A Year Later

A year ago I was still stumbling around a place called A HOPE, still wondering a little what was going on and definitely not having much of an idea where I might land in the midst of Homeward Bound of Asheville's (www.hbofa.org) chaos. Fast forward to a year later, to this moment, and it's clear my heart's invested and my soul tied in to all of that chaos in so many ways. Shannon reminds me (at just the moments I need reminding, she always knows somehow) that when I was a pastor I would say that working with homeless folks and poverty issues is something I would say I would do "if I wasn't in a church." And here I am. A full 18 months since I drove out of Santa Cruz on my last Sunday as a local church pastor.

I'm still coming to terms with it, wondering what to say about this crashing into a new career, maybe even a new - or should I say wider - calling from the One who creates me. It's been a whirlwind, to be sure, but also full of salvation and many moments of redemption. I've met Jesus face-to-face even when I've felt the widest chasm I've known between me and the God I seek. I said in a sermon once that the world's brokenness is not so easily passed by once you've glimpsed Jesus in some way. Unlike some other things I've said in past sermons, I still stand by that statement. And now I know what it means a little more. I'm pretty sure I am not any more equipped to deal with that brokenness now than I was when I wore a preacher's robe. What I am sure of is that Jesus brought me here, to this moment, to the A HOPE Day Center, to the streets of Asheville.

Many days I get up pretty early, and arrive at work in the dark, before the chaos begins when we open the doors at 7 a.m. to the homeless men and women of Asheville. I creep around the house, trying desperately not to wake up Abby as I tiptoe on our 1945 creaking wood floors. Most early mornings I fail miserably at this, and Abby wakes up as soon as I walk out the door - if not before, so it's certainly not just me having to adjust to this new career of mine.

And, so, in the dark and quiet of the morning, I enter into a different kind of sanctuary. There are no pews, no organ or grand piano, no majestic stained glass windows or weathered crosses of wood. Instead, there are mis-matched, dilapidated chairs down an entryway and lined around a room built for a quarter of the number of people that come through our doors everyday. Smells of cheap coffee, bleach, cigarette smoke and body odor are constantly in the air. (even though no smoking is allowed in the building) Most days I wear jeans, and use my former work clothes only for particular community meetings and appearances. We all clean toilets, and all clean up after ill and intoxicated clients.

My office is in the basement with a slit of a window at ground level. I retreat there for awhile before the other staff arrive. And I try to remember to breathe, try to remember to seek compassion for everyone I'll encounter that day - including the angry neighbor who doesn't understand why we provide space for all these "losers and junkies." I am grateful, every moment, for the extraordinary staff of people I get to work with - their hearts are big, their souls deep, their compassion and patience unrivaled.

Once the door opens, the work, the movement, the noise is unending until I leave the building since something is happening 24 hours a day in the building. At the end of the day, we've usually seem more steps backwards than forwards. Minute progress is celebrated and held onto tightly. 24 hours of sobriety is a beginning, as is even a passing mention of mental health treatment. We learn to begin, a lot, and then to begin again. We try to hold hope for folks who no longer remember what it is - if they ever knew what it was in the first place. On a good day, I think maybe we're helping save the world a little bit at a time. On a bad day, I think maybe all we're doing is stemming the tide of brokenness in our little corner of the earth. Maybe both are true, all days.

Some days, when I walk out the door, I get to drive a few blocks to the YWCA and pick up Abby from daycare. I get to walk into her little classroom, and her little feet come running toward me - or she just looks at me and decides her snack is more important for the moment. She wants to walk on her own now to the car, but she still reaches up to hold on to my finger. And our little family sits down for dinner, we say a blessing for the food, and enjoy the chaos of mealtime with a 16-month-old. Sometimes, even, after Abby goes to bed, Shannon and I are awake enough to talk about days before our heads hit the pillows.

I am blessed beyond measure. I am still trying to figure it all out - what life outside church work is, who I am becoming as a wife, mother, advocate and activist, continually seeking the steps of Jesus here in this corner of the earth. And I realize that my days are perfect. They are not without challenge or conflict, not without room for improvement, I still need more balance. But they're full of real life, messy and beautiful, stunning and broken.

Tomorrow may be the most difficult day I've faced in my professional life. Decisions I have had to make for the health and sustainability of the agency will affect my staff in incredibly hard ways. My soul aches. I pray for wisdom, for compassion. And, yet, despite what tomorrow will bring, I wouldn't trade a minute.

