Two Funerals and a Dog

Last week I officiated at two separate funerals (one for a dear co-worker) and I lost my beloved dog.  It’s been a week of feeling vulnerable, trying to wrap my mind around how fast life can change, and absorbing the permanence of death.  It’s been a long few days but they have not only been filled with heart-aching grief.  They have also been filled with support, love, and the promises of God.

The hardest part of this week was guiding my six-year-old son through his first experiences with profound grief.  He came with us to the funeral of his great-grandpa a few weeks ago.  It was his first exposure to death, to a body, and to the rituals surrounding grief.  Then the quick loss of our family dog (who was with us for eight years) left him in a tailspin as he tried to grasp what it meant.  We had to put our dog down late in the evening after a swift illness, and I couldn’t sleep at all that night knowing we would have to tell our son in the morning.  My fierce protective tendencies made it tough for me to share news that would cause him pain.  Later that day, when my best friend called to ask me how I was doing, I remember saying, “Grieving for a dog is difficult, but helping a six-year-old grieve is really, really hard.”

It may sound strange, but being present with other grieving adults (and children) gave me the comfort of community last week.  It reminded me I am not alone.  Grief feels like such an intrusive stranger—and throws us into such unfamiliar emotions—that it’s easy to feel isolated as others continue on with their lives.  At the funerals I was able to connect with others experiencing similar emotions and to witness parents struggling to comfort their children.  I saw kids dissolving into tears one minute and playing the next, which reminded me my son’s expressions of grief are universal and natural.

I often get asked if it is appropriate to bring children to a funeral or a visitation.  I always say yes—but don’t push them.  Children need ritual.  It’s important to take away any mystery and help them feel a part of a community.  They benefit immensely from watching us model how to grieve, process and express emotion.  At one of the funerals last week, children played around a casket filled with loving notes, bracelets and crafts they made for their grandma, whose body lay inside.  All the children sat on the floor together in the front during the service at the funeral home.  They cried, laughed and clung to each other as the adults did the same behind them.  When they remember their time of grief, they will remember being included, saying goodbye, and being surrounded by many arms willing to hold them.  

But oh, is it ever hard to walk with children through grief—and maybe some of that’s because they don’t let us look away from our own grief.  They teach us.  They need us to cry with them and to talk endlessly (at least in my son’s case) about death—yet I’m also able to give him the hope of God’s eternal promises.  My son’s reminders to grieve are such a gift.  Every morning my son greets our dog by name, and he says goodbye to her every night before he goes to sleep.  Even though I feel pain in my chest knowing he is missing her, it reminds me that I miss her too, and that it’s ok to make her a part of my life in a new way.  And there is always Good News.     

Beginning and End

My Tuesday morning last week was one of the countless reasons I love being a pastor serving a small(ish) congregation:

At 10am, I officiated at the burial of a 97-year-old woman.  There were six people in attendance.  Four of them were part of a family who were her next door neighbors and took care of her for 23 years—10 of them in a nursing home.  It was one of those bright summer mornings when colors seem clearer than usual.  We gathered quietly in the cemetery, feeling as if we had the whole place to ourselves.  We placed our hands on the casket and prayed for her peace and rest.  A mischievous (and/or) angry squirrel dropped acorns on us from the oak tree branch bowing low over our heads.  To close the service, a smiling teenage girl played us out with “Goodnight, Irene” on the ukulele and we all sang along (we skipped the really sad lyrics).

An hour later, I was in a hospital room holding a day-old baby girl with a head full of black hair (and at least one cowlick).  I held her a little longer than I should have, then gave her to her mother before saying a blessing.  Her parents bowed over her and we prayed, alone in the hospital room, with the sunlight pouring in the window.  I placed my hand on her tiny head--a hand that only minutes before had been on a casket.

Alpha and Omega, Beginning and End.

Some days I have the best job EVER.   

Happy Church

I’ve been seeing the idea of gratitude everywhere for a few years (if not more).  We’re told naming three things we are grateful for each day will improve our blood pressure and mental well-being.  We’re told that positive people are more successful.  Looking at life from the perspective of gratefulness seems to be a big trend—and a good trend.  I believe living with gratitude in our hearts really does make a difference in how we live.

Why aren’t we doing this in the church?

I feel assailed by reports that the mainstream Protestant church is flailing.  Numbers are down.  Giving is down.  We’re losing the new generation.  New pastors are having trouble finding calls.  Internal struggles leave us discouraged.

I know there is truth to these reports.  I know we can’t ignore them.  I know we need to address what is happening with open eyes and be proactive about moving the church forward.  I get it.

But I can’t live this way every day.  I am so tired of feeling anxious and threatened and feeling like I’m hanging on by my fingertips.  I’m exhausted by watching the church down the road pull in members—without even trying, it seems—while the congregation I serve has to choose between what it wants and what it can afford.  I’m drained by hearing reports of job cuts and empty sanctuaries and dying Sunday Schools.

And I’m not just tired—I’m moving into an even more dangerous place—I’m getting bored.

We are encouraged to discover our strengths, to find gratitude each day, to live from a place of joy.

