Drinking the Cup of Life

The discipline of silence, word, and action focus our eyes on the road we are traveling and help us to move forward, step by step, to our goal. We will encounter great obstacles and splendid views, long, dry deserts and also freshwater lakes surrounded by shadow-rich trees. We will have to fight against those who try to attack and rob us. We also will make wonderful friends. We will often wonder if we will ever make it, but one day we will see coming to us the One who has been waiting for us from all eternity to welcome us home. Yes, we can drink our cup of life to the bottom, and as we drink it realize that the One who has called us "the beloved," even before we were born, if filling it with everlasting life. —Henri J. M. Nouwen, from Can You Drink the Cup?

My colleague, Lindsey Smyth, included this quote with her Christmas cards this year, and I found it both moving and inspiring.

I pray that we all may "drink our cup of life to the bottom" in the coming year and, as Lindsey writes, "gain an even greater understanding of our 'belovedness' in Christ Jesus, our Lord."

Amen.

Page 123

I'm borrowing this from Michele's blog:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don't search around and look for the coolest book you can find. Do what's actually next to you.

Here's what I found:

"She worked on overcoming her timidity, but discovered eventually she had the gift of serenity." (from Becky Pippert's Out of the Saltshaker & into the World)

So, what did you find?

Spiritual Journeys

“The more I tune in to the source of my own being..., the more anger, sorrow, and fear seem confined to the shallows of my personality, while my true self — and yours, and that of every being — is like a sea whose depths are always tranquil, however troubled the surface may become. Pain reminds me to return to the deep, calm, gentle sea, so that I find myself crying because I’m happy, and because I’m sad, but never because I’m in despair. Once you’re sure that God is waiting in the acceptance of every true thing, even pain, I’m not sure despair is even possible.” —Martha Beck, Leaving the Saints: How I Lost the Mormons and Found My Faith, page 303 (hardcover edition)

During my recent visit to Utah, I purchased a book I had been hearing about for a while: Martha Beck's controversial memoir, Leaving the Saints: How I Lost the Mormons and Found My Faith. I was about half-way through it by the time I was jetting home to Pittsburgh (feeling a little self-conscious about revealing the spine to any passers-by in the Salt Lake City airport), and it took me a while to finish once I got home, what with all the busyness that greeted me on this side of the continent. During our afternoon in Park City, I purchased a copy for Myrna; so many of the insights I was reading — and reading aloud, to her — were eerie echoes of observations she had already made to me about life in Utah Valley, either in person or via her blog.

There is a lot to say about this book, which I may or may not address some other time. I found it a fascinating, entertaining and disturbing read. For those unfamiliar with the book, here is an excerpt of the summary published at amazon.com:

“When graduate student Martha Beck’s son Adam was born with Down syndrome, she and her husband left the chilly halls of Harvard for Utah and the warm, accepting embrace of the Mormon community. Determined to assimilate back into her childhood faith after years of atheism, Beck’s disenchantment resurfaced when censorship from the church heavily influenced the curriculum at Brigham Young University where she taught part-time. More disturbing was Beck’s eventual belief that her father, a virtual celebrity in the Mormon Church, had sexually molested her as a child.”

My own interest in Utah and Mormons started a long time ago. I was nine years old when I “fell in love” with Donny Osmond, who was then exactly twice my age. At 8 p.m. every Friday night, I faithfully parked myself (and my clunky tape recorder) in front of our remote-control-less TV set to watch the Donny & Marie show. (During the pre-VCR era of the mid- to late-1970s, I was resourceful!) Often, my friend Lisa — and her tape recorder — were parked right there beside me. And my younger brothers can tell you about the ban on conversation during those hour-long variety shows, lest my recordings be polluted by their commentary. Instead, they were polluted by every loud “SHHH” I uttered each time someone in the room dared to cough, sneeze or — heaven forbid — speak.

Anyway, back to Utah and Mormons.

Any true blue Osmond fan who read as many issues of Tiger Beat and 16 Magazine as I did knew full well that Donny was a devout member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and his future wife would be one, too. My pre-adolescent brain reasoned that Mormonism couldn't be much different than Presbyterianism. I would happily convert, should Donny propose to me.

Of course, this never became an issue. In true Mormon tradition, Donny got married at age 20, breaking many young hearts. I was disappointed, but not heartbroken. Let’s face it: I was only 11 years old. I heard somewhere that many of the fans who were deeply disappointed by Donny’s marriage, and by the marriages of his many brothers, had actually converted to Mormonism. Donny and his singing brothers and sister may have never embarked on the traditional two-year mission that most young men in the LDS church serve, but they did reach thousands with their own testimonies. (For the record, I'm still worshipping in a Presbyterian congregation.)

By the time I started junior high, I was embarrassed to admit my earlier crush on Donny. I didn’t give much thought to him or his religion for many years. It wasn't until 1993, when I took a CCO Spring Institute class in “cults and alternative religions” taught by Dr. Ruth Tucker, that I discovered what Mormons actually believe. My immersion in orthodox Christian theology gave me an actual framework through which to view the doctrines and legalisms of the LDS church. Spending almost a week in Mormon country last month has added new dimensions of understanding and insight, as has reading Martha Beck's memoir, dismissed as fiction by many faithful Mormons.

I'll let any interested parties pick up this book or read the many online reviews (positive and negative, from both LDS members and “Gentiles” alike) for themselves. After finishing the book, I'm curious about how Martha Beck would describe the faith she ultimately “found” after leaving the LDS church. She’s not very specific about it — by design, I suspect — but it certainly seems to be a more grace-filled spirituality than what she left behind.

The Gender Genie

OK, this is just weird.

(Oops — I forgot. I apparently shouldn't be using the word is. Or the. Or something. Because those are masculine words. On the other hand, actually, like, because, too and since are feminine words.)

My friend Lisa just sent me this link, which assigns you a gender based on how you write.

As Lisa instructs: "Paste in a blog entry (preferably at least 500 words) and click the submit button. Based on some weird algorithmic formula, it will then tell you if it thinks the blog entry was written by a male or female."

Only once has it correctly identified me as a female. Granted, it claims an 80% success rate, but still. I'm not sure what (if anything) to make of this.

Thoughts?

A Utah Thanksgiving: Pickles, Duke and the Outlaw Café

It’s 10:30 (MST) on Thanksgiving evening, and Myrna and I just returned from seeing the new movie, I Walk the Line, a biopic of Johnny Cash. We aren’t sure exactly when this movie opened—last weekend, maybe?—but it was packed. Apparently, we weren’t the only ones who thought a Thanksgiving movie night was a good idea.

Myrna was still full from our Thanksgiving feast (which we enjoyed with a group of folks from her church) but I decided to indulge in popcorn and cherry Coke. While in the concession line, we noticed the menu: popcorn, candy, nachos, pickles.

Pickles?

Is it just us, or is a pickle that least likely movie snack you can think of? Popcorn? Check. Junior Mints? Check. Chilled, garlicky, preserved cucumbers? Not so much. But the guy two people in front of us actually ordered one, so apparently, it’s popular movie food in Utah. In Provo, anyway. (We’re assuming this item wouldn’t be on the menu if this is the only guy purchasing them.)

I arrived in Salt Lake City late Monday night—sadly, my luggage did not. Myrna greeted me at baggage claim, where we left information with the nice lady who deals with lost luggage, then headed to Denny’s for a midnight snack (for me, anyway—it was only 10 here, but literally midnight where I came from).

Tuesday, Myrna went to work while I slept in; later, we took a drive into Provo Canyon—looked for Robert Redford at Sundance Resort (no sightings). We drove north to Salt Lake City again—went in search of the actual lake (which we found, but right at dusk, so not much to look at). We found our way to our ultimate destination: the Sugarhouse Barnes and Noble in the city, where former President Jimmy Carter was doing a book signing. We naively hadn’t anticipated the long lines that wound around the block to await entry into the bookstore, but quickly decided that going to dinner was probably a more useful endeavor than finding the end of the queue. So instead of meeting Mr. Carter, we enjoyed a delicious meal at Mazza, a Greek restaurant a few blocks away. (When we finally arrived home, so had my luggage. Woohoo!)

