Healing Touch: 20% Of A Make-Up Saga

Sometimes it takes something particularly remarkable to spark me into blogging, at which point I remember the 493,403 other things I should've written about. So, okay, one of those particularly remarkable things just happened and as I sat thinking about it (and thinking about the millions of other pastor-y things I should be doing) I realized there were no fewer than four other things I really should also be blogging about. I mean, other than the fact that Christmas is sneaking up on me and preparing to whack me upside the head. So, this is only 20% of the ultimate catching-up on this blog, which means you'd better stay tuned.

Anyway, on with the show.

In my church we have a lady who does healing touch. I'd only peripherally heard of it before meeting her; I knew the "new-agey" hospital in the area offered it to patients along with aromatherapy and guided meditation. I knew it was healing-oriented, and I knew people who had done it thought it was really cool. So when our local practitioner offered me a free session so I could see what it was like and consider offering it to people who might benefit, I said yes.

It took us a while to find a time to meet up, but we hit on today. I was feeling a little nervous and skeptical, but I set it aside and joined her in our prayer chapel. We go over a brief health history, I kick off my shoes, lay down on a massage table thingy, and we're off.

She explains that she may touch me or the energy around me, she might hear things that she needs to tell me, she might need to adjust something, that sort of thing. So she just sort of waves her hands over me, and I start to kinda tune out.

Then her face clouds. "You have a really jittery energy," she states. "I just had some coffee," I offer. "No... that's not it..." she says, as she continues to think. "Well, I think I'll just clear this out." So she keeps sort of waving her hands over me, and something weird starts happening. I feel... light. Almost shaky. Peaceful but energized. Oddly enough, all I can think of is that Gary Spivey character who's always on KDWB, and whenever he tells people something he immediately says, "See how you got hot right there? You feel light right now, don't you?" I always thought he was just telling them what to feel. I think maybe I was feeling that way. Without his help. Take that, Gary.

She asked me lots of other questions, some actually too personal for the blog, as she worked on some other things. Apparently, my heart chakra is actually pretty empty, so we spent a lot of time on working to fill it back up. I was encouraged to do nurturing things for myself (hooray for good excuses for hot baths and massages!) and to not give too much energy to others without sustaining myself. I was also encouraged to take communion three times a week - odd, but okay, I'll take it into consideration. She encouraged me (for a variety of reasons) to cut my caffeine down to every other day. Also probably a good thing to consider.

Then things started getting pretty deep.

As she kept clearing energy, she stopped and told me she had to tell me something, but she knew I don't take compliments well, so she wanted to prepare me in advance to hear the compliment. Guilty as charged. So then, the compliment: God says I give really good sermons, that they come from the head and the heart, and they fill people up. Jesus says I am doing his work. And the healing touch practitioner got tears in her eyes. And I did, too. Now, okay, she is one of my parishioners, and I think she likes me, so could it be that she was just passing on what she already felt, but it sounded... comforting. Encouraging. Like maybe God did indeed want me to know that I shouldn't be so hard on myself, that I can be confident in the work I do. Maybe I needed to hear that.

She also told me that I had six angels around me, three on each shoulder, and that they were baby angels, or child angels, or something like that - she wasn't sure how to describe it, but there were six angels, and it was a good thing. It felt good to know. Why, I'm not sure, because... well, let's be honest, this is starting to sound weird. But who cares if there really are three baby angels on each of my shoulders? Just thinking it, picturing it, felt good. Made me feel confident. And really, how can that be wrong?

Then she paused. "So, we're done," she mused, "but we're not done. There's something else..." She trailed off and stopped, like she was listening. "Okay, she said, this is from Jesus." Both the skeptic and the believer in me perked up a big. "He's saying that you and him are like this," as she lifted up her crossed index and middle fingers in that "best buddies" or "promise" gesture.

I stopped dead.

For years, especially since I knew I'd be a pastor and started taking religious classes, I found myself responding to people about faith, life, and God. Sometimes someone would bust me for doing something not very pastor-like (like cussing) or question if I knew what I was talking about (like my theories on evil). I would respond by saying, "It's cool. Jesus and me are like this," and I'd lift up my crossed index and middle fingers.

A cold reading coincidence? Of course it could be. But it immediately brought tears to my eyes, and I belly-laughed like I haven't in a long time. I explained to the practitioner why it was, and her eyes got huge and she just sat down, laughing and crying right along with me. "I'm so happy to hear that," she said. "Sometimes I think maybe I'm just making this stuff up, but when I hear things like that - I know it's got to be from God."

We sat and talked for a while afterwards. She only started doing healing touch later in life when a friend encouraged her to try it, even though she though it was "really weird". As she started taking classes, she realized she was intuitive and could sense what people needed even without using the techniques taught by the course. She started to learn that she could sense messages from people who had died, from spirits and God, and could pass them on to people if they needed to hear it. She tries not to read people unless she's actually working with them, but she can indeed see energy or hear voices when she's not trying to.

