On Oil Changes, Part 2: Regular Rhythms of Life, Grief, Joy, and Being Dr. Michaels

It was almost 2 ½ years ago now when you may have last found me at a Dodge dealership waiting on an oil change and musing about my dissertation and my grief.  That’s not to say I haven’t had my oil changed since then.  “Fred Weasley” (my vehicle’s name if you didn’t already know it) and I make the trip to the Dodge dealership on repeat, as it was meant to be.  It’s just that I don’t always blog (or post on social) every ordinary rhythm of life these days.  Yet it seems almost prophetic that I, perhaps unwisely, scheduled this oil change and tire rotation for the morning after my dissertation defense.  I fully recognize that the vast majority of people would not list things like oil changes, car washes, and singing alone on a long (or short) drive as spiritual disciplines, but for me they are.  These are consistent practices that I can count on like clockwork, and I sincerely hope I will never cease to find God in the everyday, ordinary moments.[1]   

But yesterday was anything but ordinary…

This journey to a Ph.D. has been a long one—much longer than I ever expected, even though they do tell you at orientation that you have seven years.  When my feet hit the ground in the fall of 2018, I had no idea what the next seven years would hold.  To be completely honest, if I had I never would have done this.  That’s not to say anything at all in life would have turned out any better than it has, but I’m just telling you Catherine Keller’s “cloud of missed possibilities” continues to follow me through every major life decision, although admittedly I think about this less than I used to.[2]  I think we are more than the sum of our decisions and certainly more than our best and worst moments, but as it turns out these things do tend to define us and they probably matter.

Once the date of my dissertation defense was decided, friends and family began asking me very reasonable questions such as, “What do you need to do to prepare for your defense?”  I had spent so much time and energy in the writing and editing process of the dissertation that I admit I hadn’t really thought much about what sort of preparation I could or should put into the defense itself.  I certainly read and re-read what I had written.  I went over the main points in my mind enough times that I hoped they would stick.  I typed and printed them out and then decided to go in without notes, because even though notes make me more comfortable, I know I tend to present myself better without them.  I ordered a new dress and two pairs of shoes (more on the dress later… the shoes were a disaster, so I went with my faithful silver glitter boots which are so old at this point I had to sew them back together at Christmas, but I figured they had one more day left in them).  By Monday afternoon, I had decided there was nothing left I could do about any of it, so I read the entire third part of Sunrise on the Reaping with Caleb.  This was probably the best use of my time.

I only attended one other defense at BU, six years ago.  At the time, I remember thinking that the process wasn’t that bad.  It was essentially an interview over a book you wrote.  This is still true.  My major concern was that I would forget everything I had written in the midst of this conversation.  Mostly, I did not.

We arrived very early (Boston traffic is no joke, and I was not taking any chances).  This early arrival allowed me some sweet moments with friends and colleagues who have walked alongside me during these years.  I am forever grateful to Nikki, without whom I suspect I may not have survived that first year French reading class (thank goodness Starbucks had the Thursday BOGO deal that semester, too) and KC, who actually stuck it out through the entire defense.  Something entirely unexpected was the celebration of the Eucharist in Muelder Chapel.  It has been long enough since I have regularly been on the campus of BU that I forgot about this happening weekly on Tuesdays, and it felt like an absolute gift to participate alongside Dr. Charlene Zuill (who was an incredible support to me in the fall of 2021 and also a wonderful part of my journey leading spiritual companioning groups).  In addition, although there are few things I love more than presiding over the Eucharist, it is a rare occurrence when a two-pastor family simply gets to participate without any official responsibilities.  Again, the only word for this is gift.

I am also thankful that during these early hours at BU I ran into Dr. Shelley Rambo who served as my dissertation defense committee chair.  I suspect Dr. Rambo has no idea how instrumental she has been for me in this program, from the very first semester when I begged her to let me into her already full Theology and Trauma class and she asked me to make a case for why she should.  If I knew then what I know now, I probably could have made a stronger case, but she mercifully let me in, and some of the principles from that class have carried me through these years and certainly made their way into my dissertation as well.  Still, with her very full schedule I didn’t really think she would agree to chair my defense committee.  As my advisor Dr. Karen Westerfield Tucker and I discussed committee members, the team began to take shape but still lacked a chair for what felt to me like quite some time (it may have just been the normal process, but I did have a moment when I wondered if anyone would agree).  At some point I just threw it out there one more time, “You don’t think we can get Dr. Rambo, do you?”  And then one day there was an email in my inbox announcing that Dr. Rambo had, indeed, agreed to be the chair.  I don’t think I realized how very much I needed that to be the case until I saw her on Tuesday morning.  It was during my short conversation with her that I had the first real moment of clarity in which I actually thought to myself, “I’m going to pass this defense.”  It’s not that I genuinely doubted it, and I felt very sure that Karen would not throw me into this without believing I would pass, but something clicked for me in that hallway outside 306 and I relaxed a little bit.

There are probably not enough words in the English language to express how important Dr. Westerfield Tucker has been to this entire process, start to finish.  I suppose most people feel this kind of gratitude for their advisors as people who mentor them through the academic process, but Karen has also been there for me and for my family in ways that are so far above and beyond what an advisor is required to do.  I don’t think too many people have an advisor who finds a pastoral assignment for their spouse so their family can afford to move to the Boston area or drops off farm fresh eggs and vegetables on their front porches.  Thankfully, I don’t suspect too many advisors have to walk their students through the worst day of their lives or help them to navigate teaching responsibilities just weeks later.  I don’t think I would have made it through this program with a different advisor.  Karen lovingly and gently extended grace upon grace and also pushed me just enough to keep me on track to finish strong.    

