New Car Blessing and Curse

We recently bought a new car which concluded on a surprisingly humorous note. The setting for this final moment was set up from the beginning of the process as we got to know our Toyota salesman, Dan. Dan was very nice young man, just out of school - having only worked at the dealership for about six months. As my husband and I sat at his desk, cordially working out our 'deal' (haha), the chit-chat somehow came around to Dan's need for a new pair of glasses. Now Dan had a really good thing going, I assured him; those little, oval rimmed glasses and his short brown hair gave him the perfect Rabbi look; very trustworthy (from a pastor's point of view). From that point on, Matt and I called him Rabbi Dan.

Well, the sale went through and we set a date to pick up our new chocolate brown, loaded Rav 4, which we love shamelessly, in as much as one can love a car, which is, I confess, just short of idolatry. When we got there Dan met us to warn us that all was good, except for one thing. He apologized profusely and said he thought it must have been a joke - what are the chances of 'this' happening? He walked us around to the back of the car and showed us the license plate, which ended in 6666. He was truly horrified that of all the numerical possibilities, this plate would end up on a pastor's car. I laughed and told him that it was really fitting for me actually and that those numbers were code for: Hell on wheels, which describes me perfectly and that I took no offense. I'm not sure which was more unsettling to him, the plate or the explanation.

At any rate, the car is great and has provided a good number of laughs to those with a keen eye to find the irony of this situation. My 16 year old daughter is now driving and spends a fair number of hours behind the wheel. She now shares the legacy of a 6666 driver - I sit in the passenger seat chanting the psalms, "my mouth is as dry as pot shards," "save me O God, save me."

We recently learned that Rabbi Dan had left his position at the dealership. And we're sorry we never had the chance to tell him how much we enjoyed have such a nice sales-guy. So where ever you are Rabbi Dan - thanks so much for the laughs - we wish you the best.

The lessons of waiting

Yesterday, my daughter, who is sixteen, expressed her frustration that it seemed that she seemed to be waiting for everything. Waiting to get the braces off her teeth, waiting to get her license, waiting to get her grade in geometry up, waiting for a particular boy she knows to grow up (ie., man up). I can remember being that age and feeling like everything seemed to take forever. But I also remember that in the back of my mind I thought this waiting phase was only temporary, part of being a teen and not a full-fledged adult yet. But I was wrong about that, all of life is about waiting for something. I explained: You wait to get accepted into college, wait to finally get out of your parents house, wait to graduate, wait to get into grad school, wait to start, wait to graduate, wait to get a job interview, wait to get hired, wait to meet the "right" guy, wait to get engaged, wait to get married, wait to get pregnant, wait for the birth, . . . . and the waiting goes on and on. Of course these are just some of the major milestones, at least the ones that reflected my own life experience - hers could be very different, but she got the picture.

This is not the end of the story I pointed out. After a while you realize two things. First, that the waiting part can be part of the fun of life as well as an exercise in practicing patience. There is something exciting about waiting - if what you're waiting for is something you really want, like those milestones. The patience part become useful when you're waiting for something you don't want - like certain diagnosis, or in other matters for which waiting is a form of torture. Learning to wait well is part of a life lived well. The second thing is that sometimes, when what you've been waiting for finally comes to fruition, you wonder, "So this is it?" Getting what you want can, on occasion, fall into the category of, "Be careful what you pray for." Just enjoy all of your life, the waiting and the milestones, the big things and all the little ones; enjoy it all and appreciate the richness of it all, I told her.

But there is one kind of waiting, that I did not tell her about; the kind of waiting people sometimes do in their later years. The kind of waiting I have felt or heard from some very old or very sick people I've known. One man I recall from many years ago, would tell me that at age 92 he had outlived all three of his children (which no one should ever have to do), his body was shot, and he was simply tired of living. He couldn't understand why he kept waking up every morning when each night he prayed he wouldn't. He was waiting to die. One morning though he didn't wake up. And I'm sure that in the end, what he found waiting for him, was worth the wait.

In the congregation I serve there are many of us who have parents who are now in their latter years; some of whom are experiencing this sense of profound waiting. I think of my father, who is so much like the one I mentioned above. He too, having outlived one of his kids, and is now in hospice, waits for death. There's no way to downplay this in order to make it more palatable. This is not part of the fun of living; nor should it be sentimentalized in any form as such. There is a reason there are no Hallmark cards for such occasions. But it is a time in which how well we learned to be patient can influence not only how we perceive this time-standing-still, but how it is experienced by those waiting with us.

So my hope for my children as they are starting out on their long journeys of waiting and experiencing, is that they learn to wait gracefully; that is, that they find ways for wisdom and peace to replace impatience. There's always time to get there, sometimes more or less than we would want, but ultimately we choose how to spend it, suffer it, or savor it.

