Traveling, Tripping, and Flat Tires

Last night, we pulled into the parking garage to park for an evening cruise with the kids when Derek said, "Why is my low tire light on?" Crawling out of the car, we quickly found the answer: the passenger side front tire was absolutely flat. Our kids found this fascinating. "I've never seen a flat tire that looked like what I've seen in cartoons!" our oldest daughter exclaimed.

I collected up yoghurts, chips, and necessary accessories to walk the kids to the dock for the cruise and Derek dug out the owner’s manual to work on the tire. We had to be at the dock at a certain time to check-in for the cruise. Helping my husband would take too long, so I had to take the kids, worrying if changing the tire in the parking garage was too dangerous and wondering if he would make it in time to join us on the cruise. Derek changed the tire, made it to the cruise, and visited the local discount tire shop with the kids today to buy a new tire.

The flat tire was one more car challenge on this summer's grand voyage. We spent a couple of hours in Birmingham in the car dealership, having our air conditioner fixed. Thankfully it was just a fuse issue and the service manager sent us on our way with a handful of new fuses to have as backups. Then, in Dallas, the power steering felt off and Derek discovered the fluid was running low. We've now added a bottle of power steering fluid to the vehicle supply crate in the car, along with the fuses.

On this warm and beautiful day, I decided to take a quick walk around the convention center before this afternoon's work session. I worried about making it back for the start of the session and started walking a little too quickly for my heels. I started crossing the street and soon found myself flying forward, my phone and cup flying through the air in front of me. My only thought, "Uh oh! Going down! I'm going down!" Next thing I know, I'm sitting in my dress on the warm asphalt in the middle of the crosswalk. Some precious bystanders rushed over to help me up and ask me if I was ok. I assured them I was fine and thanked them profusely for stopping and asking. Me, my bloody knee, and sore leg and back, limped back and found the first aid station in the convention center.

Our plans certainly didn't include a car dealership, auto parts store, tire shop, or first aid station. I can think of countless other ways I would have preferred for us to spend that time and energy. When unwelcome diversions crop up, I can start to lament the waste of time and the fun we are missing. Then I look at my kids. These mishaps are simply part of the adventure for them. Whatever we're doing is a new experience for them. They're fascinated by a flat tire. Watching the car go up on a lift is an exploration of physics and engineering. What they want to know is if they can eat their chips on the boat and if they'll have time to swim when we get back. Even my skinned knee will be one more thing to follow with interest to learn how the body heals and about basic first aid.

Friends, we can't expect to be too tidy about travel, and let us not forget that travel is a well-worn metaphor for life. I can cuss the car or my sore wrist and knee but the car and the body neither hears nor cares, they're simply doing as they do. So, the thing that's in my power is to climb in the front of the boat with my kids to watch the turtle go by. I can plaster myself against the dealership window alongside their little bodies, eyes glued to the lift to try to figure out hydraulics.

My “Talk to me” Face

“Hey, didn’t you teach at Saskatoon Elementary School?”

“Did you graduate from South Dallas High School?”

“Weren’t you in my mom’s group in Knoxville?”

No, no, and no. I have a face that people swear they recognize. Almost everywhere I’ve traveled, strangers ask me if I went to this school or was a part of that civic group. Other tourists come up to me and ask directions. On every trip I find myself apologizing for not being a local then try my best to help them figure out where they’re trying to go.

This isn’t limited to domestic travel, either. Once, in Greece, my own tour guide started talking to me in Greek, thinking I was a local walking by. It took a minute for my brain to process what was happening and then I looked at her quizzically and muttered, “I’m in your tour group. I came over to get something off the bus.” She was a bit surprised then waved me by.

I call it my “tell me” face. Walking through museums, riding on public transport, watiting in a lobby, no matter what I happen to be doing people want to come and tell me things. I’ve heard life stories in the ten minutes it takes to get groceries.

One night in Hawaii, I listened to a young man’s story of his recent breakup and subsequent STD infection that was the result of her infidelity. I was on the bus for twenty minutes.

