Forgotten Post: Tsunami Reflection

Yes, agony to see others, esp. children, suffering in such a disaster.

But think for a moment that God HAS taken the children who have died from their homes, and taken them to a safer place with Him. How can He call us to Him, except through death? If we had enough faith, we would understand that death is a good thing, and not rail against any "unfairness" of it. Yet, we should still lament our lost loved ones, while waiting and suffering here in life until our turn to join them in peace and freedom from suffering.

Of those left to suffer through this terrible thing...how can we think that today is the end of God's working in their lives? It is a beginning, or a milestone. It is for some a day that their eyes are opened to the existence of God because they survived when others did not...or their eyes are opened to the existence of God because their only solace is to think that a dearly beloved one is now safe in the care and comfort of God. God will lead each one, comfort each one, strengthen each one-- if they let Him--and even if they don't, He will find a way.

Things like the tsunami, tornadoes, fires, etc., are sometimes the only way He can get our attention and remind us that it is not the THINGS in our lives that are important, but our relationships with Him and with others. When we have too many material possessions, we begin to think that WE are the source of our sufficiency, not Him.

This I speak not from a life of having been raised with a belief in God, nor of having been taught by other people much. I speak as one whose life was turned upside down by God working directly through His people to destroy my old life and lead me to a new one. It is a slow, painful process but I am very grateful for the pain and suffering, for they are the source of a faith and security that is unshakeable by the whims of the world, either the human world or the natural world.

So my prayer is that all may be comforted in their affliction, and know that the ultimate source of their comfort is a loving God who can use even the most horrible circumstances to bring us to Him, so He can better teach and sustain us.

Gift Exchange

We have been working hard at cleaning the brown barn. When its stewardship passed to the farm from the man who built and used it many years ago, it was packed floor to ceiling, back to front, with decades of accumulated stuff--the good, the used-to-be-good, and the ugly, as well as stuff that was simply beyond categorization.

Bob took what he wanted, and I gave him permission to leave anything he didn't want.  I didn't figure he'd leave the Model T (or whatever it was), but I do enjoy poking through old junk, and figured I might find something fun. With the amount of stuff he had to deal with, it seemed kindest to not insist on an Absolutely Empty Barn.

The "stuff beyond categorization" fraction has contributed to the lengthy time it has taken to really claim the Brown Barn as our own and incorporate it into the full life of the farm. Periodically we'd sort through some more, but then the pile of "boards that might be useful someday" kept getting out of control. Interesting/non-categorizable items get shifted from one corner to another, becoming slightly more dilapidated with each move.

One such item was the bowling pins. Ten of them, regulation size, heavy,  yellowed, with the plastic coating cracking off in big flakes. Their box disintegrated, and they spilled on the gravel floor. They were always in the way, but too amusing to simply dump in the trash can. Yet I couldn't think of anything to do with them.

Finally, I had a brainstorm the other day. They are exactly the right size to sit nice and stable in the hollow tops of the vinyl fence posts of the Brown House's picket fence. I've been landscaping the front yard off and on this season, and putting in place a number of quirky ornamental items I've collected over the years, and the bowling pins would fit perfectly into the evolving theme.

So, up went the bowling pins the other day, and the Brown Barn is one step cleaner.

****

This evening--a Saturday--we finished up the night's work on the barn (building a lumber rack for the "might be useful someday" category) and dragged ourselves up to the Brown House for a celebratory slice of pie. B. stepped into the house a bit ahead of me.

As I started to close the door behind me, I heard a rough shout. Without stopping to think, I wheeled around and popped my head back out the door.

"Hey, BABY!" someone slurred the words nearby, hidden to my eyes freshly blinded by the kitchen light.

Not necessarily the recommended response to a drunken stranger on a dark and lonely street, but the one that came to me in the moment (simultaneous with gratefully remembering that B. was now sitting at the kitchen table) was a curious and friendly "What?" Not sure where this was going, and it might not be good. But I stepped out onto the porch anyhow, trying to at least see where the voice was coming from.

"Hey, I really like those bowling pins." Definitely slurred, stumbling over the words.

"Me, too" I replied, simply. I could make out the man now, 30 feet away on the street, silhouetted against the streetlight puddle on the otherwise dark street. Neither voice, nor silhouette, nor manner gave me any clue that I might know him.

He paused in his walking and weaved a little. "I really like 'em. Make me smile. I used to love to bowl. It just made me so happy when I saw them up there, reminded me of when I bowled..."

I smiled and said, "That's exactly why I put them there, to make someone smile."

"Well, they made me smile." He clumsily resumed his slow wavering pace. "God bless you, Sister."

And off he went into the night, anonymous.

****

"God bless you, Sister." A very long way from his initial salutation of "Hey, BABY!" A remarkable transformation, in fact. Why?

I have learned through the years, through many disquieting circumstances, that often a simple and fearless attitude of friendliness somehow wards off unwanted interest from drunken men. Focusing their attention to something other than me, that they enjoy or relate to somehow, in a positive way, can defuse a potentially threatening situation. And likely my attitude of open neighborliness would have guaranteed an amicable end to the conversation, no matter what.

But the vast distance between the greeting and his final benediction hints at more. I think this was another in a long series of spiritual "gift" experiences that I've received from wearing the prayer covering.

There is something about the covering that seems to affect most powerfully those of a rougher nature when they are in that discomforting condition of vulnerability and threat. They know better, but the bottle has deadened their caring to do better, and loosened their inhibitions. But somehow, simply seeing me in the covering, and being treated respectfully as a neighbor, they come to their senses just a little, just enough to recognize that they DO know better, and to choose to act on that knowledge, no matter how poorly they started the exchange.

I have given him the gift of bowling pin memories, a reason to smile and remember smiles. And he has given me the gift of humbly knowing that a little, insignificant thing I did, just as a whimsy, brought joy to someone who might not have much of it. Not just a little joy, either. Enough joy for him to earnestly shout out "Hey BABY" to a stranger in the dark, to share that joy right back at me.

Why Not Sell and Go?

I'm going through and finishing off some half-finished blog entries from the past couple years. This was written in 2010.

This essay belongs to both blogs, The Rainbow Covering and Reports from the Farm. My life belongs to both worlds, the natural world of the farm, and the spiritual world of my Christian journey. But wait--the farm is God's creation; that's spiritual...and my Christian journey is so deeply fed and supported by the practical day-in, day-out work of the farm. The "two" worlds are inseparable.

Today, for the umpteenth time, someone suggested "the solution" to "my problem".

"The problem", as usual, being that I am a) very land-poor at the moment and b) even more time-poor...a) in spite of and b) because of the fact that I am farming as well as working a full-time job off-farm, which is obviously too much for one person.

"The solution" usually begins with the person asking, "Look, I know it's none of my business, but how much equity do you have in this place? You're never going to win this [insert current regulatory/local politics struggle]; why don't you just sell the whole thing and buy a place in [insert name of more rural county that doesn't have such restrictive zoning regulations], and then you can live a nice, sane, peaceful life for a change?"

I really do try to keep an open mind. When folks make this suggestion, I don't necessarily try to rationalize my decision to stay and keep struggling to them (after all, it's my decision and my life; if they don't "get it" now they probably never will). But I do try to honestly, once again, put all the issues, assets, and liabilities on the table and give them a good looking-over.

Today it was one of my Old German Baptist acquaintances that suggested this, and for some reason that gave me some new insights.

He had offered to drop by and share his construction wisdom on the proposed remodeling project at 501 North St., the farm's "little brown house". We spent the better part of an hour going over the plans and fleshing out some of the details, but I could tell he was thinking grave thoughts about the whole thing.

"Why not just keep the big house, and sell this? Or better yet, sell the whole thing and move to Franklin County." My first response was to tell him what really special soil we have here...I often quip "I'd move to ____, but I just can't figure out how to take my soil and groundwater with me." Then I told him about my rock-solid understanding that God put me here to serve him in a way like Noah--building the farm as an ark for a multitude of species, safe from the pesticide-poisoned world out there.

