Jenny Call: Grace Upon Grace

January 2016, Uncategorized, , , ,

12.29.15 197‘Tis the season…
to survey (and contemplate cleaning up) all the mess generated by holiday festivities,
to think about getting back to healthier habits (thanks to the holiday festivities),
to remind the kids to be grateful for all the gifts they have received,

and in reality…
to give up on all chores and resolutions and instead binge on Netflix while the kids fight over their gifts.

According to Target, tis the season to prepare for Valentine’s Day and Easter. Following the church calendar, we are still in Christmastide, but when I went to the store two days after Christmas in search of a good deal on a tree for next year, the Christmas merchandise had been wiped clean with just a single aisle of reduced price wrapping paper and two shopping carts full of assorted goods. In the place where the trees once stood were racks of candy for Valentine’s Day and Easter.

We are nothing if not forward-looking (at least when it comes to consumerism).

I don’t want to rush to February 14th, though, and overlook the New Year’s holiday as I always appreciate the chance for introspection and reflection. The problem comes, though, when I’m quick to remember all the negative things and forget about all the good.

I’m a recovering perfectionist, and the visions of how things “should” be play on an endless loop in my mind. Advent and Christmas are the “perfect” times for me to confront my obsessive tendencies with how things “ought” to be, but I usually pursue my unrealistic expectations, which more often than not, end in bitterness and disappointment.

And I wonder why my kids can’t learn to be more grateful.

I preached about grace this Sunday as I tend to speak on what I most need to hear. In case I wasn’t getting the message, an unfortunate series of events on Saturday night resulted in my computer’s blue screen of death, losing all of my files (including my sermon), and the complete removal of Microsoft Word.

It was tragic, and yet also a lesson in what is not within my control. I went back to my text and felt anew the hope of John chapter one:

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” (vv. 1-5)

It is both humbling and a relief that God is the Word. It is not my words that make a difference, but I have the privilege to point to the Word, the Logos. Just as John was a witness to the light, my job is to testify to what I have seen and received. That takes me to my favorite line:

“From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace.”  (v. 16)

Grace. I can’t think of anything I need more in my life.

My head is full of the deafening noise of judgments, rules, and guilt about what I could have done better as a person, mom, and minister. And God whispers into the chaos, “Grace”.

And not just simple grace, but an abundance–grace upon grace. Surely I have fully received that again and again, and this gift of God is a promise that I can count on receiving forever.

Grace will be my word for 2016.

I want to share it in my ministry, my speaking, and my writing. I long to show it more to my family: to my aging mother and grandmother, to my devoted husband, and to the two kids that demand it the most (and yet share it freely with me).

But first I must receive grace myself. As I accept my failures and am still able to see myself as God’s beloved, may I be less critical and judgmental with those I love.

May 2016 be the year of grace and graciousness for all of us.

Jenny Call is writer, mom, and university chaplain at Hollins University. She blogs at www.hopecalls.blogspot.com.

Hannah Coe: Pregnant with Hope

Advent 2015, Uncategorized, ,

Luke 1:78-79:

By the tender mercy of our God,
    the dawn from on high will break upon us,

to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
    to guide our feet into the way of peace.

Christmas Eve worship, 2014. I was pregnant and uncomfortable. I sat, facing the congregation, belly bulging under my robe. I wondered, “How could I possibly have to use the bathroom again?” I lumbered into the pulpit and read Luke 1:46-55, Mary’s Song of Praise.

Christmas Eve 2014

A moment I will not forget. A text full of faith, Mary’s faith. A belly full with the hope and promise of new life, my daughter’s life. A congregation full of love and grace, colleagues and family and friends worshiping together.

Yet, I felt uncertain, a little sad, even. My husband and I were in the final stages of discerning a call to a new place and a new season of ministry. As I mentioned before–uncomfortable. In a matter of weeks, my family moving across the country, newborn and all. Christmas Eve 2015 would look different, but how?

In Luke 1, Mary and Zechariah are on their own Advent journey. When Gabriel visits Zechariah in the temple, Zechariah is overwhelmed with fear. At times on this 2015 journey, I have been like Zechariah—fearful, ready to quiz God, unable to believe what’s right in front of me.

