The Language of Worship

I’ve read that language can shape how we think, as well as how we speak. From my own limited foreign language experience, I tend to think that’s true. German is a highly structured language compared to English, requiring the poor English speaker to memorize dozens of endings for each word, so that each part of speech is properly categorized and matched within the sentence. Spelling is consistent—what you see is what you get. On a visit to Germany in college, I impressed the lady sitting next to me at church with my German. I admitted, sheepishly, in English, that my German was actually very limited. But I could sing a hymn or read a prayer with the best of them, because I knew how to pronounce everything. English, in contrast, greedily poaches words from other languages, pronounces them as it will, and never changes the spelling. Thus, English words have an unpredictability that makes spelling bees a real challenge.

One may argue that the German culture is similarly structured, with defined roles—and rules—to an extent that can seem fussy and even overbearing to us casual, careless  Americans. The ubiquity of American media—as well as near-universal English study at young ages, I would posit—may have “softened” some of the overt social formality in younger generations, but it still exists.  

Recently, we attended Palm Sunday services with my parents in my hometown.  They currently attend a United Methodist church, a recent change for them. Although I grew up “in” a UM church, my parents switched to a Lutheran church years ago, and I, of course, have been a Lutheran since just after I married in 1992. So it’s been a very long time since I worshiped in a United Methodist church. I wondered whether I would feel “at home” despite my long sojourn as a Lutheran, and in some ways, I did. The hymns were all very familiar, the same hymns I sang as a child and teenager—especially “Tell Me the Stories of Jesus,” which I still have nearly memorized. But the service—even the sermon—felt different in a way that surprised me.

I “converted” (does one convert from one Protestant denomination to another? Seems a strong word when much basic theology remains the same.) to the Lutheran church just after hubby and I got married. He was raised in the Lutheran church and feels comfortable there. But I didn’t switch just for him. I fell in love with the Lutheran liturgy—the ancient and evocative  words, the eerie chanting, the emphasis on Scripture and on Communion. And the foundational Lutheran theology of grace, grace, grace.  Imperfectly lived out, for sure, but one of the understandings on which Lutheran theology and culture rests.

Traditional Lutheran liturgy differs only slightly from Catholic and Episcopal liturgy (though our theologies have more significant differences), and through the Catholic tradition, reaches back into the earliest days of Christianity. Much of the words are taken from Scripture, soarguably the liturgy reaches back even further… to John seeing visions on the island of Patmos (“Worthy is Christ, the Lamb who was slain”), to Simeon holding the baby Jesus (“Lord, let your servant depart in peace”), to David and the Psalms. The liturgy, to me, feels dense with mystery and meaning and history. I slip into it when the service begins, like a comfortable garment. I’m familiar with the order, the movement through the service, the words that seem to echo through the ages and around the world. I am a part of a long line of believers, a tapestry knit together over time and space, singing or reciting or praying the same words, in many languages.

The Methodist worship, in contrast, seemed pared down, simplified. Much less standing, no kneeling. A hymn, a prayer, a reading, a sermon. The service felt open. It had more space, less density. Instead of a layered, woven tapestry, it was a line of polished stepping-stones, each one defined and solid. Few congregational responses, other than hymns. And I thought of Methodist history, of John Wesley and circuit preachers on horseback in the American wilderness, stopping to preach, to sing, to pray with plain-talking, work-hardened pioneers. That the Methodists tend toward minimal liturgy makes sense in the light of their history as well.

Circling around again to languages, I come to my mother, who sees the two services differently than I do. She finds the Lutheran liturgy repetitive, boring, and therefore doesn’t find the same meaning and comfort in it that I do.  I have no real complaints about the Methodist service, other than it seems less participatory, more focused on what’s “up front.” But I do prefer the liturgy.

Of course, the reason we have so many denominations is generally not a good one—despite Jesus’s repeated pleas and prayers that his followers be marked by love and unity, the Church became many churches because of our inability to agree or to tolerate disagreement. But perhaps one of the blessings of having many “flavors” of Christianity is that we also have many languages of worship. Those of us who find meaning in familiar words, in chanting, in kneeling and standing and sitting, can worship God in the language of liturgy. Those of us who find meaning in simplicity, in hymns, in the quiet spaces between prayers, can worship God in their language. And other languages too, the language of a joyful gospel choir and call-and-response; the language of guitars and drums and raising hands to the sky; the language of laying on of hands and speaking in tongues. All are different, and yet all are for the same purpose: to worship the One who made us.

And, someday, I believe, we will worship all together—in every language, in every tongue. Us liturgical folks will be kneeling and murmuring the Lord’s Prayer, and the Pentecostals will be shouting and dancing, and the contemporary praise bands will be playing loud and fast, and the United Methodists will be “telling that old, old story,” in English and German and Spanish and Farsi and Hindi and on and on, and our separate worship languages will harmonize into one song, THE Song. And the Lord God will smile and laugh and love us all at once. And it will be good.