The mention of Franklin county brought an odd sense of dissonance as I pondered his words. Mostly folks recommend I sell out and move to Leavenworth County, just north of the farm. Then I realized: he was suggesting his community, not mine. Many of the Old German Baptists live in Franklin County, south of Douglas county.

And that lead me to reflect on an increasingly real consideration for sticking it out and staying here: Here is where my people are.

Here is where my people are. And that is my greatest treasure.

Separating Church, State, and Hate

(The following is the text of an email I recently sent to the Kansas State judicial committee urging them to reject proposed HB 2260, which protects the right to actively discriminate against [anyone you want to] in hiring, housing, etc., if the discrimination is based on a religious belief. Ridiculous? Yes. But then, we ARE the state that outlawed evolution. I stay here because leaving would just tip the balance towards more unreasonableness.

Some of my friends, and even family, may not have heard me speak "Christian" like this before...don't worry, I still speak "world" most of the time...but sometimes it's nice to be bi-lingual. When in Rome....

I am happy to report that the bill was tabled today by a wide margin without any debate. Doubtless it or a successor will rear its ugly head again. But in light of other recent political activity across the nation, it's a little bit of a bright spot: good sense prevailed today in this vote.

I am posting this far and wide because perhaps some of the ideas may be helpful to my readers who may find themselves in dialogue with intolerant "Christians" over some or another aspect of legal rights: LGBT rights, women's reproductive rights, immigrant rights, etc.

These thoughts are much, much broader than just LGBT issues. In fact, for those of you who are not particularly pro-LGBT legal rights or pro-LGBT church inclusion, I urge you to reconsider, and perhaps to move towards a position just slightly to the supportive side of neutrality--a detached solidarity with any who struggle to avoid officially sanctioned marginalization/discrimination. If an arm of our government is successful in codifying the right to discriminate against one group, who knows what other groups might be targeted in the future?)

Dear Representative,

I am a modern conservative Anabaptist Christian. I spend hours a week studying the scriptures through the Light of the Holy Spirit, both independently and in the company of other Christians--radical, conservative, liberal, progressive, and fundamental members of a number of different denominations. I also value the time I spend discussing things of the spirit with atheists, pagans, agnostics, Buddhists, Hindus, Moslems, Jews, and others.

For those of us who accept Jesus Christ as the Messiah, the New Testament abolishes "The Law" of the Old Testament by fulfilling the OT prophecies. The old commandments of Moses are replaced by Jesus' new commandments: "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God, and thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself".

In the New Testament, both Jesus and Paul exhort Christians to humble obedience...to submit to the laws of the State and its rulers. The New Testament does NOT tell Christians to seek to establish a State religion, nor to write State laws to support "Christian" beliefs and practices. It does not even tell Christians to campaign for the right to freely practice their religion! True Christians, now as in Jesus' time, live "in the world but not of the world." We deal with the world on the world's terms, even if it requires compromise and even if it results in suffering, knowing that our only real home and freedom will be in the company of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, after we have left this broken and sinful world. True Christians EXPECT and ACCEPT that "the world" will not support, encourage, or agree with our beliefs. Being human, we must necessarily stumble and fail in this effort at times...but we must never believe that our freedom and home is anywhere but Heaven.

As a part of a nation founded on the bedrock of religious freedom for ALL citizens, of any religious faith or of none, the State of Kansas has a constitutional duty to establish equitable and just laws to protect and support the well-being of its citizens--ALL of them--and to foster an orderly system of business, services, education, infrastructure, etc. without either favoring or discriminating against any particular group of citizens. The separation of church and state demands that such laws NOT be based on any religious considerations. Religion--any religion--is simply not supposed to be a consideration in the laws, enforcement or administration of our government.

After considering these simple truths about the purpose of Christianity and of our American system of government, I trust you will see that you have no choice but to reject HB 2260. It is as destructive to the faithful practice of true Christianity as it is to our constitutional rights as American citizens.

While your decision to dismiss HB 2260 must be entirely blind to the considerations of any particular faith, you will doubtless need to convey your decision to your constituents in terms that make sense to them. For those who are promoting this bill because they erroneously believe it supports Christian faith, you might remind them of the following Biblical truths:

Jesus himself did not discriminate against those who were marginalized by his culture; he hung out with and ministered to poor people, foreigners, outcasts, people with disabilities, slaves, women (who were considered "property" at that time) and sinners in preference to the middle and upper classes of his culture.

Jesus admonishes us to love our enemies, not to discriminate against them.

Jesus warns us not to judge (discriminate against) others; instead, we are to focus on the "log" in our own eye rather than the "mote" in someone else's.

Jesus tells his followers to "go the second mile" and thus obey Roman law which gave soldiers the legal right to order civilians to carry their loads. He not only tells them to obey the law however onerous, he tells them to MORE than obey...to give extra service without being ordered, even if doing so is personally distasteful.

Jesus instructs his followers to pay the taxes that are due to the government, even though the taxes are used in support of "worldly" activities and lifestyles that he asks his followers to forego.

Jesus instructs the rich to sell everything they have and give it to the poor.

If your "Christian" constituents supporting HB 2260 are not practicing these Biblical principles in their lives...if they have many possessions, are unloving towards particular individuals or groups of people; avoid socializing with the poor, different, and marginalized people; and are unwilling to obey State laws that they feel don't support their faith; then I think you can plainly see that these people are at best confused in their practice of the Christian faith. Probably it is not in the best interest of the broadly diverse citizenry of Kansas to establish laws demanded by those who are confused or misleading as to their true beliefs and purposes.

I personally wish the best for all Kansans (and everyone else), regardless of their race, nationality, gender, creed, religion, handicap, age, sexual orientation or gender identity, or other individual characteristic. I am content that the Bill of Rights gives me the right to believe as I choose, and that Christ gives me the strength and humility to obey the laws of the world whether they suit me or not. I have utmost compassion for those who call themselves "Christian" yet give in to the evil of hatred, and I hope that it is not through personal tragedy that they discover their errors and repent. We all have fallen short and sinned in the sight of God. Thankfully, He is merciful.

Blessings from

Your obedient citizen,

/s/ NL

A Chat with Adam

Hi. Adam here. You know, from Genesis. The one they always blame it all on.

What you read in Genesis isn't the whole story. It's the Cliff Notes version, written by God, and of course He wrote it with His own agenda in mind.

And trust me: I got framed.

So, yeah, there I am in the Garden of Eden, and I take a nice long nap, and wake up, and my side hurts like crazy, and suddenly there's this dame Eve there with me.

So she's supposed to be my helper? Let me ask you, just what did I need help WITH? Naming the animals? Like she was a big help with that! Instead of just being able to say, "You--DOG!" and "You--CAT!", I had to argue with her over every single one. "Ooooh, look, doesn't "feline" just purrrrfectly describe the way it moves?"

Yeah, I have to say it was a little less lonely having someone to...um...hang out with. The birds and the bees all had their own kind, you know, I saw how everything went. But really, I mean, I was in the Garden of Eden, for heaven's sake, free food at my fingertips, perfect weather all the time, all my needs were met (well, mostly...), I didn't have to do anything but make up a sound for everything I saw there. What's to complain about?

But, there she was. So God had to get a little more specific about the rules of the place, because Eve was pretty nosy. I could just while away the hours naming things and trying to remember the names and trying to remember did I already name that thing there, and if I did, what did I name it? But she had to poke and pry and understand everything.

So there's this one tree. God says "don't touch"...I don't touch. I mean, there are just plenty of other trees around to keep me occupied. Not a big deal. He's the boss, I do what He says, I don't ask questions. That's just how it works, you know?

Me, I'm happy picking a banana and munching it down when I'm hungry. Eve, she has to fuss with stuff. "Here, try this banana stuffed with pecans drizzled in honey with crunchy dried locusts." I try to act impressed with whatever she gives me, but really, she just has to make everything so complicated. Everyday it's some different fruit combo for lunch, and really, I'd be happy as a...what did I call that round thing with two shells that I found on the beach? Oh, clam. Happy as a clam with a banana a day. No, that didn't come out right. Happy as a clam, with a banana, every day. Oh, here, let me start over. Happy with a banana. Happy as a clam. Clams don't like bananas, and clams and bananas don't even taste good together. Besides, it's a few more chapters before we can eat anything but fruits and veggies, and then eventually in a whole 'nother book He finally gets around to saying, "Oh, by the way, clams aren't kosher 'cause they don't swim and have fins." Good heavens, this OT stuff is hard work!

