Sounds of Hope

The Circle of Life

2012-02-02T10:31:00.000-06:00

Life has flow. It starts at a point and flows on to the next and the next. We speak of generations. We speak of milestones where life altering events occur. For most people, the path of life may meander and curve, but it flows in one continuous path.

My life isn't like that. My life is full of circles. Like a bad flow chart with seemingly no connections, I left one circle and jumped to the next. Very occasionally one of the circles touches another circle and a loose connection is made.

You can see these circles very clearly on Facebook. I belong to the Brooklyn Norwegian group. That group reminds me of my childhood, my dad, the streets of Brooklyn, laughter and joy, as well as sorrow and abuse. I belong to the Salem Gospel and Camp Challenge group - memories of my childhood church fill it's wall. Pictures that remind me of my heritage and memories of first learning about Jesus fill my heart as scan faces so familiar. I have friends who now sort of merge together in an odd kalediscope as they "like" and "comment" on my wall together. Each knows me from one of my circles. Each are a piece of my life. But except on a random comment, they have no connections.

Last night I revisited a circle. It was a short circle of time. It was a profound life altering circle. As I gaze at the picture of myself, sitting on the second pew behind the pastor and his wife, their daughter and soon to be husband, I try to look deeply in my face. I remember her. I remember that 17 year old girl who thought she was all grown up. I remember her hopes and her dreams.

Her husband sits on her left. Her son is held by someone on her right. She sees her future in a parsonage. She sees herself cleaning a parsonage, making a home, and ministering the gospel with her husband. She dreams of a Volkswagen van that will hold her and her husband as they travel as evangelists. She will sing. He will preach. Occasionally he will preach. Then God will call them to a church. Perhaps a small town in Missouri that only local people know. A girl from Brooklyn has already been transformed by her shrinking world and the culture of the midwest.

Little did she know that abuse would follow. I look at her and think the first slap had occurred. Nathan, her son, had already been slapped for crying. Her husband looks so kind in the picture, so angelic. He's told by people that he reminds them of Jesus.

I look at the picture again. I squint until I see my dad. Then I find my mom. They always sat in the same place. They always sat near the back. In two short years, my father would breath his last. I wouldn't know how to grieve, so I still grieve him all these years later. As I think of my own grief, I wonder about his. Was he grieving the loss of his "lille venn." Was he craving the arms of his little girl? Was he wishing he could let her ride his foot or cuddle on the green recliner? He was thrust once again to live as a foreigner. His Norwegian accent sometimes was not understood. They did it for me. They left Brooklyn in an attempt to make my life better. Within a year, I was married, then pregnant. This was not what they planned.

My eyes wandered over the picture. The circle exploded. Memories, names, laughter, good food, prayer, repentance, tears, and sorrow came together. The nursery where I rocked my son and talked to other mothers trying to appear grown up was visible. The altar was too. The old fashioned mourners bench that is so absent from our modern structures. The place where on a Sunday night you went and knelt to pray. The place you affirmed once again your devotion. The place you received pardon and joy.

As I looked at that altar bench, I saw myself putting a blue and white receiving blanket on the bench. I would lay my son on his stomach on that bench. Usually sleeping, I would pat his back as I prayed. Like Hannah I would offer him to God. I would tell God, He's Yours Lord. Use him for Your glory. Call him to ministry. Protect him. Then I would plead with God to make me a better wife, and mother, and Christian.

There has been no evangelist van in my life. There never was a parsonage to live in - instead their were houses of abuse. There was abandonment and alcoholism. There was pain and destruction. Finally, a new circle, a new life, a new husband, more children, and new hope would emerge.

As I looked at that 17 year old, I wanted to hug her. I wanted to tell her, you have no clue all the ways life is going to change. I wanted to tell her nothing you think or dream of now will come true. I want to tell her that everything will change but one thing - a lifetime later, she will still love Jesus and He makes all things work together for good.

Too Many "I's"

2012-01-18T10:11:00.000-06:00

I’ve been emotionally revisiting my childhood in Brooklyn a lot these days. Maybe it is the sign of aging. Maybe it’s the nostalgia triggered by Facebook and finding old friends. Maybe it’s the trip to Brooklyn over Christmas and the joy of seeing stoops that I stood on, steps to school that I walked on, and the visions of a young Joyce walking down the street. Whatever it is, it’s wonderful.

There was a question often asked of each other on those Brooklyn streets: What are you? Now to the untrained and non-Brooklynite, you might wonder and say something like “I’m a human being.” You’d probably ask, what do you mean by that? In Brooklyn, you would answer, “I’m Norwegian or Irish or Polish or Puerto Rican or German or Lithuania.” Neighborhoods while mixed, often had a dominant ethnic flavor or culture.

Everyone had an identity. Everyone belonged to one group or another. I guess we all knew we were Americans but so many of us were immigrants or children of immigrants that knowing what you were was just part of breathing. It wasn’t about discrimination or stereotype – although of course that did exist. It was more of a way of learning about different people, different cultures, and life.

Our block was an interesting microcosm. We had one Jew. She was a Holocaust survivor. We had one large Irish Catholic family and the oldest daughter’s name was Kathleen (of course). I don’t remember the other children but I am sure there must have been a Michael. My best friend was Italian. I learned to eat pasta properly and enjoy the wonders of homemade “gravy” (sauce). I learned the coolie (end) of the fresh Italian bread was the best part.

I learned we were on the lower end of middle class in the neighborhood of my block. The girl across the street whose father worked days at a bank was a higher socio-economic status than being the daughter of a janitor who worked nights. We still played together and our mothers were friends.

I learned about the crisis of NIMBY – not in my back yard when our first Puerto Rican family moved on the block. I heard words like “they are creeping up from 2^nd Avenue-soon there will be many of them.” There may have even been a comment about their birth rate. Interestingly because of a swing set, a small pool, and amazing jelly and cream cheese sandwiches I became the good will ambassador and played with their children. I quickly discovered they had a lot more than we did and were very nice. Anything that was different was a plus – especially those sandwiches.

I’m Norwegian. I love my heritage and my culture. I’m reconnecting to it through Facebook, Sons of Norway, and baking. Tonight I’ll fix Norwegian meatballs for supper. It is becoming a staple and go-to meal along with the chicken curry and other Pakistani dishes.

I am the daughter of an immigrant and the wife of an immigrant. I am first generation and five of my children are first generation. We are close to the immigrant experience. It forms my political views.

As I think of the question,” what are you?” it is not as simple as it was in Brooklyn. I can no longer just smile and say I’m Norwegian. I’m still Norwegian but the answer now has so many other complexities. I am a wife. I am a mother. I am a grandmother. I am a doctoral student. I am … I am … I am … So many “I’s.”

Labels are so tricky. They lump everyone into a mold that may not fit for them. I heard a saying the other day – if the box people want to put you in is too small, they need to make a bigger box. Another label defines me these days – I’m known as old. I’m known as a baby boomer. I am known as someone nearing being put out to pasture.

Yes, those new labels are true if I look at the calendar. But like the little girl who went after the jelly and cream cheese sandwiches made by the Puerto Rican girl with the swing set in her backyard, I need to make the box bigger. I don’t fit in the box of old. I’ve never fit in most of the boxes people have formed to put me in. I’m not done. I refuse to quit. I’ll break any box you put me in and in the process I’ll break the box for others – for I AM A FOLLOWER OF JESUS CHRIST and He broke every mold, stereotype, or box that could ever be formed.

I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. Galatians 2:20

Generalizations and Labels

2012-01-13T11:16:00.000-06:00

I love school. I suppose anyone who knows me, knows that’s true. I love to think. In fact, I think way to much. I have to analyze everything from every perspective. Sometimes I wish I could just accept something, not worry about it, and go on.

I am like Mary I guess. You know, Mary and Martha? How many sermons have you heard on that one? They usually go like this – Mary was “worshipping” at Jesus feet – she was a worshipper. Martha on the other hand was worried about kitchen duties and hospitality. We should be like Mary. Amen.

No I’m not this extravagant worshiper that can’t serve a meal. Neither was Mary. Mary was a student, a thinker, just like me. Mary was “listening to the words of Jesus.” I see her hearing him talk. Sitting with the men (a no-no?) and taking in every word. Martha, who always gets a bad rap in these sermons, was practicing Eastern hospitality. She was fulfilling a very important role.

Why all this talk of Mary and Martha and school? Because I’ve been thinking. I’ve been mulling something over that has come up in one of my classes. Like Mary, I have listened to the discussion. I have read the material. I am now thinking something through.

I stuck my neck out yesterday and mentioned what I was thinking. So far, no guillotine has found my neck. I tend to think that every time I open my mouth someone is going to say I think I’m a “know-it all.” Truth be told, on this issue, I probably am the closest to a “know-it all.” That doesn’t mean I don’t respect other opinions, I’m just saying that it is hard to express what I know, what I really know very well, because I fear the backlash.

We are talking about “exceptionalities.” That is the new term for talking about disability issues in the workplace. It’s as bad a term as any of the others, but it’s the latest. We are all discussing how we should include PWD (the acronym for people with disabilities). I don’t like it. It’s not the concept I don’t like, it’s the acronym and all it seems to represent.

I was an advocate for persons (the word I prefer over people because people sounds like – you know “THOSE people”) with disabilities for many years. I trained on the state and national level on inclusion, etc. I walked the difficult path of incorporating persons with disabilities of any age into a multipurpose senior center. Talk about difficult, you have NO idea… It taught me a lot. It taught me to look at a person with a disability not by their label, but by their humanity. Throwing around acronyms and labels really bothers me. It’s like rubbing your nails on the chalk board.

