Steaming

Steaming. No, I’m not talking about the weather outside, although I certainly could be.  I’m talking about The Wedding Dress.  Designed by my mother, made by her mother, and worn by six brides, including me.  Now my daughter is wearing it in a week.  After having been carefully cleaned and preserved following the last wedding, the dress simply needed to be steamed in preparation for this wedding.

It took me one phone call to discover that it costs $300 to steam a wedding dress.  I decided that I could purchase a professional-style steamer and do it myself.  I spent much of the 4^th of July steaming the dress. I discovered that the skirt had four layers: a satin layer with a train, two layers with yards and yards of tulle with a train, and a top layer of tulle and lace, with a lace train. It is all very lovely, but it is a lot of material to steam.  As I wrestled with the steamer and the tulle and some small burns, the $300 started to seem like more of a bargain.

Except.  As I steamed the dress, I saw up close the careful stitches that my grandmother made. I began to think about all of the time and effort that she invested in creating the dress according to my mother’s wishes. My grandmother made a dress whose fitted bodice was the perfect size for my mother and, amazingly, six others of us.  Working on the dress, I saw stains on the train that the most careful cleaning had not been able to remove.  I discovered some tiny tears in the tulle and a few age spots on the satin. I love that each imperfection is a reminder that the wedding day is a celebration of a marriage, not a veneration of a dress. As I steamed every inch of the dress, I could feel the history. Vee, Gene, Nancy, Judy, Sally, Louise, and now Caroline have all worn this dress.  There has not been a divorce among us. The fabric of that dress has seen the start of many joined lives, and the memories seemed almost palpable as the steam rose from the dress.

The dress is hanging in my living room for the next week, so that I can continue to steam and fluff. (Obsessive?  Me???)  More than that, though, I enjoy looking at a testament to life and love and hopes and dreams, all pulled together by the careful stitches of my grandmother.

Tears

Tears. I’ve got ‘em.  Always have and always will.  They were the bane of my childhood, when I would cry too easily at playground injuries or slights.  I still remember when my 5^th grade class was forced to watch “Old Yeller.”  My grief at the dog’s death was surpassed only by my mortification at crying yet again in front of my classmates.  

Time has tempered my waterfalls- usually.  I remember an older preacher once commenting that “sometimes you just have to suck it up and help others in really emotional situations without getting that way yourself.”  There was great truth in his words, and I am thankful for the God-given grace to be present in a situation without falling apart myself. That does not mean that there are no longer times when I can feel my tears welling up. For instance, if I know I am telling a tender story during a sermon, I might practice it until I can say it without clouding up. And there are situations when the right thing to do is the most natural thing to do; as the old hymn puts it, “and often for each other flows the sympathizing tear.” By and large, though, I cry a lot less easily than I did in grade school.

Except for now.  It began while I was officiating a wedding on Saturday.  When the organ began “The Wedding March” and the doors swung open to reveal the bride, suddenly all I could see was Caroline coming down the aisle to the same song in two weeks.  Luckily, everyone was looking at the bride, not me when I began crying, and I managed to compose myself before she got down the aisle. The wedding was completed without incident.  

The floodgates are now open.  Last night, I watched the 1950’s “Father of the Bride” with the Bride and the Father and cried. Profusely.  (Andy's shirt sleeve was really wet by the end of the movie.) I was telling some of my favorite church people this morning about that incident and started crying in the telling.  I looked at a practice flower arrangement for the reception that I had made and cried.  It is going to be a wet week and a half.  

The thing of it is, these are happy tears. Tears of joy can be more precious than any other tears. It is such a happy time, a time of promise and hope, and I want to enjoy every moment of it.  If you see me burst into tears in the coming days, I hope you’ll share my joy and cry along. Oh, and if you’re in the area, you might bring by an extra box of Kleenex or two.

Finding the Gifts

I spent many hours with my father in the emergency room last Friday night and, like the last not-long-ago visit, all of the tests showed that whatever is messing with my father’s memory is Not Fixable.  It was a difficult and confusing evening for him, and so I considered it a blessing when my mother told me that the next day he did not remember the e.r. visit.

And then he called me Saturday night. I was impressed that the fog had cleared long enough for him to dial me.  It took me a couple of moments to piece together the gist of the conversation, but, had he been fully able to verbalize, it would have been this:  “Sal, your mother told me that we were in the emergency room last night, and I just wanted to check on how you’re doing. I don’t remember why we had to take you, but I hope you’re better.”

Aww. For all that is going on for him, he is still my Daddy, taking care of his girl.  My heart was and continues to be deeply touched.

I was out there again this morning, my parents’ 59^th anniversary.  Mom was getting dressed and needed my Dad to put in her hearing aid.  “Ed, you’re the only one who can put it in right.” When she gave it to him, he started fumbling with the device itself, looking to fix some unknown broken something.  “No, Ed, put it in my ear.”  And saying something that must have made sense to him, he reached over to her and some internal memory kicked in, and he placed that hearing aid in her ear the way that only he could. And she looked at him and smiled, and he smiled back at her, and I almost had to look away at the intimacy of their gaze. 

For all that is going on, they are still sweethearts, even after 59 years of marriage. 

We don’t know what the future holds, and that is true for each of us and not just my parents. About the best that any of us can do is to celebrate those moments that are gifts of love.