So anyhow, God said don't mess with that one tree, and I didn't. Figured she wouldn't either. I mean really, what part of "no" could she not understand?

But I walk by one day, and notice that there's a fruit missing...right there. I could see the broken stem, plain as day. Wow, maybe one of the fruit bats got it?

That got me thinking, was it just Eve and me that wasn't supposed to eat from this tree, or was it all the critters, too, and maybe I was supposed to be standing guard over it to make sure nothing munched on it? Well, then why couldn't God have said something if he wanted me to play body guard to a tree? I tell you, bosses are all alike, there's the rules, and then there's the real rules, and then there's the policies that look like whoever wrote them had not a clue what the rules were, and then no one follows any of it anyway.

"Hey, Eve, come look at this," I hollered. She was on the other side of the big willow tree, talking baby-talk to some critter. She wandered over, looking a little peeved at me. What, was I interrupting something special with her and whatever it was behind the tree?

"Eve, look! Something tore a piece of fruit off this tree that we weren't supposed to touch. Which creature do you think would have done that?"

"Yeah, I see. That branch is all torn and hanging loose. Look, if I just trim off the end like so, and bend it this way, and push these other leaves over the gap in the foliage, why, you can't even tell anything happened, can you?" And in a flash, I couldn't even see where the fruit had been.

And that's when I realized I'd been framed, and framed good. Damned for all time, in fact.

Now that she had showed me, so I knew what to look for, I could see there were lots of other places where the same thing had been done. Critters don't do that, do they? I mean, they might eat the fruit, but only someone who has the knowledge of good and evil would try to cover up that they'd done it.

And Eve had just shown me that she knew exactly how to do it, by undoing it. Not only did she know how, but she knew how to do it really quickly. Hm. I'm not that stupid. Spontaneous manual dexterity with that level of skill comes with a lot of practice.

She saw what I was looking at, and looked up at me with those big innocent-seeming eyes. "What, sugarbuns? Why are you looking at the tree like that? You look like such a big sourpuss when you pucker up your eyebrows like that. Mmmmmm...just wanna kiss your face and make you smile again, honey." She wiggled at me, but I just stood there staring at the tree with gears whirring like crazy in my head. I could feel a doozy of a headache coming on. And Exedrin was what, a few dozen millenia in the future? Bummer!

And then she saw that I saw right through her and her tricks.

"What was that you served for lunch today, Eve? I wasn't paying attention when you rattled off the ingredients."

"Oh, nothing, just a little fruit cocktail I whipped up. Why, I don't even remember what-all I put in it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

(This was really getting nowhere, but it gave me time to think. I was NOT used to having to use my brain like this, let me tell you. And that headache was shaping up to be a killer....)

"We've been eating a lot of chopped up fruit lately, haven't we?"

"Fruit cocktail. You name the animals, I name the food dishes, isn't that the way it works?"

"Ok, have it your way. Fruit cocktail. Lots lately. What do you put in it?"

She started squirming and didn't want to look me in the eye. "Fruit".

Oh, heaven help me! "Fruit. What kind?"

"Different kinds."

"Do I have to drag this out of you? You know perfectly well what you did and you know that I know what you did, so just out with it, ok? Cut the cute stuff!"

I saw a motion in the grass, and her buddy the serpent came slithering up to her. It climbed up her leg and she just stood there. Suddenly something else clicked in my mind. That thing was her accomplice! Some of the camouflaged broken branches were up high, too high for her to reach. But with the serpent slithering through the branches, it could pull a branch down into her reach.

Sure enough, with the serpent installed on her shoulders, she kind of transformed. Cute-coy-dumb was out, fierce-Valkyrie-warrior was in.

"Yes, Adam, I've been feeding you the Forbidden Fruit for lunch every day this week, and you liked it. You LIKED it. I've been eating it for weeks myself, and you...LIKED...how it transformed me...." (I won't even bother mentioning her gestures during this little confession.) She went on. "Yes, Adam, I asked you every day if you wanted some fruit cocktail, and you said, 'yes, thank you very much.' So when you have that nice little chat with God about whose fault it is, just you remember that you said, 'Yes, Eve, some fruit cocktail sounds mi-i-i-i-ghty good right now.'"

Oh, I cannot tell you how much I hate listening to her when she gets like this. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned...except a woman scorning you is even worse. I was really actually kind of relieved to hear my name being called.

"Yes, God?"

"Where are you?"

"Uh...just a minute....." I ran to the next tree over. Maybe he wouldn't notice the missing fruit if he wasn't looking right at it. "Over here, God."

"That's funny, I thought I heard you talking to Eve over there by the Tree of Knowledge." And of course he looks right at it and immediately sees the fruit is missing.

He looks back at me, and damned if I don't feel one of Eve's innocent looks taking over my face. I knew, and I knew that He knew, and He knew that I knew that He knew, but I tried to look innocent anyway.

And I knew I was trying to look innocent, and that's when I realized that the fruit Eve had been feeding me had changed me. And I realized she must have been eating the Forbidden Fruit for a long time, because she had been doing more and more of those cute little faces she uses to manipulate me. She didn't used to do that when she was first...uh...created. It's like a slow fatal poison, you don't realize you're sick until it's too late. Just creeps up on you. Like that wretched serpent pal of hers.

Here's where it gets really good.

"Adam, did you eat the Forbidden fruit?"

Facepalm. Headdesk. However you want to say it, I could see what was coming. I had been framed, framed, framed.

"Yes, sir, I did eat the Forbidden Fruit. But let me explain...."

Not. He just launched into the whole thing about the sins of the father being visited on the children, and throwing us out of the garden, and all the curses and stuff, and that was that. I never even got a chance to explain. Not a chance.

But listen to this: He didn't even mention the sins of the mother! She was the one who WILFULLY disobeyed him, not me. I ate it, yeah, but I didn't know what I was eating when I ate it. And when I realized, I was honest about it, at least, even if I did try to distract him.

Let me ask you this: If he had asked, "did you eat the Forbidden Fruit?" before her trick with hiding the broken branch clued me in to what was in her "fruit cocktails", I would have said "No." And I would have believed I was right. But I would have been wrong. Would that have been a sin? I don't know, I don't know the answer to that one. I'm not God, right? He knows, and He's not telling.

So what would you say were the alleged "sins of the father"? Where did I go wrong? Trusting Eve, eating whatever she fed me without asking too many questions? I mean, after she declared locusts were vegetables because they were green and started using them to put "crunchy goodness" and "pizzaz" in her concoctions, I just really didn't want to know what I was eating.

Oh, you're right. Good point. I knew about the locusts, and didn't 'fess up to that one at all. Well, God never asked me about the locusts, so I never lied to him about eating them...did I? And technically, he never said not to eat them, he just didn't include them in the list of "foods Generally Recognized as Safe".

So was that "the sins of the father" too? Man, I am SO confused.....

OMG! Look at the time, will you? I've been babbling at you for an hour now, can you believe it? Gotta run, I'm a working man now, you know. It's not so bad, really. Gets me out of the house for awhile. And away from that woman and her blasted pets. That snake...something about that snake...I just can't put my finger on it....

Why I Volunteered to Drive in the Blizzard

Feb. 2005, one Sat. night very much like tonight (near-blizzard), I had been in Winnipeg for 1 1/2 weeks, I was suffering severe sensory overload and physical exhaustion, and my housing situation had turned into an emotional nightmare. I had a meltdown and fled to my one acquaintance's house for refuge.

I struck out on foot in her direction along the bus route, with no schedule, and at each stop I would check to see that the bus wasn't coming and then walk/run/slide desperately to the next stop in 2 blocks. Winnipeg blocks can be LONG. This was a main route, and didn't stop except at posted stops. I was terrified that the bus would come when I was between stops, but it was too cold to stand still, and I might reach my destination walking before the bus went by.

