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The Other Parade

loavesandfishes

There is no dramatic footage and you won’t see it shared by any news stations, but there was another “cancer parade” that preceded the cheering faces lining 175th. This parade was much quieter (except for our barking dogs), hidden to most, and it stretched out over months. Six months to be exact. It included participants from as far away as Colorado, New York and Florida. And as long as cancer persisted, so did this parade.

This other parade was a much more labor and time intensive affair, and it certainly cost a small fortune to produce. And this parade was given not just for Mercy but for all the Haubs (and often the grandparents too).

This parade arrived at the end of our dead-end street every night around 5:30pm, bringing a steady stream of foil baking dishes, grocery bags of produce, cupcakes and cookies, and Tupperware and pyrex in abundance. There were touching cards and beautiful flowers and the occasional bottle of wine that were also brought, and always there was a masked human face on the other side of the isolation chasm saying “I see you”, “We are here for you”, “You can do this”.

It’s called a Meal Train, and there’s a website bearing that name to more easily coordinate what churches and neighbors and communities have organically done for ages when babies are born, or when husbands die. Before we ever had a cancer diagnosis, my co-worker asked: “Would this be helpful?” Her initiative in asking and follow-through in creating opened the floodgates of generosity, compassion and mercy that would carry us for the next six months.

When we are interviewed, everyone wants to hear about how it felt to turn the corner that Saturday morning and behold the outpouring of support on our way to Mercy’s final chemo. And those images will always be magnificently burned into our collective memory. But last week I sorted through the stacks and stashes of Tupperware and containers and felt like the disciples sorting through the twelve baskets of miraculous leftovers. And I wept.

So. Much. Grace.

When Mercy was very young, she exclaimed in delight one morning: “Mommy, I had a miracle!” She had taken a few bagels we had been gifted and she had covered the entire dining room table with little leftover paper desert plates, each plate holding one small piece of bagel. And she had reveled in the abundance.

Mercy, I think we had another miracle.

 

 

Image, The Miracle of The Five Loaves and Two Fish, by Grace Carol Bomer, https://gracecarolbomer.com/artwork/4391082-The-Miracle-of-The-Five-Loaves-and-Two-Fish.html

 

My daughter

red

Nobody tells you that it will be red. Bright red, like lipstick or foil-covered Valentine’s Day hearts. We all watched as it left the syringe, traveling slowly but unstoppable through flaccid thin tubing. My eyes pooled with tears as it inched toward its destination, and I held my breath as crimson entered the port beside my daughter’s heart. Mercy’s first chemotherapy drug had been given.

There’s a lot they don’t tell you about cancer. Like the fact that you get a notebook with temperature charts (you will learn to read Celsius) and diagrams of port options and pages upon pages of “education”. You will actually have scheduled visits and an assigned nurse for “education” and you always bring your notebook. The notebook (which we named the “How to Have Cancer Notebook”) contains page after page of SO many phone numbers and all the scary reasons you will use them. And you will use them.

Nobody tells you that when you have cancer, you don’t have a doctor you have an army. Yes, there will be one oncologist you see when diagnosed and who creates your treatment plan, but after you meet her you are embraced by a steady stream of fellows and residents and dieticians and nurse practitioners and social workers, chaplains, and attendings (you also learn the very confusing hospital hierarchy of rank and relationship and title). You will revere your oncologist, because she is superhuman. And she is so gentle, so thoughtful, so kind. And so incredibly smart! She will let slip one day that she has a child at home doing online kindergarten, oh and a toddler too. And you will almost pass out in awe of how she does what she does (it will be much later that you learn that her husband is also an ER doc, and you will simply marvel).

You will come even closer to passing out when they explain port placement and how it works (because your daughter will ask SO MANY questions!) and you will have to put your head down between your knees at least once. Then after a while, the bump in your daughter’s throat, and the bulge from the port, and the weekly “accessing” becomes routine, and putting Glad Press’N Seal on your child each week feels perfectly normal. There are so many boxes of Press’N Seal everywhere: in the clinic, on the hospital floor. You might even create an “I Spy Press’N Seal” game with your daughter as you walk laps through the cancer wing.

