I have moved!!!

Well, in cyberspace.
Come check out my new blog, Do. Love. Walk.  at
https://revkarlajeanmiller.wordpress.com

NaBloPoMo Day 10

O.k.,
so I am late the NaBloPoMo party.  But today's prompt was an excellent one, and explains everything about why I am late.

"What is the hardest part of a big project: getting the energy to begin, finding the time to work on it, or feeling down that it's over?"

Definitely for me, the energy to begin.   I can work my way all around a project except for actually beginning.   Writing sermons, for example.   I can read my head full of discussions, blogposts, write liturgy, etc. etc.  But getting that first sentence down...

Or take the yoga videos on my desk.  Right now I have an excuse, because I can't walk right now, let alone stand on two feet, (or one)....but I LOVE yoga.  So I bought two beautiful videos to help me with a home practice---six months ago.  They aren't even out of the wrapper.  

Cleaning toilets.  Well, o.k., hopefully not a BIG project, but a constant project, cleaning house.  I can find all sorts of things to do instead of.  Until I can't stand it anymore.  

I love thinking about the project at hand.  Dreaming it, seeing it, wondering about it....but getting started. 

Oh my. 

A prayer for Tuesday.

Holy, holy, holy…

Mercy, mercy, mercy…

Grace, grace, grace…

silence in my heart, breath filling my lungs, refreshing my bones and blood,

exhaling, centering, breathing.  Over, and over, and over again until there is peace like a tiny river in my soul, for these moments at least.

Holy, holy, holy One

have mercy. May I be your mercy.

Graceful One,

might I live into your grace today.

Amen.

There's A Woman in the Pulpit: Christian Clergywomen Share their Hard Days, Holy Moments & the Healing Power of Humor

Sweet Lord,
I am remembering that day,
so, so, so long ago
when I was about 14 or 15 and a total church geek.
Or, actually, could I have been 29 or 20 in college?
What I remember is sitting in my grandmother's kitchen.
That kitchen where I would sit at the table
and watch her make donuts and pyrizhky, those meat-filled buns that were so good until I figured out what all that ground meat was ground FROM.
That kitchen table where she would feed us cheerios for breakfast and fizzies for a treat.
It was at that table that she looked at me and asked,
"You will be a minister someday, maybe?"

That was first of many call-seeds planted in my soul,
and it came from a Ukrainian immigrant with a Seventh Day Adventist background but as far as I could tell she never went to church but she kneeled by her bed every night and said the Lord's Prayer.
During the Great Depression, she kept her family fed and farm afloat from selling the eggs from her chicken coop.   I will take a seed like that any day.

But what I am trying to say, dear God, is that I am blown away by the myriad of seeds of call you fling across the world to call women to ministry. And I am so, so grateful.  Because without my women colleagues, I wouldn't be half the pastor I am today.  I am especially grateful for the RevGals, because I found them in a time of isolation, and over the years, deep connections have formed, dear friendships woven, and a dream team of colleagues advise me daily through the inter webs.

And this book, oh! this book!  Your Spirit is threaded and splashed and hidden and bold throughout the stories and prayers in this book.  They resonate with my experience of ministry, and of You. Thank You for bathing it and blessing it, and may it be a blessing in your kin-dom here, and in all the places you have flung your whispering seeds of "you will be a minister someday, maybe?"--no matter what or how that is interpreted.

Thanks be to you, Sweet Lord, thanks be.
Amen.

There's A Woman In the Pulpit can be purchased through the publisher, Skylights Path or Amazon where it the #1 New Release in Christian Books, and also at Barnes and Noble.    It is available in softcover or by e-book, but I highly recommend the soft cover (and I NEVER buy real live books anymore, but this is a book you are going to want to turn down the pages, hold, smile and cry over.)

yesterday...

It was Sunday at 6:45 am.
And I stood in a short line at Starbucks to order my venti cold pressed iced coffee-
(whatever, it sounded good.)
As I looked at the guy with the red sox jacket and the bespectacled barista and the woman in her snoopy pajama flannels,
I wanted to just tell them:
How wonderful is this day!
You are beloved just how you are!
And, guess what I get to do this morning?
I get to tell other people they are beloved and empowered
in face of their doubts and misgivings and anger,
they still can be love in the world.
AND
I get to baptize a 12 week year old baby.
I get to tell her she is beloved, and that she has a crowd of people who embrace her...
I get to whisper in her ear,
"You are God's special one, sweet thing, may you always know that"
and then I will get to
anoint her in the Holy Spirit.
How strange and amazing is that?

