Gifts

 Last week, I received a text from a friend who referred me to another friend who is writing a book on how to give good gifts. The writer is collecting stories from around the world on good gifts, bad gifts, tangible gifts, experiential gifts, gifts from friends and family, gifts from children, gifts given, gifts received…all things gifts.

 

In thinking of responses to the writer’s prompt, I thought of a slew of stories from my own life…probably the greatest of which is the story of my French horn:

 

When I was a sophomore in high school, I auditioned for and was accepted into a prestigious summer program in instrumental music. The only problem was that I needed my own instrument to attend, and I didn’t own a French horn.

 

I was attending a new high school at the time, so I didn’t think it odd when my band director handed me a brand-new, silver horn one day and told me to try it out. He told me that he was thinking of buying it for the school but wanted my opinion before doing so.

 

It was perfect. It was so very pretty and it played so very well. Even the case was nice! It was a HUGE improvement to the dented up, broken horn that I’d been playing, and I was excited for the school but sad for me because I was going to be moving at the end of the year. My dad had just been relocated with his job.

 

Fast forward to Christmas morning. After my older brother and sister and I opened our gifts, my brother said, “What’s that under the tree?” Completely oblivious, I went to the tree and noticed one more gift for me. It was rather large. At first, I thought it was the stereo I’d been wanting. Then I felt the shape of a French horn case. I thought, “Oh! Wow. My parents must have gotten a good deal on a used horn for me.” I knew that my family didn’t have the money for a new horn at the time.

Then I opened the bag. I immediately recognized the nice case. I started to cry. The whole thing with my band director had been a rouse. My parents had chosen a brand-new, beautiful horn for me and wanted to make sure I liked it before they bought it.

 

As I hugged the horn that Christmas morning, my whole family cried with me. It’s one of the only times I can remember us all crying together. And it was out of sheer happiness and joy.

 

To this day, when I play my not-so-brand-new-anymore silver horn, I think about the sacrifices that my parents must have made to give me that gift. I will never fully understand it, but I will always be grateful. 

 

What about you, friend? What is your gift story—good or bad? Please share. I’d love to hear! And who knows…maybe I’ll refer YOU to the book writer, too! 😊

Church Guilt

 I confess.

I didn’t want to go to church yesterday.

I wanted to stay at home in my pajamas and either lay in bed or work on tin art

While listening to the preacher preach.

 

I’ve gone to church most Sundays of my life.

I didn’t have a choice growing up,

Then church-guilt struck when I did have the choice so I went,

Then I worked on church staffs,

Then church-guilt struck again,

And then the pandemic hit.

Suddenly I found myself without guilt for staying home from church services that weren’t happening.

I volunteered to help pre-record services and I enjoyed that.

Those pandemic days are actually what strengthened my partnership with the church I attend now.

But I liked those guilt-free Sundays.

I liked staying home for a change.

So it’s no wonder that I liked staying home after surgery and

That I didn’t want to go yesterday.

 

But.

I went.

I wish I could tell you that church-guilt wasn’t part of the equation.

It was.

But it wasn’t the old church guilt that instilled fear of God’s wrath and punishment should I not attend--

Rather it was a new church guilt that knew that part of the whole would be missing if I weren’t there.

No. I’m not THAT important.

I just have a place in the choir and a responsibility to sing my part.

We are a team.

We lead worship together.

And when one of us is missing, we are not complete.

 

We can go at our spirituality alone.

We can stay at home and worship with the aid of the many churches that make it possible.

Sometimes we need to stay home because of physical or mental illness.

I know that.

But I also know that there’s something to being surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses and

Worshipping together.

There’s something to the standing and the sitting,

The songs and the silence,

The litanies and the prayers,

The giving and the receiving.

There’s something to being part of the Body of Christ,

And I’m thankful to now understand that

Out of grace, love, acceptance, and peace

Rather than out of church-guilt.

 

Dear God: You know our hearts. You know when we need to go at it alone and when we need to be part of something bigger. Help us to know the difference for ourselves and help us to desire to be with you in worship out of Love for you and neighbor instead of fear of you and gossip. The church can be a beautiful or a damning thing. Help us to make it beautiful and forgive us when we don’t. Amen.  

The Power of Music

 While I was recovering from surgery,

My 2^nd-5^th graders watched the movie “Coco.”

“Coco” is set in Mexico and focuses on the importance of both music and family.

I won’t go into all the details in case you haven’t seen the movie,

But I will share one major spoiler because it is such a poignant moment:

Throughout the movie, Coco, the great-grandmother, is silent from old age.

Yet in a beautiful testimony to the power of music,

She begins to sing as a song from her childhood is played.