I want to do this with church too.

We waste so much energy thinking about what we are not, we forget what we are.  What if we started keeping church gratitude journals?  What if we celebrated all we do, instead of constantly looking at what we don’t do?  What if we noticed the ministry that is already happening instead of thinking, “We’ll be a successful church when…”?

We don’t get anywhere by hating ourselves.  Hate brings out competitiveness, pettiness, and belly button gazing—and it’s boring.

Joy and gratitude bring out generosity, acceptance, truth, hope, confidence—and they are energizing.

I feel when we as a church are so hard on ourselves, constantly comparing ourselves to other congregations and denominations, focusing on where we seemingly fail—we are teaching people to judge themselves, their families, their lives and even their bodies in the same way.

Let’s live as a gratitude-soaked church.  Let’s rejoice when one hurting young child feels accepted and loved by an adult in Sunday School.  Let’s celebrate when a few people quietly and faithfully serve at a local homeless shelter.  Let’s laugh at ourselves and have fun together and reach out with confidence in who (and Whose) we are.  Let’s get rid of all our insecurities so we can open our arms to those who bring in new ideas and perspectives.  Let's make mistakes and try scary things and enjoy being the church.

Let’s stop thinking—and worrying—about ourselves.

And most of all, let us be thankful to God for the countless blessings we receive—and for the blessed challenge of being God’s disciples.       

In Which I Cried in Worship...Again

I was never a crier.  I didn’t even cry at my own wedding.  I’m not sure what has happened to me in the past few years, but I find myself crying much more often than I used to.  I also tend to cry in public places, which is quite a challenge for me (a hilarious challenge, according to my emotion-loving husband who knows my stoic ways too well).  I’ve always hated crying in front of people, yet this is slowly becoming a part of my life.  At my sister’s wedding last summer, I could barely make it through my toast.  In worship last fall, I cried through the service.  Is it because I’m now a parent?  Am I just getting older?  Who knows?  What I do know is I have to accept this new part of myself because it’s clearly not going away.

I’ve had trouble integrating this new part of myself with my professional identity.  Pastors don’t cry.  We’re supposed to be the solid presence, the comforting balm in crisis, and the one to lean on.  We have to keep ourselves together.  Often this is necessary and true.  Yet the more I do this job, the more I realize there’s a time for everything (thank you, Ecclesiastes).  I thought it would get easier, and in some ways it has.  In other ways it hasn’t.  The longer I’m at this church, the closer I get to the people and the more I learn about their lives.  I can’t help but be connected to them.  Evidently I occasionally display my compassion through public tears.

I was deeply touched by a sermon given by Bishop Mark Hanson last year at our annual St. Paul and Minneapolis Synod theological retreat.  He became emotional during it and had to take a moment to collect himself.  He explained to us that the topic he was addressing was close to his heart—his own child struggled mightily with it, and he couldn’t help but get choked up when he spoke about it.  I still hold this moment in my heart as I grapple with my own public emotions.  I thought no less of him as he admitted to feeling his emotions.  I felt a connection with him as a true person.  If the Presiding Bishop of the ELCA can be authentic with his tears, why can’t I?

I still believe there are times when I need to keep my emotions in check.  This is (usually) not hard for me.  But the longer I serve the church, the more I realize how important it is for me to be authentic.  When I am leading a healing service and am honored to individually lay hands on and pray for people, I can’t keep my tears at bay.  I see their tears, their pain, their struggles--not only see, but also feel them.  When a boy comes to me at the end of the line and shyly asks for a prayer—a prayer I know well, a prayer I can relate to in my deepest of hearts—and I am able to give him that prayer, well, that’s more than I can handle.  When I witness God giving peace and comfort, I think it’s permissible for me to shed a few tears.  How can I not be overwhelmed by this God? 

“…a time to weep, and a time to laugh…” Ecclesiastes 3:4      

Secrets

I often think of myself as the secret-keeper.  This was especially true when I was a pastor in a rural town.  I was usually the first place people would look for financial, spiritual and therapeutic help because it wasn’t readily available in their small town (I say first step because I often did—and still do—refer people on to more qualified mental health or other professionals).  I was also free, and they knew right where to find me—they just needed to find my car.

It took me a while to figure out my role in the town.  I knew I couldn’t be friends—in the regular sense—with the people in the congregation I served.  This became apparent as I learned more and more about them.  I knew too much.  I knew what mothers thought about daughters-in-law, I knew about the abuse, the hidden addictions, and the memory loss.  When I looked out into the congregation on Sundays, I saw the underbelly.  I imagine it is similar to being a doctor in some ways—the doctor in town sees and knows people at a different level than they know each other. 

In order to protect them and myself, I couldn’t get too close.  I didn’t want to put myself in a situation where I could let some information slip.  In order to keep their trust, I needed to be air-tight in my confidentiality.  I still work very hard to keep professional boundaries and to maintain a safe space in my office at church.  I regard my trustworthiness as essential in my calling.  In some ways it’s a burden.