When Gabriel visits Mary, she responds by saying, “I am the Lord’s servant.” At times on this 2015 journey, I have been like Mary—faithful, pondering what God is doing, open to what’s next.

Though their journeys are quite different, Luke 1 ends with both Mary and Zechariah praising God.   Praise from the willing servant, Mary. Praise from the unbeliever-turned-believer, Zechariah.

Transition has, indeed, been our family’s primary experience this year. Master’s degrees completed, new jobs begun, a new baby, a cross-country move—a blur. Yet, as Christmas Eve 2015 comes into focus, I am profoundly and humbly grateful. As God did in Zechariah’s heart, God has turned my unbelief into praise and gratitude. As God did in Zechariah’s heart, God has turned my fear into faith.

May praise, gratitude, and faith find you on your Advent journey.

Tender and Merciful Lord, fill our hearts with praise. When we are fearful. When we are faithful. Turn our eyes to the horizon where Christ’s light breaks upon us, from which Christ’s light breaks through darkness and death. Turn our feet, O Lord, toward the pathway of Peace. Amen.

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A Georgia native and graduate of Mercer University’s McAfee School of Theology, Hannah Coe serves as Associate Pastor of Children and Families at First Baptist Church in Jefferson City, Missouri.  Hannah and her husband, David, are parents to Katherine and Annalina. They enjoy playing, eating, and the occasional nap.

LeAnn Gardner: Advent Mom

Advent 2015, Uncategorized, , , ,

Four years ago, in the throes of Advent season, I was 41 weeks, 6 days pregnant and my eldest would soon be served his eviction notice.

During this time, I went to our local abbey, Mepkin Abbey, where a group of Trappist monks live their lives counterculturally, sustaining themselves in every way. I was walking on the grounds when one of the monks spotted me and said in a knowing way, “The time is ripe for you.” Believe me, I had heard many comments up until then- almost everyone stopped to marvel at the “ripeness” of my belly.

But these words came from a man who was living the Advent experience and whose life was finely tuned to God’s time. There was a knowing, a connection there, of his understanding that the gestation of life reflected the gestation of God’s liturgical time. At that moment, I felt emotionally and unequivocally connected to my Lifesource and the rhythms of God’s time.

The very next day, I delivered that red headed bundle and tomorrow we celebrate his 4th birthday.

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Last week, on Advent Eve, before we were all fully awake he asked, “Mama, when is God going to come and take away the world?”

This question floored me on so many levels; we are not an “end times” kind of family, but more of a “God loves you, God made everything, God is good” etc. When I recounted this to others, they chalked it up to having heard something on TV.

But my intuition tells me that children have a deep sense of knowing and in his little, but wise soul, he is already starting to grasp the enormity of our lives. And maybe even Advent.

Perhaps what he is asking is “When will the pain be gone?” Admittedly, he has not experienced much pain at all (thank God), but maybe just simply being human is a reminder that all is not right (yet) with the world.

Maybe even red headed 4 year olds long for the making of all things right.

If I’m honest, I also know that the Advent of 2011 was my own personal Advent of being transformed into a mother. The exit out of the labyrinth of labor/delivery and into postpartum was one of the most difficult, yet profound of my life.

I am still becoming, still learning what it means to help usher another human being (now two) into becoming empathic, kind, Jesus loving humans. We all have our Advents of sorts, ways in which the Divine molds us, refines us and all the while reminds us that we are not alone.

In the throes of details, transitions and meeting basic needs, I need these “God rhythms” to remind me of my true purpose, whose I am and what time I follow. My prayer this Advent is that I can sit still in the waiting, in the longing, while at the same time embracing the hope that Christ’s birth and promise gives me.

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LeAnn Gardner is a right brained social worker and minister married to a left brained engineer. Together they (sometimes) compose a full brain. They have two boys, ages 4 and 1.

Alicia Davis Porterfield: Limping Into Advent

Advent 2015, Uncategorized, ,

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned . . .                                           Isaiah 9:2

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It was dark, in those days. Very dark. Rome ruled Israel, the latest in a long line of conquerors. David’s line seemed all dried up after a succession of useless kings who led a great people to ruin. Caesar had ordered a new census with an eye toward his coffers.