And, it was.
Amen.

A Sunday Prayer, on Being Called...

Oh God…

You call us, 

and some of us immediately get it,

because we are smacked up the side of our hearts

with your glory*, 

and the only response is to drop everything

and go with you, 

even though we don’t know or care about the details….

most of us

think You are crazy

although we are are so drawn to your love.

We are the ones who take baby steps, 

fall down, 

get up, 

and toddle again towards your grace

and your invitation

to accompany you.

So we wander,

we wonder,

we walk,

and hope that being by Your side,

we reflect and share your love and hope

with the corners of the world in which we live.

We tentatively drop our nets, 

and serve the people and the world 

which you love so much. 

Oh sweet Lord,

we pray, 

we pray so much for that which you love,

for those whom you love--especially 

the places in our world where people are suffering from war, political violence, from what we don’t know except it’s unspeakable.

We offer our prayers

for those we know 

who suffer from grief, loss, illness…

sadness,

desolation of heart,

or uncertain futures. 

We pray, for our earthhome, 

who cries out everyday for your justice, and our care. 

Oh God,

You call us. 

We wonder, 

We wander, 

We stumble,

We drop our nets, 

We cling to them, 

We are flooded with your glory, 

and in our disarray,

We want to follow you. 

We have decided,

to follow you. 

Amen. 

                                       *Barbara Brown Taylor phrase

A Prayer for Transfiguration

Holy One,

We come before you,

Many of us feeling like we have climbed just a part of the mountain,

and there is so much more of a climb left to even get to point to dream that we might be dazzled by what is Divine.

Our loads are heavy,

with worry, with regret,

with fatigue, with illness,

with despair for all in the world that is hurting, in danger,  in bondage and more.

We trudge ahead, following you,

stumbling, hoping, praying…

breathing hard, hearts pounding, and yes,

even some of us are nimble and skipping.

Lead us Lord,

to the top of that mountain,

where we might be dazzled by your Light,

lifted by what is Divine,

filled by the sheer delight of what is numinous and ethereal and grounded and real.

We pray this,

for ourselves, for one another, and for the worlds in which we live in.

Amen.

(also posted at www.revgalblogpals.org)

November 1, 2014 Meeting Friends...

*I am participating in something called NaBloPoMo November 2014.  It is a challenge to write everyday during the month of November.  Saturday and Sunday are free writes, but Mary Beth over at RevGalBlogPals offered the following prompt:

RevGalBlogPals began around 2004/5 when a group of us somehow found each other on blogs. Today, write about how you met a friend/group of friends. Where? How? How has the relationship changed; how has it stayed the same?

It was my first day of third grade, and at a new school. 

Rickard Elementary.  My teacher was named Mrs. Russell, and to my 8 year old self she was old and not very warm.  Actually, in my mind, she looked like my Grandma Lee who died when I was very young.  So, I was a little scared.

Plus, we had only been living in "town" for about a year.  My mom had finally left my alcoholic father at the end of first grade--up until then, we had lived on our farm year round in Western North Dakota.   We spent second grade in a tiny rental house near the first town school I  had ever gone to.  Imagine, going from a two room school house, where the entire first grade was four children, to town school, where there were three sections of second grade, 25 kids in a class!  Not a great situation for a shy withdrawn 8 year old.  But I made it through, made some friends, and was fine, for the most part. 

But then, my mom remarried.  And with that marriage, we moved to a different neighborhood, and a different school and now there was Mrs. Russell.  And a room full of 8 year olds.  

I went home for lunch that first day, and my step-dad asked me if a certain girl was in my class.  Turned out, her sister was either married/dating my stepbrother (who I barely knew).  I can't remember the exact timing.   Indeed she was in my class, and went I went back to the playground to look for her. 