The Languages of God-Speak

It has taken a lot of years for me to learn and appreciate the many languages of God-Speak as I was busy working out what I was going to do when I grew up. Early on I didn't spend a lot of time waiting for signs or asking for a divine opinion. I just made a plan for my future and moved ahead, even if there was a little hint of a feeling that perhaps I should rethink matters, or wait. Mysteriously one of three things occurred to whatever I had planned: it was blocked from moving ahead, or it went ahead with a regrettable outcome, or it went forward without a hitch and the outcome was far better than I could have ever imagined.

Communicating with God is ultimately more about validating our singular and unique God-experiences rather than trying to do something to invoke God to speak or act decisively, or worse, try to fit those experiences into whatever molds we have cast. God's job is to initiate the conversation. Our job is to learn the various languages of God-Speak.

Here are a few languages of God-Speak that I have learned. One is to read how God speaks into that which he has created, my physical being. Here I have found it easier to discern what God does not want me to do than what to do. Its that really awful feeling in my gut as I imagine a new path or idea that is totally wrong, no matter how good it seems in the light of day. Having gone against that feeling in my gut only later to have to work myself out of difficult situations has served educational, albeit unfortunate. Over time I've realized that this is not simple anxiety, but mysterious divine guidance away from what would surely be a mistake.

Other languages of God-Speak are visual images and visions. Some years ago, I went through a time when I saw colorful, non-nondescript images just before I went to sleep at night. In the dark, with my eyes closed, I suddenly began to see palates of illuminated colors. They came and went with no warning, unbidden. When they appeared they enveloped me; as if I had stepped into them. It was to know God's own happiness. These color palates were always moving; blending and changing like an abstract version of a kaleidescope. But these images of color and energy were short-lived and have not reappeared in over 15 years. I long for them still. And on two separate and unrelated occasions I experienced clear, unexpected visions that changed the course of my life in ways I could not have predicted nor the resulting joy of living in God's stead.

The final learned language of God-Speak is quite unoriginal. From time to time, over a span of a few years, I would awaken in the night after clearly hearing my name called. The voice was so loud and so real I just knew someone was standing in the room calling my name. I can't help but think of Samuel's call in the night when I think of it now. And in at least two instances that come to mind, I clearly heard the prophetic voice of God - both prophesies came to pass.

These are some of the languages of God-Speak; the mysterious, delicious, nearly intoxicating ways God speaks into our lives, unexpectedly in random moments, prosperous in possibility and promise.

Blunder Gracefully

You know you're tired when you take the dog medication with your own.  Note to self:  do not multi-task when you're tired, especially when rationing out medications. It wouldn't be so bad if this wasn't the second time in 6 months I've had to call poison control to advise me on an accidental ingestion.  The first time was during the summer when I took a double dose of Malaria prevention medication before returning to Brazil all because I mis-read the directions on the package.  Like then, the cheerful person at the poison control call desk assured me that my dog's anti-inflammatory medication would have no ill effect.

Speaking of accidential poisioning... My husband was up late last night paying some bills on-line when he came across our well water test results from last March.  Who knows what possessed him to read over them at 11pm, and not say, sometime closer to March 23, when we received them.  Well, the poor man came to bed completely shaken and guilt-ridden when he discovered that we apparently had a significantly high amount of arsenic in our well water. I too was horrified to learn we'd been all been ingesting poison for five years! But before turning in he'd spent a couple of hours researching water filters that remove arsenic.  Finding a suitable unit, he ordered it.  In the morning it occurred to me to take a look over the test results for myself.  I read the results as "not detectable."  But what do I know?  So I called the lab and had this result confirmed.  Sure enough, turns out we have really great drinking water - not a bit of arsenic to be found.  Perplexed I went through the paperwork once more and found a SAMPLE results form; arsenic was illustrated as very high.  Uuummm.... cancelled the filter order in the nick of time.  An arsenic  water filter was not on my Christmas wish list.  Another wild blunder at the Gibbon's house by two people clearly a bit distracted.

My mother always used to say, never try to sew or knit or work on any project actually at bedtime or you'll just end up doing it over or totally ruining it.  I got the sewing and knitting part (not by actually listening to her sage advice but the old fashioned way - by ignoring her advice.) Second note to self: add bill paying to the list of things that should not be left to the end of the day.  Funny how as the years pass, that list seems to grow and grow.  How many times have I thought how nifty it would be to get the bread machine filled and the timer set before bed so that the family could have fresh-baked bread in the morning only to discover that I'd forgotten to add the yeast.  A brown brick smelling deceptively like yummy hot, fresh bread is quite a disappointment.  Late-night laundry has been recently included on this list.  Waking up to a load of pinks in the morning that used to be whites the night before has its drawbacks.  (If only I had remembered that I put that red rug in the washer earlier in the day and planned to do a dark load next....)  Ah, the mind is a terrible thing to lose.

