen in December, and I set my heart toward slowing down and having a peaceful season of watching and waiting.  Maybe with careful planning, this would be the year of a peaceful Advent.

Any pastor reading this is probably laughing hysterically right now.  There is nothing (absolutely nothing) quiet and peaceful for a pastor in December! Every year I long for it, and every year it alludes me and leaves me feeling like I missed an important part of the season and failed in my quest to slow down and savor Advent.   Last year was more extreme than other years, but the pattern was the same - longing for a special set of circumstances that would allow me to slow down and “experience” the peace, joy and wonder of Advent, while instead being swept up in what December is for pastors.  And right on cue, this year's carefully made schedule went right out the window and we were off and running - like in every Advent in every church in every city and every country that I have ever served.  

December IS the spin cycle - without or without a major move!

And like every year when I find myself in the spin cycle, the day finally came when I uttered a painfully familiar sentence:  “I can’t wait until I retire and I can steep myself in a true Advent experience.”  I’ve said that sentence at least 36 times over 36 yrs of ministry - usually in my car at the end of a long day.  Someday I’ll finally get to experience Advent...

...but this year as I said it I felt like I was doused in cold water! I sat up straight (in the car) with a start!  And that quiet voice within me said “No - you can't wait until you retire to experience Advent.  Experience it now.  Wake up!”

Wow.  Now that is a wake-up call!

I had built such rigid ideas in my head about what had to happen in order for me to fully experience Advent that I was denying myself Advent for at least the next nine years of my life until I imagined I could have that particular set of circumstances!  Clearly that was just a little bit nuts.  What if God’s idea of Advent was different from mine (always a safe bet)?  What if, in letting go of my rigidity, I would actually create more room for Christ to be born in my life - instead of crowding the Christ child out with all my expectations - “sorry, but you cannot be born in my life until I retire and have time to fully contemplate your in breaking into the world.”  I started to laugh.  Did I really think that the journey to Bethlehem was quiet and peaceful - that the surrounding area was free from political and social upheaval - that the stable was neatly curated and carefully scheduled so everything happened on cue - that the childbirth was painless and a time of peace and bliss - and that the aftermath was more tranquility with candles, incense and starlight as they huddled with the beasts to keep warm in the barn while all manner of people dropped in to see this baby about whom the some loud sky choir had been singing! More laughter.  More grace.  Some tears.  Deep knowing.  Advent is all of the chaos, pain, fear and wonder rolled together.  Last year's pain and disorientation WAS Advent, as was every December's spin cycle before it.  God is powerfully present where we are - not where we think we should or ought to be.

The spin cycle continues.  I still have more places to go than time to get there.  My heart is still breaking for the many people who are suffering this Advent.  And as is the case for Pastors in December, I move from one difficult situation to another, watching the deep pain that beloved people face every day!  But no longer is this keeping me from experiencing Advent - this IS Advent. Christ  IS in each of these situations I enter - just waiting to be seen.

I still read one devotional in the morning.  I still light the Advent candles in the evening and sing some chant and read more devotionals.  And pray.  And I still read the remaining devotionals before bed.  Those are good and healthy rhythms for me.  But before this realization, I thought that those rituals and Sunday worship and any moment of peace and tranquility were my observance of Advent - now EVERYTHING is my observance of Advent.  The sorrow, the fear, the hands I hold and the hand that touched my cheek yesterday - they are all Christ.  As is the laughter, the love and the tenderness I see each and every day - Christ.

Clearly I don’t need to wait until I retire to fully experience Advent - it overflows in my life right now (and yes - that sometimes feels like getting water from a fire hose).  Thanks be to God!

And here is the amazing thing - despite all that is going on around me - in the lives of my parishioners and in our crazy world -  I feel a deep sense of peace.  And wonder.  And joy.  I feel all those things that I’ve longed for each Advent and thought could only be experienced through a particular set of circumstances.  Now with those expectations gone, they are present in an abundant supply.  I feel Advent.

Do you have expectations that are keeping you from seeing how Christ is present in your life NOW? If so, can you name them - and allow God’s Spirit to create space around and within them?  Is there space within you for the Christ child to be born anew this Christmas, or is your inner inn full?  There is still time to create space - all it takes is desire, and letting go.