The funniest experiences are when people argue with me. I was in Cherokee, NC, at the Oconaluftee Indian Village when one of the presenters asked me if I had attended a local high school. He was wearing traditional garb, an interesting contrast to my T-shirt and shorts. I smiled, this being a regular thing for me, and said, “No. I just have a familiar face. I’m from North Georgia.” 

He proceeded to argue with me, convinced I was wrong. “No. You went to school here. I remember you from high school.” I assured him I had never attended a high school in all of North Carolina. It didn’t matter. He was certain I had been in his school or, at least, had dated someone from his school.

In Dallas my “tell me” face must have been giving people a double-dose because it lead to two very interesting encounters. The first was on the tram into downtown Dallas. Part way into our ride, a man boarded with a bike. He hung his bike on one of the hooks provided for bikes in the car (very cool, by the way). He sat on the other end of the car. About five minutes later, he called out to me, “Ma’am. Ma’am. I’m thirsty. Can you give me a couple of dollars to buy some water when I get off?”

I answered that I didn’t have any cash, which I didn’t, and I was sorry. He kept looking at me and asked if I was sure. I told him I was but that I hoped he could fine a place to fill his water bottle when he got off the tram. He then stood up and walked over to us. We shook hands and over the next ten minutes he told us about living in a local homeless shelter and his efforts to get back to Miami. His car, the only home he had, was stolen some months back and that’s how he came to be in the shelter.

When he got off the tram, my kids had lots of questions. They processed part of his story but struggled to understand how someone becomes and stays homeless. He didn’t ask again for money but just enjoyed the time to visit. We shook hands again before he left and we wished him well.

Then, a man called out to me while we were in Dealey Plaza, checking out the JFK assassination spots. He makes his living giving tourists a play-by-play of the assassination. He asks for tips as he’s telling his story. I looked like a good candidate and, of course, he was right. He was engaging and funny and told us some of his story as he went along. The kids were unsure of him because he had a speech impediment: part of his mouth was paralyzed.

Again, when we finished, the kids had lots of questions. They wanted to know why he was talking to us, why his mouth was the way it was, and why he wanted a tip. This led to a continuation of our conversation on homelessness and how hard it can be to find work.

Some days I would rather not have a familiar face. It may surprise some who know me, but I get tired of people-ing the same as everyone else. But most days, the unintended invitation of my face brings fascinating conversations and stories. I’ve cried with people, laughed at their mishaps, helped them think of solutions to problems, and listened to them relive their hardest moments - most of the time I never know their names.

So, I guess this post is a prayer. I wonder where those people are and how things turned out. I pray they are well and give thanks to have shared a little time with them. And I pray to have the patience to pause and listen. Who knows what I’ll hear next? I certainly don’t want to miss it.

Demmlers West!

Two years ago I received a grant from the Lily Foundation's Clergy Renewal Program that afforded our family the ability to travel for five weeks across the country. We stayed in hotels and vacation rentals and either ate at unique restaurants or cooked with friends, all of which was the start of this Prayerful Kitchen project. This time, we're on our own financially and have taken on the challenge of pulling our hotel room with us. This Christmas our big (BIG) family gift to one another was a used camper. Blessedly, the people who owned it before us had it for years but only used it once or twice. It's in great shape and has needed few updates and a new set of tires. My amazing seamstress of a mother-in-law turned $100 in fabric into an aesthetic overhaul of the interior of the camper. Now, we are putting the camper and our ability to withstand living in close quarters to the test!

In November of 2016, the good people of the Diocese of Atlanta elected me to be among their deputies to this year's General Convention in Austin, TX. General Convention is the triennial legislative gathering of the Episcopal Church. We will be meeting during the first two weeks of July. My parents are celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary in Las Vegas at the end of July. It seemed only reasonable that we would connect the dots and take another massive road trip. I'll post reflections and recipes along the way to share some of what we're seeing and learning as we go along.

For example, my reflection from the first night on the road is this: be careful what thoughts pass through your mind because they may just come true. The camper has a short queen bed, two bunk beds, and a dinette that turns into a modified twin bed. When I bought sheets for the bunks and dinette I looked at the mattress pads and thought, "Do I need to buy these or do I save myself a good $30+?" Being the intelligent sort, I opted to keep my money and forgo the covers. After all, none of my children have wet the bed since they were a year old. Surely we would be okay for this trip, right? Right?!

