Nov 24, 2012
This is Wednesday - Kid Style
"Why do we need to learn about God and Jesus? I already learned it and know all about it," whined Luke just as I shut the classroom door. Steven quickly chimed in, "Yeah, why do we? It's boring."
Uh-oh, looks like it Sunday just became Wednesday for Sophia's Playground, the children's ministry I coordinate for a small church. My class of 4 to 7 year olds was about to stage a mutiny and I didn't see it coming. (I never do.) Could I survive this "onslaught" and still remain captain of the ship? I'd better think fast (and pray faster!)
Thoughtfully I said, "Okay. What do YOU want to learn about? " Luke's answer came fast. It was sharks and karate moves and fossils. Steven wanted to know how God created crayons. Claire thought we should learn about Princesses and Rachel agreed, "Yeah, Princesses!" Bella was quiet for a while then thoughtfully suggested that learning about faraway places would be good. "Or maybe we could just take a trip to the park," she offered. Only Sarah, who always assures me that angels surround all the time, differed, "But I LIKE learning about God and Jesus."
Humm, this not what I planned for tonight. My teacher's lesson book indicated that we were to study the story of Jonah on the boat in the storm, running away from Nineveh. There was nothing in the index about sharks, whales maybe, but no sharks. I couldn't find anything about karate moves, fossils, crayons, or Disney Princesses. I could be in trouble here, on a boat in a storm like Jonah. We were pretty comfortable with each other, these kids and I, and if they thought it would quell the storm they wouldn't hesitate to throw me overboard to the whales.
Unlike Jonah I wasn't running away. My planned lesson went back into my bag and I pulled out Genesis. I used the creation story to work in their questions about fossils and sharks, and how God granted us intellect to create crayons and dollies named Molly. We talked about "Princesses" like Queen Esther. By snack time we were fully engaged in the discussion, even Sarah came up with an offbeat question or two. The Spirit was certainly upon our little classroom.
I am thankful for having to throw that lesson plan into my bag and following where my heart was led. I am even more thankful that the large "Wednesdays" in my life brought me to my "little church job", a place I certainly would not be if I had followed my original "life plan." I am grateful for the little "Wednesday", grateful for children who keep me young, who challenge my faith and who assure me that angels are everywhere all the time and in all places.
Nov 22, 2012
Words - An Invitation
Looking back I often regret that I did not take Latin in high school. At the time I thought it was stupid and old fashioned. At 14 or 15 I certainly had no interest in being involved in anything that might be remotely considered old fashioned. The cool kids were not taking Latin and I wanted to be a cool kid. "What's the point of a dead language?" we all said. The value of studying Latin only became apparent to me as an adult. I no longer care if I am cool, hip or da bomb. It's still flattering if someone calls me cool, I'll admit, but it doesn't matter anymore. I am living by my own lights.
The older I get the more I like words and understanding their origins. Endlessly fascinating to me, is researching the Latin, Greek, Old English or other linguistic roots and meanings of a word. Inspired by my friend and wordsmith, Dody, who chooses and uses words in the most spiritual way, I have come to see that unexamined words are like birds in a tree. They fly by me most of the time and I don't really need to bother to identify them, to notice the details of what they really look like. When I get out my binoculars to look closely at the birds I can not only see their species, but I can also observe their behavior thereby making them more meaningful to me. And it can be that way with the words I choose. If I stop for a moment to examine a word at its root I can often use it in a way that is more potent for both reader(or hearer) and me.
Recently, I have been exploring being a catalyst. This word comes from the Greek kata, meaning “down” and lysis or “a loosening.” A catalyst is a person who can break ideas down and loosen up the energy within, thus being an agent for change. The catalyst is the means and vehicle for change, not the change itself. The change is already within the people waiting to be loosened and unleashed.
I am, by nature, a collaborative person. This is especially true when working on projects, creative and otherwise. When I began writing this blog I was thinking of it not only as a way of writing my story, but also as a way of reaching out to others whose lives have not gone the the way they planned. I wanted them and, by extension me, to feel less alone, less odd and less adrift on a sea of uncertainty.