As I thought about it this morning, I thought of Jesus and Mary. I wonder if Jesus repeated the greatest commandment as Mary intently listened:

Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself. Mathew 27:37-39

Notice, Jesus didn’t say love your “neighborhood.” He didn’t lump all people into one group or another. He just said, love your neighbor. To love your neighbor, to love your neighbor, you need to know them. You need to meet them as a fellow human being who journeys through life with you. They may not be the “same” as you – they may be a different race, a different religion, they may have a disability, we could go on and on with ways we generalize and classify people.

But that’s NOT what Jesus said, He simply said Neighbor. Love your neighbor, that person who you rub elbows with, no qualifications, no words that say they have to be like you, just love your neighbor – a person as a person. Then love them the way you love yourself.

I’ll be spending the whole semester learning about diversity – personally I think if we just followed the greatest commandment in all areas of life, we’d do just fine.

Love Your Enemies

2011-12-30T07:15:00.001-06:00

People say we travel a lot. I guess that's true. Today I am in Fairfax Virginia. On Wednesday I'll be in Connecticut. Thursday I'll be in New Jersey. Back home in Tennessee on Sunday. This fall I've been to both coasts seeing the Empire state and the Golden Gate bridge in the span of one week. I've been to Florida and Atlanta twice. Are you tired? I'm not. I love it. I think it is the Viking in me.

I love to meet people. I got to know the wife of one of my husband's colleagues. We talked and shopped til we dropped in San Francisco. It was a wonderful day. I hope I see her again. I think we'd be good friends.

Last night, as we exhaustedly checked into our hotel, I met someone new. I guess a five minute conversation doesn't really qualify as meeting someone but he will stay in my thoughts for a long time. No I haven't become star struck rather the mother instinct took hold. Tall, thin, blonde,with an infectious smile, dressed in a red bellman jacket, he quickly grabbed my bags. All were loaded on the luggage rack in seconds. It was Christmas. A good tip was a must.
Cheap, we usually take care of our own bags. I got change before we left. Five seemed an appropriate tip. The smile and the Merry Christmas after a long day was worth at least that.
He told us he was from Russia. Beaming he told us that he lived near by, was here as an intern for a year. With great pride he said he rode his bicycle to work. With some lament he share this was his first Christmas without snow. To him the weather was spring like. I smiled. I wanted to give him Christmas cookies and adopt him.

My husband and I chatted about how nice the young man was; we hoped his stay here would be pleasant. We hoped he wouldn't be beaten up by life too badly and that his excitement for life will not diminish.

As we wound down the day, sitting on the couch, we stumbled on the documentary Strangers No More about a school in Tel-Aviv for refugees. Lovingly children of every color were taught Hebrew and helped to overcome the trials and horrors that their young lives had already known. Children who watched a parent killed, thrust into a new land, a new culture, we're being transformed by love and acceptance into children with hope and laughter. In awe I watched a young Jewish teacher embrace like a mother a tall black Sudanese boy named Mohammed. The boy told his teacher that she was his mother. There were no barriers to love. There were color differences, religious differences and all manner of cultural barriers but humanity and love overcame them all.

A teacher, a Jew, said she was living the Bible. God had called them, selected them, to be a special people. She had no choice but to love and care for these children. She said as a Jew she must remember when her people were refugees, slaves, or in exile. Her words were the most eloquent Christmas sermon.

I thought of Jesus. I thought of the young woman and her husband, exhausted travelers on a night in Bethlehem. Born during Roman occupation and oppression, my Savior and Lord was born a refugee. Jesus told us to receive the outcast. Perhaps that is the message of Christmas. Perhaps that is how we will have Peace on Earth - one smile, one hug, and loving acceptance. I think I will find the young Russian and practice Peace with a smile and a tin of cookies.

The next night I did deliver a tin of cookies. It was good for my soul

Trust and Obey

2011-12-05T11:17:00.000-06:00

In 800 yards, turn right.

At the end of the road, turn left on to garbled street.

Go 300 feet and turn around.

A GPS is a wonderful thing and it is persistent. It never relents. It never listens to our rationale that we think this is a better route.

This weekend, we were on a quest to find a cul-de-sac on the outskirts of the small town of Thomasville NC. We missed the GPS instructions to take the exit. Without missing a beat, the GPS rerouted. At first it tried to get us to turn around, then it planned another route.

Sometimes when following a GPS you see a “sign” – the sign seems to contradict the GPS. Such was the case on Saturday. We saw the sign for Thomasville – we looked at each other. I said, “It’s your choice, you are the one who is driving.” He followed the sign.

The GPS persisted. We kept going ignoring what the GPS was telling us.

Soon we realized that we were far off course.

We had not listened to the GPS and yet the GPS never relented. It kept rerouting and got us to our destination. I thought to myself, we go our own way and yet the GPS is faithful to bring us to our destination.

I thought about the time I preached just such a sermon. It was another time we didn’t listen to the GPS. I preached how the Holy Spirit is always there to guide us. We may not listen but once we do listen, we get to our destination.

A few years later, with cap and gown on, I listened to the speaker at my Trevecca graduation. She had the same message. She hadn’t heard my sermon but she preached it fairly well. Now the Lord brought me back to that message.

The signs don’t look like you are going in the right direction. There are signs that say it’s time to exit. We take the exit, and realize it’s not the right exit. How wonderful that the Holy Spirit knows where your destination (destiny) is and can get you there no matter how many times you think you are lost. All you have to do is listen and follow or put another way – Trust and Obey.

Heart Sick

2011-12-03T05:59:00.000-06:00

You ever hear the expression, "Well, I'm just going to take my marbles and go home." I feel a lot like that a lot of the time. While people usually think that person who wants to "pick up their marbles and go" is a bit of a spoiled brat. You know, the one who always wants their way-doesn't like to share, always wants the power and to be in charge. It's easy to think that. We all know those type of people.

I don't need to have my way all the time. In fact, I rarely get my way. I tend to be the one who is most willing to give in - to say okay, that's fine. Most of the passion has been sucked out of me in life so it's become easy to acquiesce. I like being in charge but I don't have to be. That assessment of why I want to "pick up my marbles and go" has nothing to do with having power.

But I do want to pick them up and go. I want to retreat from conflict. I want an end to frustration. I want to be able to contribute and share. In the end, I really want the gift I have to offer - my marbles - to be received. I have good marbles :).

Seriously, I do have good marbles. I have good ideas. I am not always wrong. I sometimes am right and even brilliant in my ideas. But if your marbles, your ideas, are constantly rebuffed, they go back in your bag and you emotional retreat to home.

I've retreated so many times that I find myself socially awkward at times. Of late I've been out some, met new people, been to new place, and yet, unlike the vibrant person who could thrive in almost any situation, I'm quiet and withdrawn. I am so afraid of being hurt and rejected. So many times my marbles, my life, my gifts, my offerings are rejected that I don't offer them like I used to... that's sad. Because what I have to offer is good and could benefit a group, a team, a partner, and yes, even the world.

I watched Patch Adams the other night. I wondered how he got that way... oh the movie shows the mental ward and makes allusions to it being a transformative time. And yet it had to be deeper. Was he just wired that way? When he was being formed was their some happy gene that got over developed? And why is it that some dreamers can make their dreams happen and others can't? And its not all hard work - I know plenty of people with good dreams, great dreams, who work hard and never get a break. Those I was with talked about how they wanted to be "excessively happy" like Patch. I thought to myself, "I would too but..." there is always a but - this time the but was 'it will never happen.'

I don't think you can will it to happen either. People tell me I can chose how I feel. I can't. I'm sorry but if that works for you, awesome! But I just can't - I've been around the block way too long. I've seen so many hopes, dreams, and ambitions collapse. I've had to take my marbles home not because I was in a snit but because they (and I) weren't wanted in the game.

Interesting thing, I'm still polishing my marbles. I'm still in school. I'm still working to have the credentials to be better at what I do... While this program doesn't challenge me, gives me lots of busy work and frustration, and is redundant - I'm still there. Why? Because somewhere in the darkest depths of my soul I really believe that God put this desire in me. I believe that I do have something to offer. I still believe that I can contribute and help other people. For me, I had hoped the degree would open doors of service - give me that credibility that has alluded me in spite of my wonderful amazing marbles - my gifts, ideas, and brain.

This morning I had a talk with God. I've had this talk before. I told Him I wish I hadn't been born smart. I said "Why God did you give me these"marbles" if there is no one who will play with me? Why God did you give me this brain if it will soon wither away in old age without being able to use it for your glory and for the Kingdom of God? Why did you give me the ability to preach and teach - and I'm good at it, I really am - if no pulpit or classroom will have me?"

My heart hurts. My marbles are back in my bag for now. I'll take them out and polish them as I wind down a horrible semester. I'll lick my wounds and hope they heal. I'll gain new scars in the battle. I'll do my best to stay on my feet. And once again, hoping against hope - I'll hope that God has something better around the corner. That maybe, just maybe, there is a game of marbles that is just waiting for my marbles to show up.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick - my heart is sick.

Back in Time

2011-11-28T09:42:00.001-06:00

As we drove up the muddy driveway, guided by the neon OPEN sign, we knew this was going to be an experience. The day had already been more like the script of a movie with the familiar theme of city folk go to the country. The country folk always seem to be the better in these movies. This time, we were the city folk I suppose.

My beautiful Granddaughter on her wedding day.

Disguised from my modest roots, I was in a dress from Macy’s with a flashy bracelet from Stein Mart – both were from the clearance rack. Most everyone else, except the beautiful bride (more on that in a later blog) were in jeans and t-shirts or a variation thereof. The groom did have a suit on and looked extremely miserable. Even the preacher who would pronounce them husband and wife was casually dressed in khaki and polo. It could have been a scene out of My Cousin Vinny, or New in Town. And I was the butt of the comedy.

