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Surprised! (Again)

Last Saturday I was the overnight host as our church provided a week’s shelter for homeless families as part of the Wilmington Interfaith Hospitality Network (WIHN). That sounds all faithful-servant-ish, doesn’t it? The reality is that I was more like the child who tells his father he WILL NOT go work in the vineyard, like a big ungrateful brat (and then changes his mind and goes anyway, Matt. 21:28-32).

Image courtesy of dan/FreeDigitalPhotos.com
Image courtesy of dan/FreeDigitalPhotos.com

It’s not pretty, but that’s how I felt when I first found out I was needed. Like most ministry-moms, my plate is full: deadlines, packing lunches, homework, exegesis, grocery shopping and writing, to name a few. At church, I teach the kindergarten Sunday School class, sing in the choir and teach Zumba on Wednesday nights, for Phoebe’s sake! Sound familiar?

I love these ways of serving. Teaching, music and even leading Zumba are wonderful ways for me to use my gifts in our congregation where my husband pastors. But as most of us in ministry know, rarely is that enough. Somewhere, somehow, something gives and someone needs a volunteer last minute.

Two weeks ago, word went out that a Saturday night host slot had to be filled. The regular volunteer had been recruited to chaperone a youth trip scheduled for the same weekend, an adventure that would be our  eldest son’s inaugural middle school-wide retreat. Yes, this volunteer is that good.

So I figured the least I could do is say “Put me down as your last resort person to fill that host spot.” Real generous, huh?! But weekends are hard for us, as my husband works on his sermon and I plan for the Sunday School lesson and we tag-team the kids and all their Saturday games and activities, as well as their own preparation for Sunday morning.  Surely, I thought, someone else will step up. But at least I would get points for being willing, right? 😉

Only no one else responded. Not one adult could do it–of all the middle school and high school parents and various youth volunteers. Seemed like everyone had the same problem I did: Saturday nights are too busy, Sunday mornings too chaotic.  Suddenly, I was it—along with one of our (amazing) senior high youth girls.

Really, God?! No one else in the entire church could do this? I kicked imaginary dirt, mentally put my hands on my hips and spiritually stuck out my lip. That done, I began working out the details, negotiating on the home front and packing. Oddly enough, as I packed, the “I WILL NOT!” mentality lost its hold. By the time I walked through the door to start my shift, I sensed I was exactly where I needed to be.

I’d always been interested in this ministry, where local churches host temporarily homeless families for a week. Our family had helped provide a meal years ago; one time my husband took the boys to eat and play with the families. Each time I read the request for WIHN volunteers in the bulletin, I feet a tug. But how could I be away overnight with everything going on in our lives?

SURPRISE!  God’s tug turned into a gentle kick in the pants. I was going to serve with WIHN whether I planned it or not. And as usual, God’s plan was far better than mine would have been. I met our three families—one with five kids—and immediately felt at home. One of the kids made a nametag for me, surprising me with his thoughtfulness. After that, I was swept into a game of charades and taught a new game called “Therapist” where a the “therapist” has  diagnose each “patient” pretending to have an issue.  Trust me, it was fun.

These children welcomed me. They were a delight. I heard the parents’ story of searching for employment and dealing with homelessness for the first time.  I could only imagine the fear, stress and chaos of dealing with five children in a constantly changing environment. But they were doing it–and well. The children were loving, energetic and respectful, the parents managing far better than I suspected I would.

Instead of an evening of draining giving, giving, giving, I was receiving. This vineyard in our fellowship hall was ripe with God’s love. And I was far more in need of it than I had known. SURPRISE! Again, God had the best in mind. As I fell asleep in my cot that night, I could only hope and pray that I was offered a bit of the blessing I received.

Permanence

by Nikki Finkelstein-Blair

In the interest of transparency–because we’re all seeking a place where we can be vulnerable, honest, fully Known–I want to begin by admitting that I watch “The Waltons.”

The Waltons

A lot.

Sometimes while knitting.

I’m very aware that this may be an unlikely occupation for a progressive, modern woman. Let’s just say that I’m not the target demographic for the advertisers whose commercials air during the episodes. But since the day a few months ago when I accidentally caught part of an episode, I have found myself peeking in on the life of that 1930s (by way of the 1970s) family. More than forty years after the show began, I’ve learned all the kids’ names: JohnBoyJasonMaryEllenBenErinJimBobandElizabeth. Forty years too late, I let tears roll when Grandma and Grandpa Walton died. Forty years–and more than eighty years since the pre-WWII setting of the stories–and I’m continually amazed by how contemporary the issues are. The relationship between races. The roles of women. The ethics of work. The stability of home. The practice of hospitality. The tensions and tendernesses among siblings; in fact, all the tensions and tendernesses of children learning to grow up and to love and to grieve and to let go.

And, especially, the life of the mother. Especially that.

