With All The Saints: 3rd In A Three-Part Catch-Up Series

If you're wondering why I'm furiously blogging, it's 'cause I'm way behind. I hate making my trusty readers miss out on my brilliance. At any rate, if you're interested, scroll down and read the previous two posts as well to catch up on what I've been thinking about.

About a year ago, I preached on All Saints Day. It was an opportunity to preach out of the book of Revelation, which you don't get all that often. It was a chance to express emotion and meaning in a way I hadn't yet, as a new and overly-cerebral preacher. Without realizing it, I preached a very emotional sermon - one that I didn't even know was so emotional until I was up preaching it at the 8:30 service and it choked me up. Apparently, one of the comments on the sermon that day was that people needed to be warned when I was preaching so they "could come prepared with kleenex". It was a compliment.

This year, as luck of the draw would have it, I was preaching All Saints again. It also happens to be the one time of the year where it makes the most sense to preach about death. The reality of it, the hope in spite of it, the need to live without obsessing over it by either watching it too closely or pretending it doesn't exist, and of course, the promise after it. However, I've talked to too many suicidal women in this past year to just wax eloquent about heaven, so for a while I was stumped.

Instead, I preached about my confirmation mentor Millie the Adventurer. I talked about how there's always someone who brings back tears for you - the texts that day talked a lot about crying. I told the story of how good Millie was to me, how I couldn't be there when she died, but how her life inspires me to do more than just cry about losing her. Her life and love inspires me to live and love. That's what we're all called to do: thumb our nose at death and life lives of promise, here and now.

When I wrote the sermon, I cried. But only on the first draft. After working on it and running through it, I got past it. I felt good about it, too - I knew it was a good sermon. But wouldn't you know it, I got to the 8:30 service again, and it snuck up on me. The difference this time was the people I know. There was Beth, whose dad died earlier this year. There was Eileen, who nursed her husband through the last painful and home-ridden year of his life. There was Jane, whose husband survived seven cancers only to be killed by the radiation treatment. Suddenly, I realized I wasn't just preaching some oblique sermon about death and life and hope. I was preaching to real people with raw emotions.

So I cried. At one point, the tears welled up so big I couldn't see my notes. I didn't sputter and choke, but my nose ran and my eyes dribbled and I had to catch my breath. I recovered fully - I never really completely lost it - but when I sat down afterwards, all I could think of was, "Well, that wasn't supposed to happen."

Imagine my surprise when people loved it, at all three services (I'd gotten my act together a little better by the later two). One dear man even thanked me for preaching from the heart, when we hear so much from the head. I heard from many other people who'd also had a Millie in their lives - literally, their Sunday School teacher or aunt or neighbor lady was named Millie. The youth director left a note on my door saying, "Hopefully, we all have a Millie." In spite of myself, it worked.

The thing is, it's not just Millie that makes my throat catch. Last week Chris and I were raking leaves, and I was reminded of how my Grandma Mary used to rake circles around me. I mean, honestly, the woman was decades older than me and could rake twice the space in half the time. While talking weddings with my sister-in-law, I had a brief flash of the photo I took with my Grandpa Al at my wedding, where must've had to kiss me on the cheek twenty times so everyone could get the photo right - and I wouldn't have had it any other way. It pops up in odd places, at unexpected times, and I can't but realize that I'm surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses.

Sure, it might make me cry - but in spite of the pain, it's usually tears of joy. I've been blessed with good and loving people in my life, and I'm not afraid to say it. Even if it makes me cry during my sermons, it's worth it.

Hey, Lady - Shut It: 2nd In A Three-Part Catch-Up Series

A little over a week ago there was a synod ministerium. They're these twice-yearly things where all rostered and ordained folks in the synod get together, socialize, connect, learn, worship, and kinda schmooze a little. I like them. I always get to see some folks I know and love, plus I meet new people. It's a good thing.

At the one recently, I found myself sitting at a table with people I mostly didn't know. It was just fine. I was quickly deep in conversation with the lady sitting next to me. She was one of those talkative, smart, mildly caustic, and even a bit self-centered people that have the odd effect of making you feel like it's quite an honor to be talking to them. I really felt that maybe this lady had a lot to say, and was maybe even an important connection to make, just by the kinds of things she was saying. This should have been a caution to me.