The rest of my defense committee was made up of Dr. Daryl Ireland, Dr. Brent Peterson, and Dr. Eunil David Cho. 

Even in our somewhat small and rather well-connected Nazarene world, I had not met Dr. Ireland before becoming a student at BU.  I have been incredibly thankful for him for a variety of reasons but two stand out in particular.  First, I think I simply needed another Nazarene walking alongside me, giving perspective, challenging me, and also backing me up when it came to Nazarene particularities and peculiarities.  He was beyond valuable as a second reader.  I am also thankful for what I originally thought was a somewhat quirky suggestion to make use of the Nazarene missionary books for narratives that might make a case for liturgical practices surrounding entire sanctification.  I am Nazarene through-and-through, and I am not above reading a good missionary book!  Heck, I even served as the missionary book lady at our local church in Georgia in the early 2000s.  But to use them in a dissertation?  I was unsure but also desperate enough to get the thing written that I agreed.  As it turns out, my hours and days pouring over those testimonies at the Nazarene Theological Seminary library ended up being incredibly important to this project but also inspired a glimmer of hope in me (and I cried a lot at the library). 

Having Dr. Peterson as a part of this committee was something of a full-circle moment for me.  When he asked me to define grace, I laughed.  I’m not sure you’re supposed to find your dissertation defense funny or ironic, but this took me back to my M.Div. and the many times in his class when I pressed him to define grace and was never quite satisfied with the answer.  It was, of course, an honor to have him present as someone who profoundly shaped my own interest in and care for liturgy and sacramental practices. 

If there was a wild card for me going into the defense, it was undoubtedly Dr. Cho, whom I had not met until he walked into the room.  He was also almost my undoing, because he opened his time of questioning by saying that my dissertation “read like a love letter to your church.”  I may never have the words to explain exactly why this affected me like it did, but I had a moment when I knew my eyes had become a floodgate with tears pressing hard to spill out and also filling my throat as I tried to swallow without releasing a single one.  It’s not that I am afraid to cry or ashamed to cry or embarrassed to cry.  If you know me, you know I cry.  But I also knew if these tears escaped, I was not going to be able to get myself back together.  Dr. Cho followed with a question that was long enough for me to compose myself, but today I am right back to thinking about the church I love, and I’m not doing quite as stellar a job of holding back the tears.

By the time I was dismissed along with family and friends to await the decision of the committee, I felt fairly sure that I would pass, but maybe with conditions/revisions.  The committee did not deliberate long, and when they called me back in, they were standing.  And who knew just hearing the words, “Dr. Michaels” could pack such a punch?  I am going to fix two typos in the footnotes, the case of the Roman Numerals in the Table of Contents, and add a few words to the abstract.  The committee also suggested a minor change to the title, which was fine, because I quite literally forgot what the title was anyway.  And that’s it. 

We snapped a few pictures at my request, and at Shelly’s insistence that we do it before everyone was in tears.  Here’s where the dress comes back in.  I hate the dress I ordered.  It is really unflattering, and I definitely was still holding back tears at this moment, and I am considering having Chat GPT roast this picture, but 1. I am a little terrified of how that would turn out, and 2. I don’t have a Chat GPT account.  There’s a world in which I don’t want to post this picture at all, but it’s what I have… 

The really good fashion news is that I quickly changed into what I think might be the coolest t-shirt ever, and my purple flower pants have never failed me yet…[3]

Ian, Miah, me, Caleb, and Phil

 

I sometimes wondered if this day would ever come.  But it did.  And in this moment that is joy.  Philippians 1:6.  

Dr. Michaels (that’s who I am now) 

---

[1] This is a note for myself, as much as anything, that I really need to write about the smell of the Dodge dealership someday, because sitting here today I am making connections to my childhood that have eluded me in the past… Ah, fiberglass…

[2] See Face of the Deep: A Theology of Becoming.  Also, as it turns out, the last time I wrote about this was at the end of my first year at BU, just after I had completed my district license interview after a 1,000 mile road trip with my two oldest children, and this realization is killing me just a little bit, this morning.

[3] As a note, BU lore has it that you should not step on the BU seal before completing your program.  I feel almost certain I walked right over it early on… I might even have a picture of myself standing on it on the first day of my teaching fellowship… it’s hard to say, because the pictures are close up selfies, but the background and angles make me think I may have desecrated the seal and released the BU curse early on…  At any rate, I danced on that thing yesterday afternoon… Karen, I am sorry you had to see that, but I’m glad you laughed…

8.29.24

At end of day today, I will no longer be employed by Eastern Nazarene College.  I am very sad (in case anyone wondered what an understated proclamation of grief looks like).  This is not the worst thing that has ever happened in my life.  In fact, it is not even the worst thing that has ever happened in my life during this week in history.  To be honest, the timing has been cruel, start to finish.  If you are familiar with my story at all, you likely know that my oldest son, Seth, died just three days after I started working at ENC.  The impact of this unspeakable loss separates my life into before and after eras, with the entire after era being my time at ENC.  The me who existed before Seth’s death no longer exists, but there has been something very healing about being on campus these past three years, because Seth was a student there the year before.  He is everywhere I look.  I miss him with every ounce of my being, every single day, but when I walk the sidewalks at ENC, when I sit in the parking lots or in the third row at Wollaston Church of the Nazarene (where I have a picture of him sitting during chapel), when I pass by the vending machine I know he frequented far too often or the door to his dorm, when faculty and staff who cared about him enough to have conversations with him share them with me; he has been a little bit closer.  Losing that physical proximity to him today feels unbearable.  I spent that first year in the shock that only grief can deliver.  I don’t remember much, but I do remember the grace and space that was afforded me to still be part of the community, even if I had so much less of myself to offer than they originally thought they were getting at ENC.