Your feedback has not altered my goal, but rather has suggested that I am on the right track. While the site is mine, (meaning you can't use anything here without my permission and proper attribution), I would like it to also be a place where you can share your Wednesday stories. I hope that I, through this site, can serve as a catalyst for bringing forth your stories, your struggles and your joys as you find your own paths.
Please email me your This Is Wednesday stories at thisiswed@gmail.com
Nov 14, 2012
Quicksand Redux AKA I Hate When my Words Come Back to me
He'd given me fair warning. "If I get home before you do, I'm going to start cleaning out the vegetable bin," my husband said. It was late summer and we'd fallen behind, way behind, on our produce consumption. There were potential science experiments lurking at the bottom of the produce drawer. Something had to be done and someone had to do it. I would be spending the day at Joshua Farm, as I do every Thursday, and I'd be bringing home a load of fresh fruit and veggies, the payment for my labor.
Produce sucks me in, so gently and seductively, that at first I never see the warning signs. My mind gets busy spinning out scenarios on how I'll use all this loveliness, "Half dozen ears of corn, a bag of plums, zucchini, okra, onions, garlic and tomatoes, oh my. Sure I'll freeze those peaches and make a couple of pies. Watermelon, that will be good for desert. Never-mind that it won't fit in our refrigerator. I'm gonna pickle all that okra and make vegetable soup." I constantly misjudge just how much two people can eat in a week. Instead of paying attention to the signs that read, "DANGER. QUICKSAND. STAY ON PATH." I forge ahead. I can't say no. I have a plan. Suddenly, I am knee deep in tomatoes, peppers, and green leafy things; and sinking faster than I realize. I keep thinking, "...But, I'll freeze it. I'll try canning. I think I can dry this." In reality I have limited freezer space, never canned anything in my life, and have only ever dried herbs.
When I arrive home on that Thursday night, my husband is on his knees in front of the refrigerator throwing my plans into a box for the composter. The warning sign is way behind me now. My hip waders are filling with quicksand as I grab apples and peppers from the box. "Look," I say, "If we cut out the bad spots these apples can be apple butter and these plums aren't too bad either. It can be fruit butter, instead. These peppers are salvageable, just chop up the good parts, put them in baggies in the freezer." My husband is trying to speak reason to me. He is literally telling me to FLOAT, but I can't hear him as I snatch another soft peach from the box. I am not listening. I throw a pot on the stove, get out the cutting board and knife, attacking the fruit like a woman possessed by demons.
"Where is your stick?" he says,
I rage back at him as I furiously peel and slice fruit. "What? What on earth are you talking about? What stick?" I want to be eating dinner, not chopping fruit or having this inane conversation.
"Where is your stick, Woman? Quit flailing around like a crazy person," says he and at that moment I slice into my finger instead of the plum I was holding.
"Oow!" I drop the knife and grab my finger. Finally, I hear. "Oh, I hate when my words come back to me," I stammer as my husband places a paper towel over my bleeding finger. He says gently as his hand closes over mine, "I know." I lean back, relax my body and float; allowing myself to be hauled out of the muck.
Produce sucks me in, so gently and seductively, that at first I never see the warning signs. My mind gets busy spinning out scenarios on how I'll use all this loveliness, "Half dozen ears of corn, a bag of plums, zucchini, okra, onions, garlic and tomatoes, oh my. Sure I'll freeze those peaches and make a couple of pies. Watermelon, that will be good for desert. Never-mind that it won't fit in our refrigerator. I'm gonna pickle all that okra and make vegetable soup." I constantly misjudge just how much two people can eat in a week. Instead of paying attention to the signs that read, "DANGER. QUICKSAND. STAY ON PATH." I forge ahead. I can't say no. I have a plan. Suddenly, I am knee deep in tomatoes, peppers, and green leafy things; and sinking faster than I realize. I keep thinking, "...But, I'll freeze it. I'll try canning. I think I can dry this." In reality I have limited freezer space, never canned anything in my life, and have only ever dried herbs.
