Making Allowances ~

It’s an old joke: patient says to the doctor, “Doc, it hurts when I do that.” Doc says to the patient, “well, don’t do that.”

“Don’t do that” makes a lot of sense sometimes. Why would we do what we know might hurt?

Vulnerability, exposure, a keen awareness of need, these aren’t the things we are naturally inclined to give ourselves over to.

This Lenten season, these are the very things I am choosing. In seeking to reflect on Christ’s sufferings and hold a mirror up to my own heart as we experience these days before Holy Week, I considered that my best practice would be to make some allowances… allow for vulnerability, allow for exposure, allow for need.

It’s not that these things aren’t present in my life, in all our lives. They are ever present in a broken and waiting world. But it takes some intentionality to see weakness and frailty with their noses pressed against the glass, and to open the door and say, “ok, you can come in.”

We get awfully skilled at keeping our guard up.

I stood outside Buckingham Palace a few years ago, peering through the iron gates with my touristy binoculars for the lightest twitch, the tiniest breath, the slightest budge from the Palace Guard. My hands and eyes got tired after awhile, and eventually, I walked away. I’ve suspected at times that some fuzzy-hatted soldiers keep watch outside my heart, not twitching, not breathing, not budging. And why would they? They are simply following my orders, to guard my heart, to keep me safe, secure, and out of harm’s way.

As Rev. Jennifer reminded us at St. Luke's a few Sundays ago, the Bible tells us not to be afraid so many times because God knows it can be scary out there, He knows that sometimes we do feel afraid.

So, trusting His “knowing”, I am trying to live these Lenten weeks with my guard down, with my sentries dismissed. I am making some allowances:

I am allowing for vulnerability… this came in a difficult conversation with one of my sisters, a talk we both needed, but one that left us both feeling a bit bruised for a few days. Telling the truth, hearing the truth, instead of relying on our mousiest “oh, it’s fine”, or our squeakiest “no worries.” Letting it be okay that everything was not okay.

I am allowing for exposure… I was with a group of people recently, some strangers, some friends, when my large self tangled with a small bench and both of us went crashing to the floor. I wanted to find the nearest door to run through, or at least the nearest rock to crawl under, but instead, I had to allow for a strong hand to help me up, kind eyes to look into mine and scatter the shame that had begun to call me names, I had to allow for gentle voices to assure me that everything was alright.

I am allowing for my need… this came as I rejoined a group of women who can speak truth and hope into a place of weakness for me; a group I had decided I could do without, preferring instead to claw after change and growth without the benefit of community.

These instances could have taken place on any day, in any season. Being ready to welcome them instead of stiff-arm them behind a wall mortared with pride and fear is the difference.

The prophet Jeremiah tells us that God’s mercies are new every morning (Lamentations 3:22-23). I imagine there’s design behind that truth: we are people in need of mercy every day.

What I am experiencing this season is the same truth I experience anytime I let my guard down: Jesus is with me. His sufferings, His own willingness to allow for vulnerability and exposure and need, make Him my true Advocate. As we taste a tiny bit of suffering, we experience that His suffering prepares Him to be with us to repair and comfort, shield, rescue and console. He comes to us at our most exposed, vulnerable and needy, and offers His mercy.

Making allowances can feel a little scary. As the apostle John writes to a group of believers, the love of Christ is a perfect love, a love so perfect it casts out the fear that keeps us from letting our guard down. (I John 4:18)

Perfect Love casts out the fear in me
And sends the darkness to hide
Perfect Love tells me that I have found my refuge at His side
Perfect Love will never leave me, He has promised to abide
And be my Strong and Perfect Love

Making allowances… for vulnerability, for exposure, for need. It’s an open invitation to the true Keeper of our hearts.

Maggie ~

I ended my “petlessness” last Tuesday afternoon. I brought Maggie home.

I’m dog-people, and God bless all the cat -lovers who tried to talk me into coming over to the kitty side of things, I just couldn’t do it. My heart was set on a someday-dog. And someday finally came.

