A First Day Prayer for Teachers (originally posted on 8/9/22)

 Bless the teachers, O Lord.

As they head to bed on this last night of summer help them to sleep through the night with no nightmares of missing school supplies, 45 children in a classroom and no furniture. Let them dream of shiny apples, clean whiteboards and children with new clothes.

Allow them to see through to completion these three things on the first day of school.

•  Get every child fed. 
• Get every child on the right bus. 
• Get every child excited to come back the next day.

We pray to the Lord:

     for the brand new teacher to be aware of just how cool her job is, that she eats breakfast even with butterflies in her stomach, that a mature teacher will put an arm around her and tell her she's doing fine.

    For the veteran teacher to know that each first day is endless with possibilities and that there is time to start anew, that they remind the newbies that the teacher' smile and greeting at the door are more important than a Pinterest worthy bulletin board.

    For the near retirement teachers to be as excited for this last year as they were their first, that they enter this year with listening ears and an open heart, determined to make this year their best.

We pray to the Lord

For our teachers' safety. Keep intruders at bay. Give parents sweet word to share and fair, honest questions to ask.. Let the administrators see their hearts much clearer than their plan books.

We pray to the Lord

for all teachers to realize their importance in their classrooms, schools and communities. They alone are entrusted with our world's most valuable and precious resources. 

Hold the teachers, Holy One.

May they learn, teach, listen, and talk, 

May they show tolerance and patience and grittiness and softness and a sense of humor.. 

May their expectations be high but their safety nets sure. 

May their classrooms be full of laughter and grace and love. 

May their desks be joyfully cluttered and their flower vases always full of dandelions and clover.

Let it be, O Lord. Let it be.

A New Season of Walking (originally written on 8/15/22)

 In the fall of 2005 my grandpa died at the age of 90; my grandmother, at 87, followed suit a few months later. As lifelong farmers, they had lived their lives divided into seasons. Spring was for plowing and planting. Summer was for blackberries and cutting hay. Fall was harvest time while winter was for enjoying the hams hung in the smokehouse and canned goods stored under the bed. 

My grandparents' death brought me into a new season of my own.

 The ends of their lives caused me to consider my own. If I was lucky and able to live with the same good health and longevity as they, my journey was half way complete. 

My oldest was a freshman in college and my twins were juniors in high school. In other words, what I had considered unending tasks of daily mothering was in reality coming to an end. The wind was shifting in my life and without fully understanding, my becoming was at hand.

 What exactly would I do with what was left of my "one wild and precious life?"

As I leaned into trying to make this decision, I (very seriously) decided to devote much time in prayer. I would figure out what God wanted for me. My quiet time of looking inward lasted for about 23 seconds and I gave up on having the gift of discernment. Instead of praying, I began to walk.

I walked alone early in the morning and again in the evening. When the weather was rainy or cold or hot, I walked.

 For a year and a half, I walked, and slowly,  I walked back to the woman God had created me to be. 

 A woman with simple tastes and needs. A woman who would love and delight in her children no matter what road they chose. A woman who would return to her parents to celebrate and mourn all that life brought. A woman who saw her teaching as a calling itself and not just a stepping stone to something more. A woman who didn't want the big house or big debt that went with it.

I walked away from my marriage.

I wish that the next season had been one of light and love, but the changing of seasons is often stormy and disconcerting. A divorce is never easy. The process is messy and heartbreaking and the recovery can be a long time coming. 

As I began to navigate this new season, I found the perfect walking companion in a rescue pup I named Grace. 

(Side note: Before separating, my then-husband and I tried marriage counseling. The therapist asked me what I would need to stay. I quickly said I needed to live in a house full of grace. When that turned out to be a deal breaker I knew it would come at some point in my life. So for better or worse, a puppy that would grow to be 110 pound ensured that I would most definitely live in a house often bursting with Grace.)

Grace and I walked -- a lot and we began to count our walks as prayers.  We walked right into our worth and the holiness that had always been there. We walked with friends and family. We walked alone, and ultimately, we walked with Walter. Our prayers had become conversations and laughter and joy.