The more people he could account for, the more taxes he could raise; the more taxes he could raise, the more people he could conquer. And so on and so on.

There was no one to challenge him in those days, no one who could shake the grip of the Roman Empire. Israel was a conquered people doing the will of a Caesar they neither chose nor revered nor trusted.

And so it was that Joseph put Mary on that donkey to take the long trip to his ancestral home of Bethlehem. They were not going for a great family reunion, tables laden with favorite foods and local delicacies. They were not headed home for a religious celebration with its own time honored traditions and deep roots in their faith.

They were doing the bidding of Caesar, whose command had come at just the wrong time for their lives, just when Mary’s pregnancy was coming to an end. When she should have been home in Nazareth surrounded by relatives and neighbors who could help her through the trial of labor, she was far from home, alone with only Joseph to attend her.

There was nothing about this story that seemed right, nothing that felt warm and homey and comforting. Mary got pregnant too early and under circumstances no one could believe. Joseph, confused and angry, was ready to quietly un-engage her, until an angel intervened.

And if that wasn’t enough, Caesar interrupted the whole thing with his call for a census, requiring a trip to Bethlehem, a place far from the home and family they knew. They would travel all that way, endangering themselves and the baby, so their conquerors could collect more tax money. This is not a happy story. Not yet.

If you are hurting or angry or confused this Advent season, you are in good company, at least according to the actual Biblical story. If you are lonely or grieving this Advent season, your story is their story, a people who had been conquered for centuries, wondering if God had forgotten them. If you can’t be full of good cheer and cringe at the thought of crowded malls and gift extravaganzas and to-do lists longer than your arm, you are not being a Scrooge or a Grinch.

In fact, you may know better than most the real struggle in this story we know almost too well. Perhaps those with troubled hearts might just have the ears to hear the depth of pain and longing the “holly jolly” approach has written right out of the story. This is the quiet story, not the one of hustle and bustle and ringing cash registers.

This is the story that makes room for pregnant teenagers and confused husbands and people who wonder what God is up to—or even sometimes, if God is up to anything, but who go anyway. This is the true story, according to scripture, the story that has almost been drowned out by demands for good cheer and forced festivities that actually have little to do with the nativity.

The birth of Christ was as far from a Hallmark Christmas special as it possibly could be. Don’t be snowed by the hype. If you are hurting in any way, if your heart is troubled, if you are limping instead of leaping, this is your story.

Advent is a time to prepare for the light coming into the darkness, which means that there is indeed darkness in the story. It does not have the last word, praise be to God. But the darkness is there, the struggle, the loss, the grief, the disappointment and anger–no matter how hard the marketers push to convince us otherwise.

If you are searching for that light, longing for it amidst the darkness, limping into Advent, you are not alone. The Bible tells us so.

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Alicia Davis Porterfield serves, mothers, and writes in Wilmington, NC. After the recent death of her adored and adoring father, she is definitely limping into Advent.

 

 

Alicia Davis Porterfield: Thankful, Tired, and Traumatized

November 2015, Uncategorized, , , ,

As I write this, a storm front has swept across the valley where my parents live and my father is dying in the hospital bed hospice moved into their bedroom. Daddy has dealt with significant health issues for some time, but hearing two weeks and one day ago that his aortic valve wasn’t closing properly and it was just a matter of time was absolutely traumatic for my two sisters, my mother, and me.

We are losing our father.

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Newborn Alicia, daughter #3, and Dad James

It wasn’t until I left home for college and got out into the world that I really realized that not everybody had a dad like mine, a dad who was deeply invested in their lives, an ever-ready source of help and wisdom, and prayed for them all the time. If I needed to talk, he made time to listen.

Don’t get me wrong–I’m not claiming he is perfect. Dad can be short tempered when he is stressed out or over-tired (I inherited that!). Sometimes he might be a bit colloquial. He is definitely a true creature of habit, leading to one of his many nicknames, “Rut-man” (in this area, I pretty much married my father).

