Out of the ashes. . . .

When the Lord God made the earth and the heavens— 

and no shrub of the field had yet appeared on the earth and no plant of the field had yet sprung up, for the Lord God had not sent rain on the earth and there was no man to work the ground, but streams came up from the earth and watered the whole surface of the ground— 

the Lord God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, 

and the man became a living being.

--Genesis 2:4b-7

I admit it. This past week I have become a bit preoccupied with the news coming out of my former home, Colorado. The forest fires, always a problem-- but this year, earlier and more powerful than ever.

The media is flooded with images of the devastation: people chased from their homes, firefighters wiping sweat from their exhausted brows as they battle the flames in 100-degree-plus temperatures. Neighbors working together to decide what is of deepest value, weeping as they grab what they can-- and go.

At times, the fire seemed to have a mind of its own, hop-skipping across a river like so many pebbles across a pond, starting a fresh blaze or launching balls of fire into the air and across town, landing on the roofs of houses still  deemed to be "safe." 

Horrible devastation. Hundreds of thousands of acres of charred earth, entire forests burned like so much tinder.

But then last night, the pictures started taking on a different look to these eyes. 

As I talked with friends this morning about these verses, I realized that this description of pre-Creation is also a vision of re-creation. In the face of drought-stricken lands, still new life will prevail. When the forests have been burned to the ground, when the earth has been blackened and scorched-- slowly, from this fertile ground will arise signs of new life. Tiny green shoots, unable to find sunlight under the heavy forest canopy, will now begin the process, as old as time, of restoration.

Like the legendary phoenix, it seems, the next generations of flora-- and fauna, as well-- are preparing to rise from the fire that sought to end all life, emerging in a beautiful, new form.

It works in our personal lives, as well. 

Ours is a God of life, of "do-overs," in many ways. 

This God who loves us so much, that even in the face of death, there is a door creaking open, a sliver of light shining through, offering hope and promise. All we have to do-- is claim it.

Even when it feels as if life is over, when we have been used and abused, humiliated and devastated by circumstances we may or may not have been able to change-- still there is the hope and promise of a new day.

One more breath. One more sunrise. 

And the indomitable spirit of Adamah, the first human created from dust, from a handful of earth watered not by rains, but by springs of living water that come from within the earth, unseen until called upon-- this Spirit will prevail. 

As in the beginning, God is already restoring what has been destroyed. The Spirit of life, the ruah fills and revives the landscape of our souls.

Praise God, from whom all blessings and all life flow and continue to flow. Amen.

Even me? (Especially me.)

The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’ 

--Matthew 25:40

I have been sitting a lot lately with this whole sheep-and-goats parable. It started as questions seeking answers: Can one preach sheep without preaching goats? (No. I think not.) If you are telling this passage, are the sheep on your right or on the congregation's right? (The passage says the sheep are on the King's right.) And how can you tell this without leaving half the congregation feeling like goats-- and scarred (or scared)? (Still working on this.)

Then I started thinking differently about it, as I found myself talking with people about the Second Commandment. The one about loving yourself.

Too often, people say things like, "I really struggle with loving myself. I am not that lovable." Or, "If I spend money on something for me, to make myself feel loved-- well, maybe I should have spent it on food for the poor instead. They need food more than I needed a new (fill in the blank here)."

Sorry, friends. This is foolishness, this kind of thinking. And it is also unscriptural.

If you believe (as I do) that Jesus promised and sent the Holy Spirit to dwell within us, is this not a little bit of God? So if you find it difficult to love yourself-- are you not telling God that he is hard to love? Or that human flesh somehow makes God unlovable? (Tell that one to the One who put on flesh, just so we might find him more easy to understand and to love.)

* * * * *

In John 17, as Jesus' final hour is approaching, he spends a great deal of time in prayer. And where does he begin? By asking God to be sure the disciples are well-fed and safe? Nope.

He begins by praying for himself.

Check it out here:John 17 Jesus prays in much the same way he instructs the disciples to spread the Good News, in Acts 1:8. He begins closest to home, with himself, them prays for those in his "inner circle," then for all believers. 

Pebble in a pond. Ripple effect. Love is like that.

* * * * *

Ever taken a trip in an airplane? Remember how, before takeoff, the flight attendants go through the safety procedures? What do they tell you about using the oxygen masks?

Be sure your own mask is in place before helping another with their mask.

In other words, self-care, self-love are necessary before we can effectively serve others.

* * * * *

I think some believe humility requires them to say things like, "Oh, I just feel so wrong loving myself. I need to love everyone else more than myself!"

False.

We are all God's beloved creation. We are all worthy of receiving love. 

