Why I Throw Away Negative Letters (And You Should Too)

Earlier this week, my husband and I decided to finally tackle the black hole of junk that is technically our craft room. Most homes have one of these (churches often do as well): the place where stuff you think you’ll use/need at some point goes for an eternal retirement.

As happens, then, the craft supplies we might be able to use had been subsumed in stuff.

We’ve cleaned the room before…and were getting along fine with it—it was still searchable. Until we took in boxes…of stuff…when my father and brother died. First there were books. So. Many. Books. Then an assortment of other stuff, including all the papers and mail we’d hastily cleared out of my brother Dan’s house after his suicide. We needed to get it out of there, but also knew we’d need to sort through it all.

There were two remaining boxes of Dan’s papers in the craft room. So as I finished sorting all the other stuff, my husband Chris dove into the papers. The papers included junk mail, bills, sermon notes, prayer request notes, etc. Dan didn’t have any of this organized. Then again, we basically threw papers into boxes so maybe at one point some of it was organized.

If you’ve followed my blog at all, you’ve heard me talk about Dan before. In fact, truth be told, since his suicide Dan is one of the topics that most often comes up in some way on this blog. So you may have heard me talk about the great complexity of the issues Dan was facing. In no way do I think one thing, let alone one person led to his decision.

But in his papers in those boxes, we found a letter.

It’s a letter most pastors will be familiar with. Most of us have received something like it, sometimes more than once (or a few times).

You know the drill…”Dear pastor, I don’t like you. It’s not just your way of doing things I don’t like, mostly I don’t like you. I can’t worship at my church anymore. Until you leave. Shame on you.”

So those weren’t the actual words, but you get the point. Sadly, the words were pretty close to those.

Not a mere statement of facts, but a personal attack.

My favorite part (and this is an actual quote): “I am not a mean person, but…”

Hint to letter writers (or you know, people in general): If you have to preface something you’re about to say with “I’m not a mean person, but…” then yes, you are likely a mean person. Offering constructive criticism is not mean. Saying it in a mean way or personally attacking someone…is mean.

Other similarly ridiculous comments (which you should never ever say or if you are tempted to say, stop before you say whatever is about to follow):

I’m not a judgmental person, but…

I’m a very funny person…

Not to toot my own horn but…

Really, anything follow by "but..."

Now, I am a fan of constructive criticism.

Okay, “fan” might be an exaggeration.

I know the value of constructive criticism. I’ve learned a lot from it, and maybe sometimes I’ve offered it to others.

But you know what constructive criticism isn’t?

Belittling.

Mean.

Something you wouldn’t say to someone’s face.

If you wouldn’t be willing to say it to a person’s face, you don’t have the right to passive aggressively write it to them in a letter. If you think your tone would offend them in person, then let me tell you, it certainly will in a letter.

Some of my greatest lessons about accepting criticism came from my father.

In college, I applied to be a resident advisor. You know, one of those conscientious students who help oversee the dorms.

I was an oldest child par excellence. I had this overseeing thing in the bag.

I was MADE to be an RA.

Except I wasn’t hired.

After individual and group interviews, I was told I was an alternate. That meant I had to go through ALL the training, with just the possibility of being hired.

I was devastated.

I remember talking with Dad on the phone. He did the loving father thing and pointed out that they’d at least selected me as an alternate. Then he asked the question I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask: “Well, why didn’t they offer you a position?” I explained I didn’t know. The letter didn’t say. He suggested I ask. He said I should ask and just hear what they had to say. Not be defensive, but just listen. So I did. I made an appointment with the Director of Residence Life and I asked him. And bless him, he told me. Directly. He explained various areas where they thought I needed to grow, including that I dominated the group session. I listened, thanked him, then left and called Dad.

I was upset.

What does he mean I dominated? Aren’t they looking for leaders?

Dad asked me why I thought that may have been a problem. He also asked me how I could use those same skills as strengths. Dad helped me understand that we are who we are, but all of our strengths can be weaknesses if unchecked. Also, some people just won’t click with us. And that’s ok too. But that I needed to decide if I thought I could grow here.

So I stayed in training. And when a position opened before the fall semester started, I was given the position.

A few years later, as a supervising RA my senior year, I sat in an info session for students considering applying to be an RA. The Director of Res Life was there, as were a few of the students I’d come to know well as we’d worked together in Res Life. A prospective RA asked about the process, and followed up asking about alternates.

It was then that I learned why I’d been hired. The story I’d never heard before.

The Director of Res Life explained that I had some areas I’d needed to work on when I was interviewed. But I did something very important: I came and asked for feedback. And he and other supervisors saw that I worked on those issues during training. They knew I had and was willing to take constructive criticism.

I will tell you that I am a better person today for that experience than I would have been, I am sure, had I been hired right away. Of that I am positive.

Constructive criticism can be life changing.

Mean and belittling comments can also be life changing.

That’s why I throw away negative notes and letters.

The first thing, honestly, is that once I (or I suspect, anyone) receive a negative letter, I don’t need to look at it ever again to remember what it says. You can get ten positive notes, but the negative one will be the one that sticks with you.

I don’t mean constructive criticism, I mean mean letters. Letters that don’t build up, but which tear down. Letters which make personal attacks out of issues that could be directly and far less emotionally addressed.

Now, some letters you need to keep. I serve as a chair of a District Committee on Ministry, and I save everything. There might be other types of stuff you have to keep no matter what. But do just that. Keep it. Somewhere you aren’t tempted to open. And don’t ever look at it again. Ever. No really, I’m serious.

Sometimes you need to share a copy with a supervisor. Yes, do that. Note to clergy: if you can get a heads up to your DS, do that. I once got to beat a parishioner to a DS with the negative letter she’d written to the DS but gave me a copy of first. So get it to your supervisor, and quickly.

Now, sometimes people write letters because they’d tried to talk to you and feel you haven’t responded. Sometimes they’re right, sometimes you’re right, sometimes you’re both wrong. But letters should never contain personal attacks.

I learned this from being an RA, as it happens. When you write an incident report, you simply state the facts. You leave emotions out of it. There were many times I accompanied an incident report to my supervisor with a verbal footnote about it, but the case was to be handled by the facts at hand.

The second reason I don’t keep negative emails is that a letter just captures one point in a relationship. I can’t tell you how many times I have had a falling out with someone but later resolved it (or vice versa). There are times when, had I written a letter capturing my emotions, I would regret it two years later. And I wouldn’t want that person to still have the letter. I have written letters and emails like that. I regret all of them.

Actually, sometimes I do save the ones I’ve written, as a reminder not to do it ever again. I still need the reminders sometimes.

So folks…especially my clergy colleagues, and especially our newest colleagues: seek constructive criticism. Learn how to offer it as well. But please learn to discern between people who have a valid point and people who are just being mean. Or who need to grow up before you take them too seriously. You will need other people’s guidance and wisdom on this, because you will be tempted to discount some people’s opinions because you simply disagree, or take seriously someone’s comments because they know how to push your buttons too well.

Lay people: please follow the golden rule when speaking with your pastor. Treat them how you’d want to be treated. Better yet, treat your pastor how you’d want your child (or niece, or nephew, etc.) to be treated if they were a pastor. Seek to build up each other, not tear down. And recognize (as pastors need to recognize as well) that you may have emotional investment in a situation beyond whatever is happening between you and the pastor. And in that case, maybe they’re not the appropriate punching bag for your angst.