But Dad was always there for us. He attended ballet recitals, piano recitals, endless chorus/choir concerts from elementary school to college and beyond, dinner theater fundraisers, variety shows, and even softball games when my sister played in the church adult softball league (we were not big sports girls). He and mom traveled to Northern Virginia years ago to hear one of my first sermons.

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Alicia, Ellen, and Laurel ready for football

Dad taught us to hit and field the softball and throw a tight football spiral (mine’s a little rusty but I can still sometimes impress my three boys). He took us camping and taught me how to trout fish in a freezing-cold Georgia mountain stream, even buying me my own pair of fishing waders when I was about ten years old. Like the great dad he is, he baited the hooks and took the fish off the line for me. I got to do the fun parts, like casting the line and eating Vienna Sausages  (pronounced “Vi-eenie Ween-ies”) straight out of the can.

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Dad, the outdoorsman

Dad welcomed in our friends and boyfriends, getting to know them and giving them his full attention as we all enjoyed Mom’s loving, home-cooked meals. Looking back, I realize that some of these friends needed to “borrow” my dad for a bit, receiving for awhile what I received daily: his loving hospitality, interest in others, and deep appreciation of life rooted in his faith. He and Mom made sure our friends could make themselves at home in our home.

Dad and Mom offered this same loving welcome to the men who became our husbands. In my Daddy, my husband received a second father, someone who listened to him, valued him deeply, and made him laugh with endless stories (many of which have wound up in our sermons or writing) and silliness. Our husbands are losing a father.

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Thanksgiving 2014

Dad’s hope for his grandchildren was that they would feel just as at home in my parents’ home as they did in their own–just as he had at his grandparents’ homes. And they have. Three girls and three boys, ranging from age four to sixteen, all feel as relaxed, safe, and loved here as they do at their own homes. Our children are losing their Grandad (also known as Dega, pronounced “Dee-Gah”).

Lila (2) and Grandad
Grammie, Grandad, and family

 

As a pastor and chaplain, I have walked this valley with many, many others. I have sung with them, prayed with them, cried with them, and read with them the scriptures that bring us hope and comfort in darkest days. I know that the valley of the shadow of death is holy, hard ground.

But now I am here in this unfamiliar territory, trying to imagine my life without this man in it. And I find that I cannot face that. I cannot even begin to fathom that.

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L-R: Glenda, James, Laurel, Alicia, Ellen

So I face just this day, just this hour. The hospice people say “soon.”

My sisters and my mother and I try to help him as best as we untrained folk can do. We adjust him in the bed, kiss and pat him, try to get him to take his meds, which has become much harder as he grows weaker and less responsive.

We laugh and sing and remember. We cry in little bursts. It seems too scary to start to really let the tears flow. My mother, who has loved this man for 52 years and been his wife for 50, explained, “I’m afraid if I really start crying, I will cry forever.”

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James and Glenda Davis, circa 1977

The daughter I am knows just what she means. The pastor I am thinks it’s just fine if we cry as long as we need to. But I can’t yet. It’s too scary.

Through the years, I have heard almost every platitude there is and every bully-cheerleader (as my colleague calls them) nonsense that denies grief its true power. I do not need to be reminded that God is good and knows best; I do not want to hear that everything happens for a reason.

My faith is strong, vibrant, and growing here in the land of lament Psalms, where I cry–when I can–the tears of an exile. We are strangers in a strange land and cannot pretend differently.

If someone can’t be with our grief, that’s fine. Don’t be. But don’t try to minimize this loss for me. I am traumatized.

God has given me an amazing father, a Daddy in the truest sense of the word. We are losing him, hour by hour.

FL Beach trip: Grandad 2nd from left, back row
Grandad at Christmas 2013

We are thankful for every good memory and every blessing in this valley, for every prayer offered for us, for every meal we’ve savored, for every moment shared together.

We are tired in body and spirit from these weeks of grief and goodbye with miles to go before we sleep, to borrow from Dad’s favorite poet, Robert Frost.

And we are traumatized by what is happening, make no mistake. All three are true at the same time: thankful, tired, and traumatized.