Nobody tells you how time works differently when you are in the hospital. Hospital stays are at once a slow crawl and an absolute blur. Rounds are a daily parade of masked faces moving in formation from room to room. This hallway army is bigger than you imagine: pharmacist; social worker; resident; attending; your nurse; the charge nurse. And if I am completely honest, there is also almost always at least one hallway soldier whose role I cannot identify. Each provider has their own computer they push along with them and there is a little bottom cubby where they all keep their coffee. Every morning the crowd appears: most stand in the hallway outside your room (COVID), while a few hover bodiless on iPads that are pushed around on little stands (also COVID).

One morning the pharmacist was talking to us from one of those little screens about some disturbing side effects Mercy was experiencing from some medications and his cat climbed up into his lap and looked right at me. I laughed out loud and talked to the cat and found delight in the realization that pharmacists are living through a pandemic and the dynamics of working from home too. When they are finished, they move on to the next room, someone pushing the disembodied pharmacist along as they go.

Nobody tells you about the chemotherapy flight check routine. When all of the pre-chemo meds are administered, and the IV bags are hung and it is time for the poison to be delivered, your nurse will call for a “second”. With the beginning of each of the four syringes, another nurse comes into the room and together they check and double-check the dose and speed and label of the poison, performing a complicated call and response. Chemotherapy is toxic, of course, so they will both gown-up each time, and there will be red “danger” stickers on everything, from the IV pole to the entrance to your room. Some chemotherapy drugs require brown shiny bags hung over them because apparently, they can be damaged by the light. This deadly poison has its own kryptonite.

Nobody tells you how you will live and die by numbers. Blood counts, blood pressures, heart rates (did you know you can endure a resting heart rate of 38), and the number of cups of tea consumed each day. You drink tea because the taste of plain water is excruciating. You drink a lot because your “ins and outs” will be an important discussion topic each morning during the hallway gathering. For once, the number on the scale compels a different sort of fear: a dietician will soberly describe to you how feeding tubes work, how they are placed, and how many ounces away you are from needing one. This will motivate you to endure eating, even when it is the last thing you want to do.

Nobody tells you that your home will take on the contours of cancer in surprising places: cupboards intended for dishes and glasses become crowded with prescriptions. Refrigerators are stuffed with boxes of fertility shots, followed by bottles of synthetic THC, and finally loaded down with giant silver pouches filled with IV fluid bags which you are told to refrigerate (though the nurses at the hospital think this is strange). You learn to pull the fluids out an hour before hooking your daughter up to the IV pump you have charging beside the InstantPot to minimize how much and for how long she will shiver and shake.

Nobody tells you about entry into the Cancer Club. It’s not a club anyone wants to be in, but its members welcome you with open arms. You will make connections near and far, via Facebook, the waiting room, and Twitter. And people will be tender with you, and they will tell you the truth. There is a solidarity born from infusion bays, and ANC counts and hairless heads. The clinic, while scary at first, becomes a safe space where you can be understood without saying a word. There will be those you think might be your lifeline who go dark while others, perhaps more distant, draw near and offer themselves with that bowel-moving compassion the Bible tells us that Jesus felt. They will trust you with stories about how it was with their wife; their child; their husband. You will share freely your own struggles and pain, and you will thank God for these friends, daily.

Five months ago I sat inside Family Consult Room #2 in the Surgery department at Children’s Hospital and waited for the surgeon to come in and report on Mercy’s biopsy surgery. My chest hurt and my stomach tightened with every minute that passed. I frantically texted Doug and my Mom: “They told me the surgeon would just call. I don’t know why they put me in a room”. The door finally opened, and the kind and direct surgeon sat across from me and informed me that surgery had gone well and there had been no complications: “We didn’t have to cut her collarbone”, he reported. Then his tone shifted. “My policy is to tell families everything that I know, and the rapid lab test we do during surgery came back positive for Lymphoma. Pathology will confirm this in a couple of days, and it is possible that the diagnosis could change, but I wanted you to know what I know.”