The song unlocks her voice and her memory,

And she speaks.

 

I’ve seen this happen in real life.

Persons of old age, dementia, or neuro-divergence speak nothing,

Yet music stirs something in them that mere words cannot.

 

It is a very powerful thing.

 

The animators of “Coco” do a beautiful job depicting the moment when the music wakes up Coco.

At first, her hands respond, and then her face.

And when her hands respond, it reminds me of my G-mama listening to music.

G-mama wasn’t non-verbal, but her hands and face lit up when my mom played the piano.

She’d sit there and pat along,

Clasping hand in hand,

Sometimes keeping the beat,

Sometimes not,

But it didn’t matter.

The music was inside her.

It’s a simple memory.

But a lovely memory.

And I am thankful that an animated movie can bring it back.

 

Dear God: Our brains are amazing. The ways we remember. The things we recall. How some things plant themselves permanently while other things are easily forgotten is a mystery to me. Thank you for that mystery. And thank you for the mystery and power of music to tap into places that we didn’t know possible. Use music to unite us, God, in real time and in memory. And guard our hearts and brains in you. Always. Amen. 

Full Armor

 If you’ve never been pricked by a shard of tin,

Then don’t!

It hurts!

This is why one should always wear safety gloves while deconstructing and searching through boxes of tin,

And why one should always wear shoes in the tin art studio.

I’m good at the former.

I have three pairs of safety gloves, and I use them as I should.

I’m terrible at the latter.

I have a gazillion pairs of shoes, but I don’t always wear them in the studio…

Which is why I ended up with blood dripping on the floor from a bottom of the foot tin shard impalement on Saturday night.

Don’t worry. All was and is well. It was a minor injury.

But it made me go put on my safety flip flops :-p.

 

…

 

Many years ago, a camp friend gave a message on the passage of scripture the speaks about putting on the full armor of God.

I don’t remember everything she said,

I just remember walking away from her talk thinking about wearing a suit of God-protection over my body.

 

…

 

On Saturday, I sang at one of my former youth’s wedding.

1 Corinthians 13 was read just before I sang.

The very end of the passage says--

And now these three remain:

Faith, hope, and love,

But the greatest of these is love.

 

…

 

I go back to work today.

I wish that I could tell you I was ready,

But I’d be lying if I said that I was.

Even so, I’m going.

And I will be wearing my full armor of God,

Complete with imaginary safety gloves, safety shoes,

And make-shift band-aids to guard my fingers from blisters.

 

I challenge you to put on your armor, too, friend—

Put on your faith, hope, and love…

The greatest of which is love.

 

Amen.

Tin Arting Through Recovery

 Of all the before-surgery unknowns,

What to expect during recovery was the biggest.

I didn’t know if I’d be in bed for three weeks or

If I’d be up and moving.

I didn’t know if I’d be in tremendous amounts of pain or

If the pain would go away quickly.

I didn’t know if I’d be lonely or

If the time away would be nourishing.

I didn’t know if I’d be bored or

If I’d settle into the healing process.

 

Thankfully, I’ve been able to strike a balance between the either/or’s,

And I’ve been able to live into the and’s.

I’ve been in bed AND up and moving around the house.

I’ve been in pain AND managed the pain.

I’ve been by myself AND the world has come to me via texts, cards, and visits.

I’ve been going at a slow pace AND I’ve kept my mind and body engaged.

I haven’t binge watched any shows or movies.

I haven’t read any books.

I haven’t been accomplishing a long to-do list.

But I have been doing tin art—

And it has been therapeutic for me.

 

I took a tin art class with Thomas The Tin Art Teacher on the Saturday before my surgery.

I wanted to make something symbolic of my surgery,

But I couldn’t bring myself to do it in a class full of people.

So I brought home the design and determined to make it when I felt better.

 

I tried my hand at some tin art with Heidi The Librarian on the Friday night after surgery.

It was too soon, though, so I had to stop halfway through.

A couple of days later, when I went back to the work I’d done,

I quickly realized how terrible it was.

But I wasn’t deterred. I finished it. And I entitled it, “The Drugged Double Quartet.”

Then Barb The Art Teacher came over and we made, “Monarch Butterfly.”

Then I got to the piece that I wanted to make in class: “The Sad, Little Uterus.”

I giggled my way through the piece and decided that I needed to give it to my doctor.

I decided, too, that if I was going to present her with a sad, little uterus,

Then I also needed to present her with “The Happy, Little Uterus.”

(I gave them both to her at my follow-up visit and she laughed and laughed.)