When I arrive home on that Thursday night, my husband is on his knees in front of the refrigerator throwing my plans into a box for the composter. The warning sign is way behind me now. My hip waders are filling with quicksand as I grab apples and peppers from the box. "Look," I say, "If we cut out the bad spots these apples can be apple butter and these plums aren't too bad either. It can be fruit butter, instead. These peppers are salvageable, just chop up the good parts, put them in baggies in the freezer." My husband is trying to speak reason to me. He is literally telling me to FLOAT, but I can't hear him as I snatch another soft peach from the box. I am not listening. I throw a pot on the stove, get out the cutting board and knife, attacking the fruit like a woman possessed by demons.
"Where is your stick?" he says,
I rage back at him as I furiously peel and slice fruit. "What? What on earth are you talking about? What stick?" I want to be eating dinner, not chopping fruit or having this inane conversation.
"Where is your stick, Woman? Quit flailing around like a crazy person," says he and at that moment I slice into my finger instead of the plum I was holding.
"Oow!" I drop the knife and grab my finger. Finally, I hear. "Oh, I hate when my words come back to me," I stammer as my husband places a paper towel over my bleeding finger. He says gently as his hand closes over mine, "I know." I lean back, relax my body and float; allowing myself to be hauled out of the muck.
Oct 9, 2012
On Hoarding, Quicksand, Grace and Writing
My dining room table is covered with half-read newspapers, books, unopened mail, notes and that Sunday School project prototype I'm gluing. There's a stack of cookbooks on the floor and a pile of unshelved CD's in the corner. The desk is scattered with receipts needing to be organized. Littering the floor are enough cat and dog toys to make someone think a toddler lives here.
The state of my dining room is a mirror to my mind, to my soul. For me, trouble in mind equals dirty dishes in the sink and stacks of paper on the table. I can't decide where to put things, what to keep and what to discard, what I'll never use again and what will be essential to me later. What if, what if, what if...
I have to write a blog post. I have to be at work in ten minutes. I have to clean up. It's driving me crazy. Someone's coming over later. I could cram it all in the closet. The closet is full. Why do I hang on to some of this stuff? Ack, I should be on an episode of "Hoarders."
It's all a little overwhelming at the moment. I'm a little overwhelmed at the moment!
I sit on the couch and stare into the dining room, my mind as cluttered as the table.
I am scared. I am procrastinating. I feel that familiar paralysis begin to set in. First the body and then the mind. This is territory I know all too well. The surface might look solid, but there is water flowing underneath making the soil of my life loose its friction. I tell my inner hiker to stay on the path for there is quicksand all around.
Is this a good title? Where should that paragraph go? Am I on the right track? Is this where the Holy Spirit is leading? Should I be looking for a "real" job?
Too late, I stepped into it. My husband always hikes with a stick, but I don't know where mine is today. The sand covers my ankles and gently pulls me in. It might not be too deep. If I retrace my steps, I could back out of this now.
Should I spend more time with mom and sister? Can I pay these bills this week with what's left in the bank account? Can I afford health insurance? What if I get sick?
In a flash, I'm up to my knees and sinking fast, but if I just try to push on I'll be okay. Solid ground is just up ahead.
Will I ever finish that scarf and beading project idea I started? Can I ever retire? The bathroom needs painting. I never should have torn out the kitchen floor without a plan to replace it. I never get anything done. I never finish anything.
Cue the Ennio Morricone Spaghetti Western soundtrack as I'm sucked down to waist level. Flailing around with my arms I forget everything I've ever learned about quicksand. My inner hiker is in panic mode only now.
My business venture failed. Should I delete this sentence? Will anyone read it? Does it matter? Why did I commit to doing this? It's too hard. Will I ever write anything again?
As I sink up to my armpits, I feel that choking anxiety in my throat as the quicksand of self-doubt presses around me. Desperately I thrash about for something, ANYTHING, to hang onto. What will I do? How will I survive?
GRACE. Those moments of GRACE that save me.
Unbidden in conversation my friend John says, "Your writing is a wise testimony for others. Don't worry about it. Just let it FLOW from the Spirit through you." And he prays for me right then and right there where we are standing.