Living and loving Advent,

Kim

Lessons from a Treehouse

It's been a while since I've written here at Through the Weaver's Eyes.  This is partly due to the pace of life here and a little bit due to all that goes with being in a new place.  But mostly it is because this is the first major move where I've skipped autopilot for the hard parts and instead allowed myself to be present to what was unfolding - to listen, to notice, and to feel.  Previously I thought that major change was easier to deal with when viewed from a safe distance and in the rear view mirror.  Allowing myself to feel this transition while intentionally focusing each day on a positive aspect of my new life in North East Ohio has been a challenging but good new discipline.  I look forward to my first autumn here.  I've loved this time of year no matter where I've lived, and I'm told that soon the leaves will turn beautiful colors and light up the countryside.  Bring it on!

One place in this transition where I've struggled  to "settle" is in my house.  House maintenance is that place where my greatest insecurities meet my greatest sense of inadequacy.  I know next to nothing about maintaining the "bricks and mortar" of a home.  This little house (that captured my attention and wanted me to buy it) is full of possibilities, but it also has a punch list (mostly from age and deferred maintenance) that is a bit overwhelming.  Knowing which item to tackle first while being a steward of finite resources easily starts a spirited inner game of second-guessing myself.  Address the flooding in the back yard or the leaking chimney?  New gutters?  Maybe - I'm not sure.  Which comes first?

I was in the process of getting quotes for a variety of work (and possibly making my decision by closing my eyes and picking two repairs at random) when the process was upended by the delivery of a tree house.  I had always wanted one as a child and envied the neighborhood kids who had a tree house/fort from which they'd wage many spirited battles.  I didn't like the fort or battle part - I wanted one for reading - to curl up in my own space with a good book and a view of everything around me.  But back in the 60's little girls didn't get tree houses - they got doll houses.  Like many girls in the neighborhood I had been forbidden from even climbing trees - it isn't very lady like.  But I loved trees, and my new little house was fortunate to have several mature trees on the property - old soldiers that had provided shade and were pros at absorbing carbon dioxide. The ones on the Monroe side of the property looked the oldest - elder trees that kept my house shaded from the late afternoon sun and had witnessed a history about this house and area that was unknown to me.

Unfortunately, the bigger of the two trees met its match last Wednesday.  First came the loud crack(!) of thunder followed by a jolt of something hitting the house with such force that I was sure a car was now parked in my living room.  I collected myself and headed for the living room to see what just happened.  My view out the window was obscured by leaves and branches - not what I usually saw when looking out that window.  Once the rain subsided I went outside to look, and saw that a main limb of the old tree was now on my house.  

This was not the kind of tree house I wanted!

Overwhelmed, I reached out to two people from church - and they were right here to make sure I was okay.  One reminded me that it could have been much worse - and he was right!  The various limbs just missed two windows and the canopy of leaves cushioned the fall of the heavy limb.  Things were dented, scratched and broken,  but the roof integrity didn't appear compromised.  Several days later the insurance adjuster would tell me that the roof needed to be replaced in the next couple of weeks, but not as an emergency.  

The next day the tree was chain sawed off my roof, and the day after that the crew came back to take the rest of the tree down.  Drop, chop & grind.  Within a few hours there was a crater of mulch where once the old tree stood.  With the branches gone the damage to the house could now be seen.  I was very lucky - everything that was broken can be repaired, and no person was injured.  .  

Once they were done with their work I headed outside to survey the scene.  This little house that has drawn me in and frustrated me with maintenance issues now looked like the survivor of an unequal fight.  But it was still standing - and its opponent was mulch and sawdust.  This little house has spunk!  And in that moment of appreciation and respect, something shifted in me regarding the house.  No longer was it an endless punch list of maintenance headaches and a bottomless money pit.  It was s spunky little house built after WW II by a young man and his father so the young man would have a home for his new bride.  They lovingly cared for this home all their married life.  He left the house through death.  His widow continued on until she could no longer stay safely in the home she loved.  Selling the home to me allowed her to live in a setting that gave her enhanced care.  A neighbor told me that she would be devastated to hear that the tree she loved was gone.  Love and hope built this house, and love and hope will repair and maintain it and allow it to continue being a plucky little house where I can curl up and read, or sit out back and watch the fireflies (earlier in the summer), or where Benjamin can come to visit Gramma and find his toys waiting for him - even the wooden garage with three doors and three keys (currently a favorite)!  

