God Still Is

 

I was away at a retreat this past weekend,

But I got to go home for a few minutes on Saturday.

While I was there, I took off my shoes.

As I was getting ready to leave,

I thought to myself,

“What color shoes did I have on? Blue or green?

That’s right. It was the green.”

(I have multiple pairs of the same shoes—just in different colors.)

So I put my shoes back on,

Got the stuff I’d gone home for,

And went back to the retreat.

 

When I got there and started talking to a friend,

She said,
“I see you changed shoes while you were home.”

Thinking to myself, “Oh. I must have put on the blue shoes after all,”

I looked down to see a blue shoe on my right foot…

And a green shoe on my left!

“Oh goshk,” I said. “I put on two different shoes.

And I even stood there and debated which ones to wear!”

We both laughed.

And then it was my turn to speak, so

I totally, 100% forgot about my mismatched shoes until someone later said,

“Umm, Deanna? Is there a reason you have on two different shoes? 😊”

 

Friends:

There I was, delivering a 25-minute talk about grace,

Playing my guitar,

Speaking about communion,

And serving communion to everyone in the group…

In totally mismatched shoes!

 

What a beautiful picture of proof that

I don’t have it all together!

Sometimes, I am a total mess.

Sometimes, I overthink.

Sometimes, I doubt.

Sometimes, I say or do stupid things.

Yet God still is…

 

Working to create good from my worst mistakes,

Working to create life from my deepest grief,

Working to create light in my darkest nights, and

Working to create hope in my anxiety-producing fears.

 

When I seem to have it together,

And when I clearly don’t,

God still is…

 

And God still is…

With you, too.

 

Thanks be to God.

Images from Camp

Four teenagers walking down the road carrying buckets to gather water. The house we were working on had no running water. We were working in a neighborhood that is falling into disrepair as residents are getting older and the town is channeling money elsewhere.

An 82-year-old woman sweeping grass off of her sidewalk, allowing me to finish sweeping for her as she told me how grateful she was for our presence across the street. Talking with her inspired a sidewalk cleaning project that rallied our work crew and gave them a sense of purpose and accomplishment. The grass in front of the house at which we were working had completely covered the sidewalk. In fact, the soil had built up to the point that it was over a foot deep in front of the steps. When we left, the sidewalk was clean and plans had been made for the yard-keeper at the abandoned house two houses over was making plans to clear the sidewalk in front of that house as well.

A group of white teenagers gathering around a middle-aged African American woman, praying with and for her in an effort to release her from the hoarding tendencies that had almost gotten her house condemned and receiving a blessing from her because of the positive path they were choosing. This prayer occurred on Friday, just before we packed up and moved out, and it blessed everyone involved, including our homeowner’s husband who caught my eye and gave me a grateful thumbs-up and nod of affirmation.

The “body of Christ” being shared with each participant by a beautifully humble staff member who radiated peace and joy through her smile and intentional eye contact. Most persons didn’t look at her as she said, “The body of Christ broken for you,” yet she still saw each person and served them the “bread of life.” I imagined her saying a prayer for each person as he/she approached, and I realized that what was happening in front of me was a depiction of what often happens in ministry: we serve yet we are often not seen and sometimes we are even ignored; yet still, we serve, praying that love of Christ will shine through us. The whole experience moved me to tears.

Jesus. 12-years-old. At the temple. Fully alive. Fully himself. Finding his call. Going home. Growing up. Jesus went home to grow up.

Seeing the words “everyone’s welcome here, no one has to hide” projected onto the screen. Hearing the words being sung. Feeling tears streaming down my face as I realized that the words we were singing were words I want to believe but words that haven’t always been shown to me. Everyone is welcome at God’s table. Now it’s up to us, the church, to show it.

Connected Through The Body of Christ

It’s been a little over a year since I walked into Jenny’s office and received the news that she was leaving counseling to go back into parish ministry. I cried. She cried. But I knew she was following God’s call for her life and that her greatest joy was not just in counseling but also in serving Eucharist to the body of believers…so…how could I begrudge her call?

Jenny is an Episcopal priest. I’ve long been fond of the Episcopal church and its liturgy. Even before Jenny went onto church staff, I had wanted to visit the church where she currently serves. One of my favorite college professors has played organ there for many years and I’d wanted to hear him play for some time. He’s absolutely amazing. Each time he plays, it’s as if the listener is at a recital. His hands and feet work together yet separately to play the keys and touch the pedals and work the stops and make truly awe-inspiring music. And so I went to hear him play yesterday…and also to hear Jenny preach…although I must admit I didn’t know the proper protocol for a former client going to visit her former counselor at her church!

I think that Baptists often miss out on the rich heritage of the church and the beautiful prayers and liturgies of countless church fathers and mothers who have gone before us. Though I spent a lot of time trying to figure out where we were in the litury yesterday (and secretly wishing I had taken my personal copy of the Book of Common Prayer—just because I have one ), I felt connected to centuries of believers in a rich liturgy of faith that surrounded me with the holy otherness and peace of Christ. Hearing and experiencing the language, sounds, patterns, and rhythms of faith passed down through generations caused me to be keenly aware of how big God is and how worthy God is of my awe and reverence.

Then Jenny spoke…and I was reminded that the Kingdom of God is open to all who choose to accept the invitation…and I was reminded that we each have a place at God’s table and that at God’s table we each find the acceptance for which we long…and I was reminded that it was Jenny who first helped me learn to accept that truth that I belong…that it was Jenny who helped me learn to believe that God loves me for me…that it was Jenny who gave me the language of being a person of worth and value…and that it was Jenny who taught me to sit with life, open myself to it, and accept the joy and grief that comes with living.

Because I didn’t know if I was breeching an ethical code of conduct by attending Jenny’s church, I hadn’t planned to take communion yesterday but had planned to remain part of the crowd, to blend in, and to slip out of the service quietly without making my presence known. But then my college professor saw me and smiled. And then I found myself with tears streaming down my face. And then I felt myself strangely compelled to walk forward. And then I found myself looking up into Jenny’s eyes and hearing her say, “Hey you…” and serving me the body of Christ…and then I realized just how significant that one action was—just how much meaning was held in that fraction of time.

Jenny, whose life and work changed my life and work by being the non-anxious presence of God to me, who left a profession in which she excelled in order to return to the parish to serve Eucharist and feel most complete, served me Eucharist—the body of Christ—the body of the one broken for me—the body of the one who gives life—the body of the one who fills me with the peace that I began to understand only when I realized and confessed my own utter brokenness...and that confession was made in the sacred space that God and I created with Jenny…God’s servant and light to me…so many years ago.

At the end of the service yesterday, I waited for my college professor to finish the postlude. When he finished, I joined a handful of others in applause and my professor sheepishly waved his thanks. Then I went outside and found Jenny. I listened to her be a good minister and then gave her a hug. Then we both stood there and grinned and I marveled at how far I’d come…and I silently thanked God that we are eternally connected…in, and through, the body of Christ.