7 Quick Takes

1. I’m going to the Balanced Bites nutrition seminar tomorrow in DC. I’m excited to meet several cookbook authors/bloggers that I’ve been reading, and to maybe learn a bit more about things I can do to stay as healthy as possible. Also nervous about seeming stalker-y on the one hand or stiff and shy on the other. I’m old enough now that I should just accept that my social awkwardness will assert itself somehow. I will most likely blurt out something that makes me cringe at the memory for days afterwards. There. If I expect it, I shouldn’t worry about it too much, right? It’s all about managing expectations. And sweet, sweet denial.

2. We watched the episode of “The Big Bang Theory” last night where Koothrappali had a texting date in a library. Other than the fact that I can’t text very fast because two left thumbs, that’s how I feel sometimes—I am much better in writing than I am in person.

3. Which brings me to something I think about now and again. I should write up a complete post about it sometime, but here’s something to think about next time you read a newspaper article, book, or blog post: people who are good with words can make anything sound authoritative, or slant a story the way  they think it should go. Maybe that’s why I don’t necessarily believe news stories tell the whole truth—I know how easy it is to slant a piece, because I’ve done it. I’ve managed to crank out authoritative-sounding articles based on three 15-minute phone interviews by stringing together “good quotes” in an organized manner. I once wrote a very peppy-sounding memo for improving practices at a company I worked at, based on my and others’ ideas. A week later I wrote an irate e-mail about mistakes made on one of my projects. I was called into my boss’s office and reprimanded for the tone of the e-mail. He said it was counterproductive, and look at the way this memo is written, you should try to communicate like that. He didn’t know I wrote that memo, too. The difference was, the memo was slanted to the way I knew he and the troubled section of the company would respond. The e-mail told the same truth, just stated baldly and bluntly. Both, of course, were written verywell.

4. Got an allergy workup yesterday. Nothing terribly significant. “Luckily” for me, they were extremely thorough. When I came up negative to everything on the scratch tests on my back, they re-tested for environmental allergens with stronger solutions. With about 30 syringes, injected under my skin and good heavens, that hurt. Came up weakly positive to cats, dogs, horses, cockroaches (!), and a couple types of mold—but weak enough that the doctor didn’t think I needed to do anything about it, unless I had stronger symptoms. So I started my prednisone today. My adventure in pharmaceuticals begins.

5. Is it a bad thing that I hope the prednisone gives me some burst of manic energy? That might be the only thing that helps me get the house in half-decent shape. Of course, I already want to kick K. out of her room for a few days and do some major crap removal. (Expensive crap, mind you. Only the best toys-that-will-be-played-with-briefly-and-then-thrown-into-the-closet-until-mom-tries-to-donate-them for my kids.) She complains that she can’t clean her room because she has no place to put things. But then refuses to part with one.solitary.item. because “It is mine, mine, my precioussssss.”

6. Now that I’ve complained about K., I must brag about her. She’s been having some minor troubles with the boy who sits next to her in math class. From what I can tell by her description, the kid is trying to shock and/or impress her. ‘Cause telling a girl that you can curse in various foreign languages (and then proceeding to demonstrate) may just be the most sophisticated pick-up line a 5^th grade boy can think of. In any case, it’s been annoying her. She asked me to call the teacher and ask her to separate them. I told her that she should talk to the teacher herself, privately if possible. We rehearsed a sentence or two that she could say. She was nervous the next day before school, but I put the ball in her court: it was her problem to solve, and her decision whether the boy was distracting enough to brave talking to the teacher about it. She came home that day and said she’d made the request, and the teacher moved her immediately with no fuss. And that now she could concentrate better. Yay for K. solving her own problems and speaking up for herself.

7. I’ve been reading through the Gospels backward (John first, and now Luke), and this evening I read Luke 6:45. “⁴⁵ A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.” Usually, I would skim right over this—good fruit, bad fruit, any good church girl has heard this a thousand times. But tonight I thought, What am I storing up in my heart? Maybe I should choose more thoughtfully.

For a gazillion more Quick Takes, go to Conversion Diary.

Becoming Focused

Last summer, we were standing in church, preparing for prayer. Up front, the pastor talked about a man who had just died suddenly—50 years old, with children and a wife. I did not know this man, had never heard his name. But my mind ticked off how much older he was than me—8 years. And what felt like a certainty settled in the pit of my stomach—that maybe I wouldn’t have the long life I always assumed I would have. What if I died sooner rather than later, like this man? Fear swept over me, paired with the faint thought that I was being ridiculous. But it persisted, this dark thought—what if I die and my children don’t know that I love them?

My relationship with my oldest has always been rocky. My personality and hers clash, and days go by when the strongest emotion I have toward her is frustration or anger.  We don’t just butt heads, we lock horns and get stuck that way, pulling and pushing at each other, swaying back and forth, trying to win some meaningless point. At other times, my penchant for absorbing and internalizing others’ emotions combines with her intense emotional reactions to produce a downward spiral where I automatically try to shut her down to protect myself, and her reactions escalate as she feels more and more unheard.

And if I die, will that be what she remembers? She won’t know how much I love her, the good and the joy I see in her, if I don’t tell her. If I keep it inside, and instead carp on her messy room or the nth time I’ve asked her to do something and she loudly resists.

The fear of death, for me, has always been the fear of leaving things undone—of things unwritten, of things unsaid, of potential wasted.