See, I'm the kind of girl who is quickly taken by first impressions. If I get the feeling right off the bat that you're important, smart, collegial - I'll believe it. It gets me in a heap of trouble, too, because it makes me a target for crazies and sycophants the world over. I get cozy to someone before I realize they're actually kind of a sociopath. Too late, I realize I've ingratiated myself to a tool.

Sure enough, it bit me in the butt. There came a very vital part in the ministerium where everyone is sitting at their tables and having earnest, personal discussions about the effect of August's Churchwide decision on their individual churches and congregants. It was supposed to be sensitive and personal. And this lady totally hijacked the conversation. She kept talking and talking. She interrupted other people. She talked over still others. Even if someone else managed to get a word in edgewise, she was constantly making that gasp-of-air sound that you make right before you're about to talk. It was so unbelievably annoying, self-centered, and presumptuous.

I say this as a girl who talks a lot. I mean, a lot. I tend to talk over people, too. In fact, starting sometime in college I began to be aware that I was the kid who always had her hand up and always controlled the conversation, so I let the pendulum swing and didn't do much talking any more. I now deliberately hold back in some conversations to let other people talk. I do my best to draw others out in conversation, even though I'm not always very good about it. I may still talk to much and dominate some conversations, but at least I try. This lady was not even trying to try. She was pushy and awful, and I hated it.

Maybe I was just super-sensitive. I was doing a funeral the next day, mostly because the senior pastor was out of town. When the extended family came to the church for the first time and found that out, one granddaughter made a comment about having "that lady pastor" officiate and started quoting scripture against women leading in church. I am constantly and repeatedly reminded of what an uphill battle women in the church have.

And here this woman is, digging my grave even deeper. She's living into every stereotype of the witchy, controlling woman. I hate admitting it, but no matter how hard millions of women do their jobs, they will only be undermined by those women who do any little thing that's less than perfect. It's a classic case of working twice as hard to get half as much. Misogyny's a beast.

But I didn't let it get me. I did that funeral with the sense of respect and reverence I always have, and the Bible-toting granddaughter hugged me multiple times. I preached at my church and was truly supported and uplifted for doing my job well. I like what I do, even if it's harder for me just because I wield dual X-chromosomes. One small step for me, one giant step towards silencing women with a chip on their shoulders.

This Is Like My Christmas: 1st In A Three-Part Catch-Up Series

I am, as usual, delinquent with these posts, so I'm just gonna hit you with them in a row as I'm recovering from my Sunday at church. Let's start with Halloween.

See, I freakin' love Halloween. I'm not sure when exactly that happened with me, and I couldn't really tell you why. I know there are some incredibly awesome reasons to love Halloween. First, candy. Second, but not lesser, is the fact that you get to dress up. When or how else do adults get to play pretend? I always loved playing pretend as a kid, and Halloween's basically the one day of the year that it's acceptable for me to do that as a grown-up. And finally, there's this sort of element of danger and surprise in Halloween that I sort of relish.

This year, unfortunately, I didn't do much justice to Halloween. Maybe it was the unseasonably cold and snowy October, which sort of ruined the gorgeousness of fall in general. Maybe it was this whole grown-up, full-time job thing, which sucked away my time and preparation. We basically got together a pretty small group of folks for a little party at our place, had way too much candy for the only 10 trick-or-treaters that showed up, and dreamed about next year.

But that is not to say that I didn't enjoy myself. For one, I decorated for Halloween back in, like, September, so we got to enjoy our solid collection of awesome Halloween decor for a long time. Chris and I had also been working on our costumes for a while, and as some say, the anticipation was the best part anyway. And if I do say so, our costumes turned out great.

Yeah, that's me as Lady Gaga on the left, and Chris as Professor Chaos on the right. I have to admit that they're both pretty awesome costumes. And yes, I know that Lady Gaga was kind of a popular costume this year, and all it really takes is blonde hair and no pants to pull it off... but it was my first time dressing as an actual person for Halloween, rather than some kind of type or image. Plus, Chris's originality was enough for both of us.

