Imagina-a-tion...

Halloween is one of those holidays where our family cheerfully buys into pagan/secular rirtuals. We decorate with ghosts and bats (the cheerful sort; I don't do really creepy); dress in costumes and pass out candy to all comers.

And of course, we also carve pumpkins. Once upon a time, we as parents did the actual cutting, and input from the progeny was pretty much limited to choosing shapes for eyes and nose, and determining how many teeth the mouth would contain. As the kids get older, however, they begin to do their own thing, and things get more... creative.

This one is Kyle's.

Further Adventures

The conference was over on Thursday, but I stayed over an extra day which a) saved some serious coin on the airfare, and b) gave me some time to spend with our daughter. Friday, we (Mark and Rev. Ref. came along as navigators) drove down to Indiana to have lunch with CJ. Along the way, we played a car game: finding things which began with consecutive letters of the alphabet. (Yes, an hour before I saw my child, and already I was practicing my parenting skills.). Mark also demonstrated his newest toy: A GPS navigator on his phone, which announced directions ("after 800 yards, turn left") in John Cleeve's best British Butler voice. We christened it Nigel.

We had a good visit (with a decent lunch, and lots of giggling and fun) then ran over to a nearby outlet mall so I could pick up a new pair of my preferred style of sneakers. I am not a meandering sort of shopper, so thought this would be quick-- drive over, run in, grab shoes, pay for shoes, run out. And all went as planned, until I got to step 4-- when I discovered my wallet was not in my coat pocket.

It really is amazing, how swiftly that desperate feeling can descend. How do I pay for the sneakers? Never mind the sneakers, I'm the driver on the rental car-- and now I don't have my license? Oh, #$% -- no license. I can't get on the plane to go home!

Searched the store-- nothing. Retraced our path back to the car-- nothing. So the salesclerk called security, while I alternated between trying not to panic, and mentally plotting how to get past the TSA Ziploc Patrol without a picture ID.

"Okay, bro-- you distract them by brandishing an unbagged tube of toothpaste, while I make a run for the gate!"

Okay, maybe not.

Here's the good news: the Official Security Dude called the customer service building, and discovered that some blessedly honest shopper had turned in a wallet. So we scurried over, and sure enough, there it was, completely intact-- cash, credit cards, and even my new Montana driver's license (complete with the lousy picture that my husband thoughtfully noted was incentive not to get pulled over, so I wouldn't have to show it to anyone).

So we left to get back, because the rental car needed to be returned by 6 PM. We were half an hour later leaving than I had hoped, because of the wallet thing, but I still hoped to make the deadline. After all, I've been making that drive for years, and I've learned a boatload of alternate routes to use when traffic gets snarky, as it inevitably does.

But Nigel kept contradicting me. Proposing other alternatives. Saying his ways were quicker, smoother, better...

Until, finally, I listened. This was a mistake. Nigel may have meant well, but he knows nothing about construction. Or badly timed street lights. Or rush hour traffic. Or other forms of idiocy that are standard procedure in Chicago.

Have I mentioned how much I do not miss all that?

Anyway we lost a lot of time on the "shortcut." Enough that we were worried about not making our deadline; and, as we were unable to return the car in the morning (we were scheduled to fly out before they opened), this would be a problem.

So, we did what any sensible group of clergy would do: we called for reinforcements.

"Okay, get over there, put your foot in the door, and stall for time. How? You're the Baptist-- start preaching!"

Whatever he did, it worked. We pulled in only a few minutes after six, to find the doors still open. Dropped off the car, and hitched a ride in the AngloBaptistMobile (aka the "Theological Short Bus") back to our hotel. Watched the last World Series game, and ate decent pizza.

Got up the next morning, and flew back to homes and families... and the Big Sky version of high rises at rush hour.

Nigel, eat your heart out.

Bread for the Journey!

I'm back! Miss me?

Yes, I was gone-- for several days, as a matter of fact. I flew back to Chicago on Tuesday for a combination Continuing Ed. seminar and my seminary's Alumni Days. A short summary of a busy time:

• Rev. Ref. and I flew out together, which made for a companionable journey. We were able to commiserate over his loss of small toiletries to security regulations which insist that lip balm is only safe if contained in a terrorist-proof ziploc bag.

• The flights were smooth; but a delay on the first leg of the trip made for a tight connection, and though we made it, our bags did not. They thankfully did arrive on the next flight, so that only meant a half-hour's delay at O'Hare before we could leave.

• I had myriad, all-too-brief opportunities to connect with a wonderful group of folks that I see far too seldom. This group includes a goodly number of bloggers: Tripp, Susie, Mark, AKMA, Frank, Beth, Laurel and Emily (whom I had met corporeally only once before, but felt as though I know her much better than that, thanks to the wonders of the blogiverse). There were also a group of amiable muggles there, blogless friends and friendly acquaintances to chat with and catch up on one another's lives. Time was far too short, in that way.

• What a gift, to fall back into the rhythm of daily worship-- Morning Prayer, Eucharist, Evensong-- in community. I did not get exactly get misty when I heard the bells calling us to chapel, but the sound did settle in my soul in a way that I had not even realized I had been missing. Even some ensuing liturgical critique conversation about style and theology (in which I took part, as there were points at which I had some issues) was happily familiar turf.