Well, the bus came when I was right between stops. I swear it was a guardian angel and not a real driver. He somehow understood from my resigned walk (trying not to slip on an especially icy sidewalk) that I wanted the bus even though I was far from the stop and wasn't waving and screaming--or even looking--at him. And he stopped right there.

I climbed on, tears welling up not just with stress and cold, but mainly relief and gratitude for God's looking out for me. And then realized that I had not one bit of money nor bus ticket with me. Before I could even turn to deboard, he said, "Don't worry about it" and told me to sit down. Off we went.

When I told him my destination, down a side street in the desolate, deserted downtown, he double-triple checked that I really knew where I was going and had a safe destination near there, because it was a notorious part of the city. He checked again as I deboarded.

I never REALLY believed in guardian angels till that night. But I believe now! It was a turning point in my faith. God can even stop a speeding bus on an express route!

I have had other profound bus-related experiences since then, and other amazing drivers. But this is the one that defines me as a professional transit driver in my own right. The worse the weather...the more likely that the smallest ordinary courtesy will change someone's life for the better.

Today, in one of the worst snowstorms in memory here, I picked up frozen passengers as much as 35 minutes after the scheduled time. "Don't worry about the paperwork" I said as they boarded. "Just hurry on, sit down, and warm up... we'll figure out how to get you home...you can pay or show your pass when you get off." Gratefully, they collapsed into seats and sat like silent snowmen for awhile. Slowly they would thaw, and then they would start searching their pockets. Not one single customer left without paying. It felt like they were stuffing the farebox with gratitude, not just dollar bills.

Did I ever mention I love my job? God, thank you for letting me be a bus driver! And thank you for driving the bus with me on days like this!

Where Is Home?

Home. A topic I've thought about a lot since the beginnings of my sabbatical adventures in 2004. What does "home" mean...I mean, how do YOU define it? What do YOU mean when you say "I'm going home now"? What defines, in your mind, where you live? Is it where you cook? Sleep? Read? Eat? Do laundry? Meet friends? Relax? Clean house? Some people never do those things in their "home" but nevertheless certainly know where their home is...some people do those things in places that they know is NOT their home. So how do YOU define the concepts of "home"..."living" in a place..."occupying" a residence..."residing" at a location....?

As technology has allowed us to "unplug", many things that meant "home" a couple decades ago are now "ethereal" or "virtual"--waves in the atmosphere. Our phone no longer has a fixed location. Neither does our answering machine, computer, internet service, television, alarm clock, etc.

Home was once where we gathered, stored, processed, prepared, and ate food. Now we eat in the car, or at restaurants, or at our desks. Every office has a microwave, and likely a refrigerator. Food comes ready-to-eat from the grocery store, the convenience store, gas stations, soup kitchens, friends, home delivery.

Coffee shops have become our new "living room" for hanging out with friends, reading, doing homework, catching up on email, even paying the bills online. Our mailing address may be a post office box for security.

We may never shower at home if we begin each day with a workout at the gym.

Sometimes we "live" at our job, or in our car, more than anywhere else.

Is "home" where we pay rent or a mortgage, or have some other contractual agreement giving us the right to use that space? Is it where we are obligated to pay for utilities (heat, electricity, water, etc.), or where we enjoy the utilities themselves, regardless of our financial responsibility for them? Is it where we pay taxes? The address on our voter registration card? The "primary residence" listed on our homeowner's insurance? Where our pets stay when we can't have them with us?

While I was "traveling"..."transient"..."homeless"..."a pilgrim"...or whatever during my sabbatical, I struggled with the inevitable casual questions from strangers, "Where are you from?" and "Where is home?" a lot. Was it the place I awoke that morning? Where I would sleep that night? Where my parents live? Where I would return to at the end of my travels? My "permanent address" which was a P.O. box? The best answer I could come up with still defines "home" to me: "I live between my prayer covering and my shoes."

But then, again and again in my Christian journey, I hear/read/feel "This world is not my home." And the further this radical pilgrimage takes me, the less I feel "at home" in "the world"...and I see that others sense that regardless of "home", I certainly am not part of their culture.

On the one hand, renting an apartment in town where I kept most of my clothes, did my laundry, stored food and prepared meals, took showers, had most of my bookkeeping and papers, and slept much of the time--was not sufficient to prove to the county that I wasn't "living" or "residing" in the tent camper at my farm.

On the other hand, I am paying all the utilities on a house now, while not allowed to "live", "reside" or "occupy" that house until it has "all the necessities of daily living" which include (according to the Powers that Be) a kitchen range. So I am "living" in another space, which has pretty much no utilities/amenities. And I wouldn't even use a kitchen range if I had one, at this point. I own numerous electric non-kitchen-range cooking devices: microwave, crock pot, rice cooker, roaster, toaster, teakettle, griddle, skillet, and two hot plates (some would include the clothes iron, as well...and the most "cooking" I do these days is warming up pre-cooked food on the defroster vent of a vehicle).

I continue to struggle to understand the various conflicting legal applications of this question, "What defines home/residence/living/occupancy?" If I use my definition of "living between my covering and my shoes", then I am frequently in violation of what I am told is the law, since I spend a lot of time in places I am not allowed to "live". That includes both public and private places...Is being "private space" part of the definition? If home is private, how can authorities tell us what kitchen appliances a space must have in order for anyone to sleep there?

A huge part of my Christian testimony is integrity, honesty, and obedience. I am struggling to keep "legal" with all the various interpretations of "living", "residence", occupancy", etc...but the authorities will never give me one definitive "test" I can apply (or they will apply) to determine whether I am "living" in a place or not. So I never know what I can or can't do. All I know is that I can't afford a lawyer to track it down for me...and so far I haven't managed to do it on my own.

So, I want to know: How do YOU identify where someone lives? Please respond by email, FaceBook or comment on this blog. I would like to compile these answers in a future post, but I want to respect anonymity as well. Please let me know if you wish to be credited; if not I will use anonymous excerpts, summaries, and compilations of various responses.

Thanks so much for sharing your insights!

Testing, testing....

I am testing out a new voice recorder (and trying to break the habit of calling the device a "tape recorder!).

"Come Sheep" is an evening meditation song that I more frequently just play on the piano as a transition between some of my other piano tunes. The simple piano arrangement is as restful to my fingers as the words are to my soul. But I don't have all--or any--of the verses memorized, so if I sing it during daily life, it is just the chorus and "lalala"...but I still feel the peace it evokes.

The chorus is based on the call I use for my own sheep flock: "Come, sheep; Mabel, Taylor, Come, sheep." They know the sing-song well, and at least the older the dairy ewes do in fact know their names.

Playing Truth

Somehow, as I scrambled to find one text after another as the minister called out the citations and expounded on them in a particularly broad-based message today at church, I managed to have a meta-experience as well as listen to the commentary, remember chapter and verse numbers, turn pages, and take notes.

I have mentioned before, I think, that one thing I especially appreciate about the Old German Baptist church is that they have a plural ministry--there are always 4, 5, or even more ministers in front on a Sunday morning, taking turns at opening remarks, choosing and lining hymns, leading prayers, and giving the message of the day. There is a lively exchange of ideas and insights, and no boredom from hearing the same voice or the same point of view every week.

After more than a year and a half of attending almost every Sunday, raptly listening to 2 hours of detailed reflection on the Bible, it amazes me all that is in those ancient writings. And then outside of church, I am exposed to a somewhat random assortment of other points of view on scripture--Anabaptist and Quaker listserves, Facebook friends, several individuals I share a meal with now and then, news articles online, etc.

Today it just all came together: people have been reading, writing, discussing and arguing about

these same words for nearly 2,000 years! And everyone thinks they are right! And there is always some new idea, context, or perspective!

How can this be? It's just one volume!

Then an image came to mind. A piano (most of them, anyhow) has 88 keys--88 different notes. That's it. That's all. If they are in tune (and since I have a piano-tuning friend, I tend to assume "in tune" as the normal, default condition), then each key is a fact...a truth. There is no arguing about it. It just is. That's the note. You press the key, that's what it is. (Not some instruments, where the manner of sounding the note can influence its pitch, like a violin or a trombone).