The punch list isn't any shorter but the order in which things will be done is pretty clear.   The roof and gutters need to be replaced.  But that's okay.  Now it is a labor of love.  And that makes all the difference.

I am so grateful for each neighbor who stopped by to introduce themselves and offer assistance.  I am also very grateful for each dear soul from church who brought help and encouragement - especially during those first few hours of shock.  One of the down sides of being present is that you really feel what happens - and this shook me!  But every time I needed a word of encouragement or a hug, someone was right there to help.  God with skin on...

I can look at the damaged roof or the scars on the house or long for the lost tree (and see myself as an  unfortunate victim), or I can see the love and support that surrounds me even when gravity appears to have the last word (and embrace love and resilience).  I can tell the story of this house as one of inconvenience or frustration or tragedy-averted, or tell it as a story filled with that very human mix of challenge, hope and possibilities.  What I focus on - how I tell the story - has implications for how I feel about myself, God and all of God's creation.  

May I never forget the lesson brought to me by the tree house.  Gravity is powerful - but love always wins.

How do you view the events that happen to you in your life?  Is it time to rewrite your story?

Much love and prayers,

Kim

FROM Scotland, Ant Therapy and a Heavy Heart

After a particularly long and hard week a few years ago, a colleague asked me how I was doing.  I thought about all the tragic news in the world that had intensified during that past week...I thought about members of the church community who were facing great suffering...I thought about my own circumstances and took a deep breath and said - I have a heavy heart.

That dear colleague asked her daughter (an artist who works with stone and metal) to make a heavy heart for me from welded metal and stone.  It is indeed very heavy - as is my heart today.  The news from around the world and from this country weigh my heart down like it is made of iron and stone.  

Cyclone Idai and its unprecedented devastation was high on my radar as soon as I heard that Malawi was involved.  God forgive me for not having my heart race before hearing about Malawi - the devastation alone should have made me weep for the people of Mozambique and Zimbabwe. But the story was competing for my attention and tears with the shooting in New Zealand - I couldn't manage to get my head around both of them plus what was happening politically in America and the UK.

.    

Then I heard Malawi - and my first thought was Tracy and her family.  Malawi is not just a place on a map - it has a face for me.

When Dr. Tracy Thomson Morse was a wee girl attending Sunday School at Chapel of Garioch Kirk in Scotland, she heard about the Church of Scotland's missionary outreach to Malawi and about the poverty present in that country - and she decided that she wanted to do something to help. She never forgot that desire to help.  Fast forward to her college years and she was able to spend time working and researching in Malawi and decided to make improving life for those who live there her life's work.  Her Mum Kathleen went to visit her in her Malawi and was stunned by the level of poverty and the suffering of the many orphans.  Kathleen came back to Scotland determined to make a difference, and with her husband Dave and other concerned friends at the Kirk formed FROM (Famine Relief for the Orphans of Malawi).  100% of the funds and goods donated benefit efforts to provide clean water, food, and medical care for the most vulnerable in Malawi.  Please take a moment to read about this resourceful and creative charity and see what can happen when we take the time to teach our children about Christ's call to care for those in need  - and then follow their example:  

http://fromscotland.org.uk/index.html

Nothing gives a pastor a greater sense of hope than to see parishioners creatively responding to the needs in the world - discovering that they are the answer to the question "who is going to do something about this injustice and suffering?" Kathleen and Dave Thomson did just that, and with the help of fellow parishioners Lewis and Doreen Taylor, founded a most innovative and successful answer to basic needs in Malawi.  And none of that might have happened if not for Tracy's determination to make a difference...and a dear Sunday School teacher's desire to teach children about our responsibility to care for those in need.

I reached out to Tracy's dad Dave and he said that Traci and her family are safe, but they guess that about 250,000 are now homeless and 60 are dead.  FROM immediately sprung into high gear and Dave shares the following:   Roads are washed away  so access is difficult.  Tracy has been  sending  lorry  loads  of  food and other  supplies.  We are sending  all the money  we can to help out but really it  is a drop  in  the ocean. The real problems will be later as all the crops  are lost so hunger will be a major issue.   

As bleak as this news is, the worse is yet to come.  Deep sigh and gulp.  Addressing the suffering in this world is a marathon, not a sprint.  Heavy heart or not, we have to keep going.