That was behind us, a night at Vaught’s Restaurant and Motel awaited us. Still in my “fancy” and tight dress, I jumped down from the pick-up. That alone was a remarkable sight. Held in with Spanx, I quickly yanked my skirt down to hide the black tubes. In the office, unlocked, with entrance to the owner’s house fully exposed, was a note – I’m in the restaurant, come to the backdoor and yell – Karin.

It was cold, rainy and terribly muddy. We opted to get back in the truck and drive the few feet to the back door. By this time, a gentleman was coming to greet us. He and Karin were the owners of this establishment. He met us at the office, took our $52.50 and gave us a key. A real key – remember when motel keys were real keys and had a key ring that was diamond shape with the number of your room? Yep, that’s what we had. We would be in room 5.

What a contrast to the elegant room with the Jacuzzi across the Hudson from NYC that I had stayed in two weeks ago or the posh room in downtown San Francisco that I slept in the week before. Here we were in the capital of Ozark County, Missouri-Gainesville. Ma and Pa recliners with two handmade yarn angels watching over welcomed us into the room. It was clean. It was immaculately clean. Considering we had few options, this was a wonderful bargain for the night.

As we flipped on lights, we realized this was no ordinary room. This was the ANGEL ROOM. There must have been over 100 angels images of one type or another in the room. There was the angel border around the ceiling. There were angel knickknacks everywhere –the kind they sell at Dollar General. That made perfect sense since other than a grocery store, that’s about all downtown Gainesville had for shopping.

Christmas angel with
bird kissing angel

Baby room angel

We checked everything. There was not a dust ball or dirty smudge anywhere. Then I saw it. Safety first! There was a fire marshal in the county or region who did his or her job. All establishments must have an evacuation plan clearly posted. There it was – the evacuation plan was clearly posted on the door. It said, this door is the only exit, and in small handwritten print it said door, window. I laughed so hard. I understood it was the law but the comedy of this sign was too much to contain.

The bed was hard and had an old style chenille bedspread on it. Exhaustion overtook us. In the morning, the water was hot for a shower. It got hotter after the toilet tank re-filled. But where was the plug for the hairdryer? Anticipating no complimentary hairdryer, I had brought my own. My husband said there is no place to plug in in the bathroom. There was no place to plug in near a mirror either. Blindly we both attempted to dry our hair.

Then I spotted it. There WAS a plug in the bathroom. Too much time had lapsed since I had seen the single plug under the bathroom light. There it was. The big box on my 1800-watt hairdryer plug would never have fit under the light anyway. But it was there.

Vaught’s may not compare to any of the posh-er establishments in the “BIG CITY” but they do understand hospitality. We were treated like guests in their home. In the morning, before our trek back home in the rain, we would feast on their breakfast in the adjacent restaurant. As we opened the door to the restaurant, the hospitality and warmth of a country Christmas greeted us.

Yes, the country folk are the heart of this country. They may show up in jeans and t-shirts to a wedding in a small hall with homemade spaghetti to eat, but they know how to live, they know how to say yes ma’am and yes sir, they know how to give hospitality and love their neighbor. It was nice going back in time for a short while. Not sure I’d trade my life for theirs, but it did make me remember to be thankful for all I have.

Hanging on the wall, the perfect prescription for a good nights
rest at Vaught's motel and everywhere.

The Best Decade

2011-11-17T10:20:00.001-06:00

I don't know if this is the longest I have gone without writing. I don't like to go this long. Many things have grabbed my attention over the last few weeks. I've been to both coasts of the United States, seeing the Atlantic and the Pacific, seeing the Hudson River and the San Francisco Bay. I've ridden a subway, but didn't take a cable car. Something I'll probably regret but the taste of sour dough is still on my tongue. I brought some home.

The bumpy air ride over the Rockies was something I'd never experienced. However, very small in comparison to days on a wagon train as people pressed past their known world to the glories of the west, or in search of gold. For me the gold of this trip was not panned in San Francisco but on the east coast. I saw one of my beautiful daughters try on her gorgeous wedding gown. I wanted to cry. Not because the dress was beautiful, or even that she is - and they both were stunning - but it was the smile on her face, the joy I saw, she will be a glowing bride as all brides should be.

As I boarded the plane to return home from the glories of the East Coast, the calendar reminded me that I had reached a new decade. I've had much angst about this milestone. I want to turn the clock back. I know there are no do-overs. Time always keeps moving. But as God always seems to do, He gives you grace for each day. He will give me grace for this decade.

When I look back at passing the last decade, it really didn't go that fast. I am hoping this one doesn't go too fast either. I want to stop, slow down, enjoy every moment. I learned a lot about myself over these last few weeks. I learned that it is time for me to get over my "poor" mentality and to enjoy life. I learned that when I told my story to a new friend, she wept a bit and told me I was inspirational. I learned that this is a big world and there is much I still want to do and see.

I have gotten up out of my seat - This will be the best decade if I just keep moving.

Get Up Out of Your Seat

2011-11-02T08:40:00.001-05:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about getting old. I guess I think about it too much. But, a milestone birthday usually sparks such thoughts. I came across a piece in the Huffington Post by Billy Graham. He’s getting ready to celebrate 93 years. Yikes, that’s old. I always thought it interesting that Oral Roberts, Billy Graham, and my mother were all born in 1918. He’s the last one remaining of this odd trio.

Waiting for the bus to take Norwegians to Madison
Square Garden in 1957 to hear Billy Graham.

As usually, Graham was inspiring. I remember going to Madison Square Garden on a bus with lots of Norwegians from my neighborhood in Brooklyn. I remember wanting to “get up out of my seat” and go to the front. I was six years old and the power of his preaching convicted me. Of what? I don't know... Instead, holding my mother’s hand I walked the opposite direction so as not to miss the bus back to Brooklyn. I remember the crowds of people and feelings so small. Later, I would sit cross-legged in front of a round black and white TV screen and silently pray with Rev. Graham.

Of late, I’ve been thinking about Maggie Kuhn. You probably don’t know her. I first heard about her while studying gerontology at the University of Missouri. Her claim to fame was the founding of the Gray Panthers. I was so excited to hear her as a new Senior Center Director in Connecticut.

There she was with her bun and glasses. She looked like she should be sitting in a rocking chair knitting. However, she had sneakers on – she was spry and seemed ready to run a marathon. Such energy – It was the mid-80’s and she was in her 80’s.

I never forgot what she told us. She told us fresh faced mostly young Senior Center Directors with big ideas to help the “old” that seniors and youth had a lot in common. Old age and adolescence had many of the same issues.

While I no longer fight acne – although sometimes my hormones still rage… I think she is right. As I looked in the mirror yesterday, thinking about my coming birthday, I thought – Maggie Kuhn was right.

Daniel Pink in Drive aptly describes the angst of age. You know you are old, but you know you aren’t done. You know you still have a purpose. You know that you have to find it. Time is running out. Yet, the culture tells you are done. Ageism in the work place is rampant. With nearly a doctorate I can't get a job at a Container Store or Target. No I don't have a criminal record, I'm old.

The church focuses on youth and young marrieds. The church offers you a pew and chance to ride a bus to go out to eat once a month. It is assumed that your needs are social rather than the full depth of emotional and spiritual needs. Schools are not ready for the returning non-traditional student who burns with passion to continue to serve. It can be summed up as being marginalized.

Youth are marginalized as well. They are told to wait. They are told you aren’t ready to contribute. They are taken on social trips rather than offered opportunities for deep meaning. I think that might be why they leave the church in droves … they really don’t need another canoe trip or social event. They need something of significance. They are searching for their purpose.

Youth and old age are polar opposites and yet they are so similar. Marginalization and angst over the future join them together. I think we need "pastors for seniors" like we do youth pastors... I'd be a great one... sigh.............. Did you hear that God?

As I looked in that mirror I thought yes, I feel like a teenager all over again. I do not know what my future holds. I fear it and yet, I want to contribute. There is still a purpose. At 93, Billy Graham calls me again to “get up out of my seat.” I better hurry because the bus is waiting.

Paper Fortunes

2011-11-01T09:04:00.000-05:00

Last week I had the glorious experience of reconnecting with a childhood friend. She sat with me in Miss O'Shea's class. She stood in line as Miss O'Shea put lipstick on our lips for the May Day Celebration. The one that led to the consternation of my mother at my being unchristian because I had make-up on... Peering through the black bars of the school fence, she glared as I danced around the May Pole with lipstick. I loved Miss O'Shea and yet it was the year of such horror.

I imagine she was one that I would hope would accompany me to the girls bathroom in the basement of the school. Always sent in pairs, one would raise their hand and be excused; the other would volunteer to go with you. That meant a time to chat and giggle. Later, she and I would walk together to PS 220 John J. Pershing Junior High School. Of all my childhood school memories, Pershing was the best.

It's odd the things you think about when you reconnect. Little tiny snippets of your life come alive in your mind. Such were my thoughts about the folded paper fortunes. I am not talking about the one that starts with a square, folded, you use your thumb and index finger to manipulate - I still fold those at restaurants when I fidget before my food is brought. I make them from a piece of the paper ring that secured my napkin. No, these were different.

You started off with a paper of loose leaf paper. Loose leaf paper was ripped from your loose leaf - also known a 3-ring binder. You carefully folded it into quarters. Then the questions began. Who will you marry? Four names were offered. How many children will you have? Where will you live? What will you name your first girl? What will you name your first boy? Each time you'd give four responses.

Now your fortune could be told. Pick a number, any number, from one to ten. I pick 5.