And in the case of the sheep and the goats, I tell you the truth.

Whatever you do for one of the least of these-- or fail to do-- you do (or fail to do) for the Lord.

Failing to love oneself is treating one of the least of these, you, as if you do not matter. 

Because you, my friend, are a worthwhile child of God. And you deserve all God's perfect goodness. 

Now go ahead. Love yourself. 

And if that involves dark chocolate-- love me, too, please!

Coming to my senses

God looked over everything he had made; 
      it was so good, so very good! 
   It was evening, it was morning— 
   Day Six.

Heaven and Earth were finished, down to the last detail.

--Genesis 1:31-2:1, The Message

(Summer reruns. I know. Keep reading.)

Yesterday we got some much-needed rain. It came down all at once, in buckets at times, it seemed. I came home to find open windows, damp floors-- and I didn't even care, we needed the rain so badly.

So this morning, I got myself out of bed early and took a long walk, over four miles. And as I walked, I saw how grateful Creation was for the watering.

The birds! In the tree behind my house, my favorite papa cardinal greeted me. "Purty purty purty!" Walking shorts, uncurled hair-- and still he sees the beauty in me. 

I had to laugh.

And as I laughed, I heard another bird, I don't know what kind, off across the street, laughing in return. First time, to my knowledge, I have been ridiculed by a bird.

I have a habit when I walk of often kicking sticks or stones out of the way as I walk. I nearly kicked a stick into the street-- but it began to crawl away before I did. 

It was a slug. A big old, slimy slug, bigger than my thumb. 

And that, of course, made me think of my husband, who had his "slug pants" that he wore in the garden. He would pick the slugs off the plants and smoosh them on the jeans. Most of the bigger ones, he would just salt-- or buy 'em a beer. 

But oh, those jeans. I refused to wash them. Eew.

But I digress.

My street has linden trees all along the treelawns, tall and round and covered with sweet-smelling blooms. But the rain had beaten many of the blossoms off, leaving the sidewalks covered, the fragrance almost overpowering as I walked. And the trees, as if offended I would think they smelled too sweet, shook their branches in the morning breeze and gave me a good drenching.

And as I returned home, I noticed my brand-new, brilliant red petunias were recovering nicely. They had taken a beating, too, looked downright dejected when I left. But an hour basking in the early morning sun and their leaves had revived, their red blooms perking up again.

And it was so good. All of it, the sights, sounds, smells of a world dancing in the rain. 

Open your eyes and see. Let your ears hear. Breathe deeply.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-DmlG6uNXpQ

Gracious loving God, you have given us so much! Help us to see your hand, your loving touch all around us-- even in the rains and storms of life. Amen.

God's Country

God looked over everything he had made; 

      it was so good, so very good! 

   It was evening, it was morning— 

   Day Six.

    Heaven and Earth were finished, down to the last detail.

--Genesis 1:31-2:1 (The Message)

I just got back from a bit of family time in Colorado, where I grew up. This is beautiful country, no denying it. 

This time, we flew in. The aerial perspective, as we crossed Kansas (FLAT) and the Rocky Mountains first rose into view-- wow! It is nothing short of spectacular. And on previous visits, when we have driven from Ohio . . . across Indiana . . . Missouri . . . Kansas (FLAT) . . . and then into eastern Colorado which, at first glance, admittedly looks a lot like Kansas (FLAT!)-- well, I have come to appreciate Zebulon Pike's excitement when he first spotted the tip of the mountain that later came to bear his name-- and the spot from which he saw Pike's Peak came to be known as Firstview. 

Good, glorious stuff all. And folks in Colorado have come to proclaim this state to be "God's Country."

But I have been thinking about things again.

First of all, what makes Colorado more God's country than any other place? Here and around the globe, every place is special, every location has beauty if we open our eyes to see it. (But that's just one place my mind wandered, and for that I credit Barbara Brown Taylor's beautiful book, An Altar in the World. If you have not read Barbara Brown Taylor, you should. She is who I want to be when/ if I grow up. Click here for a book preview:Altar in the World)

While we were in Colorado, a massive forest fire was ablaze. As of today, it had consumed over 46,000 acres of land in God's country. Forty-six thousand acres of forest, home to so many of God's creatures. And on top of that, many families' homes are in danger. The destruction is enormous-- and as of last night, only about 10% of the fire had been contained.

Now, this one may turn out to be a naturally-caused forest fire, product of a lightning strike. But not all of them are.