 

In year two, I stepped it up a little bit, and things really began to take off in the re-launching of the Fusion short-term service and mission program (after Covid shut down these kinds of trips for years) as well as increased responsibilities for worship and chapel planning.  Although it remained personally difficult for me to find joy, I began to come alive a little bit, and I can point to two distinct reasons for this.  The first is that my middle child, Caleb, enrolled at ENC, and I saw through him how this campus community was shaping and forming the lives of students.  Caleb, who began his ENC career as a sophomore with an undeclared major became passionate about advocating for others and did declare a Crime, Law, and Justice major with the intent of going to law school after graduation.  He also made good friends… and even a “best enemy” (IYKYK), and the ways in which I have seen him grow as a human being and a lover of Jesus and justice are worth every hour we have spent in the car together unpacking everything good and everything bad about all the days.  If you’ve been following along this summer, you probably know that Caleb had to transfer to Gordon College in order to complete his degree on time, because no path to degree completion was offered to him at ENC.  He had to swap his major and minor, and I think he’s picked up a second minor as well, because he has so few classes to complete.  Caleb is rarely angry, but this closure made him angry, and this is fully justifiable.  He’ll be OK.  As he is settling into his new space and new life at Gordon, we’ve shared some conversations about how this year will be what he makes it, and he will make it good.  I know this, because at the “meet the faculty” event for parents, his advisor noted that he had already had many interactions with Caleb that I didn’t even know about, and it was so obvious that his advisor was impressed.  I know this, because at orientation, Caleb’s friends were like, “L… we’ve all got each other… it’s good.”  I know this, because Caleb sent me a super cute first day of school pic in his cowboy boots.  He’ll be fine.  But good heavens, I am mourning the loss of sharing this part of his life with him as I have the past two years, and I really need next weekend to get here as quickly as possible, because I just miss him.

 

The second thing that helped me to come back to life were the robust relationships that were forged in the OSD.  I can’t tell you what the precise moment was, but I know I made a turn at some point during which it occurred to me that this was more than just a job and that I genuinely liked the people I was working with as actual friends.  It was not always easy.  Heck, let’s be real, it was not ever easy!  But it was worth it.  Engaging in transformative spiritual development isn’t flashy.  There are no benchmarks for success labeled, “eating another calzone around the table,” or, “practicing de-escalation skills when someone gets stuck on a literal mountain,” or, “throwing more glass and screaming in a smash room,” or, “loving on that chapel teams baby,” or, “making sure every student and every faculty member gets through customs,” or, intentionally “not sharing a testimony,” because you realize a few sentences in that you’re being trusted with someone’s life and it isn’t supposed to be marketable.  Those moments, and innumerable more, reminded me that our hearts beat in real time, live and in person, and spiritual formation that lasts is largely about being present (and being Jesus) to one another.

 

Of course, this last year was something different altogether with the addition of the Matthew 25 Initiative.  For me, there were admittedly a lot of special “full circle” moments, but it went far beyond those individual splashes of joy, because the work that has been done is so much bigger than one person or one campus or one denomination or one Commonwealth or one people group.  I think it can be easy to despair over the great and numerous losses we are currently experiencing (I know this is the case for me), but it is also important to remember that the work we have done has been good work which has made a lasting impact on the real lives of real people.  I have never been a fan of viewing people as numbers.  I know this has often been to my own detriment (See: someone actually asked, “What does she do?” and it wasn’t the first time, but I suppose they’ll figure that out tomorrow).  I could put together glossy reports and spreadsheets, but the truth is, I just don’t want to.  For me, the heart and soul of this initiative was caring for the needs of people.  It took me far too long to recognize that this was not the intent of everyone involved (although it was certainly the intent of many people who were involved). 

 

Although I am a realist who leans toward skepticism and cynicism in many areas of life, it seems I am still a hopeless optimist when it comes to the potential to love inherent in the people created Imago Dei.  I am forever hopeful that even those who have chosen to hurt others (and to hurt me) will eventually enter into a redemptive arc in their stories, being fully transformed and redeemed in the ways that only Jesus can work and move.  I have spent a lot of time this past year saying, “It didn’t have to be this way!”  And as I look at how things are coming together (and falling apart) even today, I am still confident that it does not have to be this way.  Grief will be ever-present in life, and we should embrace lament as it is intended, because it is surely part of being whole people.  Yet… life is far too short to dwell perpetually in sorrow alone.  Even now (although some paths are permanently closed) better, more loving, more redemptive, more confessional choices can be made.  In whatever time I have left here on earth, that’s what I choose. 

Philippians 1:3-11

I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.  It is right for me to feel this way about all of you, since I have you in my heart and, whether I am in chains or defending and confirming the gospel, all of you share in God’s grace with me. God can testify how I long for all of you with the affection of Christ Jesus. And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless for the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ—to the glory and praise of God.

On Oil Changes...

 

I had every intention of working on a chapter of my dissertation, this morning… at the Dodge dealership… while I had my oil changed…. If you know me, it probably makes sense.  The truth is, I need to work on my dissertation.  I need to be “Ph.inisheD.”  I probably shouldn’t admit this, but the thing has pretty much been writing itself in bits and pieces I have texted to my own phone number over the course of several months.  That’s just ridiculous, and it is not my obsessively organized with lists and plans and charts and slideshows way.  It’s kind of how I imagine my academic life might have been, had I been an average student.  But I’m not sure I’ve ever been an average anything.  I’m used to being pretty much all in or all out, so writing the defining piece of my educational career in soundbites is actually fairly anxiety inducing, but that’s where I am today.