Our God is holding all of it, and all of us, close. 

Rev. Alicia Davis Porterfield is a daughter, mother, wife, and minister. She midwives this blog and is currently serving as interim pastor for FBC Carolina Beach, NC, a fabulous part of the family of God.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jennifer Andrews-Weckerly: Journeying Through the Darkness

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October is Pregnancy Loss Awareness Month. In some ways, it seems like a strange month to choose. In October, we are often focused on the harvest. We have harvest-themed door wreaths and table decorations. We enjoy a taste of the harvest ourselves – picking apples and pumpkins. This is a time we celebrate abundance, and yet this is also the month when we honor when abundance is taken away.

As a child, I knew very little about pregnancy loss. I had an aunt who sometimes referred to infant she lost by name, but no one besides her talked about it much, and the subject was so hushed and confusing that I never asked many questions. As a chaplain, I experienced my first pregnancy loss with a patient. A whole new world of darkness invaded what had developed in my mind as a world of joy. I was at the age that my friends were starting to have babies. But no one had ever talked to me about the dark side of pregnancy. The darkness still felt very “other.”

Finally, a dear friend – one with whom I had shared many confidences – lost her pregnancy. We lived far away, but I had just seen her pregnant belly at a reunion of friends for the weekend. We had laughed and shared dreams about the child. It had been a weekend of light. And suddenly, that weekend was washed away with darkness. We all rallied, sending flowers, meals, and cards. We prayed and we cried. And we listened. My friend was very good about being vocal and honest about her pain. We journeyed with her through the darkness.

During our mourning period  . . . to read more, click here.

Jennifer Andrews-Weckerly is rector and pastor of the Episcopal Church of St. Margaret in Plainview, New York, and a contributor to Project Pomegranate’s book Though the Darkness Gather Round, Devotions about Infertility, Miscarriage, and Infant Loss. This post appeared originally on Jennifer’s blog Seeking and Serving, was shared on Project Pomegranate‘s blog, and was used here with permission.

Out of the mouths of Babes: Two double preachers’ kids speak out

October 2015, , , ,

The Life and Times of Oliver Finn . . .

I’m a builder, a fighter, and a dancer.

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Each morning when I wake up, I immediately rush to finish breakfast and get dressed so that I can extend my building time.  You see, I have a lego city in my room that requires constant work.  There are cars to build, bad guy houses and good guy bases, airplanes and so much more!  It is a rather extensive project for a 5 year old to oversee.  Fortunately, I have consultants that I bring in from time to time to help contribute to my city’s architecture and help fight off (distract) my sister’s destructive curiosity.  My mom is especially good at building houses and banks for my bad guys to rob – but don’t worry, I’ve just created a fleet of police vehicles to track down the robbers!

Learning to be a fighter and a dancer are important things you learn in Kindergarten.  I got in a fight during the second week of school this year – one of my good friends punched me and I punched him back during P.E. class!  My friend just didn’t appreciate it when I knew the right answer to the coach’s question, but we worked out our differences.  I had to talk with Mr. Foster – the principal – but fortunately, this did not affect my daily smiley face behavior report.  Whew!

Oh well!  It’s just hard for people to get along sometimes.

Unless, of course, you teach them the magic of an evening dance party!  No matter how cranky, tired, or aggravated we are, there’s nothing like a dance party to clear away those bad feelings.  Every Friday at school, just before dismissal time, the kids who have had perfect attendance all week get to celebrate with a dance party in the hallway!  Its a great time to shake off the stress of the week, dance with your friends and learn some new moves.

We have dance parties at home too – especially when we need a “mood change.”  If you get the chance, wherever you are on a Friday afternoon – be sure to take time to grab your friends, your family – maybe even a coworker or two and dance!  Its a sure way to bring some light-hearted joy into your day!

212f872f-1f03-42ba-b637-4871dd72d070And Lyra Grace . . .

Rush, rush, rush…hurry, hurry, hurry.  That seems to be the way life is when you grow up.  It’s true, some things should be done quick and fast – like racing with your brother or biting him when mom’s back is turned.

