(Actually late Sunday evening, CA time)
I’m in Barstow, CA, a mile from I-40 – the road home. Home to Shannon, home to the new life we’re beginning in Asheville, NC. Away from Santa Cruz, away from the home we’ve had there with our church, with our friends. And away, too, from church for me. The robes and stoles will go to the dry cleaners’ soon, and be put away for awhile. They’ll be replaced, very soon, with my new job as mom-at-home.
It’s all a lot to process and feel, to say the least.
I’ve been crying for days, at one thing or another, with one person or another. And, today, with the whole church. At another point in my life, if I’d been in the crowd watching all of that unfold, I would have been one of the few dry-eyed folks there. I’d closed off much of myself, trying to stay safe from harm, protecting myself from any depth of relationship that had the power to cause me pain. It took me a few years to realize how much of life I was missing, and to discover that there was no way to give myself to Jesus – or to anyone else – without grief and pain coming into play somewhere along the way. And that I had no idea what joy was.
Church life is hard, really hard some days. There is nothing easy about being in real, messy community with a whole lot of people. And there sure isn’t anything easy about following Jesus. But as I drove away from Santa Cruz today, talking to Shannon and winding my way through those familiar streets, I knew that every hard day these past 4 years was worth it. I would trade none of it, not even the dark days. Our marriage began there, in that community of faith, with that community of friends. Our child began growing there, 35 weeks ago. (5 weeks to due date now!) And I gave my life to Jesus in a deeper way than I ever have before – because I finally learned to let go of my need for safety, for protection. Shannon started breaking down those barriers in me, and this church and these friends brought them most of the rest of the way down. I still have a lot to learn, a long way to go as I search for Jesus’ footsteps in my life, in the earth I walk on. But I’m pointed in the right direction, and more so because of the ministry I’ve shared with so many in Santa Cruz and beyond.
What remains, now, in the place of those long-held barriers in me – what remains is gratitude. Gratitude for the grief, because it tells me how much I’ve loved here, how many people I will love and carry with me all the days of my life. Gratitude for the tears, because they show me the depth of joy I’ve discovered and experienced. Faith, hope, love – and gratitude. These remain.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Last Days
It’s Wednesday night. I’ve been stressing for a couple of weeks about this coming Sunday, my last as a pastor here – and as a pastor anywhere for the foreseeable future. What scripture is right for this kind of day? What word would God have us hear for a day of gratitude, of letting go, of opening to what new possibilities are in store for us all on the other side of this farewell? I want to be profound, of course. A sermon that will stay with them forever, move them to new heights, a sermon everyone will want copies of afterwards…oh. Right. This isn’t actually about me. It’s about God. About the ministry we’ve been given and shared and grown into, and about the Christ we’ve tried to follow on the streets of Santa Cruz and in so many places beyond. It’s about the ministry they’ll continue to grow into, the new life I’m stepping into, and the footsteps of Jesus we’ll all keep doing our best to find and follow.
I know the scripture now, the liturgy has been written, the band has been given the music, a sermon title discovered. And the word itself will come – God’s word, somehow, in my frail, human speech. And the word will come in the prayers we pray together, in Lori’s voice and in Art’s magic through the piano keys, the word will move into the air in Renata’s bow across the cello’s strings, Steve’s steady rhythm behind the drums, Stan’s centering bass and Brad’s lively horn. It’ll come, because this word, God’s word, is living and breathing and ever-present.
How grateful I am for that. And how grateful, really, I am for the grief. It’s profound, this grief of leaving Santa Cruz, of letting go of this church community. There will never be another Santa Cruz for us: the place and people with whom we began our marriage, the people who prayed – and still do – every day for our baby girl soon to come into the world. And it’s the church where I’ve learned what it means to give myself to this work, to this calling of parish ministry. I’ve poured my heart and soul into this place, and they’ve all given that and more right back to me. And the grief tells me it’s been worth every hard moment, every painful wrong step, every poorly chosen word – by them and by me.