What nourishes you to keep you in the race?  What lightens the heaviness in your heart so you can keep serving?  As the news gets more and more bleak, I am thinking seriously about how to keep myself refreshed and renewed so I can stay in this marathon.  Certainly one of the things that keeps me going is seeing such a creative response to need as FROM Scotland and Family Promise right here in our community (which is about to celebrate its 15th anniversary here in Summit County).  But another teacher of resiliency for me is my grandson Benjamin.

Benjamin and his dad came to visit me on Saturday.  He was sick with a double ear infection and all the symptoms of a bad upper respiratory infection - including being a bit cranky while coughing - sneezing - being heavily congested - ear tugging - crying - in short, being just plain miserable.  

But he didn't stay miserable all the time.  Instead, he stayed in the moment and allowed himself to be surprised by whatever wonder came his way.  Including ants.

I am NOT a fan of ants in the house.  I was relieved when the inspection report of my new house said there were no pests, and upset when I discovered that somehow ants did not warrant mention as said pest.  I grew up in an (unhealthy) era that included my mother running around the house with a can of Raid spraying anything that might be alive.  She associated all forms of household insects with having a dirty house and would be mortified to see my dear grandson getting down on his tummy propped up by his elbows and watching the ants amble across the floor.  "Hi Ant" he would say, almost waiting for them to reply.  He watched them with utter fascination and joy and followed their every movement until he was distracted by something equally fascinating (giving the ants time to escape their new and much bigger playmate).  His ability to stay in the present moment and be surprised by joy was contagious.  Well, maybe not in relation to ants but certainly in relation to taking the time to appreciate what was in my midst at that moment.  And my ant moment was Benjamin and his utter wonder and joy.

I wonder if finding a way to be present - in the moment - to the wonders of life would help as we continue to deal with 24/7 nonstop tragic, anger-inducing and heartbreaking news cycle.  Since there is a long road ahead of us and the news doesn't look to be getting better, perhaps it's time to give this strategy a try.  

And perhaps it is time to for me sit outside with B and see what joy and wonder awaits us in the midst of God's creation.  Then I'll check the news...

Tracy and the good people of FROM and all those who volunteer with Family Promise - know that we hold you in our prayers, and will support you every way we can!  You inspire us more than you can possibly know!

With love and prayers for the journey,

Kim

Deeper and More

It has been a long winter.  But today is the first day of astronomical spring, and the sky is that light powder blue that you see sometimes during an Ohio winter. For the second day in a row I saw glimpses of the sun.  Maybe, just maybe, this long winter is ready to slowly yield to spring.  

Balance and moderation are touchstones in Benedictine spirituality, and one way to achieve both is through the spiritual discipline of stability.  Benedict believed that by staying put - committing to stay where you are for better or for worse - you could really get to know God, yourself and the people who journey with you in a much deeper and more meaningful way.  Thus stability can be a powerful tool for transformation.  The move from Idaho to Ohio in many ways upended that stability for me.  I felt like a plant yanked out of the soil with my roots hanging bare.  And it was winter...

I love knowing the rhythms of the place were I live, and in Idaho that, for me, was governed by rhythms like the nesting of the red-tailed hawks and the hunting cycle of the Cooper's Hawk (winter was when she came to hunt in my backyard); the life cycle of the quail who daily visited my back yard and Protest Season (also know as the Idaho Legislative Session); the first signs of the "lone crocus" that bloomed in the front garden, and, of course, the appearance of the first shoots of my beloved Lily of the Valley.  I have planted LoV everywhere I have lived - it makes any place feel like home (even if I have to plant it in a pot).

But I arrived in Ohio in the dead of winter - roots bare and dangling from the hand of God - without a clue as to the rhythm of this strange new place.  Had it not been for B, I might have felt completely lost.

B was waiting for me in my garden even before I arrived.  I started by calling her Bunny because, well, she is a rabbit and she had not yet told me her name.  Rabbit felt too formal - so Bunny it was.  But yesterday as we visited I noticed an "old soul" quality in her so I've transitioned to calling her B until she tells me otherwise.  Those who write about animal totems say that when rabbit medicine comes into your life it reflects a new beginning - and this is certainly that (just as cardinal medicine means renewed vitality - which is also good).  Almost without exception I see her every day and we take a moment to visit.  She is a very good listener.  I'm amazed by her camo coat - her fur looks like dried leaves and she blends right into the garden.  I love to sit on the bench that was only recently covered in snow and try to see the garden through her eyes.  Unlike my backyard in Idaho, I have absolutely no idea what is beginning to sprout under the carpet of dried leaves.  It is all a mystery with a capital M - just like B - and the strange, unmistakable force that gently (with permission) uprooted me from the familiar garden back in Idaho and brought me to Ohio - bare roots and all.