Wednesday, we headed south to Moab, but only made it as far Wellington, where we met Duke at the Outlaw Café. We ordered lunch and asked the waitress about Nine Mile Canyon, which was close by, and were referred to Duke, who sat at a nearby table, sipping coffee while his daughter finished up her meal. A self-proclaimed “font of useless information,” Duke at first joked that he wouldn’t advise a trip back there if we valued our tires, but he and his daughter agreed that it would be a more worthwhile trip than a visit to Canyonlands, which was our original destination. (That or Arches National Park.)

On Duke’s recommendation—and with his business card in hand, should we break down and need to be rescued—we decided to take a chance on the dirt roads of the 40+-mile so-called Nine Mile Canyon. (It was a nice gesture, but we did not end up needing his assistance, which is a good thing as we had no cell reception for most of our drive.)

So now it’s after 11:00 on Thanksgiving evening, and Myrna is reading the Entertainment Weekly article about the movie we just saw, and I’m typing to the accompaniment of Johnny Cash in the CD drive, and we’re still figuring out what tomorrow holds.

Note: It is now Friday around 1:15 p.m. (MST), and so far, this day has held a lazy morning at Myrna's place, and a fruitless search for an open library at which to post this blog entry—both here and at M's blog. Apparently, library employees in Utah get to enjoy Thanksgiving Friday as a holiday, as the three we visited, in Springville, Spanish Fork and Provo, are all closed until tomorrow. So here we are at a Kinko's in Provo, paying per minute to use the computer. And we're soon off to find lunch and explore Park City. My Utah sojourn is coming to a rapid close...more once I'm back in Pennsylvania!

Happy Thanksgiving!

In just a few brief minutes, I'm off to the airport to catch a flight to Salt Lake City! I thank God for my many blessings, and especially for loving friends and family members. May you have a blessed Thanksgiving celebration, wherever you may be.

Stranger in a Strange Land

My friend Myrna moved to Utah in September. Temporarily. She is spending the year working with an environmental testing company, making as much money as possible to pay off graduate school debt and to replenish her dwindling savings.

I'm excited to report that this time next week, I'll be getting ready to head to the airport to board a plane for Salt Lake City! I'll be spending Thanksgiving week with Myrna, exploring this foreign-to-me part of the country.

Speaking of which, Myrna has started a blog to share the impressions of Mormon country through the eyes of a (non-Mormon) western Pennsylvania native. If you're interested in reading some of her observations, you can check them out here. Stranger in a strange land, indeed.

Road to recovery

Just a quick post to let everyone know that Mom was released from the hospital yesterday (Saturday). By early afternoon, she was on her way home, and her prognosis is good. She just needs to take it easy and, according to her doctor, "not fall again."

So much for being kept in the hospital "through the weekend"! We'll take it, though.

Thanks again for praying.

Through the weekend

The latest word about the saga of Mom's ruptured spleen: sounds like they'll be keeping her under surveillance at the hospital through the weekend. Which we're interpreting as "at least through Monday."

While she'd certainly rather be at home, we agree that it's better to be safe than sorry, and the hospital must be where she needs to be for the time being. She's feeling relatively OK, but I'm not sure what progress has been made toward the spleen healing itself. Maybe there will be more word later today. It's a waiting game.

Thanks for praying!

Monitoring the situation

A big thank you to all who have been keeping my mom in your prayers. No big news to report today, except that she is still in the hospital and probably will be for the next couple of days. After a CT scan this morning, all seems to be at status quo, but it's obviously serious enough that the doctors want to keep a close eye on her, and they moved her to yet another room so that they can hook her up to heart monitors and such. I don't know why, exactly, but am trusting that the doctors know what she needs. We continue to hope and pray that surgery won't be necessary and that the ruptured spleen will heal on its own.

She would much rather be in the comfort of her own house and away from needles and other hospital paraphenalia, but Mom is hanging in. Thanks again for your concern and prayers.

Privacy

I just got a call from Mom a little while ago to let me know that she's been moved out of the ICU and into a regular room. She sounds like she's in good spirits, and she's definitely appreciating a more comfortable bed and relative privacy. I'm looking forward to visiting with her after work this evening.

Thanks for the prayers!

Rupture

Dad and I went to visit Mom last night in the hospital for the allotted 30 minutes (plus 10, since they didn't kick us out at 7:30 on the dot). She seems to be doing very well, considering. She's still in ICU and will hopefully be in a regular room tonight. Which means that she'll be in the hospital until tomorrow, at least.

And I had been under the impression that her spleen was "bruised," which I suppose is true, as far as it goes. But the terminology of "ruptured spleen" came up in our conversation last night, in direct relation to what happened to hers. Is it just me, or does "rupture" sound far worse than "bruise"?

I'm praising God that surgery looks to be an unlikely scenario. And I'm amazed by the human body's ability to "heal itself."

"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made..." —Psalm 139:14

Prayers for Mom

Back in March, my mother had open heart valve repair surgery. She's been doing great ever since, and just the other night when we attended an exhibition basketball game between the University of Pittsburgh and Slippery Rock, I mentioned to her how relieved I was not to be visiting her in the hospital. (Her surgery took place during March Madness, shortly after we attended the last basketball game of last season, in the hospital right across the street from Pitt's Petersen Event Center.)

Mom went back into the hospital yesterday, not because of anything heart-related, but because of a fall she took last week. She's been experiencing quite a bit of pain since then, and apparently, the impact of her fall bruised her spleen. So she's back in the hospital, in the Intensive Care Unit, where visiting hours are limited to a half hour twice a day and where she has no direct telephone access. The latest report from Dad is that she's doing well enough for them to consider moving her out of ICU and into a regular room. We aren't sure they'll actually do that, though, as they can moderate her condition more effectively in ICU. Either way, I plan to get my half hour visit in later this evening. And so far, praise God, it doesn't appear they'll need to operate.

So. If you're inclined, please join me in praying for healing and comfort for my mom. Thank you.

It’s about incarnation, or “My friend Ginger”

If the contents of this post sound familiar to some readers, that's because I am republishing the October 2005 newsletter which I sent out to friends and family last week: posted for the benefit of readers who have not already received (or read) it. —alm

I first met Ginger Weeber in the mid-1980s. She was a campus minister at Edinboro University of Pennsylvania and I was a student at Allegheny College, 20 miles south.

In May of 1988, a couple weeks shy of my college graduation, I remember standing in a Geneva College dorm room, holding Ginger’s two-month-old daughter and sharing my excitement and apprehension about joining CCO staff myself. Ginger and her husband Dave were attending the CCO’s annual Spring Institute. I had driven down to Beaver Falls from Meadville to meet with my soon-to-be Geneva College colleagues.

In 1989, when I moved to Erie to work with Gannon University students, Dave Weeber became my new supervisor. I joined First Presbyterian Church of the Covenant, Ginger’s home church, where I ended up worshipping and playing in the bell choir with Ginger’s mom, Peg Herrod.

In 1990, the Weebers moved from Edinboro to Pittsburgh so that Dave could attend graduate school. While raising two small children, Dave resumed student life and Ginger continued to work with the CCO, supervising Pittsburgh-area staff people.

When I prepared to move to Pittsburgh in 1993 to work at CCO headquarters, guess who was instrumental in finding me a place to live? Ginger not only connected me with two great roommates — Lynne was a grad student at the University of Pittsburgh and Sarah worked for the CCO at Chatham College — but the townhouse we shared happened to be just a few doors away from the Weebers’ home. The “Beacon Street Community” was born and remains vital to this day, even though none of us live on Beacon Street anymore.