And yesterday I was listening to a story on public radio about the now-closed-but-soon-to-be-reopened-as-a-wilderness-area Rocky Mountain Arsenal. In the 70s, this place manufactured plutonium pits for nuclear weapons. It was closed and originally declared unsafe, with cleanup projected at taking seventy years and many billions of dollars. (To read or hear what I am talking about, click here: Rocky Flats story) Now-- the place has, in theory, been cleaned up (in seven years) and is set to be made available to the public for recreation. 

Seriously. Is this how we treat "God's country"? And God's creatures and Creation?

Are we so inured to the way we behave, the ways we treat one another that we no longer worry about plutonium in lake waters, or the plight of creatures not human? (Oh, wait-- "we" are often careless and callous in our treatment of creatures human, as well, aren't we.)

I am not picking on Colorado. It's everywhere. We pave mile after mile of landscape for our own selfish uses, we hoard food and resources while others do without. We declare one group "in" and another "out." 

And I have to believe, all the while God is simply shaking his head wondering what we thought God really meant by "dominion." Not domination over all Creation. Dominion.

So today, the car stays in the garage unless I am going someplace too far to walk (over three miles).

Today, I am eating lower on the "food chain," and eating to stave off hunger, not to stuff myself full.

Today, I am washing in cold water, not hot.

And today, I am stopping to reflect on the beauty of God's presence in this place, in each face, and to say a prayer of thanksgiving-- and confession.

Gracious Lord, your goodness is overwhelming, your presence seems to surround us in this space! Open our eyes to see your fingerprints, and sharpen our conscience to awareness of the little things (and big things) we do each day that work against the goodness you have created in this space. Forgive us-- even as, many times, we know exactly what we are doing. Amen.

Just my size.

Saul dressed David in his own tunic. He put a coat of armor on him and a bronze helmet on his head. David fastened on his sword over the tunic and tried walking around, because he was not used to them.

“I cannot go in these,” he said to Saul, “because I am not used to them.” 

So he took them off. Then he took his staff in his hand, chose five smooth stones from the stream, put them in the pouch of his shepherd’s bag and, with his sling in his hand, approached the Philistine. --1 Samuel 17:38-40

I have a new job! After not having had to apply for a job for over twenty years, to have had such success and so little relative pain is blessing, indeed. This is just one more place in my life where the God-fingerprints are all over it. And I am so grateful-- and just a weeeee tiny bit nervous.

I am following a much-beloved man in this position of Coordinator of Pastoral Care. I am new to this place, new to this position-- but God truly does equip the called. And over time, I am sure, I will come to recognize my equipment.

This morning, as word got around, people congratulated me, told me I would be a great addition, etc. And then this:

"You sure have some big shoes to fill!"

Yep. I sure do. But today I am not worried, because yesterday a dear friend shared an invaluable story that I did not know I would be telling-- and retelling-- today.

He talked about coming to a new church as pastor, and on one of the first Sundays, for the Children's Sermon, bringing in a big cardboard box filled with his shoes. Tennis shoes, flip flops, winter galoshes-- everything that would fit, all his and his alone.

One by one, he would take the shoes out of the box, reflect with the kids on what kind of a shoe it was, and what he might do while wearing it.

And when he got to the bottom of the box and there were no more shoes left, he would look at the children (knowing the adults were listening, as well), and say:

"Well-- I have looked all through this box of shoes, and I don't see a single shoe that belongs to Pastor Jones [the previous pastor]. So I think I will just wear my own shoes, instead of trying to fill his."

And when it came time to move along, the shoes came out again, and he would again remind "the children" that the next pastor would be bringing his own shoes and did not need to fill anyone else's.

* * * * *

My shoes are comfy. I am used to wearing them: the Lands' End mocs, the sandals and the walking shoes. And they are perfectly formed to these feet, these former dancer's feet that will never win a beauty contest-- But 

How beautiful on the mountains

 are the feet of those who bring good news,

who proclaim peace,

who bring good tidings,

who proclaim salvation,

who say to Zion, 

"Your God reigns!"

--Isaiah 52:7

My shoes are fitted for my journey. And so are yours. 

Holy, loving God, thank you for making each of us-- perfectly fitted for what you would have us do. There is much to do. Thank you for sending pilgrims along the way to journey with us. Amen. 

Always Remember

Remember the days of old; consider the generations long past. Ask your father and he will tell you, your elders, and they will explain to you. 

--Deuteronomy 32:7

(This is an admittedly selfish post, on this Memorial Day weekend, dedicated to the memory of my sweetie. May we always remember him in our hearts.)

In the States, this weekend marks Memorial Day, the time when we stop and remember, particularly those who gave their lives in service to the country, in the Armed Forces. It is a time to fly the flag, and it is a time for family to gather (usually for food, preferably cooked outdoors on a grill). We are proud of these friends and family who fought for our freedom, and we are grateful.