We carved pumpkins. We watched scary movies. We had fun. It was Halloween. Now that November is balmier than ever, people are getting gutsy about putting out their Christmas decorations already. I guess they'd rather put them out in 60 degrees than in snow and cold. But I can't make the switch that fast. I need a little down-time after my most favorite holiday. Just a little under 12 months 'til it comes again...

ZPCV: It's Starting To Stink

Do you remember last year when I first discovered the Zombie Pub Crawl? I do. In fact, I remembered it so fondly that I had been earnestly waiting for an entire year for the event to come around again. This is my Christmas, people. Words cannot even describe the level of expectation that had built up. My loving husband and I even went double Halloween shopping - we were looking not just for a good Halloween costume, but for a good zombie ensemble. (The basic requirements are 1) clever, 2) enactable, and 3) able to be totally ruined with a soaking of fake blood.)

This year, we were ready. Chris had his gamer zombie ensemble together, complete with game controller and remote control. I found an inmate jumpsuit and got a pair of costume handcuffs. We were ready to roll. Well, that is after we bought a bottle of fake blood and plenty of makeup.

Brian and Amy joined us at our place for a few solid hours of undeadening. (We learned last year that it's a good idea to start early.) We actually got done so early that we had time to watch both zombie movies in the lineup: Dawn of the Dead and Shaun of the Dead. It was a perfect mix of macabre and camp to prepare for the pub crawl. Unfortunately, Minnesota's October of 2009 was working hard to conspire against us. The temperature was freezing, windy, and grey - good for preserving actual decaying flesh, but rough on those only costumed as the undead.

This boded poorly for the first push of the crawl. Last year we came during that initial hoard, and while it was impressive, we wanted to be in the hoard, not trapped in a car during it. When we got to Gold Medal Park in plenty of time, there weren't really that many people there. Because it was freezing cold, most people quickly shambled off to the first bars on the route to stay warm. Those of us trying to stick it out got quickly distracted:

Yes, that's a Segway tour of Minneapolis coming through. The zombie hoard was enticed by the promise of brains, and went for it. You'll notice several Segway riders got pretty freaked out and totally took off. (Guess the costumes were pretty convincing.) This broke up the hoard further, leaving those few of us left behind to, well, shamble on ourselves. We never really did see the entire hoard gathered together in one massive onslaught.

Pity, because this gathering was rumored to reach over 5,000 zombies. We didn't have much of a sense of that when we started, since crowds were still small. We basically staggered around, tried not to stop too much traffic, tried hard to freak out as many innocent bystanders as possible, and had a few beers. By supper time, things had gotten ridiculous. Even Chipotle and Noodles & Co. had gotten packed full of undead freaks. People were comparing costumes, playing their roles, and generally having an amazing time. I got lots of compliments on my makeup job, which was actually kind of a big deal for me. After all, I'm a self-taught zombifier. No pro job for me, man - I'm all-natural.

Eventually Brian and Amy split off - which probably wasn't a bad plan. Things were really starting to get out-of-hand. Street-crossing had to be done "28 Days Later Zombie" style - in other words, in frenzied mass dashes. Vans were getting rocked in the streets. Blood was everywhere. I cannot even impress upon you the massive amounts of fake blood everywhere. Well, how about this for an idea:
Yeah, that's a Chipotle covered in blood. One guy actually had a squirt gun filled with fake blood that he just generally squirted on people - those already dressed as zombies, anyway. And while I knew it was all fake blood, either home-made or store-bought, it was still sorta gross. There was one bathroom where a toilet had a fair amount of blood on it, and these girls in line - themselves covered in gobs of fake blood - refused to use the toilet because they "just didn't know for sure". Kids these days.

We eventually worked our way back up to Seven Corners. I sang some Lady Gaga at karaoke. Chris got lots of compliments on his excellent gamer zombie get-up. We saw some great zombies. (Zombie Billy Mays, several Shaun of the Deads, and one really freaky nurse.) We ran around dressed like fools, and basically, we had a great time.