Covid brought a new season for all of us. Grace's age and arthritis were noticeable and my enthusiasm and energy for teaching 5th graders was beginning to wane. Our walks were shorter and slower, and we no longer needed a leash to hold us together. The thousands of walks we had taken had melded us together for all time.

During this season, Grace has completed her journey. I've retired from a long and happy teaching career. 

Honestly, my walks have been far and few between until this past week.

Walter and I adopted a new dog named Jayber, after a beloved character in Wendell Berry's novels.

 Jayber is learning to walk on a leash, and I'm getting used to having a walking companion that loves fire hydrants and has an enthusiastic obsession with birds and squirrels. I can tell that we are going to be great friends.

And as I enter a new season yet again, I notice that I'm walking quicker and holding on to the leash tighter these days. Yet in the middle of it all  I know that God remains, and I find that I'm still walking with Grace.

The Church That Grew Me (originally posted on 3-6-23)

 As a young child growing up at Main Street United Methodist church in Covington, I was loved and taught and encouraged by so many folks who have since joined the saints that continue to surround me. I knew the stories of Moses in a basket and Jesus blessing the children.  I knew that a boy along with Jesus served the five thousand with only a basket lunch. I knew the good and loving God who had created me, in the Divine's very image. That I was destined to be the hands and feet of Jesus. 

By the time I was 12, I had witnessed a few moments of the underbelly of church. 

There were arguments of women wearing pants in services, what color should the carpet be and, of course, who could play the piano that a cantankerous woman had "donated" to the church but seemed to think she would make the rules. Baptism was another topic that could get people worked up as well.

 There were times when I thought, even then, aren't we supposed to love one another. Where is God in any of this? and more practically, who gets the final word at church?

When I began my confirmation classes in the 1970s, I remember vividly how interesting and impressed I was by the structure of the United Methodist Church. It felt like, for lack of a better analogy, there were plenty of "checks and balances" for anything terrible to really happen.

Even then, I loved the rhythm and tradition in the denomination and in my own small church as well. It felt good to recite the Apostle's Creed and sing the doxology, knowing that other United Methodists were doing the same all across the country. 

The church idealist that I was then also loved that Methodist pastors were well educated and that ordination was no walk in the park. Even the Book of Discipline seemed to me to leave room for growth and discovery in a world that was and is evolving and changing. 

I was witness as the denomination made way for those divorced as well as recognizing the call in women. And, while the Bible was front and center, with weekly readings from the Psalms, the Epistles, The Old and New Testament, we were not worshippers of the Bible but of the living and loving of God. We followed the teachings of Jesus.

I'm no longer part of the UMC, mostly because that the wheels for inclusive love were moving way too slowly for me. I was fortunate enough to find a church that welcomed and honored all of my friends and family, not matter who they loved.

 For better or worse, my parents still remain.  

 Over 60 years they've given to the Methodist Children's Home, packed countless UMCOR buckets for disaster relief, sponsored missionary trips. They've walked along side young confirmands, taught Sunday School and run the Mountain Mission room that sends home items to Eastern Kentucky. They've mowed the church's  grass and served in any way possible with the preschool program. They've visited and cared for the sick and dying. My mother, perhaps, has even snuck a few pre-packaged communion wafers and juice to share with those who could not come to church.

 In other words, they've bore witness to the good and bad in the Methodist Denomination, and they have stayed. 

Over the years, while active in no other denomination, their vision of God's love has grown and broadened. They've devoted themselves to the teachings of Jesus. They are supportive and empathic for those who have suffered through a divorce.  They celebrate babies whose parents aren't married. They learn from pastors who are women. Their friendships are inclusive of every walk. In other words they try desperately to love God and love their neighbor. They see the divine in all of us and recognize that Jesus' created us all.

Because of the conservative climate of the county that my parents live in, their church has decided  to vote on whether to disaffiliate from the denomination because of the long-coming change to the Book of Discipline that gay and lesbian folks can be active church members and seek ordination. Apparently, this is the sword that some members are ready to die on, willing to pay out not an insignificant amount of money to disaffiliate.

Now at this point, I could go on and on how we are all created in God's image, that we should celebrate our differences and honor God's call in every person's life, but I'm not even going to preach that sermon. The sermon I will mention is that if you choose to believe that the LGBTQ community has no place in the Methodist Church, then leave your local church and join the church down the road.