 

In the fall, I started a Bible study of 1 and 2 Peter. Truthfully, I had no particular interest in those books of the Bible, but it had been a long time since I had studied the Bible, not just a Christian book on a particular topic.

Peter wrote to Christians suffering intense persecution in Rome. And within these two letters, I found a perspective on suffering that I had not really thought about before, that I suspect today’s comfortable Protestant churches don’t emphasize much: that suffering is part of life, and that it brings us into closer fellowship with Christ.

“¹² Dear friends, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that has come on you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. ¹³ But rejoice inasmuch as you participate in the sufferings of Christ, so that you may be overjoyed when his glory is revealed.”

Peter (and, in other books of the Bible, Paul, too) talks about suffering as a privilege, even advising his readers to take joy in it.  And Peter managed to make this comfortable 21^st century girl long for the closeness with Jesus that he said came with suffering. What did those first-century Christians know and understand, that I do not?

Around the same time, I started reading Crazy Love by Francis Chan. I felt called to go deeper with Christ, to stop piddling around and making excuses, out of fear and mistrust. To trust God more, and worry less.

I wasn’t sure where this was going to lead me. I did volunteer to teach an ESL class at our church—it fell suspiciously just within the 3 hours that my younger daughter was in preschool, and I thought, well, it was one small step toward sharing the gifts God has given me.

 

In November, I had a colonoscopy. Not just for preventive purposes—colon cancer runs in the family—but for specific symptoms. I was relieved that nothing life-threatening was found, just a so-called benign condition. Still, the cause was unknown, an inflammatory or autoimmune response, and there was no cure, just treatment of symptoms. Having been on a Paleo diet since February 2012, I decided to try a dietary experiment (an autoimmune version of Paleo) to help the symptoms, since the doctor could offer nothing more than glorified anti-diarrheal or immune-suppressing drugs.   I also began taking an amino-acid supplement that promised to help heal the intestinal lining.

It worked. It didn’t restore full normalcy, but it reduced symptoms to the point that I felt no need to try the sample drugs the doctor gave me.

Around the time of the colonoscopy but before I started the autoimmune diet, my neck and hands reddened and started itching. I wondered if I was reacting to some substance connected with the colonoscopy, the anesthesia or prep meds. I waited for several weeks, hoping the autoimmune diet and/or time would heal it. Even as my digestive issues improved, the rash only got worse.

My primary care doctor said I had eczema and gave me a prescription for a steroid cream. I faithfully used the steroid cream, but it didn’t do much good. My hands, particularly, got worse and worse. New patches started. I made an appointment with a dermatologist.

On December 26, the family went on an outing, and I went to the dermatologist. I expected a diagnosis of psoriasis or some more severe form of eczema, maybe some stronger cream or insight into what could be causing what seemed like a prolonged allergic reaction. What I got was a physician’s assistant saying “Hmm. That’s interesting,” and then calling in the doctor.  In less than 5 minutes, the fast-talking dermatologist ordered two skin biopsies and a blood panel, and kept saying a very long word that started with “derm”.

“Does autoimmune disease run in your family? Are you having any muscle weakness, trouble going from sitting to standing? Any trouble swallowing? When did this rash start?” And then just before he blew out of the room like a small tornado, he paused. “Can I take a picture of your hands with my cell phone?”

I looked up the two diseases the dermatologist had mentioned. Lupus I had heard of. Dermatomyositis I had not.  From the attitude of the doctor, I gathered that he was pretty sure that dermatomyositis was the diagnosis. I started researching.

And that’s when the fear returned. This disease, unlike any of the medical conditions I’ve been diagnosed with over the years, is life-threatening. It is also an autoimmune disorder, cause unknown, cure nonexistent. The treatment is basically the same for all autoimmune diseases: suppressing the immune system in an attempt to stop the body from attacking itself. As a bonus, dermatomyositis is rare. About 50,000 people in the U.S. have the disease. In this “flavor” of autoimmune, the body attacks its own muscles and skin, causing a distinctive rash as well as possibly severe muscle weakness throughout the body. It can also attack the lungs, causing irreversible damage.

In the two weeks between that first visit to the dermatologist and my return visit to get the test results, the slight stiffness and pain in my hands—which I had previously attributed to my occasional bouts with carpal-tunnel or repetitive stress symptoms—became much worse. The muscles in my arms and legs felt sore, like I had just completed a hard workout. I fumbled with my younger daughter’s car-seat straps, needing two hands to press the release button, and sometimes multiple tries, where before I had needed only one hand. I started doing more things with my left hand, as my right hand was weaker and more painful. It was like I developed arthritis in my hands overnight.

I kept feeling like I was about to catch a cold—a tightness in my chest, the urge to cough. A sense of utter fatigue, coming unexpectedly like a wave.

But it was the fear, the sense of urgency, the sadness that came with thinking my life had just shortened, that caused the most pain. I half-joked to my husband that I was having an existential crisis. That hokey evangelistic question that starts out, “If you died today…” became real to me in a way I’ve never experienced.