Laughing at oneself (and with one's spouse) is the only salve that will cool this irritant.  It would be easy to land an internal wincing blow with that critical eye under which no error goes undetected.  But there really is no end to the episodes of mischief I unwittingly unleash on a daily basis. It seems wiser to share my blunders and laugh a little, or sigh a lot, as the case may be. After all, it is impossible to age gracefully if there's no grace involved.

There will be a healing

While at lunch with my colleagues the other day I heard a story that made me really think about the work of healing.  This pastor told the group about a visit he'd had with someone who was unwell. He explained that he had begun his prayer by saying:  "I'm going to anoint you with oil and there will be a healing.  I don't know if it will be physical, or emotional or spiritual, but there will be a healing."  He prayed for her and anointed her, invoking the holy spirit to heal her. He said that when the prayer ended, he heard her exhale a deep sigh - as if some unseen burden had dislodged itself and departed.  What intrigues me about this story is not the ending but how it begins.  It begins with the confidently spoken expectation of God's will to heal.  

Very early in my ordained life I was asked to pray the last rites for a woman I'd never met who was dying of cancer; she was in the worst pain I had ever seen.  I remember sitting alone with her in that stark hospital room feeling so completely inadequate.  As I opened the book that contained the prayers for anointing the dying, I wondered to myself, "Holy God, what good are these words? They are only words.  What good can come of my simply speaking words? Who am I that my words should carry such weight?"  Nonetheless, I proceeded.  When I came to the words of the rite: "Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world . . ."  she did.  She died a peaceful death, quiet, still, calm, restful, and free, wholly free.  People of faith expect prayers to be answered.  How bold, how beautiful a thing to say it up front. Today, right now, there will be a healing.

Naturally, we have specific things in mind when we pray, said or unsaid.  But sometimes our desires and expectations don't match the greater need.  What I wanted for this particular person at the end of her life was that she longer be in pain, and that her death, whenever it came, would be peaceful. But the goodness and mercy of God provided both.  

I recently read in an article in Christian Century magazine that many a good Christian spend their days searching for God's will for their lives.  It was pointed out that, in fact, no searching is necessary.  God's will has already been made quite clear:  that we love God with our whole heart, and love our neighbors as ourselves.  To conform our lives to these two ends can easily fill every waking moment of a lifetime.  Truly, we know what is required of us, but it is often easier to keep searching for that one right thing that will make all the rest of our lives make sense.  This perspective can really make a difference in the things we pray for as well.  Imagine if we framed our every prayer as an act of love for God with the sole intention of blessing the life of another in as much as we would wish to be as blessed?  Perhaps we would begin each prayer by saying, "By your hand, O God, there will be a healing."

The Perfection of Love

There are things that still rattle around in my mind years after hearing them. The most random things can take up residence and have an ongoing influence on the way I perceive life. Several years ago I heard a sermon by The Rev. Cn. Gregory Hinton, of St. Paul's Episcopal, Wellsboro on the occasion of a mid-week Lenten worship service. I can no longer remember the exact text, other than it was a psalm. But I do recall hearing one thing that has stuck with me. The core of his homily was that the opposite of faith is not disbelief, it is despair; to be without hope.

Recent national headlines announced the suicides of two college students, two in a single week. They were completely different situations, but equally tragic. What lies at the root of both is despair. Suicide is the raw product of despair; it is the fruit of hopelessness. However, there is another form of despair that is much more subtle and just as destructive.

One of the above situations included a young man who videotaped his unknowing dorm mate while he had a friend visiting. Shortly after a video of an intimate moment between two young men in the "privacy" of the dorm room was then distributed over the internet. The suicide of the victimized room mate followed shortly. The despair of the victim could not be more clear or understandable. The despair of the indiscreet voyeur not so.

What motivates a person to intentionally inflict pain and suffering on another? Fun? A degenerate sense of humor? Notoriety? Popularity? Insecurity? Meanness? Some of these things may apply, but it is despair that lies at the root of them all; a vacuum in which there is the absence of faithfulness in anything beyond one's self. Only despair openly entertains such aggressive acts against another. Despair suggests a world view without hope. A world view that begins at one's feet and ends at the far end of one's own shadow; self-satisfaction, self-centered, self-obsession, self-degradation, self-loathing, self-hating, self-destruction. Despair disallows empathy for another. It openly contradicts rational responses and actions. It leaves behind a trail of disaffected perpetrators and an avalanche of perplexed victims.