Now the count down began. One, two, three, four, five - number five was scratched off. This process was repeated over and over again until all but one response to each question was scratched off. Here was your fortune:

My fate was sealed. I would marry Stephen, have three children, live in Long Island, be clerk, have a daughter named Cindy Anne and a boy named Michael Peter. I probably actually had a fortune that read identical to that... I never thought my life would be beyond the greater NY area or that I would have anything but a Cindy or a Michael.

As my childhood friend, like others before her, shared how her life turned out - very good I might add :). And I shared how my life turned out - pretty good too, I thought of those folded paper fortunes. I thought of how we dreamed of our lives in Brooklyn. Now so far away in time and space, we can look back. No Cindy's or Michael's for me. Never lived in the greater NY area as an adult. No Stephens in my life and the 3 children, became 8 wonderful kids.

Life never seems to go as we plan it to but usually it comes out better if we just keep moving. As I look back at the girl standing between the boys in Miss O'Shea's class, I want to warn her of so many things. I want to tell her that in a short while she is going to violated and it will never be the same. I want to tell her that her life will get rough and rocky and she loose hope. I also want to tell her that Jesus will be with her the whole time and in time, she'll recover. She will raise a beautiful family and while never perfect, live happily ever after.

Here I Am, Lord

2011-10-31T13:12:00.002-05:00

I am continuing to learn what it means to be a Methodist. I have become at home with the Methodist. It is the group that I have chosen to fellowship in community with – it is where my spiritual journey has taken me.

Last night, I went to my first “Charge Conference.” For those of you, like me, who have no idea what that is, it is sort of like their “annual business meeting.” I’ve been to a whole lot of business meetings. I’ve served as a trustee. I’ve served in some unofficial capacity of reminding the pastor to get ready for the annual business meeting. I’ve typed the reports and compiled them. I’ve taken minutes and participated in more business meetings than I care to remember.

I’ve seen a lot of dispute at business meetings in church basements. Questions, concerns, legitimate or not… on and on they went for hours. Pontificating members with grandiose ideas in conflict with pompous members who had better ideas marred the meetings. Negative members would lament and decry where the church was – positive members would quote scripture in some fanciful versions of “positive thinking.” All meant well – all had agendas. Alas, they were usually not agendas born of the Holy Spirit.

I’d like to know the origin of the name “Charge Conference.” I do know we heard a good charge from the District Superintendent. The DS, a female with an easy style that made you want to have coffee with her and discuss theology and life, gave a charge on the Great Commission. At times she sounded like a schoolteacher asking us what the action verbs were – or helping us remember what the Great Commission might be. Her words were inspiring; her energy contagious.

The tedium of reports is always necessary at a business meeting. They were minimal. Unlike other meetings where they lament the inability to give their pastor adequate compensation, they offered their faithful servant a raise. Unlike many business meetings of my past, worship was sweet as we sang and prayed. The prayers were not just to bless the time together and the decisions, but both formal prayers of thanksgiving and informal prayers of remembrance were offered.

It was those informal thanksgiving prayers of remembrance that touched my soul. I didn’t know the people whose names were no longer on the membership roll of the church. Their residence was now in the presence of God. The church collectively and individually remembered them. They spoke of their contributions, their attendance, their lives, and their love – love of God and love of God’s people. I felt for a moment that I knew them. I had not known them in this life; yet, their life still was touching mine. It was sweet. Faces softened; loved ones of those passed felt comfort to their still grieving souls.

At the end, we sang a song. Methodists sing a lot of songs I don’t know. This one I knew…

Here I am Lord.

Is it I? I have heard you calling in the night.

I will go Lord if you lead me.

I will hold your people in your heart.

How odd to be singing that at a business meeting? Even odder was that just earlier that day I had told my husband that I was a fool to think God had called me to ministry. It was yet another pipe dream of my own making. His eyes lowered; I think he felt my sadness. I have never doubted the call on my life until recently. I have clung tenaciously to that call. I clung against all odds and massive disappointment. When I finally uttered my feelings out loud, there was no response but a sad silence.

I did a very un-Methodist thing as we stood singing that song. I closed my eyes. I refrained from raising my hand – just too un-Methodist. But I made it a prayer. I offered another prayer of commitment to what seems illogical, improbable, and hopeless.

Crybaby

2011-10-30T14:29:00.000-05:00

I had my emotional armor on all day yesterday. Once I finally went to sleep last night, I fell into the deep sleep of exhaustion. Emotional exhaustion drains you in ways that physical labor never could. I could sense my attitude. It was BAD… I was BA Lighari yesterday. My emotional armor protected me as well as kept a lid on any eruptions.

Class always starts with a devotional. He picked a passage I’d memorized as a child. I was zoning out until he asked what scornful meant – what does it mean to sit in the seat of the scornful – who are those people you don’t want to be around… hmm, not sure I agree with his interpretation but I perked up when someone said – you don’t want to be around “crybabies.”

It rankled me. I guess because I have shed so many tears and know that God collects my tears in His bottle. I guess because I know the value of tears. I was annoyed at the minimization of people whose pain causes them to cry. I have learned that sometimes you just can’t suck it up and the best way for healing is to cry. I’ve also learned that often you need someone to share your pain with…

When I worked in Psychiatric many, many years ago, I worked with a very wise man. He was young. He was brash at times. He was a recovering hippie who had read Saul Alinsky. He really believed the revolution would come. As we would sit in group therapy, he on one side of the room and me on the other, the group would engage in a free flow of pain. Each person had pain, even he and I. As cream rises to the top of a bottle of milk, soon some ones pain would rise. Soon the one whose pain had floated to the top would be asked to pick someone. Pick the person you feel the most comfortable with… often, it was me. I would be the absorber of their pain as their tears flowed. Mascara would stain my shoulder. It was interesting; eventually the tears would stop. They were healing. They were necessary.

Then I thought of Jesus. Was Jesus a crybaby? The King of Kings, the Lord of Lords, our Savior, God incarnate wept. Jesus wept over Lazarus. Jesus cried out to His Father in the garden. On the cross, as the willing sacrifice for our sins, the Lamb of God cried out – My God, My God, why have you forsaken Me?

I thought a lot about being a crybaby. I don’t know what this person really meant when it was uttered in class. I know it got under my skin. Was it just my mood yesterday? Was it part of the emotional armor? Perhaps. But it caused me to go to the lexicon. It caused me to open my Spurgeon Treasury of David. It caused me to reflect on the subject that makes my heart alive, Biblical scholarship. It even caused an epiphany of sorts. I realized why school has become such a drudgery for me. There is no life in it.

A former professor once said to me, find the thing that makes you alive and do that. He was right. I know what makes me feel alive. It’s ideas. I love to play with them. I love to create them. I love to think deep thoughts that come from a well of insatiable curiosity. New ideas of passionate topics are lacking. Even the scant new ideas fall flat. They have no outlet. My armor has silenced my voice. There is no opportunity to bounce ideas off peers. Ideas are like nostalgia, they need an echo.

Today, I am a crybaby. I am willing to shed my tears of lost hope. I am willing to sit in the ashes of ideas with no outlet. I will get up. Tear do end eventually. Hope may still glimmer. Until then, I will not sit in the seat of the scornful. I will not minimize someone’s pain or tears. Rather, I will absorb your tears because I know they are needful - Today, my armor is off and my shoulder is open.

Views of the Slop Sink

2011-10-28T08:48:00.001-05:00

It was the first year I walked the three short blocks and one and a half long blocks to PS 94 alone. My BFF was taking several buses to a new school for smart children. I missed her. I wondered why she had to be so smart and leave me.

Everything at PS94 was big. As I would crouch in the hallway with my head tucked under my arms for the air raid drills, I couldn’t imagine those massive doors collapsing. In the fourth grade, I had the seat in front of one of those doors. Mrs. Cedar presided over a corner room, near the staircase. Rather than opposite the windows, the massive wooden closet that housed our coats and galoshes was in a narrow hallway that led to our room.

I had the first seat in the first row. Since the door was always open, I had a view of those coming up and down the stairs as well as the slop sink. Now for those of you who do not know what a slop sink is, it was a deep sink on every floor where you could go to wash your paint brushes. Usually we were sent in pairs making a trip to the slop sink a time for socialization. Likewise, you hoped for someone you wanted to visit with to be sent with you to the basement with its caged piano and scary bathrooms.

It was from that seat that I watched and observed. I was liked by my teacher and my gazing in the hall was rarely noticed. I wasn’t a favorite though. I remember the day we came back from the Science Fair. My experiment was either substandard or I made an excuse and didn’t have one. I hated the annual Science Fair. Many kids had help from their parents and had electrical wires to make a door bell ring or other fascinating displays. I don’t remember what was said to me but I remember the feel of the frown on my face. I thought it would never leave…

I don’t remember if that was the year we made reliefs of the dinosaurs or the solar system. I remember those projects but the years escape me. What I do remember is the black and white composition notebook. I probably had purchased it at the Woolworths, or maybe Alan’s Stationary store. I loved going to Alan’s, a crammed store full of school and office supplies – I’d convince my mother to let me buy book covers with Dartmouth and Yale on it rather than the paper bags that normally protected my books.

In that composition notebook, Mrs. Cedar had us journaling. We would write a one or two paragraph composition on its pages. Perhaps it was weekly, or daily, I don’t recall. I just remember the pages. One day, as I gazed in the hall, I heard Mrs. Cedar say, “Joyce, I’d like you to stand and read your composition.” I was behind. I hadn’t been writing. I thought I had plenty of time to write something and catch-up. It had been weeks since she had us read in class.

Since the frown had finally left my face, I feared it would return. I stood. I opened my black and white composition book. I turned some pages. I knew the topic that was supposed to be on that blank page. I took a deep breath, and started to “read” from the blank page. Yes, I read from the blank page. I made it up as I went along. I breathed again. I looked at Mrs. Cedar. She smiled, and said “You may sit down, that was very good.”