And to hear her talk about it, it's not creepy or false-sounding at all. She was raised Catholic, is now Lutheran by church attendance, and has a deep, doctrinal faith. She is grounded and compassionate. While the doubter in me thinks it's probably just someone who's over-emotional and a good cold-reader, there's something to it. I mean, the deeper I go in this whole pastor thing, the more I realize that there are things about faith and life and death and spirituality that I just don't get. Who am I to say that some people can't align energies? How do I know that God doesn't still speak through people? Why do I assume that those who have gone to their glory can't send healing messages back to us?

Afterwards, I was definitely feeling that jittery energy she was talking about - but after about 10 minutes, I had shaken it off. Maybe it's in my head, but I feel calmer. Even the cold I woke up with is not quite so nagging. (I still think it'll hit me like a snowplow soon enough, but I'm not so frustrated about it.) Could it just be because I had a half hour to relax and focus myself? Probably. And yet, it seemed like there was something else there.

I think what I'm saying is that if you want a recommendation for a really good healing touch practitioner, I'll let you know. And you can trust me on that, because Jesus and me are like this.

Farewell, Old Friend

I am an overly sentimental girl. I get attached to stuff - animate and inanimate - and develop strong relationships to things even when I know I shouldn't. Trees, t-shirts, apartments, all sorts of stuff. But I think my oddest sense of relationship comes with cars. Growing up where I did, everything was a drive away. Even into college and seminary, I had long-distance boyfriends or family hundreds (or in the case of my year in Vegas, thousands) of miles away. I spend a lot of time in cars.

My dad's old Thunderbird was probably the first car I knew and loved, although I think him saying goodbye to that car was harder than me saying goodbye to it. There's still a photo of me with it somewhere, and I think I'm a little teary in the picture. Carlito the Toronado burst into flames in the middle of a rural highway, so my parting with it was a little traumatic. Zippy the Honda Accord also met a brutal fate in a three-car pile-up during Twin Cities rush hour. Cleaning my belongings out of its crumpled remains in a sad St. Paul wrecker lot was pretty rough.

However, the first car that was really mine was the Protege. Strangely, it never got a name - maybe making such a grown-up purchase steered me away from really naming it. (Chris and I occasionally refer to it as Whitey - but that's just to distinguish it from the other black Mazda currently in our possession.) Car shopping was hard, but I scored a good one. Thank goodness for JB by my side, pressing buttons and asking questions, or I'm not sure if I would've been able to make an educated decision about the car. But that little white matchbox got me safely to Las Vegas and back, surviving trips to Red Rocks, Death Valley, the Hoover Dam, Zion National Park, and much more in between. It got me securely home for many family gatherings. It carried me reliably through nutty Twin Cities traffic. It waited patiently for me while Chris and I went carless on our European year, and got me back and forth to the first days of my first real job. It has indeed been a very good car.

However, its days were numbered. Part of my pastor gig is a car the church leases for me so I'll have something safe, reliable, and paid for as I run between hospitals, nursing homes, and more. Chris traded in his car and started driving my Protege. Recently, we inherited Chris's parents' Montero. Seeing as we were borrowing it all the time any way, it was time we took it under our wing. This left us with three cars and two people. Since my car is church leased, and our two sixty-pound puppies really need the truck, the answer was clear: it was time for the Protege to go.

Chris did a great job of cleaning it up. In fact, it may have never looked better. Just as I was starting to prepare myself to sell it to some stranger, Chris's uncle happened to mention that they would shortly be looking for a car for their 16-year-old. I piped up that they could have ours - and sure enough, just a few days later, they were asking if we were serious. Today, I took it for one last spin to fill it with gas before they came to test drive it.

After they went out in it, Chris's uncle asked me why I wanted to sell such a great car. I said honestly, "I don't." I think I may have made him nervous about the validity of the sale - but I assured him that it needed to go, we couldn't use it, and someone might as well be making good use out of it. And sure enough, their daughter was all smiles when they said yes.

Even in my over-sentimentality, it made me feel good to see her look at herself in the rear view mirror as she got herself settled in it and give herself another smile. I think it was the same look I had on my face as I drove it home for the first time, staring at the interior in a little surprise that I actually had my very own car. If this isn't the dorkiest thing to say, I don't know what is: I'm glad that car went to a great person, and family at that. It feels right.

So happy trails, little white car. Make me proud. And try to avoid the broad side of banks - I've had some trouble with that in the past.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I'm afraid I don't have much to say other than that. Sorry, folks. It seems that once upon a time, my life was filled with adventures, travels, and witticisms. And my life is just as full of those things now - I just, like, work a lot and try to be grown-up and stuff and find myself losing great blog posts in the rush of life.