I’ve wanted a dog for the longest time. I just haven’t given myself permission to do it. I live on my own, and, until I convince my boss to implement a bring-your-pets-to-work policy, I knew I’d be leaving someone at home all day, and I let the guilt stall me. I kept deciding that it would just have to be later, that I’d get a dog when my circumstances changed or when I had a different living situation, one that would be less worrisome. But time just kept going by, and, I can’t really explain it, all I know is that toward the end of this past year, I just decided to give myself permission to let it happen. Conversations with friends, seeing the blessing a little dog has been to my mom, allowing little connections with people that contained thoughts of hope. I let little seeds of how this might work be planted instead of pushing them away. I let them out into the light and air so they could sprout a bit. A friend said to me, “Kathy, what are you waiting for?” I couldn’t come up with a good answer anymore. So I let myself start looking.

I saw Maggie’s picture on the Humane Society website last Monday night. She had “possibility” written all over her two year-old, terrier-mix face. When I read her bio, she was described as a little anxious, a little nervous around people she doesn’t know, and in need of a little extra time to build trust. I thought “hmmmm, who does that sound like? Oh yea… me.”

I had already made another commitment for Tuesday morning, so I knew I wouldn’t be free to check into her availability until later. I looked at her sweet little face again, and whispered a little prayer. I asked God to save her for me if she was supposed to be my dog. Later that morning when I made the call, I was told that two other parties had already made appointments to meet her, so I’d need to wait a bit for the outcome. I did what I could to keep my mind off that sweet little mutt with the big brown eyes for a few hours. They called me in the early afternoon, and said if I wanted to come take a look, she was still available. I grabbed my mom and we drove to the pound.

We met in the play-room; we walked around one another and played a bit, getting a feel for it. In no time, I was scratching her belly, she was licking my hand. I looked into her brown eyes and asked her if she’d like to come home with me. When the pet-handler said that Maggie could stand to lose a few pounds, I knew I’d found my dog.

We’re figuring it out as we go along. She does not like the baby-gate that keeps her in the roomy kitchen and dining room while I’m at work. She does like 94% reduced-fat microwave popcorn. She does not like the vacuum. She does like to ride in the car. I’m getting used to having someone underfoot, being stared at and licked. She’s getting used to trusting that I will always come home after work and free her from the baby gate to romp around the house and get all the belly-scratching she wants. I left her to roam the house on Sunday when I went to St. Luke’s. She was on her own until I got back from my Sunday after-church trip to Trader Joe’s to get my groceries for the week. I got home and everything looked fine, no damage done. I made some lunch, left the door open to enjoy the springy-feeling afternoon, worked on my NY Times Sunday Crossword and listened to “A Prairie Home Companion” while Mags chewed on a doggie-treat right beside me. I could get used to this.

I turn on the news every morning while I get ready for work and sip a first cup of coffee. I catch the weather forecast to see how wet or cold it might be as I wait for the bus. This morning I saw the purple and yellow and orange of the sunrise on Clinton Street. I heard the birds chirping in the cherry blossoms that started showing off their pretty-pinks mid-February. I felt the chill of the morning air on my waking-up face.

I was walkin’ my dog.

Complications ~

I was sitting in my living room with my little piano student a few weeks back. We were in the middle of our lesson, reviewing the quarter note and the half note, calling out the names of the white keys and brushing up on our fingering. I scribbled a few notes in her assignment book while she twirled on the antique piano stool a friend had picked up for me at a yard sale.

We were just about to turn the page and begin our next piece when she looked up at me with her big blue eyes and asked, “Kathy, what are the black keys for?” We hadn’t gotten to the black keys yet. I’m a new teacher, she’s a new student, so we’re taking this nice and slow. I thought for a moment, and not wanting to confuse her or jump ahead too far, offered the simplest answer I could muster in my gentlest, beginning-piano-teacher voice. She slowly looked down at the keyboard, and then looked back up at me as her eyes widened and said… “whoa, this is gonna get complicated.”

Oh sweetie, you have no idea.

I’m new at this teaching thing, but I think we all understand intuitively that the response can be as important as the question. When my little gal said “whoa…”, it mattered to me, in that moment, how I respond. I didn’t want to look back at those big-blue eyes and say “oh, no, it’s not complicated at all.” I’ve been playing the piano since I was 6 years old, and I know different. I wanted to tell her the truth. There are some complications. There are key signatures and dotted-quarter notes, rests and dynamics, chords and flats, sharps and accidentals, half-steps, clefs and tempos, fermatas and, last time I checked, about 88 keys.