My father, John McKeever, fought in World War II, in the European theatre. He taught me a lot, in quiet remembrance conversations with my husband, about the ugliness of war and the compassionate witness of warriors. He made it home safely, and went on to raise five pretty amazing kids, if I do say so myself.

One of those kids is my brother Jim. He also served in the Army, but in Iraq during Operation Desert Storm. He, too, came home with sobering stories-- but of a different ilk.

Thank you, one and all, for your service and your sacrifice.

But for me and my family, Memorial Day now carries a different memory. 

On Memorial Day 2010, we bid my husband farewell. A heart so filled with love for his family and his Lord couldn't handle the load and gave out. At age fifty-two, Memorial Day went from an ages-old concept of remembering lives lost-- to a new reality of celebrating a life well-lived.

We will always remember his laugh, deep and resonating-- and genuine. He sang the same way, his baritone voice sinking into deep bass whenever he caught a cold. His was an amazing set of pipes-- and he knew how to use 'em.

My children will remember the "potato-masher," his goofy way of playing with them as he lay on the floor on his back. He kept it up until they were, seriously, bigger than was probably safe-- but they all loved it.

I will always remember-- always-- the joy on his face when he became a grandpa for the first time. Oh, how he loved that child-- and how he would have loved the ones who have followed!

But we would dishonor his memory if we stayed stuck there, in the past. So we lean on one another, love on one another, and little by little, remarkably, life has gone on. 

The garden has come back every spring, and I have not managed to kill it (yet). more weeds removed this weekend. Another battle won (for now).

The cats have decided it's safe to sleep on his side of the bed, although at some level they probably miss him grabbing them and pretend-chewing on their ears. Maybe.

And the sun comes up every morning, offers us the promise of another day. Whether we want one or not, there it is. 

Every day, a chance to remember. Every day, a chance to make new memories. 

This man, my husband, who loved Beethoven and sang along when there were no vocal parts, also loved this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x8GwjFEnhqc

Yup. Now there's a memory. Don't let go!

Gracious Lord, thank you for soothing the pain, for holding us close even when we kick and scream and struggle to get free. Thank you for not letting us go. Amen.

Richard Bruce Denman (and Garrett)

April 17, 1958 - May 31, 2010

Tango?

David, wearing a linen ephod, danced before the Lord with all his might, while he and the entire house of Israel brought up the ark of the Lord with shouts and the sound of trumpets. --2Samuel 6:14-15

Hi, my name is heidi, and I am a big fan of Dancing with the Stars.

I admit it: Monday night rolls around, and there I am, this woman who watches very little television at all, parked in front of the television, cross stitch in hand, ready to watch, to laugh, to boo Len-- the whole nine yards.

And then last week someone sent me this:

I mean, you would think it was like they knew me or something. Sheesh!

So, of course, I had to start thinking about life . . . and dancing . . . and me.

Lots of choices, really, of which dance to dance.

Some days are Viennese waltzes, smooth and flowing, head held high, neck elegant. The gentle yet firm hand of the Almighty steering me where he would have me go, our movements in perfect unison.

Yeah, some days. I love a waltz-- but those days are not as often as they should be.

Some days-- more like a tango. Focused, deliberate-- hand-in-hand with the One who would show me where to go and not just guide me, but lead me firmly and fearlessly. And we look so-- serious! 

There are other days, of course, rumbas and foxtrots-- and you can probably add to the list. Maybe even an occasional chicken dance or hokey pokey.

But here is what all these dances have in common:

God leads. Every dance, no matter how simple or complex, all I need to do is follow the lead of the Lord of the Dance.

And even more fun? In all my genuine years of "real" dancing, what the woman quickly discovers is that her partner is there largely to make her look good. Oh, sure, he has his solo moments. But when they are partnering? All about the girl.

God does this one so well. You can just feel the love in that gaze, the deep affection in that touch. God just loves when we come to the dance. And God makes us look soooo good when we let God lead.

How can we not be filled with joy? Because even when we misstep-- and we do misstep-- when it comes time for the scores, when we stand before the judge-- it turns out we have been dancing with the Judge all along. But instead of pointing up each foot fault, each raised shoulder or teensy rhythm error, God sees how well we have followed, how committed to the dance-- and scores his followers with a single word:

Perfect. Perfected in love and grace by the one who is, himself, perfect.

How. About. That.


Thank you, Lord God, for giving us a reason to dance through life, with joy in our hearts and peace in our soles-- er, souls. Amen.