 

As has been the case time and time again in recent days, sometimes I start out to write one thing and then just find myself overwhelmed with thoughts of Seth… and grief… and whatever I was planning to write is overrun by an internal dialogue that may or may not be transformed into a mosaic of unrelated thoughts on a page.  There was a time in my life when this would have turned into a great blog post or sermon or magazine article or chapter in a book.  Over the past fifteen months and fifteen days, though, it’s just been words.  Not even full sentences.  Grief is certainly not publishable.

 

This is the third time I have sat in the café at the Dodge dealership to have my oil changed, since Seth died.  The first time was hard, because I knew they were draining the very substance that kept my car running smoothly enough to drop him off.  I wish my car had died instead.  The second time I was angry, because it felt downright stupid that I hadn’t heard Seth’s voice in so many months that the oil had to be changed again.  Today it just feels unacceptable that this will happen over… and over… and over.  It’s too much time without him.  It’s just too much.

 

The very idea that time heals grief is a lie.  As we painfully limped across the one-year mark in September, a number of well-meaning people dared to ask things like, “Are you doing better?” I’m not, so mostly I just said, “No.” 

 

But there was something else I told a select few… people I love and trust… and I think today is as good a day as any to share it here.  If the question is, “Are you OK, now,” the answer to that is never going to change.  I am never really going to be OK again.  But if the question is, “Are you still on the floor, pounding your fists into the hardwood and screaming until your throat is filled with blood and you can no longer speak?” the answer is also, “No.”  I got up off the floor. I am not doing better, but I have developed coping mechanisms so I can keep living.  I suspect I’m good enough at it now that most people probably think I’m OK, and that’s a plus.  I’m functional.  For now, that has to be enough.

 

As you may know, last night was the first night of Hanukkah.  Traditionally, my favorite Hanukkah blessing is the third blessing, which is only sung on the first night, “Blessed are You, Lord our G-d, King of the universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this occasion.”  I could barely choke it out last year, because I was furious with God for not sustaining Seth’s life or enabling him to reach that occasion.  I’m still regularly asking God where he was when we needed him most, and I’m still angry.  God can take it.  But last night also hit differently, because as we sang and danced and ate jelly donuts and latkes with our Jewish neighbors, I could sing the blessing again, because I am thankful for those of us God has sustained.  And I know… I know it deep inside myself… that this attitude probably really isn’t enough, but I am nothing if not honest.

 

And so I’m thinking about another kind of oil today… the oil that burned for eight nights of Hanukkah and Elisha’s oil that filled every empty vessel in II Kings.  I’m thinking about how sometimes not enough becomes exactly what we need it to be, and I’m hoping it’s true.

 

L.        

 

Apology vs. Explanation

I feel the need to preface this, because confession/penance/forgiveness/apologies/reconciliation (need I go on) are ever-changing, fluid topics of research and conversation for me.  As I pause to write this very non-academic post, I am concurrently working on the prospectus for my dissertation, which will also delve into this topic, because it just will not let me go.  But I’m not coming at this from the perspective of an aspiring expert today.  No, I’m coming at it from the perspective of a fairly exhausted mama of tweens, teens, and young adults, the morning after the National Quiz, with a new puppy sleeping near my feet, even though he won’t let me sleep any longer, on this Saturday morning.  If you’re looking for some of my best theological writing, please (I reiterate, please) go look somewhere else.   

But also… as I began to put this piece together in my mind, it occurred to me that judgments could easily be made about my positions.  Things like, “This doesn’t sound like the Lisa I knew in 1987 or, “L, I don’t think that’s what you would have said in 2015,” or, “Mom, this doesn’t square with who you were last year.”  Well, thank goodness!  One of the beautiful things about being human is we have the ability to change and adapt and grow.  Here’s to hoping that change is for the better.

Something I have been thinking about a lot, lately (in the past week but also over the past several years) is the way we are so often “sorry.” 

I’m sorry I ate the last cookie.

I’m sorry I can’t come in to work today.

I’m sorry your feelings were hurt when you didn’t understand what I said.

I’m sorry you feel that way, at all.

I’m sorry I feel this way.

I’m sorry I stepped on your toe.

I’m sorry I yelled at you.

I’m sorry for what I said when I yelled at you.

I’m sorry I ever met you.

I’m sorry your mom died.

I’m sorry I can’t help.

I’m sorry I’m taking up so much space.

The list goes on… and on… and on… and it is already nuanced before we say another single word.  And yet, we often say the next word anyway, to clarify… to explain… to soften the blow… because we can’t shut up… for whatever reason.

I’m sorry I ate the last cookie, BUT you had more than me yesterday.

I’m sorry I can’t come in to work today, BUT I’m sick.

I’m sorry your feelings were hurt when you didn’t understand what I said, BUT it’s not my fault.

I’m sorry you feel that way, at all, BUT I’m not willing to help you process your thoughts.

I’m sorry I feel this way, BUT I can’t help it.

I’m sorry I stepped on your toe, BUT you were in my direct path.

I’m sorry I yelled at you, BUT you wouldn’t listen any other way.

I’m sorry for what I said when I yelled at you, BUT it was true.

I’m sorry I ever met you, BUT let’s just part ways now.

I’m sorry your mom died, BUT at least her suffering is over.

I’m sorry I can’t help, BUT it’s just a bad time right now.

I’m sorry I’m taking up so much space, BUT my ideas are really important.

As relational beings, we have this unsatiable desire to explain our behavior, and there are certainly times when an explanation is appropriate and certainly times when an explanation is more appropriate than an apology… especially if we are not actually sorry.  Not all the statements above are conducive to this kind of restructuring, but some are:

I ate the last cookie, because I thought it was fair, since you had more than me yesterday.

(I am not actually sorry I ate the last cookie, so this is a more honest admission of what happened.)