I find Lent to be a mirror of this journey to Coga (as Benjamin calls it).  I feel the longing for a closer walk with God and so I lift a few Lenten devotionals and books off the shelf and place them on my nightstand to read each night before bed...I set my intention and identify the growing edge(s) calling for attention...I think of an additional path of service and I both boldly (and inwardly timidly) step into the wilderness with God.  From there, the journey takes the path it takes - often outside of what I have planned!  It is only week two of Lent and already it is clear that the map I carefully drew for this journey no longer resembles the landscape.  The good news is I can use it to start a fire and keep warm!

Next year at this time I will have observed a full trip around the sun from here.  I will know my garden and its inhabitants, and it will know me.  Slowly my body will begin to align with the rhythms of this place, and it will become home.  My roots will feel the warmth of this soil around them and, with the help of the summer sun, will sink deeply into this place and time.  And like B, I will start to resemble my environment and become part of the web of life here.  Benedict will smile - stability begun.  Transformation to follow.  

Today is the Vernal Equinox - the time when we have an equal amount of day and night.  Balance.  We tip in favor of the light from here on out (until the autumnal equinox brings us back to balance before sending the pendulum in the other direction).  I, for one, rejoice in this good news, even if they are predicting snow for Friday!

What brings you balance?  Who or what brings you messages from the Divine?  And what role does the spiritual discipline of stability play in your journey?  We often denigrate the discipline of stability and confuse it with inflexibility or resistance to change.  It need be neither of those things, but instead can be a different invitation to deeper and more.

With love and prayers for the journey,

Kim

Box # 193, Cardinals and God's Abundance

My little house on Monroe Avenue has (mostly) high rectangular windows.  Thus when I look outside  I am almost always looking up into the trees and sky - my favorite view.  The room I've claimed for my office has a branch outside the window that is visited each morning by a female cardinal.

How I missed cardinals during my decade out West!

I fell in love with their beauty and song during the winter or '96 in Taborton, NY as the snow, cold and endless gray threatened to swallow me whole.  There they were - mating pairs setting the branches ablaze with their beauty while providing the perfect counterpoint to the endless whites and grays found on Taborton Mountain.  Although the male sports the brilliant red feathers, the female rivals his beauty in more subtle ways.  What a joy to find her perched outside my window - like a welcome ambassador to my new neighborhood.  I wonder if she is on a first name basis with the bunny in the backyard?  In the midst of grieving the loss of the familiar and the transition to a new home, the cardinals remind me that our relationship predates my sojourn to Idaho.  Their familiar song tells me that one day this, too, will be home.

As I watched her this morning I confess that I was only half appreciating her visit - the other half of me was contemplating the location of box # 193. Mind you, this morning I did not have its number, but still had the clear recollection of packing this one important box.  It was filled with precious things that I would have taken with me in the car had I driven to Ohio, but instead had to entrust to the movers.  In it was non-essential prescription medication, jewelry, my journals, a few favorite articles of clothing and deeply sentimental things like my son's Christmas stocking and favorite book - all padded by non-essential things like extra underwear, shoe laces and socks (including my favorite red and white striped Santa socks).  The box was marked Master Bedroom - Important - and identified to the movers as one of two boxes to be "last on and first off" (the other box containing important pastoral things that I wanted access to as soon as I arrived in Ohio).

And then the boxes disappeared.

I cannot tell you how many times I've looked for both boxes.  This Sunday dear people from Bethany came over to bring boxes from the garage into the house prior to the deep freeze - and I hoped against hope I would find these two boxes!  And yet they were no where to be found.  Or so I thought.

Today before nightfall I decided to have one last look in the family room (aka - Box Canyon) just to see if maybe I had missed it.  And there it was - right by the window on the base of a tower of boxes -  # 193 - Master Bedroom - Important.  And everything was there as I remembered it including my red and white striped Santa socks.  It had been in the house and under my nose all along!  Here's hoping that the second box I'm looking for is also hiding in plane sight!