Speak with each other in love. And please, for the sake of everyone, if at all possible, do so face to face.

You know why? Because that’s what Jesus told us to do.

Matthew 18:15-20

Jesus is constantly calling us to healed, whole and restored relationship. So why on earth would we seek to change anything in a relationship without doing so in a way that builds up relationships?

So let’s try to engage with each other authentically. Constructively. And in love. You know, Jesus-style.

My Brother Daniel and Gun Violence

My brother Daniel was the victim of gun violence.

That he was both the perpetrator and victim of the act that ended his life is part of the sad complexity of suicide.

That he used a gun he had purchased legally to protect himself from other people is the irony.

We grew up in a household that did not have guns. I have never witnessed the live firing of a gun. If Dan had, it had been sparingly. But after his house was broken into by a drug addict, and his basement door went un-fixed for a period of time, he was scared. I told Dan to get the door fixed. He thought, perhaps because our culture tells us this is the answer, that a gun was needed. And then two.

You see, when you hear the statistics bantered around in the debate about gun control/laws/rights, I know those numbers include someone I loved dearly. 

Some people believe that they and/or others have particular rights which carry more value than my brother’s life.

Now, that position is not without merit. As a Christian, it is certainly part of Jesus’ example and the witness of the Church that sometimes an individual’s life should be sacrificed to a greater good. 

But I do not believe that is the case here.

The truth is, I don’t know what the right answer is about how to appropriately regulate ownership and use of guns. I recognize that our nation was founded by the conviction that a monarch and his authorities should not have total control over people. That is why, indeed, our nation was established as a democracy (well, a republic, but still…)

While I do not know what if any gun laws would have prevented my brother from legally purchasing the shotgun he took his life with, I struggle to understand why it is harder to own and maintain a car than it is a gun. I have great respect for the gun owners I know—and I know many. My congregation is located in an area where hunting and independence are part and parcel of the culture and identity.  That culture and identity involves a care for self and others that provides a healthy structure to the ownership and use of guns.

I also struggle to understand why anyone would need high-powered and/or automatic weapons. I hear some argue that they feel a need and/or have an inherent right to defend themselves even against the government. What I struggle with, though, is seeing the military grade machinery and weapons that the US military has surplused to local police departments. As in, the military as TOO MANY of these items and is just doling them out. I struggle to see, even if there were someday to be such a need, how a couple large guns could hold off the force of the US military. 

Many people, and rightly so, will point out that if Dan was determined to take his life, he would have found a way. That is true. There are many ways to make the horrible decision Dan did. But to say that his access to a gun did not lead to his death ignores not what we know about guns, but what we know about suicide.

You see, many (perhaps even most) suicides are acts of opportunity (in the midst of desperation and depression). Those who have spoken with people who have attempted and survived suicide attempts say the survivors shared not a sense of decisiveness which led to the act, but a feeling of ambivalence. So indeed, it is very likely that for Dan, and for others who have taken their own (and perhaps this carries to those who take others’) lives with guns, if a gun was not readily available, he may have survived that night and gotten help the next day.

Or not.

But we’ll never know.

Men are statistically far more likely to be successful when attempting suicide.

Do you know why?

Because they choose guns as their method of choice at a far higher rate than women do.

We have to find a way to have a discussion about priorities and realities around gun ownership and use. We cannot afford to dig our heals in and refuse to hear what people with other opinions on this matter have to say. I recognize that my childhood (in)experience with guns is not the same background as many others. But I believe there are many things we can find common ground on. 

We cannot refuse to listen. To have the discussion.

And perhaps even (all of us) be open to think about some things in a new or more nuanced way.

We cannot put people’s lives at the bottom of a long list of political talking points. 

My brother Dan was more than a number. I am determined that he will be remembered as more than just a statistic. 

We must find a way to move forward in a new way—the same way God promises in Isaiah 43:19, “I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”

Let us seek a new way. God’s new way forward.

The Power and Importance of Showing Up

Today the US (well, maybe just my little bubble here in the DC metro area…but you know, it seems like everyone) is all aflutter with the visit of Pope Francis to Washington, DC.

Traffic is diverted. Stores shelves have been cleared of the holy trinity of (natural and man-made) disasters (bread, milk and toilet paper). DC residents are staying home, or lining parade routes.
News media is doing back to back coverage of this scientist and pastor from Argentina who happens to have a visible job (even though his job doesn’t include overseeing most of us—well, there is a theological and pastoral discussion here, but moving on…).

Pope Francis has been Pope for a little over two years. In that time, he’s been discussed in the US, to be sure. His manner and approach has seemed a breath of fresh air, even though many point out his views don’t reflect much change from previous popes. He’s cool though. We like him.

But we didn’t care this much till he showed up. SHOWED UP!!!

Yes, we and Zacchaeus share much in common. Jesus was great and all, but it wasn’t until Jesus decided to show up at Zacchaeus’ house that Zacchaeus’ life began to really change. (Luke 19:1-10)

It is a rule of human interaction that showing up tells us what matters to someone. The anecdotal evidence of this in our own lives and in society is legion.

The parent who doesn’t show up at a child’s game.

The romantic partner who skips out on a planned date.

The friend who doesn’t come when a friend is in need.

Showing up matters. And it makes a difference. Because we can’t be part of what is happening if we don’t show up. Even in a world where technology gives more options for connecting, being present (even if on the other end of a video chat) matters. Even with those technologies though, and maybe all the more so because of them, it matters to us when someone shows up. Because it tells us we matter.

Showing up is more than being physically present, but it starts there. We’re not all worked up and excited about Pope Francis because he’s Facetiming with us. We’re excited because he showed up.

Have you ever expected someone to show up but they never did? And later, they offered no explanation, or simply said they got busy, distracted, etc. How did you feel? I bet you felt unimportant. I would guess you felt that you mattered a little bit less than you had previously thought.

Showing up matters.

We know this because we know how it feels when someone else doesn’t show up for us.

At Arden, we’re walking through a sermon and study series using Jim Harnish’s book A Disciple’s Path. This series looks at what it means to be (and grow as) a disciple of Jesus Christ, using the five elements of the membership vows in the United Methodist Church: prayers, presence, gifts, service and witness.

This Sunday, we’re looking at presence.

Showing up.

Showing up as a disciple of Jesus Christ means being present with our brothers and sister in Christ. It means being part of worship. And study. And fellowship. And service.

Showing up matters.

It matters to our brothers and sisters in Christ. And it matters to God.

We live in a world where we’re expected and/or choose to show up many places. Where and when we show up says a lot about our priorities.

Because we have so many places to show up, and because most of us feel guilty at one time or another about where we’ve shown up and where we haven’t, we hesitate to pick on someone else’s showing up-ness.

That is well in the spirit of Jesus’ commands which basically say: Worry about your own shortcomings, and stop pointing out other peoples’. You’ve got enough on your plate dealing with yourself.

Here’s the thing though. It does matter.

Here is what I’ve seen at church after church, and in account after account:

Yes, people connect with you more (in good times and in bad) when they actually know you…when you’ve made time to show up at worship.

People who are part of a small group at church (like a study, class or group like a choir) tend to feel far more loved and connected in their church.

People who show up at church see their pastor more; and their pastor, in turn, is able to support and encourage them more (than if they don’t cross path regularly).

People who are active parts of a faith community are more consistently able to grow in their understanding of and relationship with God.

You may not always powerfully experience God is worship, but I will guarantee you that you will experience God more often if you are part of the gathered community.