But how many different ways there are to put those notes together! An infinity--because even when two people play the same notes in the same order, it comes out different. Even when one person plays the same notes in the same order on different days, it comes out different. Each individual, then, may bring an entirely different mood or effect to those 88 simple truths. Something complex, subtle, unique is woven out of those truths each time someone sits at the piano...whether it is a child playing Chopsticks, or a sibling gleefully playing Fur Elise for the 14th time in an evening because she knows it's annoying after about the 3rd time, or an advanced student practicing a fragment of a difficult piece over and over, or a fabulous musician playing a highly publicized concert, or an untrained prodigy improvising something that sounds like Bach, but will never be written down or played again in all of time.

Some of these piano players may feel as if they've made a mistake in playing...in some contexts, there is no such thing as a mistake. Sometimes the player might feel there's a mistake, but no one else could possibly know. What does "wrong note" mean when each note is a Truth? It is not that the note itself is wrong, but that it is in the wrong context, making it inharmonious--ah, NOT necessarily inharmonious with the other notes, but inharmonious with the effect which the player is trying to achieve. A note in a jazz piece may be deliberately, effectively, deliciously inharmonious...if a harmonious note were struck instead, THAT would be a mistake.

When I think of the Bible as a compilation of Truth, I can look at the ministers and others as players of that Truth. Each plays a different composition, but each composition is still full of Truth.

Attending the German Baptist Church is like going to a recital where many talented pianists play pieces from different composers. Lots of variety. They may be apparently unrelated, or focused on a theme. I may prefer some offerings more than others. No matter what, I get to hear lots of Truth.

Being exposed to a wide variety of religious perspectives and views is like listening to lots of different kinds of music. Some styles naturally resonate with my personality and experience more than others, just like some people like jazz and some like classical. But other people appreciate the ones I don't, so there's something for everyone.

It's fascinating to think that such rich diversity can come from just those same 88 keys...or from one book.

Understanding this makes it really easy to step back from doctrinal or interpretational arguments. Should women cover their hair? Is it ok for them to wear pants? Is same-sex marriage an abomination? When is divorce ok? Who can re-marry? Can we shop on Sunday? How and when should baptism be performed? Should ministers be paid? Is it ok to kill if you're in the Army, or getting an abortion? On and on....

People think they can and should settle these questions once and for all. But that's like saying from now on, the only piece of music that is really the Truth is a chromatic arpeggio encompassing all 88 notes. Or the "tuning song" that the piano tuner uses to test the notes in her effort to restore them to perfect order.

If we ever did arrive at such a complete, perfect one-right-way understanding of the Bible, I think it would be the end of the Bible. Who would stick around listening to that chromatic arpeggio over and over?

It is the very diversity, even dissonance, of all the possible pianists and compositions that keep us engaged. Let's remember to enjoy the concert and appreciate the pianists, not constantly criticize every piece.

Coming Out, for Jesus's Sake

"Jesus came to make room in the world for more love by punching holes in the status quo."

These words that issued unaccountably from my own mouth were the surprising conclusion, many years ago, to a long discernment with my pastor about a crossroad in my life:

Some years after I became very actively involved in the local Mennonite congregation...a few years after my divorce from my third husband...a couple years after my baptism...I found myself unexpectedly on the brink of a new intimate relationship. It was a well-established "farmwork friendship" that I realized had grown into something much deeper and more significant, fed by the fertile soil of shared labor and watered by long conversation while working. I expected this surprising new love to remain unrequited in my heart; surely this person did not feel the same way about me. But suddenly, there was the question shyly blurting from her lips--"Do you want to be girlfriends?"

My actively lesbian phase lay in my distant past, honored as an essential part of me but long ago and far away. It was not something I'd intentionally put aside, but rather just drifted away from as old friends moved away and new friendships formed more frequently with men, who were more likely than the lesbians I knew to instruct me in the finer points of car mechanics and carpentry. I had never been ashamed of my relationships with women, and went forward into subsequent relationships with men claiming "bisexual" as the most fit descriptor of my intimate inclinations.

But now I was a baptized Christian, either tempted or blessed with this opportunity to live out a love that had been blossoming inside me for a long time. For the first time ever, I felt that I needed to make a thoughtful decision based on not just my feelings, but on how an openly committed relationship with someone would affect all my other relationships...with God, with my church, with my family, with my friends, with my customers, with the conservative Catholic community that brought their teens to the farm for "Farm School" every Thursday. I gave the whole situation a couple weeks of grave, searching introspection, aided by gifted pastoral counseling.

And when my pastor asked, concluding a fruitful session of guiding me in self-examination, "What do you think Jesus would have to say about this?" I replied--or at least the words came from my lips, I know not how--

"Jesus came to make room for more love in the world by punching holes in the status quo."

It was far, far more than an answer to a discernment about a particular relationship. To my great sorrow, that beloved soul sought increasing distance from me after a brief time of closeness. My love for her remains free in the world, growing and deepening with the years, but again unrequited. God and God alone knows the future of that love.

But that profound synopsis of the Gospels of Jesus Christ remains to me as new and powerful as it was the day it came tumbling from my lips. It has guided me ever since, in all kinds of relationships and decisions. That's my mission in following Christ: to make room for more love in the world, punching holes in the status quo if it gets in the way. Jesus was a revolutionary. He overturned the money-changers' tables; he championed prostitutes, tax collectors, the lame and leprous, foreigners, all of the outcasts and misfits and untouchables of his day. How can I be a revolutionary now, in my time? How can I nudge my culture towards His Way?

One thing I've realized is the folly of being "conservative" or "fundamentalist". We can't continue Jesus's revolution by saying "ok, we've arrived, let's circle the wagon and defend what we've achieved." Because it isn't ever enough...there's always further to go. There is always more love seeking room to grow in the world. When Jesus on the cross said "It is finished," I don't think he meant that he was done making room for more love in the world.

And so we didn't stop struggling to make room for more love when we "gained religious freedom" to be anything but Catholic, despite the millions who believed our beliefs were deadly heresies...and love within and across faith boundaries was set free to bloom and grow. Thousands of revolutionaries lost their lives to persecution in the Reformation, or death by illness on the ships that brought them to the New World...and the loss of life in the quest for the freedom to love our own god in our own way continues in struggles between Christian, Muslim, Jew, Hindu, Pagan, etc.

We didn't stop struggling to make room for more love when we made major strides in overcoming racism even though many thought interracial marriage was sinful...and love was set free in colorblind couples. We still struggle against racism embedded in our collective cultures and our individual fears; we struggle for balance between "coexist, assimilate or be assimilated" in regard to growing Hispanic and Asian communities among us.

We didn't stop struggling to make room for more love when we gave women the right to vote and own property, instead of being property, even though we thought that would lead to sinful behavior and destruction of marriages...and women were set free to support and love their children outside the bounds of abusive marriages, while men were set free from the burden of solely supporting their families. We still struggle with oppression and violence between the sexes.

We are gradually struggling towards making room for more love by learning to celebrate, instead of revile, the love some people have for same-gender significant others...and love that has been kept hidden like a sprout denied sunlight while struggling for its very life is being set free, lessening the grip of hatred and bitterness on the world.

As part of this, we are beginning to see a vaguer issue, as if through a glass darkly--the evil grip of bullying in general, and its deadly, deforming effects on victims, perpetrators, and by-standers. Here, too, we need to make room for more love in the world by punching holes in the status quo of believing that "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." We are learning that cruel words can and do end lives as easily as cruel actions. Any form of humiliation is an occasion for us to struggle to make room for more love in the world.

Beyond that, I am sure there are many more kinds of love desperate to be given room in the world. We must find them all and struggle to free them, whether we think they are sinful or not, whether they are central to our own lives or not.

Because we need the world to have as much love as possible. That way, we can be assured that it will be there for us when we need it. And we must teach our children to see, seek, and nurture honest love wherever it is trying to grow, to be revolutionaries in its cause, to set it free to heal the world.