Nobody tells you what it feels like when those words travel, slow motion red, into your heart and set your life on fire. My daughter has cancer.

For Dr. Thompson

bloom

(photo credit, John Thompson)

“He’s the toughest grader you will have at Fuller!”

These words did not ease my anxious spirit that January as I geared up for my return to MDiv studies after the birth of my firstborn, Mercy three months earlier. I almost lost my life after childbirth. Post-partum hemorrhaging  and D.I.C. (or “Death Is Coming” as they call it) landed me in the ICU and after a miraculous recovery,  the road back to post-partum strength and health had been difficult. Mercy was an “always hold me or I will cry” and “I will only sleep while being held” newborn which made the physical rest that my body so desperately needed a very real challenge. But my scholarship required degree completion in three years, so “taking a break” or “easing back in” or “going part time” were not options.

I carried those fears and physical realities with my books and notebook into John Thompson’s 8am “Reformation Theology” class that January morning fourteen years ago. I found a seat, settled my things, and felt the absence of the baby in my arms. Having set an alarm to wake at dawn to afford time to nurse Mercy, get dressed, pack the diaper bag for the day, hand her off to Doug and make the stop and go slog through morning traffic from South L.A. to Pasadena, I remember sitting wide-eyed that first morning waiting and watching and wondering if I was going to be able to succeed.

There is a lot of language around women and theological education and training, and as one who endured the sort of “your eyelashes are distracting when you preach” comments from male seminarians (not at Fuller!) which do such harm, I would argue that pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood were by far the steepest obstacles I encountered to successfully completing my seminary education. It all feels so profoundly fragile when I look back: like any number of things could have derailed me. Considering the challenges we faced during those years, I would have had every good reason to quit: to pause, to fade out, to fail, to never return. Dr. John Thompson, and Dr. Marianne Meye Thompson, are two of the reasons I didn’t.

That January morning, Dr. Thompson started the first day of class with a hymn. We sang loudly, intently, and it was both worship and consecration of the work we had gathered to do. He then led us in prayer. That pattern would continue-every 8am, every class began that way. The toughest grader at Fuller made sure we remembered and declared at the beginning of every class the source and purpose of what we had come to do, and who we were trusting for our success.

At 9:50am, Doug would arrive outside the classroom. Mercy would be encased in the Baby Bjorn, sleeping, usually covered in one of the swaddling blankets hand-sewn for us by a dear friend from my home church in Seattle. I could see them through that slit of a window in the classroom door, and I would watch Doug pace outside the classroom, rocking or bouncing a bit with a blanket-covered bulge on his chest, keeping the hungry baby asleep until those classroom doors would open and mom and her milk would return. He would hand her off and then head back to his office where Mercy had spent the last hour with him.

When I found out I was pregnant with Mercy, I was in a class with Marianne Meye Thompson studying the cross in the New Testament. Doug and I had not told anyone yet about the pregnancy when I hit that point in the first tri-mester where my extreme fatigue (falling asleep face-down on the living room floor at 7pm) and horrible nausea caught up to me. For the first time in my seminary career, this straight A student faced the prospect of not completing an assignment on time. I debated what to do because I hated seeing my pregnancy as a weakness. As a woman in seminary, I felt it was my duty to be able to do it all-to not let something tied to my gender be an excuse for any failure in my performance.

Something provoked me to talk to Dr. Meye Thompson about the assignment and I confided in her about my pregnancy, and stumbled over myself apologizing for its impact. She wasn’t hearing it. She beamed at me, drew a little closer, and said these words: “Being really sick early in the pregnancy is a very reassuring sign. It is a good sign that the pregnancy is secure and the baby is doing well.” There was such empathy, encouragement, understanding, and identification in her words, her tone, her posture. This fierce academic, this esteemed role model, this brilliant mind and teacher handed me much more than an extension on a paper that day. I was seen, I was accepted as I was, and my baby’s life was profoundly valued as part of mine in a way I had not realized I desperately needed.