John Wesley's entire life and movement was based on the view (shared by Pietists of all stripes) that being a disciple of Jesus Christ is about more than just showing up. I agree. But it starts with showing up.

So no…Communing with God is nature isn’t enough. Meeting God on the golf course isn’t enough. Watching a great preacher on TV isn't enough. Because it’s not showing up.

You know who showed up?

Jesus.

He showed up when he gathered with his disciples.

He showed up to preach to the crowds.

He showed up to heal those who were suffering and in pain.

He showed up for you. On a cross. On Calvary.

He showed up early one Sunday morning. Except what was awesome was he didn’t show up where we expected him to. You see, his absence meant all the world. He was not in the tomb.

He showed up to his followers. The ones he showed up to first? The ones who had shown up for him.

Showing up matters.

God is Not Waldo

Recently I saw a postcard on PostSecret that reminded me of the oft-stated phrase, “I found Jesus…” (fill in the blank).

Now such a statement alludes, generally, to a powerful experience of connecting with God especially in the life of someone who previous did not understand themselves to be in a meaningful relationship with God.

One of my favorite songs about the human condition as it struggles with and searches for God is the song “You Found Me” by The Fray. Now, there are lots of theories out there on the meaning of the song, and even some indications in interviews about what the band though, but I think the words speak to where many people find themselves—crying out to a God who seemed not to show up till it was too late, till the world came crashing down.

Do you remember the Where’sWaldo? books? They’re still out there, but their heyday was a few years ago. The premise is there are pages and pages of tightly packed and busy illustrations of various scenes. And somewhere, in the middle of all that busy-ness, is Waldo, in his signature red and white striped sweater, jeans, and  red and white hat. The goal is to find Waldo. Some illustrations make this more difficult than others.

Many people, and sometimes even we ourselves, view this whole God-and-us-thing like a scene from Where’s Waldo?

Like many illustrations, the Waldo series could probably offer some meaningful lessons for our relationship with God, I’m sure. But on a basic level, it is incorrect to view our lives as one grand search for God.

As United Methodists, those following after the tradition of John Wesley, and indeed, those who seek to be disciples of Jesus Christ, we worship a God who has never been hiding (Waldo is most certainly hiding!). The point of Where’s Waldo? is to make Waldo hard to find, but still findable (otherwise no one would buy the books).

The thing is, God has always been here. And as United Methodists, we talk about prevenient grace—the grace that comes before. What we mean by this is that before we even opened the book to start searching, God was already here, with us, in front of us, drawing into even the most basic desire to connect with God.

We talk at times of where we meet God—at church, in nature, in the high and low moments of our lives. We may even say we find God here. In many ways there is get power and truth in that.

And yet, we must always, whatever words we use to describe the experience of bumping into God, remember that God was, is, and will always be with us. John Wesley’s final words are said to be, “The best of all is God is with us!” One of Jesus’ most powerful titles (and a word used elsewhere for God in a broader sense) is Emmanuel, which means God with us.

Not God hiding from us.

Not the God in the striped red and white shirt tucked in a static image that makes it difficult to find.

But the God who is with us always, seeking us. Finding us.

Mission Trip: Day 3 (ok, I've lost track of counting days...)

Today was the mission team’s third (of five) work day, and the second and final work day for the girls and me. Anne, Bob and Ginny left this morning. Anne and Ginny’s tasty cooking and loving hospitality will be sorely missed! Bob was a big help on site, and I hear on Monday he got a tour of the area from Pastor Cab, who has been Arden’s contact for mission trips in this area for years.

Rick and John continued working with Deacon Johnny on the room addition on the back of the trailer. The addition was requested by the home owners because Pastor Cab’s redesign of the interior called for turning the second bedroom into the laundry and storage room.

Inside, we cleaned the floor in preparation for laying the vinyl flooring. The morning was mostly cleaning (sweeping and shop vac—which Anna helped with) and then laying a thin foam pad, I guess to add at least a bit of padding between the vinyl and the plywood floor. I actually got to help today, and gave Brittany a break from kneeling to staple the foam. She ended up getting her face painted by the girls during that time, so I’m not sure it was a fair trade, but I’m glad to at least have helped with SOMETHING while here!

The girls and I headed out after having lunch with the team at Pastor Cab’s church (there are no restrooms at the work site, so heading over to the church for lunch allows not just a break, but a chance to freshen up!).

The girls did pretty well today, and I’m just so grateful for the care and hospitality our Arden folks have shown to them!

This evening at devotions, we got to talking about some of the cultural differences (between here and Martinsburg) and the economic challenges this area has been and willing continue to face.

So one of the cool developments is they’re building a new four lane highway to replace I guess parts of both 10 and 80 (basically the length of our one hour drive). This is needed on a practical level because large dump trucks loaded with coal (though fewer, the team says, than they’ve seen on previous trips) run these two lane mountain roads with cars. There’s a pretty heavy traffic load on the road, and parts of the road have washed out. An entire lane. So imagine a two lane road tucked against a hillside with a steep drop below it, but the hillside has trees. At the bottom of some of these hills are rivers or creeks, and at some, towns. Now imagine on of the big trees right along the road, which is itself ringed by guard rail, falls or topples over? Yep, the road goes with it. Some places the settling is minor. One place along our route, it has forced them to put a temporary traffic light because the road is now one way and they’ve coned off the one lane.

So they’re putting in this super highway. For this area it’s a super highway. The thing is, as you drive the current road, so see these shops which have closed. Lots of them. And you’ve got to wonder…once the highway bypasses ALL of it, what then? Then again, I doubt many of them are getting much business from people passing through, but still.

The entire economic foundation of the area continues to be based on mining. And people’s lives continue to be shaped by it. The couple who owns the trailer we’ve been working on includes a man who now has COPD, which probably wasn’t helped by the condition the home was in, but also he worked in the mines, and well, the mines are good pay for a reason. The health risks of working in the mines are immense, not to mention the safety risks. Beyond all that, this entire area is econonimcally dependent on mining, and yet coal is a resource that will not replenish. There may be political and economic debates about what to do about the coal industry, but here’s the thing. It will not last forever. That’s not because of any political party, any economic policies, or any person. The coal will run out. How and when that industry finally collapses, no one knows. But it will. And what then? Pretending it won’t or that it can be staved off to be someone else’s problem is ridiculous. So what for these people?

But changing an entire culture and an entire area’s way of life is terribly difficult. So much of life and culture here…not to mention history and people’s stories are tied up in this way of life. It is hard to change your way of life. And it is scary. How can you bring in new industries if there are not trained persons ready to take jobs? But how can you take time off work to train for a new job that isn’t assured? Perhaps the highway will help with that.

Here as in so many places, we’re confronted with the reality that that little we do does seemingly little to change the actual problems here. The vast differences in wealth. The lack of opportunity. The economic dependence on a single industry. The physical isolation of the area. I almost feel like we need to get involvedin helping make more major shifts in the culture and economy. Or we’ll just keep coming back and patching drywall and installing flooring in dilapidated trailers.

And yet, this is what God calls us to do. Misty and her husband are not cogs in someone else’s story. They are part of God’s story. They are God’s people. And while I am absolutely confident that God cares about the systemic inequalities and challenges of this area, I also believe God cares about the conditions this couples lives in.

It’s like the story of the old man throwing starfish back into the ocean off the beach, who is asked by the child/young man/whoever, “Why do you bother? You can never save them all?’ To which the old man replies, “It mattered to that one,” as he tosses another starfish back in the ocean.

