Great Aunts Make Great Neighbors

This weekend my soon-to-be-in-laws came to our house. Among their many interests, they are great appreciators and collectors of art. Not long after their arrival my soon-to-be-mother-in-law asked about the piece that hangs in our living room, above my favorite chair. And so I told her what I know: it’s a batik piece, an enlarged copy of one of the images from the Book of Kells. My great aunt Jean, our neighbor when I was a child, brought it back from Ireland on one of her many trips, and it hung in her home for years before giving it to me. While my Aunt Jean married men who’s last names were Iverson and Pederson, she never forgot that she came from Irish immigrants. I’m sure her not-so-sublte message in giving me the piece was that I too would never forget who my people are and where I come from.

We learned that Aunt Jean died this morning. I hadn’t seen her in years- not since she moved back to Minnesota to be closer to her daughter. Aunt Jean was my maternal grandmother’s youngest sister. In many ways she lead an extraordinary life- she had great adventures, especially with her first husband; was a business woman; traveled; and never missed an opportunity to play Scrabble with us. She played the role of grandma superbly while my own lived in Pennsylvania- she chauffeured, showed up, hosted, welcomed, and taught us in all the ways she knew how. She was dealt far more than her fair share of tragedy and somehow, in the midst of it, her mid-western perseverance kept her going. She wasn’t always the most pleasant person to be around- perhaps the lesson I take most greatly to heart from her– I can choose, everyday, to reach out with a hand of love or to reach out with a hand of criticism. Though she regularly made a different choice, she’s the person I think of most often when I decide how I will act in the world, how I will treat others, and how I will respond to the hurt around me.

At some point in our childhood we acquired a dress from Aunt Jean. The most stunning red brocade you’ve ever seen, an enormous pleated full skirt, and red silk covered buttons all the way up the back. I’m not entirely sure who it was made for or the occasion- but they were very tall and very skinny and very fancy. It made appearances at more than one school project and lots of dress up occasions. But then it hung, mostly forgotten in the back of the closet until there came a time in my life for red fabric. And so we took it apart- stitch by stitch, each pleat, until yards and yards of heavy brocade lay ready for their next life. It became red stoles- gifts to my beloved seminary family on the occasions of their ordinations, and one for me, connecting us across time and space. I don’t know if Aunt Jean ever knew what we did with that dress, but I think she’d have been pleased to know that it has gone on to serve the church and to be a sign of the presence of the Holy Spirit in our world.

So today I give thanks for a life well-lived. I give particular thanks that her baptism is complete and death and she rests today with her beloved Phil and son Peter.

Tell Me What Theology Looks Like

My life of faith has alway been a two sided coin. On the one side the sanctuary and on the other side the street. It is because I am person of faith (and a Presbyterian) that I am compelled out into the street to stand with marginalized, silenced, and oppressed people. And it is because I am in the street that I am compelled back into the sanctuary to lament, to rejoice, to confess, and to pray.

It’s General Assembly time again in the Presbyterian Church (USA) and this week we’re gathered in St. Louis to talk a lot of insider baseball about structure and vision, but we’re also talking fossil fuel divestment, LGBTQIA inclusion, parental leave, gun violence prevention, and most importantly, we’ve had a theme of confronting structural racism and white supremacy throughout our time and work together.

This afternoon hundreds upon hundreds put their money and their feet where their mouths and their well-crafted overtures are and took to the streets of St. Louis. Together we marched. We marched to end a cash bail system that criminalizes poverty and disproportionately affects people of color. We marched to say that black lives indeed matter. We marched to stand with those who’ve been pushed out, hushed up, shut down, and kicked aside. We marched to confront and confess the ways we have been, and continue to be complicit, in racist and bigoted systems and structures. And we marched to make a difference; we made our way from the convention center to the City of St. Louis Justice Center and presented a check for more than $47,000 to pay the bonds of those who’ve yet to stand trial, those whose are being punished for their poverty.

We have been called the “frozen chosen”. We have been called a dying church. Today, on Juneteenth, our voices echoed through the high rises of downtown St. Louis proclaiming “No Justice, No Peace” and “Stand Up, Fight Back”. As we gathered around the building that keeps so many in chains, locked away without trial or support, we were reminded that it was Jesus himself who brought release to the captives and also washed their feet and it is Jesus who demands we do the same. And we proclaimed for all the city to hear “This is what theology looks like!”

This is my beloved church, by whom I am moved and for whom I am deeply grateful.

100 Days

I often find myself saying that one of the reasons I workout as often as I do (though probably not as often as I should) is because I like cookies. And beer. And french fries. I also have grown to genuinely enjoy my workouts- even running. But I know, as I’m sure you do, that I could do a little better. A little better with the workouts; a little better with the eating; a little better with caring for my body that shockingly moved into the second third of it’s life without my permission.

In spirit that earlier this week I began a 100 day challenge with some beloved coworkers. This isn’t 100 days of deprivation or cleansing or dieting or burning out, but 100 days of doing just a little better. 100 days of walks or runs or bike rides or yoga classes. 100 days of a piece of fruit in the afternoon rather than a cookie. 100 days of seemingly small decisions. I may lose a few more of these stubborn plateau pounds– I may not. I may ride my way into my first bike race– I may not. I may run my way to a Bolder Boulder PR– I may not. But after 100 days I’m quite certain I will be glad I’ve stood with these friends and made a few better choices.