I am sick, so I will not be coming in to work today.

(If you love your job, this may be regrettable, but you are still probably not sorry.  Perhaps you are sad or frustrated.  Being sick and subsequently taking care of your health is not something for which to apologize.  #EndTheRatRace)

I stepped on your toe!  Are you OK?  Would you like me to get an ice pack for you?

(I acknowledge that I caused pain, even if it was an accident, and would like to make it right if I can.)

The things that do not require an explanation (or apology) often fall into one of two categories. 

Things I said, did, or felt that did not cause harm to others but for which I am being held accountable unfairly:

My feelings are legitimate.

My voice at the table matters.

 

Things I didn’t do (and in which I am in no way complicit): 

Enduring the death of a loved one is so hard.  Please let me know what I can do for you (or even better, I’m sending dinner over on Tuesday, or I’ll be there to do your dishes this weekend, or I’m here to listen).  As a caveat, I realize it is the norm in the English language, in the United States, to say “I’m sorry” when someone dies.  I certainly do this myself, all the time.  I think the word “sorry” in this case actually means something completely different, and it is appropriate.  It means, “I mourn with you,” but I recognize a lot of people would find it very odd if we actually said, “I mourn with you.”  You have to take the temperature of the room and do the best you can to find the most comforting words when dealing with grief, and that is a completely different conversation for another day, I suppose.

But what about the things for which we should actually be sorry?  I think this is the trickiest part of all, and I think the best thing to do is to keep it simple and focused on our own culpability and legitimate sorrow.  When we know precisely what we have done wrong, that looks like:

I’m sorry I hurt you when I did not communicate clearly. 

(puts responsibility on the person who did the hurting, not the one who was hurt)

I’m sorry for the hurtful words I said.

(also, I’m sorry for the hurtful thing I did… and if you know what that thing was, name it)

Sometimes, we don’t know exactly what we did:

I’m sorry for the ways in which I have hurt you.

(If you desire an ongoing relationship, you might also follow this with something like, “I would love to sit down on your terms in order to listen to your narrative and to find a better way to communicate/relate moving forward, if that is something you would like.”)

There is also something (maybe a lot of “somethings”) very important to be said about reconciliation, and it begins with acknowledging that sometimes it cannot happen (maybe you’re legitimately sorry for something that happened years ago but the other party is no longer alive or you cannot find them) or will not happen (the other party has moved on or is not willing to engage in the hard work of reconciliation either because they have been hurt too deeply or they have their own guilt/shame over being partly responsible and are not as sorry as you are) or should not happen (particularly if it could put either party in danger).  But I sincerely believe that if two (or more) parties are willing to reconcile, it can be done, and I also believe it is possible for this to happen over the whole spectrum of relationships, from one-on-one personal connections all the way down the line to tangible systemic change (which is another one of those subjects that deserves a post, conversation, book, or entire library of its own).

I also believe that all of this starts with honesty.  As I already mentioned, apologies (like pretty much all language) are nuanced the moment the words begin to form on our lips.  Be clear about yours.  Be real about whether you are issuing an apology or an explanation and be honest and specific about what you are sorry for.  There is a huge distinction between being sorry for what you have done, being sorry for the consequences (including the hurt of others), and being sorry you got caught.  These are three very different things, and it is OK… even ethical… to verbalize which kind of sorry you are. 

I recently saw a statement which (paraphrased) said something to the effect of, “unless there is a change in actions, there is no apology.”  I think this is partially true.  If you are sorry for something you have said or done, the natural progression of things would indicate that you would no longer do or say those things.  But there are times when we make choices that have hurtful consequences regardless of what we choose.  We may be legitimately sorry for the harm caused to others knowing full well that we would make the same decision again, given the opportunity for a do-over.  We can be honest about that.  I think we have to be honest about that.  There are other times when we can be part of making changes that create a more loving, equitable world, even if we were not directly culpable for the offense at the onset.  I don’t know if we can be sorry about the consequences of other people’s actions, but I do know we can work to find remedies in order to stop the perpetuation of those consequences!  Whew!  I know, I know, it’s hard enough to take responsibility for the stuff we’ve actually done, but as long as we’re thinking along these lines, we might as well go all the way!  And that third one… if you’re really just sorry you got caught… maybe you should stop being sorry.  Maybe you did exactly what you intended to do.  And maybe that’s even OK.  Undoubtedly, it’s better to own it than to fake it

L.       

Pushing Shopping Carts…

… and other ordinary things I’ve missed.

I woke up this morning strangely aware that we had entered into “ordinary days” three weeks ago, but things don’t feel ordinary just yet, and I’m not certain they ever will again, and maybe they shouldn't.[i]  But, there are some pre-pandemic things I am looking forward to reclaiming. 

Some of the things I have missed are so obvious.  As an example, I eagerly anticipate the day when we can celebrate the Eucharist by means of intinction again.  I suspect we’re still a long way from that day, but I can still hope for it.  I can’t wait to go to work again, although I have been privileged and blessed to have had no interruption to my job or paycheck for the duration of the pandemic.  I recently took an 830-mile trip and was able to hug my parents for the first time in 18 months.  I have missed travel… and people.  This feels like “the big stuff.”

But I am also discovering these little things I didn’t even know I missed…

This past week, I needed something from the store.  Full disclosure: I needed tick repellent for my new puppy.  And oh…  this puppy is a story all his own, but if I digress we might never get back to the point of this post.  As has become my norm, I looked for the best option to order what I needed, online.  When I quickly realized I couldn’t wait a week for delivery, I did the next best thing and looked for the fastest no contact pick-up option.  I could order and relieve my puppy of these beastly parasites in six hours instead of seven days.  Better.  And then it hit me…  I am fully vaccinated.  I could also just drive to the store, go inside, and make my purchase right away!