A few lessons into this, I knew it was way too early to mention too much of that, but I also wanted to honor her question. She’s eager, she’s curious, she’s giving herself a chance to become a pianist. So I simply said, “you’re right, kiddo. There are some things that will be complicated, but we’re just going to take this one lesson at a time, I will help you, and then, someday, you will be able to put together all you’ve learned and play whatever you like.” I said that with confidence, because once I was a little girl just learning how to play the piano too. I worked, with lots of guidance and help, through some of the “complications”, and now, I can play. I told her the truth. She smiled, seemed satisfied, and twirled around one last time.

Her “whoa” really struck me. We’ve all heard children land squarely on the truth – “out of the mouths of babes”. And I’ve thought, since that evening, that if I can sit at my piano next to a spunky little girl and offer her assurance about what she doesn’t yet understand, what she hasn’t yet experienced, I can surely sit next to my Father and allow Him to teach and encourage and assure me. Lean in and listen for Him to tell me the truth. After all, He knows what He is doing with my “becoming”.

We come to God over and again with our questions, and sometimes we respond with what sounds like a “whoa”… “this is too hard, this hurts too much, where are we going, it’s too late, are you there?”

The Psalmist writes that “God desires truth in our innermost beings…” (Psalm 51:6). As His children, we were designed to desire the truth as well. Even if it’s complicated.

Jesus wasn’t big on sugar-coating. He warned of sorrows and aches, brokenness, loss… complications. And yet… He also spoke the truths his Father wanted us to hear, so that we could believe, so that we could trust and follow – the truths of his Father’s presence, his Father’s intent and desire. He offered us a look into the heart of God; a heart as revealed through the prophet Jeremiah: “For I know the plans I have for you”, declares the Lord. “Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to bring you a future and a hope.” (Jeremiah 29:11)

I chose the curriculum my little student and I are using because it’s interactive and fun, it’s full of color and whimsy. I also chose it because every lesson includes a student-teacher duet. Even if we’ve just taken the tiniest musical step forward, we get to hear, at the end of our lesson, how it sounds. It’s a favorite moment. I put my hands right next to hers on the keyboard, I guide and encourage and help her. We end our duets with a cheery “wahoo!” or a high-five or a great big “we did it!” She brings what she is learning; I bring what I know, and it is music.

Anne Lamott, a favorite writer of mine, said once: “how is it that you can play one note, and then another, and then your heart just breaks wide open?” I keep that in mind as I teach. My little student will experience that one day. I know she will. Despite the complications.

We’re not alone in our questions; we’re not alone in our quests. God is with us, His strong and tender hands covering our own, guiding, encouraging, drawing out of us what He first sang into our souls before the foundations of the world were laid. Songs of joy, songs of peace, songs of hope, songs of life.

The Hopes and Fears of All Our Years ~

I was just meandering along this Advent, Christmas season, spending my days, minding my own business, when it seemed a few times, my breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t tell, by how I felt, whether I was meant to laugh or cry.

The old woman in period garb, hammering out an ancient carol on her dulcimer. My breath caught as she played in the cast of a million tiny lights on a windy night at The Grotto.

The young students of the St. Olaf choir, singing “Beautiful Savior” in brilliant, gentle harmony. My breath caught as they sang : “Truly I'd love Thee, truly I'd serve Thee, light of my soul, my joy, my crown.”

The little kids, walking the ceramic Mary and Joseph statues a bit closer to Bethlehem each Sunday morning at St. Luke’s. One Sunday I arrived early, and found Mary and Joseph set on a small table near the back, with a shiny nickel lying between them. My breath caught as I smiled and wondered which child had left an early gift for the baby Jesus.

As we worshipped together the Sunday after Christmas, we sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem”. I sang along as I played the piano, and got as far as the last phrase, when my breath caught again: “the hopes and fears of all the years are met in Thee tonight.” I couldn’t sing, but could only mouth those words, sure that if I sang it would sound like a cry.