My memory is that she was playing marbles, but that could be fuzzy.  I know we met on the playground.   And we became fast friends.  Dear friends.  We were in the same class in 3, 4, 5 grade; and during junior high and senior high we continued to hang out. If it hadn't been for her,  I think I would have been so very lost.  I considered her my best friend.  My heart friend. Soul friend.  For years we kept a journal, that we passed back and forth, writing to each other intermittently and mailing it back and forth......we have stayed connected closely and loosely for the past 43 years.  Perhaps more loosely in the past years, but to this day, I know she would have my back if I needed her.    And I am grateful.  

A Summer Weekday, and a Prayer

So,
I haven't written much for the past, oh, five months.
But, I haven't really taken the time...I have been writing in other places--sermons, prayers, Facebook, etc.

Today, though, it is very quiet in the office. I am now the only one here--the office is only open from 9-12, T-W-Th....and I have been taking my time today to do a few things I have wanted to do, but not gotten around to.  Except for the two big things I really need to get to, which is the church website, and vacation bible school.

Well, I did make 8 phone calls on advocating for the passing of a state bill regarding gun violence.  That's good ministry, right?

I find myself thinking back to a year ago.   What a sad internal space I was in, as I was in limbo professionally.  I am so grateful to have moved out of that space, and grateful to be in this interim place of ministry.  It's exactly where I needed to land, and thank God that God knew that.  I don't know if I was too sure, but I am glad that I said "yes!"

I am coming up on 14 years of ordained ministry.  Most of that ministry has been as an associate pastor, with lead pastoring during sabbaticals and medical leaves.   Somehow, I think this is viewed as a blight on my record--but I have to say it's been great to have colleagues.   I imagine my next move being to a solo or lead pastor; but it may not be.  I was thinking that I need to remember that 14 years is a whole lot of rich experience, and that there is pretty much nothing I haven't experienced, and yet everyday is different and new.  

....and so I continue reflecting....on a warm Thursday afternoon.  I met with my clergy community of practice, and what a beautiful, strong, smart group of colleagues.  I don't know how I got so lucky to land in this group, but it is a saving grace, monthly.

I am thinking about Matthew 13 today. About Words.  About parables.
About mustard seeds and leaven, treasures and pearls and fish.

With that, I am going to simmer and go for a walk.

Dear God,
For this moment, this holy ordinary moment,  I give you thanks.
As I yell at the puppy "no, LEAVE IT" and the birds sing outside my window,
As a cat mewls, and traffic swishes by,
I give you thanks.
As I remember sweet conversation with ministers,
and enjoy a salad with herbs from my garden and fresh roasted corn,
I give you thanks.

I pray for all the places in the world that are going to hell in a hand basket.
Child immigrants, war refugees, planes lost, planes gunned down,
Roiling weather,  a Holy land in fear and trembling and terror for all.
God have mercy.
God have mercy.
God have mercy.

Move my heart God,
to be more justice in my life,
to love more fiercely and courageously,
and
to walk with confidence and humbleness,
into how and who and what You have called me to be and do.

In the spirit of brother Jesus I pray,
Amen.

Sunday Prayer, Epiphany 4A, February 2, 2014

Holy One, 

You who calls us before mountains and hills, asking us to remember, all of what you have done, we shout to you our praise and thanksgiving, so that all of the valleys and foundations of the earth might hear of your deeds. 

And when we forget to remember your presence, your working in our lives, we pray for forgiveness. We pray for your wisdom to move us to open our hearts and minds to you. 

We pray for our world, 

for places that are wrought with war and fear, where refugees are forgotten, where children and elders are hungry because of the foolishness and hardheartedness of too many. We pray for shards of your blessing to break through to those who mourn, who hunger, who are poor in spirit.  May they be comforted and filled and taste a bit of heaven somehow, some way.  Help us to remember those suffer, and to never forget. 

We pray for our leaders, our teachers, our mentors, and more--especially for those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for our earth home and for those who are persecuted.  We pray for those who aren’t afraid to speak out, to appear foolish in the eyes of so many others, when they advocate for peace, for fair wages, for decent housing, for social services that work, for laws to protect children and elders; and ways to address climate change. 

We pray for those around us, in our hearts, and next to us in the pews, for your spirit to protect them, challenge them, move them closer to your love. 