It dawns on me. I remember that I am denser than water, denser than quicksand. What I learned comes flooding back. I CAN FLOAT, spread myself across the muck and FLOAT. I'm not out of this yet, but I'm not sinking.
Having Saturday morning breakfast with Bob, I tell him I am trying to follow my heart. "You seem calmer, happier somehow," he shares. I worry aloud that I won't ever be able to put fingers to keyboard again and have it make sense. Smiling, he quips, "So does Salman Rushdie!"
GRACE. Looking up I see a low hanging branch. Was it always there? I paddle slowly, but steadily, toward it.
My sister, who has a gift for making beautiful handmade cards, gives me a card of encouragement about manifesting dreams and not letting age, resources or timing limit one's vision. On the back she printed a Bible verse from Habakkuk, "Write the vision, make it plain on tablets..." She checks in on me to see how I am doing with my "Vision Board."
GRACE. AGAIN GRACE. I can see what looks like solid ground.
I read these words, "...without knowing it I can let myself become overwhelmed...I have believed the lie...I have given up fighting...I have felt sorry for myself," written by my younger and wiser friend Aletheia over at [according to aletheia].
MORE GRACE. I reach the branch, climb out of the pit and onto the path again, astonished that I did not realize that sometimes I can CHOOSE to NOT be overwhelmed. Like Aletheia, this is, now, one more thing I DO know.
Special thanks to Doug Gelbert, author of my favorite Doggin America and Bark in the Park series of books, from whom I learned SOME of what I know about quicksand. If you like hiking with your dog visit Doug's website
http://www.hikewithyourdog.com/
The state of my dining room is a mirror to my mind, to my soul. For me, trouble in mind equals dirty dishes in the sink and stacks of paper on the table. I can't decide where to put things, what to keep and what to discard, what I'll never use again and what will be essential to me later. What if, what if, what if...
I have to write a blog post. I have to be at work in ten minutes. I have to clean up. It's driving me crazy. Someone's coming over later. I could cram it all in the closet. The closet is full. Why do I hang on to some of this stuff? Ack, I should be on an episode of "Hoarders."
It's all a little overwhelming at the moment. I'm a little overwhelmed at the moment!
I sit on the couch and stare into the dining room, my mind as cluttered as the table.
I am scared. I am procrastinating. I feel that familiar paralysis begin to set in. First the body and then the mind. This is territory I know all too well. The surface might look solid, but there is water flowing underneath making the soil of my life loose its friction. I tell my inner hiker to stay on the path for there is quicksand all around.
Is this a good title? Where should that paragraph go? Am I on the right track? Is this where the Holy Spirit is leading? Should I be looking for a "real" job?
Too late, I stepped into it. My husband always hikes with a stick, but I don't know where mine is today. The sand covers my ankles and gently pulls me in. It might not be too deep. If I retrace my steps, I could back out of this now.
Should I spend more time with mom and sister? Can I pay these bills this week with what's left in the bank account? Can I afford health insurance? What if I get sick?
In a flash, I'm up to my knees and sinking fast, but if I just try to push on I'll be okay. Solid ground is just up ahead.
Will I ever finish that scarf and beading project idea I started? Can I ever retire? The bathroom needs painting. I never should have torn out the kitchen floor without a plan to replace it. I never get anything done. I never finish anything.
Cue the Ennio Morricone Spaghetti Western soundtrack as I'm sucked down to waist level. Flailing around with my arms I forget everything I've ever learned about quicksand. My inner hiker is in panic mode only now.
My business venture failed. Should I delete this sentence? Will anyone read it? Does it matter? Why did I commit to doing this? It's too hard. Will I ever write anything again?
As I sink up to my armpits, I feel that choking anxiety in my throat as the quicksand of self-doubt presses around me. Desperately I thrash about for something, ANYTHING, to hang onto. What will I do? How will I survive?
GRACE. Those moments of GRACE that save me.
Unbidden in conversation my friend John says, "Your writing is a wise testimony for others. Don't worry about it. Just let it FLOW from the Spirit through you." And he prays for me right then and right there where we are standing.
It dawns on me. I remember that I am denser than water, denser than quicksand. What I learned comes flooding back. I CAN FLOAT, spread myself across the muck and FLOAT. I'm not out of this yet, but I'm not sinking.