There’s much about Olivia Walton’s life I can’t begin to identify with, owing to her rural setting and to her Depression-era context. But as a mother, there’s so much that resonates with me, it sometimes catches me off-guard.

Like, for example, the episode when Olivia was restless. Restless in the way I feel when the routines have become too… routine. She was crabby, the way I get crabby when every day feels like a broken record of school lunches, lost shoes, reading logs, arguments over tooth brushing and piano practice, doing dishes, eating dinner and thereby dirtying more dishes, and don’t forget to wash behind your ears, and “just one more story?” And forty/eighty years later, I am right there with her, restless and crabby and unable to explain it to anyone and just needing something–anything–to be new.

Olivia Walton, restless and crabby and just needing something to be new, got a perm.

A really, really bad perm.

Such a bad perm that when she came home, she tried to hide it. Unsuccessfully. And when the various Walton children saw it, each of them, in turn, burst into laughter.

And then, when Olivia Walton wept, so did I.

I know that feeling so well: the impossibility of explaining to those around us how any small change would at least be something different–even if it went wrong. The cognitive dissonance of focusing attention on ourselves, when the callings of our everydays are oriented to others–all the John Boys and the Mary Ellens of our lives, all the school lunches and dirty dishes and bedtime stories. And all the potlucks and parish council meetings, the hospital visitations, the pastoral prayers–the routines and traditions of life together in our faith families, too.

“Then He who sat on the throne said, ‘Behold, I make all things new.’” (Rev. 21:5) When I am unsettled and fidgety in my days, I yearn for that renewal. I know I need to toss away the outgrown, ill-fitting, uninspired habits I put on thoughtlessly every day. I need to rethink my choices, responses, routes and routines. I need to try on new looks, new colors; I need to taste new words in my mouth and let new thoughts roll around in my head; I need to break the chronic patterns of my days and of my mindset.

God, show me the new ways you would have me go; grant me bravery to take risks, especially those that may end badly; let me show my children–and my church–that it is blessed even to try.

Because not much is permanent, anyway. Hair grows out (thanks be to God!). Routines shift and morph as children grow older, as we accommodate loves and losses, follow callings and shape habits. The litanies of our days, once rote, may become the zones of comfort that we desperately crave, and from there we can safely reach out, seeking not just change for change’s sake, but the newness of life to which we are called. Together we can try, and fail, and try again. Then we can put our restlessness into words so that we can share in the tears that come when we feel most alone, and in the laughter that comes when we see ourselves as we truly are: badly permed, reborn, and beloved.

Nicole Finkelstein-Blair became a U.S. Navy spouse in 2000, graduated from Central Baptist Theological Seminary and was ordained in 2001, and became “Mom!” in 2004. She finds ministry wherever the military and motherhood lead: in four states and two countries (so far), as a parishioner and a pulpit-supplier, as a sometime blogger and devotional writer, and at countless dinner tables and bedtimes. She’s enjoying now… and looking forward to what’s next. Her essay “A Time for Every Purpose” can be found in A Divine Duet: Ministry and Motherhood (www.helwys.com).

Ministry and Motherhood Blog Begins!

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Welcome to our blog! After our book, A Divine Duet: Ministry and Motherhood, was released in June, we found ourselves standing on holy ground–and new territory. The essays shared in the book stirred up more conversations about  living out two simultaneous calls and trying to honor both. Two workshops on the book, held at the General Assembly of the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship in June 2013, showed us that our stories called out other stories. There was far, far more to be said, prayed and pondered. The book was a beginning, the first step on the journey of honoring the divine duet to which God has called us.

The original purpose of the book was to provide safe space for women in ministry to tell their stories as mothers-who-minister and ministers-who-mother.  More women are entering ministry, especially in moderate Baptist life, than ever before; that’s simply an historical fact. But what this means for these women and the body of Christ is being worked out daily in our churches, institutions, homes and prayers.  This reality, its working out and reflections on what God is doing deserve both time and space. This blog is part of offering that.

The book’s twenty contributors cover just about every ministry setting and motherhood circumstance. We represent inner city and rural ministries, preachers and professors, chaplains in healthcare and on campuses, youth pastors, and education pastors, just to name a few. And we are step mothers, birth mothers, adoptive mothers, and those who mother other people’s children.  But we are just the tip of the iceberg.

This blog will allow us to share some of our perspectives, wonderings, insights and questions on anything from preaching ideas to preschool advice.  And it allows us to enlarge the conversation, welcoming in more voices and helping us honor one another’s stories. These blog posts aim to help us take seriously what God is doing in our lives as mothers and ministers. As we tell our stories, we put them out into the larger life of the church and the world, shedding light on this wondrous journey. Join us.

So let the blogging begin! And the honoring, the wondering and the claiming of this divine duet of ministry and motherhood to which we are called. 

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