Real Estate

Nature is so beautiful.  This morning, as I ate breakfast, I watched hummingbirds at the feeder, mallards in the pond, and a great blue heron swoop overhead.  I haven’t managed to kill the plants around my house yet, so I enjoyed looking at all of the blooms as I walked the dog. As I drove to church through the lakes, shore birds flew around as fishers tried their luck.

I realize I haven’t been blogging much lately.  My parents have had some life-changing health crises that have taken much of my time and energy.  There have been many things that I could have blogged about, since I am the only nearby child.  However, as much as these things have taken up real estate in my head, it somehow feels like an invasion of their privacy to write about the effects of their stuff on me. 

I’ve thought about a lot of things. General Conference.  The fact that being a woman in ministry still causes bumps in the road, even in this day and age.  Silly stuff my dog does.  Profound things my husband says. Watching my children grow into full adulthood.  There are times when a germ of a thought starts to sprout, and I begin to compose in my head or on paper.

And then the phone rings with another parental need, and any semi-readable thoughts I may have had skitter away as I shift back into a life of trying to help in a near-helpless situation that so many, many others have faced before.

In all of these things, I am so very grateful for the piece of the world that I am privileged to inhabit. The flowers bloom and the birds swoop overhead and I am reminded of the Creator who loves us enough to craft such world for us.  I am refreshed and renewed.  And thankful, even for times such as these.

The End of the Guarantee

It happened today.  One of the mainstays of the United Methodist system of deploying clergy, the guaranteed appointment, was ended.  Frankly, I’m not all that alarmed. I love what I do, I work hard at it, and some days, by the grace of God, I may actually be pretty good at it. 

But, in reality, which of us was not already only one phone call away from losing our appointment status?  “We are offering you a 12-point charge in Timbuktu.  Take it or leave it.”  The morning’s action to end the guarantee was followed by the afternoon’s action to implement a system of closely monitoring the ethnicity, gender, age, etc. of those persons who are not appointed.  Perhaps we will be better for naming, systematizing, and monitoring what had been happening informally for decades.

What I am missing, though, is a little context.

This General Conference began as one of Grand Ideas for the Bettering of Our Denomination.  There were plans to revise our structure, our episcopacy, and our ordination process.  The ending of the guarantee seemed like one piece of a larger, noble plan of widespread change and shared sacrifice.

At this point, every other Grand Idea has fallen victim to institutional inertia.  If the only major change that comes out of this General Conference is the ability to ditch clergy, then it begins to feel a smidge punitive. We cannot come together around any other strategy, or social issue, or even the ability to agree that we disagree- but we can vote to end the guarantee?  Yep, it feels like clergy are the only scapegoats we can agree on, and, to us sensitive types, it doesn’t feel good.

Make it count. Make this change part of a bigger picture, something that we can believe in and support and maybe be proud of.  Grab hold of one of the other Grand Ideas.  Be open to additional strategies for change. I want to be part of the solution, but I don’t want to be the only solution.

General Conference via Twitter

Watching the live streaming of General Conference and the attendant Twitter feed has become strangely addictive. It’s almost like being there, including feeling the frustration of watching people try to make “amendments-to-amendments” that are, in reality, simply the initial motion unamended. It is apparent that never before has there been this type of widespread instant sharing of thoughts and opinions by so many.

Here is what I am learning:

- The presence and power of young people (#gcyp) is magnified through Twitter in a way that will change the denomination.

- Anyone who considers themselves a “power broker” and yet isn’t tweeting isn’t a power broker for much longer.

- Tweeting is great for short pithy statements, or analogies to movies. (I’m loving the Hunger Games references!) It’s a wonderful way to show support for a person or a position. It is an entertaining way to follow the live action and giggle at some of the inanities that occur.

- However, it is a rare tweet that can offer a nuanced theological perspective in 140 characters or less. When those attempts fail, Twitter too often becomes a shouting match that adds nothing to the conversation.

- Finally, it appears that the #gc2012 hashtag is being used simultaneously by another organization. Each group must be having lots of “huh?” moments as random tweets show up.

 I am impressed at the power of connection that the Twitterverse is bringing to our General Conference. It’s one more tool that we are better for- when we use it well.

Anonymous but Known

Yesterday’s hospital visit was as joyous as the birth of a new baby. Someone has received a long-awaited kidney transplant! What a great joy, as the 28 months on the waiting list have culminated in successful surgery and the promise of renewed life.

And yet we were all aware that the joy in that hospital room is countered by sorrow in another hospital room. All we know about the donor is the approximate age and the cause of death; a heart attack in someone too young. We don’t know the gender, race, occupation, or anything else about the person whose kidney is giving new life in my friend.

In spite of the lack of factual information, I realize that I do know a lot about the donor. I know that he or she cared enough about other people to sign the organ donor side of their license plate. Perhaps she or he had not actually signed, but had lived life in such a way that the family members were able to say with confidence, “Yes, that’s what they would have wanted.” This was a person who lived life openly and honestly, so that the family would be able to make such a self-giving decision. This person knew that the body is just temporary housing, and that, when we’re done with it, it might help others. Even though their heart failed them, it was big enough to share other organs with many different people around the region. Their grieving family found, I pray, a glimmer of hope in knowing that their loved one was giving life to others.

If you haven’t signed the back of your driver’s license yet, do so. Make sure your family knows what you want. I saw a miracle yesterday in a hospital room, I really did.