Here’s the thing, though. My fear was (is) not about my final destination. I am not worried about what awaits me after death. In fact, some days I look forward to it. My Jesus will be there to greet me. I’ll be free of that internal battle between sin and Spirit. I’ll be free of the anxiety that has dogged me as long as I can remember, and of the blind selfish habits that I too often allow free rein. Meeting the God that for much of my life has seemed hidden, hard to find in the muck of sin inside and around me? I can’t wait. Maybe when “the moment” arrives, I will be afraid. No way of telling ahead of time. But this is now, and truthfully, the thought of what awaits after death brings anticipation, like a kid waiting for Christmas.

No, what scares me is what I have left undone. Have I told my husband, my kids, “I love you” enough? Have I acted like our kids are God’s gift to us, or have I too often treated them as nuisances, in the way of my running mental to-do list? How many times have I sighed when my 4-yr-old said “Mama, can you play with me”? How many times have I lost my temper, and do they outweigh the times I have remained calm? How often have I snapped at my husband because something went wrong in my day? If I died today, how would my children remember me?

Because here’s what happened when mortality hit me in the face, in the schedule-free time between Christmas and New Year’s: my long-held dreams/intentions of writing a novel or restarting my freelance editing business got a few scant thoughts, and my focus sharpened to the people in my life. My kids most of all, since the worst part of being afraid for your life is imagining your children growing up without a mother.

And I realized with a shock that—even if I still have 40 or 50 more years to live—it’s time to stop fooling around. It’s time to take risks, to stop caring what others think of me, to stop trying to please my demanding inner critic, to start caring more and more deeply about what God wants for me. To actually do something with the gifts God has given me. To open myself to the Spirit, to really, truly trust God with my life, with my family’s lives. To push aside the fears of not being enough, not doing enough, and break through to just being who God created me to be, to do the work that God created me to do.

To be authentic, with my family and with my writing. Because those are the two things I know for sure that God placed me here to do. It’s easy for me to get caught up in that running to-do list—running the kids from place to place, planning meals, cooking, doing laundry, etc. But if I snap my way through a busy day, yelling at the kids and ignoring my husband, the lovely dinner I prepare will be nothing more than ashes in our mouths. If I write to impress some nameless reader, or temper my words to avoid showing my real flaws and screw-ups, or to avoid offending someone with my faith or my opinions, then I am not serving God with my words—only myself and my own ego.
 

In early January, I sat in the dermatologist’s office, asking questions about my test results and watching the physician’s assistant’s face. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights. I had tested positive for four antibodies. She kept repeating that I was “complicated” and gave me a referral to a rheumatologist. I was in and out of that office in under 15 minutes. When I looked up my positive results that night, I discovered why she looked so uncomfortable—each positive antibody was indicative of a different autoimmune disease. And they were all scary.

 

The first Bible study after the Christmas break, the reading included with devotions was a section of Psalm 119. The leader gave us a short time to practice some lectio divina, a prayerful reading of Scripture. And this doesn’t happen all that much to me, but that morning, I was stopped in my tracks.

“⁷³ Your hands made me and formed me;
    give me understanding to learn your commands.
⁷⁴ May those who fear you rejoice when they see me,
    for I have put my hope in your word.
⁷⁵ I know, Lord, that your laws are righteous,
    and that in faithfulness you have afflicted me.”

The psalm continued on the little handout that I was reading, but I did not. It was like a wall slammed down in front of me, stopping me from going further. In faithfulness you have afflicted me. I don’t know what the psalmist was afflicted with. There was no indication or further explanation in the text (or at least, not in that section. Psalm 119 is the longest psalm—it goes on for pages and pages). And I can’t explain what happened any better than this: in that moment, it felt like God was communicating with me. Telling me that He was faithful, that whatever happened, He would remain faithful. That there is a purpose.

It all sounds very woo-woo, even to myself. Which is why, if I tried to talk to you about it, I would stutter and stumble and blush. But the fact remains that I read this, I felt this. The presence of God was vibrating around me, just for a moment, and it felt like a window opened and light shone in on my fear and dread. And I’m writing it here to document for my children, and for any others who care to know, that God is faithful, and that I choose to trust my instincts that He gave me that verse.  So I grabbed onto that phrase, and I’ve been holding on tight.

 

Since then, I’ve seen a rheumatologist, had many more tests, and found that my current state of health is apparently better than the rheumatologist had expected. Despite some inconclusive test results, she continues to go with the first diagnosis, dermatomyositis, saying I have “classic” symptoms. Truthfully, it doesn’t matter as far as treatment is concerned. All autoimmune diseases have the same treatment—a small collection of drugs that suppress the immune system.

I’m also exploring possible other triggers—as someone with celiac disease, I tend to wonder if other food sensitivities/allergies have come into play. After much deliberating, I’m holding off starting treatment until I can get some allergy testing. I have my first prescriptions in hand, which I’ll start the day after I see the allergist in early March. In the meantime, my rashes have abated somewhat, thanks to the very strong steroid cream prescribed by the dermatologist’s PA.

 I don’t know what will happen. If I think too hard about it, the fear sweeps over me again, and that feeling of having a lead weight in my stomach. And then I have to stop, and deliberately turn my mind to other things, and remind myself that I’ve surrendered this situation to God. I must choose, over and over, to trust.