This life of mine, it's a real, full, messy, stunning life. There's a beautiful toddler sleeping in a room not far away who calls me Mama, and an amazing woman who still puts up with me who's sleeping in a bed that has space in it for me. For tonight, that's enough. For a life, it's more than I could have ever dreamed possible.

Kipling Todd Botts January 10, 1965 - December 9, 2009

Dear Kip,

We buried you yesterday, under the trees and shadow of Long Cane Church in Troy, amid the headstones of generations and generations and generations of those who came long before you and me. The stillness out there is stunning, really. And beautiful. The quiet, though – all that stillness – is what struck me most. All that stillness was the space you’ve left behind. Space that we’re struggling to cope with, and do not want to accept. We want you here, filling up all that space with your big heart and your Michael Jackson paraphernalia.

You would have approved of your memorial service, I think, though we were probably still more reserved than you would have been. I suspect, however, that it was the most nontraditional service that Abbeville has seen. Michael and Elton haven’t made it into too many services there, I don’t think, and certainly not both in the same service! And we told the truth, all of us. Joel and Carmen both sat in front with your family. No one tiptoed around any closets in their speaking, no one pretended your life was perfect. We celebrated your real life, the one that was complicated and beautiful, your life that was messy and joy-filled, your days that were heartbreaking and those that were spent laughing.

Your sisters and brother are grieving for you with every breath, greeting each day with disbelief that you are not here. I suspect Joel feels much the same. They all loved you so deeply, and so fully – every part of you, always. And I know you loved them the same way, and did and would have done anything for any one of them and their families. The love you had for the people in your life, and the generosity with which you approached your relationships always made an impression on me. Your capacity for love, for giving, was extraordinary. I know you weren’t perfect, none of us are. But you had an amazing heart, you possessed such a beautiful spirit. I could always see that – as I’m sure so many others did – even when I could also see the pain you struggled with that held you too tightly, too often.

There’s so much I wish I had talked to you about, so much I wish I had said to you these last several years. We are such different people, you and I, and I’m certain we would have never met or spent any time together if we weren’t related. I’ve admired you, though, my whole life. I remember going to your house when everyone was in South Carolina for summer vacations and Christmas holidays. The older I got, the more I knew there was something you and I had in common, something neither of us could name in that big, crazy family we shared. Even with all the love that was there, there was also strong feeling and definitive ideas about who we were supposed to love and no room for straying from that path. You stayed away for a long time, and then as I got older I took my own hiatus from those gatherings.
I don’t think I ever said thank you to you. Thank you for coming back to the big and crazy family. You helped me come back, too. There wasn’t anything easy about it for you, I’m sure, because I know it wasn’t easy for me. Knowing that you were taking the risk too helped me find the courage to stop pretending, to dare them to make good on their promises to always love us no matter what, and to trust that we would all figure it out somehow – figure out how to be family with our whole selves. And they did. They loved us. Loved you, loved me, even if not everyone understands. I know now we don’t all have to understand everything about each other to enjoy being a family, to laugh and cry and live together in all of our diversity. I’ve wanted to say thank you for a long time, now, and I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance when I could look at you face to face.

You never believed me when we would have conversations about God and religion and heaven and hell. Peace about who you had been created to be eluded you when you thought about all you had been taught. You know now. You know that nothing ever truly separated you from the Love that created you. You know that gay or straight, in recovery or in relapse, sad or happy, male or female, rich or poor…You know now that Love holds you, and always has. And while tears run down my face because your feet won’t walk beside mine again on this side of God’s great embrace, I am so glad you are free of the pain that never left you. You are whole now. You are free.

I love you, Kip. And I will miss you for all the days to come.

A New Year

We’re a week into the new year in the Christian calendar world. It’s Advent, the season of expectation, of waiting, of chaos – of starting over again at the very beginning of things. I love Advent, absolutely love it. And though I love all church seasons, this is my favorite. I do not always like following the lectionary texts, but during Advent the lectionary gets it right, seems to me. The scriptures are hard and strange: stars falling from the sky in an apocalyptic moment, voices shouting in the wilderness for us all to repent to be ready for the One who is coming, an angel appearing to a young and unwed girl telling her she will become pregnant with the son of God.