The baby I remember holding in a McKee Hall dorm room is now applying to colleges. Ginger recently celebrated 25 years on CCO staff, and since 1990, she has served as Regional Director, as Director of the Intern Program, and as Director of New Staff Training. She has done work around leadership development within the CCO, and she currently holds the position of Development Associate, raising money for the CCO's General Fund.

Not too long after coming on staff, I remember attending a Staff Seminar where Dave and Ginger were recognized for a decade-plus of ministry at Edinboro. That seemed like an eternity to me at the time. I was moved to tears by their testimonies of God’s faithfulness in the midst of steadfast commitment to a single campus community over the long haul.

The CCO was only 17 years old then. I’ve now been on staff that long. And Ginger Weeber and I, after so many serendipitous intersections of our lives, are now collaborating on various projects to strengthen the effectiveness of this ministry we both love so much.

The CCO is twice the size today as when I joined staff 17 years ago. Even though I haven’t held the number or diversity of positions that Ginger has, my work has changed significantly since 1993. I still do a lot of the same jobs that I was doing back then. I write and edit brochures and magazine articles. I facilitate inter-staff communications. I proofread my colleagues’ work. But over the past 12 years, I’ve had to become much more computer-savvy — I wouldn’t have recognized the term “Web site” back in 1993. The CCO is now a 34-year-old, 21st century ministry with close to 200 employees, and it requires more of its support staff today than it did in 1971 or 1988 or 1993.

I have learned how to write and distribute press releases. I send “Weekly News” emails to all of our staff members. Lately, Ginger and I have been working together to compose a new case statement for the CCO. Why do we exist? What needs does this organization meet? Why should anyone financially support this ministry?

We have also been tracking down former students of CCO ministries to find out what is going on in their lives. We ask them how they imagine their lives might be different today had they not been involved in the CCO’s ministry when they were in college. What influence has the ministry had in how they pursue their vocations, raise their families, contribute to their churches and communities?

Here’s the not-so-surprising discovery Ginger and I have made as we’ve worked together and talked with student alumni of the CCO’s ministry:

It’s about relationships. It’s about friendships and community. It’s about people caring about one another, encouraging one another, challenging one another, and pursuing faithfulness together. It’s about the incarnation: God with us, Emmanuel, Jesus Christ.

Ginger Weeber herself has illustrated this for me, so naturally and with such constancy that it’s taken me half a lifetime to recognize how deeply she’s influenced my life. Those of you receiving this letter have also been that for me — caring, loving, encouraging friends and family members. Thank you for the many ways you support me and the work I continue to do through the Coalition for Christian Outreach: transforming students to transform the world.

Welcome, baby Jack!

My mom celebrated her 64th birthday yesterday (Monday, October 24), the same day my friends Sarah and Jeff welcomed their third child into the world. Little Jack joins two sisters, Alison (who turned four in August) and Taylor (who turns two on Christmas day).

Welcome, baby Jack!

And happy birthday, Mom!

The Other Side of the Bridge, or “2 Good 2 Be 4 Gotten”

My archive of previously published articles is not exhaustive, and for that reason, I hesitate to post them all too quickly, should a serious writing drought strike sometime in the future, as it inevitably will. But this essay is timely, and so I'm posting it now.

This past weekend marked the one-year anniversary of my 20th high school reunion. (For those keeping track at home, that means I graduated from high school in 1984: The Orwellian Year.) It was a really enjoyable, if surreal, event, as I had not seen most of these people in the full two decades since we had tossed our mortar boards into the air and scattered to our colleges (or other destinations) of choice. I was especially excited to be reunited with Deirdre and Jenny, two women I had completely lost track of and to whom I was close at different points in our brief high school career.

I was amazed by the number of people who greeted me and whom I barely remembered, considering our graduating class number didn't even reach 200. I was particularly startled to step into a room full of almost-middle-aged men and women who bore little resemblance to the kids with whom I'd gone to school. Where were the upturned Izod shirt collars and Tretorn sneakers, once so prevalent in our preppy little corner of the world? Feathered-back hairstyles had been replaced by sleeker and more mature coifs...or, in the case of several of the men, gone altogether, compensated by varied styles of facial hair.

Many of these people are now spouses and parents, with respectable careers and full lives which greatly exceed the limiting identities we adopted and assigned to one another two decades previous. The event was way too short to get a full glimpse into their lives, and many questions were left unanswered. And I don't really have any idea what, if anything, my classmates thought about the 20-years-older me. I only know that I was glad to have the opportunity to participate in this time capsule of a weekend.

Below is the essay I wrote a little over a year ago, in anticipation of attending my 20th high school reunion. Enjoy! —alm
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“To Amy, you're a wonderful girl. We had great times in Health. You will never find the answer to my prom question. Eric '83”

“Amy, to a girl I met in 1st period. For all the help you have given me in Spanish. Steve”

“Amy, Remember our senior year and all the fun. It's been great knowing you and I know you'll achieve everything in life. Take care and see ya this summer. RMA Linda (We're out of here!!)”

I never will know the answer to Eric's prom question. In fact, I'm unlikely to ever remember the question, since I have no clear recollection of Eric himself.

I'm glad I was able to help Steve with Spanish. De nada, Steve. (Steve who?)

I am relieved to be able to say that I do remember Linda. But I'm fairly certain that I never saw her the summer after we graduated, let alone in the two decades that have passed since June 6, 1984, when we marched forward to the strains of “Pomp and Circumstance” to claim our high school diplomas. (They did give me mine, in spite of the principal initially skipping over my name during the graduation ceremony. Apparently, he couldn't see me for the flag obstructing his vision, and so he announced it — and probably mispronounced it — only as I was returning to my seat, correct diploma in hand. I could easily have been voted “Least Likely to Want the Spotlight,” and I was the only person in my high school graduating class of 176 people to receive an ovation that evening.) As for whether or not I've achieved “everything in life” — whatever that means, exactly — well, that remains to be seen.

As you have probably figured out by now, I've been perusing my high school yearbook lately. I will attend my 20th high school reunion on October 2nd. This is the second reunion for the class of '84, and I missed the 10-year gathering. I wasn't sure that I was going to participate in this one either, but in recent months, as I've reconnected with a few of my long-lost classmates, the curiosity factor alone makes it an appealing event.

In the survey posted on the website through which most of us have RSVPed, members of Quaker Valley 's Class of 1984 are asked to “describe what you have been doing since high school.” There is space provided to list the name of your spouse or partner, names and ages of your children, any songs you'd like the DJ to play at the reunion party, and whether you think we should have a 30-year reunion. There is also an opportunity to express “warm wishes to someone in our class.” The most interesting question by far to me is the first one.

Twenty years is a long time, and if my former classmates are like me, questions about whether there will be a pop quiz in history class or if tomorrow will be a snow day — or at least, please, a two-hour delay — have long since been replaced with weightier concerns. (No pun intended.) When a high school friend and I reconnected via email a few months ago, she wrote, “I just realized that I've lived more years since I knew you than I was years old when I knew you. Frightening thought!”

Over the last two decades, at least three of the girls I remember from the early '80s — Wendy, Libby and Karen — have reportedly passed away. Two, and possibly all three, died from cancer. According to the survey, many of the class of 1984 are married with kids, but I'm not sure of the percentages on that one. It's been an interesting guessing game to figure out from email IDs who people are, especially when the women forget to identify themselves by their maiden names.

Considering how I often feel as though my life really began in September 1984 with the advent of my freshman year of college, I'm intrigued to find out what ever happened to the people I knew in my “previous life.” Who have these people become? What is important to them? How do they measure success in their lives? How do I answer those questions for myself?