Anne Lamott says there are really only two prayers: “Thank you, thank you, thank you” and “Help me, help me, help me.” She’s right. Thank you for Santa Cruz, for community, for friends to last a lifetime. Help me grieve and honor it all, and help me carry it with me when I go.
I know the scripture now, the liturgy has been written, the band has been given the music, a sermon title discovered. And the word itself will come – God’s word, somehow, in my frail, human speech. And the word will come in the prayers we pray together, in Lori’s voice and in Art’s magic through the piano keys, the word will move into the air in Renata’s bow across the cello’s strings, Steve’s steady rhythm behind the drums, Stan’s centering bass and Brad’s lively horn. It’ll come, because this word, God’s word, is living and breathing and ever-present.
How grateful I am for that. And how grateful, really, I am for the grief. It’s profound, this grief of leaving Santa Cruz, of letting go of this church community. There will never be another Santa Cruz for us: the place and people with whom we began our marriage, the people who prayed – and still do – every day for our baby girl soon to come into the world. And it’s the church where I’ve learned what it means to give myself to this work, to this calling of parish ministry. I’ve poured my heart and soul into this place, and they’ve all given that and more right back to me. And the grief tells me it’s been worth every hard moment, every painful wrong step, every poorly chosen word – by them and by me.
Anne Lamott says there are really only two prayers: “Thank you, thank you, thank you” and “Help me, help me, help me.” She’s right. Thank you for Santa Cruz, for community, for friends to last a lifetime. Help me grieve and honor it all, and help me carry it with me when I go.
Friday, July 18, 2008
In-between Time
It's an odd place to be, sitting in the present circumstance on the cusp of huge change. Soon, mere weeks away, I'll be unemployed for the first time since I was 16 years old. By choice, thankfully, not forced. Notice I did not say "not working." I freely admit I don't know a fraction of what it means to be a parent, but I do know that I will most definitely be working when this child arrives into our world.
The details of transition have been exhausting, to say the least. I've had many moments of relief remembering I will get a break from church life as I've known it. There's a lot that is not easy about parish life. The next moment, though, will be one of heartbreak as I remember what it means I will also be losing. There is also a lot that is overwhelmingly joy-full and grace-filled in parish life.
And I have to admit to the fear of this big change: being a pastor has been an enormous part of my identity for a long time. Identity shift to being seen primarily as 'mom' is not insignificant. It's difficult for me even to imagine another life. At the same time, I am eager to embrace the change because I am completely confident it is God's clear leading for this moment in our lives.
It's a lot to hold all at once, not to mention the coast-to-coast move it involves. Ecclesiastes promises that there is a time for everything. My challenge is to remember that promise also means God is in the midst of it all, that I do not hold any of it alone.
The details of transition have been exhausting, to say the least. I've had many moments of relief remembering I will get a break from church life as I've known it. There's a lot that is not easy about parish life. The next moment, though, will be one of heartbreak as I remember what it means I will also be losing. There is also a lot that is overwhelmingly joy-full and grace-filled in parish life.
And I have to admit to the fear of this big change: being a pastor has been an enormous part of my identity for a long time. Identity shift to being seen primarily as 'mom' is not insignificant. It's difficult for me even to imagine another life. At the same time, I am eager to embrace the change because I am completely confident it is God's clear leading for this moment in our lives.
It's a lot to hold all at once, not to mention the coast-to-coast move it involves. Ecclesiastes promises that there is a time for everything. My challenge is to remember that promise also means God is in the midst of it all, that I do not hold any of it alone.
Friday, June 27, 2008
I Do
I’d said it before, standing in the front of a church sanctuary, wearing a white dress and looking into her beautiful eyes. She wore a white dress, too. We’d both been really nervous, with shaking hands and wavering voices -- surrounded by so many who loved us and whom we loved. My voice had gotten lost somewhere in a joyful choke of tears as I promised what was already true: my heart, my life, my all was intertwined with hers for the rest of this beautiful and messy earthly existence. In good and bad, joy and challenge, we’d promised before God and community to stay by one another’s side and share it all. I’d said “I do,” to all of it, wearing that white dress and standing in the front of a church sanctuary.