I chose the name of my blog “Here I Stand” after the words Martin Luther supposedly spoke when ordered to recant his efforts to reform the Catholic Church. At the time, the name referred to my new life in Germany—not too far from where Luther lived and worked and ran for his life. Here I was, in a new place, where I had to learn to live and thrive.

That quote, including the end of the sentence, still has meaning to me today. “Here I stand, I can do no other.” I can be no one except myself—my real self, the one who is currently obsessed with Jesus and sautéed spinach and fears that others will think she’s gone off the deep end. The self that writes in her head all day but fears that she can’t get it down on paper just right—or at all. The self that loves her children but still yells at them and is afraid that that is all they will remember of their childhood. I want to be done with that fear.

Here I stand, wondering how much suffering is ahead of me. Here I stand, taking one more step toward trusting God and his faithfulness. Here I stand, turning over this diagnosis, my fear and uncertainty, to God—again and again, for I can’t yet prevent myself from snatching it back and brooding over it. Here I stand, hoping He can still make something beautiful out of all this, out of me. Here I stand—not walking or running or jumping. Some days standing is all you can do. Here I stand—I can do no other.  

 

Ramblings on Friendship

It’s been a crazy week, full of “she said-she said”, tears, betrayal, nasty words and nastier notes. Fourth grade girls, easy to anger and hard to reason with. Harder still to determine the truth. A careful conversation with another girl’s mother, oh-so-polite agreement, though it was clear that each of us mostly believed her own daughter’s story. Tentative apologies, symbolic gift-giving, finally chattering at the bus stop. And parents unsure whether a change is in order—is this a blip or an indication of other problems to come?

No one tells you that having children means you get to revisit the worst and hardest parts of childhood. And the best, of course, but that was not what this week held.

Last day of British school.
 Two of them left the country the next day.

“Mom,” she said in tears. “How could she do that to me? I thought she was my friend. I thought she knew how hard it’s been for me being new this year. I want to go back to Germany! ” At her old school, where she was one of a handful of Americans, where she stuck out for her accent, her culture, but where she felt a sense of belonging, of trust. She doesn’t feel that at her very good suburban elementary school, in her home country, which—for now, at least—still feels a bit foreign to her.

As an adult, I can see that I never did fit into the culture of my childhood home. It’s possible that I wouldn’t have fit in elsewhere, but Tyrone is all I have to go by. When I go back, the beauty of the mountains, the openness of the landscape—no five-lane highways, no hustle-bustle, no feeling like other people are just in your way, simply because there are so many of them—it feels like home. And the junior-senior high school, which looks the same now as it did in the 80s (at least from the front), where I impressed the hell out of the teachers. Not so much the students.  High school is where smart became a dirty word to me.

Junior high is where I learned how mean girls can be.

Even nice girls from good homes, even church-going girls.

It went on for months, in my memory. Notes telling me how stuck-up I was. Girls I didn’t know well telling me that so-and-so was mad at me. Girls cluster in groups, you know. Rarely is a conflict between just two people.

For the record, the “mean girls” in my memory grew up to be lovely adults. In fact, they grew into lovely 17-year-olds. Thirteen is a bitch.

I never understood the “stuck-up” accusations. I desperately wanted to belong.

It wasn’t my fault books were more interesting than people.

In my memory, I spent elementary school hiding my own books inside of textbooks. I rarely got caught. The few times I was, I didn’t get in trouble. Maybe the teachers knew how boring it all was. Maybe they had their hands full with the kids whose lack of attention was louder, whose grades were lower. I was quiet and low-maintenance. I did light up and participate when they moved on to something interesting. And it’s hard for an educator to knock a kid who loves to read.

In my memory, when I wasn’t reading, I was constantly assessing my own and everyone else’s status in the social order. I knew I wasn’t the core of my group of friends. I wasn’t fun enough, or pretty enough, or free enough. I was self-contained, abstracted, wondering how the flamboyant among us had the courage to draw attention to themselves, and resenting the attention they got. I subtly (or maybe not-so-subtly) rejected those whom I thought would make me look bad to my desired friends. And I was rejected (or felt rejected) by kids who forged closer friendships with others than with me.

Even as young as elementary school, I knew: if you aren’t noticed, you don’t make yourself a target. Don’t think that others will like you just because you like them. Don’t display your neediness. Be cool, and funny, and unemotional.

Don’t show your friends that you really like them. Don’t trust your friends with your secrets or your real self. You’re just asking to get hurt.

I always wanted a best friend. I never had one.

As an adult, I am aware of the dichotomy of the previous two paragraphs. I’m just not sure how to overcome a lifetime of knee-jerk distancing.


K. has an open heart, so open it scares me. She is not fickle about her friends. Once she considers you a friend, you are a friend for life. So far, at least, she has wished only the best for her friends. When her close friend beat her out in an art contest in the fall, both were upset because they placed lower than they expected. K. came home upset not just for herself, but for her friend. “That person in second shouldn’t have been ahead of us! R. should have gotten second and me third!”

She’s had difficulties with kids at school on and off, but this is the first time someone she considers a friend has turned on her. Unfortunately, it probably won’t be the last. There are a lot of years between her and a time when she and her peers have the social skills to accept others’ flaws, or to forgive, or to confront issues head-on. Hopefully, she will learn these skills faster than I did. Faster than I am.



