VSP

I didn't know what VSP was till a few weeks ago. And I have some strong feelings about it. VSP stands for Voluntary Separation Package. It was offered to 12 of my colleagues and friends at Christian Theological Seminary where I spent 15 years working before retirement. Today six of the twelve accepted the package.

Tonight I am grateful for the lives of those who will be leaving CTS. Each one has given of themselves to nurture future leaders for the church. Each has studied, written and taught in their field to help assure that future leadership in the church is educated and grounded in the rich and complex tradition of our faith. They have given their lives to help others explore the depths of faith that has been expressed throughout history.

Tonight I am remembering each one as they made decisions about their future.  Holly Heron has taught New Testament and I am grateful for her sharing with me her insights as we taught classes together. Ron Summervile taught Church History and was the leader of a life changing journey I took to Ghana soon after I came to CTS.  Frank Burch Brown has taught Religion and the Arts and has blessed me with deep conversations about God in the midst of loss and pain. Marti Steussy has taught Old Testament and I have been enriched by our friendship and blessed by working with her in teaching Licensed Ministers. Rufus Burrow has taught Ethics and has challenged me to be my best self.  Wilma Bailey has taught Old Testament and her quiet and steady presence has grounded me in my life at the school.

Each of these persons is experiencing profound loss tonight. I cannot know what it means for them. But, I know its meaning for me will be revealed only as time goes forward. As I wait for the future to open up and reveal their new life and mine in their absence, I can only say, "Thank you, dear friends and colleagues for the gifts you offered me and so many others." 

PORTRAIT OF A SOUL

It was a few years ago now.  I gathered with my siblings in Kansas City to celebrate the life of our mother, Oma. She had died and we gathered from around the continent to give thanks for her life. Siblings, grandkids, friends. We were there sharing our connection with this one woman.

And we talked.  We talked, remembered, laughed and cried. We told stories of our mother. We shared our experiences, each with different stories of gifts and discipline, of confrontation and affection. Each story was a brush stroke on the canvas of our memories--a stroke bold and dark, delicate and light, soft and gentle, edged and tough. With each story more texture and dimension was added to the memory's portrait of my mother's soul.

When we tell the stories of the moments of our lives we create a portrait of our souls. The moments of our lives remembered are placed on a canvas of memory and we try to understand what it means to be us. With each story we shared at our mother's memorial service, we added to the meaning we were making of our mother's life with us.  As we heard friends talk and tell of her acts of kindness and her commitment to the "least of these" we filled in with color the sometimes faint images that childhood memories have.

It is in the human heart to seek meaning. We siblings each shared stories, painting fresh and complicated strokes on each other's canvases. As one spoke, the meaning of mother's life to the rest of us was shaded with more depth and character. When the story-telling and the memorial service was over, we all returned to our own homes with a portrait of our mother's soul more imprinted on our hearts. We each have our own understanding of our mother's meaning for our lives, and by sharing the stories of our lives with her, we enriched each other's portrait.

SACRED SCARED

When I am open to hear and see, insights come from every direction. A friend posted an article on a blog called Momastery.  In this particular blog, "Our Sacred Scared" author Glennon Doyle Melton says that there are two kinds of people who have one thing in common. "The people who are running the world and the people who are sitting life out are exactly the same. They are all messy, complicated, confused people who are unsure of what to do next. They all have messy relationships and insecurities and anger and blind spots. They are ALL AFRAID."

I find this statement (and the whole blog) to be right on target. When we all get down to the core of who we are, we find that we are complicated and filled with conflicting desires and motivations. Our relationships are often confusing, frustrating and satisfying (sometimes all at the same time). We are afraid of losing ourselves in the midst of sharing in community but we are afraid of not belonging to communities and being left out. (I remember very keenly the longing to be included as a teenager in the "cool" people while at the same time desiring to express my unique individuality). We are all scared.

And as Glennon continues in her blog, there are two kinds of scared people: Those who show up and live in the world and those who are waiting till they get it all together before they show up. She quotes the artist Georgia O'Keeffe who said, “I’ve been absolutely terrified every second of my life- and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do.”  Glennon suggests that when we show up in relationship to each other with the messiness being revealed, we offer encouragement to others to go ahead and live even if they are afraid.  Sharing our fear is a sacred scared.  It creates courage for life.

I don't know about you, but I think life is too short not to show up. And knowing that fear is going to be there, I want to not let it keep me from doing what I choose to do.

SACRED SILENCE

Have you ever been speechless? Have you ever been so deeply moved that you no words would form? When we hear of a diagnosis, a death, a loss, and find words are simply inadequate?

It happens to me a lot. I get a call and someone I care about has been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. What do you say? I want to be encouraging, but not sure I feel encouraged. I feel awful and find that no words are powerful enough to express my sadness for them or my helplessness in relation to their illness. I sometimes say "That really sucks!!" But, those words are no sooner out of my mouth when I feel foolish. Nothing is strong enough.

So, what do you do? I find that it helps to realize that nothing will be adequate.  The conversation will be awkward because both parties do not have words to express their feelings. It sometimes helps to ask some questions like, "When did they find out? or What kind of treatment are they going to do? or Who else have you shared this with? or What do you think you are going to do." But, we will run out of questions and silence will swallow any other word we might try to utter.

Now, the fact is, most of us will feel awkward and inadequate. There may be long periods of silence.  And silence often scares us.  When no one says anything we fill in the blanks with the anxiety we are feeling.  We project our feelings on to others. Silence has a certain emptiness to it.

But, remember, you are making contact.  You are reaching out. You are trying to speak a language that is unfamiliar to both you and the person you love. Neither of you has been here before. This is a foreign country with a foreign language.

Remember that we can't solve other's problems, but our silence communicates our respect for the depth of life with which another is struggling. And we can accompany another as they seek to work out their fear and their future. And the awareness that another person cares to be silent with us can sometimes be the strength we need to take the next step on an unwanted pilgrimage.

Silence in respect for the depth of another's experience can be a sacred space where some healing can happen. 

THANKS DADDY

Hiking today in the warming weather, sun shining, heart lighter. The dark clouds of frigid cold have taken a break and allowed the warming sun to melt the shoulder-hunched heart.

And I am thinking about my Daddy.  I am wondering how he would have handled my frustration during these past couple of days. My computer would not work and I was grouchy.  I couldn’t get my calendars to sync. I couldn’t write my blog. I had to type email replies on those little keys on my phone. (Not exactly life threatening frustrations.)

The reason I was thinking about my Daddy is that he would have known what to do. You see, he was creative and resilient. He could take any tool and make it do what he wanted. It is said that the key to getting things done is having the right tool. Well, my Daddy believed that the key to getting things done is making the tools you have do what you want them to do.

So, if he didn’t have a wrench, he would take the pliers he had and use them.  If they were not working, he would add a piece of scrap pipe to the end of the handles to get a tighter grip. If the job needed a chisel and he only had a screw driver, he made it into a chisel. 

This is the unwanted gift my Daddy received by being a child of the depression. It was a gift he probably would have preferred doing without, but one that made it possible for him to survive and provide a living for his wife and five children. 

Now, I admit that I didn’t inherit my Daddy’s tool skills. But, I am grateful for the gift he gave me of believing that I could make it with the gifts I had been given.  It doesn’t keep me from getting grouchy when I have to adapt, but it does enable me to stay with the tools I do have available for my work and get the job done.

On this warming day in a painfully cold winter, I am grateful for my Daddy.