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"?