Having Saturday morning breakfast with Bob, I tell him I am trying to follow my heart. "You seem calmer, happier somehow," he shares. I worry aloud that I won't ever be able to put fingers to keyboard again and have it make sense. Smiling, he quips, "So does Salman Rushdie!"
GRACE. Looking up I see a low hanging branch. Was it always there? I paddle slowly, but steadily, toward it.
My sister, who has a gift for making beautiful handmade cards, gives me a card of encouragement about manifesting dreams and not letting age, resources or timing limit one's vision. On the back she printed a Bible verse from Habakkuk, "Write the vision, make it plain on tablets..." She checks in on me to see how I am doing with my "Vision Board."
GRACE. AGAIN GRACE. I can see what looks like solid ground.
I read these words, "...without knowing it I can let myself become overwhelmed...I have believed the lie...I have given up fighting...I have felt sorry for myself," written by my younger and wiser friend Aletheia over at [according to aletheia].
MORE GRACE. I reach the branch, climb out of the pit and onto the path again, astonished that I did not realize that sometimes I can CHOOSE to NOT be overwhelmed. Like Aletheia, this is, now, one more thing I DO know.
Special thanks to Doug Gelbert, author of my favorite Doggin America and Bark in the Park series of books, from whom I learned SOME of what I know about quicksand. If you like hiking with your dog visit Doug's website
http://www.hikewithyourdog.com/
Sep 26, 2012
Today is Wednesday
I'm a coward and I'm a procrastinator. For most of my life, at least
since the age when I could read and write, I have been fearing
Wednesday. And so I've been putting this "writing thing" off, despite
the suggestions of friends, family, teachers, even the urgings of my own
heart. I have spent decades trying to avoid being myself and trying to
drown out that small voice that says,
It wasn't actually Wednesday, it was Monday by the calendar that particular morning. This Wednesday wasn't governed by the normal constraints of our clock time either, it lasted about three years. They say, whoever THEY are, that you should write what you know. THIS is what I know.
Some years ago, as part of my work with an anti-racist community, I was a co-facilitator for a week-long training. While finishing up our outline and training materials, one of the older (and wiser) members of the community remarked, "Ok, I think we have everything, but then there is Wednesday." She must have seen the look on my face, because before I could ask, "What's Wednesday?" she was explaining that Wednesday is the day all our training plans fall apart. Having never been a trainer for a workshop of this length before, I asked my co-trainer Dody what we'll do then. She quietly and patiently replied "It's when they all revolt. There is nothing we can outline for that. You just need to go with it when it happens." I know, at the time, I did not grasp that it wasn't IF it comes apart, but rather WHEN.
In the initial stages of the training the participants soaked it up like a sponge, but on Thursday morning everything seemed to come unglued. The participants turned on us. They began to push-back, attack us, and question everything we said. I was stunned. It had all gone so well, according to plan. I couldn't imagine that they didn't GET IT. I couldn't imagine that I didn't GET IT. Dody passed me a small piece of paper which read, "THIS is Wednesday." That little note, now yellowed with age, has remained on my home office bulletin board where I placed it before I climbed, exhausted, into bed that night. I always thought it would serve as a reminder for future training workshops. Little did I realize then how that tiny slip of paper would become a metaphor for what happens in life, or at least what has happened in my life.
I left high school with my life outline and my folder full of "training" materials tucked under my arm. There was the Wednesday when I was sexually assaulted my first month in college, the Wednesday in my 28th year when my father died, the three Wednesdays when our house was flooded, the Wednesdays I was laid off, the Wednesday my only sister was diagnosed with cancer and a host of smaller Wednesdays until finally, the BIG Wednesday when my business failed. At a time in my life when many of my friends are ready to retire, there I am on Wednesday searching for a job. While those around me are talking about where they'll travel now that they've retired I am deep in debt on a Wednesday.
So my plans didn't work out and every time, I am stunned. I kept going back to that folder of "training materials." But the night I went to my office to find that my key would not work in the door, I sunk down on the porch steps and wept. I climbed into my bed that night, exhausted. When the sun came up the next morning I knew it was WEDNESDAY again. This one lasted for years.