“Name three friendships you have lost over the years.  What did you learn from their loss?” That was the question we were to answer for Bible study this week. In small group discussion, I glossed over my own friendship failures in favor of focusing on K’s current drama. Because the truth is, most friendships I can point to were not lost suddenly—no fight or unconquerable life issue. Just—a slow distancing. Me fumbling around, crippled by an inner sense that I didn’t want to force myself where I might not be wanted. Missed opportunities. Acquaintances that never became friends.  Feeling perpetually on the outside, the observer. Knowing that that feeling may not reflect reality, but feeling it nonetheless.

A pitfall of the writer, and the introvert, I’d guess. Always observing, and analyzing, rarely entering into the moment but storing moments to take out and look at later, to write about, to make them make sense.

Something I’ve learned this week: my instincts about people are good, correct more often than I’d like. I was not very surprised about the source of K.’s drama. The conversation with the girl’s mother went about like I expected it would (thank goodness). I was surprised that K. and her friend so readily reconciled, but I suppose attention spans are not that long in fourth grade.

Which tells me that people are not so unreadable to me. That what gets in the way is…myself.

Picture of Grace

Communion today. We sing hymns and check that K. is behaving herself in the choir loft and wait for the usher to motion us from our seat. Hubby stands up slowly, burdened with fast-asleep A. We walk up the aisle to kneel at the altar. “The body of Christ, given for you.” A moment, a prayer, a walk back to our seat near the back of the church. Singing, or staring off into space, waiting for the end of communion. The line up front dissipates, the last communicants file back to their seats, the ushers begin to tidy the altar area.

The pastor walks swiftly back the aisle, holding the vessel containing the Communion wafers. I’ve never noticed him do this before. He is tall and thin, in white robes with a white-and-gold stole for Easter. He stops at the very back pew, in front of a small old lady with white hair. Her shoulders are hunched forward as she sits. She does not raise her head. He bends down, down, to look her in the eye. I cannot hear him, of course, but I know what he’s saying. “The Body of Christ, broken for you. The Blood of Christ, shed for you.” The Body of Christ, hand-delivered personally, while the organ plays and the congregation readies itself for the final blessing and closing hymn. She cannot come forward to receive the bread and wine. But it comes to her anyway. She is valued, in her infirmity and in her old age. Valued, even cherished, enough that the leader of a large congregation takes those few extra minutes to bring Christ to her. To bend down, look her in the eye, and tell her that God loves her.

We cannot reach to the God of the Universe under our own power. So the Body of Christ comes to us. Personally, hand-delivered. Even when we cannot raise our head to look him in the eye. He bends down to touch our weary hearts, to tell us, “You are valuable to me. I give my all for you.”

Ahem. Is This Thing On?

My poor blog, limping along in the wake of Facebook, where I can throw up a quick sentence or two and feel like I’m connecting. Also, now that we’ve moved back to the States, my musings are not nearly so interesting, to me or (I presume) anyone else. Northern Virginians are busy! I’m still socially awkward and clueless about how to make friends! My kids are still cute, except when they are screaming terrors! Allergies or spring cold: a riveting mystery involving phlegm, coughing, and Robitussin. Hmm. That one has some potential—a “cozy” on the microscopic level. Just when you think the virus did it, the devilish duo of Histamine and Pollen steps out from a dark corner….

So. In no particular order, here’s an update of what’s in my jumbled brain. Maybe you can tell me in the comments if you’d like a whole post on one or more of these topics. (Or one that says, please, for the love of all things holy, NO MORE on that one!) (I’m not picky.)

1. The Paleo Diet. Started it on Ash Wednesday, except I didn’t give up dairy , so more of a “primal” approach. No grains, no sugar, no seed oils, no legumes. Meat (preferably grass-fed/pastured), vegetables, nuts, fruits. I lost ten pounds by Easter. But the, ahem, digestive problems I had hoped this diet would alleviate did not go away. So I gave myself a couple of “cheat” days—made gluten-free brownies on Easter, and pizza on Easter Monday—and am now back on the diet, using coconut milk in my coffee and giving up cheese and yogurt. I have been going on and ON about this thing. I’m a bit obsessed, because the diet’s philosophy includes a lot about the quality of food. I’m probably the last person to have NOT read the Omnivore’s Dilemma or seen Food Inc, but give me a break, I’ve been out of the country for a few years. I’d like to get the whole family on board, but I haven’t gotten that far yet. My husband is already sick to death of me talking about it. Also, grass-fed, pasture-raised, organic etc. is not cheap. A Budget Talk is upcoming.

2. Speaking of socially awkward, I told my Bible study today (you know, the one led by the senior pastor’s wife?) that the Good Friday service that her husband led made me miss my church in Germany. Thank goodness I preceded that stellar observation with saying that I thought it was a great service and that it made an impression on my daughter. But oh, I missed Pastor Morrison standing at the back of our echoing church singing, “O My People.”