Friends, spend the $30. This morning at 4:30 I heard our son mumbling and looked to see him shuffling towards our bed. I thought he was coming to crawl into bed with us like he often does in the early morning hours. But his tone was different and he was kind of swaying back and forth with his head cocked and down. Something was wrong.

"Mommy, I pee-peed in my pants."

"What?"

"I pee-peed in my pants."

Oh. No.

Sure enough, he had let loose. Not just a little, but his whole bladder had happily rid itself of its uncomfortable contents while he slept, blissfully unaware. Good news is, the camper really is that cozy and comfy. In fact, up until the 4:30 wake up call by our son, I too had been in a grand, deep sleep. Bad news is, urine now soaked his clothes, the sheets, and the cushion covers underneath him. Oh, AND it had made its way to the top of the dinette table underneath the cushions. He went big time.

After stripping him down, finding a new shirt and undies for him, and sending him into bed with his daddy, I stripped and cleaned the bed. Blessedly, and I mean blessedly, someone had wrapped the foam cushions in plastic before putting them in their covers. I was able to pull the cushion covers off and wash them with some Dr. Bronner's (LOVE this stuff!) peppermint soap in our little bathtub and hang them outside to dry.

Now, our son is happily snoozing inside next to his daddy and I'm awake writing to you find folks. Before you wonder why Derek didn't clean up the mess, he's the designated driver for this trip. I was happy to plan the trip and do all of the arranging but don't have much of a mind to learn to tow our 24 foot camper, thank you very much. I'll get to nap in the car while he carries the stress load of having to maneuver our Expedition and camper on I-20.

For those of you interested, here's where we're headed this summer. We'll stay most places 1-3 nights, with Austin being the exception.

Birmingham-Vicksburg-Dallas-Austin-Ft. Stockton, TX-Ruidoso, NM-Tucson-Joshua Tree National Park-San Dimas, CA (outside of LA)-Las Vegas-Flagstaff-Amarillo-Albuquerque-Oklahoma City-Lonoke, AR-Nashville-HOME!

Now for the first recipe from the road, and it's a cheater. I was tired last night and it was hot, so I opted for a one-bowl supper that required little work.

Chicken Caesar Salad

1 rotisserie chicken from the grocery store
1 1/2 head of romaine lettuce
6-8 Tbsp Caesar dressing
1/4 cup grated parmesan cheese (I buy the pre-shredded in the plastic tub)

Pull all of the meat off the bone from the chicken and pull it apart into bite-sized pieces. Place in a big bowl. Wash lettuce and cut it into 1/2-3/4 inch strips and add to bowl (don't forget to spin the lettuce in your salad spinner after you wash it to get most of the moisture off, unless you like a runny salad). Throw in your dressing and cheese and toss. My kids love this salad and I didn't have to get hotter standing over a camp stove.
Note: I often will cut up some fresh baby spinach, maybe two handfuls, and throw it in there as well. My kids don't know their eating raw spinach and I do an internal victory dance that some vitamins have made their way into my kids' bodies. You can also add croutons, which my kids love but we couldn't find in the grocery store last night.

Stay posted! You know they'll be more to come.