In my work with the CCO, I often emphasize the need for ministry to college students by talking about what social psychologist Sharon Parks once identified as “the critical years.” The ages between 18 and 25 have been identified as the bridge between adolescence and adulthood, a period during which we begin to make decisions which will affect the kinds of people we ultimately become and how we will live the rest of our lives. Because I didn't really start to take my Christian faith seriously until I was a college student, at which point I began considering how what I believed about God needed to influence all of my life, this emphasis on the critical years resonates with me in a very personal way.

When I recently told a friend that I was planning to attend my high school reunion, she shuddered and told me, “You are the most secure person I know.”

Me?

Clearly, I'm not the only one who thinks back on high school and conjures feelings of insecurity, inadequacy, and uncertainty. In fact, when I think too much about the upcoming reunion, my palms start to sweat just a little. Junior high was the more painful time for me; in high school, I just felt sort of invisible. Not one of the popular kids, but not really unpopular either. Just…there.

Within the first few weeks of my freshman year at Allegheny, I remember showing my high school yearbook to Chris, my first “almost-boyfriend” in college. He noticed how many pictures of me were in there, and he commented, “Wow, you must have been really popular.” This seemed to impress him, and while I tried to correct his misinterpretation (“No, I was just good friends with one of the yearbook photographers”), I could tell that he didn't believe me. I stopped trying to convince him otherwise.

My closest friends today, with one or two exceptions, are people I met after September of 1984. They are people who love me for who I am, not for any image I tried — successfully or not — to project. They met me during the most open and adventuresome, honest and impressionable years of my life. I met many of them when we were, together, crossing that bridge from adolescence into adulthood.

As I read through the autographs in my high school yearbook, I look forward to catching up with people I actually do remember, even if most of the inside jokes referenced in their scrawled messages are now a complete mystery to me. I hope that, during our brief reunion time, we're able to catch at least a glimpse of who we have become and what transformations took place on the bridge.

And I pray that the true Source of my security will shine through from me to them.

This article was originally published in October 2004. Copyright Coalition for Christian Outreach, 2004.

September 27

Here is another post-birthday blog entry, as I never got around to logging on yesterday, the actual anniversary of my birth.

Just shy of my eighth birthday, I was the new kid in school (for the first, but definitely not the last, time). I met a girl in my third grade class named Lisa, and while we did not immediately hit it off—mostly because we were competing for the attention of another classmate, Michelle—we did find common ground almost right away.

We were born on the same day: September 27, 1966.

In that same spirit of competition and third grade curiosity, we compared times of birth and established that Lisa was five hours and 40 minutes my senior (a fact with which we were obsessed during our younger years, when we were constantly—and ironically—measuring which of us was the "more mature" of the two).

Thirty-one years later, neither Lisa nor I have the foggiest idea what has become of Michelle. We have, however, maintained the long-ago "best friend" status that we achieved after we got over our initial reticence with one another. In spite of my many moves and several mutual life changes, we stayed connected—except for the five-year hiatus of the late high school and early college years, during which we lost touch. Today, though, we are very much a part of each other's lives.

For me, yesterday marked our 39th birthday. For Lisa, yesterday signified the dawning of our 40th year of life. Semantics, mostly, because it all adds up to the same thing, right? While I'm not really dreading the Big 4-0, I'm happy to bask in this last year of my 30s, for whatever that's worth. Lisa has a more fleshed-out philosophy of aging, though, which you can read about here.

Happy (belated) birthday to us!

The aim and the way

Yesterday was my birthday. To commemorate the occasion, my friend Jenn treated me to dinner at my favorite Thai restaurant. (Thanks, Jenn!) The bill arrived with the requisite fortune cookies, and mine read as follows:

The aim is useless without the way.

Deep.

I think.

(Seriously, my first response upon reading this was, "Huh?")

Meanwhile, here are a few inspirational quotations I stumbled across recently which seem appropriate to cite on the occasion of having completed almost four full decades on earth:

The great pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do. —Walter Bagehot

One's philosophy is not best expressed in words; it is expressed in the choices one makes. In the long run, we shape our lives and we shape ourselves. The process never ends until we die. And, the choices we make are ultimately our own responsibility. —Eleanor Roosevelt

Somebody should tell us, right at the start of our lives, that we are dying. Then we might live life to the limit, every minute of every day. Do it! I say. Whatever you want to do, do it now! There are only so many tomorrows. —Michael Landon

And then there's this one:

Thomas said to him, "Lord, we don't know where you are going, so how can we know the way?" Jesus answered, "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you really knew me, you would know my Father as well. From now on, you do know him and have seen him." —John 14:5-7

Hm.

The aim is useless without the way.

On Ships, Harbors and Sailing into Uncharted Territory

New blog entries from me have been few and far between lately, so it seems prudent to pull another article out of the archives. This one was originally published two years ago this month, when I found myself reflecting on my first job out of college. Enjoy! —alm
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I've been a little bit emotional lately. Between returning to Allegheny for homecoming and missing that place and those people — especially missing the feelings of being known, recognized and loved, and being totally familiar with my environment — and the uncertainties about my position here, things have been a bit rocky inside.

I recently read this passage in one of my old journals. It documents the spring I graduated from college, the summer I participated in CCO Summer Training, and the autumn I arrived at Geneva College as a full-fledged "campus minister." It reads like a coming-of-age novel…well, a poorly-edited coming-of-age memoir, maybe. The above reflection was recorded on October 11, 1988, a little over a month into my time at Geneva.

A few months earlier, on June 8th, just before graduating from Allegheny College, I had made this notation:

A ship in the harbor is safe, but that's not what ships are built for.

These words were printed on a poster which hung on a friend's bedroom wall. I'd seen it several times before, but reading these words just days before my college graduation added a fresh poignancy.

The transition from college student to working woman was predictably uncomfortable. Even my relative familiarity of the CCO couldn't cushion the very real fact that my carefree undergraduate days were now a thing of the past. Even if your first job out of college is to work closely with college students, the fact remains: you're not in college anymore.

Going into Summer Training, I believed that I was well-prepared to minister to college students. After all, I had been an active participant in the CCO-advised Allegheny Christian Outreach all four of my college years, attending large-group fellowship meetings and leading Bible studies and discipleship groups. The summer before my senior year, I immersed myself in the Ocean City Beach Project, and it was at OCBP that I discovered that I just might have what it takes to do campus ministry. A year later, I found myself with 17 other new CCO recruits at Indiana University of Pennsylvania, preparing to fulfill a four-year commitment to this ministry which had changed my life.

And then I arrived at Geneva College.

I was an intern at Geneva, which, at that time in CCO history, meant that I would move on to spend three years working at a different campus after completing my first year on staff. It also meant that I had a very fluid and flexible job description to allow for extra meetings and the study to which I had committed through the intern program. Ultimately, it meant that many Geneva students never quite figured out who I was or why I was there.

Was I a resident director? Not exactly — although I did end up filling an abruptly-vacated RA position shortly into my first semester at Geneva. I also supervised a group of upperclass students who served as mentors to the entire freshman class via small groups. (The irony here was that I was piloting a brand new freshman orientation program while basically feeling like a freshman myself.) When the mentoring program wrapped up at the end of the fall semester, I transitioned into my new duties — assisting the Assistant Chaplain (CCO associate staff member, Brad Frey) in administrating Geneva's arts and lecture series.

And through all of this, I was learning how much I had to learn about doing campus ministry.

Beaver Falls may only be 75 miles from Meadville, Pennsylvania, but as far as I was concerned, Geneva and Allegheny Colleges may as well have been different planets. At Allegheny, I freely visited friends of both genders in their residence hall rooms at any hour of the day or night. At Geneva, I was expected to patrol the halls, making sure dorm room doors were propped open during the occasional (two or three per semester) open house, when men were allowed to visit women in their rooms. Drinking and dancing were regular practices among Allegheny students, and strictly forbidden at Geneva. And then there was the whole Geneva College Sabbath-observance thing — no sports, no studying, no doing laundry on Sundays. (Is it even necessary to suggest that this would not compute at Allegheny?)