Oh Holy One, you who calls us to testify before mountains and hills of your glory,  may we serve this world in which you have given us life, 

by doing your justice, by loving all kindness, and walking humbly with You in all of the moments of our lives. 

Amen. 

a long quiet...

I am feeling all quiet today. 

Not lost, but meandering through 

the interior hollows and curves of my being.

There are those bustling 'round

busy with whatever busy-ness there is, 

and yet, 

I am not.

Busy. 

I am all quiet today. 

No questions on my heart, 

no burdens I bear,

really, to speak of. 

I am all quiet today.

I am thinking of people

whom I know are very ill, 

                                            very stressed, 

               very sad, 

                                       very joyful, 

                    

and 

I hold them in the 

Light of Life and Love.

I am all quiet today, 

my flame flickers gently, 

and 

in my quiet, 

I will wait. 

Amen. 

just a quiet morning...

It's the Saturday after Thanksgiving....Nov. 30, 2013.
We are in Vermont,
and it is all snowy and wintery and sunny and cold
and perfect.

I write (o.k. SURF the inter webs) while my beloved sleeps.

In a while, we will exercise,
pack up,
go to lunch,
drive home.

at this point, I really ought to be further along in my preparations for Sunday, First Sunday in Advent.
But I am not.
I believe I am overthinking my sermon,
wanting to be succinct, and smart, and brilliant, and educated and erudite
in the words
that are waiting to be written, expressed...
I want to be more honed, more clever,
more...probably more of what I think I SHOULD be, rather than who I am.

Help me rest in that thought God...
I do want to be more faithful in my preparation,
more in tune with your Spirit.
Not what I think I should be, or what I think others want,
but rather,
what you want....the Word that best reflects your Message to this particular time and place and people that I am serving on behalf of you these days.

Help me,
let go of my insecurities (yes, I have those, and I need to admit this)
Help me,
be completely enveloped
in your Spirit...
Help me just simply be,
and to trust in You,
and to trust in me,
and to trust this process
of listening and writing and meditating.

Take me over with your Love, dear God.
I am working on being wide open to You.

Amen.

Ms. or Mrs.?

This fall,  I had the opportunity to substitute teach.
For six weeks I wandered into middle school science and social studies classrooms,
kindergarten wonderlands,
first grade intensity,
and everything in between.

Always, in each new assignment, I was asked,
are you Ms. Miller, or Mrs. Miller.

At first, I just said, it doesn't matter.

But it does, I know.

When I was teaching in the late 80's and 90's, I was emphatically MS. Miller.
Not Miss Miller.  Not Mrs. Miller.
I didn't feel like I should have to have my marital status be a part of how my students and their parents perceived me.  Men only have one choice--Mr. -------.   I know that most people at that time and place thought that I ought to just give in to the sexist paradigm.  They all knew that Ms.  was just a feminist who was single.

Apparently, here, in another part of the country, and a new millennium, the Miss has been dropped.  And it wasn't clear whether Ms.  was just non-sexist, but I felt like when I was asked, that Ms. meant single and Mrs. mean married.  OR--actually, Mrs. meant you were married, but Ms. was more neutral.

Here is the thing--this fall, I started off as being Ms.   You know, the whole neutral, non-sexist word.

But then, the children, especially the little ones, would call me Mrs., and hey, it wasn't worth correcting a six year old, especially as a temporary teacher for the day.  And--I found I liked being Mrs. Miller!   I  *am* married, for goodness sake.  To a wonderful woman.

So, for a few weeks, I just went with being Mrs. Miller.  The first time in my 50 years of life, and I liked the public addition to my identity.

Here is another thing--I now am at the age I don't mind it if I am called "Miss".  This happens ONLY at Starbucks, so I think it must be a customer service rule--call all the women "Miss" unless obviously she looks older than your mother.  Oh my goodness, I would have been ruffled to pieces if this happened to me when I was 33.

It's funny, though, how the title in front of our names means something.  Or not.  For example, I am proud that I am Rev. Karla, or Pastor Karla.  I worked HARD for that!   Those who have earned a post-graduate degree, whether Ph.D. or D. Min or Ed.D.   have earned that DR. in front of their name.

When I was a college chaplain, my name was always listed formally as The Reverend Karla Miller.   The students started calling me "The Rev."    I must admit, I loved that, because it was a term of endearment.