The hopes and fears of all our years. Sometimes they shout, sometimes they whimper, making their presence known. And when they do, our breath can catch as we consider what they bring along with them, what they uncover: what we’re afraid of, what we regret, what we long for, why we laugh, where it hurts, how we’d do it differently, who we miss, why we still believe.

I can’t manage my hopes and fears on my own. Given the time, the day, the circumstance, I may handle things with grace and openness, with a hopeful heart. Or, I may be a mess and shut down, over-react, or simply take my ball and go home.

To find that I have a companion in Jesus, in whom all of my hopes and fears are “met”, is breath to me. A deep, life-giving breath.

In her book, “Listening to Love”, Jan Meyers writes that responding to Christ, responding to His voice in our lives can often come as a simple question... “is that you, Jesus?” A few years ago some friends and I read through this book together, and began to ask ourselves this question as the “hopes and fears” of daily-ness came knocking: a disappointment, a surprise, a loss. A change, a tension, an ache. A disruption, a joy. “Is that you, Jesus?”

Jan Meyers goes on to write that every longing, wrapped up in hope, wrapped up in fear, is actually, at its center, a longing for God. I want to live with that kind of Presence, with that understanding that I am never alone, never unknown, and that what makes me catch my breath sometimes could very well be the Spirit of God.

An ancient carol at the Grotto... a tune recognized by saints and angels that I long to sing in chorus with them.

Beautiful Savior... an ache and a hope to see Him with my own eyes.

The journey of Mary and Joseph that reminds me of my own... will I find my way, will I have what I need, will promises made be promises kept?

There’s a reason, I know, that I couldn’t sing that last “O Little Town” phrase on the Sunday after Christmas.

There are hopes, there are fears. Moments when things catch in our throats and we don’t know whether to laugh or cry. What we can know, is that we are met. In every hope. In every fear. In every breath.

In the Bleak ~

I was feeling the bleak-midwinter on Wednesday. A tough day at work, too much on my mind, too many dishes in the sink, too many nights in a row with something penciled in on the calendar. I longed for a bit of quiet, a bit of sanctuary.

It would seem that a single girl who lives alone would have all kinds of quiet and sanctuary, but things are not always what they seem.

I got home, threw something for dinner in the microwave, tended to what I could around the house, and then ran to the car to get to St. Luke’s on time. I was meeting a dear couple, Jim and Georgie, to prepare some music for Christmas Eve. Playing the piano, playing with other musicians always does my heart good. But it had been a crummy day. On the way to the church, I whimpered out a little prayer, a little plea. I told Jesus I felt like I missed Him. I told Him I needed some quiet for my heart and my mind, some light in some places that had been feeling dark. I told Him I hoped that there'd be some time and quiet for Him and me soon.

Georgie and I played through our Christmas hymns and got our songbooks in order for the 24th. While we did that, Jim fiddled around with some lights in the cold, dim sanctuary.

As we finished rehearsing and began to pack up our things, Jim walked over to the piano and said “hey, Kathy, would you do me a favor? Would you play hymn 112?” I reached for the hymnal and flipped the pages, and on page 112 I found “In The Bleak Midwinter”, the poem written by Christina Rossetti. Jim stood in front of the altar, and as I quietly played, he sang the first verse:

In the bleak midwinter, frosty winds made moan
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow
In the bleak midwinter long ago

He closed his hymnal. I wasn’t ready for the song to be over. I didn’t mean to sound selfish, but I asked, “Jim, would you please sing the rest of the song for me?” He walked back up to the altar, and sang the rest of the song… sweetly, tenderly, worshipfully. As he sang, my heart, my mind was covered with a blanket of calm. I felt my concerns, “hard as iron”, softening.

Our God, heaven cannot hold him, nor earth sustain
Heaven and earth shall flee away when he comes to reign
In the bleak midwinter, a stable place sufficed
The Lord God incarnate, Jesus Christ

Angels and archangels may have gathered there
Cherubim and seraphim, thronged the air
But his mother only, in her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved, with a kiss

What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb
If I were a wiseman I would do my part,
Yet what I can I give Him, give my heart

As he sang, in the quiet, in the still, in the bleak, I felt Jesus say to me, "I'm right here, I’m right here.”