The external differences between my alma mater and my first-year ministry setting were merely symptoms of the biggest challenge of all. My experience as a college student had taught me that being an evangelical Christian meant being in a distinct minority, a member of "the remnant," part of a fellowship which was merely tolerated as a recognized student activity, not encouraged. At Geneva, RAs were trained to lead Bible studies, close to 300 students showed up for the first Sunday Night Fellowship meeting, and we took turns leading devotionals at student development staff meetings.

At Geneva, even if a student did not necessarily embrace the Gospel message, she knew enough to "talk the talk" — whether or not she chose to "walk the walk" as one of Jesus' disciples. How to minister to her?

And that illustrates one of biggest lessons I learned as I left the harbor of my undergraduate experience for the uncharted waters of campus ministry.

I learned that ministry is not about formulas or programs or doing-it-the-way-I've-always-seen-it-done. Ministry is about real people — individuals created in God's image. Ministry is about God's power working through my inadequacy.

Ministry is about leaving the harbor and taking the risk of sailing into choppy waters…and trusting that the One who can walk on water will be right there, keeping me safe and doing the real work of ministry — softening hearts and changing lives.

This article was originally published in September 2003. Copyright Coalition for Christian Outreach, 2003.

Breaking News

A couple of years ago, I signed up to receive CNN.com's Breaking News E-mail Alerts. These one-liner news bulletins appear in my email box even before the actual stories have been composed and uploaded to the website. If you were to click over to CNN.com upon receiving such an alert, what you would see is a red banner with a bold headline at the top of the web page, reading something like this: "Developing story: Hurricane Katrina Devastates Gulf Coast."

Weeks and months can go by without ever receiving any alerts at all. Of course, these things are cyclical.

But who at CNN makes the call as to what is newsworthy enough for such an alert? There are certainly plenty of life-changing events happening on a daily basis throughout the world. Terrorist threats and hurricane warnings notwithstanding.

Is it just me, or is there a weird disconnect between "Thousands feared to be lost in hurricane aftermath" and "Bob Denver, Gilligan, dies at age 70"?

Lost

Before going to bed last night, I found myself (again) glued to television images of the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. I was watching whatever ABC news special they produced at the last minute, and at one point, I hit a button on my remote control. The description for the program that was originally scheduled to air at that hour flashed on the screen: "Lost."

The irony was almost too much to digest.

I talked to Sheryl on the phone yesterday. She was back at work, where power has been restored. She still has no electricity in her apartment, and no idea of when she will. But she still has an apartment, and for that she is grateful. She has also resumed adding entries to her blog. It must be surreal, to say the very least, to live in a city that has become one of the headquarters for post-disaster relief efforts. It's heartbreaking to think of all who have lost their lives, their homes and jobs in the blink of an eye.

Lord have mercy.

Katrina

What's left of hurricane Katrina is working its way toward Pittsburgh as I type. We're braced for a wet and windy afternoon and evening, but certainly nothing like what the people of Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama have already experienced. My prayers go out to all of them in the wake of the devastation.

I received a handful of email messages from my friend Sheryl, who now lives in Baton Rouge and who also posted her pre- and post-hurricane concerns on her blog. I haven't heard from her since early Monday morning, so am assuming that she is still without electricity. When you get a chance to read this, Sheryl, know that you've been in my thoughts and prayers. And drop a line to let me know how you're doing!

Musings on marriage

I am finding an intriguing pattern in my blog postings. Starting with this one and progressing all the way through to this one, isn't it interesting how themes of marriage, singleness, and divorce continue to weave their way through my thoughts and into my writing? I can conjecture as to why this is, but that's sort of beside the point right now. It just is.

I got a phone call last night from my friend Karen, announcing her engagement to a reportedly wonderful man named Scott. Although I've yet to meet him, I am so excited for them. It's been fun to hear about their "whirlwind" romance. When Karen was in Pittsburgh in February to attend the CCO's annual Jubilee conference, they had not yet met. They made their engagement official this past Saturday and are hoping to marry in October or November. How quickly our lives can change!

Today, as I was doing a Google search for a particular writer, Margie Haack, I stumbled upon the latest issue on the online catapult magazine, where one of her articles is published. In the sidebar of the catapult homepage, this introduction appears:

Summer schedules usually include at least one wedding or anniversary party, hence issue of musings on marriage.

"Coming Down Now" is the title of Margie's offering, and the teaser in the table of contents reads: "Learning to live together in a house built on a foundation of public promises."

Barbara Zielinski writes a poignant piece entitled "The death of a marriage." It starts like this:

There was no ceremony for the death of my marriage. There was no casket in which to place the dreams and ideals I had held so close for so long. There were no mourners to shed tears with me as I said goodbye to the last of my hope. There was no ritual way of asking for forgiveness, for experiencing forgiveness, for being released from my vows. Nor was there much attention paid to the process of divorce—and all of the pain and anger and humiliation it added to the weight of my soul. There was no ceremony when my marriage was buried.

As I continue to follow the thread of this theme, I commend to you these articles, and the others in this issue.

Throwing things

I attended my friend Deborah's wedding in June. As it became clear that bouquet-tossing time was fast approaching, I leaned over to my friend Brenda (married now for 20 years) and informed her that, as I had no intention of answering the call to join "all the single ladies on the dance floor" when the invitation was issued, to please not push me in that direction. She didn't. Not that she would have. But you never can tell.

I did catch a wedding bouquet once. Ten years ago tomorrow, actually, at Sarah and Jeff's wedding.

Note that I'm still single.

And I'm fine with that, even if I wasn't feeling that way then. Even so, the only reason I caught that bouquet was because word spread quickly through the "single lady" crowd that the bride didn't want anyone ducking out of the way. "If the bouquet comes to you, catch it," she had requested. Firmly. "I don't want to have to throw it more than once."

Interesting that this would be a concern.

Three years earlier, at a cousin's intimate wedding reception, I was in the bathroom when I heard The Invitation over the PA system. This was not a premeditated escape on my part, but it certainly was a welcome one. Or so I thought. I had just made the decision to stay put until I was certain this part of the reception had passed, when, to my amazement and dismay, I actually heard my name over said PA system. The emcee was paging me. I was only one of four single women present at this affair, so there was no escaping it. This time. Even if I didn't catch it. (I wonder if we all let it drop to the floor? I don't recall.)

The reason I bring any of this up is to introduce two very entertaining articles I recently read, from both female and male perspectives, about the whole wedding bouquet-and-garter-tossing traditions. Start with "Toss This" by Camerin Courtney, and then move on to "Airborne Under-Things" by Todd Hertz.

It's comforting to discover that I'm not alone.

Being Known

I just returned from a week of visits with old friends. While I have thoughts and reflections to share about that, they haven't completely jelled yet. Add to that the need to catch up on work after the better part of a week out of the office and my guilt for not blogging for over two weeks, and I thought I'd dig into my article archive for something to post here. Even though I wrote this essay just over a year ago, it captures much of what I'm feeling today, in the wake of my most recent vacation. —alm

I just spent Memorial Day weekend with two old and dear friends, Hank and Myrna. I've known both of them now for close to half my life. Hank was a junior at Allegheny College when I was a freshman, and Myrna was one of my roommates during my senior year.

I feel compelled to pause here and point out that, with names like “Hank” and “Myrna,” one might assume that they're older friends than they actually are. Case in point: we met a 32-year-old fellow Allegheny grad this weekend who, when she first heard their names — before actually meeting them — assumed that they had to be from the class of '45, rather than the classes of '86 and '90, respectively. Of course, her name is Nancy, which isn't such a hip, 21st century name itself, but that's beside the point. Or maybe not.

But I digress.