There is an antidote, a plunge into the antithesis of despair; its rival and archenemy: Faith. Faith in something bigger and authentically better then anything that we can capture, position or manipulate for our own short-sighted motives. There is no perfect definition for this bigger and better object of reverence and awe, other than, perhaps Love (with a capital L). The love (lower case l) we know in this earthly realm is filled with promise and joy, but is also hapless and unjust, often unqualified, and falls quite short of the bigger and authentically better Love. This Love does not get caught up in the slippery slopes of our lives; it remains constant and sure, presumes nothing, but expects much. Much care and concern for those who share our world, many acts of kindness for nothing more than the ongoing perpetuation of itself. It is not negated by acts of despair, but absorbs them like a dry sponge and expunges them. It is the only perfect thing we'll ever know in this life. Call Love what you wish; the God of believers; an undefined object of reverence for the Spiritually inclined; Hope for the disenchanted and disillusioned. But fall in love with Love and dispense with despair.

Running with Foxes and Mountains Lions

There is no shortage of nice dirt roads to run in the rural area where I live in Central PA.  But there is a particular route I enjoy the most.  It's familiar and I know what I should be able to expect from my body as I bound over the terrain.  It's a mile and a half of gentle downhill or flat running with only one mildly demanding hill followed by a mile and a half of steady uphill and two challenging hills.  (And there's no shame in walking I say to myself frequently!)  It's a good workout that I can knock out in about 35 minutes.  From this basic route there are ample possible additions to increase the run by any number of miles.  I trained for a half marathon using this basic route and its variations earlier this year.  

Many runners I know don't enjoy running over the same ground day after day, week in week out.  They complain that always running in the same place is boring.  Perhaps.  But over months of repetition it is more like being in the company of an old friend than performing a tired routine.  The most surprising thing about this road is that it is always changing - every day it looks different.  With four distinct seasons there are of course the obvious shifts - weather being the most noteable.  Though the real changes are those that are not among the obvious.  Once a year the township grates the road, oohh, aahh.  At another time, they cover it with gravel (ugh!) at which time it become an obstacle course.  In the spring the fields are worked with liquid manure (perfume, we call it out here) and later turned under.  Another run and they've been planted with either corn or hay or clover.  Week by week the crops grow.  By later summer I can't even see over the tall corn stalks that line the road.  I think of all the scary movies I've seen where people are trapped or lost in corn fields.  Then one day, the fields will have been harvested leaving only brown stalks stick up a foot in the dark, rich soil.  The fall colors across the hills are stunning.  Another palate has been painted.  In the early morning fog layers the valleys between the hills.  Everything seems so crisp and clean.  Running mid-morning in the summer requires the companionship of my best friend, DEET.  I giggle to myself when I think how it must look to see this middle aged woman zig-zagging all over the road while beating off deer flies with a baseball cap.

And then there are the other, more tame animals with whom I share the road.  The birds vary from very small to the very noisy.  The larger hawks that sit on big round hay bales and watch for scurrying mice on newly hayed fields and the huge blue heron that sits unmoving in the creek at the end of the road are particular favorites.  Ground hogs are considered a nuisance by the farmers but to me they are just fellow inhabitants of this lovely stretch of country road.  This spring as the ground began to thaw and the buds grew to bursting on the trees there appeared a litter of young red foxes. My husband and I reckoned that the nest was near a shallow gully with a stream that runs under the road.  Undisturbed they played in the lightly traveled road, always staying near to home base.  Mama fox was always well hidden though doubtlessly close by.  Any sign of another life form or engine noise would cause them to scatter into the safe cover of roadside brush.  But the days grew warmer and longer and there have been no more sightings.

This week as the leaves began to fall from the trees en masse, a most unusual sighting occurred: a small litter of mountain lion cubs.  Playfully romping together and bounding over one another, twice they were seen in the early morning hours.  While I've seen these interesting animals only by car and so far not on foot, I am keenly aware of exactly where I saw them.  Seeing them from the safety on an enclosed car is probably a good thing; I'm not sure how momma mountain lion would feel about an up close encounter with (dinner) a lone runner and her cubs.  Actually, I'm far more afraid of the animals behind the wheels of their vehicles that don't seem to notice that runner they almost hit as they zoomed by!  Nonetheless, as  I run I train my eyes round particular bends in the roads and strain to see as far ahead as I can in hopes of a National Geographic moment!  In truth, I'm happy to settle for curiously peering down the newly created wear paths marked by the broken stems and tall grasses from these young, wild residents with whom I share this road.  This ever-changing, never dull, never boring three miles of God's perfection.