Ah, but there's a denouement to this story. See, I'm a pastor. That means Saturday night gigs have to be tempered with working early the next morning. No biggie - we're old, so we got home at a very decent time. The next morning, I assumed I'd committed the perfect crime. I'd seen no one that night that I knew, I was in costume anyway, and I was sure there was no way that anyone from work would know. Not that I'm embarrassed; I just realize that for some people, it might be awkward that the person distributing the body of Christ that morning had spent the evening pretending to be an undead abomination. Well, that was all ruined by this picture:Toward the beginning of the walk, while there was still daylight, several people were walking around who were clearly professional photographers. At least, their giant cameras seemed to indicate as such. We gamely posed for these interlopers. (Unlike with the creepy dudes basically trying to use everyone elses' makeup effects to make their own low-budget zombie film. Those dudes were lame. And also, creepy. Did I mention creepy? It's hard to be creepy surrounded by zombies, but somehow, they managed.) When our little group stopped at the first bar on the crawl, interested mostly in warming up, we saw a few of these photographers through the window. They weren't usually too interested in photographing us because, well, we were behind glass. One woman tried. She took the above photo, and we though nothing of it.

Flash forward a couple of days to when a parishioner messages me saying, "I'm seriously enjoying the cognitive dissonance of the pastor/zombie. Also, not forwarding beyond my spouse who will be similarly instructed." He then posted this link. Yep, that's us at the top of the page. Oops. Found out. Fortunately, we know the couple well, and so while they know the undead truth, it's safe with them. Even more humorously, he immediately replied to himself with, "Dang, thought of a much funnier message after it was too late. So, imagine I had said: So Pastor, what is the ELCA position on undead clergy in committed relationships?"

I mean, c'mon, you can't not laugh at that. If anyone had to bust his pastor as a closet zombie freak, I'm glad it was him.

So folks, the moral of this story is that next year you have got to come with. It's crazy, it's fun, it's just a little campy, and it's a good story to tell people later. And the photos are always killer. Until then, don't forget to practice the official cheer of the Zombie Pub Crawl:

Absolutely Terrifying

I'll just say it: I like scary movies. It has been a slow-growing but ever-increasing point of fascination for me. When I met Chris and we discovered our mutual appreciation for horror, combined with a love for Halloween, I knew I was in a good match. We both love to see scary movies and take Halloween seriously - just one reason we got married as close to Halloween as possible.

At any rate, I've accumulated a long list of favorite scary movies through the years. I always used to say that my top three were The Exorcist, The Shining, and Psycho. However, as the years have gone on, my list has become a little more unordered. Somewhere in the mix you'll also find 28 Days Later (as terrifying for its commentary on humanity as its super-fast "infected"), The Descent (claustrophobics beware - oh, and there's monsters), The Blair Witch Project (say what you will - you know that movie ruined camping for you), and Dawn of the Dead (probably the only remake that I like; I also dislike sequels). On the campier side, but continuing the zombie/horror theme, I'm also a huge fan of Shaun of the Dead and the still-in-theatres Zombieland.

I couldn't say that it's because I like being scared. I actually really dislike haunted houses. I think it's that scary movies give me a sense of control over the fear. The show finishes, I walk out, and it has no power over me. Plus, I can talk myself out of the horror. If you want to avoid ending up like these victims, don't play with Ouija boards (The Exorcist), don't completely isolate yourself in a haunted hotel (The Shining), and don't go spelunking with a dubious person on point (The Descent). And the zombie movies are a wealth of information for when the inevitable zompocalypse hits (learn to fire a gun, hole up someplace well-stocked, only run with trustworthy folks, and more). So I couldn't put a finger on what it is about scary movies - I only know that I'm always on the lookout for the next good one.

It should be noted that the next good one does not include a few things. I am vehemently against torture porn. That means a big ol' NO to the Saw series or Hostel. It also means I'm generally anti-slasher in general - no Freddy, no Jason. I'm also typically against remakes and sequels. While I'm willing to admit that there are exceptions (let's face it, The Ring freaked me out), typically the best, most powerful scares come from original ideas. It feels fresh, spooky, and very raw.