As we scurried to leave that afternoon, someone, I think perhaps Debbie Dennis who sat several seats behind me in row one said – “you didn’t have anything on your page?” I said, “I know. I made it up.” She smiled… I smiled… we passed the slop sink and down the stairs we went – Mrs. Cedar never knew.

Morning and Evening Prayer

2011-10-27T11:14:00.001-05:00

Many religious traditions have set times for prayer. The discipline of bowing one’s heart to God at a set time is something I’ve tried to cultivate with limited success. Following the ancient Christians in the Daily Office is a desire of mine. Yet, it’s discipline does not come easy for me.

The entrance to our subdivision - picture taken from our driveway

Our dog is walked twice a day. Today it is very fall like. There has been rain and the sky is grey. The brilliant colors on the trees are muting. But the birds… oh the birds… sometimes the cacophony of their sound is near deafening. We have a chorus of birds that sing in the morning and sing in the evening. Having a Franciscan bent, I thought, yes, little bird, praise God! It seems that nature responds to the call to worship at sunrise and dusk.

Today as I walked our large yard I marveled at all I saw. I can’t imagine those who walk but don’t see. I remarked to someone yesterday about the beautiful little pines in the lot beside us and said perhaps we’ll take one of those for our Christmas tree. I spoke of the bursting pinecones on another huge tree. They walk that same area but never see. I wondered how curiosity and vision become dimmed. I have the curiosity of a child. I hope I never lose that…

This morning I saw cardinals and blue jays flying through the yards. I heard the sound of all sorts of birds. I heard a crow. I wondered, where do the robins go in the fall? Then I spotted one in a tree. I often count four, five, or six eagles flying over our house. I've seen an owl. I hear him sometimes in the stillness of the night. I heard the rustle in the woods – a squirrel, a rabbit, a turkey, or a deer – I’ve seen them all in our backyard.

Roses are still blooming in our yard. They seem to push through with a tenacity that says, even though the season is past, I still have something to offer. I looked at the bush and yet another bud is waiting to open. I hope the yellow bud is also able to burst open. I wondered, are they a sign to me? My season may be past but what beauty or worth can still burst open?

It was a beautiful short walk in the glory of God’s creation. With the birds, I joined in their morning song of praise. In my heart I sang:

This is my Father’s world, the birds their carols raise,
The morning light, the lily white, declare their Maker’s praise.
This is my Father’s world: He shines in all that’s fair;
In the rustling grass I hear Him pass;
He speaks to me everywhere.

Nothing Ventured

2011-10-24T12:23:00.001-05:00

You know the old saying "Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained?" Well, a lot of times I venture - no one can accuse me of not venturing... however, I get very frustrated because I thought if I ventured, I'd gain... that hasn't been the case much of the time. Now before you say - Oh there she goes again... this is not yet another lament of mine.

Many of you have seen the pictures of the pies and cakes, etc., that I post on Facebook. I even have one endorsement on Facebook "Branch Out" - it says, “She makes great pastries!”

It's true. I do... She was a customer in my coffee shop. I used to make amazing food - breakfasts, including huge omelets with spinach, feta, and mushrooms - and then there was those Pumpkin Spice Waffles with Cinnamon Butter - OMG, my mouth is watering... My chicken salad was known as the best and so popular I had to start selling it by the pound. Once I was asked if I could ship it out of state - I think they wanted to have me send it to Indiana. I considered it.

But one of the most popular items, especially this time of year was my private Vanilla Chai Latte Blend. You could have it hot, cold, frapped, sugar-free, decaf, or regular.

Eventually, I packaged it and sold it for home use. I even sold it for a while on ebay. It didn't sell well on ebay because it is one of those things you have to taste to appreciate. One of my regular customers, an exec on music row would stop every day - he would lament on days I was closed because he had to "settle" for Starbucks Chai Latte. Yes, it really is that good!

I'm thinking that maybe it is time for me to make some Chai Latte Blend again. The spices and blend is secret and ground fresh. It is better than anything you've ever had. I will be taking orders soon. And yes, that is a real picture of the real chai on the postcard and made into a drawing to the rif

The contact information isn't
correct but you get the idea.

And if you are interested in some homemade organic pies, cakes, or bread for the holidays. I'm taking orders for them as well. I do make amazing pastries....

Let's see if this venture has some takers.

More pictures of the coffee shop, its food, coffee, chai, and entertainment are available here. Yes, once upon a time there was "myspace." LOL

A Minefield of Pathology

2011-10-19T17:09:00.001-05:00

I like to think I’m not terrible thin skinned. It’s a myth. I rather think the reality is that it’s a myth for most people. We are human. We get hurt. We hear something, read something, and all those mines in our emotional field go off. Sometimes they all go off at once. Other times, it’s one or two.

The booby-traps are everywhere. Sometimes some unwitting (or sometimes dimwitted) person in a store triggers a life-time of feelings. That happened a lot in South Dakota. A trip to Hy-Vee or Wal-Mart in Brookings SD usually resulted in my swearing to myself the whole way home.

Other times it is a remark that you know isn’t personal but somehow, it gets under your skin. It just sort of sits there – like an unattended wound, it festers.

Last night two mines exploded in my heart. My mood went from good to bad very quickly. You try to remove yourself from the trigger but once it has been pulled, it is impossible to stop.

Boom – you never expected it – you didn’t see it coming. You were not the target. No one knew that you were the one who would explode inside. And I don't want people who walk on eggshells around me either. That's phony. That's not real. I want the freedom to be myself and for others to be themselves around me. If I trip their mine, I want them to know it's not intentional. Most of the people who trip mine don't intend to either. If we walk on eggshells, we are never really real.

The first was a conversation people with degrees. There was the usual banter, none serious, about how people with degrees are not smart. The word idiot was used. Believe me, I can think of some people who have no common sense and are blithering idiots who managed to get advanced degrees. It’s one of those things that really rankles me. I've been turned down for jobs because I don't have a doctorate and now that I almost have one, I'm told it's not the right kind - it's not a PhD - only PhD are worthy... so I understand the comment.

However, I’ve spent a lifetime trying to measure up – after much agony and trying, I still can’t seem to stop trying to be good enough. Okay, it’s MY PATHOLOGY. It’s how I am. You can’t fix it. I can’t fix it. It just is. All I can do is monitor it and make sure it doesn’t overwhelm me to the point of despair.

You see, for many years, as a high school drop-out, I was viewed as stupid. Only a stupid person would marry at 16 and drop out of school – logic makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? But I wasn’t stupid. Only a stupid person would live with an abuser. But I did because God hated divorce. I wasn’t stupid. My blog has told you this story before, I don’t need to repeat it. I could go on and on with examples.

Now here I am an old woman. I am getting used to the reality that my life is shortening fast. I am trying to fulfill a lifetime dream of more education and yes, still trying to demonstrate that I’m not stupid and I’m worthwhile. It was my emotional minefield. Nothing else. No one else. Just my pathology.

Soon another landmine exploded last night. There may be one today. There are many of them. I’ve been told I’m a survivor – I am…

But I do have my minefield of pathology – and so do you if you are honest.

Nostalgia

2011-10-18T11:07:00.000-05:00

Maybe you've seen this scene from Madmen as the Kodak Carousel is introduced. If not, go here and watch it and then come back to the blog.

In Greek, nostalgia literally means, a pain from an old wound. In someways, this blog has been about nostalgia. Even those topics of current inspiration draw life from the past. You never escape where you came from or who you were. We change, we grow but somehow the past is always with us beckoning us to remember.

I think the pain we feel as we recall the past is cause not by the wound by knowing we can't go back. We see visions of the past and we want to go back. We want to go back not because we made some horrible mistake and need a do-over. Rather we want to go back to experience the joy, the wonderment, the excitement, or any of the myriad of human emotions that can explode at anytime. While a small substitute for time travel back to that moment, a memory can cause us to relive such joy and sometimes such pain.

I've shared a lot of my painful past with you; the first marriage, the death of a granddaughter, molestation, the marginalized woman on welfare , the young woman staring out a window - so many snapshots of pain. You journeyed with me as my mother was laid to rest on a dreary cold winter morning. I've shared the pain of the present as well.

I have been cut off from my past for many year.. My past was cut off by many moves - to various places in Missouri, to North Carolina, to Connecticut, to Tennessee, to South Dakota - each place, I've left a piece of myself. Each place resulted in some loss and some gain. It's hard to be cut off from your past. it's hard because no one can echo as I share my memories. For me, the distance from the little girl in Brooklyn skipping, jumping, and bouncing her spauldeen, is very long. When I speak of her, it is like an old picture found at a thrift store - you wonder who they are, but you have no connection.

This morning I felt the joyful pain of walking to Sunset Park pool with my panties wrapped in a towel clutching my nickles. My husband listened patiently as I counted the number of blocks I walked and how I dug for the long blue ice in a freezer paying for it with my last nickle. I'd snip the top and hope that the long tube of sweet goodness would last as the sweltering pavement undid the coolness of the pool. When I got home, my tongue and mouth would be blue. He could only smile. He could not provide the echo of adding to the story. He could not talk of sitting on a stoop later in the evening as the sunset playing tag, hide and go seek, mother may I, statutes, or listening for the jingle of the Good Humor truck or the the melody of Mr. Softee.

As I looked at the picture of the pool realizing these were the very steps from which my little feet descend into the water. I thought it was like a baptism of love as my father held me, holding me up, teaching me to float and swim. But without an echo, the story falls on smiles that don't truly understand.