 Unfortunately, in a small rural county anywhere in Kentucky, you probably have a quite a few homophobic, misogynist churches to choose from. Don't simply vote to disaffiliate and destroy the local Methodist church. 

Saints that helped to build the church long before you came worked with and for the denomination. They never thought the political climate of a community could be leading the way to disaffiliate. Let there be one safe place that fully embraces Open Hearts, Open Minds and Open Doors.

I'm not sure what my parents will do if their church chooses to disaffiliate. I do know their hearts are broken that people would deny the presence of God in those who love someone of their own gender. Their God is bigger, and they will continue to follow the inclusive love and teaching of Jesus. They will continue their prayer that all people recognize and honor the Divine who lives in every single person. 

Thanks be to God for parents like mine. And, while they grieve, I could not be more proud.

Lessons Learned at the Dollar Store (originally posted on 1/1/24)

 My mother has had a rough time making it through this her 80th year. 

Early in the year, her beloved church voted to disaffiliate from the larger United Methodist denomination. In simple terms, the church was voting an up or down on allowing gay and lesbian folks to be ordained. Since Mom believes that we are all created in the very image of God and that our birthright as a child of God is an ordination, the act of even needed a vote was distasteful. While the vote resulted in staying as United Methodists, a significant number of members left the church. People that my mom considered family; folks that my mom had loved and ministered to over the past 20+ years. 

It broke her heart.

In the middle of all this, my mom's only brother succumbed to a years' long battle with kidney disease. She has mourned his passing, grieving for the little boy he was and the childhood they shared. My uncle, who never married or had children of his own, had always left the tough decisions to mom, meaning she was responsible for his final arrangements and then the executor of a rather complicated estate. 

The added struggle was her physical health. Arthritis throughout her body  and lung issues as a result of her immobility took a major hit to her overall quality of life. Thankfully, she agreed to hip replacement but the quick recovery we had convinced ourselves of hasn't actually panned out. She is making strides forward each day but the therapy involved has been painful and she has lost hope from time to time.

Like I said, she's had a tough year.

Luckily, for me since my retirement last year, I've had more time with my parents, especially my mom.

 We've eaten lots of Sausage Egg McMuffins (mom's favorite). We've shared stories of heartbreak and hilarity. We've agreed that we have lived lucky, love-filled lives. I've even taught her to say a few cuss words. We have also made lots of trips to the Dollar Store.

Throughout the year, I've learned lots from my mom. How to love folks who hurt you, how to grieve for what was and what you wish it had been, and how to plow through physical and emotional pain, while loving those around you, seeking out the broken and never doubting the presence of God in it all.

But oddly enough, the most profound lessons I've learned have been at the Dollar Store, trailing behind my mom as she slowly pushes her buggy down the crowded, unkempt aisles touching a dishcloth on one side and then a plastic flower arrangement on the other side. What started out as painful for me, a person with a strong aversion to any shopping, has become a holy time and I am changed because of it.

These are the lessons I've learned.

1. Dollar cards with a hand-written note from my mom are much more valuable than the $5 ones at Hallmark.

2. Slime that makes fart sounds is a gift of communion when the recipient is your 4 year old great-granddaughter.

3. Knock-off crayons are not acceptable, no matter how cheap. Some things are worth the higher price.(Mom was a kindergarten teacher after all.)

4. Fuzzy socks and loofahs and handsoaps are good to put into "thinking-of-you" baskets to be delivered throughout the week. They are my mom's physical representation that she shares in your joy or carries your grief.

5. Don't go through the self-checkout aisle. Wait for the tall, skinny young boy with tattoos and ear gauges to catch your eye and cheerfully open a lane for you. Ask him how he's doing, look him in the eyes smiling at him like you've just seen the face of God.

I'm looking forward to a healthy year with my mom, with her being able to make me French toast in place of McDonald's and sweep her own floor, with her laser eyes seeing specks of dirt that my own eyes could never see.

I'm even looking forward to those Dollar store trips, where she walks a little quicker down those sacred aisles.