 

After making the uteri, I finished a small quilt square for a friend,

Then made “Welcome Home” for another friend,

Then made “Friendship” because the blackout poem inspired me,

Then made a star quilt square from a design my mom picked out,

Then made a collage-like quilt square from a tin that my mom’s best friend bought me,

And finally made a plank-like quilt square that my mom did the math and drew the pattern for.

 

I’ve worked when I’ve felt like working.

I’ve rested when I’ve felt like resting.

I’ve received approval from my doctor and Joe The Counselor

For resting while also staying engaged…

And, overall, I’ve had a good recovery.

 

I’m anxious about returning to the real-world next week.

I have a feeling that I’ll be tired and that it’ll be super easy to over-exert myself.

But I’m thankful for all the thoughts, prayers, well-wishes, and love that have been sent my way.

 

May we not normalize surgery,

But may we normalize the rest, care, concern, and empathy that I have received through the process.

 

Amen.

More On Fear

 On Saturday night, I posted a note entitled, “What Are We So Afraid Of?”

 

In response to the note, a deeply respected former missionary, now friend, gently asked the question: When did disagreeing with another person’s point of view become equated with fear?

 

Late that night, in a sleepy haze, I simply responded: “That’s a good question. I don’t think that disagreeing is always fear. I think it becomes fear when it shuts us down to being open to communication with another person or group of people—when it leads to a judgment that is held with an attitude of moral superiority and keeps us from seeing and loving and hearing the person or group of people. There are a lot of things I disagree with. But I try not to let those things interfere with the relationship or the good of what could be.”

 

Upon further reflection, I’ve realized a few more things:

 

I am an ENFJ on the Myers Briggs. Harmony in relationships is the single most important thing in my life; therefore, I am hopelessly committed to being in relationship with people—in finding the good in the person and figuring out how to forge forward from there. Even with people that I do not like—and there are people that I do not like—I give the benefit of the doubt and attempt to love them with a love deeper than human liking. I try to remember that we are all created in God’s image and that God loves each of us…even though it’s hard to understand how God can love those who perpetuate hate. I think that my late night answer reflects this deep desire to be in relationship with people…yet I know that people who are ST’s on the Myers Briggs may feel completely different.

 

My first counselor, Jenny the Counselor, narrowed down dreams into two categories: fear dreams and wish/hope dreams. While the two categories seem rather simple for the intricate world of dreams, I’ve come to appreciate her concise categories. I often label my dreams as one or the other and the simple act of labeling helps me understand where I am at that moment.

 

As such, I’ve realized that these two categories have spread into more of my life’s labeling. I think that most things are either fear or hope. I think that fear drives much of modern society and that media plays on the idea of fear—fear of losing money, fear of getting fat, fear of getting old, fear of dying, fear of violence, fear of failure, fear of being wrong, fear of someone else being right, fear of someone else’s success, fear of being mocked and ridiculed, fear of the different, fear of losing power, fear of the unknown, and the fears could go on. So I think that my late night question is rooted in my understanding of fear. I don’t necessarily mean fear in a true psychological sense—as in fight, flight, or freeze—as in looking out for lions—although that fear is very real. I mean fear as the opposite of hope—the opposite of wish—the opposite of goodness—the opposite of peace.

 

Finally, I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again: I think we’ve forgotten how to disagree. No matter what I do, I cannot MAKE someone change his/her mind. I can speak my truth. I can act out my truth in love. I can fight for my truth. But I cannot force another person to believe like me. But neither can I choose not to love them. This goes back to my ENFJ. I will fight for some type of relationship while others will disassociate with those who don’t agree. Either way, words shouldn’t be spoken in judgmental, hateful anger or disdain. Words should be spoken with righteous anger or respect, and the good and salvation of all humankind should be the goal. 

 

May we learn to identify fear for fear and hope for hope, and may we remember how to disagree.

 

May we live in healthy relationship with one another, and may goodness and salvation be our light.

 

There are a lot of ugly things out there. A lot of things truly to be afraid of. But there is hope as well.

 

And there is love. And true love drives out fear.

 

Amen. 

What Are We So Afraid Of?

 I’ve been quiet for the past few days, but my mind has been asking one question, over and over again, on repeat:

 

What are we so afraid of?

 

The question first popped into my mind as I read an article about a family boycotting Budweiser over the company’s support of the LGBTQ+ community.

 

It continued when I read the headline of lawmakers in TN being ousted from their jobs because of their actions and stance on gun reform.

 

It remained as I read the post of a friend feeling that she was being persecuted because of her belief in God.

 

And it solidified as I learned of an acquaintance’s wedding that wasn’t supported by her home church or family because they didn’t like her choice of partner.

 

What are we so afraid of?