But in congregational polity, we hold close to the priesthood of all believers, and since I don't call my parishioners Ms. Polly, or Mr. Mark,  why should they call me Pastor Karla?   I know this is common in many Christian traditions.  I know that in the denomination of my cradle, Pastor is like a first name.  You just don't refer to the minister by her first name alone.  Or--you don't very often.

So, on Sunday, during the children's time, my colleague in ministry was introducing me to the children, and asked me what I would like for them to call me.  I sort of flustered in the moment, because I hadn't thought about it--in my last parish I was a mix of Rev, Pastor Karla, and Karla to all ages.    That just evolved.

Without thinking, I said, "Karla is great!"

After musing about this,  it was the perfect thing to say.

I wonder, if part of my thrill of being called Mrs. was in part because it gave me a little sense of identity that fed into my ego.  I was a Teacher!  A Wife!

Part of the landscape of the past few months of sabbatical and time off  involved a stripping off the outer ways in which I identified with the world--and gained a sense of worthiness from those identities.  Not always a good thing to do.

So I am really grateful for having that time in not being a pastor in a congregation (it can be quite heady, you know, at times....).   It gave me pause to consider my calling.  Was I continued to be called to parish ministry?  Should I start a dog walking business?  Get my teaching certificate?

It also gave me space to be myself,  reconnect with my deep self, my knowing self.   This wasn't always easy, mind you--I did a couple of temp jobs where I wanted to SHOUT OUT "do you KNOW what I AM?? A freakin' professional that doesn't give a flip about counting ceiling tiles!!!"  Humbling, at its best.  Its very best.

And I had to remember, over and over, that the most important part of me is that I am Beloved.  And that I am called to be Love, as best I can, in this world.   Whether or not I am Ms., Miss, Pastor, or Mrs.  

Whew.
Thanks be to God.

ooossshhhhhhh

That's is kind of how I am feeling right now.
oooooesshhhhhhhh.
Like,
oy!

I am trying not very hard to not to be focused,
which in regular words is:
I am not focused.
I am not trying.
I am procrastinating.

why?

maybe it's my mind emptying itself in a weird way.

I have exhausted all the possibilities of clicks to check on facebook,
shoe sites, groupons, twitters, email, facebook, email, ummm...
landing finally to write here to get some words out of my body,
some thoughts, scattered though they may be, pushed out of my mind,
sifting through the raffles of my mind,
neurons spinning, misfiring, jumping....

moving towards the illusive quiet, still space...
a point of tiny light,
a breath,
a prayer,

help me God.
help me  to listen your Spirit,
your heartbeat,
in spite of me,
tune me to your Word, and your Silence in between.

Amen.

The Way

it was the Living Bible. illustrated.
it was paperback, and had tons of photos.
a paraphrase,
it was a smooth read.
probably the 70's version of The Message.

mine was tattered, and I underlined and highlighted passages, because I read it A. Lot.
I went to bible studies and luther league, and we would furiously underline the words we were learning about...I would add exclamation points (!!!!!)  and smiley faces, and little prayers like "help me remember this".

this was my favorite passage, from Ephesians 3:

¹⁷ And I pray that Christ will be more and more at home in your hearts, living within you as you trust in him. May your roots go down deep into the soil of God’s marvelous love; ^18-19 and may you be able to feel and understand, as all God’s children should, how long, how wide, how deep, and how high his love really is; and to experience this love for yourselves, though it is so great that you will never see the end of it or fully know or understand it. And so at last you will be filled up with God himself.

it's still a favorite passage, albeit I now change the language to be gender neutral.

we went to bible camp every summer. and we took our bibles.  this was when I was in 6-7-8 grade. 
high school kids were our counselors, and it was a good time.  lots of laughing, pranking, worship with guitars and guest pastors, stuff like that.  the big thing was the bonfire on the last night, where we would sit around and sing songs like "Pass It On" and a very slow rendition of "Kum Ba Yah". 

the last day, 
we would get people to sign our bibles.  (kind of like signing yearbooks, as I think about it now.)
except we would share bible verses in our notes,
or prayers, 
or write things like "God's light shines through you"
and those blessings
were as holy writ
as the paraphrase of Ephesians 3:17, 
because
those friend blessings
carried me through 
the ups and downs and craziness
of adolescence...