It has been my experience that the health and revitalization of a church happens in a similar fashion.  We worry that we do not have what we need to survive or thrive as a church.  Panic sets in as we look outside ourselves for the magical insight or approach that will turn things around.  Then one day we notice that, quietly, God has placed and is placing in our midst everything we need to have an abundant, vibrant ministry.  God never responds to our needs with scarcity, but like the cardinal brilliantly adorned during the height of the winter blahs, richly blesses us with all we need to bring God's love, compassion, mercy and justice into the world.  Sometimes all that is needed is to stop and notice what is right under our collective noses...

...like Box # 193.

With love and amazement at the extravagant graciousness of God,
Kim

PS - I wonder when I will stumble on the second "missing" box?

EM 101 and Floating the River

Last week at this time I was conducting my final worship service in Boise.  This week I am in Ohio, with much happening in between.  It has been a very full week.

Somewhere between packing up a house,  hugging a congregation full of people, air travel, staying in hotels and playing with a toddler, I picked up a virus.  In hindsight, I should be relieved that I didn’t pick up something more onerous.  Exhaustion and grief work seem to be magnets for bugs like this - bugs that force you to slow your roll.  Suffice it to say that my roll has been slowed.

Those who know me well know that I am a planner (an understatement).  Somewhere between the plan I drew up for this move and today the plan morphed into “not my plan.”  I say this with no blame or second guessing - it is just reality, with good lessons to be learned from the experience.  The expectation I had of having time to “nest” in my new home and get it just as I wanted it before I started work is no longer an option.  The river has taken a different course and taken me with it.  And as we know, the river goes where it wills.

Prior to throwing the last of my office stuff into boxes on the day the movers came to Boise, I instinctively (intuitively?) grabbed two books off the shelf and popped them in my suitcase.  Since the river changed course both have been valued traveling companions.  Margaret J. Wheatley’s “Perseverance” has been my life jacket while Loretta Ross-Gotta’s “Letters from the Holy Ground:  Seeing God Where You Are” keeps me seeking God in the present moment.   I highly recommend them to anyone who finds themselves floating the river.

In Margaret’s book she begins with a message from the Elders of the Hopi Nation:

“Here is a river flowing now very fast.  It is so great and swift that there are those who will be afraid, who will try to hold on to the shore.  They are being torn apart and will suffer greatly.  Know that the river has its destination.  The elders say we must let go of the shore.  Push off into the middle of the river and keep our heads above water.”

Letting go of the shore feels counter intuitive and very, very hard.  But I’ve let go.  And the river is carrying me...and all I can do is keep my head above water and hope that the river is not on fire (Ohio reference) or has Class VI rapids (Idaho reference).

Decades ago I served a church that had a campus on a mountain, with a County road running through the property.  Once upon a time that road was for horses; now with cars racing up and down the mountain the road had grown dangerously close to two church buildings.  Something needed to be done.  One day after church I saw two of the church patriarchs sitting in lawn chairs by the road.  I went over and joined them.  One said to me:  “Pastor, this road is a problem.  It is hurting our buildings.  You should call the County and tell them to move the road.”  I tried not to laugh because they were dead serious.  It made perfect sense to them that the road should be moved (and that I should make that call).  I didn’t make the call, and during my tenure there we moved one of the two buildings away from the road (they rebuilt the other one a few years ago).  These men were disappointed that we had “caved” and not made the County move the road - their expectations of what was possible led to that disappointment.

Expectation management (EM) may be one of the most powerful tools we have for leading a peaceful and centered life.

Tomorrow I will check into an extended stay hotel where my bug and I can have easy access to tea and soup and rest.  I will stay there until my home is ready for me and remain grateful for all the angels who are working hard to help me create a home here in the Falls.  I will continue my grief work - letting go of my former congregation so I can respond to my new congregation clearly and cleanly.  I will read, sip tea, eat soup, nap, and might tackle the Mt Olympus of getting an Ohio driver’s license (I’m told that the process is a pain - we’ll see).  And whenever I can I’ll go over to my new home and visit the bunny living in the backyard and do some mental “nesting.”

The only place we truly encounter God is right where we are.  During this season of Epiphany, may our eyes be opened to behold the God who is right here - now.

With love and prayers,
Kim