 

I know we all have moral convictions.

I know that most of us have spiritual convictions.

I know that we all like to be right.

I know that being wrong is hard.

 

But what if life isn’t about being right or wrong?

And what if life is not about forcing our moral and spiritual convictions on others?

 

Jesus did not live a life of coercion.

He presented his life, his actions, his teachings to those around him and he let them choose whether or not to follow.

The only people he pushed away and against were the Pharisees—

The religious leaders who thought they knew it all—

But even for the Pharisees, he made a way for life abundant and eternal.

Jesus was not afraid of the outcast, or the sinner, or the person from a different culture, or of love.

Jesus was not afraid of making a radical stance against that which denied others of their human rights.

Jesus was not afraid of speaking out against violence or of standing up for Peace.

This Jesus is the Jesus that Christians profess to follow…

And yet…

There is so much judgment,

So much hate,

So much condemnation,

So much fear…

Of the different, of the sinner, of the “wrong.”

 

For days, I’ve been trying to make sense of this.

I’ve been trying to figure out an answer to the question:

Why we are so afraid?

And tonight, on this Silent Saturday,

Rain falling outside,

I concede.

I just know that today, in the silence and stillness of the in between,

In the moments that we will never know everything about,

A dead Jesus defeated death and condemnation in a process that would cause him to arise on Easter morn.

 

God, help us to stop living in fear of one another, especially those who claim to be Christian,

and help us to live in the hope of your resurrection and all the good that is to come. Amen.

Thoughts on the Nativity...During Holy Week

 Don’t laugh.

But I just took down my nativity sets yesterday.

I like to leave them up for a little while after Christmas,

But this year that little while turned into a long while and almost greeted Easter.

 

I have quite a few nativity sets—

Some from G-mama,

Some from my mom,

Some from my aunt,

Some from various other places.

My largest set is my Willow Tree set that my mom gave me one piece at a time.

 

The Willow Tree set takes up an entire table in the front hallway.

The rest of the sets share shelf space in the back hallway.

As we put away the sets yesterday,

We found the baby Jesus’s mixed up and placed in sets where they didn’t belong.

It took us a moment to realize what was going on,

And then we laughed.

We have a friend who likes to rearrange the smaller sets.

It looks like the friend struck again!

 

I started thinking, though:

Isn’t my friend’s rearrangement precisely what Jesus came to do?

Crude baby Jesus in the midst of the ornate.

Black baby Jesus in the midst of the white.

Wooden baby Jesus in the midst of the silver.

Stone baby Jesus in the midst of the ceramic.

Poor in the midst of the rich.

Unassuming in the midst of the bold.

Jesus exactly where Jesus isn’t supposed to go,

Boundary breaking, love-inducing

Jesus.

 

…

 

As I took down my Willow Tree set,

The boxes demanded that I put away the people first.

Toward the end, with only infrastructure remaining,

I started thinking about the stable.

We don’t know where it was.

It didn’t make the national registry of historic places.

We don’t know how long Jesus stayed there.

It didn’t become his permanent home.

We don’t know exactly what took place within its walls.

It didn’t have security footage to give us a play by play of Jesus’s birth.

Yet we know that that stable, or cave, or room,

Was, for one moment, a holy place.

Its walls contained within it the sacred

And served a purpose much greater than anything anyone ever imagined.

 

…

 

This Holy Week, may our messy lives be the infrastructure for holy, sacred moments and may we allow a boundary-crossing, love-inducing Jesus to make his home with us and live through us in ways that defy the logic of this world. Amen. 

Voices In Worship

 My pastor didn’t preach yesterday.

It was Palm Sunday--

A huge Sunday in the church universal.

Yet she didn’t preach.

 

This is unheard of in many church traditions.

What is “worship” without a sermon?

Isn’t the entire service of worship just the warm-up to the sermon—

The precise moment of deliverance of the message?

 

It turns out that the answer can be no—

That worship can be designed and experienced without the sermon being the focal point—

That the message and action can come through praying, singing, silence, and

The actual Word of God.

 

That’s what happened yesterday.

Many voices from many congregants worked together to read Matthew’s account of Holy Week.

Different cadences, different timbres, different life experiences,

Reading the same story and delivering God’s message without there being a sermon at all.

 

As I lay in bed listening to the voices,

Not knowing exactly whose voice was whose,

I marveled at how those voices were joining with millions of other voices around the world,

Experiencing God’s story

Together.

 

In a time when popular worship is characterized as a rock concert or motivational speaking event,

May we remember that worship is about believers coming together as one,

Unifying our voices in praise and adoration of the One Who Is…

And is to come.

 

Amen.