3. I had a short conversation today with the associate pastor at our current church, while A. played on the church playground after Bible study. He asked how we “found” Prince of Peace, and in a roundabout way I got to why we’ve made the switch from ELCA churches (the more “liberal” of the Lutheran denominations) to this church, which is part of the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod (the more “conservative” Lutheran body, though there is at least one body that’s even more conservative).  The ELCA is going through an ongoing…disagreement?…among its member churches similar to that of the American Episcopal church, concerning the acceptance/ordination of gays/lesbians. And here is where I managed to convey entirely the wrong meaning, by vaguely mentioning that the ELCA has become too “liberal” for us. Because the decision to try out the more conservative denomination had nothing to do with the issue of gays in ministry (or in the pews). It had to do with sitting through too many sermons full of amusing anecdotes and feel-good platitudes, but no substance or challenge. With a high-ranking guest pastor, years ago, telling us that “virgin” did not mean virgin, but “young girl.” With a pastor saying he didn’t believe that Noah’s Ark actually existed. With a new hymnal where old lyrics were changed beyond recognition, or hymns were left out altogether.

Don’t get me wrong, I also have strong points of disagreement with the LCMS, the greatest being its refusal to ordain women. And maybe if we lived in the Midwest, the stronghold of old-school American Lutheranism, LCMS churches would be too conservative and the ELCA about right. But here in the cosmopolitan DC suburbs, a somewhat liberal-leaning “conservative” congregation suits us just fine.  I think we have come to the conclusion that no particular denomination is going to agree with all of our idiosyncratic beliefs/opinions, and maybe it shouldn’t have to. Grace. I’ve about given up on “fitting in” and now just want to be among people who do their best to follow Jesus and give others some leeway when they fail.

4. The Book. Yeah, I have this…story thing rattling around in my head. Except it’s not a full story, like with a plot or anything. It’s a character, and a situation, and I don’t have an ending or really a middle. I started it maybe 2 years ago, just a few short chapters, and it sat in my computer files for about a year. I’m getting back to it. It’s a novel. Doesn’t every writer have a novel somewhere begging to be written? I made the mistake of mentioning it to my daughter some time ago. Every so often she says, “So, are you done with that book yet?” Ruh-roh. So. I have approximately 6 hours a week “free” while both children are in school. I can blog, I can work on The Book, I can go grocery shopping without having to keep track of a 3-yr-old who thinks the yogurt aisle is a vast tower-making facility. Or I can watch American Idol or Chopped while folding laundry. I think you can see where I’m going here. I love Colton but I think Jessica or Joshua will win it. Also, I’ve got two characters in a dead farmer’s car on the back roads of post-apocalyptic Pennsylvania, and I’m not sure what to do with them. They have guns now so at some point there will be some shooting. It’s like a law of storytelling or something.

5. My 9-yr-old told me last night that she misses the way our house smelled in Germany. I…didn’t know what to do with that. Except to tell her that I miss that house, too. Especially the family/dining room with the wall of windows looking out on our backyard. I like our house and our backyard now, but older houses just weren’t built to maximize windows and natural light.

6. On the other hand, our “juh-man house,” as A. puts it, did not come with family just around the corner. That’s been the best part of moving back.

Legacy

Two weeks ago,  I took A. to the playground. It was a beautiful fall day, warm but breezy, and we were surrounded by blazing red- and yellow-leafed trees and that golden, slanting autumn sunshine.

An older man arrived, with an Alaskan husky on a leash and a young boy (maybe 5 years old) with him. Both man and boy were dressed in maroon football shirts, and the little boy carried a small plastic football. Eventually, A. and a few other children started playing catch with the football. The man gave instruction and encouragement to the boy, who grinned at the two preschool girls and the toddler boy just waiting for him to throw the ball to them. A. chased down the ball and threw it back. “She’s got a good arm!” the man said gruffly. He was just old enough that I couldn’t tell if he was the boy’s father or grandfather. A somewhat weathered, tanned face, salt and pepper hair. “You got to throw it up, a little higher,” he told the boy after one toss went straight into the ground. “That’s it, like that!”

After years spent in soccer-mad Europe, this felt oddly  familiar. It felt like home. It felt like Pennsylvania.

 

No one who grew up 30 minutes from State College, like I did, can be indifferent to what’s going on there. I did not attend Penn State. But my grandfather did. He came from coal country and worked his way through college; and then on the strength of his smarts and hard work and education, he succeeded as a chemical engineer, recruited for his company at Penn State, amassed a small fortune through prudent saving and investing,  moved to State College in retirement, and (I’m sure) gave a small fortune to  Penn State. I know that because I remember sitting in his season-ticket seats on the 40 yard line.

He would be heart-broken. And angry. Pop-pop was something to see when he was angry.

One of my uncles worked at Penn State, and my step-brother and cousins on both sides of my family attended there. Many of my high school friends and acquaintances. Everyone in Tyrone watches Penn State football, whether they went there or not.

 

In the Bible study I’m attending this fall, we talk about leaving a legacy. It Starts at Home, the book is called. It calls adult Christians to think about what their lives say to their children, their children’s children. How to structure family life so that kids have a chance of seeing faith at work at home.