“I will be hosting a weekly gathering in my office every Tuesday after class at 10am for any of you who wish to continue informal discussion on whatever topic we are addressing in class,” Dr. Thompson announced the second week. 10am. Post-baby-hand-off hour. Mercy’s nursing, burping, spitting up all over me and all of her clothing time. There is no way. Or is there…I wanted to be there. But I would be a distraction. She would be a distraction. What if she makes noise? Would my breastfeeding be offensive? Would our being there make someone uncomfortable?

I don’t remember how I decided to give it a shot but I did. After class that second week, I maneuvered my way down the walkway, down the stairs to the second floor, and into Dr. Thompson’s office. I settled myself and the diaper-bag backpack into a chair, cloaked my upper half in the swaddling blanket (we didn’t have those fancy nursing covers they make now!) and ducked my head underneath the blanket to settle and secure Mercy to my breast. I then resurfaced and settled in for a vibrant discussion of theology. Every week I would do this: I would breastfeed and burp my baby and engage in questions about atonement theory or Luther or Anselm and Abelard.

John welcomed us into that space. He welcomed both of us. He never made a spectacle out of us; he didn’t make a big deal about us being there; he never treated me, the nursing seminarian, as the aberration I so desperately feared being. But he also acknowledged my daughter and made sure there was space for me in the room. He never pretended she did not exist or cast an annoyed glance my way but instead offered a warm smile and kind comments on the few occasions she made noise. Those weekly discussion groups taught me something profound about myself and my calling: nursing a newborn did not require my mind to stop working, nor did it bar me from theological engagement with my peers. My vocation as a pastor and a theologian were not compromised by my vocation as a mother.

I  earned a very high A in that theology class.  And I completed my MDiv degree in the three-year timeline my scholarship required. During that time, I also helped to plant a church. I preached frequently. I co-labored in ministry with my husband. And I walked in my commencement ceremony with my seven-month old Mercy present in the cheering crowd and a surprise second baby in my belly.

I saw this week on Facebook that Dr. John Thompson was retiring from Fuller Seminary. I thank God for his life work as a professor, a scholar, and a friend to so many of us. His legacy is indeed a rich field of wildflowers, every size and color, pushing through every manner of soil and weather and season. Wildflowers he loves to find and notice. I am one of them.

I can’t find the photos from my graduation, so here is a pic taken at Doug’s Fuller commencement with Drs. John Thompson and Marianne Meye Thompson. And yes, I had another baby in my belly on that day as well. Her name is Hope.

DrsThompsongrad

 

 

 

Sides

“I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings
endure suffering and humiliation. We must always take sides.
Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages
the tormentor, never the tormented.”

- Elie Wiesel, Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech, December 10, 1986

By Mercy Haub
May 1st, 2018

I swore never to be silent.
Though there are always choices.
Hazardous decisions, hazardous competitions, and yes,
Even battles.
One side is dark, the other light, and every
Person is
Proud to be the light, for that’s where people place themselves, yet it’s all a point of
Opinion, for in war, all is
Smothered
In grey. Or red.
The only light side is if you choose to
Engage the war itself.
Only then are you in the right. This way, you silence will take
Flight, and
Left are those who will persevere, those who
Oppose good, and those who are silent. They, the quiet ones, create the most
Violence;
Every one of them who
Insist on
Sticking to their silence. They are
Negligent of their dangerous gravity, as the finger on their mouth turns to the tormentor’s sword.
Only those who are wise recognize
That fighting is painful, ignoring is dangerous, but silence, that is lethal.
How horrid is it that the majority of
All of humanity has endured the
Trial of the voice and lost
Everything just to keep their mouths shut.
Inside of every opposition is
The oppressor and the oppressed.
Inside of all of the oppressed is a
Solemn hope that someone will stand up for them
In the raging battle between them and their persecutor.
Never is the necessity to shatter the oppressor’s will to present pain greater than the
Desperate need to break the silence of the broken bystander.
If everyone
Found the courage
From deep inside the cavernous corners of their conscience to stand up for one another, most
Everyone who was abused would have been
Rescued and the border between hope and hopelessness, the silent, would be broken.
Even if there are still tormentors, those who
Never back down are the ones who
Cease
Evil in its tracks and carry on our duty as human beings to never stand by and be silent