I left the sanctuary with Jim and Georgie, knowing my whimpered prayer had been heard, and that Jesus had sung me a song in reply.

Advent Calendar ~

Come, Thou long expected Jesus, born to set Thy people free
From our fears and sins release us, let us find our rest in Thee

Her name is Mary Elizabeth. She’s 96 years old. She’s my grandma.

She lives in the valley in a simple room at a comfortable place, the kind of place where people approaching the end of their lives, who cannot live without help, settle in for as long as they have. Here, her most basic, human needs are tended to by underpaid young women with lavish tattoos and loving hearts. They care for her so tenderly, washing, changing, turning. With gentle voices, they call her “sweetie”, they call her “dear”.

By her bed on the wall is a calendar. A black felt pen rests within reach on the nightstand by her bed, somewhere between the tissues, the emergency call button and the bowl of butterscotch candies she has kept nearby for as long as I can remember. Each morning, as she wakes to a new day, she crosses “yesterday” off the calendar.

She can’t clothe or wash herself, she can’t walk or throw an extra blanket across her bony feet. She can’t open the mail or tend to her African violets. But she can raise that pen to the wall each morning and cross off another day.

Grandma isn’t waiting to die. No, she’s just waiting. “Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus” has leapt off the pages of the hymnal for her.

Jesus has come to her over and again in her 96 years. He came to her in the tin-shack laden industrial town in Pennsylvania where she was born. He came to her in the lonely days of growing up with a daddy who was on the road, playing pro baseball, and whose image on a trading card could never make up for his absence. Jesus came to her as a young woman, as she gave her life to a man who dreamed of giving his life to the ministry. He came to her in the loss of a longed-for baby girl. He came to her in the suffocating silence that crept in after that loss, as she determined to never speak of such deep wounds. Jesus came to her in the small towns and churches filled with people who needed more than a young preacher and his wife could sometimes spare. He came to her as she found a way to spare what she could.

He came to her in the loss of her son, my dad, a loss that crushed her not so much because of the cancer that killed him, but the spirit of rebellion that plunged him into confusion and brokenness a few years before the diagnosis. She never dreamed her grown son would take a prodigal turn, and when she finally spotted him heading for home, he was taken.

Jesus came to her as she spent her later life tending to the lonely and forgotten. And He was there on that morning a few years ago, when grandpa touched his fingers to his lips, waved her a tiny kiss, and took one last breath.

Jesus has made himself at home with grandma ever since she invited Him to. As a fair companion on her journey, He’s held her through these sorrows and losses, but also kept sweet company with her through every joy, every delight, every surprise. And even in the mundane moments that make up a life, ninety-six years worth, He has been her ever-present Friend.

On a recent visit, I pulled a chair close to her bed, held her withered hand in my fleshy one, kissed her and stroked her face. I quietly told her a few stories; I asked her the simple questions I ask every time I visit. I asked if I could take her picture. She said I could, as long as her hair looked alright. I told her she was lovely. As we sat together in the stillness, I looked at the calendar. December. The fourth, the fifth, the sixth, all crossed off. I imagined her waking up in this room in the morning, reaching for her black pen, and crossing off the seventh. And in that moment, I realized, this is her Advent Calendar. This is her way of watching and waiting in the dark, in this time between Now… and Not Yet.

For years, grandma and grandpa kept a tiny ceramic plaque on the wall in their home. It followed them to a dozen humble parsonages; it kept them company through 70 years of marriage. It’s nailed today to the wall by the door in her room, positioned in such a way that she can see it from her bed. The inscription simply reads, “Perhaps Today”. I understood, even as a little girl, what that meant. Someday, Jesus will come back. Someday. “Perhaps today”. I never questioned it, but I did wonder. And sometimes I wanted to ask them both: ”I know you want Jesus to come back, but, um, grandpa, grandma, don’t you wanna live?”

Yes, yes she does. She wants to live. So she marks off her calendar, her calendar of Advent. About death, C.S. Lewis said that “one day we will turn the corner, and all our dreams will come true.” She wants to live in that place of dreams come true. “No more crying, no more separation, no more dying.” The place where “these former things are passed away”.