And they’re full of wonder, sometimes in the same moment the story is odd and confusing. A seemingly crazy prophet named John is the one chosen to prepare the way for Jesus, way out beyond the city limits, wading in the water and asking all to come in and wash themselves clean of all that gets in the way of true seeing, all that prohibits us from recognizing Jesus when we see him. A young and unwed girl is the one chosen to bear God into the world, in flesh and blood. And the stars fall, the world turns upside-down, chaos is everywhere. These stories, these texts are hard, and strange - and wonder-filled.

Like life. I’ve often wondered what it was like to experience Advent as a pregnant woman or as a parent of an infant. Enter Advent 2008, and my now almost 10-week-old daughter. The world turning upside-down is almost an understatement, really. Our life, my life is unrecognizable from anything I could have ever imagined. Truly hard, truly strange. And truly wonder-filled. The gift of a child does, indeed, turn life chaotic. The gift of a child re-orders the universe as you’ve known it. And the gift of a child literally embodies the Holy in countless ways everyday.

This new year, for me and for my family, has begun on another coast and in another community. The stars that fall here come from the same sky, but it looks different above the Southern landscape we find ourselves in. Last year, at this same time, we were anticipating what life might be like if we were fortunate enough to become pregnant. It’s nothing like what I could have imagined. It’s far more difficult than I could have dreamed. And it’s made my world far deeper and wider and joy-full than I could have ever hoped for.

May my heart, my mind, my soul be ever open to the One who comes this Advent. The One who comes to me, to you – and to all the world. May we all wait and watch and listen with our feet on the ground, our bodies in service, and our hearts praying without ceasing.

Missing Jesus

Sunday morning, Abby and I managed to get to church only a couple of minutes late. Not too bad for our first Sunday morning on our own, Shannon having left for work much earlier. And, I have to say, there is something kind of nice about it being okay to be late for the service. One perk of life on the pew side of things. Helps to have a baby, too, all kinds of things are immediately forgiven – particularly never being on time for anything, ever.

It’s a friendly congregation, lots of smiles every time I’m there. And everyone wants to meet Abby so I am more popular than I’ve ever been in my life. Worship is in an old, traditional sanctuary – a building they bought 3 years ago because they’d outgrown their smaller building and needed more space than was possible at the previous site. Beautiful stained glass, well-built and maintained organ, a wide variety of folks sitting in the pews (which they’re gradually removing to create more flexible worship space).

I’m trying, hard, and praying, over and over, to have an open heart and spirit to this new community, this new perspective from the pew. One of the things I’ve looked forward to, in the midst of all that is hard about this transition out of the pulpit, is learning to worship without also needing to think about what happens next. To simply be there, ready and present to the Spirit moving, with no responsibility other than doing just that. I knew I would hear God speaking in a different way, listen to the music flowing around me with new ears, and even see Jesus’ face in ways I haven’t before.

And I am hearing God speak through new voices and welcoming faces, I am experiencing the music with new appreciation and gratitude. But I am missing Jesus. There’s rarely a mention of the name at all. Sometimes the music will say something about Jesus, but not every week. I have yet to read liturgy containing language about Christ. Communion happens once a month, and even that Sunday there were no hymns with even a passing reference. Yes, Jesus is present regardless of whether the name is said. But it’s not clear to me that there is much that is distinctly Christian about worship at all.

There’s no doubt the liturgy is beautifully written, every week. Hymns, too - some of which are written by members of the congregation. Intentional work has been done to expand language about God, the earth and humanity. I haven’t seen a better effort around using inclusive language. It’s clear there are many, many gifted worship leaders and musicians. And, still, I’m missing Jesus. It seems to me that at least some of what is happening is what seems to happen in too many progressive Christian churches: in a well-meaning effort to expand understandings of God and one another, Jesus has gotten left behind. To try and distinguish ourselves from ‘other’ Christian churches that may not be as welcoming to all of humanity, we in the so-called ‘progressive’ Christian world walk too far from our grounding in the Christ who calls us together in the first place.

I can say we to include myself because I have been in that same place, thinking that Jesus language wasn’t all that necessary because it was all contained within the expansive God language I used. It took me awhile to realize that I wasn’t actually a Unitarian – but I was writing and thinking as though I was. There is absolutely nothing wrong at all with being Unitarian. It’s just not who I am. And not who I want the Christian church I participate in to be. I need Jesus. Maybe now more than ever, in the transition wilderness I find myself in. And if we’re going to claim ourselves as Christian communities, then ‘progressive’ Christian churches need Jesus, too.

Have I mentioned I feel strongly that I shouldn’t be missing Jesus in worship?