Hope in the Face of a Ring Bearer

Recently I had the honor of preaching at the wedding of two women on the banks of a lake in Knoxville, TN. The couple is organized and plans way ahead. They asked me over a year and a half ago if I would be a part of their big celebration. I was thrilled at the news of their engagement. I put the wedding date on my calendar and looked forward to being in Knoxville with them.
After such a long period of planning and anticipation, I was excited when the weekend finally arrived. I found the wedding location, a beautiful barn built specifically for big events and boasting views of the lake, and met up with the priest who was presiding over the wedding. The wedding planner connected with us and we were delighted to find she was great to work with.
The other priest and I walked down to the site of the ceremony and waited as the planner organized the wedding party and sent them our way. The bridesmaids and “best buds” found their places on either side of us and the two brides entered on either arm of the daughter of one of the brides. They were all smiles and love seemed to become a mother hen, fluffing us under her wings as she came to settle over us all.
My colleague walked the wedding party through the ceremony and reached the point where the ring bearer needed to step forward to hand over the rings. Of course, the maid of honor and best bud had the actual rings. The ring bearer carried two decoys in a little blue box. We’ve all learned not to entrust a five-year-old with diamonds at this point.
The priest asked the ringbearer to come forward for his big moment. He squeezed between two of the best buds and came to stand just to the right of the couple, then looked up at the two brides. Usually a ring bearer will anxiously hand off his pillow or box then scoot back to his parents or grandparents, but this little boy decided to stay and watch.
As the officiant walked each bride through her words as she presented a pretend ring to her betrothed, the ring bearer looked up at them in wonder. He knew something special was happening here, that he had an important job and now was a part of a significant moment. I chose to watch him, his eyes wide and full of curiosity and inquisitiveness. He wasn’t marveling that there were two brides. Rather, he had the same look as all other ring bearers trying to figure out why this was so important. He was watching and learning about love and the weight of the commitment made by two people who love each other deeply.
I was awash with hopefulness. There is plenty in the news today to have me discouraged, anxious, and even frightened at moments. I get down on people and lose hope in humanity, feeling that we seem hell-bent on ruining all of creation and hurting one another . But then this little boy stood there, eyes full of wonder, and my heart softened. Hope came back to me.
That little boy will never know a time when people of the same gender were prevented from proclaiming their love for one another in a marriage ceremony, recognized by the state as a sign of their commitment, on equal footing as every couple of opposite gender. For him, two women are as much a married couple as a man and a woman, same as for two men. The world has changed for the better and he will only know that improved reality, the same as my own children. My kids always have had friends with two mommies or two daddies, as well as friends with a mommy and a daddy.
The father of one of the brides originally had threatened not to attend the wedding. He’s a Southern Baptist preacher and had long condemned homosexuality. “Gay marriage” as an abstract concept is easier to argue against than when it comes home and you see it in action, defying long-held theological beliefs. We hold our beliefs and doctrine tightly and any threat to them can feel like a threat to our very identity. Many family members of LGBTQ friends have had to struggle with the conflict between beliefs they were handed and the reality of love in action as evidenced in front of them. It’s a hard struggle and not to be minimized.
In this instance, the father set aside his objections and decided to come. Likely, he realized it would be hard to live with the regret of not attending his daughter’s wedding. He was there at the rehearsal, watching and learning right along with the little ring bearer. His expression might have been quite different from that of the little boy, but he was absorbing the activity all the same. During the ceremony I saw him watching intently, witnessing the depth of love his daughter shared with her bride. He could not escape the warmth of the wings of love as the mother hen settled further on us all, enveloping us in our tears and joy.
I had to leave soon after saying grace at the reception but not before I saw this same father catch his daughter up for a traditional father-daughter dance for all to see. I learned later that after he danced with his daughter, he asked to dance with her bride. It brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. By the grace of God, people change; we change; the world changes.
The mother hen of grace and love is determined to pull us all under her wing, regardless of our efforts to resist. God wants us together, celebrating love at every turn. We need these moments, these brides, the little ring bearer, and the reconciled father. We need to see the power of the Spirit working in the world, determinedly marching us towards justice and love, regardless of our rebellions and in our best interest.

Radical Expectations for Relationships

Sermon Audio for June 24

Yesterday I spoke to our need to have people in our lives whose views and perspectives differ from our own. We need the balance and variety of gifts they bring. We differ greatly, were created as such, and it is the power of the Eucharist that binds us together. The body of Christ, broken in love for us, should ever be our model for how we are to be in relationship with one another, with love at it's core. I asked if our egos were so delicate now that we can no longer engage in real conversation. The cultural norm today for how we are to interact with one another runs counter to the model set in scripture.

I don't post links to the audio for my sermons but am sharing today because of several requests I have had to make it available.

My apologies for not having any text to go with it. I don't preach from a manuscript or notes.

Peace and love to you all.