So last night, Chris and I decided to finally get out to see Paranormal Activity. It has been garnering a whole lot of word-of-mouth press and is being called the next Blair Witch movie. With its minimalistic advertising and ultra-low-budget filming, it's easy to see why the comparisons are being made. After that, there is no comparison. This movie is abso-frickin'-lutely terrifying. I cannot even tell you how unnerving it is. At several points throughout the movie, Chris turned to me and said, "Hon, we can leave if you want to." That's how freaked I was.

I know what naysayers will rant about. The camera is too jiggly. The special effects are lame. The actors suck. Too much talking, not enough action. To you I say: you have lost both your ability to be progressively terrified and your imagination. You have bought into the Hollywood myth that only constant action and blood-soaked victims can be scary. I pity your lack of emotional range.

The beauty of the movie is its slow burn. You spend as much time flipping out about what's going to happen next as you do actually getting actively spooked. The sooner you willingly suspend reality and buy into the world of the movie, the more completely the movie will take over you. I don't remember the last time I screamed like that in a movie, and I loved it.

Fortunately, I could walk away from it. After a few minutes in the car driving home, I knew I could talk myself out of the fear. I won't spoil the movie by saying why, but still: I'm going to be okay. I even slept fine last night. But I can still realize that that movie was freaky.

The only thing scarier than that movie is the fact that Rush Limbaugh will be judging the 2010 Miss America Pageant. I can't even find words to describe this situation appropriately. I find it disgusting, foolish, offensive, and cheap. To me, Rush Limbaugh is a slasher film: manipulative, gross, recycled, and ugly. Much like torture porn, my bile rises at the thought. I'm trying to decide if his presence is enough to make me not want to watch. While I realize that there's been politically-influenced judges before (Chris Matthews and Greta Van Susteren, for a start) this guy's not even political. He is disinformational. He's an entertainer. He's shock personified in a pudgy body. It is a step very much in the wrong direction for this system.

I can walk away from Paranormal Activity and calm down. I can't even think about Rush as a judge without freaking out. Sometimes, reality is more terrifying than Hollywood could ever imagine.

Maybe I Work Too Much?

Last week I woke up on Thursday morning and took a second to assess the day ahead of me. As I thought about it, I realized that I had already worked a 43 hour week without even starting Thursday (which is my Friday, since Friday and Saturday are supposed to be my days off). This means that I would be putting in an over-50-hour week. Wow.

I admittedly find myself doing this fairly often. Not all the time, mind you, but often enough that it doesn't faze me any more. It is a rare occasion indeed when my Sunday-Thursday work week comes in at 40 hours - and that's even considering that my Sunday workday is usually only about a five hour day. It starts to add up fast when I teach a Monday night class, spend Wednesday nights with confirmation students, and frequently find my Tuesdays in meetings.

Last week was especially dynamic. My five hour Sunday added a couple hours when I had to run interference on a person who wrote me a suicide note after worship and hung around to make sure I read it, then promised to run out if I called the cops. I called anyway (or at least signaled for the staff members who were thankfully watching to call) and she did indeed eventually run, so we deked her out until the cops came. I was exhausted afterwards. Then I spent the next day fielding her threatening calls, and even went to see her in the hospital, where I basically ended up yelling at her. Also exhausting - and time consuming. Her drama has continued to unravel throughout last week and this week, and it generally proves to wear me down.

Thing is, I like my job. I actually like it a lot - perhaps more than I ever thought I would. Sunday night was a celebratory supper event at the church. Our bishop, the guest speaker, took some of his time to pat my back quite a bit. I even turned red, it was so complimentary. It felt, admittedly, awesome. But I almost didn't need all that, because I only had to look around the room. I realized that I actually knew a fair percentage of the folks in attendance; it's a big deal considering how big this place is and how bad I am with names. The people in this church are incredible, and they let me be myself with authenticity, nose ring and all. I enjoy preaching and teaching and helping here, and it just feels right. Even when I have to do things that exhaust me, I know the good stuff will be around the corner.