The leader started out by telling us about finding an old newspaper clipping among her mother’s things after her death. It was an obituary of her great-grandmother. It listed all the usual information, and then said something like, “She was devoted to the spiritual welfare of her children.” That was a wake-up call in her own life, the leader told us. Would anyone be able to say that about her, when she passed on? What did her priorities look like? Did she want her obituary to say “She loved gardening” or “Her house was pretty”? What would her children remember about her?

She noted that it doesn’t take very long for the world to forget us. Just a generation or two before there is no one left on earth who knew us. Like her great-grandmother, now known only through a yellowed obituary. Like Pop-pop, like my other grandparents, who passed away before or just after K. was born. When my children are grown, will they look through old family photos and wonder who those people are?

 

One chapter examines the legacy of Abraham and Sarah. Not that legacy, the one where they start a nation of chosen people, and are considered the parents of not one but three major religions. No, the other one, where Abraham is afraid for his own skin, so he lies and says Sarah is his sister.  The king who took him at his word is pretty pissed off when he gets a little midnight visitation from the Lord Almighty. Make that kings. Abraham uses the same lie twice, with two different kings. Abraham is rightly commended for his faith, but it’s clear he has some pretty significant faults, too.  A generation later, Abraham’s son Isaac does the same thing. Lies to the king that his wife is his sister, to protect himself.  Ah, but Isaac reaps what he sows. His own son, Jacob, pretends to be his twin brother, and on Isaac’s deathbed, deceives his blind, sick father into giving Jacob the blessing and inheritance that Isaac intended to give to Esau. Wily Jacob eventually makes up with his brother and has a bunch of kids—12 sons, to be exact. Ten of them sell the eleventh into slavery, then lie to their father about it for years. It’s only when they encounter Joseph, now in a position of power in Egypt, that they are forced to tell old Jacob the truth. The book argues that Joseph breaks the chain by remaining honest and forgiving his brothers. But I seem to remember Joseph not being totally up front when he sees his brothers and realizes they do not recognize him. Of course, when your own brothers throw you in a pit and sell you into slavery, I suppose it would be hard to trust them when they show up 20 years later, begging for food.

Abraham’s legacy, then, despite his faith, is a cord of light and dark intertwined. “The ties that bind” within any family—even legendary ones—have greater or lesser amounts of virtue, faith, pain, deception, love, addiction, respect, anger…

 

“Write at the top of the page your name and the word ‘legacy',” the leader says. Dutifully I write down “Jennifer’s Legacy.” It looks weird. It looks wrong. The thought comes to me, “What makes you think you deserve a legacy?” I feel...almost shame, definitely discomfort. Acknowledging that I could have an impact on the world, or even specifically my children, seemed like hubris. Aren’t legacies what presidents leave? It takes a few minutes before I realize. That thought, and those feelings, do not come from God.  They do not fit with what I have learned about how God loves us. For days, I think about that moment and try to figure out why I reacted that way. It has something to do with the culture I grew up in, I think, and something to do with my own flawed view of myself and the world.

But here’s the conclusion I’ve finally reached, in this unlikely juxtaposition of my little world and the world of “updates in the Penn State scandal.” Everyone leaves a legacy, whether they mean to or not. Most of us leave accidental legacies. We just do what we think is right, we get through the day, we do what comes naturally to us. Life is hard, and it’s easy to get caught up in the latest crisis and miss the people who are looking to us. Little ones who study us to find out what life is all about. Who see the best and worst of their parents. Who hear what we are saying, and then look at what we are doing. No wonder we see our own faults in our children. And, hopefully, our own strengths.

 

I saw a TV show once where an investigator was interviewing a suspect in a child molestation. And she drew a word picture that I’ve remembered since. She talked about the times when the pedophile himself had been abused as a child, and then further back, to the person who abused that guy, and so on. It was a chain of abuse going back generations. Not necessarily within one family, but within a long line of the abused who became abusers.

A horrible, twisted legacy, but a legacy nonetheless.

 

The word legacy and Joe Paterno go naturally together. But the heft and color and shape of JoePa’s legacy has been warped by that other, twisted legacy of abuse. One may argue about who knew when and who did what and on and on. I know, because I have. No one in my family or among my Pennsylvania friends could be accused of not having strong opinions.

Penn State has never had a recruiting scandal. Joe’s legacy is an academically focused, clean, honest football program. Until now.

I’m not entirely sure what I think about it, other than the pedophile did what pedophiles do and that someone—many someones—should have stopped him sooner. For those little boys, now men, Penn State’s legacy means something sordid and frightening and uncaring.

It’s all so very sad.

 

And so I come back around to myself, my family. It’s finally clear to me that legacy is not just a word for great men and women. All of us leave some kind of legacy. All of us have an imprint on those around us, whether we recognize it or not.

Will my legacy, the cords that connect me to my children, and my children’s children, be bright and encouraging, something hopeful to hang on to? Or will they be dark and slippery, binding and chafing? I am not foolish enough to think it has ever been an either/or choice. But I can make choices today, and tomorrow, and for the rest of my life, that give my children more light than dark. “Choose this day whom you will serve.” For too long, I have chosen not to choose. It is time. I fail every day, but I can also strive every day to shelter the light in my daughters’ eyes, to give them something to hang on to when life gets hard, to show them that life has joy and meaning. That each of them has joy and meaning.

What will your legacy be?