I know, I know we’re all tired of that story. But it’s true. God doesn’t call us to do great things. God calls us to be faithful. Sometimes being faithful looks like stapling down vinyl flooring. Sometimes it looks like a child giving a homeowner a watercolor painting as a team works to restore the woman’s house. Sometimes being faithful does look like advocating for and pushing for systemic change that will mean where are less dilapidated trailers to have to be fixed by mission teams.

I pray for the day we won’t need to come to Wyoming or Logan counties or any of the areas here. A time when the community and leaders will have seen a way forward as times change and the coal disappears (or as manufacturers and energy companies try to stay ahead of dwindling resources and change their energy sources). I hope someday there won’t be such a smooth and coordinated system of mission teams coming in because it just isn’t needed. And I hope someday teams from this area are going other places who need both small and tangible help, but also major and systemic change.

For now, we staple, cut, sand, paint (watercolor and interior) and discuss the systemic challenges and try to ponder how we can be part of making things better, more in line with God’s vision for these people and this area. And what lessons we learn here that we can take back to apply to the big and little challenges we will find at home.

Mission Trip: Day 2 (Day 3 for the team)

Being a parent and a pastor is the hardest thing I’ve done to date.

Well, being those things and being married to a camp director…that’s like the trifecta!

Summers are always crazy for us, though recent summers have been marked by more pain that usual. Two summers ago, as we waited for Mary’s arrival, Dad died. Last summer, as the summer camp season was beginning and I was on a break before beginning my new appointment at Arden, Dan committed suicide.

Both events happened just as I was thinking I would get a mental and emotional break from the challenges of work (maternity leave in 2013, and time off and a new appointment in 2014).

I’ve stopped looking forward to down times so much.

This summer started getting crazy in the winter, when I was invited to be part of the trip to Zimbabwe, then after being decided I wouldn’t be able to go on the mission trip, feeling strongly that I should be here for at least some of it, even if that meant bringing the girls along.

Balancing work and family is hard. No decision seems ideal when trying to do so.

Being away from the girls for two weeks brought questions of what would happen if something happened. You can’t dwell in that place or you’ll go crazy. You won’t be able to function. Being alone with the girls for the better part of a week, well, again, what if something happens…

It’s hard enough trying to balance things and take care of the girls when there are two of us…God bless single parents. I don’t know how they do it.

Today was the first of two whole days we’re here on the mission trip. We’ll probably have a day like today tomorrow, then early Thursday we’ll leave early for home.

The work site is an hour away from Logan, the town where we are all staying. The girls and I loaded up and went to the church to caravan with the team to the site. It definitely took an hour.

I’d brought a few things along for the girls to play with at the work site, though Anna was just so excited to help. Trying to corral them to let the team work—especially Anna—took all my attention, though the team was great and let the girls help some. I plied the girls with Cheetos to take long breaks outside the house. You gotta do what you gotta do!

The house is right on a main road, so any hope of letting the girls run (my girls do outside play well!) was gone.

It rained pretty solid for part of the morning as well, which my girls would happily have played in…as it was we all ended up pretty wet. The drywall seams the team had done the previous day had not all dried, so it wasn’t long before the work inside the house came to a standstill as we figured out what next. A couple of our team worked on an addition at the back of the trailer while the rest of us just hung out inside. Eventually those of us inside decided to leave early (on way to lunch at a church in town) to stop at a couple stores to pick up supplies—including a hair dryer to try to rush the drying of the seams so sanding and priming could be completed today.

A couple stops later, and we got to the church for lunch. Anne and Ginny have been doing an awesome job preparing meals, and they met us with food. Of course, the girls had been snacking on junk food all morning so, yeah, lunch wasn’t a big thing for them.

After lunch, the girls and I headed out, to drive back to Logan and so the girls could nap in the car. The rest of the team headed back to the site, where (we later learned) they were indeed able to finish sanding and priming.

I thought I’d gotten wise to the girls now, and we headed straight to Walmart on the way home, to pick up a few toys to try to buy us time both at the church for dinner and at the work site tomorrow morning. Back at the hotel, we laid low, the girls played and watched TV, and I hung out online.

Then, back to the church Indeed, the new stuff from Walmart worked well enough, but I didn’t watch the time, and sometime during devotions after dinner, bedtime (well, bathtime) came and went. My girls are like gremlins if you mess with their routine…which I did…and they went a bit bonkers. Cultimanting in Anna trying a sommersault on the hard floor as devotions wound down.

Cue the ten millions things a mom things about, including, “God, how bad is she hurt?” “I need to get these girls back to the hotel,” “How quickly can I gather out things,” and so on.

The good news is, though Anna was sore, she seems fine (and she and Mary got to stay up even later past bedtime so I could keep an eye on her to be sure).

Sheesh. Parenting is hard.

But then I remember how proud Anna is to be here. How much it means to her to be able to help. I struggle with balancing, “You need to follow directions, pay attention, and sometimes even sit still!” with remembering that she still isn’t even 5 yet. Mary, well, I can’t believe she’s almost 2, but even still sometimes I have to remember that what I’m expecting from these girls this week is, at least to me, a lot.

Some day I may look back on this trip and think it was a really cool thing, it was great we got to do it, and so on. I’ll probably forget how worried I was at times, or how I had to quash those thoughts that I couldn’t do it.

But then, isn’t that all what parenting is? I, at least, don’t know another way to do it.

Sometimes being a parent is incredibly scary and terrifying. Who, after all, agreed that you were responsible enough to care for other peoples’ lives? That’s pretty insane, if you think about it! There are so many ways to mess these little people up. So many decisions to make on a daily basis. You’re pretty much guaranteed to get some of those decisions wrong. We all just pray we get the really important ones right. The problem is, sometimes it’s not clear which ones the really important ones are…

Sometimes being a parent makes you feel proud and accomplished. Other times it makes you feel like an immense failure whose parenting skills rank at the bottom of the list of people you know. The answer is probably somewhere between those two, but the pendulum sure does swing, doesn’t it?!

Sometimes, whatever it is you are trying to balance with being a parent (whether work, community involvement, keeping the house, keeping your sanity, taking care of yourself, etc.) seems terribly out of balance. Sometimes you come face to face with the reality that “balance” (at least in any given moment) is generally a lie, and you’ve got to find a way of being present for whatever is important to you that helps you keep going. And yes, sometimes you have to revisit your priorities.

Sometimes, trying to do all of this while a pastor feels like (at least to me) an impossible feat and the stories of our colleagues’ kids who took some whacked out path seem legion. Of course, there are those stories from all parents, but somehow we’re convinced our work will scar our kids more than most, right? I have no idea if that’s true, but it feels that way. Sometimes, trying to raise our kids to love God, and maybe even not hate the church while we work in it, seems really difficult. What if we try too hard and our kids push back at us by pushing back at God? What if we don’t try hard enough and they miss what is really very important to us, our faith in God, even beyond our professional careers?

At any rate, it’s all difficult. And there are people who are walking a path right now which is very different than mine who also have great challenges. The truth is, I am very blessed. Times like this week, while difficult, are for me a reminder of that. I have an awesome husband (whose absence is all the more noticeable and difficult this week while we’re away). My girls love people, and they love helping, and I hope that never changes. They also love what they’ve learned at church, at VBS, and even at home, about God. I hope that only deepens and grows.