Though it’s worth admitting, starting this during the last month of the school year may have been a tactical error on our part, so if you’re looking for us, we’re stress eating clementines.

Try not to get in the way.

Over the last few days and certainly over the next few weeks (and hopefully longer) we will continue to hear the students of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida speak out in favor of stricter gun laws. They will hold rallies, they will lobby, they will march, they will tweet, they will travel, and good-Lord-willing-and-the-rest-of-us-not-get-in-the-way, they will achieve the seemingly impossible.

I’ve been thinking about all the things they have to say. I’ve been thinking about their courage to turn their grief into action. I’ve been thinking about how badly we’ve failed them. I’ve been thinking about how I too am a product of the school shooting generation- but at the old end, not theirs. I was in high school during the shooting at Columbine and graduate school during Virginia Tech. But mostly I’ve been thinking about how badly we can screw this moment up.

So I have some unsolicited advise. (It’s my blog, damnit.)

For those of us who count ourselves as activists, whether related to civil rights, gun control, women’s rights, racial inequality, immigration, LGBT issues, health care, public education, anti-war or anything in between, it will seem like we should help these well-meaning high schoolers out. After all, we have a wealth of experience in organizing and lobbying and campaigns, we should definitely offer them our expertise.

Resist that urge with every fiber of your being.

If these brave young folks want our help, they will ask for it.

I know Baby Boomers have a lot to say on this matter– hush. I know Gen Xers have been through some fights– listen. I know Millennials are the smartest people in the room– sit down.

These Floridians, and their allies across the country, are doing just fine. Let’s resist the urge to helicopter them, teach them, guide them, mentor them, or stand between them and their goal. Let’s just listen and when asked, get to work. All our lives are at stake.

Marjory Stoneman Douglas

There was another shooting at a another school yesterday. This time in Florida. 17 are dead. It was 18th school shooting since January 1. There is much to say about it, almost all of which has been said before, following a previous school shooting about which nothing has been done. So instead of wondering for the 400 jillionth time why we don’t do something about the damn guns I’d like to tell you a little about the name you may be hearing for the first time: Marjory Stoneman Douglas.

If you grew up in south Florida you know her name; if you didn’t grow up here you know her legacy. She is our patron saint. Marjory Stoneman Douglas was a real life suffragette, she was an activist, an agitator, a brilliant writer, and arguably the world’s first eco-feminist- though she didn’t know it. She started her writing career as the society columnist at the newspaper her father published that later became The Miami Herald.

She published her seminal work The Everglades: River of Grass in the 1940’s and it set the stage for what has become generations of work on restoring and honoring the Everglades. To preserve, restore, and save the Everglades she fought Big Sugar, developers, the state of Florida, the federal government, agri-business, and the Army Corps of Engineers, and along the way she turned so many Floridians into environmental activists.

Throughout her 108 year life she fought for women, for civil rights, for the environment, for education, and for farm workers. She was a tireless advocate, a fierce opponent, and a feisty spirit.

You will hear her name a lot in the coming days and it will only be associated with tragedy, but please, please, for the sake of those who are hurting right now, please remember her for the enormous good she did in our world. She would want us to fight harder; she would want us to work more diligently; she would want us to do better.

Come and Worship- even during Lent

Each weekday at noon, after chiming the hour, our chapel carillon plays two random hymns. Today as I walked across campus, carrying my lunch back to my desk to make preparations for our second of three Ash Wednesday services, I was struck by the second hymn and found myself singing along to Angels, from the Realms of Glory.

It felt more than a little subversive (my apologies to the liturgical police) to sing along with a Christmas hymn on this first day of Lent. And yet even though so many of us have packed up our Alleluias for 40 days and begun our prayerful, solemn journey toward the cross, I also found myself more than a little comforted that we’re always in Christmastide, just as we’re always in Advent, just as we’re always in Lent, just as we’re always called to live as Easter people.

We undoubtedly live in a culture that gets uncomfortable with seasons of fasting in anticipation of the feast that will surely come, and yet Lent is calling us to do exactly what the hymn that rang across campus calls us to do: come and worship. Settling into a season of Lenten fasting demands that we resist a culture of excess, a culture of greed, a culture of habit– which is no different than a hymn that cries out for shepherds abiding in their fields, for sages in the midst their contemplations, and for all of creation to join in and come, worship, and give thanks.

By all means, today is a day when we reflect on our mortality, on our brokenness, and that we come from ashes and to ash we shall return. But it’s also a day when we remember that the God who loves us first is the one who breathed life into that ash; and the God in whose image we are made will stand watch over that ash till the end of time; and that even in the midst of our ashiness we are called to live as beloved children of God– called to come and worship.

On Failure

It’s December 20th. There are eleven days left in 2017 and according to my New Year’s Resolution I have 819 more miles to ride this year.

It’s not going to happen.