I often feel that my memories seem unreal. I know they are true but no one shares them with me. No one else was there - no one can answer back and say yes, and do you remember this? My memories had no echo. Of late, I've seen pictures of me at Sunday School picnics, ice skating at Prospect Park, getting ready to sing a special at church - oh how precious to see me at these places again.

I'm in the second row, the fifth from the left sitting next to the leader in the middle.
Somehow, I managed to be the only girl whose face is partially covered.

Yesterday my heart leaped. Another memory was validated and strengthened. Yesterday, I saw the little girl who walked the two blocks in a pale blue skirt and white blouse to 59th Street church. It was scary at first. I missed Sunbeams - now I would be a Pioneer Girl. New leaders who didn't know my name or my family - they were kind. They welcomed the shy little girl anyway.

As I looked at the picture my mind flashed to a cracked marble necklace. We fried marbles in their church kitchen transforming them into beautiful gems. I loved that necklace and wore it often. I posted my thoughts in our Brooklyn Norwegian Facebook group. Immediately it sparked a loving vision in someone else. She said - yes, and we dipped it in ice water and that's what made it crack. YES!!! I had forgotten. I thought it just cracked in the pan. Someone to echo a memory - at last.... what a wondrous thing. An echo, someone to say "yes, the leaders did say "catch-up" to make us form a line with our pilot and co-pilot."

I have echoes on Facebook. A mixture of people with the same memories of egg creams, black & whites, good pizza, and who understand me when I speak of my childhood. They can echo and I can echo, and together we form a symphony of nostalgia.

Yes, nostalgia brings pain, but it also brings joy.

Is It Too Late?

2011-10-13T10:47:00.000-05:00

One of the last things I do at night is take melatonin. I’ve been doing this for years. Did you know it is a good antioxidant? But that’s not why I take it. Coupled with watching TV in bed, it helps me turn off my brain. I think too much.

Sometime between 3 a.m. and 5 a.m. I usually have to go to the bathroom. It’s a by-product of age I suppose. I walk to the bathroom with my eyes closed. I never turn on the light. It would wake me up too much and I want to go back to sleep. Unfortunately, my brain has other plans. I start thinking again.

Last night I was thinking about blogging. I was thinking I should write a happy cheerful blog. I should write something so inspiring it even makes me feel better. Of late, I seem to be in a place of sorrowful self-reflection. The echoes of no follow my every movement.

A friend of mine posted on Facebook some sappy words about keeping positive – it wasn’t directed to me. It just was her new goals. It was all full of roses and platitudes… I have other friends who seem to have this ability. I don’t. I often wonder how they can turn off their humanity, or is that they are just better at life than I am.

I wrote several blogs in my head last night. Some I remember. Most are forgotten. One stands out. I was thinking about how I like to cook and bake. Someone recently mentioned that I should probably forget my doctorate, go to culinary arts school, and become a chef. Sometimes I use a recipe, especially for baking. I know that baking is basically a form of chemistry and measurements and temperature is exact. If I follow the recipe, unless there is a malfunction, the cake, or bread, will turn out good. It won’t flop.

But life isn’t like that. I wish it was. I wish there was a prescription that someone could give me so that what I am doing will be a success. Oh, it doesn’t have to be a success that the whole world sees. It just needs to give me that same feeling I get when I pull a loaf of perfectly baked bread out of the oven. Or the feeling I got as I put the last strawberry on my husband’s bløttkake last week. It’s that inner feeling of satisfaction, of accomplishment that is the measure of success.

Steve Jobs would agree – he told us to find what we love and go do it. Others have echoed the same formula for success and satisfaction. I love school. I love teaching. I love preaching. I love ministering to people where they live and where they hurt. But no matter what I try, there’s no place for me.

I watched a video today about social media. I try to stay on top of social media and technology. It is another passion of mine. I was pondering how I remembered using AOL 2.0. Now this old woman still has an insatiable oxymoronic hunger for technology. It was interesting to listen to the next phase in social media, Mightybell. I might try it. I’ve tried everything else as it came on the scene.

But something in the video pierced my soul this morning. The founder of Mightybell said, “you are what you do.” Is that true? Then I am nothing if it is … However, she also said that everything we do is a series of steps, one building on another. I thought yes, what is the prescription? What do I need to do next?

I don’t know. I don’t even know if I should keep writing. Or if I should stay in school? Or if I should just be an old woman and turn life over to the next generation. I have bills to pay for all the education I got; the education that was supposed to qualify me, at least on paper, to what I already do well without the “paper.” I believed for a while that it was more important to be than to do, but right now I'm not even sure I know how to "be."

Perhaps it is that I have a milestone birthday coming up in a few weeks. Even uttering the number makes me choke and cringe. I usually don’t utter it. But the truth is, I am old. My birthdate makes it official. And yet, it is so hard to give up the dream. I don’t want a rocking chair. I want a life of contribution and fulfillment. But is it too late?!

Wanderlust

2011-10-11T15:11:00.000-05:00

It was a full day yesterday; first I met our youngest daughter for lunch at a deli that serves great pastrami. Then I came home and made myself a NY Egg Cream – yum. Last night we had a late supper with our son. While the food was not as good as the deli, it was a great time of chatting. He was coming down off an adrenaline high from a major test at Med School. He was debriefing all the information crammed into his brain about cardiology and pathology. He amazes me sometimes at what he retains in his brain and yet, he is never quite sure how old he is… I think it’s that way with genius sometimes.

He had on a nice shirt. It was a “modified” western shirt. It had snaps and pockets but no yoke. It caused me to reminisce about some shirts I made for my older sons when they were little. One year for Easter, I had made my oldest daughter Bethany and I matching pinafore jumpers. Both went to the floor as “granny” dresses were in style. We both had a white shirt underneath. As I looked at the fabric I had left, I saw in my mind matching western shirts for her brothers. I went and got some muslin for the rest of the shirt and off I went to sew. The sewing wasn’t hard, but oh, those snaps. I had learned to pound snaps into place but it was always a challenge.

I so wish I had a picture of us in our family matching attire.

My son said to me, Mom you are really good at making things. Then he mentioned my latest time occupier, baking. The other day, I mentioned to a friend that I made jewelry too. Let’s see, what can I do – well, I’m an excellent cook. I’m a pretty good baker. I sew pretty well and have “designed” without patterns a few garments in my day – I was making most of my own dresses by the time I was in Junior High School. I can do home canning. My chutneys and salsas are to die for... I can make great soaps and potions. I mentioned the jewelry. I sometimes draw although I haven’t done that in a very long time. I crochet and somewhat knit. I fancy myself a good writer, but only you can judge that...I have always had this attitude that if it can be done, I can do it. And usually I’m right, I learn quick and do good work.

Yet why do I still feel like I have accomplished nothing in my life? Why does that nagging word “loser” still echo in my heart? There are many reasons I am sure.

An unsatisfied restlessness within me makes me want to prove that I’m worthy enough. It’s a terrible burden.

Some of you will find yourself in what I’m saying – you too have that unquenched desire for something that seems unattainable. You may not know what it is, but you are sure you'll know it when it comes. Others of you will say – what’s wrong with this woman, isn’t she ever happy? Some of you will say she has a spiritual problem - she'll never be worthy, only Jesus is worthy. I know that. That's not what I'm talking about - those of you who have this same restlessness know that...

Some will have a verse and mean well. Others will have a verse and judgment. A very few of you will just love me and pray for me.

I don’t need verses. I definitely don’t need judgment. I don’t know exactly what I need – I just know there is an aching restless frustration in my soul. There is something yet undone. There is something yet to fulfill. My ambitions, plans, and wishes at my feet in ashes lay… I don’t know anything left to surrender. And my clock is ticking – each day brings me closer to eternity. There is less time ahead of me than was behind me.

I suppose until God chooses to pick up my ashes and breathe life into them, there isn’t anything I can do but wait. Perhaps you look at me and say, can these dry bones live (Ezekiel 37)? I ask myself the same question... I am waiting... I have waited. The longer I wait, the deeper my restless soul cries out for satisfaction.

In the waiting, I say with Peter, where else can I go Lord? Only you have the words of life (John 6:68).

It takes bravery to follow Jesus

2011-10-06T10:47:00.000-05:00

I’ve been struggling with an unseen force in an area of my life for nearly two years. Every time I show up, it seems as if I have some scarlet letter emblazoned on my chest. I can’t figure it out. I’ve blamed it on a bunch of different things. I’ve soul searched and asked what am I doing wrong. I’m a likeable person. I like most people. I am open to all sorts of people. I am quiet unless you talk to me – that’s the “polite Norwegian” in me. I do realize that sometime people take that for snobbery but I tried the best I could. However, when the welcome mat is not out and an invisible sign says STAY OUT… you tend to just withdraw further into yourself. I’ve realized that I appear to have a chip on my shoulder at times. And I do, at times. It’s been a painful experience. It’s brought up all my insecurities and self-doubts.

I’ve found myself drinking at the well of self-doubts the last few days. I’m exhausted. I’m discouraged. I ask daily what the point is in everything. I’m smart. I have many gifts and talents. That’s not arrogance or a lack of humility. It just is – these are gifts from God and have nothing to do with me. I want to use them and the sound of doors slamming echoes in my brain through the day and night. I hear often those words: "you're a loser."

This is often how I feel when I walk into the environment where
I've felt such pain and rejection. Yet I keep walking anyway.
That's all one can do.

Yesterday I had one of those moments. Someone told me the core of this rejection I have been experiencing for the last year and half. It was one of those moments when the range of emotion went from What the ________? To I want to rip someone’s head off (not the person who told me the truth, but the source of this pain)-To that’s so unfair and wrong-To why is it so important to someone to make my life miserable?-To I want to just crawl up in a ball and cry. I honestly can't handle much more rejection in this life.