I don’t know what challenges you’re facing this week. I don’t know if this is a normal week, busy or calm, or if this is a week you are wondering how you’ll get through. I know, though, that our God is faithful and that as tough as all this is, God is tougher. And because of that, you are too. You can do this. God can make even of this season in your life a beautiful thing. I hope that you get to see glimpses of that beauty in the days ahead.

Grace and Peace.

Sarah

Mission Trip, Day 1

The Arden UMC 2015 Mission Team, minus Mission Chair, Brittany Young, who was taking the pic.

Today the girls (my girls, Anna and Mary) and I joined the rest of the Arden UMC mission team in Logan, WV. That sentence seems simple enough, but has a lot packed into it. You see, originally, I wasn’t going to be on this trip. The week (well, this week) is the last week of camp (so Chris is busy…constantly…), but late enough in the summer that teachers and school staff are returning to work, so much of my available (family) childcare is back at work. But I wanted to be here. I wanted to have this time and be part of the great work our missions folks do. So the first hurdle was decided, “Hey, let me drive 6-7 hours with my 4 ½ year old and nearly 2 year old. Sure that will be fun…and then let me try to entertain them while being somewhat present for a mission trip…”

Anna was super excited by the prospect. Mary, well, Mary heard we were going to stay at a hotel and I think she was excited about that. I figured it was better for us AND the team to not try to get my girls to sleep in a shared room with them.

Honestly, at times during my trip to Zimbabwe, when my guilt for being away from my girls for so long was the hardest, I reminded myself that I would have these days (we leave Thursday morning while the rest of the team stays till Saturday) with them. And that I would probably have my fill of Mommy-daughter time by the end of it!

Sunday afternoon and evening I suddenly got super anxious about the whole thing. HOW HAD THIS SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA? You need to know that Chris is the most sane one in our family. He keeps the rest of us calm. How was this going to work?!

But Monday morning came and we started to load up. 

Now Mary is in the final days of a round of antibiotics for an ear infection. She doesn’t get them often, but I didn’t want to risk being down here and THEN find out she was sick, so after a couple days of her saying on and off her ear hurt, we got her checked out, and well, got her antibiotic, and voila! 

Except this morning the girls were so excited that I don’t think Mary ate much. Then we gave her the meds, and she gulped down water and, well, by the Antietam battlefield she got sick and stayed unwell for a bit longer. I called Chris. I asked him what I should do, and he wisely and frustratingly listened, said both my defined options (turning back, or giving her food in case the meds upset her empty stomach) sounded reasonable…and that he was sure I would make the right decision since I was the one there with her and he wasn’t.

Anna was devastated. Honestly, if it had been just me and Mary I’d likely have turned around. But Anna and I made a deal. If Mary didn’t get better after eating something, if she got sick again, we would head home. So I gave Mary some Pepperidge Farm goldfish and we tried it. And we made it to Logan, WV, our destination, and Mary was fine.

We settled into the hotel, and I hoped the couple hours the girls had to unwind after the drive would burn some energy, but, yeah, no.

We had a good time visiting with the team, after they’d gotten back to the church they’re staying at (it’s like less than 5 minutes from our hotel) but man, trying to have a conversation with them while keeping an eye (sometimes unsuccessfully) on the girls…yeah, I felt like…you know those beer goggles they use for alcohol ed for college students? Yeah, it was like beer goggle parenting/conversing.

By the time we’d finished dinner, I knew the girls needed to head back to the hotel. Everyone needed the girls to head back to the hotel. Most of all, me!

But you know what, I think of how awesome it is that our girls are getting to “go on a mission trip” so young. I hope and pray it is the first of many, many more. My first mission trip was at my first appointment, Jefferson UMC, when we took a group of youth and adults to do Hurricane Katrina clean up. My girls? Ages 4 and 2! 

The other thing—our girls LOVE our Arden folks. It was one of the reasons they were so amped up tonight. I love that too. I love that our girls are so excited to get to spend even more time than usual with their church family.

Our team will be working this week on the trailer home of a family about an hour away from Logan who lost their roof in Hurricane Sandy. Because it was not fixed right away, the damage became extensive, and the entire interior (once the roof was fixed) had to be gutted. We are putting in drywall and painting.

As I sit here typing (in the hotel room bathroom, while the girls sleep, which is the sad lot of all parents traveling with small children in regular hotel rooms…), I’m wearing my Africa University sweatshirt, and reflecting on the chance I got to share (briefly, while also trying to make sure my girls didn’t fall down the steps) tonight about my trip to Zimbabwe, as one of our Arden folks said, “You’ll go back to Zimbabwe again, though, won’t you?” 

Yes, yes I will. I am sure of it.

And maybe someday, having started their mission experiences so early, my girls will go too.

And maybe, just maybe, whatever the Church is up to, whatever highs or lows that church polity has found, and whatever experiences my girls have with Church, they will KNOW that being part of the community of Jesus Christ means meeting new people (because they are already family), serving others (because it's what we're all called to), and doing hard things…even if the hard things mainly entail corralling small children for a few days as we try to be the hands and feet of Jesus along with our brothers and sisters in Christ.

On Fallow Ground

When I was in seminary, I had the gift of taking my intro to preaching class from Dr. William Turner, who served as the lead pastor at a local Baptist church even while teaching at Duke. I went on to take as many more preaching classes as I could fit (which still feels like it wasn’t enough—I understand the advice given by another seminary mentor, who said I should try to take as many preaching classes as possible while in school). Still, though, some of the most powerful and lasting lessons I learned about preaching I learned from Dr. Turner.

One of those lessons was about fallow ground. Dr. Turner said in preparing a sermon, you need to research, prepare, then step away. You need to leave space (fallow ground) for God’s spirit to move. 

To speak, you first must find your silence.

I am beginning my 10th year in full-time ministry, and those years have indeed taught me the value of this fallow ground. My best sermons have been those where I have found (or rather, created) silence and fallow ground.

I have also learned, though, that fallow ground is hard to come by in ministry. For many of the same reasons the idea of fallow ground seems absurd to those unfamiliar with farming. You’ve got a good field—why leave it bare? Why let it sit?! It’s not good for anything that way!

Of course, the problem is that fields wear out. Their nutrients become depleted. Certain crops speed this. Modern farming techniques have ways to minimize the need for fallow ground—things like crop rotation, adding nutrients, etc. But all things in creation seem built with some sort of need for rest—whether for a season or for many seasons. Most plants do not bear fruit year round—and their season of rest is needed to allow them to bear fruit at other times.

Ministry is like that. And it is very difficult, in the midst of the rushing of life and ministry to find to find fallow times and seasons of rest. 

When I started out in ministry, my father gave me advice. Dad didn’t give me too much advice, and generally only solicited advice. I think I had been asking him what schedule or pattern he used for pastoral visitation. At my first appointment, my schedule was not packed and I could have visited quite frequently that first year. My father shared what he did, but he also passed along this broader advice: don’t try to make yourself busy…there will be times you will have no rest, and you will be running constantly. Work hard, but don’t feel the need to create a hectic schedule when you are in a quiet season. The busy season will come (and don’t get into habits in a resting season that you can’t maintain other times).

In ministry, as in some other fields, there is a tradition of Sabbath leave, generally after a certain number of years. This seems a luxury to many, and in ways it is. And yet, clergy are constantly expected to bear fruit. Just think about the expectations of the weekly sermon (and some have to prepare more than one sermon a week). You need some fallow ground to let that simmer. You could probably learn to notice when your pastor has not had fallow ground…when they’ve been running all week and managed to drag their sermon along with them to Sunday morning.