To this point, I had been inside a store exactly seven times in the past fifteen months.  Four of these were pharmacy related.  Once I had to use the bathroom and was too far from home to get there (and please understand that I had driven 30 minutes out of my way at other times to go home to use the bathroom).  Admittedly, the other two times I gave in to secure my free birthday socks at Kohl’s and to grab the one thing I could not order (3 packages of Kool-Aid, I kid you not, especially funny for a family that does not drink Kool-Aid) for a Christmas gift.  That’s it.  Seven times.  Go in… get the products… get out.  No carts.  No browsing.  A couple of panic attacks. 

But this time, I took a cart.

As someone who studies liturgy and ritual, it should not have surprised me that this small action packed such a punch.  The first cart I attempted to take was so stuck inside another cart that I couldn’t manage to free it.  I rolled my eyes.  The second cart came loose without effort.  I wrapped my (gloved) hands around the bar, pushed it through the door, smiled (through my mask) and waved at the greeter, and felt completely overwhelmed for just a minute about the normalcy of it all.   

Two emotions simultaneously erupted inside of me – relief and regret.

I immediately relaxed at the prospect of reclaiming some normalcy in life.  And look… I recognize that this doesn’t even seem that great to a lot of people.  When I finally became eligible for a Covid-19 vaccine in my state, I mentioned to someone that I was excited about being able to “get my life back,” and the response was that the vaccine wouldn’t allow anyone to get their lives back.  We would still have to mask and social distance.  But for a severe asthmatic who has been largely stuck inside her house or vehicle for over a year, pushing a shopping cart (mask or no mask), without worrying I might end up on a ventilator later, feels like getting my life back.

The competing regret kept me in check, though.  I can go to the store again.  Have I used this time at home wisely?  Will we all forget the slower pace and the days, weeks, and months clad in suit tops and sweatpants, which allowed us to attend to our kids and our pets between meetings?  Will we continue to look for ways to include people who cannot come to us for worship or classes or lunch? 

Things are going to change again.  They always do.  A good number of our regular rhythms and patterns that have been interrupted are going to become our reality again, and we are going to love it!  Yet it feels like a good day to consider to which of these things we actually want to return and from which of these things we might permanently part, for our own sakes but also for the sake of the people around us. 

We don’t have to go back to the way things were.  We probably shouldn’t! 

L.       

---

[i] I am well aware the ordinary days are more about being “ordered” than “usual,” but I love a good double-entendre…

Narrator: L was not, in fact, done, and she and God were not, in fact, through…

We’re closing in on three years since I sat in my vehicle, in my driveway in Indiana, and uttered these words to God, as I made the final decision to make the move to Boston:

“Fine God!  I will go do this thing, but if I lose my kids over this, I’m done, and we are through.”

2020 has been a dumpster fire of a year… maybe even a cesspool…

It is difficult for me to adequately express how devastating this year has been for me, primarily because even though it has been horrific, I know it has still been worse for others.  But I’m not a real fan of competing to determine whose pain is greatest, and I think it is vital to recognize grief and loss for what they are, regardless of quantifiable size.  So, if you’re reading this (and I guess you are), please understand that I fully recognize my own experience as nothing more or nothing less than merely that… my own… neither in direct nor indirect competition with your pain.

Confession: I was already over 2020 by late February.  Without divulging details, let it suffice to say that people who know and love me were already looking into my face, eight weeks into this mess, and saying things like, “I’m sorry.  I don’t know how you’re still standing.”  In another two weeks’ time, I would find myself staring through exhausted, blurred vision, waiting for my luggage to magically appear on an airport carousel, wondering if it had been incredibly stupid to pass through 8 cities via air, over 16 days, when reports of a deadly virus were emerging and growing by the hour.  Five days later, I threw in the towel on my youngest child’s indoor soccer season, even though some people thought I was being overly dramatic.  Two days after that, I stood in a pulpit, not knowing that it would be the last time for an undisclosed number of months, instructing people to distance themselves and to refrain from remembering their baptism… at least, with the water in the font.  I walked back into my house, I shut the door, and I proceeded to have zero contact with the outside world for the next 32 days.  On day 32, I had to make an emergency visit to the police station.  On day 55, a dear friend of mine sent me a package of handmade masks.  On day 68, I had enough guts to drive thru at Starbucks.  On day 70 I ventured out for an “elective” surgery that had fallen off the books, precisely because of the pandemic, but that my doctor was able to essentially sneak me in for, because the word elective is pretty widely used to describe things that are not really elective.  I stayed home again until day 107.  And it’s not that I got lazy after that, but it was a little easier to be creative during the summer months, and the curve was flattening here.  So… socially distanced trips to the beach… running, and running, and running… plenty of carry out and drive-thrus… orders to pick up outside the store… etc.  We also had to engage in some of the regular rhythms of life like yearly physicals and a trip to the ophthalmologist.  And then I stopped counting the days, because this became the new normal.

I’m a pretty big fan of New Year’s Eve, in a quiet, stay at home and eat appetizers and watch the ball drop with my family sort of way.  For years now, I have picked a word of the year, and I was so excited 366 days ago (remember, 2020 was a leap year, so we even got an extra day in this already unbearably long trip around the sun) when I chose “envision.”  Not only did this word represent what I hoped for in 2020, but I thought it rather clever, as well.  At this writing, 2020 is almost hindsight…  read that again, backwards…  and I feel as if “envision” was the most inappropriate word I could possibly have chosen.  “Survive” was more like it.  When I took this picture, I just didn’t know:

I didn’t know a lot of things, but I sure didn’t know this low quality, cell phone selfie type image was going to become one of my favorite moments of all time.  I didn’t know it was going to be a before/after marker.  I didn’t know I was going to revisit that ultimatum to God, this year, and I was going to have to make a decision about whether or not I meant it.  Was it a faith crisis?  An identity crisis?  I don’t know.  It didn’t feel like the deconstruction of my 20s or the reinvention of my 30s.  Instead, it was a more subtle question, posed largely to myself.  Am I going to do this thing called life with God or without God?  In the end, I decided with God is better.  Understated, I know.  It’s just that so much of this year has been melodramatic.  Maybe we all just need something steady.