 

“I Had A Miracle…”

When I was pregnant with Hope, our family celebrated a special milestone: Doug’s graduation from Fuller Seminary. He was asked to give the commencement address at the Fuller Northwest ceremony here in Seattle, and after he did so he received a phone call inviting him to fly down to Pasadena to speak at the all-school commencement as well. I am drawn to these words he spoke so many years ago right now as we navigate some choppy waters and many unknowns. Doug is one of the sharpest minds and most tender hearts I know, and I am so happy I get to be his wife, through sickness and health, through richer and poorer.

 

For Tamir

My friend died this year
His cancer, amoral
Cancer comes like rain,
That good and evil alike receive
It chokes children, rich , smart , poor, valuable, throwaways alike
There is no judgment, no possible prosecution
No conviction or indictment that can come
Cancer cannot take a witness stand or hear a verdict
Cancer only kills

This is not cancer
Or is it?
Killer cells, masking, multiplying
Blue bullies disguised deflect, defy our natural defense
What radiation can burn Whiteness?
A terror not even hidden
Whiteness wails: aggression! justification! threat!
Always under attack
Defining, always defining
Enemy, other
Deserving
“She seemed older” does not help the rapist escape conviction
“I didn’t see clearly” does not absolve the drunk driver
The blue wall too high for such burdens to climb

We don our shiny white goggles and we all see red
Rivers of red
Black bleeds and negative space looms and this is not cancer
It is not indiscriminate
The tables never turn
It has laser like precision
An assault weapon fit for war

A child’s un-being
Unbearable lightness of a boy extinguished
Matter not mattering enough
When will it be enough
One, two…
White souls bleeding out
We reek of death

My pastoral prayer for Charleston, SC

Our church has been preaching from the book of Revelation in recent weeks, so I chose words from that book to lead our congregational response to the events of this past week at Mother Emanuel.

“There in heaven stood a throne, with one seated on the throne!”

We come to you, Almighty God, because we believe this-that you indeed occupy the throne of heaven and earth.

This week we have seen a beast of Revelation proportions-we have seen racism in its most evil conclusion. We have looked wrath, hatred, and sin in the face and watched their fruits flow as blood through the sanctuary of your people. We have lost brothers and sisters. Pastors, servants, faithful witnesses. People who committed themselves to studying your word and to prayer. People who opened their door and welcomed and blessed a stranger.

“I saw under the altar the souls of those who had been slaughtered for the word of God and for the testimony they had given; they cried out with a loud voice, ‘Sovereign Lord, holy and true, how long will it be before you judge and avenge our blood on the inhabitants of the earth?’”

We join our voice with churches throughout our nation today, and we cry: “Come, Lord Jesus!”

“Then I saw a Lamb, looking as if it had been slain, standing at the center of the throne”

Remind us of this game-changer, God. The truth that our Savior, our Redeemer, the one through whom we are victorious, stands in heaven as one who is slain. Remind us that our victory comes through suffering. Our conquering comes through sacrifice. Evil is conquered by forgiveness, mercy, and love.

“Worthy is the Lamb that was slaughtered to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and praise!”

And now, dear Father, we ask that you would come this morning. Send your Holy Spirit to us with the ministry of conviction of our own sin: personal sin, corporate sin, sins of omission and sins of indifference. May we hear your voice, in the midst of the horror of Charleston, South Carolina and Mother Emanuel Church, which we confess we could choose to keep at a distance. To the Church in Laodicea you gave this invitation:

“Those whom I love I rebuke and discipline. So be earnest and repent.

Listen! I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me… Let anyone who has an ear listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches.”

Amen.