But there are things in life that just cannot (and should not) be rushed!  My top two at the moment go hand-in-hand: prayer time and bedtime.  Allow me to explain.

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Before we go to bed, we often tell God what we are thankful for.  This is my favorite part of the evening!  I like to walk around the room and thank God for the things that I see around me, touching each item as I pray.  I also want to be sure and mention the people I know and anyone that I’ve talked to that day, or anything I’ve seen that comes to mind.  You can see how to get all of this in, it just takes time!

My brother has begun rolling his eyes when its my turn to pray, or even forfeiting his own prayer time.  At least he’s given up on interrupting me – now he just grabs a book and waits.  That’s fine, Mommy says God will listen to my prayers all night long.  I’m glad because I have a lot to say!

Which brings me to another thing that simply should never be rushed: bedtime!  Personally, I try to stretch out our bedtime in increments that last all night.  First, I am always careful to check on Mommy and Daddy at least 4-5 times after they tuck me in.  Next, I try to pay them a visit or invite them to my room at least once or twice in the middle of the night.  After all, they could get lonely in the dark and I don’t want them to forget that I’m here!

Lately I’ve added one more helpful piece to my extended bedtime.  I like to call for them just before their alarms go off to make sure they remember to get up.  All I ask for this incredibly helpful service is that they keep me company for a few minutes until I fall back asleep – then they are free to begin their morning.

If you are feeling rushed in life, my suggestion to you is simply to stop.  Stop and just see what happens!  You might be surprised by how much you come to love taking things slowly.

Oliver and Lyra are the children of Nathan and Carrie Dean who serve with Edgewood Church in Atlanta, GA, http://edgewoodchurchatlanta.org. Oliver and Lyra like to keep life interesting for their parents and are learning to be the body of Christ with their church family.

Jenny F. Call: Parenting: a spiritual practice in vulnerability

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Along with 26 million other people, I first discovered Brené Brown through her TED talks on shame and vulnerability (if you have not seen them, I encourage you to stop reading and watch). She is a social work researcher with the gift of storytelling, sharing her research interspersed with relatable stories of personal struggle and insight. She gives language to the experiences I had growing up in a family culture of guilt, and a church culture that invoked shame in its subjugation of women.

I devoured her books: I Thought it Was Just Me (But It Isn’t), The Gifts of Imperfection, and Daring Greatly. Her focus on wholehearted living resonates with me as I believe this is what faith offers us–the understanding that we are all worthy of love and belonging just as we are. Brené often mentions faith in her work, and her research indicated spirituality as a tool of resiliency for those facing life’s challenges.

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Recently I drove to Nashville to attend a Random House Publishing event for the release of her latest book, Rising Strong. I arrived a couple hours early to get a good seat, and quickly was befriended by the handful of other Brené fangirls who were already waiting at the door. We passed the time sharing how her work had touched our lives and the ways we have used it in our various lines of work.

As women, we had all experienced the tension of vulnerability, knowing that it is a tool for connection and growth, while avoiding it because it feels so scary, and because it is seen as weakness. But Brené views vulnerability as strength. Wholehearted living involves having the courage and compassion to live from a place of worthiness. We can accept our faults and failures and still know that we are enough.

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Parenting and ministry have been my biggest vulnerability challenges. I understood that ministry required it, and yet parenthood has surprised me by the ways it has stripped me raw. It has been a place of great sacredness and great challenge. I have been pushed into uncomfortable spaces within myself when confronted by my selfishness, failures, and annoying quirks that are brought out and witnessed by the two little ones in my home.

I see myself in them, both to my pride and my chagrin. Our children are big feelers, and we work hard to teach them appropriate ways to express their emotions. But when I yell at them to control themselves, I realize that this is something we need to learn together.

The process of rising strong involves owning our stories, and being real about the stories we tell ourselves (“I’m not enough. I’m a failure. Everyone is judging me. Nothing will ever get better.”) Through “the reckoning” (engaging with our feelings and getting curious about why we feel that way), “the rumble” (confronting the stories we tell ourselves by writing down how we feel in the moment), and “the revolution” (making it a practice and integrating it in our lives), I am reminded again that parenting my children will be the greatest spiritual practice I ever take on.