• The keynote speaker was marvelous! Diana Butler Bass has done some serious work. She looks at thriving, vibrant congregations which belie the conventional wisdom that churches in the "moderate to progressive" range of mainline Protestantism (Presbyterians, Lutherans, Methodists, Episcopalians and the like) will inevitably decline, while the "conservative" Evangelical churches are the only ones growing. Her contention is that the "conservative/liberal" spectrum is not actually the significant factor. Instead, the difference is less about the "right" polity than an emphasis on intentional, traditional Christian practice-- on encouragement to spiritual depth and vibrant discipleship, rather than simply striving for bodies in the pews (though the latter seems to follow). I am really enthusiastic about what I've heard and read. If you have not yet looked at any of her material, I would wholeheartedly recommend doing so.

Anniversary Waltz

One year ago... I was surrounded by love, and prayer, and the work of the Holy Spirit.



Today, as a result, I had the privilege of driving at sunrise...



...presiding at Eucharist twice, with the second celebration including the newest, most eager acolytes in the Diocese of Montana...



...taking Communion to a hospitalized parishioner, and coming home again.



Thank you, Jesus.

The tightest ship in the shipping business... ?

We do a lot of shopping online. Books for the parish discussion group, birthday gifts, business equipment... all sorts of things. We end up having something delivered to the house about once a week, and sometimes more often than that.

It should be simple, no? We order, companies ship, and shippers deliver, right? Wrong. Oh, we keep doing our part in keeping the system moving. USPS, DHL, UPS, FedEx... you name it, they've all had their turn, and they've all been here.

Eventually.

After several tries.

And extended delays on packages where timing has been critical.

The glitch in the system has been the fact that our home is in a new subdivision. It doesn't show up on any maps; Google and Mapquest are clueless about our existance. We have turned out to be a challenge to the local Delivery Dudes.

Okay, it's a problem. I get that. So the last few times, we have made a point of calling the scheduled courier, a day or two before the delivery date, to make sure they have a) accurate directions, and b) a phone number they can call if they have difficulty. And they are beginning to catch on.

(I will note here that the lone Delivery Dudette in the crowd-- the local postal carrier-- has had no trouble finding us. Conjecture as to any gender-linked ability to follow directions is left as an exercise for the reader).

However, even after several tries, the Delivery Dude with the Big Brown Truck still cannot seem to get it. It happened again today. We saw the truck drive down the street, just south of the neighborhood, so we waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

So my husband got online, and sure enough; the tracking info at the website said "NEED CORRECT ADDRESS FOR DELIVERY." In other words, the driver had not read his sheet. Not followed the directions we had called in two days ago. Not called the supplied phone number to check. AGAIN.

So I called tonight and complained. AGAIN. Firmly enough that this time I got to chat with a national supervisor.

Rest assured, Gentle Reader, that I was civil. I did not shout; I did not swear; I did not even (though I was greatly tempted) ask if they offered remedial training in finding one's backside using both hands and a 360° mirror booth.

The driver walked into the office while I was in conference with both the local manager and the customer service supervisor. He will be here tomorrow. After a chat with his supervisor tonight.

Maybe he won't need the mirror booth next time.

Gee, I wonder where I went?

HowManyOfMe.com

There are: 0 people with my name in the U.S.A. How many have your name?

(props to Rev. Dr. Mom for this one)

Rainy days and Mondays...

Someone forgot to tell Mother Nature to turn off the faucet. Rain, rain, and more rain. Drizzling down the back of necks; running in rivulets down the road; creating tiny mudslides in our still grassless yard. With a high temp today in the mid 40's, this made for a gloomy, chilly day.

It was great to be able to work out of the home office, which is my norm for Mondays-- liturgy planning, my first glimpse at the upcoming scriptures for next Sunday, catching up on phone calls and correspondence, etc.

The only time I set foot outdoors was to join the normal Monday lunch group from St. Alban's at the bowling alley (which also serves a decent menu). The talk was largely grounded in some satisfaction that they had been successful in their craft booth efforts at the fair over the weekend-- not only in earning a bit of money for the church, but simply in being able to work together to pull it off successfully, and to introduce the church to many folks who did not know we exist here in town. A little fundraising, a little fellowship, a little evangelism... they needed all of this, and they were justifiably pleased at the result.

I am proud of them, too.

"I feel the earth move under my feet..."

You know, the Lord moves in mysterious ways... but the ground beneath our feet usually does not.

I got a phone call from Mark this afternoon, telling me that he was okay. I was glad to hear it, but I hadn't really been wondering; after all, it was Sunday morning, and I had been focused on the day's schedule: Eucharist at two churches, then Fall Cleanup Day at a third, then stop by the YMCA craft fair on the way home (where one of my churches had a booth).

Then I found out why he was calling. It seems that there's been a little excitement in his neck of the woods.