The Measure of a Hero

Last Wednesday morning, I paused for a moment in between sandwich making and wiping the face of the three-year old at the table to open my laptop on the kitchen counter. My first grader wanted to bring his basketball schedule to his teacher: she had asked him when his games were so that she could come to one of them. I think he had reminded me eleven times in twenty-four hours about the need to print the schedule. It meant the world to him that his teacher wanted to come and watch him play.

As the screen lit, my Facebook page came into focus with a startling image. It was a photo of the intersection in front of my kids’ school. And it showed men with bulletproof vests and guns next to police cruisers and SUVs, blocking traffic completely. The person posting the image did so to alert drivers that they might hit some pretty rough traffic. It took a few minutes of flying through websites and my Facebook feed to interpret the image: an armed man at my kids’ school…verbal threats against all the schools in our district…lockdown procedures in effect…a school district closed. Elijah’s teacher would not be receiving the basketball schedule that day after all.

The next day I sat in a meeting with a young man who works in before and after school care at one of our local elementary schools. He described for me the events of those early morning hours the day before: making quick decisions with spotty information; managing the range of responses from “I’m scared” to “I’m bored” to “I have to use the bathroom”. “I just kept running scenarios through my mind,” he told me. “What would I do if someone came to the door…if I heard shots…if the glass broke…”

He continued: “I had to keep my hands in my pockets the whole time because every time I took them out they would just shake…I couldn’t get them to not shake. After a while of praying ‘please not me’ I started thinking: ‘why not me? Why not let me be the one?’”

I sent an email to my kids’ three elementary school teachers Thursday morning and I ended my email with this: “Thank you for your service to our kids and our family. We recognize that being a teacher today carries with it a heavy burden of ‘what if’ in light of school shootings and the like. You walk into that ‘what if’ daily, and I know you would boldly and bravely protect my kids, so thank you.” My brother serves in the military and I have often thanked military servicemen and servicewomen for what they do. It felt unsettling, out-of-body like, to write these words to the people who teach my kids algebra and different ways to construct an egg-drop.

Thursday afternoon I arrived at yet another local elementary school in our district to help in the after-school homework club started this year by a few concerned teachers. I saw one of the fifth grade teachers I know well, and we waited until the last child had left before we spoke of Wednesday’s events. “It was really hard coming here today,” she said in a moment of quiet honesty. “If I still had kids in school, I don’t know if I would have sent them.” I hugged her and thanked her for being there. I told her I could not imagine how that must have felt.

Friday night I stayed up late baking muffins. Our church had volunteered to cook breakfast for an early morning event at the grade school down the street. Every year around Christmas, the teachers at this school take up a collection and raise enough funds to take a group of about twenty-five students on a generous shopping spree to buy new coats, a new outfit for school, and maybe some new shoes: things the kids get to pick out and “buy” for themselves.

Saturday morning, the alarm went off at the unfriendly hour of 5:30am. My daughter and I packed our muffins, and headed out on dark empty streets to a completely unlit parking lot outside of the grade school. A small light shone from a crack in the front door that was propped open by the school’s Family Advocate to allow us entrance.

We entered the cafeteria and began to set up quiches and pancakes, sausages and orange juice, and of course my daughter’s favorite muffins. Kids arrived at 6:45am and entered, some shyly, others with eager smiles spread wide over their faces. Teachers dressed in Saturday-morning casual sat sprinkled throughout the room. One teacher in particular noticed every child who entered. Without fail, if a child hesitated for even a moment at the door, she would quickly rise from her lunchroom table and rush over to greet them with a warm smile and gentle touch.