And ironically, this all stems from the words of Jesus about turning the other cheek and going the extra mile. I shared what I knew about the scripture at a time when it had come up in discussion. I didn’t say “Oh you don’t know what you’re talking about, you’re all wrong.” No I just simply pointed out that often this passage is misunderstood. It’s not about being a doormat or allowing people to abuse you. In turning the other cheek, you force someone to see you and treat you as an equal. It's about asserting your dignity as a person. It seemed harmless enough at the time. After all, it was my area of expertise. But I wasn’t cocky with my knowledge. But the perception was different. Perceptions were shared and people who never took the time to get to know me or anything about me formed opinions about me that have caused me very painful isolation. I would forever be viewed through a filter different than the truth.

But that’s not the point of the this blog. I am not saying “Oh poor me. I’ve been so misunderstood.” Had I wrote this yesterday, which I was wise enough not to, I would have wanted comments of sympathy and an outcry for the injustice being done to me. But not this morning.

As I tossed and turned early this morning, my nemesis’s face and name were calling from my wounded heart. I tried everything I could to put it out of my mind. I tried thinking about my husband’s birthday and the cake I would bake for him. I prayed about how hurt I felt. Nothing helped. Finally, I prayed for my nemesis. I prayed that they would be blessed. I prayed that they would do well in their endeavors. Almost immediately, I fell asleep.

Now I’m not some super-spiritual person nor do I pretend to be. I am very human and have long since given myself permission to be human. While I’m not particularly vindictive, and I usually am fast to forgive, this was different. I was praying for this persons well-being and blessing. It reminds me of some other words of Jesus. How ironic, they are part of the same passage that sparked this dilemma:

Luke 6:27-31 “But to you who are listening I say: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you. If someone slaps you on one cheek, turn to them the other also. If someone takes your coat, do not withhold your shirt from them. Give to everyone who asks you, and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back. Do to others as you would have them do to you.

This morning, I found a song coming out of my spirit. It’s an oldie (of course).

Lord, lay some soul upon my heart,
And love that soul through me;
And may I bravely do my part
To win that soul for Thee.

I thought, where did that come from? And then the Lord said, that's your answer. Just love. Return evil with good. That's a hard thing. It does require a bravery I'm not sure I have. There is still a part of me that wants to rip this person's face apart and say, do you know what kind of pain you've caused me? But... I won't. And with God's help, I'll love. I'll turn the other cheek. I'll go the extra mile. I'll need a lot of bravery and courage - the kind that only God can give.

When Is Tomorrow

2011-10-05T12:42:00.000-05:00

I’ve got so many thoughts floating around in my head. I sometimes use this blog to lament. I think some people see it as whining… but to me, it’s a lament. I’m trying to learn to have a bit more filters in my life and maybe become a bit superficial. How do you feel about that? Yes, I guess it would be easy to see that as a rhetorical question and since I do screen comments, I guess only I will know if you honestly answer me. But I do wonder and think I would like to know.

I used to feel that having people say I was real was a compliment. Now I wonder. I try to be very real. I hate phonies… I mean I really can’t stand them. You know the type – everything is wonderful and lets stroll through life with a song in our heart. It gags me.

Now some of you are the more spiritual type. That’s great… seriously, it’s really, really great. For those of you like that, you seem to have this deep faith that everything will be wonderful, no matter how bad it is, because God’s got your back. Okay, I do believe that. I’ve held on to God and faith with knuckles whiter than anyone else I know… seriously… that’s not an arrogant statement either. It’s true. IF YOU ONLY KNEW… I am a woman of great faith. Somehow, I just don’t care for that everything is wonderful all the time business.

Life sucks sometimes…. Okay, I have a dear friend who hates that word – sorry. But for the rest of us, isn’t that true? I mean even those of you who lead toward being a Pollyanna where the sun is always shining even when it’s not – if you were honest, you gotta know, life is rough. Does knowing that and admitting that I struggle with frustration, disappointment, and even anger at things in life make me not spiritual? Does it mean I don’t love Jesus? Does it mean I don’t believe in God? Or that I don’t have faith that ultimately God is in control and can take care of me?

NO…it doesn’t.

My latest lament has to do with a job. Okay, I don’t want to give you all the details but there was a possibility of a job and it fell through because of the same old song and dance-we had someone internal. What that means is someone knew someone…it means that the person who suggested me had less clout than the friend of the friend. Sometimes it also means, you’re too old for the job… trust me ageism is alive and well! But this time, it was just a form of nepotism – who you know and how much influence they have… this place, a private university is known for that – it’s all in who you know and their level of influence. And all of this was for an underpaid part-time job too!

On the heels of this, I get this email from a professor. I had mentioned that I had no realistic hope that what I was doing for the class would result in an opportunity. He told me to be encouraged, that no one but God had control of the doors that could open. Now I’m a realist. I thought ah-ha… sure… the dean, the president, the supervisors, etc… they are nice people, they are godly people, they have no problem taking my money and training me for jobs… but when it comes to a real open doors, they really do have control. If you aren’t on the most favored list the best you can get is a recommendation for someplace else… and even that is sometimes difficult. You know, they are very busy. (BTW, that was sarcasm.)

I could go on but that’s not the point – the point I wanted to make today is about being real, about admitting you hurt. What does the Bible say? Does it always say that you should sing and be merry? No, it says things like Jesus wept. It says that Jesus grieved for Lazarus – it sort of indicates that Jesus had real emotions – guess what, Jesus even got angry. Paul tells us to be angry and sin not… so if I’m angry, or if I’m hurt, I think it is okay to say so. And what about all those raw human emotions in the Old Testament. Solomon reminds us that there is a time to weep...

Seems God does know we are human and it's okay.

Maybe I’m too much like Martha today. Maybe I am saying but Lord, if you’d only show up. However, the clock is ticking for me – I’ve got a milestone birthday coming up that’s bothering me. Seems time for resurrection and new life in this life is going fast.

I guess I just will never learn to sing the Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow but I sure hope it does.

Unfortunately, tomorrow seems to always be a day (or two or three or four) away... it never comes.

And I guess, I'll always flunk superficiality. Would you like it better if I could learn it? If so, how do you do that and still be real?

New Citizens

2011-10-04T13:36:00.000-05:00

It was way too early to be in downtown Nashville. The traffic had not been too bad as we had left exceptionally early. However, downtown was coming alive as people were finding their way to work. The Federal Courthouse offered no parking. We found a public lot behind the building and paid an exorbitant $12 for parking. But the walk was short; it was worth it.

My shoes set off the security. It took three tries to gain entrance to the building. As we meandered the corridors to the elevator, it was obvious, this was a special day. Nervous and excited people were following the Naturalization Ceremony signs just as we were… As we got off the elevator, there were more signs. Finally, we saw the small crowd gathering. It was obvious we were in the right place.

There were so many smiles. Yet, the nervous excitement was palpable. Little children were dressed for a party. Mommies and Daddies did their best to keep the children in line. Finally, the door opened. We went in with the rest of the crowd.

I am an observer of people. I love people. They are so diverse and so interesting. What a wonderful place to watch the cultures of the world! I had been to this ceremony once before. It was many years ago in Connecticut. That day, my husband was sworn in as a citizen of the United States. Today it was his brother and his family who were to be sworn in completing their five-year odyssey into American life.

As I sat on the hard bench, one by one, the new citizens were called to the front. They signed documents and were given a place to sit. Sixty new citizens from 26 nations were naturalized that morning. Soon a judge would arrive and administer the oath...I was happy for all of them.

I wondered about my father’s naturalization ceremony. I wished I had asked him about it. But children never think of such things. He had been here many years before he was able to become a citizen. He would forgo trips home to see his family because once he left, he would not be able to come back. Before he had a wife and children, he worked for nearly 20 years part of the time to help send a sister and her children back home to Norway.

But the day finally came. There was some amnesty given and he took it. He became a citizen of the United States. I could picture my dad in a courtroom like the one I sat in on Thursday. He would have had his full suit on. He would have had his papers with him. He probably rode the subway or bus to get there. I don’t know if my mother or my brothers witnessed that day. I know it was an important day for him. I know he was bursting with pride. He loved Norway but I think he loved his chosen home more. He would say to other Norwegians who would talk of the old country – “if it was so wonderful there, why don’t you go back?”

As the judge on Thursday spoke of the responsibilities of citizenship, he mentioned voting. I thought yes, my dad must have heard that too – he never missed an election once he could vote. My mother to the contrary, although born in this country, never voted. She said it was all rigged anyway. She had seen slick politicians load the poor people into cars and tell them how to vote. She did make an exception to her no voting rule when my husband, a naturalized citizen ran for local elections (and won!).

My dad was probably one of the most patriotic people I ever knew. I wonder about these new citizens. As I looked at those that came full of eager anticipation, well dressed, and excited, I thought yes, most of these folks will contribute to this country. They are happy to be here. They stood in line to have pictures taken with the judge whose decrees made them new citizens. This day was special for them. They would honor the country they had chosen.

However, a few didn’t seem to have that same passion. Their clothes and demeanor spoke only of a process to be completed. They had no love of this country. They had no desire to contribute. Okay, I don’t know that for sure… but that’s what I thought I saw in their faces. I hope I’m wrong.

The judge said that he (and I and all of us born here) were fortunate to be citizens just by chance (or providence) of birth – these new citizens chose to be Americans. I understand his point, but I still think all of us need to choose to be Americans. We chose by contributing. We don’t all think alike. We are divided over politics and interpretation. Nevertheless, we live in a country where each person can live in relative peace, pursue a good life, and respect others - even those we don't agree with.

I chose to be an American.

A New Home

2011-09-25T13:47:00.001-05:00

I officially became a member of a local church this morning. It was a decision a long time in coming. Perhaps all my life has prepared me for this - it wasn't that big of a deal ... really... and yet for me it seems significant. It seems like one of those moments that I'll look back on and say - hmmm, that was milestone event.

