True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 2

Normal is only a setting on the dishwasher. Still, every kid thinks her life embodies that word: normal is whatever surrounds oneself, day after day.

For this particular preacher's kid, the norm easily consisted of being at church eight times a week, usually sporting a polyester dress that came down to mid-knee and very possibly white vinyl strappie shoes (given my father's limited preacher's salary). This feat was admittedly made easier by the fact that our old light green parsonage, or our small strawberry patch, to be specific, butted up to the church's cement driveway. And our Christian school took over various portions of the church building Monday through Friday.

No one ever bothered to tell us that we virtually lived in the large brick church building, and for some reason, it never occurred to us. Here are just some of the activities we engaged in at church:

Probably up until age three or so you could find us in one of the nurseries, doing what every child did: sucking on plastic toys, running away from nursery workers, and falling asleep on the floor, graham crackers drooling out of our mouths.

There were a good deal of potlucks in the gym/multipurpose room, and it was there that we learned to appreciate fried chicken, the unidentified contents of fluffy jello whatchamacalit, and weak kool-aid. And it only took us a few years to discover the first rule of said smorgasboards: grab your dessert while you can, on your first pass through, or you might find yourself gazing longingly at leftover brownie crumbs.

AWANA, or the Wednesday night kids' program, had us running circles and relays in the gymnasium, reciting Scripture verses till we were blue in the face in the basement, and receiving coveted trophies with little people on them in the auditorium.

We listened to missionaries who came from places as far away as Japan and Australia and Africa, and thrilled to experience their slide shows, staring, fascinated at people who looked nothing like us or anyone we knew personally. They were colorful and full of adventure, and as far as I can remember, they all ended about the same: "The fields are white unto harvest, God is calling forth laborers, will you say: here am I, Lord? Send me?" All of this was perfectly biblical, of course, according to The Great Commission in Matthew 28 to go into all the world. (But we Baptists weren't quite so good at reaching out to those different from us in our own country. Apparently we hadn't yet found chapter and verse.)

Still, sometimes these "strange" people wandered into our lives through no fault of our own. One of them was a homeless fellow who must have come to the church building and elicited my father's compassion. I'm sure this was not an unusual occurrence, as people always need help and my father's heart was tender and generous. The spotty memories I have of this event are this: the man sat at our oval table, rough-and-tumble but trying to remember his manners, and eating cooked corn. I'm sure there was also meat on the table, but I can't picture it. I just seem to remember he was grateful and that observing his situation somehow made us more grateful for what we had.

And though I can't be sure this part is true, which means it could be just a dream, I recall sitting in the back of our brown Oldsmobile, with the man on one side, and me and my sister scooching as far as possible to the opposing side. I am not sure where he was headed or why we were transporting him.

Probably sometime after this event, I dressed as a hobo for halloween, which at the time seemed perfectly acceptable but makes me cringe now. Today I wonder if I didn't think that being a homeless wanderer was somewhat exotic and adventurous. At the very least, it was still foreign and mysterious to me.

And that is but a small part of the tale of my two childhood homes. The light green parsonage filled with frequent visitors, decadent June strawberries and mother's freshly baked bread, and warm memories. Parallel to the light brick church building, of course, with a smattering of stained glass, perpetual potlucks, and countless admonitions to go ye into all the world (King James Version, of course).

Nothing could seem more normal to a preacher's kid. Stranger yet, after years of my father receiving odd middle-of-the-night calls and the occasional charge to find a missing child or a herd of lost cattle, almost nothing would surprise me.

Stay tuned for part three...

True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 1

Each Sunday morning, come 11 am, you could find our whole family camped out in row two, opposite the gospel side, listening to the prelude and smiling at the preacher sitting up on the platform.

We were parked there, I think, mainly because my mother, armed with her stylish tortoise shell glasses, usually played the great brown organ located approximately six steps away from our pew. It's also possible that my dad, the assistant pastor who usually gave the announcements--those things he eventually renamed "opportunities"--wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible when ascending and descending off that stage. Then there's the best reason of all for making three Baptist pastor's daughters sit in the second row: there was little chance they would get distracted and a much greater probability they would sit still during the sermon. 