There’s no magic trick to find fallow ground, and get the rest you need. This is true not only for pastors, but for all people. Some weeks are just busy. And some are not. But resting times rarely present themselves. And in the midst of all of these things, life happens. A life that is only peripherally concerned about your to do lists and a life that presses on no matter the season.

This week, I am sure there are things busying you, whether you are a pastor, a parent, a teacher finishing break (or getting back to school), a office manager, a friend, a son, a spouse…

But I challenge you to make some fallow ground. Something beyond just rest…something that is empty of busy-ness, of expectations, of words, so that God can meet you in that fallow place and fill you. Prepare you. For fruit and harvest yet to come. God meets us in powerful ways in our fallow times. Sit there a while. The rest will be there when you’re done. But I promise you will find yourself renewed and indeed refreshed.

See you on the other side of your fallow place!

Climbing Mountains

This past Saturday, my husband, girls and I had a rare summer day to ourselves. What’s more, quite out of line with our luck, the weather promised to be perfect for a day outdoors. So what does a camp family wake up and decide to do with such a day?

Let’s hike Maryland Heights!

Now, normal people might not think that tackling arguably the toughest hike up a mountain nearby with small children in tow is fun. What can I say? We were sleep-deprived and not thinking straight. Also, I was still dealing with jet lag from my return flights from my two week stint in Zimbabwe.

Except that’s not really it.

My husband interviews young adults every year to serve as camp staff for the United Methodist camp and retreat center he directs. He’s got a few wonderful folks who help year-round, but the summer camp season always brings a flurry of interviews, decisions, paperwork, etc.

When Chris and I were first married, I often helped with these interviews. One of the last interviews I did, not too long after that, though, was for Steve, now Chris’ assistant director. I hired myself out of a job.

These days I don’t help interview (unless in the rare occasion Steve can’t make an interview—he scheduled them so this rarely happens). I do, however, know things have changed some. They’ve come up with some new questions, though have kept some classics.

One of the new questions is this: Why do people climb mountains?

So I guess that’s the question for this past Saturday. Why did we climb the mountain?

With our 4½ year old trudging along and our nearly 2 year old tucked in a hiking backpack.

The first reason is simple—it was a nice day and what better way to guarantee a peaceful afternoon than to have two tired children (this calculation forgets that the parents will be tired too and the kids get a nap while the parents don’t)?

The other reason is this: there is an awesome view to be seen on a clear day from the top of Maryland Heights, and there is great value in learning that you can push through tough spots and that hard work leads to something pretty awesome.

Chris and I went into the hike preparing ourselves that Anna, our oldest, wouldn’t make it the entire way. No one wants to be the parent forcing your child on a death march up a mountain. But there’s a fine (probably not a very fine one, but a line) between pushing your child to an accomplishment you know what can safely achieve with hard work, and destroying your child pushing them to a goal you have for them which is beyond their reach.

Chris and I have also both hiked that mountain with campers. At the end of the hike, Chris cheerily remarked (cheerily came harder at that point, but still it came) that Anna didn’t complain any more than Senior High campers. So there’s that. J

As it turned out, the hike was tough. We expected it to be, and it was. It was tough for Anna, and for me. I won’t speak for Chris, but it had been a couple years since I’d done that particular hike, and there’s this one stretch—the hill up from the overlook, that is just BRUTAL and I hate it SO MUCH. But we pushed up the mountain. We took breaks when Anna needed them, we encouraged and yes even pushed her a bit. We told her not to run up the mountain (why is this kids’ first instinct when trying to do something?! We explained she’d have to pace herself to make it all the way).

Before we knew it, we were more than half the way there. When Anna asked how much farther and we told her we were more than halfway, she seemed a bit more determined to make it. We sang up the steep parts. Anna had an easier time doing so that I sometimes did. She made up a zillion new verses to “This Little Light of Mine,” and we trudged along.

At the overlook, Anna was amazed, and I loved watching her and her dad plant themselves (safely back from) beside the edge and look out. I didn’t get to watch that too much, because my squirmy toddler was over sitting still, but even so, it was cute.

On the way down, Anna asked if we could hike it again. She also complained she was tired. We were all tired. Seeing the amazing things that come after hard work don’t make you not tired from the journey.

As we got even further down, Mary, our almost two-year-old, decided she’d had enough of the backpack.  She insisted on walking. I thought it would last ten minutes, tops. Nope…she hiked the entire rest of the 2/3 of the way down.

We were all tired by the time we finished. The next day, I felt like a bus had hit me (the jetlag didn’t like the hike). Anna, however, was good. And proud.  She has enjoyed telling people what she did.

Anna will, I am sure, have many more hikes ahead. Maybe she will have more than even Chris or I can imagine. I know, though, that she will have mountains to climb in life. She’ll need to sing her way through the hard parts, and learn to cut herself slack and take breaks when she wants to. I hope we have many more times to hike together as a family.

I learn something new each time I hike.

This time, I learned that my little girls have as much if not more determination than almost anyone I know. I can’t wait to see the mountains they’ll summit and cross.

Zimbabwe: Telling the Story

This photo is my view of the Zambezi River as I write this morning.

Before I left for Zimbabwe I had these great ideas of blogging daily to keep everyone posted about how the trip was going. I was going to tell the story and try to have people walk this journey along with me.

Then the trip happened. Our two weeks--which finish tomorrow as we leave for home--have been filled with (very) long days...early mornings...packed schedules. That has left little time and energy for blogging, and unreliable wifi has also removed motivation to blog.

Now that I find myself on the back end of the trip trying to figure out how to tell the story, I have options and possibilities that didn't exist. I tried to start writing a blog for each day. But now, in hindsight, as most stories, I know that there were threads that a daily telling won't capture. But then again, writing along those threads or themes risks missing importance happenings.

And really, any attempt to tell the story leaves out parts of the experience. And no telling of it can capture the living of it.

So there we are. I am going to attempt, at my husband's encouragement, just to write. I expect to post in the coming days, perhaps in a mixture of the possible ways. Three months from now I may come back to it, reminded of some happening or having processed some learning in a new way. 

What I can tell you is this: Africa, Zimbabwe, Africa University, and the United Methodists of Zimbabwe have become a part of my heart in a way I did not anticipate. I cannot say it feels like home here, because my husband and daughters are not here with me, and it is impossible to feel any place is home without them. But considering that, it is pretty darn close.

Our trip began in South Africa, with learnings about the deep pain and continuing inequalities and brokenness wrought by racism and greed. Our time there, touring Soweto and visiting the Apartheid Museum was a reminder of the pain we are able to inflict upon each other.

Next, we arrived in Zimbabwe, the main destination for our trip. Most of my colleagues began the time in Zimbabwe with experiences at churches in and Harare which displayed to them the great differences between the US and Zimbabwe. My preaching and worship that first Sunday took me to an Harare congregation which certainly looked and indeed had many differences from US congregations, but which was most striking to me because of how familiar it felt to me. It seemed to me more similar than different. I wasn't expecting that.

After Harare we travelled to Mutare, to help with and be present for Pastors' School. Again, I expected to see many differences (beyond our general American practice of comparing everything against the "norm" of American culture, this is what others on my trip prepared us for). Again, my experience was so different. There are many stories connected to this to tell, but let me tell you how I first realized this.