The good news is that he was not injured-- nor were any of his parishioners. The quake was smaller on Oahu than on the Big Island; but still it was enough to knock out all the power to the whole island. That includes internet access, too, so one of my regular chat buddies will not be around for a bit. And phone service is sporadic.

But the Lord was still praised, and Eucharist shared this morning at St. George's, Pearl Harbor. Thanks be to God.

Veterinary medicine

Verbatim conversation from this afternoon:

Christian Ed Teacher: "How's that new little kitten of yours?"
Vicar: "She's doing well. We're taking her over to the vet tomorrow to be spayed."
Child A (overhearing): "What's spayed?"
Child B: "That's when they take off her overalls, so she can't have babies."

A modest proposal

What if forgiveness were living and active-- not only an event, but an ongoing process? "Not only with our lips, but in our lives. . ."

Diana Butler Bass has a suggestion in that regard. Give it some thought.

It is a sign of the Apocalypse?

Tonight was eerie at our house. Why? Someone purporting to be our nearly 12-year-old son

• came home from school with tomorrow's homework already done, and worked ahead.
• volunteered to set the table "all fancy, like in culinary arts class." This meant extra dishes (bread plate) and flatware (two forks), and cloth napkins folded properly.
  
• helped clean up without grumbling.
• elected to turn off the brand-new video game and read in front of the fireplace instead.
• voluntarily trotted off to get a shower without being asked, even remembering to wash his hair.
• went to bed on time-- actually, a few minutes early-- without argument or delaying tactics.

I'm not sure whether I should count my blessings or ask for ID.

Prayer and pasta

You all remember about the wildfires we've had recently? Twenty-six homes lost in Stillwater County, that same number of outbuildings (garages, barns, etc.) another 2-3 dozen ranches that lost fields and pastures in a wildfire that burned more than 200,000 acres-- nearly 400 square miles. The sights are beyond description.

Federal aid? Insert hollow laugh here. FEMA assistance, as it turns out, only kicks in if more than 100 property owners are "impacted." Which means, of course, that we are not even an agenda item on their docket.

Montanans are used to this. Bless them, grumbling is at a minimum. Most simply shrug their shoulders, not expecting anything different (some thankful that the politicians are not mucking things up any worse than they already are), and go on about the business of coping.

The community ministerial association (6 of the 7 local church leaders-- the RC priest there declines to participate thus far) decided a couple of weeks ago to provide folks an opportunity to come together to see if we could help with the coping. We decided to hold a spaghetti supper, and invite the neighbors. It was held Sunday night at the Evangelical church, because they have the largest parish hall. No ticket price was announced-- only a contribution of some sort to the fire relief fund we've set up. The only advance publicity, other than word of mouth, were some brief notices which appeared in the local papers a few days before.

You can read about the evening here. In an area of about 1000 residents, something like 350 came out to eat together. They went through gallons of (really, really incredible) homemade sauce, mountains of noodles, garlic bread and salad, uncounted carafes of coffee ("Fellowship Blend") and lemonade. There were enough desserts contributed to send a third world nation into a diabetic coma. And at the end of the evening, $8000 had been raised to go toward feeding livestock and restoring scorched land.

What a blessing we can be to one another!

No, thank you.

Sorry for the extended absence, friends. It's been necessary.

Today I received a recruiting letter from a group calling itself "Lay Episcopalians for the Anglican Communion." The language was, to put it in the kindest possible light, reactionary. This was my response. It perhaps explains why you will rarely read commentary here about what my parishioners term "The Goings On In The National Church."

*********************

Dear Sir:

Today I received your organization's email letter.

You are correct in one regard: I am indeed a priest of The Episcopal Church. As such, I have taken vows before God, testifying that "I do believe the Holy Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments to be the Word of God, and to contain all things necessary to salvation," and promising to "conform to the doctrine, discipline and worship of the Episcopal Church." I take those vows seriously. Were I to follow the path you suggest, I would be in violation of both the promise and the testimony.

Yes-- there are many ways in which I am ashamed of the actions of the church leadership in recent days. Like you, I find it appalling that bishops and other leaders move away from the truths of the Gospel. However, I believe that those who are fostering schismatic division with name-calling and condemnation (such as I read in your letter) to be just as guilty of this sort of sinful movement as those who have skirted or ignored the commonly accepted tenets of the faith without due regard for traditional teachings and faithful community discernment. "All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God," Paul's epistle to the Romans reminds us; "there is no one who is righteous, not one." Nowhere is this more evident than in the current debate.

I will not be party to it. I have but one ax to grind, sir, and that is the Gospel-- the good news of Jesus Christ, and the saving love of God offered to all people. As a disciple of our Lord, it is my privilege and solemn obligation to try to live and show by word and action the joy of this grace. I will be party to nothing that gets in the way of that.

The parable of the weeds in Matthew's gospel (Chapter 13) reminds us that the kingdom of God is not a pure and spotless community, nor will it be this side of the end of the age-- at which point the Master will do the sorting. I am not so arrogant as to try to usurp that position.

I do not know from what source you acquired my email address, nor do I care; it is certainly public knowledge. I will ask, however, that you remove my email address from your list, and that you not send me any more of your propaganda.

In Christ's service,
Jane+