Mary+

Consider the Dandelion

It seems the target of every weed killer ad is the much maligned and humble dandelion. A threatening, deep voice lists the many threats to a pristine lawn as the camera zooms in on a healthy dandelion with bright yellow flower. A hand appears from the side of the screen to grab the bottle of weed killer and, with sniper precision, targets the spray on the dandelion. A time-lapse of the plant shows the flower start to droop, followed by the arms of the leaves, until the entire plant goes from regal and crowned to shriveled and decrepit. Trumpets blast as the enemy has been vanquished. Your lawn is safe once again!
I must admit that I have an affinity for dandelions. I fruitlessly hope for the underdog in the commercial. Dandelions are pretty incredible plants. The leaves are edible and make a traditional salad. If you’ve eaten poke salat, then you likely have had dandelion greens as well. The flowers are bright yellow and smell of sunshine. For this reason they have been used to flavor cookies and make wine. For centuries dandelions were collected for their medicinal properties.
But perhaps the most magical part of the dandelion is that their heads, once full of seeds, can grant wishes! I remember laying in the grass, pulling at the dandelion flowers and blowing on the seeds to watch them take flight in the wind of my breath. Friends would race from one pristine seed head to another. We wanted to be the first to reach the plant so we could get the wish, but we had to be careful. We couldn’t run full-stop all the way to the white puff ball, otherwise the wind from our legs would cause some of the seeds to release and take flight. This would ruin the wish because only a perfectly intact and fully developed seed head could grant wishes. God demands a perfect sacrifice, after all. We would snatch up the fluffy orb, close our eyes, make a wish, and gently blow on the former flower to watch the seeds fly away, along with our wish.
Those seeds might be the real miracle of the plant. They are tenacious in their determination to root in any condition. They flourish in the rich soil of a well-tended lawn, but they are equally at home in the crack of a paved driveway or the slightest collection of soil in the crag of a rock. World be damned, they are going to grow into the plant God intended. It’s for this very reason that dandelions frustrate the most patient of gardeners.
Now imagine if we thought these seeds were so precious that we saved them. We gingerly placed them in small glass boxes, rimmed in gold, and hung them from chains around our necks. When we travelled to see family, we took dandelion seeds enshrined in plastic with poems to give as gifts.
You might have some sense, then, for what it was like for those who heard Jesus compare the kingdom of God to a mustard seed. Like many things in the Bible, our distance in time and space from Christ have allowed us to domesticate the radical wildness of this parable. Mustard seeds are small, light enough to be carried by the wind, and grow everywhere. They grow with determination and vigor. Their seeds and leaves have medicinal property and are used in cooking. They are the dandelions of Christ’s time and it must have sounded ludicrous for something as mysterious and precious as the kingdom of God be compared to the most mundane of plants.
The kingdom of God is like a dandelion seed. The seed takes flight at the slightest whisper of wind from the Holy Spirit. It floats until it finds the most meager amount of soil, where it will take root and grow, even against all odds. It can dig into the darkest and coldest of hearts and bring light.
It grows to our consternation at times. We would look at a seemingly barren landscape and think, “No. The kingdom of heaven can’t be in this place, among these people.” And yet, the Spirit is there, growing in hearts, between the cracks. We would look at someone we would consider depraved, a heartless enemy, and yet, the Spirit is growing inside of them, having carried a seed in its breath and encouraged it to spread roots.
Would we be like the children, running, rushing even, to snatch up the next seed head to make a wish and blow, spreading kingdom seeds. We spend too much time judging what people and places might have the kingdom within them, which might be worthy to receive it and call its own. Instead, we should be in the business of wonder, wishes, and excitement as we whisper to the Spirit, “Take flight!” and watch as the seeds go, not where we design but where God would carry them.
The kingdom of God knows no boundaries, no borders, any more than a dandelion seed knows fences and property lines. As Christians, it is into this world we are called, one littered with kingdom seeds that could use our encouragement and watering, including those that lie deep within our own hearts.