But if you visited our church one Sunday morning, you probably wouldn't even notice us sitting up there, not at first. Although the rest of the Baptist congregation preferred to be seated about halfway back, where the fire of the sermon would not leave them scorched, where they could be comfortable, while still moving forward in the process of sanctification. 

Here is the reason you wouldn't see us, and you have to trust me on this.

The carpet in this grand auditorium with its lofty ceiling and nifty drop down lighting, was gold. The pews? Vibrant purple and brilliant red. A fact we children did notice and comment upon early on, at which time we were told: "The decorations in this sanctuary were selected to mirror some of the elements of the tabernacle of the Lord." And that was sufficient for us, really. Soon they appeared absolutely normal, even mundane. (Though I would be curious to know what the casual visitor thought of the decor.) We were just grateful, I think, that they were padded. That's all that mattered to our backsides during the hour and a half service.

The bulletins announcing the order of service were a very blase tan with a brown drawing of the church building itself on the cover. "First Baptist Church," it read. And honestly I can't remember the slogan that accompanied it. The only thing that bulletin was good for was telling me that "A Mighty Fortress" was the next hymn and on which page in the book it was located. I sucked in my breath a little while waiting for the song leader to tell us if we would be singing verses 1, 3, and five. Or just two and four. I followed his conducting, as his arms waved toward the congregation,  and tried to hit every note like I was a professional.

I was only five, I think, when my voice got loud in church. I would sing those hymns with abandon and verve, and I think I got lost in the music every Sunday. Those rich lyrics sunk down into my marrow, and when I sit down to my piano today, I still remember them. Baptists back then never raised their hands in worship that I remember, but they were allowed to raise their voices and their hearts. And many of them did.

As many fundamental Baptist churches were wont to do back in the 70s and early 80s, each service included "special music." It was special because one person or two or three people would rehearse it especially to perform it in church. Except they wouldn't call it a performance. Oh, no. They would say "sister so and so will now minister to us in music," and then whichever pastor announced it would sit behind the woman while she approached the big pulpit, leaning forward toward the microphone, poised to croon her heart out to the congregation.

Many times it would be my father who announced this special music. As he sat down on the platform bench, we would look up at him and try to see what he really thought of this morning's special music by reading the look on his face.

Pastor Dick, as our father was called, would sit there, often in his polyester rust and burnt orange suit, with a pleasant smile on his face. And every few months or so, things really got interesting for us. 

I don't know who she was, except to say that she must have been trained in the operatic style. She seemed to wear blousy clothing to cover her ample frame, and she hit notes most of us could only dream about. Of all the special music performed in that church, I think my dad appreciated that style the least. And so we three girls would glance over at his facial features while the sister ascended into the high notes, with trills and frills. 

My father, to his credit, created a deadpan look that involved his mouth inching up slightly at the corners while his eyes slowly glazed over. I'm not sure if he was also gripping the binding of his dark Bible. But I like to think his inner monologue kept reminding him that special music could only last for about four minutes--five minutes, tops.

Perhaps, as those four minutes stretched on for what seemed like ten or fifteen, my father was daydreaming about the roast, potatoes, and carrots in the oven and how lovely it would be to top them with gravy. Perhaps he was thinking about the possibilities of a new outreach that would bring more people to the church. Perhaps he was asking God for forbearance. 

Whatever the case, special music always comes to an end. And the sermon begins.

Come back for part two...

The hard work of being still

Me thinks I doth protest too much.

When it comes to blogging, that is. I don't really like to blog except when wonderful things are happening around me. Or I am feeling wonderful. Or I have something exciting to announce. I tend to blog when I am losing something or gaining the love of my life, or happening on discoveries for the first time. I blog when I have an angle. 

And truth be told, even though I have a few angles lately, they are controversial and sometimes feel convoluted. To top that off, I just haven't had the energy or the want-to. How's that for honesty?