Entry-Level, and A Day to Remember

I’m on the market, the job market, that is. It’s a new experience for me this time around. There’s no system set-up to circulate my resume to every available non-profit job in the area. If I were applying for a church job in my denomination, I could look at a big long list of open positions and tell those who coordinate such searches to send my ‘stuff’ in. There’s not a big long list of open positions in Asheville’s non-profit world. Most of the time, even when something is open, it’s not posted anywhere. You have to know someone or be connected somehow.

On the positive side, some of the folks we know here are connected in significant ways. On the negative side, it’s simply rare to find an open position. In the last couple of weeks, through the before-mentioned connections, I was told about an open position with a non-profit here that works mostly as an alternative to incarceration for men and women whose offenses or crimes allow for lesser sentencing. Unlike the prison system, this organization does believe rehabilitation is possible. Nothing easy about their work, but they’ve been doing it well for a long time here. It would be a meaningful and worthwhile place to work, every bit of it God’s work. The work of salvation, even. Supporting and helping men (in this particular position) save themselves, to imagine a new and whole future for their lives. Not easy, not romantic work. Jesus’ footsteps are all over it.

I had an “initial” phone conversation yesterday with the guy handling the search for the open position. It’s an entry-level position, one that I could have applied for 10 years ago and had a shot at getting. And so I’ve struggled with my well-taught and absorbed ideas about “going backwards” or “settling” for something less than what I’m capable of. The guy I talked to yesterday even flat-out asked me why I was applying for an entry-level position. I suspect it’s likely I won’t be asked for an in-person interview. But even if I’m not, the process of the last several days has invited me to ask important and hard questions of myself.

What does entry-level mean, anyway? How important is going “up”? The organization could not function without this position. It’s the on the streets, in the courtroom work essential for it all to hold together. Do I want to be an E.D. someday (assuming I stay in the non-profit world)? You bet. But I’ll be a lot better at it if I’ve started on the ground, out in the streets. Romans and 1 Corinthians both talk about gifts, about each of God’s people being given unique qualities and skills to build the body of Christ. I’ve assumed for years that mine could only be used best on the pulpit side of life. Entry level somewhere else could just be an opportunity for me to begin to build in a different way, a new way, and yet still a part of the ever-expanding body of Christ that reaches into the pulpit and far, far beyond.

And it’s Veterans’ Day. I’ve thought about my dad, who gets a distant look in his eyes when he’s asked about Vietnam and who has spent his career always being involved in ROTC. I’ve thought about my uncle, who cannot stay in the room when Vietnam is mentioned and carries more brokenness from combat than I can begin to imagine. And then I’ve thought about the young men and women I know who serve now, each of them serving in different ways and in different places, but all extraordinary human beings who are giving their daily lives now in our country’s military.

I’m a pacifist. I want our military to lay down all of its weapons and turn them into plowshares and pruning hooks. It’s also true that I am grateful for each of those I know who have served, and for the millions I don’t know. Today I’ve remembered the names I know, and trust God knows all the others. And I pray for peace in all corners of the fragile, beautiful world that holds us all.

A Church, A Proposition, A New President, and A Baby

My beautiful wife and child


I became a member of a church today, standing in front of a crowded sanctuary full of mostly unfamiliar but kind and welcoming faces. The sleeping baby in my arms was the only thing that held the dam of tears at bay. Tears of grief and tears of relief, welling up from my heart, mingled together behind my eyes. For the first time in a decade, I joined a church as the wife, the mom. Those are my titles, my first impressions in this congregation. Not pastor, not teacher, not leader. Standing there this morning, Abby in my arms and Shannon’s loving hand on my back, was the final letting go of what has been. It also means there may just be space to move forward, enough release to see what is next for me, where God is leading on this winding road of following. Grief at losing what has been; relief for the push to move ahead.

Proposition 8 passed in California. It made the news here, of course, but not in huge ways and certainly not on the front page. There was no big outcry of anger outside of our living room that we could hear. I didn’t sleep, obsessively checking the Chronicle for results through the night. It was pretty clear by morning that a slim – but enough -- majority of California voters were determined to take away the rights of some of their fellow citizens. Why does it matter to me now, people have asked. North Carolina doesn’t recognize our California marriage license anyway. But it does matter. We took those legal vows in front of the County of Santa Cruz, friends and strangers, in a room overflowing with hope and joy and love. It matters a great deal that Prop 8 passed, saying that no more people ‘like us’ should experience that kind of hope and love and joy. The entire state should be completely outraged and embarrassed. And I wonder what I could have done more of while I was there, and even here from the other coast. I wonder why there wasn’t more outrage before November 4, why wasn’t I more outraged when the whole process began months and months ago to get Prop 8 on the ballot? I should have been mad a year ago, instead of assuming others would be and that there’d be no way such an insidious ballot measure could possibly garner enough votes. There are, of course, lawsuits and vigils happening all over California. It’s not over. Separate but equal will not rule the day, not in the end. Those lawsuits and vigils are beginning to happen in other places, too. And someday, even, our marriage license will even matter here in our home state. It took me a day or so to remember that I believe in the resurrection: the impossible happening against all odds.