And so I didn’t think about what it might be like to say it again, standing in a conference room in the Santa Cruz County building. I had no idea what it would feel like to walk into a County Clerk’s office with my beloved, and actually receive a marriage license. It didn’t occur to me that I would be so happy to write a check to the County for anything. Truth is, though, I’ve never been happier to give money to local government. Truth is, saying “I do” in front of the County Clerk in a conference room meant more than I could have ever imagined.
It is no small thing to stand in an historic moment. It is no small thing to participate in the righting of an injustice you haven’t dared dream would come true for you. Does having a civil marriage license make our Christian marriage any more valid? Absolutely not. The promises we made to God and each other are not subject to any civil authority. We are blessed beyond measure to serve and participate in a Christian community that already believes our growing family is equal to any other, a community that has been working for many years to move the state to practice the equality of citizens stated so clearly in the constitution.
I learned the Pledge of Allegiance to the United States flag almost 30 years ago, and can recite it all from memory when I simply close my eyes and transport myself back to those elementary school classrooms where I said it each morning, with my hand over my heart. As an adult, I’ve discovered my allegiance is first to God and that primary allegiance sometimes comes into conflict with the laws of the United States. I’ve also learned that these conflicts between my core Christian convictions and certain laws, policies and decisions by the United States government can be held in a creative tension. This tension is possible because of the innate freedom given to me in my creation as a child of God, and because of the freedom of choice and expression promised to the population of the United States. What I also learned as an adult, though, is that there were limits to the freedom under the law for me. My sister and her husband could be married under the law, they had that choice in every state of the union. Because I was oriented differently than my sister, and knew that a woman was the life partner for me, the choice of legal marriage was denied me.
“…with liberty and justice for all,” didn’t mean me, not wholly. But then came an ordinary Tuesday morning in June, in Santa Cruz County California. I said “I do,” again. This time, in a courthouse. This time, surrounded by another community of people we love and who love us. This time, with a simple dress for me and maternity clothes for Shannon. This time, with our unborn child in Shannon’s body growing her way into our family. I said “I do,” Shannon said “I do,” and the room erupted in joy and tears and applause. The state made good on its promises to us, as citizens, for our family to be recognized equally under the law.
We are deeply and profoundly grateful to God for the loving and inclusive Christian community that surrounds us every day. And we are proud to be citizens of the state of California, where “liberty and justice for all” rings ever closer to being true for all of its people.
And so I didn’t think about what it might be like to say it again, standing in a conference room in the Santa Cruz County building. I had no idea what it would feel like to walk into a County Clerk’s office with my beloved, and actually receive a marriage license. It didn’t occur to me that I would be so happy to write a check to the County for anything. Truth is, though, I’ve never been happier to give money to local government. Truth is, saying “I do” in front of the County Clerk in a conference room meant more than I could have ever imagined.
It is no small thing to stand in an historic moment. It is no small thing to participate in the righting of an injustice you haven’t dared dream would come true for you. Does having a civil marriage license make our Christian marriage any more valid? Absolutely not. The promises we made to God and each other are not subject to any civil authority. We are blessed beyond measure to serve and participate in a Christian community that already believes our growing family is equal to any other, a community that has been working for many years to move the state to practice the equality of citizens stated so clearly in the constitution.
I learned the Pledge of Allegiance to the United States flag almost 30 years ago, and can recite it all from memory when I simply close my eyes and transport myself back to those elementary school classrooms where I said it each morning, with my hand over my heart. As an adult, I’ve discovered my allegiance is first to God and that primary allegiance sometimes comes into conflict with the laws of the United States. I’ve also learned that these conflicts between my core Christian convictions and certain laws, policies and decisions by the United States government can be held in a creative tension. This tension is possible because of the innate freedom given to me in my creation as a child of God, and because of the freedom of choice and expression promised to the population of the United States. What I also learned as an adult, though, is that there were limits to the freedom under the law for me. My sister and her husband could be married under the law, they had that choice in every state of the union. Because I was oriented differently than my sister, and knew that a woman was the life partner for me, the choice of legal marriage was denied me.