But the joy of this responsibility is the privilege of being present when a secret is let loose.  I’ll always remember the time when a congregation member came into my office to share a very old secret. This person was in the process of sharing it with others and I was fortunate to hear it too.  I witnessed the unburdening of years of shame and guilt and saw the transformative and blatant joy of release.  What an honor it was to be present in that moment and to declare God’s forgiveness and love.  I was overjoyed to see God’s grace spilling into the recesses of sadness and regret, filling them up with new life and a new future.  It was a holy, holy, holy moment.

This moment was even more poignant because this is a friend.  I now see I play a different role than a doctor or counselor.  I am able to walk with people through their everyday lives, to visit them in their homes, to coach them as they raise their children faithfully, to bury their loved ones.  They show me what it means to find faith in the joys and struggles of daily life.  So I closed the door after the secret came to light and wept for the joy of God’s transforming grace in the lives of those I love.

Sometimes we need to keep our secrets.  Yet Scripture tells us that God brings light into the darkness—even the darkness of our deepest secrets and our most shameful memories.  I see it happen.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.  John 1:5            

Our Own Story

Last Sunday I chased my 2-year-old daughter around the church after worship.  She ran with the abandon of a toddler set free—up and down the halls, around the kitchen and fellowship hall, belly laughing while I tried to keep up with her in my heels.  People stopped me to chat or give me reservation forms—the regular church business of Sunday mornings—always understanding I had to run as soon as her blond head raced around a corner out of my sight.  We are used to this pattern.

In the middle of her freewheeling, she ran into the dim and empty sanctuary, still scented with the smoke from recently extinguished candles.  She jumped up and down the chancel stairs (I can’t believe she is big enough to go up and down stairs without holding my hand), her stuffed Minnie Mouse jingling at her side.  She then came to me and grabbed my pinky finger, her warm little hand gripping it with confidence, and led me down the quiet aisle.  She brought me behind the altar and stood next to me, her chest puffing out as she yelled 2-year-old gibberish with authority into the empty sanctuary.  I suddenly realized what she was doing and the hairs stood up on my arms.  This was a holy moment for me.

Not only did she see my place as in front of the congregation, but she placed herself there with me.  I’ve spent too many hours weeping and gnashing my teeth over my dual roles as pastor and parent.  Many days I see them as mutually exclusive, especially when I have to leave right after supper for an evening meeting and she and my son stand at the top of the stairs with tears in their eyes.  But it took her simple gesture that morning to remind me we are in this together.  My whole being—good, bad, job, play—will form my kids, and they in turn will form me.  God’s grace weaves through it all, releasing me from debilitating guilt and allowing me to see, enjoy and learn from my children.  For grace gives life and freedom.

As my lovely husband likes to say to me, “We are writing our own story.”  And we are. 

The Collar

I don’t wear my clergy collar very often.  I only own one plain white clergy shirt and it’s usually wrinkled (and why do clergy shirts get such a bad ring around the collar?).   I don’t like feeling set apart from the congregation.  I perceive people acting stiffly around me and—the worst—making uncomfortable jokes about how they can’t swear or drink beer around me.  It seems to get tighter the longer I wear it.  When I put it on, I feel a deep sense of the loneliness of the office. 

I don’t enjoy it.

But it’s necessary, because when I walk into a room, no one points at me (a young woman) and says, “Hey, you must be the pastor!”  I wear it at funerals and weddings and when I know I’ll be around strangers or in unfamiliar settings.  It’s logistically easier as people don’t need to run around to find the pastor.  But when I drive or make a stop at the grocery store while wearing it, I always take out the tab so no one will know.  My introverted self does not like the attention.  (My extroverted husband, on the other hand, likes to wear his to big-box home improvement stores, as he claims it gets him really fast service.)

Last week I stopped by a hospital on my way to officiate a burial, so I had my collar on.  My previous visit to the patient in that hospital frustrated me.  I felt like I was fighting the medical staff to get a moment with him.  I know it was more about me than them—it was a bad time and they needed to do their work—but that experience left me struggling to find my pastoral voice.  I decided to leave the collar on.  I had to keep myself from unconsciously slipping the tab out of the collar as I stepped out on the sidewalk.

Everyone around me quickly identified my mission.  In my collar and black suit, walking quickly toward a major hospital, I was immediately recognizable.  I felt like I was wearing a clergy sandwich board, or in some futuristic video game where everything rearranges around the protagonist.  Cars stopped for me so I could cross the street.  Front desk workers at the hospital ushered me to the elevator.  The doctors greeted me and motioned me into the patient’s room.  Granted, this was a much more critical visit than the previous one, so my presence was greatly needed.  Yet the collar really did make a difference.  Most importantly, the collar brought a sense of respect and God’s presence to a family’s heartbreaking situation.

It’s yet another reminder to me that being a pastor is who I am.  It’s not simply what I do.  My life is different whether I have the collar on or not.  Sometimes it’s lonely to be set apart.  But sometimes being set apart is exactly right.  It’s not about my need for privacy or building my ego or trying to fit into a crowd (or even getting fast service).  It’s about bringing God’s presence as efficiently as possible.  I won’t be wearing my collar every day, but sometimes God needs to work despite my own misgivings—so I’ll put it on.