Barack Obama stood in Grant Park at midnight Tuesday, and I know more than one person in the crowd of many colors that gathered also believes in the resurrection. It is no small feat to overcome prejudice of any kind, and certainly not the deep-seeded racism that is still found in far more places than most of our country wants to admit. Was this election about more than race? Absolutely. It was about change and hope and the need for certainty that there can be a new day in the United States of America. Will Obama be able to deliver on all his promises? Not a chance. Does the Democratic party have the magic keys to this new day? Not by a long shot. I’ll admit, though, that I do feel more hopeful than I have in several years about how the citizens of the U.S. might reach across the aisle, or around the corner, or even across the table and care just a little more about each other. There’s been a huge shift in this election, and I’m daring to hope it’s a shift toward one another, a move to come closer to true community.

And the baby. Abigail: our nearly 6-week-old daughter who’s sleeping right now, as is her other very tired mom. Everyday, at some moment or another, I’m still in wonder that the hospital let us take her home. She’s beautiful (I know I’m biased, but she really is), and does something new everyday. The Sunday evening before she was born, I cooked Shannon’s favorite dinner, knowing there wouldn’t be too many more days before our child came into the world. She finished those leftovers a week later, watching Abby sleep. Last time I wrote a blog entry, I was waiting. Waiting for her, waiting for God to make it crystal clear what my life here will look like without a robe and stole. Sitting in the present moment is my greatest challenge, always. And I’m still waiting.

But now I’m waiting for Abby to wake up, enjoying the sound of her breathing and her tiny hands waving around every once in awhile while she sleeps. I’m more tired than I’ve ever been, and Shannon even more so since she’s the one providing the food every few hours. It’s been a more than full 6 weeks. And I wouldn’t trade a minute. The name Abigail means joy. And every time I look at her, I remember that new life is sometimes a long time coming. I remember that new life explodes into the world in the midst of chaos, and even pain beyond measure. I remember that I believe in the resurrection. I believe in Jesus’ resurrection, in all its mystery and hope, and I believe in the big and small ways new life comes everyday. Abby reminds me when I forget. So does her other mom. And tonight I remember that my cup overflows, and am sitting in gratitude.

Waiting

I'm listening to the wind in the trees outside our family room's windows. It's a quiet neighborhood, mostly, except on trash/recycling pick-up days. Seems to take an unusually high number of big trucks to do all of that for some reason. I have been here for nearly a month now, and it's slowly beginning to feel like home and not an extended vacation trip with an adventure in home renovation package. Which means I can find a lot of places on my own without asking my sister or brother-in-law for directions, I put a North Carolina license plate on my car, have gotten a haircut at a local salon, and even became an official resident today with the acquisition of my North Carolina driver's license.

I have to admit, though, that it all still feels odd to not be expected anywhere in the way I have known. Setting a disciplined schedule for myself is not something I've ever been all that good at, and having all kinds of time that is mostly mine to schedule has not yet inspired much discipline for any kind of routine. Part of it is the waiting factor - knowing that when the baby arrives she will be the focus of the routine and be my 'boss' in a more complete way than any church has ever been. I pushed myself hard when I first got here to get the major things done in the house so it would be livable for us before baby comes. Now that those things are done, I'm simply waiting. And I've definitely never been good at that.

One of the opportunities in this transition for me is the chance to learn to go slow, to relax, to sit still for more than a minute at a time. Some days I've enjoyed that. Others, I've allowed the open time to make me feel useless -- a learned perspective, I know, from my workaholic parents that they passed on in abundance to both me and my sister. How often have I yearned for just this kind of space during the decade of frantic church life?

Truth is, I miss it all madly. And I know, in the very same breath that's filled with grief, this is where God would have me be right now. Learning to trust in open space, learning to find the life present in the waiting, listening to the wind in the trees in the middle of the afternoon.