Hank lives in northern New Jersey, an easy commute into Manhattan, and Myrna and I drove east to hang out with him for the weekend. We decided to go into the city for church on Sunday; we worshipped at Redeemer Presbyterian Church's Sunday evening East Side service at Hunter College. Rev. Timothy Keller's sermon was based on Psalm 139.

“O LORD, you have searched me and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O LORD.”

We were walking through Greenwich Village and Tribeca an hour later, searching for an open restaurant on a holiday weekend Sunday evening. Pondering the recent sermon, one of us commented on the intrinsic paradox between our desire to hide from God and others the ugliness of our lives and the deep need we all have to be fully known. Fully known and fully loved, in spite of the ugliness of our lives.

“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.”

I started my college journey 20 years ago this September, which means I've known Hank almost that long — which would be more than half my life. We joined CCO staff together 16 years ago, making us not only friends but colleagues.

As the three of us sat on Hank's front porch this weekend, we talked about everything from reality TV, environmentalism, and where we wanted to eat dinner that evening to our relationships with our own family members, the current state of the world, marriage, singleness, divorce and dating. It occurred to me that few people know me better than these two old, dear friends.

The evening before the church service in New York City, we stayed up late talking about our current life circumstances and reminiscing about the “old days.” At some point, we realized that 15 years ago this weekend, Hank and I were participating in our end-of-first-year-on-staff Spring Institute wilderness trip. That trip had something to do with “community, identity and spirituality,” and its purpose, as I understood it then, was to reflect on and debrief the first year of ministry, to get us to step out of our comfort zones, to experience group process, to bond…all in the context of hiking, backpacking, caving, rappelling, rock-climbing, and camping.

For reasons that have become clearer to me over the years, I spent a lot of that week in tears. One colleague belatedly nicknamed me the “weeping wilderness woman.” Hank remembers — he was there. Myrna remembers — I debriefed the experience with her ad nauseum.

“It's so bizarre,” I wrote in my journal during that week in May 1989. “I have always considered myself to be uncomplicated, open, easy to get to know, willing to be vulnerable.” Ha! “But I'm realizing how high on my face my mask is around these people. Except for the interns, perhaps, and especially Hank.

"I am prideful. I don't like to admit my weaknesses and I hate to cry in front of large groups of people. ...I guess my prayer for myself and for all of us is to find out exactly why we feel we need the masks and what exactly those masks are covering. I'm becoming increasingly aware that there is a lot going on inside of me that I don't even know about, and I guess it kind of scares me to realize that others may recognize it before I do.”

My 22-year-old self was able to articulate what my 37-year-old self is still struggling to be and to do. As we were walking up Broadway, trying to find our car after our night hanging out in the Village, I made the connection between what we had talked about the night before and what we had heard in church a few hours earlier.

And as Myrna and I drove back to Pittsburgh on Memorial Day, we thanked God for the blessing of old and dear friends, and the comfort we can occasionally find when we are truly known — the good, the bad and the ugly — and still loved.

“Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.”

This article was originally published in June 2004. Copyright Coalition for Christian Outreach, 2004.

Anniversaries

Nineteen years ago today, I was a bridesmaid for the first time. I was 19 years old, and my cousin Lauren (pictured to my left in the photo) married her husband David on a hot Indiana Saturday in 1986. My dad, whose younger sister is Lauren's mother, was unable to attend the wedding because of a labor dispute at the steel mill where he worked at the time. We took extra photos so that he could feel a part of things.

Lauren is two years older than me, and we've known each other pretty much all our lives. But it was during the summer of 1978 that we really connected for the first time, at the family reunion that also signified my first-ever airplane trip. I was just shy of 12 years old, and Lauren was 14, and after we said our goodbyes that summer, we became pen pals. Somewhere, I'm sure I still have a shoebox full of letters with her distinctive handwriting.

Lauren went off to college a couple years before I did, and I remember looking through a scrapbook of photographs from her freshman year. Right then, I was inspired to buy a 35mm camera to take with me when I started college, which I made very good use of. (My college friends can attest—grudgingly, I'm sure—to how ever-present that camera was throughout those four years!)

I vividly remember reading the letter that Lauren sent to me at the end of my freshman year in college, telling me about her engagement and asking if I might be available on August 2, 1986, and how I felt about "dusty rose" tea-length gowns. I felt pretty great about them, actually! I was so excited that, at age 19, I was finally going to be a bridesmaid! (Who knew then that I would collect seven silk/satin/taffeta bridesmaid dresses over the next decade or so?)

Today, Lauren and David have three beautiful daughters, and in spite of the distance we live from one another, I've been privileged to get to know Lindsay, Katie and Michaela, to varying degrees. Lauren and I are still pen pals—just more high-tech these days as we resort to e-mail. Three summers ago, Lauren was the first member of our generation to volunteer to host a family reunion. How fitting that she should draft me to the committee of three (along with her younger sister Beth), since a family reunion is what drew us into friendship in the first place.

And how wonderful and amazing that, besides being related by blood, we have also been drawn together by our common faith; we are sisters in Christ.

I got to see Lauren and the rest of my extended family a couple of weeks ago at yet another family reunion. Lauren's daughter Lindsay is around the age we were when we first really got to know each other, and I'm older now (if barely) than my parents were back in 1978. Still, somehow these events make us all feel 12 again! We couldn't have known then what our lives would look like in 2005. And who knows what the future holds? I pray that, whatever transpires from this day forward, that God would see fit to continue to strengthen our friendship.

Happy anniversary, Lauren and David!

Summertime

It would be easy for us to simply fill up a summer with meaningless activity, but I believe that the summers are meant for healing, growing, and preparing for what is ahead. May the Spirit be in all that we do.

This how my friend Chloe, who works for InterVarsity Christian Fellowship, closed a recent e-mail message. It made me think about my own perceptions of summer, especially recently, as heat and humidity levels have been almost beyond bearable. A friend recently confided, "I feel guilty for wanting summer to be over already. We're not even halfway through July, but this weather is getting on my nerves!"

Heat, humidity, air conditioning and global warming aside, I can relate to this sentiment. Summer is not my favorite season, but as with all seasons, it has its place. There is a more relaxed feel, which I like. Even though I am no longer intrinsically tied to an academic calendar, this can still be felt in other areas.

TV schedules: reruns.

Vacation schedules: it's not likely that the office will be at full capacity again until after Labor Day.

Work schedules: not so much. In some ways, I feel like my workload becomes a little heavier over the summer, as we in CCO headquarters work to gather and update information, reflecting which staff have departed, which staff are coming on board, whose job titles have changed, and so on. Lots of transition. My world is all about Web updates this month.

I am looking forward to my own vacation getaways, coming up soon. This weekend, it's a long-awaited family reunion, for which I only have to travel 40 miles or so. Over the next several weeks, I'll be driving to eastern Pennsylvania, western Virginia (not to be confused with West Virginia), and western New York to spend time with different groups of friends. As relaxing and enjoyable as those times will be, they will undoubtedly be tiring as well. All that driving!

I believe that the summers are meant for healing, growing, and preparing for what is ahead.

It seems to me that it takes a bit of intentionality for the healing, growing and preparing to take place. I find myself longing for sweater weather, if not for shorter days. Maybe it's because I was born in September that I love that month so much, with its paradoxical mixture of new beginnings and returns to comforting routine.

Perhaps I should resist living for the future long enough to allow space to heal, grow and prepare.

A Green Party at the White House

My life changed when I attended a green party at the white house. Anyway, it started to change.

It was September 1984, the end of the first week of my freshman year at Allegheny College. Karen, a senior and my SOA (that is, Student Orientation Advisor), asked me if I wanted to go with her to "a green party at the white house." It went without saying that the "white house" to which she referred was not the White House, Meadville, Pennsylvania being a good distance from Washington DC.