I remember the first time I became a member of a local church. I was 13. I was actually too young by many standards. That church had strict rules about everything. They were Norwegian - Norwegian and rules and order often go hand in hand. I had spent my 13th birthday in the hospital. I knew I had committed my life to following Christ. I had been filled with the Spirit. I made my petition to the church elders to let me be baptized. I wasn't interested so much in becoming a member of the church but once they baptized you, you were a member. The question for them was not so much about whether I was eligible for baptism but whether I was eligible to be a member. In a surprising move, they decided to baptize me and make me a member of the church. The youngest person up to that time to be baptized.

The church had built a beautiful baptistery a short time before. It had a flowing picture of the Jordan for emphasis. The heavy drapes were pushed back, the tank filled, and down I went into the water. An older woman in the church was assigned to help me with getting prepared and she dried my hair when I was done. Much to the chagrin of all concerned, I didn't stay in the prayer room long enough that night. I went for ice cream at Helbergs with the "young people." I was 13.

When we left that church a year later, I became a "junior member" of the next church - their rules were different. When we moved to Missouri, after wandering to find a church, we settled on First Assembly under the leadership of the Rev. Charles Parker. I married that first year at the ripe age of 16. If you haven't read my story, click here.

I had a problem with their rules. Their rules required I sign a covenant card that said I wouldn't wear sleeveless dresses or pants (pants were men's attire), go to movies, play cards, smoke, drink, or mixed bath - the mixed bathing was my favorite. It meant I wouldn't swim at the same time as members of the opposite sex. I probably forgot something but nevertheless, I didn't want to sign the card. My husband was being welcomed as a member. Brother Parker came to me on the second row where we always sat and suggested I become a member too. I said, but I haven't signed the covenant card. He said, you can do that later. Later never came. I was hugged and given the right hand of fellowship anyway.

I've been member of a few other churches since then. All of them have been one or another type of Pentecostal/Assembly of God/Charismatic church. Today I was welcomed as a member of a United Methodist Church. It was odd how right it seemed.

When the Pastor called my name and asked me to come to the front to help serve the Lord's Table, I fought back tears. No one knew what was going inside of me. I hide things well. I was humbled to think that I had a place. I had a place at God's table not just to receive but to serve. As each person came by and dipped the Body and I said "the blood of Christ" - joy of inclusion overtook me. God's arms are always open because of the broken Body and shed Blood of Jesus, the Christ.

I don't know what God is up to - I do know I'm doing my best to follow Christ.

This has been an interesting week - the hint of a job, a new church home, and commissioning as the new Middle Tennessee Regional Coordinator for the National Day of Prayer Task Force. I was humbled at the prayer summit. I wondered how I got there... and yet, it seemed so right. I raised my hands in surrender to all God had for me to do - I received the blessing and the anointing for this assignment. As I said "I Will" this morning to pledge myself again to the cause of Christ and accept God's call to work in His vineyard through the United Methodist Church it just seemed so right.

On the Leash

2011-09-21T17:08:00.000-05:00

We have a sweet little dog - her name is Pebbles. She's really not my dog, she belongs to our daughter. However, of late, she's pretty attached to me and me to her. She may just be a sweet little chihuahua - and YES, some chihuahua's can be sweet... but she teaches me a lot.

I remember reading a book one time about worship. The author compared the dog's attention and focus on it's master to what it is to worship. It was a pretty good analogy. I think of it often when my dog is all over me wanting attention.

But there is something more about God, spiritual things, and life that Pebbles teaches me. Today as I was walking her in the yard I was thinking about the leash. Sometimes I'd like to just let her off the leash and let her run free. But I can't. It is really too dangerous for her to run free. We have neighbor dogs and she was attacked by one before - we don't have a lot of traffic but as small as she is... and then I worry if she'd go chasing something in the woods and get hurt. Besides, she has never run free in the yard.

I wondered if she liked the leash. I wondered if it made her feel secure. She's pretty obedient so if I yank on the leash and say come on, let's go in - she understands and obeys. Once, she didn't and insisted on going to one of the open areas near the house - she was right... she had "business to attend to" and I was rushing her. Otherwise, she always listens.

It made me think about how God sort of has us on a leash. I think we think we are wise enough to run free but in reality, we aren't. We have to trust that God knows our limits, knows what is safe for us, and trust the leash. I don't know about you but that's awfully hard for me sometimes.

Right now, she has nuzzled her way between under my arm. She is nuzzled there while I type - she just wants to be close to me... she knows I love her, care for her, and would never hurt her. Because of that, she welcomes the leash...

Jesus told us in Matthew 11

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."

I think that Pebbles rests easy with the leash, she knows she's safe. I think it is the same with Jesus - submitting to His leash keeps us safe.

Do you feel safe when you wear Jesus' leash? I do...

Malla Moe, Tante Ruth, and Saturday Chores

2011-09-15T11:49:00.000-05:00

Saturday morning after cereal out of a box while watching Popeye, Dudley Do-Right, Yogi, Rocky and Bullwinkle, and Bugs Bunny, I’d go to the kitchen. Under the sink were the dust clothes to be used for my weekly chore of dusting. I must have been in the First Grade at PS94 when my mother and father told me it was time to work. I was part of the family and my contribution was necessary. No more free handouts of money for candy. I had to earn my money.

Every week I would move the white elephant planter, the amber vase, the candy dish with candy for company only, and the furniture scarves to complete my job of dusting. For my labor, I received 50¢. Candy bars were only 5¢, for that same 5¢ I could get three long pretzel rods or a candy necklace, some wax lips or even a box of candy cigarettes. If I chose the latter I’d have to consume them all before I got home. Sugary candy cigarettes were forbidden. I might end up smoking.

I still have that white elephant planter and the amber vase. What I’d like to have is the scarves. They spoke so much of our world. Someone in my mother’s family had made a few crocheted ones. There were several from Norway that said “Hilsen Fra Norge.” As I'd flip them over, the stitches were as good on the back side as the front - a sign of good embroidery work. And then there was the one from Swaziland. Combined, these scarves told part of the story of our family.

Norway was always represented, we prayed in Norwegian, we sometimes sang in Norwegian, we ate Norwegian food. Everywhere I went I heard Norwegian. Hilsen fra Norge didn’t seem so far away.

We saw my mother’s relatives at least once a year. I feasted on such odd delights as pickled eggs and beets, Armatha’s amazing mashed potatoes and roast beef, we drank root beer that tasted so much better than Brooklyn’s, rode in cars, and went to see the battlefield at Gettysburg. One year, we even toured the original Hershey chocolate factory where they actually MADE the chocolate bars I loved. For months, I dreamed of swimming in those vats of chocolate. Long before Willy Wonka, I was dreaming of the chocolate factory.

But Swaziland? That was in Africa. On this simple furniture scarf were several lion cloth clad warriors with spears. While they didn’t look too intimidating, I’d always think of Tarzan movies that I would watch on TV on a Saturday afternoon. I wondered when was the last time they used their spear? Was it to kill a person or an animal? As I’d move the scarf, I’d think of my Tante Ruth. I had never met her. But she was very real in our house – it was if she was always there.

Tante Ruth was actually my cousin, but since she was so much my elder, she was always Tante Ruth. My father’s niece was a missionary. For 30 years, she labored in South Africa. She was sent from a mission board in Norway to spread the gospel. Several times a year, my father would gather all the religious material in our house, including my Sunday School papers and quarterlies, roll them, cover them with brown paper, tie a string on either end to secure it and off it would go to Africa. He would tell me that I was a missionary too.

My parents often talked of missions and missionaries. My mother took me to roll bandages and help with packing missionary barrels. One year, a book was given to me to read. The title: “Malla Moe.” I thought it an odd book and an odd title. All I could think about was Mallo Cups from the candy store. Malla Moe was Norwegian and a missionary for 55 years to Africa. She died in Africa. Her story told of hardship, long treks in the bush, sacrifice, and love for Jesus. Heaven will only reveal how many people came to Christ because of her. I wondered if my Tante Ruth dealt with such hardships.

Sometimes on Saturday afternoon, as we did some shopping on Fifth Avenue in Brooklyn, we’d hear music. It was a Street Meeting being conducted by the local Salvation Army Corp. There she was, Girly Johnsen – Captain Johnsen, then Major Johnsen in her bonnet and uniform. She was preaching the gospel on the street. She was asking people to come to the Corp worship service to hear more. She’d be preaching on Sunday morning as she was the commanding officer of that Corp. I saw a picture of her recently and it made me weep. She was bigger than life to me, the strongest of the strong, revered by my dad, a role model for a little girl who loved Jesus.

I suppose it never really occurred to me that as a girl, as a woman, I couldn’t preach the gospel. Recently, I have been told again that preaching is for men only. Does this mean that these great women of faith, who suffered hardship to spread the gospel to the neediest of people were sinning? Were the people who came to Christ through their efforts charmed and deceived by a woman only to meet with a fate of damnation in eternity? Or is it only “Western educated men” who can’t hear the gospel from a woman? It’s okay for simple heathen but the educated heathen need a man to lead…

I know the scripture better than most. I understand the arguments. But from my perspective, there are a lot of people who need Jesus – those that know Him and those that don’t – they need encouragement and love. They need the gospel. I’m following in the footsteps of giants – Malla Moe, Tante Ruth, and Major Girly Johnsen. It’s a call I’ve had since I was dusting furniture in Brooklyn. Nothing will stop me.

Maybe I'll go dust that white elephant planter and amber vase. I need to be reminded of strong women who didn't bow to the culture but bowed only to God, His will and His call.