That's what Jesus taught me.

Reflections on Friendship

Friendship is challenging at times, for me. In the course of so many years, I've had a lot of unpleasant experiences. Many of them have been due to my own lack of social graces...which is due to not having had much of a social life as a child, therefore no opportunity to learn the fine points of friendship, therefore prone to blunders, therefore avoided by the more socially graceful kids, ..... Sigh.

A lot of them have been due to others' lack of social graces, too.

This past year has been an interesting year, the beginning of several tentative new friendships. Each is so unique. Each of us, in some way, has hit a "bottom" where we were desperate to find a better way of living with ourselves and with others. We have been hurt, physically and emotionally abused, neglected, manipulated, you name it...by loved ones of all descriptions as well as relative strangers.

That means we come to friendship with "issues"..."baggage"..."history"...i.e., we're each in some way "damaged goods" thanks to previous friends, family, etc. Sometimes, no matter how compatible we are as people, our "baggage" just interferes with the other person's. It makes starting a new friendship interesting to say the least.

Last night I had a very special dream about one of my new friends:

In the dream, this person, like me, was a professional bus driver. We went out for a leisurely drive in one of the busses that I drive daily. (Like I said, this was a dream; I'm not really allowed to take the busses out for a Sunday drive!)

My companion and I did all the things we would normally do on a Sunday drive. We went up and down hills. We turned left and right. We stopped and started in all sorts of conditions. Ordinarily, we would have been doing this with the purpose of performing our duty of transporting people to their destinations. In our own cars, off-duty, we might have taken the same trip to see the scenery, or simply for the sake of enjoying one another's company and talking while driving.

But this trip had a different purpose. We were evaluating the vehicle--an older, quirky bus that had a lot of miles on it. Before we committed to driving it on-duty, with precious passengers on board, in all kinds of weather and road conditions, we needed to know its limitations...and we needed to develop reasonable boundaries for operating it in service, so that we would never exceed the limits of this particular vehicle. Some busses just shouldn't be driven out on K-10 at 65 miles per hour; others are just fine for that but would rather not go 5 miles per hour on the busy campus all day.

Each bus is a little different, and they become more individual with age and wear. On-going repairs and minor accidents add to the aging process of a vehicle. They start out bland and identical, but over time they are customized more and more. Zip ties and duct tape, Tek screws and caulk all come into play when something irreplaceable but non-essential fails.

We put the bus through its paces. We tried accelerating fast and slow, on slopes up and down, to see how it would respond in various situations. We assessed the play in the steering wheel, and whether the vehicle tended to drift to one side or another as we went down a level road. We tried the brakes to see how fast it would stop, and whether it pulled to the left or right. We tested the turning radius...and one of us had to help the other back it out of the cul-de-sac where it couldn't turn around (oops--we should have planned the route ahead, not just wandered around making random turns).

I woke up knowing exactly what this dream was about. It was about how to be friends. Or more specific, how to take good care of friendships.

We need to take time, now and then, and assess our friends/friendships. Not to judge, not to try to change someone else, but rather to better understand what we have to work with in our friendship. If someone has sensitive areas, we need to be careful of those in the friendship. If someone has blind spots, we need to understand that. Likes and dislikes, skills and disabilities--these are all equally part of the assessment. Not that anything about them is right or wrong, we just need to know what they are. Some, we may be able to fix right away. Some we may need to wait for a part. Some we may need to wait to fix them until they get worse. Many really can't be fixed, but are just the unique "character" of something that's gone down the road a few hundred thousand miles.

This assessment is not a one-time thing, because people change and friendships evolve too. With some friends, we may need to assess the boundaries of the friendship frequently; with others, not so often. With the buses, we do a daily inspection report, required by federal law. But sometimes a more comprehensive assessment is needed, as this friend and I did in my dream.

Too often, we go about friendship just like we go about driving our personal vehicles. We just take them for granted, and never take the time to look under the hood until we are stranded by the roadside facing an expensive tow and repair. How much easier it would have been to just check the oil routinely! But, in fact, many friends would be fearful of doing such an assessment, while others would be offended by the whole idea, fancying themselves free of quirks.

I especially treasure those few rare friends that begin the friendship with the instinct to do that "test drive" and assess our strengths and weaknesses right away, together, based on fact, so that we can set realistic boundaries for the friendship. In the long run, I think we will not be disappointed at having taken the time to approach friendship seriously, as seriously as driving a bus.

Random Reasons, Part 4

"Doesn't that make you hotter in this weather?" the bus passenger asked.

This conversation occurred hours after the first round, which I drove in a vehicle without AC with internal temps reading around 113. That's the highest I've ever seen in a bus. It might actually be the top of the scale, so that it could have been even more. Later in the day, the replacement bus was a more civilized 83 degrees.

The surprising basic answer is: Actually, there are only a few days every summer when I am ready to tear it from my head because it feels like it is adding to the burden of the heat. Other than those rare times, it offers a little protection from direct sun. And I've never had a sunburned "part" in my hair since I began wearing it. Small but nice benefit. My hair stubbornly parts itself, even when firmly brushed and tied straight back. For this reason alone I will never be mistaken for a birthright Old German Baptist, since their hair always obediently flows straight back from hairline to covering edge to bun.

The more complicated answer is that the covering offers a unique line of defense against the heat. Being cotton, it absorbs and evaporates water quite effectively. So when the heat bothers me, I just whisk it off for a moment, soak it down with water from my water bottle, the hose, etc., wring it out, and put it back on. Probably no one has ever noticed that it was wet. But unless the weather is terribly humid, it makes a huge difference in helping my body keep at a functional temperature.

The passenger's follow-up comment was, "That string under the chin would drive me crazy!"

It took a little getting used to. Going through that transition in the mountains of British Columbia, where (no matter what they say) it is never too hot or too humid was a good start. I found in my first few coverings that the exact fit has a lot to do with the comfort of the strings. The little bit of elastic at the nape of the neck is a nice modern touch on my Old Order River Brethren style covering...the Old German Baptists have just a rigid binding at the back, so there's less flex in the chin strings.

Sometimes, like my OORB friends, I'll untie the strings for awhile when I'm in a semi-private setting. Some denominations never tie the strings, but leave them hanging down loose. Some have a long continuous ribbon that loops across the back of the shoulders without holding anything, or ribbons that are tied loosely at the collarbone--purely vestigial. Some cover just the back of the head, and not the ears like mine does. Most women, but especially these, rely on a straight pin at the top of the front to hold the covering firmly to the hair. It doesn't seem like it would be effective, but it is. I like the OORB style for its plain, practical work-a-day functionality. It stays on because it is tied on. And I can make them myself.

The firmly tied strings do serve a spiritual purpose, I find. Though they are not distracting, I do notice them as I move my jaw. Which means whenever I speak, there is a subtle reminder to consider my words, and be sure they are becoming to a godly woman. The slight tug of the strings reminds me that I am a light to the world that is not hidden under a bushel--when people see me, they know at a glance, from a distance, that I am a Christian. It behooves me to make sure I am comporting myself in a way that honors Christ. In this way, my every moment in the world at large is a witness to my faith in God and His son.

The prodigal Son, Revisited

I woke up in bed at home at about the time the opening in hymn was being sung at church. Oops! I jumped into clothes, grabbed a snack, and headed off on the 45 minute drive. In case I haven't mentioned it before, the fact that others frequently arrive after the beginning of the two-hour service helps me feel more welcome there--just as I am, imperfect. Better late than never. If nothing else, the weekly drive through rolling Kansas hills uplifts me with awe at the progression of the seasons, the diversity of plants and wildlife, etc. I see neat rows of corn and soybeans, home gardens, woodlands, wetlands, pastures kempt and unkempt, hayfields.