But today as I sit on our back patio with the sun generously beating down on me, filling me with warmth as the air carries the chatter of birds and the smell of lilacs, I think I actually want to blog. Or so I tell myself.

Lately, my energy levels have been quite low, due to the failure of my adrenal glands. And I don't even like to talk about this, to be honest. I'd rather be happy and healthy and ready for anything. Right now. Right this minute. I know that I still need to take it easy for a few weeks, but I'd much rather be parasailing or writing five hours a day or cramming some pre-seminary studies in. 

People quote a really important verse to me lately--"Be still and know that I am God." And it makes me want to grit my teeth and about half the time I want to tell them to buzz off. But in the next moment, I sigh and let the truth sink in:  we humans don't hear much of what God is saying because we can't be still; in truth, we hardly give God a chance to speak. I want to do better at this and my Creator is giving me a prime opportunity. 

The other day I hopped into the Sunbird, stopped to grab a sandwich, and headed for a blanket under a tree, next to a stream at a local park. I just wanted to enjoy the sun and to quiet the noisy voices that compete for our attention and to just be.

And I brought a book called Monk Habits for Everyday People that was quite fascinating to me---and I realize this sentence alone reveals something about me that makes me stand out from the crowd. I'm OK with that.

You see, monks tend to spend long stretches of time in silence, and they recite prayers from the Daily Office at least five times a day. They work each day doing menial tasks as well, and their work is part of their worship. They are celibate and chaste but they drink wine in moderation. They are known for their serious vows before God, but they are actually quite inclined to laughter. But that wasn't what interested me the most.

What stuck with me is that Benedictine monks believe that in this very moment, according to the gifts given to you by God, you ARE who God created you to be. It doesn't matter if you have a job title, if you lost your career or your ministry, your house or your spouse. There are two things the world looks to for success: fame and wealth, and as the monks profess, neither of these matter in God's economy. Strip your life bare, and you are a valued child of God with unique gifts for his service. And that is your true identity. The truest truth of all.

So here I was, lying on this blanket in the sun, and wishing that I felt 100%. It was hard to even calm myself to be OK sitting still for an hour or two. I know things are going on in the world and it feels like I should always be doing something. Except that I know not doing something creates a space for the attributes of peace, and charity, and mercy to be developed in me. "I really do want those good things in me, Lord," I pray. "But can't you hand them over instantly?"

Microwave spirituality really does not exist. Trust me--I've done my own research! And so I sit and ask God to move in my spirit and to show me how to receive his love and in turn, to love well.

If I am a daughter of God, uniquely gifted and called for service in His Kingdom, I am complete now, in this moment. Even if I don't have the energy to do 10 things today...even if I must put off a few tasks for a few weeks. Even if I see a need and I cannot presently fill it. Even when I get passed over or my gifts are not appreciated. No matter to God. His agenda for me is moving forward. Probably more so when I am completely still before Him.

And so, my calling will not be complete when I finish my seminary degree or get ordained as a chaplain or fill an official job opening. It will be complete when I yield to God in the present moment, asking Him to direct my paths for the next hour, the next 24 hours, or the next week. 

Sometimes God says rest, my friends. And when  he does, obedience is always the best option. And if right now, you are reading this with a smug smile on your face, telling yourself that God doesn't have anything to say to you on this topic, the truth is you are probably not listening. Not finding enough quiet time to hear His voice.

If you care at all about your relationship to your Creator and the process of becoming more like Him, I'd like to encourage you to do three things:

1. search His Word for the value God places on you and your gifts, regardless of your circumstance
2. review what the world/your boss/your best friend says about your value and your priorities and realign with the truth from God's Word
3. embrace a life where you learn you are valued just as you are--not for your productivity, not for your shrewdness, and not for your supermom, or superdad, or superemployee abilities

And if you really want to get serious make a list like this:

the world's opinions God's truth

-I am valued only for my productivity -God created me in His image and values me for who I am as His child, not what I do

etc.

Matthew 11:28-30 (The Message)

 ^28-30"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."