The volume rose as the room filled and laughter and smiles were contagious. I looked around at the faces of the teachers there: leaning in, listening, making jokes, eating sausages and pancakes with these wide-eyed kids. The setting was one of welcome, safety, delight. These cafeteria tables were filled with a whole other set of “what if” scenarios than those rehearsed earlier in the week. What if these kids did not have the gift of these teachers in their lives? What if…

After everyone had eaten their fill, a teacher rose and gathered the attention of the kids in the room in that clever “speak really softly to get the kids quiet” way. After bathrooms were used and bus-buddies chosen, the group lined up and walked out into the foggy morning for their shopping adventure. As we cleaned up, the principal mentioned that his wife was home preparing for his daughter’s first birthday party that would be held later that day. As a wife and mom myself, I thought of his family at home, working hard at party preparations while he was here at school, on a Saturday. It sounds small, perhaps, but I recognized the cost in his being there that day.

It can sound cliché to call classroom teachers and school staff members “heroes”. But this week in Shoreline I saw each one of them that way: from trembling hands running scenarios of sacrifice to an early Saturday morning shopping trip, to the possibility of showing up at a first-grader’s weekend basketball game. From the quiet bravery of coming to school no matter what to staying that extra forty-five minutes to offer homework help week after week.

These are the measures of a hero. And I am humbled and grateful for each and every one of them.

Quotation of the Week

To the question “Who do you say that I am?” we cannot give a merely theoretical or theological answer. What answers it, in the final analysis, is our life, our personal history, our manner of living the gospel.

Peter’s affirmation, ‘You are the Christ,’ is fundamental. But what is demanded is that we make that affirmation the guiding thought of our life — accepting all the consequences, as dire as they may be. Only so is our response valid, as honest and sincere as it may be without it.

Our response to the question, ‘Who do you say that I am?” does not end with a profession of faith or a theological systematization. It is a question addressed to our life and that of the entire church.

From Gustavo Gutierrez, We Drink from Our Own Wells: The Spiritual Journey of a People (p. 51). (H.T. Scot McKnight)

A 2009 Benediction

It is no secret that there has been little activity here this past year. It has been a year of great transition, and I have found myself in a more quiet, internal place as I find my footing in life’s new landscape. I have not always known how to speak freely here, and as anyone who knows me will attest, I struggle to speak without transparency.

But I also do not feel finished with blogging, and in this new year hope to discover what it is I have to offer and say from this green, wet land I again call home.

Tonight the house is strangely still. The kiddos were asleep hours before what normal has been these past days in a large house filled to capacity with family and friends. Doug is driving the last of our guests to the airport and the silence feels thick after the sudden departure of so much chaos and activity and noise.

Snow White is resting next to the animals inside the Playmobil Pet Clinic Mercy got for Christmas, and a hearty stash of Aaron’s Hot Wheels are nested in the couch cushion beside me. Baby Jesus safely sleeps next to a brown bear beneath the lip of the coffee table with John Goldingay’s last volume of Old Testament Theology offering him shelter. The stack of metal folding chairs borrowed for Family Feast 2009 are stacked in the doorway ready to be returned to the church building and I am simply ignoring the laundry reality of piles of sheets and towels in every room.

As I sit in tonight’s quiet, I offer this New Year’s Eve benediction:

Elijah received a cool drawing pad from his grandparents, and it is the kind where you have both magnetic shapes and a magnetic pen that “color” on the white tray and can be erased by sliding a little yellow lever along the bottom. It’s a bit like an etch-a-sketch only without the shaking. At one point yesterday, Doug came up to me and said: “Your daughter has a story to tell you.”

I came out from the bathroom where I had been changing Elijah and found Mercy on the couch with Elijah’s drawing pad on her lap. “Mercy, tell me your story”, I said sitting down beside her.

Taking the blue square, she quietly and steadily began shading in the entire right side of the tablet. Her little hand moved quickly, side to side, until everywhere she had colored was grey.

“This is death,” she said, finishing her last swipe across the board.

Putting the blue square down, she moved her hand across and reached for the yellow lever. Sliding the lever across, a line of white took over from the left, pushing every last black pixel away until the tablet had been swept clean.

“And this is what God did,” she said in a sober voice, her own eyes glistening.

Tonight I remember the loss of a friend’s wife and son two years ago, and the loss this past year of a dear member of our community here, and I cling to and celebrate the truth my daughter shared with me yesterday.

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son…”