Or maybe that's just me getting older. I am, after all, turning 30 in less than a month. Many have gone before me (JB, MK, & KD - girls, you're my heroes!) and swear it's well and good. I'm sure the same will be for me. But oddly, the big 3-0 is sort of disconcerting for me. Life seems to be flying by so fast as it is - I don't really like the idea that I'm getting older on top of it. A nice lady at church the other day reminded me that life is like a roll of toilet paper - it goes faster and faster the closer it gets to the end. I wasn't sure if I was comforted (at least I wasn't alone in the feeling) or horrified (that I felt like I knew what she was getting at).

At any rate, I've still 25 days (not that I'm counting) to that date with destiny. So instead, I'm enjoying this brief respite of a holiday. Never mind that I can't do anything fun without people dying - sure enough, two more died on Thanksgiving Day - it was enough to just slow down a bit, be with good people, and prep myself for the onslaught of Christmas.

Thanksgiving Day itself was rather slow. We celebrated with Chris's family, and they do supper instead of dinner. So we had the whole day to be in pajamas, watch the parade, and generally relax. Supper itself was great - good food, time with family, and even some Christmas decorating. The next day, we flouted the American shopping standard by sleeping in ridiculously. Eventually, yes, we did shop - a bit for Christmas gifts, but also a bit for ourselves. (I'm now the proud owner of a treadmill, which is pretty sweet.) We even ran into a familiar face (hi, Stacy!) and survived the crowds. Today's been a little different - lots of errands and busy-work, but at least now I've got decent tires on my car and the house decorated for Christmas.

Tomorrow I go back to work, celebrating the first Sunday of Advent and the beginning of the church year. I'm feeling a little ambivalent about it, which I think is more symptomatic of the need for a longer vacation than anything else. Or maybe just the need for a gigantic, multi-day birthday celebration. Either way, I'm thankful for the time I have had off, for the time I will have off, for the good work I can do in the meantime, and my many blessings. Life is good.

Even if I am getting a bit old.

I'm Gonna Get A Complex, Here

Every year on All Saints Day, our church lights a candle for each member of the church who died in the past year. After I'd been here just two months last year, I lit the candles for the ceremony where we read just seven names. I remember JB was in church with me that morning, and she said to me later, "Really? Only seven people died?"

Let's be honest: the Lutheran church skews old. Looking out on your average Lutheran congregation means generally a sea of white hair. This is certainly not always true, but most Lutheran pastors do more funerals than weddings. So having a year go by where "only seven people" passed away is actually kind of remarkable. When I mentioned that to the senior pastor, he said - in earnest - that it was because the building was under construction and God must've held back a little because we hardly had space to host a funeral. It was a bit tongue-in-cheek - but only a bit.

Well, if that's the case, then God must really be out to test me. You might remember my string of funerals over the summer. I ended up doing five total in less than a week. I've done two more since then, meaning I've done almost twice as many funerals as weddings in my first year or so of ministry. When we lit those candles this year, we lit 18 - almost triple last year's count. Following the senior pastor's logic, it's possible that folks are just dying because we have this great new space to host funeral luncheons.

Or, you could believe the more popular thought-process: folks are dying because of me.

Let's start with the fact that there is an exponentially higher death rate when I'm the only one around. When I was on vacation throughout last year, the other pastor only had one person die. Throughout the course of the senior pastor's vacations, nearly 10 have died. In fact, this past weekend, the senior pastor had been gone merely an hour when we got the call that someone was in their final days. I spent the whole weekend going from bedside to bedside, eventually planning the funeral for one lady to did actually pass. Best part: even though I was there all through the end of her life, and even helped the family plan the funeral, I wasn't good enough to actually perform the funeral. They wanted to wait until the other pastor got back. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

I thought at first that maybe I was just overreacting. However, a couple of weeks ago after a particularly trying afternoon, I came back to the almost-empty office. The church secretary looked up at me and said, "You want to hear some good news?" I did, indeed. She said, "No one died while you were gone." That's what it's come to, people - the lack of a dead body is actually good news, especially when I'm involved.

And it gets better. One very dear member of this congregation informed us that he would discontinue treatment on Monday. This morning, we hear that he's already unresponsive. When the senior pastor stopped by my office on his way to see him, he said, "What is it with you and people dying?" (To be fair, this time I hadn't been the last pastoral staff member to see or talk to him - as had been the case with most of the other people who have died.) As I rolled my eyes, he said, "I hate to think what's going to happen this summer..." That's because he's going on a much-deserved three-and-a-half month sabbatical this summer. If I thought I did a lot of funerals when he was on a three week vacation, I shudder at the thought of over three months. I told him he should shut his mouth.

It's starting to become clear that it's not just me who thinks I've got the Touch of Death - everyone else on the staff is starting to get the same idea. How long will it be before congregants start to fear the same and refuse to see me? Perhaps I actually am the Angel of freakin' Death, here. It's not exactly the career path I'd envisioned, but apparently I don't have a choice.

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...