God the Father and the Love of a Daddy

People tend to assume that I’d happily purge our theology and worship of all male-centered language. It’s an honest assumption. I consider myself a decent feminist. I’ve had to be confident that women can do everything as well as men, given that I work in a profession that many people still consider “men’s work,” some of whom don’t think I should have the right to do what I do. I like connecting to the feminine divine, not just in the women of the Bible but also in the personality and nature of Jesus Christ, as well as that of the Holy Spirit. The women should be recognized alongside the men, and we should all study and understand the feminine characteristics of God. I believe Paul when he writes, “there is neither male nor female.” (Galatians 3:28) We are equal in the eyes of God and have particular gifts of the Spirit to share for the building up of the kingdom.

That said, I love the language of “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit” for the Trinity. The relationship recommended in that language says volumes about the love that binds the Trinity together and that pours out on all of creation. The bond between parent and child is dynamic, intricate, and multifaceted. No other way of referring to the Trinity comes close to imparting the same meaning and connotation. Everything else feels too cold or distanced to me.

I particularly love Christ’s referring to God the Father as “Abba” in the Lord’s Prayer, which is better rendered, “Daddy.” He invites us to share in his intimate relationship with the Father, knowing we can call on God as we would our own daddies. It is a tender connection full of unbounded love.
This is where I must confess my own bias. I come to the language of “father” and “daddy” with a particular reference point: my own father. It was at once surprising, naïve, and heartbreaking for me to realize not everyone had the same warm feelings associated with the word, “father.” My own experience has been fundamental to my understanding of God as the father who wants to adopt us by the unconditional love of grace.

In the collect for Proper 17, we pray in the Episcopal Church, “Lord of all power and might, the author and giver of all good things: Graft in our hearts the love of your Name.” (Book of Common Prayer, page 233). I love the idea that God would graft part of his love onto our hearts so our hearts might grow and be transformed.

For my brothers and sisters who have visceral reactions to the “father” language of the Trinity, I wish I could graft some of my own heart to theirs. I wish everyone had the same abiding warmth in their hearts as I do, so as to remove any barrier they might have in connecting to God, the daddy who would welcome us all home with open arms.

My father taught me the shape of the love of a daddy. He sacrificed much of his time for his vocation so he could provide for his family in abundance. He is a doctor, and his beeper called him out of countless family dinners and movie outings. I don’t know that he sat through a whole movie at the theater with us when we were kids. When he started his work, he was one of just a handful of orthopedists in our town, and there were more than enough patients in crisis in the emergency room awaiting his care. He lost personal time for hobbies and self-care because he was needed and he felt called to respond.

But his dedication to work hasn’t simply been in response to his need to provide for us, his family. He loves his work because it’s the work God called him to do. He has a gift for working with patients, not only to meet their immediate physical needs but also to tend to their emotional concerns by taking the time to listen to them. He genuinely cares about people and is compelled to improve their lives in any way that might be within his capacity.

I never felt abandoned by his departure. He managed to be on my t-ball and softball fields to help coach my teams. He was in the stands at my ballgames whenever his work allowed. After my brother went off to college, my mom was in politics and spent most of her weeks in Atlanta when the legislature was in session.  This left only my dad and me at home. I hadn’t found my love of cooking and neither of us had time to cook, so we ate out most nights at one of our favorite restaurants. He made the time to have dinner and listen to his teenage daughter chatter on about school and basketball and life. He never talked down to me or was patronizing. He treated me as an intelligent equal and we regularly talked about politics and current events.

I have never wondered about my father’s love. I know that I will always have it. The story of the prodigal son becomes vivid and imbued with meaning because the father in the parable behaves as my father would. It takes no stretch of my imagination to envision a father delighted at the return of his son, despite the son’s actions. My brother and I each had our turn to call our dad and say, “Dad, I got in trouble, but I’m ok.” He responded with laughter at our mishaps and pride at the handling of our respective run-ins with the law.

When Christ tells us to pray, “Our Father,” I willingly fall into that language, finding the idea of God as “daddy” to be a source of great comfort and encouragement. Would that I could graft some of this love and understanding into the hearts of my brothers and sisters who were not so lucky to have an amazing Father. I give thanks for my daddy, who gave me the template for understanding the depth of the love of a God who would condescend to be the Father of us all.