I have carried that bible with me from college to my first job to my second job to seminary to my first parish, second call, third call...fourth call....for 39 years.

this summer, 
I had a fit of downsizing
my library....
and I gave that bible away, in a moment of non-attachment. 
to the object.

but I am still attached by my heart,
to the blessings and prayers,
smiley faces and exclamation points,
markers of the faith of my youth,
tiny seedlings with fragile roots
that grew deep
deep
deep down
into the soil of God's love. 
and I still really don't understand it
and it's true you can't really fully know it, 
but still,
you have moments
of being filled up with God...
rooted firmly,
ready to fly. 

Regathering.

for the past six years, except for this one, 

the weekend after labor day

has been incredibly, wackily crazy. 

regathering WEEKEND. 

it would begin with a community ice cream social on friday evening, on the front corner of the lawn of the church. 

sort of a community outreach, welcoming back to school in the community, the pre-school housed in our church, the dance school, our people back from summer time..

just a fun thing 

that was a lot of work, 

but fun. 

after cleaning up late on Friday night, 

I would be back early Saturday morning

for teacher orientation for Sunday School, 

another regathering

of coffee and juice and cheese grits and fruit and laughter and catching up, 

oh, 

yes,

and looking over the curriculum for the year. 

after getting through with that event, 

then home

to think about worship the next day, 

write my sermon if I was preaching, 

making sure everything ready to welcome children to Sunday School, 

write prayers and make lists for announcements,

and the like.

Sunday would be a big day, 

Regathering, 

singing "Gather Us In",

and blessing backpacks and bibles and teachers and students, 

and 

scooping left over ice cream during coffee hour...

by Sunday afternoon, 

I couldn't be more tired, and full, and feeling like we were off to the races for another year. 

this year was different, IS different. 

I am serving a church, just on Sundays, in a very limited capacity. 

not a lot of planning.  I am not the pastor. 

I love this church, and what I am doing. 

but I am just saying this new year, this new school year

is rolling along without my gifts and skills and what I love doing, what I know doing.  I missed getting do the "regathering" weekend, but this was my choice.  

it's o.k.

it's quiet. 

I get to be home more with my family. 

it's just a different kind of new. 

I am fearful and hopeful of what kind of new this whole year will bring.   

(Oh, and I just had a big birthday, which has always been a part of my inner regathering in my heart in the fall--oh, and yes my birthday is also the anniversary day of my ordination.  13 years, thank you!)

Will my vocational path follow a different trail than full-time congregational ministry?

I have applied for some meaningful work that would use a whole lot of what I bring to the table, what I love to do, what I enjoy....

I just don't know. 

And I suppose that is part of a new year, a fresh regathering of any kind--

Any thing can happen. 

Thank goodness my backpack is blessed. 

Amen. 

on the hunt....

so,
I am at the point where I need to be doing something.

I temped in an office for two weeks.  As much as I want to rant and rave about
the experience, I won't.  Let's just say, it doesn't look like temping is the avenue
right now for me.

there is the luxury of time for me to settle in and think outside of the box.  for goodness' sake...
I have earned it.

I've spent some time on Craig's List, exploring job opportunities.  There are jobs for professional bead stringers (who knew), grill cooks, printers, and pretty much a whole lotta stuff.  Today I applied to be a part-time dog walker.

I. LOVE. DOGS.


I hope they take my application seriously, because I am.  Think of it.  Exercise, furry beings that wag their tails when they see you, the pleasure of companionship beyond my own little pack.

There are people I know that are getting beat up in the church.  Not physically, but I am sure it is affecting them physically.  Some of the meanies are known church folk, some are anonymous, and beyond.  I know the church is a human place.  And people behave badly.  I've experienced that, in very, very small doses.  I am lucky.

I do want to serve a congregation again, I do want to be in ministry, and I do want to listen closely to the Spirit that Leads.

My mother is part of a lovely congregation in the north-mid-west.   I love them.  She loves them. It's a special happy place.  They don't have enough money to pay a minister full time.  But they do have a building, at least, that is small and not desperately in need of repair, like a lot of buildings here in New England.  They are blessed enough to have an amazing minister, in spite of.  They are kind, good, people.   I dream of serving in a place like this--fewer politics, ordinary people cleaning up food banks on service Sunday, bible studies on Friday mornings, and where children are celebrated.