On the first day, Monday, we really only had opening worship and one workshop. The "workshop" was actually a main session (throughout the entire event, everyone did all the workshops together), and it was on prophecy and faith-healing. Our group went into it very interested to see what would be discussed. The workshop itself didn't seem all that "out there" to me, and I think most of our group, but then we went into our break-out groups. These groups were to be 35-40 people and each member of our BWC group was to be part of a group.

By random assignment...or, I might suggest, the providence of God...I ended up in Group 4. My life is forever changed because of group 4.

My BWC colleagues, as it turns out, each approached the breakout groups differently. Some helped provide leadership, while others sat back. I chose the latter, and though some groups decided or conceded to speak English for the sake of the BWC clergy in their group, group 4 quickly picked up with Shona (the native language of most Zimbabweans, or at least the common language--though all at Pastors' School know English to varying degrees and all main sessions were in English). 

As the group discussed who would be secretary (in Shona), one of the clergy sitting beside me leaned over and he began interpreting for me. This led to the practice (as long as we needed it--more in a future blog about how they agreed to speak in English the majority of the time, in exchange for me being group secretary) of one of the people sitting next to me being required (by the group) to be my interpreter. Needless to say, as long as that was needed, people kind of avoided sitting next to me :-)

So settling into the group, I began to follow what was happening three ways: in English (which some of the pastors used for my sake anyway, prob. 40-50% of the time), in Shona (used the rest of the time, which I had studied a bit before coming, but only knew a small list of words) and in body language and tone--which as we all know, actually accounts for over 70% of communication.

The group quickly fell into teasing each other, criticizing the presentation (which was done by a District Superintendent from Zimbabwe), asking, "Why did they think we needed to hear this?!" and other such comments. And you know what I realized, UM clergy are the same. Everywhere. Well, at least in the US and Zimbabwe.

Sarcasm. I flew hundreds of miles and landed in a group made up of precisely the kind of people I've spent (and enjoyed) my entire ministry career. They just happened to speak Shona.

I found myself not surrounded by pastors from a new place. I found myself surrounded by my colleagues. People who (like in the US) shared many life and ministry experiences with me, had many cultural and appointment-setting differences, but who shared a similar understanding of scripture and theology as well as church governance. 

Over the days which followed, we laughed. A lot. I even got to make a few jokes that made them laugh.

They blessed me with a name. In Shona there is a totem system by which people are identified. Similar to Deaf culture in the US with name signs, you cannot ask for or create your own--you can only be given a name by natives of the culture. I didn't even know this. I didn't realize they had renamed me at first because my totem name sounded similar enough in quickly-spoken Shona that I didn't catch it.

In scripture, God gives people new names when they have had a significant experience and/or are about to embark on a new direction or be claimed by a new call on their life...or be known in a new way.

The totem name I received is Chihera. This totem seems to be connected with an eland (a type of antelope-the largest here) though over the course of a couple days as I and a couple others in our group tried to tease out what it meant, we also heard zebra and buffalo...but Google and others tell me an eland. 

More significant is the meaning. I seemed to have been given this name after I preached the Wednesday morning devotion, then served as secretary (and presenter) for Group 4. I was told the name was related to me speaking a lot and confidently. I later learned the qualities of a Chihera (this name is given to the women of the totem, the men of the totem are called by a different name). Chihera are, I am told, not pushed around, and stand their ground. They are not blown by the winds of situation or surroundings. I will write more on this later as well, but my new name began to shape my experience at Pastors' School. I quickly became to be known only by this name, and I would be greeted in the walkways and in main sessions by my new name. On the drive back to Harare on Friday, after Pastors' School concluded that morning, we stopped at a rest stop for lunch and as we waited for our food, I was greeted to "Chihera!" as a couple pastors from the school also on their way home walked past us.

I will have much more to say about Pastors' School but I say all this now to illustrate that for me the experience was one of belonging and acceptance--both based not on my ability to secure those things but only having been able to receive that which was offered. Grace.

In the days since Pastors' School, our group has headed in different directions, the largest single group being those of us who continued on together to Victoria Falls. Today we have our final full day here, and as I type this, my BWC colleagues are rousing from bed and making their way down to breakfast here by the river. Tomorrow we will begin the three-flight-trip home.

I look forward to sharing more about my trip. It will take me time...and I suspect much time...to process and mentally organize my experiences here. I am confident I will not be able to fully convey what this experience has been. But I know that God has been powerfully at work. I know there will be much fruit borne, and I look forward to seeing what that will be, by the power and grace of God.

Grace and Peace.

Chihera. Sarah.

Days 3 & 4: Travel, Harare, Sunday and Mutare

We left our hotel room Saturday morning to begin the trip to Zimbabwe. Nothing all the notable about the flight, other than it was shorter than I'd anticipated. Less than an hour and a half from Johannesburg to Harare, the capital of Zimbabwe.

Upon arriving at the Harare airport, it did take a while to get through immigration and customs (mostly immigration). So, patience was key, and I just had to (and did) trust that my colleagues leading our group know how to get us along, and they did.

We boarded a coach bus...which, with a group as large as ours (26) is our standard mode of transport. 

We arrived and settled at our hotel, which overlooks a park in downtown Harare, where, it seemed, to be some large outdoor worship service happening, judging from the sprinkling of English words we heard mixed in with the Shona. As the entire things had fairly dense trees, though, we couldn't see.

After a bit, we loaded back into the bus to go visit the nearly completed new conference office building the Zimbabwe East Annual Conference was building. We were pleased to hear (well, I was, others no doubt knew) that the BWC paid for the roof on the new structure. The building is located in an area akin to Embassy Row in DC, and has three wings and two floors. Of course I had never seen their current offices, but I am told by my BWC colleagues here that the new building is a big improvement.

Back at the hotel, we concluded our evening as we will each night this week, with devotion together (which includes time for reflection on the day) and dinner. 

I was nervous and excited about the opportunity to preach at one of the UM churches in Harare the next day, and I had quite the time trying to go to sleep. But finally a did, for a bit at least.

Sunday morning came with a bustling about to be ready in time, have bags packed (we were to leave as soon as we all got back to the hotel), get breakfast and meet our pastors or hosts who were coming to the hotel to fetch us. We had actually learned what our assignments (churches) were when we were in Johannesburg, and I was pleased to find a website and Facebook page for the church I would preach at, Cranborne UMC. I was able to learn about the pastor, the church's history, and the sort of programs they had going on, It was pretty cool.

I was told Cranborne (the church is named after its neighborhood) is like Potomac (MD). That's probably the best way to explain it, as it relates relatively to Harare. Many professionals, peoples of all ages but certainly many young families. Several of their members are active in conference leadership.

When Sunday came, I was one of the last picked up, though since I'd seen the service wasn't till 9:30 am and the church was not far from the hotel, I figured it made sense. Some of my colleagues had early services (we'd been told to be ready and in the lobby by 7:30 am) and were at a much greater distance.

One of the lay leaders from Cranborne, Janet Chisipiti, was the one to come fetch me from the hotel. She arrived in the outfit of their version of the UMW, and explained it was communion Sunday and the women dressed as such (and the men wore sashes) on those Sundays. I learned (I may have seen this online before) that their service was actually at 10:30 a.m., since they had begun Sunday School several weeks earlier (owing to the leadership of their new pastor--appointments begin in January in Zimbabwe). This certainly made the instructions the Zimbabwe conference gave the hosts as they took us difficult--that we should get back to the hotel by noon, since we needed to leave by 12:30 p.m. for Mutare (by bus).