It had already been a week of new experiences. First there was the matriculation ceremony and residence hall bonding of my first day of college — and the tearful farewell to my parents. (I was okay until I had to hug my mother goodbye.) Then there were meetings with my new faculty advisor and the chaos of registering for my first term of classes. There were mixers between the freshman women of third-floor Walker Annex and the freshman guys of first-floor Edwards, complete with flashbacks to youth group ice-breakers. We actually lined up, boy-girl-boy-girl, and passed an orange from one end of the line to the other, tucking it between our chins and our necks — no hands allowed. And who can forget the Video Dance where I won a Madonna LP (yep — this was the pre-compact disc era), featuring favorites like "Holiday" and "Lucky Star" and "Borderline"? (I gave that record away within the week. It skipped.)

It's possible that the "Freshman Teas" happened that week as well. That's when all of the first-year women were escorted in groups, by residence hall floor, from one fraternity house to the next. We were all dressed up, and the brothers from one of the fraternities even presented each of us with a single red rose. Some of us were naïve enough to believe that this was the kind of chivalry we could expect all the time. Most of us had been clued in by upperclasswomen as to what was really going on. The "meat market" had begun.

Anyway, when Karen issued her invitation, I was in my first-week-of-freshman-year adventuresome mode. I had no idea who lived at "the white house" and hadn't a clue as to what a "green party" might be. (In 1984, Ralph Nader's political aspirations were unknown — at least, to me.) But I rounded up a few friends from my dorm and off we went.

It turned out that a few guys that Karen knew lived in the white house, a college-owned building which was white (go figure) and which was used as residence hall overflow. These guys — Kevin and Carl and Tim — happened to be student leaders of something called "ACO." ACO was a student organization which met every Friday evening, and Karen proudly told me that she had never missed a meeting. I eventually discovered that ACO stood for Allegheny Christian Outreach.

The living room of the white house was crowded with students, most of whom I had not yet met and all of whom were very friendly. Many of them were dressed in varying shades of green, and objects were strategically placed around the room — on the coffee table, the mantel, the floor — which were also green. A bottle of Scope® mouthwash, a comb, a bowl of M&Ms®. Eventually, between the so-what's-your-name, where-are-you-from, have-you-picked-a-major-yet threads that we freshmen were getting a little weary of, someone swooped in with Styrofoam bowls and gallons of (green) mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Then the door flew open and a man wearing bright plaid golf pants and a grass-green blazer appeared in the archway. He was older than the rest of us, and he was very colorful — both figuratively and literally. "Rock and roll!" was a refrain that punctuated most of his conversations, that night and throughout the year. He worked the room like a politician, making a comedic welcoming speech and shaking hands with all of us — those he knew and those he didn't. His name, I learned later, was Arlan Koppendrayer, and he was a campus minister; worked for some organization called the Coalition for Christian Outreach. But I didn't put that together until much later. For weeks, my friends and I simply referred to him as "the rock and roll guy."

That's pretty much all I remember about the green party at the white house. And to be honest, that event in and of itself was not particularly life-changing. In fact, I'm not sure it even made it into my journal at the time.

I remember it now because it's September. The back-to-school buzz is contagious, even when I'm not going back to school. I drove through Pitt's campus last week and saw the boxes and old furniture stacked up on the curbs. It's hard not to reminisce about what it was like to be a college student — half a lifetime ago!

And it's hard not to be grateful to the senior who took me under her wing and invited me to an event that I'd never have sought out on my own. That weird little party provided me with an entrée into a fellowship of people who ended up having a profound effect on my life — and many of them remain an important part of my life today. Those students encouraged me to grow deeper into a faith that I barely knew I had. They nurtured leadership abilities in me that were as yet untapped. They allowed themselves to be used by God, and God eventually called me into a field of work that I didn't know was an option when I first set foot on Allegheny's campus.

Thanks, Karen!

This article was originally published in September 2002. Copyright Coalition for Christian Outreach, 2002.

Everything old is new again

In the spirit of process vs. product, I thought I'd take a suggestion from Denise and repost previously written articles here. One at a time, as the Spirit moves. And not necessarily in the order in which they were written.

Most were originally published at the CCO site, when I edited the monthly Ministry Exchange online newsletter, which ceased publication in December 2004.

Stay tuned!

Hit Me Baby One More Time

I was having coffee with an old high school friend last week, when it hit me. Again.

I am getting older. And everything old is new again.

J. and I reconnected last year, shortly before our 20th high school reunion. Until that weekend, it had been probably 18 years since we last saw or heard from one another. We spent a surreal and fun day together back in October, leading up to the reunion that evening, then we saw each other again over Thanksgiving weekend, when I was able to meet her husband.

Fast forward to summertime, and J. and her husband were in town again, visiting their families for the week, and we managed to carve out a few hours to spend catching up. Having just consumed way too much food at a suburban Italian chain restaurant, we were enjoying dessert at a nearby Starbucks.

As we sat at the little cafe table outside the coffeeshop, sipping our drinks, we started talking about one of this summer's reality/nostalgia TV shows, Hit Me Baby One More Time, in which musical acts from the 1980s reunite to perform one of their hit songs. (In some cases, their only hit song.) From the single episode I watched (J. had not seen it at all), during the second half of the show, the singer/group appears again, singing a cover of a current pop song.

The night I watched, I saw a middle-aged Greg Kihn perform "The Break-Up Song," Billy Vera dusted off his hit, "At This Moment," which was made famous on the TV sitcom "Family Ties," and Club Nouveau sang their late '80s cover of "Lean on Me," which was an anthem of sorts for me and my senior-year college roommates.

I have concluded that the studio versions of these songs, recorded two decades or more ago, are both more polished and appealing. And there was something just, well...disturbing about seeing these once-young-and-hip musical acts back on stage with their receding hairlines and middle-aged spreads. I guess for those who have managed to more or less stay in the spotlight throughout the years, like the Rolling Stones or Billy Joel, these physical effects of the aging process aren't so startling. But as I watched Greg Kihn sing, I had the same sensation I had at my high school reunion last fall. "That's so-and-so? He looks like a middle-aged man!"

Oh yeah. He is one. And I'm a middle-aged woman.

Anyway, as I was telling J. about this show, we started reminiscing about the days when MTV really was about showing music videos 24/7, when VCRs were the size of microwave ovens, and about which songs conjure high school memories for us. "Total Eclipse of the Heart." "When Doves Cry." "Oh Sherry." And we talked about the Live 8 concert, which had just occurred a few days ago, and how we remember watching the Live Aid concert back in 1985, the summer after our freshman year of college. We tried to list which artists performed at both concerts. Paul McCartney. Madonna. U2?

At the table next to ours, four high school girls, dressed in halter tops and low-rise jeans, were talking about boys as they sipped their lattes and mochas, beverages I had never heard of, let alone tried, when I was their age.

Suddenly, one of their cell phones started ringing. Well, not ringing exactly. Singing, sort of. The tune?

"Girls Just Want to Have Fun."

No kidding.

Process vs. product

In the spring of my junior year of college, I took a fiction-writing class. This was possibly one of the most exhilarating and terrifying experiences of my undergraduate career.

There were probably about 20 of us in this class--it was a very in-demand course which, each term that it was offered, filled to capacity very quickly. We met two or three times a week, and we'd sit in a circle, reading drafts of each other's stories, offering praise and criticism. Probably more criticism than praise, but we were often reminded to offer a positive before enumerating the negative--or the "could-be-improved."

I've never been one for sharing my deepest secrets to large groups of strangers, and that's pretty much what this felt like. Writing is such a personal, self-revealing endeavor--fiction or not--and I felt so vulnerable offering up my writing efforts to this group of my peers. It may have been different had I actually known and trusted them all as individuals. Or not.

My preference through the years has always been to write and publish, without the median experience of critique. Even as an editor of others' work, I'm more apt to proofread and reword sentences, making the prose technically more readable. I'm much less likely to offer suggestions on content and direction. I've never thought much about why this is, but I suspect it has something to do with the whole "do unto others as you'd have them do unto you" mentality. I don't want to be told by someone else what it is I'm trying to say. And I don't want to tell others what they're trying to say either.