Because I remain a hopeless random selfie taker (one year I even made a resolution to take less selfies, but it didn’t go well), in my quick photo flip through the year, I came across one from early September that I like a great deal (there are also countless terrible selfies that should just be deleted and a large number of sad ones).  I hope to greet the new year with the tenacity of this arbitrary shot, with the fire in my eyes and the fire in my bones it represents.  My word for 2021 is “RELENTLESS.”  Because somebody poked the bear, and I am in this to win it.

 

 

In no way do I wish to detract from the need for mourning over the loss, grief, and pain of 2020, but neither do I wish to rehash it all in a public forum.  Heaven knows I have sat with it in silence and solitude, and that is crushing enough.  I recognize that turning the page to a new calendar year is not a magical act, and I suspect that 2021 will carry with it both joy and sorrow, as most years do.  As is, perhaps, the greatest example of this, a dear friend of mine gave birth during this pandemic.  Over the course of our many texts, this year, I have sometimes exclaimed, “2020 sucked… except Joseph…”  Her response is always, “2020 mostly sucked.”  And then I laugh.  But this makes the point… there have been highlights…

And so, a highlight reel…

In 2020, I reached the halfway point of my Ph.D. program at Boston University.  I bought a vehicle.  His name is Fred.  I love him.  I ran several virtual 5Ks, including The Wizard Run (with Seth, Grace (via FaceTime), and Caleb) and the Donut Run (with Ian), as well as a 10K that only almost killed me.  I co-taught a preaching class in BU’s D.Min. program and a worship class in BU’s M.Div. program and facilitated a spiritual companioning group for mostly 1^st year M.Div. students.  I enjoyed weekly trips to ENC and the ocean to visit Seth, who absolutely slayed his first semester there, and to write.  Many donuts, pizzas, coffees, and grocery runs were involved.  I celebrated my oldest three children beginning to make their way into the workforce (Seth at Amazon; Grace at Kroger, along with a variety of music related positions at Olivet and the most recent announcement of her commissioning to write an entire musical; Caleb at Dunkin’ Donuts).  I had the privilege of participating in the mostly virtual, but occasionally in-person, worship gatherings of South Walpole UMC, where Phil has navigated pastoring in a pandemic in incredible ways, and where Caleb, Ian, and Miah have served weekly as tech support, ushers, and acolytes.  I had a chapter published in the book, Open and Relational Leadership: Leading with Love, and have been asked to write again for an upcoming project.  I was asked to serve on the NRSVue review team.  I took on responsibilities as a co-chair for Wesleyan Liturgical Society and as the chair for Theology and Education with Wesleyan Theological Society.  Flip Flops, Glitter, and Theology quietly flipped over 100,000 pageviews at some point.  I have had ample time to read fiction with Caleb, Ian, and Miah.  I have coached Caleb, Ian, and Miah, along with their teammates, at a number of virtual Bible Quizzing tournaments, where we have represented South Pole (locally) and the New England District, as we continue to be blessed to be a part of the ENC Field.  I have met with friends and colleagues (masked and socially distanced) in parking lots and at parks to celebrate new babies and completing semesters. I helped my parents to set up Zoom on their Kindle (this might be the biggest accomplishment yet).  I am still here.

It's a different kind of mining of joyful moments than ever before, to be sure, but if we dig deep, we can still find them.

My prayer for all of you is that the joy will outweigh the sorrow in 2021, but that even if it doesn’t, that there will be people to sit with you and to hold you and to love you well, because we still belong to each other.

With Much Love and Many Blessings,

L.

P.S.  If you haven’t already seen it, here is our belated Christmas greeting:

Mary, Did You Know?

Full disclosure: I have a higher opinion of Mary than most Protestants.  And so, it is with a bit of trepidation that I entered into this piece.  I have things to say, but first, let’s let Mary’s words speak (or sing) to us:  

Luke 1:46-55, New Revised Standard Version: Mary’s Song of Praise

“⁴⁶ And Mary said,

‘My soul magnifies the Lord,
⁴⁷     and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
⁴⁸ for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.
    Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
⁴⁹ for the Mighty One has done great things for me,
    and holy is his name.
⁵⁰ His mercy is for those who fear him
    from generation to generation.
⁵¹ He has shown strength with his arm;
    he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
⁵² He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
    and lifted up the lowly;
⁵³ he has filled the hungry with good things,
    and sent the rich away empty.
⁵⁴ He has helped his servant Israel,
    in remembrance of his mercy,
⁵⁵ according to the promise he made to our ancestors,
    to Abraham and to his descendants forever.’”

This Advent season, I have noticed an extraordinarily high number of complains rising against the classic (sort of) Christmas song, “Mary, Did You Know,” penned by Mark Lowry (lyrics) and Buddy Green (music) and originally released by Michael English on his self-titled album in 1991.  I don’t know if almost 30 years is enough to make something a classic, but I digress.  The question seems to be, did Mark and Michael mansplain Mary, and, if so, what should we do about it?  After taking a careful look at the lyrics (which I probably could have quoted, but I wanted to cover all the bases), I decided it’s about a 50/50 wash.  Yeah, Mary knew some of that stuff, and she didn’t know some of it, and maybe the question was rhetorical.  At any rate, I don’t think the song was intentionally degrading, and I’m probably going to go ahead and keep it in the rotation (but maybe the Pentatonix version).  I’m thankful for the controversy, though, because it caused me to think deeply about Mary… her knowledge… her faith… and her heart.  And that’s really what this post is about.