Thus I walked in as the minister was in the middle of expounding on the parable of the Prodigal Son. One of my all-time favorites, maybe because I've been such a wayward child of God all my life. It was a series on this parable that drew me back to Peace Mennonite months after the first time I left, after being publicly humiliated by the pastor during a service...that pastor left, and the interim pastor made room for this lost sheep to return to the fold. (That time was made easier by the outreach I felt from numerous people in the congregation. During that absence, I received several cards and calls from people who understood why I chose to stay away, who expressed appreciation for the spiritual gifts that I had brought to the church, who kept me in touch with church activities. Oddly, few of those folks are still with the church. This time, no one has tried to encourage me to come back.)

But the beauty of scripture is that it is always new. There is always something more to see in it, as in a mirror. There is always a new insight, a new lesson, a new juxtaposition of the verses with each other, or with my daily life.

Thus:

...As I struggle through a time of chafing at the isolation of my daily life...

...Having yesterday found myself in yet another seemingly pointless discussion of Peace Mennonite's bizarre shunning of me for the past 5 years...

...Remembering two single women of about my age who committed suicide in recent years and understanding from my own experience how easily one could come to feel too lonely to go on...

...Having very recently chided someone's stereotypical disdain for Pollyanna as an unrealistic optimist, where in fact she is courageously honoring her minister father's love for the bible's many, many "rejoicing texts" by struggling to find something to rejoice about no matter what horrible things befall her...

...What caught my mind today was the centrality of rejoicing with others in this and the two preceding parables. The three parables are perfectly parallel: Something valuable is lost; it is found (through diligent searching in the case of the sheep and the silver talent, diligent hope and patience in the third parable); and rejoicing naturally ensues...rejoicing with relatives, friends and neighbors.

How have I overlooked, in these parables, the theme of rejoicing in community as a scriptural, spiritually important activity, all these years? I knew that celebrating--rejoicing--was important, and I've lived my life accordingly for a long time, but I never really "got" its spiritual significance until now. Possibly because there is no immediate family or community in my life at this time, to rejoice with or to mourn with.

Modern life co-opts the spiritual need of humans to celebrate and rejoice together, and trivializes it in many different ways. We are encouraged to celebrate "Hallmark holidays" like Mother's Day by purchasing unneeded gifts and eating unneeded food. We are encouraged to celebrate annual milestones like birthdays and anniversaries in the same manner. We are encouraged to make sports teams our idols, and celebrate their activities. We are supposed to celebrate "hump day" and "TGIF".

These are the kind of celebrating that the elder son resented not having been offered--the opportunity to make merry with his friends. A kind of meaningless celebration that is not about the successful hard work of mending of something broken, not about gratitude for a miracle, but simply about glorifying things that we take for granted. The eldest son, like today's culture, does not recognize the difference between revelry and true thanksgiving.

This kind of celebrating is simply so many excuses to indulge in excess, to spend money, to lose our souls in meaningless frenzies of spending and indulging. The economic system loves these sorts of celebrations. They are predictable. Commerce can tell us when and how to celebrate them, produce special foods and media bits and attire and memorabilia. Commerce can make it easy to "rejoice" because we can purchase everything we need.

In the end there is hardly a moment that we aren't supposed to be celebrating some pre-ordained "special day". Every day is special, according to the calendar. They blur together. Celebrating becomes a way of life. Any true miracles worthy of rejoicing are lost in the bustle of day-in, day-out celebrating. We become immune to rejoicing, numb to wonder.

What is lost is something precious. There is no room left to celebrate the little personal victories in our lives. Our neighbors are too busy to rejoice with us over the finding of our lost sheep, because it's Superbowl Sunday. They are too busy to join us in celebrating that we've found our lost coin, because they are out shopping for Halloween costumes and candy. They are too busy to join us in celebrating our reconciliation with a long-estranged loved one because they are taking all of the neighbor kids to the pool to celebrate someone's birthday with swimming and cake and ice cream and pizza and pop after which everyone is exhausted and strung out on sugar and broke.

It is not just that we are too busy celebrating to rejoice. We've also become a culture where these real causes of rejoicing could never be admitted in the first place. It's a shame to admit losing something (only a bad shepherd would lose a sheep--call the humane society! And why didn't she have those silver talents deposited in an FDIC insured account?) We don't talk about our family problems (unless we're rich enough that the media talks about them for us); if we haven't been able to share our heart-wrenching parental agony over Junior's running away with our credit card and not calling home, how can we explain our joy to the neighbors upon his chastened, repentant return?

Understanding that, these scriptures take on an even deeper meaning. Not only do these people--this culture we have sadly lost--have close relationships with families and neighbors so that they rejoice together over personal milestones, rather than empty conventional occasions, but they also are close enough that they can admit to one another the misfortunes and errors that have laid the grounds for the situation calling for rejoicing.

For nothing can be found unless we have somehow managed to lose it.

But a further sad coda on the theme. What do these parables become, when the rejoicing in community is stripped away? They are empty, nothing is left of them. There are a hundred sheep in the pen, ten coins in the purse, two sons working in the field. The journey of the human emotions and effort to attain these things is negated. A tree falling in the forest with no one to hear. Meaning is stripped away.

At some point, the unacknowledged struggle isn't simply worth it anymore. I wonder if this is what my departed friends discovered, and sought an end.

People need others to rejoice with, real rejoicing, the rejoicing of personal struggle and achievement.

Going Home

I was driving the truck home late. I'd come down Massachusetts, which I often do late at night because that's just about the right amount of night life for me. And I was first in line sitting at the red light, waiting to hear the words "WALK LIGHT IS ON TO CROSS 6TH STREET; WALK LIGHT IS ON" that would signal a green light for me to proceed across the bridge. Traffic was light, and I wasn't paying much attention to anything.

Never-the-less alert to my environment, I noticed when the man on the northwest side of the intersection moved. Suddenly, he turned, looked both ways, and bolted into the intersection. Was he trying to get across before the walk light was on to cross 6th street? He moved hesitantly at first, then boldly. But instead of heading to the corner next to me, he ran up to the driver's window of the truck.

In the streetlight shadows, long straggly hair flopping into his face as he ran, his behavior first inspired me to think he was someone I knew but just didn't recognize. Or someone who knew me by sight because of the covering, but whom I didn't particularly have acquaintance with. But as he reached the truck and spoke, I knew he was a stranger. Not even a bus customer, or he would have mentioned recognizing me.

"I live in North Lawrence. Can I pay you to take me across the bridge?" I was dumbstruck. This broke all the rules! Just this summer an lgbt person was badly beaten when strangers offered him a ride downtown at night. Now this strange, bold man was asking me to let him into my truck and drive him into a dimly lit section of town.

Everything stopped. "What on earth does God want me to do with THIS?" I wondered. Visions of axe murderers, carjackers, etc. threatened to take over my mind.

But the only thing to do seemed to be to gesture him to the passenger door with a solemn flick of my head. Profuse thanking ensued, clearly powered by alcohol. He held a handful of coins towards me, saying, "Here, gas money." "Just put your seatbelt on", I said quietly. After the second request, he complied.

As the walk light turned on to cross 6th street, I asked where he wanted to go, and he indicated a general area of the neighborhood. I drove to the nearest major intersection where I could easily continue on my way home. As we went, he continued to thank me. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye once, and saw that he was watching me intently. Yet I didn't feel afraid or threatened. I just drove serenely down familiar roads. "You're an angel," He went on. "A real angel of God. I'm a sinner. Thank you again...well, I'm not that much of a sinner, I'm a man of God, I just..." If I responded, it was with the slightest Mona Lisa smile of amusement at his classic alcohol-based reasoning.

"No," I said slowly. "I'm not an angel. I'm a child of God, and I'm a sinner, just like you." He lapsed into profuse thanks again.

Coming to an intersection near his destination, I stopped and said, "I'll need to turn here." Amid profuse thanks, he offered the money again, and again I refused. He left the truck and we went our separate ways.

Ever get the feeling you've just met an angel, as a test of your Christian integrity?

As I think back on this event, I realize once again the blessing of not being a news junky or watching a lot of TV or movies. I was able to make a rational assessment of the situation, rather than flashing back to images of some horror movie scene. I could just let the scene unfold on its own. And that left me free to do what Jesus might have done.