When we arrived, we seemed to be about the first, it was maybe 8:30 a.m. Janet showed me around the church, built in the 1990s. The church, like a number of buildings we've seen in Zimbabwe, doesn't have interior hallways--a practical feature we see pretty much anywhere what often has hot temperatures. Since they had just started Sunday School, most rooms were used as classrooms, and there was a pastor's office and secretary's office. As it happened, this still left several classes having to meet in the sanctuary (they now have a total of 9 classes, I think, up from the 1 adult class they'd previously had). The sanctuary is, I think, basically a round brick structure (maybe a mix between round and a wedge) and about two third of the way up the wall, open vents allow for good air flow. It is winter here, and it was a cool morning.

 As we had rounded around the back of the church, we headed for the pastor's office, to find Rev. Dr. Gift Machinga had arrived. I had the chance to speak with him some, learn more about the church and his family. He has three daughters, young adults, and one was home of break from the University of Minnesota (I know, what are the chances?!) HIs wife is a psychologist and as he had just moved to Harare from Mutare with the new appointment, she remained in Mutare for her work, and usually came to Harare on the weekends (though not this one). Rev. Dr. Machinga had actually studied at Clairmont, so had spent time in the US. In addition to serving churches in Mutare previously, he had also been the Mutare District Superintendent. He was very kind, and it wasn't long before other church leaders began arriving, to get Sunday School started. They gathered in the pastor's office and prayed together before dispersing.

I wasn't sure whether to attend a class or not. I felt a bit self conscious since I would be preaching in English, and normally though nearly all there know English, everything is inn Shona. I didn't want them to have to change the language of their class or felt like they needed to translate for me. In retrospect, I probably should have just gone, but as it was, I looked over my sermon in the pastor's office and greeted people as they arrived. Everyone was so nice, and that also gave me an opportunity to look in on aall the Sunday School classes. 

One of the children's classes had two little boys who kept wandering out. I was glad to see at least that happens to everyone...those two kids you just can't get to sit down and pay attention :-)

Sunday school's end was announced by one of the women ringing a bell and she walked through church. I did take many photos, not wanting to seem odd or rude, but again, I wish I had. Ah well! I saw a couple people taking photos during worship so perhaps I'll come across those.

I was very nervous, wanting to do my best and trying to be very conscious of not speaking to quickly. So yeah, if you know me you know how hard that was!

As Sunday School ended, Rev. Dr. Machinga, one of his student pastors and the choir readied and gathered to process in. Which we soon did, and I took my seat up front between Rev. Dr. Machinga and his student pastor (they actually have two, but it's school break). I was fortunate to have a bulletin for my time there, and Rev. Dr. Machinga was kind enough to wait to run the bulletins until Sunday morning so it has my name and sermon title. We'd been told it was a time of a special theme, "A Harvest of Thanksgiving." I'd written and practiced the sermon. Then learned the day before that it was actually a stewardship sermon...harvest and thanksgiving are used this way but the church in Zimbabwe. Needless to say, my sermon on Thankfulness underwent some last minute edits! Which is always a bit perilous.

So aside from the service being in Shona, you would have recognized the parts...hymns, choir singing, prayers, creed, scripture reading, announcements and sharing of concerns. As I'd mentioned before, it was a communion Sunday, but I wasn't able to stay for that because of the time.

When we'd first talked, Janet had told the pastor what time I needed to be back. He was surprised, and they talked and he said she'd probably need to leave the service and take me at like 11:30 am or so.

The service was very nice, though I must admit it was more similar to an American service than I'd expected. One difference was that at any prayer time, the pastors turned and kneeled before their chairs. I'm assuming others did the same, but I was praying, not watching :-)

By the time it was time for me to preach, it was, you guessed it...11:30!

Needless to say, I was now quite nervous. I'd practiced my sermon to be 40 minutes. Now I needed to cut it significantly. So I did it in 25 minutes. It felt like the cliff notes version of it. And all while trying to not speed up (which I usually fall into when short on time).

I opened by thanking everyone, and offering a gift to Rev. Dr. Machinga, which included the apple butter I'd bought from Butlers' the day before I left (and wrapped with lots of bubble wrap, placed in a ziplock bag and packed in the middle of my bag). To be honest, I was happy to pass it along, and to no longer have to worry about it breaking :-) I also gave him a number of Manidokan items.

I'd used Jesus' healing of the ten lepers (one one came back to offer thanks) and suggested that the opposite of thanksgiving was pride (focus on what others do as opposed to what we do). Add in some 1 John 4:20 about how to say we love God whom we haven't seen, we must love our brothers and sisters we do see, and round off with sin as focus on self, but God's desire for us to focus and God and others and finish it off with an attempt to tie that to giving...yeah, a lot (probably too much) to do in 25 minutes. But all, the pastor and Janet, were very gracious. I was able to stay through one more prayer, then Janet and I had to go. Sadly, I missed both communion and greeting people at the end of the service, which I would very much have liked to have done, but time is time.

Janet drove me back to the hotel. We had more good conversation and she graciously answered my questions about Zimbabwe. 

Back at the hotel, I said goodbye to Janet, gave her a couple Manidokan items in thanks for her hospitality, and went to grab my bags. And then we waited for everyone else to arrive :-)

It was a little after 1:15 p.m. before we were able to leave for Mutare, And we drove. and drove. And drove. Much of the highway is just two lanes, so we spent a good bit of time stuck behind slow trucks.

I decided to stay awake, which became increasingly difficult. Of course I decided to try to sleep 5 minutes before our halfway stop.

All along the highway, at various places people would be selling things by the side of the road. These seemed to cluster in areas where people live or which are travel stops (or bus stops). They'd be selling packaged snacks, or fresh fruits and vegetables. The place we stopped had restrooms and snacks, as well as a gift shop and a cafe. It was aa quick stop though, then we were back on the road for two more hours. 

The best views of the entire drive came as we finally crested Christmas pass and overlooked Mutare. Africa University is on the other side of Christmas pass, so we also get to do this every day this week, but seeing for the first time is pretty awesome. I posted a pic on Facebook. 

Our hotel is on the other side of town, so we got to drive through Mutare before arriving. The hotel itself overlooks the valley some. It's quite pretty, but we have long days and rarely a chance to enjoy it :-)

As Chris teased me (he'd asked if we got free time, and I said, no not really), yeah, wouldn't it have been nice for the conference to just pay for me to go on vacation? :-) We're definitely very busy!

We settled in, did devotion, then dinner. I had not slept well the night before and so tried to go to bed early, but wasn't able to. Travel isn't for sissys!

I know this has been a terribly long post, but it still fails to capture everything. I had also hoped to write another blog about today, but I'll wait and try to do that tomorrow.

Today was awesome though. I do have to say that what I am so very very struck by so far are the similarities between here and home, not the differences. This evening I sat in and listened to a breakout group (I'll be in the same one all week) discuss the presentation on faith healing that one of the DSes gave, and I just couldn't stop smiling or laughing (I laughed too loud sometimes because some people looked at me funny). The thing was, they were saying precisely all the things I would expect to hear in such a circumstance as my US colleagues. If I got in the cool group. Yep...I came all the way to Zimbabwe to end up in the snarky group. It was awesome. My favorite line was when the spokesman for our group (we came back together and each group shared) talked, somewhat jokingly, about "a demon's right to privacy."

So this means nothing to you, but it is hilarious to me. I"ll try to explain it when I blog tomorrow :-)