“…with liberty and justice for all,” didn’t mean me, not wholly. But then came an ordinary Tuesday morning in June, in Santa Cruz County California. I said “I do,” again. This time, in a courthouse. This time, surrounded by another community of people we love and who love us. This time, with a simple dress for me and maternity clothes for Shannon. This time, with our unborn child in Shannon’s body growing her way into our family. I said “I do,” Shannon said “I do,” and the room erupted in joy and tears and applause. The state made good on its promises to us, as citizens, for our family to be recognized equally under the law.
We are deeply and profoundly grateful to God for the loving and inclusive Christian community that surrounds us every day. And we are proud to be citizens of the state of California, where “liberty and justice for all” rings ever closer to being true for all of its people.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
O Ye of Little Faith
Legal marriage. For me. For my family. Shannon and I will be able to be legally married in a little over a month. I never thought it would happen in a place where I lived, not in my lifetime. We've been married in the eyes of God and community for going on 3 years. For us that's the most important part of marriage - the covenant we have with each other and with God.
And, yet, this legal marriage stuff also means the world. It means no more second-class citizenship. It means our baby will be OUR baby from the very beginning, none of this second-parent adoption stuff that would have to happen if we are not legally married.
Of course there's all kinds of uproar, and it looks like an amendment banning same-sex marriage is going to get on the ballot in November. We can't rest easy yet. But we'll get married before November, lots of us will. And we'll keep working for justice for everyone. We will work as hard as we have to so marriage is a choice for all couples who wish to choose it.
And, yet, this legal marriage stuff also means the world. It means no more second-class citizenship. It means our baby will be OUR baby from the very beginning, none of this second-parent adoption stuff that would have to happen if we are not legally married.
Of course there's all kinds of uproar, and it looks like an amendment banning same-sex marriage is going to get on the ballot in November. We can't rest easy yet. But we'll get married before November, lots of us will. And we'll keep working for justice for everyone. We will work as hard as we have to so marriage is a choice for all couples who wish to choose it.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Struggling to be Grateful
It's been a really hard few weeks, with Shannon being so sick with this pregnancy, we're both exhausted and in need of some quiet and calm hours that don't involve nausea and vomiting and saltine crackers. I saw a chance this afternoon when my phone stopped ringing and I'd caught up on email -- and I came home early, thinking that it'd be a good afternoon to sit on the deck and enjoy the small bit of sunshine peeking through the clouds. After Sunday, there won't be as much opportunity to have an afternoon off. One of my colleagues leaves for a 4 1/2 month sabbatical, so my workload and responsibilities increase accordingly while he's away. So I went by the store to buy some beer, even, so I could have one or two while watching basketball tonight.
I walk in the door and Austin (our dog) greets me with a little more anxiety than normal. He's had just as hard a time with Shannon being really sick, worried about her and wondering what is going on. I also know that his greeting means he's done something he knows I'm not going to be happy with. As I walk toward the kitchen to put the beer in the frig, I see broken glass everywhere...and think maybe I should open the beer immediately. Somehow, he's gotten enough of himself up on the kitchen counter to bring down an entire glass dish onto the floor. And then he's taken pieces of it into the living room to lick whatever remnants of food he'd found on it. I don't know how, but he seems unhurt, at least I cannot find any blood on him or on the floor.
I am sitting on the deck, and am glad the sun is shining. I'm drinking a beer, sighing deeply, and praying for a heart of gratitude: this baby has turned all of our lives upside-down, already. Austin's through-the-roof anxiety is only one example. We prayed so hard for this pregnancy to happen. We want so much to be able to raise a family that will add a little more of God's love to the world. Right now, though, I'm thinking a lot about the disciples in Luke's Gospel -- the ones who were walking on the road to Emmaus after Jesus was killed and they'd found the empty tomb, in the completely opposite direction of Jerusalem. They were trying to get away from it all - they were exhausted, confused and bewildered as to what to do next, wondering if all that time had been at all worth it.
Somewhere, deep in me, I know it's worth it: all the disruption of routine, the sickness, the exhaustion. If there's anything I know for sure, it's that new life is messy and always hard to birth. Today I'm struggling to be thankful for it, and praying for grace to find me, to remind me that this little bit of sunshine and an afternoon off can sustain me a long way.