I love the Magnificat.  I love to read it.  I love to preach it.  Honestly, I just love that it exists.  I love young, faith-filled, faithful Mary, who consents to carry the incarnate, embodied child of God in her uterus.  So, when the songwriter asks, Mary, did you know “when you kiss your little baby, you kiss the face of God,” I think the answer is abundantly clear…  yes, yes, and yes.  

But if we were to ask, Mary, did you know this kid was going to disappear in the temple at age 12, I think the answer shifts.  Y’all cannot tell me that she foreknew Jesus would be briefly misplaced, and, frankly, I’m not going to buy it if you suggest she wasn’t panicked and maybe a little bit pissed.  If you have ever lost a child on a trip, you know full well how the reunion goes.  You are a blubbering mess, tears streaming down your face, because you are certain your kid has been abducted and you will never see him again, and you are certain you are the worst parent who has ever lived.  But then when you do see that little face, all the relief and emotions come out in a tight hug and a lecture about how he had better never, not ever, disappear from at least your peripheral vision, really… ever… again!  And it doesn’t actually end when your children become adults.  It’s the reason for the requested text at the end of the night.  Please… please just push a few buttons, so I know you’re alive and I can get some sleep.  Because the panic of not being able to physically see them doesn’t fade. 

When the songwriter asks, “Mary did you know that your baby boy would save our sons and daughters,” I think the answer, with the understanding that Mary certainly knew the Messiah was kicking her just beneath the ribs, is abundantly clear… yes, yes, and yes.

But if we were to ask, Mary, did you know the savior of the world was going to have an attitude… at age thirty… when you asked him to replace some water with some wine, I think she might have balked.  Seriously?  For real?  What do you do with this kid, who’s like, “Mom… that’s really not what I’m supposed to be doing right now… at least not quite yet.”  I like that Jesus relents.  I like that his first miracle takes place, not because he planned it that way, but because his Mama asked him to do something, and even though he didn’t really feel like it, he acquiesced.  It’s one for the books!  Mary, did you know about the miraculous healings and all the ways in which they would take place?  Maybe not… but she sure knew she taught that kid to set the table.  And then he did…  over, and over, and over again… 

It gets a little trickier after that, because like many of the Jewish people awaiting Messiah, Mary most certainly did not know what it meant for her child to be the lamb. 

Recently, I’ve re-read and re-watched some movies and stories and found myself in different characters than usual, so perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised when Matthew 12:46-50 hit me a little different the other day:

“⁴⁶ While Jesus was still talking to the crowd, his mother and brothers stood outside, wanting to speak to him. ⁴⁷ Someone told him, ‘Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to speak to you.’ ⁴⁸ He replied to him, ‘Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?’ ⁴⁹ Pointing to his disciples, he said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers. ⁵⁰ For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.’”

It's usually one of those “Yay Jesus” moments or one of those “Yay disciples” moments, but as I read this, most recently, it cut deep as I thought about Mary.  Who is my mother?  Whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my… mother?  Incredulous.  For, who might that be more than Mary, herself?  Point taken, family is indeed more than just flesh and blood (maybe Jesus even represents this very best), but I cannot get around this paragraph.  I’d like to say I cannot even imagine how Mary felt when those words stung like barbs.  As she stood outside waiting for an audience of her firstborn child and being met with his silence, I have to wonder if her hand brushed over the stretch marks… if she shifted uncomfortably, because she never took off those last ten pounds and nobody remembered what she looked like before they were a permanent part of her… if she thought back to the ridicule of those early days, when she’d just begun to show and her explanation was unbelievable (literally)…  if she peed herself a little bit, or if she just cried.  Mothers tend to have a lot of bodily fluids that just flow whether they want them to or not.  I am dissatisfied that Jesus does not answer her call here, but it’s not the end of the story…

I wonder if Mary thought back to this moment when she was standing at the cross and Jesus publicly recognized her as his mother and provided for her by exclaiming that his dearest friend, the disciple whom he loved, was now her son.  I think the temptation here is to jump ahead too quickly, proclaiming closure, proclaiming repaired relationship.  Maybe it reaches back to Jesus’ words about making things right at the altar before you offer your gift.  I don’t really know.  What I do know is that there is no way any of that even mattered to Mary in that moment.  I know she would have traded places with Jesus in less than half a heartbeat, given the opportunity.  Given the chance, she would deliver him again… and again… and again, even if she knew “this child that you delivered [would] soon deliver you.”  I know this, because I am definitely not nearly as fabulous a mother or follower of God as Mary was, and I would spill my own blood over and over again, an unimaginable number of times, before ever accepting the abuse of any of my children as a simple fact I was wise enough to know and acknowledge.  And so, I have to push back on the idea that Mary knew… at least like that.  I don’t think she knew.  And it’s OK to admit that knowing isn’t the end-all solution to everything. 

There’s actually a whole lot of grace in recognizing that most of what we do, we do with limited knowledge.  At our best, we do what we think is right, given minimal details and perspective.  At our very best, we wake up and do it again, adjusting for all the things we got wrong.  And then again.  And then again.

Mary, did you know that being a mother was going to break you in every single way?  Spoiler:  Again, I’m going with no.  Mary, if you knew, would you still say yes?  I can’t actually answer for Mary, but I think so, because I would.

L.