Coming to Christ

Some people are born into a Christian life, raised on it as well as the bread on their table. At some point they are asked to claim a deeper commitment to it, as a formal stage in their life journey.

Some people wander around for decades without any religion. In some cases, their lives become unmanageable, they hit rock bottom, and in the depths of brokenness they reach out to God as a last resort, and thus are led to give their lives to Christ.

It's plain to anyone that my life hasn't followed the first plan. So it's perfectly reasonable to think that there must have been some awful crisis that prompted my conversion. And it's probably human nature to look at my definitely non-bible-approved sexual/relational history, and come to the conclusion that the crippling burden of my carnal sins drove me to cry out to God for relief.

In fact, this doesn't seem to have been the case. In not one crisis did I ever think God would be any help whatsoever. I might have cried and screamed and thrown temper tantrums, but I certainly wasn't going to ASK for help from something that didn't exist, anyway.

God had to be sneakier with me. God courted me patiently during all those years I didn't even believe He existed. And when I finally started noticing Him, He wooed me. All that time, He was protecting me, fitting me for the work he had for me through the diverse experiences of my life, preparing me to be his servant. Whenever I decided to make that commitment.

The not-so-straight-and-narrow sexual history was (in hindsight) clearly part of that preparation.

For the occasion of Baptism at Peace Mennonite Church, it was the custom for the one being baptized and admitted to membership in the church to give a brief statement of their faith as part of the service. On February 25, 2001, I read these words to the congregation:

What I'm about to read won't make much sense. That's OK. It doesn't have to. I'm rummaging through a backpack I've been wearing all my life: some stuff I don't even remember, or know how it got there. Some of you will recognize bits and pieces and see that they are out of context or broken or inside out. That's ok, too--just how it is in a bag you've carried a long time. The cough drops come unwrapped and stick to the Kleenex and grocery store receipts, and there's some pennies, and magic beans a little kid gave me, some rocks, a dirty sock, some nuts and bolts and raisins and birdseed--well, YOU KNOW!

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A parable: A child watches a parade in a foreign city, surrounded by strangers whose ways make no sense. Her parents stand over her, hovering, keeping her safe from alien influences. The Emperor of that world walks by, wearing nothing. Her parents bend to whisper, "He's got nothing on." She is puzzled, then listens to the crowd around her describe the rare beauty of his garments to one another. "but He HAS GOT NOTHING ON!" she cries aloud. The foreign children throw sticks and stones at her. She clings to her parents.

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Childhood values: family values. Homemade dresses, saddle shoes. No cartoons, no bubble gum, no soda pop, no Barbie dolls, no paint-by-numbers, no movies, no social groups or activities, no church. No explanations that made sense. Everything scientific and educational.

In grade school, in Shaker Heights, Ohio, hymns. Tis a gift to be simple. Hiking the wonders of nature, identifying birds and flowers, rocks and fossils. Living in tents in Canada for a month every summer. Sailing; watching fish in their strange watery world under the docks. Tidepools; turning over rocks in the streams. Searching for living mysteries to unfold.

In high school, In Manhattan, Kansas, seeking to unfold mysteries of the spirit. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, the Tao Teh Ching; for the first time in my life, the Bible. Unitarian Fellowship: taped classical music, lectures on social issues. It's all about coffee, which I never drink. The youth group, which hides itself from me, does drugs. A few wise elders inspire me to a long life of service.

Tentative friendships with peers in the foreign city: pot-smoking Hippies, vicious Born-Agains, treacherous Charismatics, suicidal Lesbian Feminists, crazy Artists, shy Poets, condemning Baptists, hypocritical Preacher's Kids. Where to I fit? How CAN I fit when I still can't make sense of their ways, and can't articulate my own? I have a dream.

Independence hits like a brick wall. an unplanned child, a brutal marriage, divorce, homelessness. No work or living skills. A few friends hold hands through the storm of early adulthood, each similarly desperate for unique reasons. The dream, unattainable, is abandoned.

A life of fragments, pieces from different puzzles, ends that don't meet. Waling the void's edg, three years of celibacy, lesbian lovers, drunken old men, two-timing young ones. Women of the Heartlands, Women's Festival, the I Ching, the Wander Game, The Manhattan Mercury, in slipstream time, cycles into a dark night, spiraling down a twisted tortured mile. None of this is sustainable. Who tempts me to walk away?

Only years later, I realize that over those troubled waters there came a quiet bridge, a bridge to gently lead me to a new way of thinking, living, loving. It came so ordinarily that it's taken 20 years to see it: the More With Less Cookbook. Not another issue of the Watchtower, not a visit from the Sister Missionaries, not people on the street corner selling roses. I bought it at the local food Co-op. i knew I had "less", I wanted to know what to do with it. The stains document its centrality to my life: a toddler's scribbles, Whole Wheat Orange Bread, Fruit Crumble, Mini Pizzas, Tangerine Peels. Gather up the fragments.

I walk away from the castle: a retreat into the wilderness. No child now; she's in my parents' care. Vision quest. Sitting zazen twice a week. Chopping wood, carrying water. Walking to the mailbox. meeting my self for the first time. A wise woman guides me through dark nights, helping me learn to heal and love myself. How can we meet the gods face to face till we have faces? I remember that once I had a dream.

A voice emerges from the wilderness. A new life, a new job, another marriage. Still in a foreign country, but learning the language. K-State, then Friends University; Vegetable Crop Production, then Business Ethics.

Time and again I realize I've strayed from the path. I boldly abandon each wayward trail and strike out cross-country in the right direction. I don't know what the path is or where it's going; I only know it exists because I am learning to know when I am not on it. I remember fragments of a dream. I buy a house from a Mennonite family; and old hippy friend turned Mennonite repairs the stair rail.

A divorce, a job loss, another job, another marriage. Lawrence. The Episcopal Church calls me a child of God but denies me bread at His table--even the crumbs. Hundred dollar floral arrangements with South American flowers, while we pray for the poor. An old lady I've never seen before, with too much perfume, tell me to move from HER family's pew on Easter sunday. Does the Emperor have clothes?

I retreat again: church in the garden. I consider the lilies. A friend comes to gather wildflowers for his church; the third time I follow them. Here! The upper room is full of windows and sky, faces I danced with on Saturday, friends I'll dine with on Sunday. Sunday school discusses stewardship: sustainable agriculture, not a pledge drive.

Thanks to a dog, a farm falls in my lap, I lose the job. The dream! The path! God calls me to follow. He sends a flock of Quaker sheep--I listen--a flock of Mennonite sheep--I act. Mennonite hay. One good dog leads to another. A llama. I don't need a sailboat any more, I'm in charge of an ark! I begin to know how Noah felt.

Who tempts me to walk away? I spend one Lent in silent retreat, being the Lord's shepherd through lambing time. At midnight, by moonlight, I walk to the flock pastured by a stream, I move silently among them, I rest on the ground where they lie chewing their cuds. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. It is good. I consider the lilies.

Who tempts me to walk away? We spend another Lent studying TREK. Puzzle peices begin to fit. Tis a gift to be simple. Everything that is not of the farm and church fall away from me like an old skin: pieces from some other puzzle. Some are people I love; I have been transformed into something new that I have always already been, and they don't know how to follow. I'm sad, but without self-doubt. Chop water, carry wood. Tis a gift to be free. At church, each service holds some special, surprising message for me. Mandy's dad preached on teh Kingdom of God. Imagination caps! I come to the little children; I'm a child. There's room for me at the table, whenever I'm hungry. Weren't we supposed to remember Him EVERY time we shared bread with one another? Dream becomes vision. Tis a gift to come down where we ought to be.

Who tempts me to walk away? Separation and sin, a season of stress and strife. Misunderstanding, regrouping. For others, great good fortune far, far away. For me, eventually, the prodigal daughter returns. What is good, Phaedrus, and what is not good--need we anyone to tell us?

The Emperor has no clothes; He's given them all away. He tempts me to walk away, and welcomes me to His table. Actions speak louder than words. I wash my face with tears, time and again. This water will be fresh and sweet!

Congregational response: And when we find ourselves in the place just right we will be in the valley of love and delight.