I walk in the door and Austin (our dog) greets me with a little more anxiety than normal. He's had just as hard a time with Shannon being really sick, worried about her and wondering what is going on. I also know that his greeting means he's done something he knows I'm not going to be happy with. As I walk toward the kitchen to put the beer in the frig, I see broken glass everywhere...and think maybe I should open the beer immediately. Somehow, he's gotten enough of himself up on the kitchen counter to bring down an entire glass dish onto the floor. And then he's taken pieces of it into the living room to lick whatever remnants of food he'd found on it. I don't know how, but he seems unhurt, at least I cannot find any blood on him or on the floor.
I am sitting on the deck, and am glad the sun is shining. I'm drinking a beer, sighing deeply, and praying for a heart of gratitude: this baby has turned all of our lives upside-down, already. Austin's through-the-roof anxiety is only one example. We prayed so hard for this pregnancy to happen. We want so much to be able to raise a family that will add a little more of God's love to the world. Right now, though, I'm thinking a lot about the disciples in Luke's Gospel -- the ones who were walking on the road to Emmaus after Jesus was killed and they'd found the empty tomb, in the completely opposite direction of Jerusalem. They were trying to get away from it all - they were exhausted, confused and bewildered as to what to do next, wondering if all that time had been at all worth it.
Somewhere, deep in me, I know it's worth it: all the disruption of routine, the sickness, the exhaustion. If there's anything I know for sure, it's that new life is messy and always hard to birth. Today I'm struggling to be thankful for it, and praying for grace to find me, to remind me that this little bit of sunshine and an afternoon off can sustain me a long way.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
A Gift of Disappointment
We found out this morning that Shannon's parents, supposed to arrive in California tomorrow afternoon, will not be making the trip. Her mom is sick, and unable to fly. My first reaction? Extreme disappointment...and a startling realization of just what that disappointment means.
Even two years ago, I wasn't sure Shannon's parents would ever really accept us. Our life, as two women married to each other, is way beyond what they've known in the rural life of North Carolina that has shaped each of them for more than 70 years. They are not now, nor have they ever been, the hate-mongers that seem to capture so much of the media's attention. Instead, they are faithful Christian folks whose world hasn't been as diverse or as broad or as open as mine (and Shannon's) has been able to be. Same-sex attraction - much less marriage - is difficult, at best, to come to terms with in their lives and in their community. Shannon's journey with them as she came out to them over the years has been fraught with misunderstanding, deep pain, and even months and weeks of silence.
And now, in the early months of 2008, we are deeply disappointed they will not be arriving tomorrow - and so are they. Our relationship with them is far from perfect nor is it always simple and comfortable. It is, though, real and honest and loving and steadfast. We know now that we're a part of the family, even when it may not be as ideal as we'd like it to be. Prayer does change us, our collective prayers have changed every one of us into this moment: a moment of disappointment that reveals the extraordinary grace of God evident in the gift of this family.
Even two years ago, I wasn't sure Shannon's parents would ever really accept us. Our life, as two women married to each other, is way beyond what they've known in the rural life of North Carolina that has shaped each of them for more than 70 years. They are not now, nor have they ever been, the hate-mongers that seem to capture so much of the media's attention. Instead, they are faithful Christian folks whose world hasn't been as diverse or as broad or as open as mine (and Shannon's) has been able to be. Same-sex attraction - much less marriage - is difficult, at best, to come to terms with in their lives and in their community. Shannon's journey with them as she came out to them over the years has been fraught with misunderstanding, deep pain, and even months and weeks of silence.
And now, in the early months of 2008, we are deeply disappointed they will not be arriving tomorrow - and so are they. Our relationship with them is far from perfect nor is it always simple and comfortable. It is, though, real and honest and loving and steadfast. We know now that we're a part of the family, even when it may not be as ideal as we'd like it to be. Prayer does change us, our collective prayers have changed every one of us into this moment: a moment of disappointment that reveals the extraordinary grace of God evident in the gift of this family.
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