If I’m really on my game I might swing another 150-200 bringing my total to somewhere in the neighborhood of 2,350-2,400. And here’s the thing– I’m astonished and proud and tired and ready to try for 3,000 again.

This is the time of year when we are reminded that most resolutions don’t make it out of January and all the ways we set ourselves up to fail. January 1, they say, is not the time to commit to losing weight or quitting smoking or saving more for retirement or riding 3,000 miles. I knew midway through the year I wouldn’t make  my goal,

accepting I would fail– and do so spectacularly.

Because it’s simply spectacular that this year I ran a half marathon and another great year of Bolder Boulder. It’s spectacular that I willingly rode the hills of central Florida- with minimal crying. It’s spectacular that I’ve gone from barely holding on in the 20 mph Saturday group, to pulling it, to comfortably riding in the 22 mph group- even when they’re doing more like 23.5 mph. It’s spectacular that a regular week of riding is more than 100 miles. It’s spectacular that I now ride an all carbon bike and it was built for the possibility of racing. And it’s perhaps most spectacular that I’m considering entering my first bike race and hiring a triathlon coach, just to see what 2018 brings.

Failure is a funny thing. It’s easy to find it paralyzing. Easy for the possibility or even the actuality of failure to stop us in our tracks and keep us from moving forward. But here’s the thing about bikes- you can’t go backwards; forward is the only option, mile after mile.

May you find something in 2018 at which you can fail spectacularly. It’s kind of awesome.

Into the Disaster

On more than once occasion over the last few weeks I’ve joked that “Shannons drive into disasters”. I’ve said this to make light of the fact that while millions of Floridians drove north to try and get out of Hurricane Irma’s path, I drove south. I’ve said it when my sister in Colorado bought an airplane ticket to come help the recovery, practically before the winds had fully died down. And for anyone who knows my family even a little, the notion that Shannons drive into disasters doesn’t seem too out of the ordinary.

But what happens when the disaster you’re driving toward belongs, in part to your own family? What happens when the drone photos are your neighborhood? What happens when you turn onto the street your family has lived on for 40 years and it’s the Red Cross tents and the Rotary and FEMA and Team Rubicon and Samaritan’s Purse and on and on walking your block asking about what folks need to help dig out?

It turns out what happens when it’s your disaster is the same thing as when it’s been someone else’s- you work like crazy. You take one step at a time. You throw away, lay out in the sunshine, wipe clean, pack up, and make jokes, take pictures, and tell stories along the way (and drink some beer). And you also learn to say “sure, we could use a hand” instead of the immediate “oh no, we’re fine”. You welcome total strangers into a mess you’d have never imagined letting anyone see. You get glimpses of remarkable generosity, grace, and kindness from friends near and far.

It turns out, when it happens to be your disaster, you drive into it, head on, knowing that recovery happens one packed box, one trash bag, one step at a time.

It’s An Extraordinary Thing

I left home to go home yesterday.

Yes, it’s that complicated. The home of my childhood, the home of my parents, the town my family has called home for four generations is my home. And St. Pete is my home. The house I own; the place where my spirit feels at rest; the place where my dearest friends and my love reside.

But as I drove north on I-75, against the flow of traffic headed south, I was completely overcome. This time with gratitude and joy.

Overcome because as I drove north, north to my relatively unscathed home in my relatively unscathed neighborhood, driving south were the convoys. Driving toward the destruction was truck after truck after truck. There were convoys of power trucks from Kansas City, Philadelphia, Oklahoma, and Indiana. There were convoys of national guard

from Florida and Ohio. There were grocery store trucks ready to replenish store shelves. There were hardware store trucks filled with tools. There were caterpillar trucks loaded down with commercial generators. There were Red Cross trucks and Salvation Army trucks and AT&T and Verizon trucks; there was a Tide mobile clothes washing truck. And into the chaos they drove. In the next few days it’ll be Presbyterian Disaster Assistance and Mennonite Disaster Service and the Southern Baptist men- who are probably already cooking to feed communities across the state.

I imagine most of us have seen the Mr. Rogers quote about looking for the helpers. Yesterday as I drove from one home to another- a drive I’ll be making a lot in the coming months as my parents and community clean up- I didn’t need to look hard because truck after truck after truck was making the helpers known. These are the people who drive into the chaos and give us a leg up in our slow return to normalcy- and I’m so grateful.

Walking Away

It’s an extraordinary thing to walk away from your home. To go room by room, inventorying your things and determining what simply has to come with you, what can be protected and left, and what is just stuff.

Truthfully, it’s all just stuff. It’s clothes and shoes and books and old magazines and tools and crap I should’ve gotten rid of ages ago. Nothing makes you feel more like a hoarder than surveying your belongings and ascribing emotional value to them. Turns out, almost all of it is worthless. And yet from time to over the last few days I’ve been completely overcome by the act of walking away.

I feel like I’ve abandoned my home. I feel like she knows I didn’t trust her to make it through and so I left. I feel badly about that. But whether it’s the house or the things in it, the only thing that matters today is that the people I love more than anything are safe for now. And this house has seen far more than I can imagine. She’s a tough old bird.