As I come to terms with my own failings, I will be more equipped to help them learn and grow from theirs. Ultimately, I hope to exemplify God’s unconditional love, teaching them of their worthiness so that they can share God’s love with others.

It puts in mind my favorite Psalm, Psalm 139, that beautifully describes how completely God knows us, and yet this knowledge does not scare God off. God lovingly remains present with us wherever we may go. There are many moments in my life and ministry where I have felt this love and acceptance so clearly.

I want this gift for my children as well.

As we learn together in this practice of daring greatly and rising strong, I pray that they will also feel hemmed in, surrounded in a protective and unconditional love that sees them completely for who they are and embraces them wholeheartedly.

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Rev. Jenny Frazier Call is University Chaplain at Hollins University in Roanoke, Virginia, mom to two school-age children, and wife to John. Check out more of her writing at hopecalls.blogspot.com.

Nikki Finkelstein-Blair: The First Cut

Ordinary Miracles 2015, September 2015, , , ,

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Almost twenty years ago my husband and I walked down The Aisle. He looked as dapper in a Victorian morning coat as any twenty-two-year-old Tennesseean could be expected to look in the mid-1990s. I was channeling Scarlett O’Hara, with puffed-and-bowed sleeves and a skirt layered with so many petticoats that it could stand up on its own. It was Christmastime and the church was garlanded and the bridesmaids carried wreaths of fresh greens.

Wedding Day over, the rented tuxes returned, the cake top in the freezer, and my dress stuffed back in its original hanging bag from the discount bridal store and hung in a closet in my parents’ house. Where it remained for almost twenty years.

It made sense for them to keep it. At first, they had plenty of space, while we lived in small apartments. Then they stayed in one house, while we moved from place to place. Then, this year, twenty years later, my parents moved. Cleaned house. Let go of some things and offloaded other things onto us kids. And finally, my dress came home with me.

And I found myself at a crossroads between Practicality and Nostalgia, with a pair of scissors in my hand.

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Cutting the dress wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision; I’d been thinking about it (and stalking Pinterest for project ideas) for several years. In fact, I surprised myself with my hesitation once I had the dress hanging in my own closet.

Nostalgia kept it hanging there.

Until one day Practicality spoke up. I’d been looking at Pinterest (again), pinning ideas of Things To Make with the Dress, and I heard Practicality say, almost audibly: “It can’t become anything until you make the first cut.”

(Then I heard the tiny preacher voice in my head pipe up, as it sometimes does, to say: “That’ll preach.”)

It can’t become anything until…

Over the next couple of hours, I systematically dismantled the dress. Separated the skirt fabric from the bodice; used a seamripper to remove the zipper and to release several yards of lace from the hem. A tiny, sharp pair of scissors helped with the covered buttons and the sleeve bows. As I removed each piece I carefully folded and stacked lace and fabric and trim, until the majority of my wedding dress fit into a single shopping bag.

Dress2

And Nostalgia hit me. Hard. Cutting it was easy, but seeing it all cut up was (is) hard.

I will never be that person again. I’ll never be that young woman again, on the brink of a new life, with no idea where those twenty years would lead.

But I know that now the dress can become something new: keepsakes to be enjoyed rather than merely stored. Memories that are functional, or even simply beautiful. On our twentieth anniversary this Christmastime, our decorations will include stockings made with lace and bows; ornaments with covered buttons and tulle. And the two of us will look at pictures of our young selves–in all our morning-coated and puffy-sleeved glory–and dream about the ways we, too, may still become.

Nikki Finkelstein-Blair is a minister, mother, and wife to a Navy chaplain. She and her family now live in South Carolina, where Nikki enjoys biking, knitting, and writing.

Sarah Boberg: For Better or Worse

Ordinary Miracles 2015, , , ,

I, like many others, took a marriage oath on the day of my wedding. These vows went something like this, “I Sarah, take you Bradley, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”

Upon taking that oath, I knew to expect good times and bad times in my marriage. I knew marriage would be a roller coaster ride, and it has been. However, I wish there would have been the same type of oath on the day of my ordination into the ministry and even on the day I found out I was pregnant with my first child.