But until that call comes,
I really, really, really would love walking dogs.

Woof.

Turnings...

it's just been such
basket of turns these days...

really, since spring...
and the turnings,
the transitions...
professionally,
personally...

have been enough
to feel like at times
I've been cosmically
thrown under the bus,
at times,
feeling
like it's all o.k., and I've got peace like a river in my soul....

but at other times,
sucking my breath in
and wanting to throw dishes at the wall
and break things...

and then the blissful denial times of,
curling up into a ball
and getting lost
in Candy Crush.
(yes, I have succumbed to that this summer.)

my eyes have been hot with tears of rage,
softly filled with sadness and grief,
overflowing with laughter and love.

and trying to find You in all this
has been virtually impossible.
each turning brings a glimpse,
and then abruptly disappearing
around the next unexpected turn.

Humbled. Crushed.
Hope-sick, searching,
Knowing and unknowing,
I wait for You.

it's really all I know what to do.
Amen.

Mom's house

it doesn't matter
which house it is.

the corner house across from the park with the outdoor swimming pool,
two blocks from Rickard Elementary
or
three blocks to Jr. High (and lunches of french fries at Service Drug)
or
a block and half to High School (to which we drove, back and forth, because, duh, who WALKS to school in High School?)

or this garden-town home
on the opposite side of the state...
not a STEP to worry about in this wide open,
lovely open-concep two bedroom, two bath, complete with a garage the size of the first floor of my own house in Boston....
HEATED garage, people.

it's Mom's house.  (and my step-dad's,  yes, of course....)

always flowers at mom's house

and the first day I visit,
it's always the same.
I check things out.
I look for the familiar library desk...filled with notes.
Her bedroom furniture, brand new and beautiful
(can I have this when you go, Mom?)
still holds her essence.
I snoop in her jewelry to look for the cross I gave her the first time I went to Israel,
and I look for her favorite photo of my twin and I
(one squalling bald baby, and one terrified moppy haired baby staring at her crying sister)
and I seek the picture of my grandfather that my uncle captured,
many years ago,
Grandpa Lee is looking over the lake, not focused on the camera, but probably thinking about fishing.

my twin and me

Oh, there are so many more photos...
of my nephews, and me and my sisters' baby pictures hung in a cluster in her bedroom,
and the antique photos
of female ancestors
that hung in the basement near my room
that creeped me out
when I would come home late in high school,
because I SWORE their eyes followed me...
only to continue to haunt me
in the guest bedroom where I sleep, today
watching over me like serious angels.
Do they know my heart?

(kinda scary, right?)

it's Mom's house.

I make sure she has all the familiar stuff in the fridge, and cupboards
yogurt, cheese,
eggs,
lots of condiments (some probably expired, but you just don't throw this stuff away, you know?)
bread, Life cereal, and a LOT of tupperware (how did this happen?  I tossed out so much three summers ago when I helped her and my step-dad move.  I guess having tupperware is security, or what makes a kitchen functional. )

The little things that have been gifted to her over the years--
the blue and white pottery my sister in california gave her,
the little plaques and decorative pictures,
whether they match or not, they are around,
because that is how a mother rolls, right?
what is more precious than a watercolor painted by a 7th grader?
or a letter from a preschool grandson?

it's Mom's house.
and so, so much more.

vast and rolling

I am in the window seat of the small plane
that is in descent
to the eastern part of the state
I still call  home.
As I peer through the
smudgy clouded scratched glass,
I marvel
at how my body
tunes in
with the
vastness
of this place.

so much room
to breathe.
so much land
measured in quartered fields
and tiny rivers
forming oxbows
and straight roads
that roll out forever...
a patchwork from the sky.

I know this rolling blue sky.
I know this green grass and yellow-bright fields of canola
resting next to green fields of potatoes or sugar beets or
some kind of grain, it doesn't matter.
I know this wind, hot and dryly humid.

But the best thing is,
this vast and rolling place
knows me.
We connect....
and
my ancient childhood
is renewed in good and solid ways.
Home.