Finally it began to dawn on me that the other side of Dody's note was BLANK. I remembered her calm voice saying, "You can't plan for it. You just have to roll with it when it comes." We survived that training all those years go as did the participants. Some of us came out stronger than ever before. I've chucked that yellowed "life outline" and the folder full of battered "training materials" in the recycle bin and shredded the confidential stuff. I just need to roll with it. I've stopped worrying that I don't know what I'm going to be when I grow up. I have promised myself that I will no longer cringe when someone asks, "What kind of job are you looking for?"
I'm going to follow the leadings of my heart. I am going to listen to that little voice inside that says:
"You aren't using your God-given talents. You aren't doing what you can do best."And then I woke up one morning to the stark and unavoidable realization that it was WEDNESDAY.
It wasn't actually Wednesday, it was Monday by the calendar that particular morning. This Wednesday wasn't governed by the normal constraints of our clock time either, it lasted about three years. They say, whoever THEY are, that you should write what you know. THIS is what I know.
Some years ago, as part of my work with an anti-racist community, I was a co-facilitator for a week-long training. While finishing up our outline and training materials, one of the older (and wiser) members of the community remarked, "Ok, I think we have everything, but then there is Wednesday." She must have seen the look on my face, because before I could ask, "What's Wednesday?" she was explaining that Wednesday is the day all our training plans fall apart. Having never been a trainer for a workshop of this length before, I asked my co-trainer Dody what we'll do then. She quietly and patiently replied "It's when they all revolt. There is nothing we can outline for that. You just need to go with it when it happens." I know, at the time, I did not grasp that it wasn't IF it comes apart, but rather WHEN.
In the initial stages of the training the participants soaked it up like a sponge, but on Thursday morning everything seemed to come unglued. The participants turned on us. They began to push-back, attack us, and question everything we said. I was stunned. It had all gone so well, according to plan. I couldn't imagine that they didn't GET IT. I couldn't imagine that I didn't GET IT. Dody passed me a small piece of paper which read, "THIS is Wednesday." That little note, now yellowed with age, has remained on my home office bulletin board where I placed it before I climbed, exhausted, into bed that night. I always thought it would serve as a reminder for future training workshops. Little did I realize then how that tiny slip of paper would become a metaphor for what happens in life, or at least what has happened in my life.
I left high school with my life outline and my folder full of "training" materials tucked under my arm. There was the Wednesday when I was sexually assaulted my first month in college, the Wednesday in my 28th year when my father died, the three Wednesdays when our house was flooded, the Wednesdays I was laid off, the Wednesday my only sister was diagnosed with cancer and a host of smaller Wednesdays until finally, the BIG Wednesday when my business failed. At a time in my life when many of my friends are ready to retire, there I am on Wednesday searching for a job. While those around me are talking about where they'll travel now that they've retired I am deep in debt on a Wednesday.
So my plans didn't work out and every time, I am stunned. I kept going back to that folder of "training materials." But the night I went to my office to find that my key would not work in the door, I sunk down on the porch steps and wept. I climbed into my bed that night, exhausted. When the sun came up the next morning I knew it was WEDNESDAY again. This one lasted for years.
Finally it began to dawn on me that the other side of Dody's note was BLANK. I remembered her calm voice saying, "You can't plan for it. You just have to roll with it when it comes." We survived that training all those years go as did the participants. Some of us came out stronger than ever before. I've chucked that yellowed "life outline" and the folder full of battered "training materials" in the recycle bin and shredded the confidential stuff. I just need to roll with it. I've stopped worrying that I don't know what I'm going to be when I grow up. I have promised myself that I will no longer cringe when someone asks, "What kind of job are you looking for?"
I'm going to follow the leadings of my heart. I am going to listen to that little voice inside that says:
"Be still and know that I am God. Do not be afraid. Do not wait. Use your talent. Do what you do best. It doesn't matter that it took you decades. It doesn't matter that you are in debt. It only matters that you begin NOW. Remember Wednesday, but write your own story on the blank side."
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