Her body is dying, and yet she is alive with the spirit of anticipation, the spirit of Advent. Her longing heart is filled with joy. She believes that Jesus will come to her still, again, and finally.

She’s 96 years old. She’s long-expected Him.

Young and Old ~

I work in the city, and on any given day, there’s plenty to see on a sneak-out-of-the-building-for-a-few-minutes-break:

eggplant and peppers at the Farmer’s Market
outdoor chess matches at Pioneer Square
strong young men hauling their food carts to their corner
tiny lights adding a twinkle to the grand old trees on 5th Avenue
jewelry vendors displaying their hand-crafted wares
new sculptures unveiled along the transit mall
the harried, the oblivious, the wandering

A sight I especially enjoy is “kids on a rope”. A few times a day, a nearby daycare center gathers up the kiddos and ropes them together for the day’s fresh-air stroll. It makes me smile every time. Toddlers holding on to their assigned knot in the fat red rope, enjoying their own space, but sharing the walk.

It’s their own little bit of journey. The rope reminds them to hold on tight, because it is safer out there when you are holding on. The rope reminds them that they are not alone. Just a bit of rope in front of them and behind, there’s a friendly face, a buddy who is holding on too. And leading them along is someone who is older and taller and wiser. Someone who is familiar with the path because they’ve been following it a long time.

I am observing the blessing it is to be part of an intergenerational community at St. Luke's. It is part of what draws me: the welcome and tenderness that’s generously offered to the little ones, the silver-haired ones, and the somewhere-in-between ones.

My own spiritual roots were nurtured in churches where the older and the younger met together to worship, to pray, to work, to eat, to cry, to celebrate, to walk. I still remember so many of them: Mr. Throckmorton, the McBees. Mrs. Plant and Selma. Mr. Moothart and Alma Beckley. Mrs. Crawford and Mrs. Fast. I remember a gal named Sandy. When I was about 7 years old and she was, oh, maybe 15, she took a special interest in me. I got to go exploring with her at the store where her father was a grocer, I got to play the piano at her house. A few times she took me out for ice cream for no particular reason. I felt like the only 7 year old girl in the world. I could hardly believe that someone like her was paying any attention to someone like me.

My roots thrived in that deep, rich soil of Christ-followers who were older and taller and wiser. I was starting out on my journey, and they were familiar with the path because they’d been following it a long time. I needed their wisdom, their perspective. I needed to be present to their compassion and grace, their faith. The kind of faith that comes from what is suffered and borne, from what is hoped for and not yet seen. I needed to be present to the gentleness that comes with years of living as forgiven, as beloved.

When Rev. Jennifer included me a few months ago in an email message meant for young adults, I was glad she didn’t ask to see my ID. Just a few winters from now, I expect to find an AARP membership packet in my mailbox. But I do my best to hang onto some child-like traits, or at least dust them off when I’ve let them sit for too long because I am busy being oh, so very serious. The little ones remind me of these things: to laugh with your whole belly, to cry with all your tears. To ask questions without checking to see how it sounds before I speak. To be present because there’s just nowhere else to be. Last year I was wandering around the children’s section of a used bookstore in Seattle and came across a poster spoofing Elizabeth Gilbert’s best-seller, “Eat, Pray, Love”. The brightly-colored poster showed the contented faces of children surrounding these words: “Snack, Play, Nap.” Now that’s some child-like behavior I can get behind. I need the little ones in my community. I need their sense of wonder, their openness, their spirit.

Rev. Jennifer shared at the Quiet Day a few weeks back that while our paths may diverge, our destination is the same. I don’t know what happened to Sandy. Our paths diverged a long time ago. But I believe that the connection we had all those years ago will be found intact one day, when the destination we share is reached.

When we value who we are, our stories, and what we have to offer, the young can teach the old, the old can teach the young.

A friend asked me a few weeks ago: “Kath, are we growing old together?” I was delighted to say, “Yes, yes we are.” We’re kids on the rope, holding on tight, because it’s safer out there when we’re holding on. We’re seeing just ahead of us, and just behind, the compassionate, spirited faces of companions, both young and old, who are sharing the walk with us. And we’re being led by Someone who knows the way.