I've only been here just over a year, and I know I don't do everything right. (For instance: I should be writing a sermon right now, but I'm writing a blog post.) I know I have a lot to learn. I'm not a very good manager, for instance. I can be quite a procrastinator. I'm still not particularly confident in what clergy types call the prophetic voice - in other words, the pastoral capacity to trust in your call and speak truth into the situation you're in. For all my blustering, I can actually be a little timid. And I'm still waiting for that time where I will truly and righteously blow it. I know it's coming, and I know I'll recover, but the honeymoon's got to be over soon.

Maybe that's why I'm not really cringing at these long weeks. I know I have a lot to do, and I want to spend time getting better. It's a weird place to be, especially as a perfectionist, since it serves to spiral me into spending more and more time working. However, I think I need to start slapping myself on the wrist somehow. My dear husband and I are coming up on our third anniversary, and frankly, I like being around him. I hate short-changing that. I also love my friends, and man, it's been a long time since I've seen much of them. So I'd better start cringing, at least some. I might love my job, but it's sure not my life.

Perhaps today's a good day to sneak home early...

The Travails Of Homeownership

So last summer, Chris and I decided to build a nice fence around our yard. This would help keep our pup(s) safe and sort of clean up the dodgy-looking perimeter of our yard. You might remember how hard we worked on that stupid fence and how nice it was to finish it. It does look really good, and it's (mostly) kept our dogs in the yard and out of harm's way. And now we even have this nice patio - which we had someone build for us, because after all the work of putting up the fence, we decided we were not interested in that much yard work again. Not that we haven't accumulated yard and house work - gutters need cleaning and fixing, along with siding, and the lawn needs patching up, and so forth. Plus the leaves will fall soon, and our giant-sized yard is a bugger to rake.

Anyway, clearly Mother Nature decided that we hadn't worked hard enough and needed more to do, so she tossed an enormous tree in our backyard and smashed our fence up to bits. Let me tell you the story.

Chris and I came home from supper with family last night. The day had gone from sunny and sweet to cold and cloudy. Most strangely, the wind got very crazy. Our little car practically bounced around the highway on the drive home. When we got to the yard, it was dark - with the early-onset sunset these days, we hadn't remembered to turn on the yard light before we left. Chris let the dogs out, I went upstairs quickly, and came down to Chris informing me that I had to "come see something".

That sort of instruction rarely bodes well. Especially when I asked if I should put my shoes on to see it, and he said, "No, I'm pretty sure you can see it from here."

Sure enough, he flips on the yard light, and our entire back corner is engulfed by the top end of a giant tree. At first I'm just impressed by that much tree down. Then I realize that the tree has ruined our fence, and I'm immediately furious. It's not just the fence - it's the one corner of the fence that was the hardest to build. The fence posts are all bent back, so we'll need to even dig out the post holes and cement to secure new fence posts.

And the trunk is huge. I mean, it's Mini Cooper-sized. And then I realize that we don't have a tree that big in our backyard any more, not since we had to cut down the catalpa tree. And that's where it gets good, because I realize it's our neighbor's tree. Our neighbor from across the alley. The tree crashed out the back corner of his yard, smashing our fence and actually pinning our next-door-neighbor's car into his driveway with the giant-sized tree.

The icing on the cake? The tree did not one iota of damage to the yard or property of the tree's owner.

I know it's petty. I know this is the kind of thing we have homeowner's insurance for. I know we can get someone to remove the tree and the fence can be rebuilt. I am well aware. But Chris and I have enough to do in the short days before snow falls, and re-building a fence we already spent a whole flipping summer building in the first place was not one of them. And better yet, no other trees are down in our neighborhood. Clearly, our neighbor was not taking care of a tree of his that was already a hazard, and instead opted to let it come screaming into someone else's yard where it would be someone else's problem.

It's times like these that living in an apartment or townhome where I pay someone else to do my yard work sounds pretty good. But no, on the first truly cold and blustery day of the autumn season, I'll head home to clear branches and debris from my yard so the insurance assessor can tell us how much we'll owe him later. Ugh.

Hope you're staying warm and safe today. May you and your yard projects all avoid getting pummeled by someone else's tree.