I know that there's a fine line here. Critique is and should be a good thing. Iron sharpening iron. Two heads are better than one, and all that. And there are different kinds of writing, which is something I deal with daily--the writing I do for myself vs. the writing I do for my job, which is supposed to fit a certain formula to meet the needs of the organization and to communicate the mission. Even then, I am prideful enough to resist editorial advice, no matter how gently it's given. But I ultimately concede that it's necessary, and usually on target.

Back to the fiction-writing class. I remember one day, the professor asked us which we preferred--to write or to have written? There was a split decision there, but the consensus was the latter. Our professor confessed that she found the act of writing "torturous," but that it was a complusion that she could not escape. I'm not sure I completely related to that, then or now.

It's never been particularly cut and dried for me. When I'm "in the zone," there's nothing so exhilarating as the process of writing. But there's something particulary wonderful--a sense of relief, even--to have completed a project: an essay, an article, a newsletter.

So, how about you? To write or to have written? Process or product? Or both?

Worth the effort

A few days ago, Over the Rhine provided me the inspiration to finally come up with a blog title I liked, inspired by a quote from one of Linford's writings posted on their website. What compelled me to surf over to their site in the first place was an article published recently on the Christianity Today website. It was an interview with Linford's wife, Karin, in which she candidly discusses the difficulties that their marriage has undergone in recent times and how they came to decide it was worth the effort to save it.

I was touched by this interview. From what I can tell, Karin, Linford and I are all around the same age, and while I, a 38-year-old single female, have never been married, many of my friends have. Many still are. More than I would have expected are not.

Over the last 20 years, I have been a bridesmaid in seven weddings. Four of those seven couples are still (happily?) married, two have divorced, and one is heading toward divorce; they have been separated for almost two years. (The subject of what makes a "happy marriage," or what role happiness plays/should play in how we make big life decisions, I'll save for another time. Or for a more ambitious blogger than I, whichever comes first.) For whatever all this is worth, most of those individuals, at least at the time they married, would call themselves committed Christians. (Which brings to mind the statistics indicating that the divorce rate in the Christian community is not much different than that in the general population, but that too is a discussion for another time.)

And one more disclaimer: the above number only counts the weddings where I served as a bridesmaid. Two more divorces come to mind immediately if I count weddings of friends where my role was, ironically, as Scripture reader.

I have walked through some pretty dark places with these friends and family members, and I've grieved the death of each of these unions to varying degrees. I've dealt with my own anger and disillusionment in the midst of it all, which only emphasizes the ripple effect that a couple's divorce has on the community at large. It's a myth -- a lie -- that convinces us that such a decision only affects the couple at hand. Whether or not they have children, other people -- family members, friends, church members, and so on -- will be caught in the crossfire. Because, more likely than not, those friends and family members have invested in that marriage as well, to varying degrees.

I don't mean to pass judgment or to act as if I know firsthand how challenging marriage is. I don't want to pretend that I've been as good or faithful a friend as I could have been to those who have suffered through the heartbreak of divorce. I may or may not ever get to experience the sacrament of marriage firsthand. (Even if I am not Catholic, I recognize the "institution" of marriage to be sacramental.) But I recognize that, even as an unmarried woman, I am a part of a community of witnesses who promise to never separate (or "put asunder") that which God has joined together. I continue to wonder what it means to hold couples accountable to vows that I have witnessed them making to one another, before God. A tricky business in our individualistic society.

All this is to say that I applaud Karin's and Linford's courage, their willingness to say no to good things in order to attend to their marriage. What a witness this is to those around them -- those who know them well and those who only know them by their music.

Who knew?

You're the United Nations!
Most people think you're ineffective, but you are trying to completely save the world from itself, so there's always going to be a long way to go. You're always the one trying to get friends to talk to each other, enemies to talk to each other, anyone who can to just talk instead of beating each other about the head and torso. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't, and you get very schizophrenic as a result. But your heart is in the right place, and sometimes also in New York.
Take the Country Quiz at the Blue Pyramid

OK. I just want to go on record here by saying that I don't plan for this blog to be all about these weird online diagnose-your-personality quizzes. I truly do have a clearer sense of myself than that. However, when I saw this one at Sheryl's blog, I couldn't resist. And it's relatively accurate, I think. So far as it goes.

On the other hand, I'm not going to post the results of The Book Quiz, because it's just too weird, and no matter how many times I take it and try to manipulate the answers, it never comes out anything close to what I think is accurate.

Hm. Think maybe I have some control issues? =)

I'll be back soon with a real post. Honest.

I belong in Rome?

OK, so I'm not convinced that this is exactly a part of my "true story," but it's accurate so far as it goes! But I'm good to go if you replace the cappuccino with a mocha latte. Which you wouldn't be likely to find in Italy, as I've learned from experience, having actually been privileged enough to visit Rome, almost seven years ago to the day.

(And hey--if you happen to take this quiz, feel free to report back and let me know if I'm the only person who found it difficult to choose among the multiple choice options offered for some of those questions. I just live in a parallel universe from the quiz writers, I guess.)

You Belong in Rome You're a big city girl with a small town heart Which is why you're attracted to the romance of Rome Strolling down picture perfect streets, cappuccino in hand And gorgeous Italian men -- could life get any better? What City Do You Belong in? Take This Quiz :-)

What must I do to make my life a true story?

This blogging experiment never seems to get completely off the ground for me, as evidenced by the date (almost four months past) of my one and only post. But I've been on a blog-reading binge lately, and am therefore inspired to add my own musings to the cybervoid.

So here I am.

And I think I've finally come up with a blog title I like, inspired by a visit earlier today to the website of one of my favorite musical groups, Over the Rhine. Linford Detweiler, the male half of the duo of Detweiler and (Karin) Bergquist, published a poem/essay hybrid there called They Put This Microphone In Front Of Me. Toward the end of it, he writes this:

They put this microphone in front of me and it's a story problem, remember story problems? It's a story problem because as usual, I don't have much of anything to say. But I ask myself, What must I do to make my life a true story?

What must I do to make my life a true story?

Stay tuned...

Starting fresh

This past Sunday, it became official: I am now serving my second term as an elder in my church, as made official by my installation during the worship service.

I was first ordained and installed as an elder in this same church five years ago, at which point I served my first three-year term. After a two-year break, I was invited to serve again. I accepted the invitation after much internal debate and prayer. How to discern whether or not I am saying yes (or no) out of a sense of selfishness, obligation, guilt, flattery or genuine calling? I suspect that my ultimate decision -- I did say "yes" -- can only be attributed to a combination of motives. My theology tells me that, as a human being living in a good-but-fallen world, that's the only real possibility.

As I stood on the chancel of the church with Marc, Marion and Tom, who were also being "re-installed" to eldership, I was humbled by the liturgy found in the Presbyterian Church (USA) worship book. We were reminded of Jesus' life and his call upon our lives. To be last is to be first, to be a leader in His Church means to be a servant of all. And as I subsequently served communion for the first time in over two years, I was awed by the words I was privileged to speak to my fellow worshippers: "This is God's body, broken for you."

I'm not so good at the servant thing, but I want to be. It's a blessing to be reminded that serving on session isn't really about meetings and paperwork and long lists of things to do. It's about using my God-given talents and gifts to serve those in this congregation and ultimately, those who need to hear the good news that Jesus loves them right where they are, faults and all. It's about stepping up to the plate, stepping out in faith, putting myself in a position where God can use me. It's about opening myself to the possibility that I can be God's instrument, bringing new life and transformation, even as He continues to breathe His Spirit into me and draw me closer to becoming the person He created me to be. Perhaps I am meant to serve in this place at this time.

God, help me to make myself completely available to you, to serve you fully, for such a time as this.