Family

Motherhood and ministry both require the same dedication as a marriage. As a mother and minister I have held many people, have stood beside my own child and my church children in the best of times, and the worst of times. I have struggled with what it costs to raise a child and with ministry budgets, but I have always been able to make it. I have nursed my own sick child, have given out many Band-Aids and ice packs, and sat beside many hospital beds. Motherhood and ministry, like marriage, are lifetime commitments.

This all hit me last week as I went from dancing and singing on stage at Vacation Bible School to a funeral visitation within an hour. Ministry is full of these instances. However, I will cherish this specific “for better or worse” moment forever.

I remember the first time I met my ministry mini-me. (For those who have ministered with children and/or youth, you know what I am talking about. A ministry mini-me is that kid in your group who is so like you as a kid it is scary.) It was the Sunday Brad was visiting First Baptist Church, Red Springs to preach his first sermon and be voted on to become their pastor.

We had spent Saturday meeting some church members, but Sunday was the big day. And while on normal occasions I am extroverted and great with crowds, this day was overwhelming for me as a 23 year old wife who knew very little about being a First Baptist preacher’s wife. So I found myself migrating to my comfort zone, the youth room.

There in the youth room I met a young girl. She was around 12 years old, tall and skinny. As we began to talk I realized I had not met her on Saturday because she had been preparing for and performing at her dance recital all weekend. I thought, “Now this is a conversation I am comfortable with. Thank you, Lord!”

We talked a little and the Sunday morning continued to unfold. I met a lot of people. I shook a lot of hands. After Brad preached, the church voted, and he became the next pastor at First Baptist Church in Red Springs.

Egg Hunt

My ministry has been full of “for better or worse” moments, but no ministry relationship has taught me more than ministering to my mini-me. We both share a love for dance, basketball, volleyball, all things tie-dye and retail therapy. We both but up a strong front, but are sensitive on the inside. We are both hard-workers and put others above ourselves. We both have what I call “sassy mouth.” As a college student, she even worked as a waitress at the same restaurant chain I worked at as a high school and college student!

This beautiful young woman has grown up before my eyes. As her youth minister I walked along side of her through middle-school and high school, some of the hardest years for girls. I have been to many sporting events and awards days. We have taken many trips to Taco Bell. We have spent hours talking. Her name should be engraved on the chair in my office. I have rejoiced with her in her accomplishments and when her heart has been broken, mine has broken. As she has grown, our relationship has become less one-sided. I no longer just minister to her, she ministers to and with me.

Our relationship has been full of “for better or worse” moments. Our relationship has taught me about ministering with agape love, unconditional love. Even though I don’t always like her life choices, and sometimes want to scream at her, I love her with the unconditional love of Jesus.

Several weeks ago this relationship taught me again the value of committing to relationships in ministry. As I entered the funeral home, still wearing my “I Love VBS” t-shirt, my husband grabbed me. He asked if I had seen my mini-me. I said, “No”. He then told me she had not gone to the casket yet, she was waiting for me to go with her.

It was her grandmother’s visitation. Her grandmother was a committed member of the church and a great friend to my husband, daughter, and me. I spoke to many church members, family members and friends, but my heart and mind were solely focused on finding my mini-me. I found her, we hugged and talked a little. I told her I was there and ready whenever she was.

After the funeral home cleared out of guests, we reconnected. She grabbed my hands and we made our way to the casket. We cried, we talked, and we even laughed, the whole time holding each other.

It didn’t matter that she is now 22 and not technically one of “my youth.” It didn’t matter that we hadn’t had a taco bell run or long talk in a while. All that mattered was that we were there together, “for better or worse”.

Life and ministry are full of “for better or worse” moments. Marriage, motherhood, and ministry mean committing to love God and each other “for better or worse.”

(As I type this, the next generation mini-me just made her way into my office! Thankful for many “for better or worse” moments to come.)

Mom and Mickey

Reverend Sarah Boberg is a minister, mother, and PhD candidate. She is currently conducting narrative research for her PhD dissertation.