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My pathway for the book tour was established by my birthplace--Woodstock, Illinois. Long ago, in anticipation of publishing the final book, I scheduled a signing at Read Between the Lynes, an independent bookstore (owned by the Lynes family—cute, huh?) on the square in quaint Woodstock. What a cool, full-circle experience, greeting and meeting friends and family there as well as people not previously known. ‘Twas the Saturday afternoon of Thanksgiving weekend which was Small Merchants Day, with a good bit of hustle and bustle and Dickensian-dressed singers wandering the streets and caroling in the stores. I met a woman there who invited me to present a program at a church next time I’m in the area. She had read about Sunday by Sunday in the paper and was intrigued. A 10-year-old boy wearing a winter hat with earflaps and also wearing freckles and a big smile upon finding the book he wanted—from the Wimpy Kid series—was impressed in the most winsome way that I was an author and wanted to know what my books were about and listened intently while I told him. A couple high school girls were equally interested, all to my delight, of course. Met another author and a couple people who graduated from MCHS with my younger siblings. Very special time.
I scheduled the other ten events along my travel route at venues where I knew someone, screwing my Lutheran chutzpah to the sticking point and inviting myself. How grateful I am for eleven yeses! The church of a pastor friend in Lawrenceburg IN outside of Cincinnati was my first stop on a Sunday morning after worship after a 9-hour drive the day before.
Then, I drove to Normal IL to spend time with my cousin and managed to get in touch with a church book club in Bloomington and attend their monthly meeting one evening. My cousin’s wife graciously drove me to the home, and as we walked to the door I mentioned the name of the hostess, which rang familiar to her. Sure enough, when the door opened, there was the man of the house who had worked with my cousin for many years. No readings with the group, just questions about the what and why and how of my writing. I felt richly indulged!
And from Normal, I traveled north to McHenry IL, home territory with many family members still there. At my mother’s assisted living home, several elders gathered for a reading, and I selected flashbacks from the books that took us back to the 1930s, 40s, 50s, 60s, and 70s. Audience participation was excellent, with many poignant memories, happy and sad, pleasant and difficult. Mom was my main consultant on the "olden days" for these sections, so it was a privilege to have her there. And I treasured the presence of my uncle and his wife, daughter, and mother-in-law. Mom’s United Methodist church also hosted me for “An Evening of Advent Readings.”
I wound up for two events at a Lutheran congregation in nearby Arlington Heights, a Chicago suburb, because of my 30+ years friendship with a couple now there. Our acquaintance began in Atlanta when our children were being born, and they paved the way for my visit. I had the treat of worshiping there, along with some of my family, on the First Sunday of Advent. Then, a nice group enjoyed my Advent readings, greatly enhanced by an acting troupe informally assembled for the occasion. The following Tuesday evening I returned to meet with book club members and relished the discussion about the first book. “Why did you kill (So-and-So)?” one reader wanted to know. I had to laugh for a second, but the question led to conversation about “the author as God” and the other side of writing; that the characters and action come from beyond, and often the author’s job is to get out of the way and let it happen. A balancing act of control and acquiescence. So, did I cause that character’s death? Hmm…
From home territory, I continued on to Auburn IN where I once lived for 6 ½ years and where the books are set. Yes, Rose's town is named Shippensforge in the series but when I call up in my mind the physical setting, I see Auburn with its historic courthouse square. My three events there fell on the same day, a Saturday, beginning with a women’s Advent brunch at the church I’d attended, where I’d participated in several Advent brunches before. The experience was bittersweet because that congregation has left our denomination, but the warm welcome back made our unity in Christ a reconciling force. At MJs Bookmark, Auburn’s independent bookstore, I had planned to read excerpts that were clearly set there, including the Ku Klux Klan rally on the courthouse steps that I witnessed. With that startling scene as a starting point, I wove a tale in Sunday by Sunday II. Alas, not enough people showed up to justify a reading, but I appreciated the four faithful friends who did stop by. The evening event at a small Lutheran church in Albion was absolutely a hoot. After a yummy potluck supper, the group of about 20 or so, several of whom were familiar with the series, really caught the spirit and substance of the presentation. Laughter broke out at just the right times, and silent reflection in its proper turn. Pretty much impromptu again, the cast of readers was so fine!
The last stop in Knoxville TN two days later was another going home. My family and I had lived in that great city for 7 ½ years when my 30-something daughters were in elem-middle-high school. The schedule worked out perfectly for me to present my Advent program once again for my former Lutheran congregation’s Advent Tea. Yet another cast joined with me to give a unique performance and all went very, very well. Catching up with a whole crowd of dear friends all at once is intense—wonderful and satisfying but fast and fleeting, too. A couple minutes here hearing about new grandchildren, a minute there hearing about the passing of a dear one, a quick question about a lingering illness or brief report of a wedding is almost excruciating in its brevity. Nevertheless, like the rest of the stops on the trip, this night was rich with relationship grounded in common faith. As I drove through the mountains back to Columbia, I was steeped in memories and in the hope and light of the Advent season.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Book Tour 2011--the team
Sunday by Sunday’s main character Rose Harris and I glory in teamwork. That’s why she wanted to have a high-five with the guy she inadvertently cut off in traffic to celebrate that they didn’t crash. That enraged fellow, however, did not share my and Rose’s viewpoint that driving is a team sport—and everyone on the road is on the same team. In fact, Rose and I take a team approach to all aspects of life. Our philosophy is, “Let’s all work together with grace and harmony—and be amazed at the results!” In my writing ventures, including the business aspects, I have been delighted by the teamwork that consistently under girds my operations. A great team came together to make my recent book tour happen.
At the top of the list are those people who I laughingly refer to as my “handlers”—the folks at churches and stores and book clubs who replied affirmatively to my inquiry about holding an event at their places and then followed through with publicity and warm welcomes and supplying my every need, sometimes on short notice. When I say “on short notice,” one matter I’m thinking of is the magical assembly of acting troupes to help me with my programs. (Read about the thespian team members when I write on the topic “Drama.”)
My hosts were equally crucial to the economy and pleasure of my trip, and I am deeply gratefully for their generous support along the way. My most extended stay was with the sister who has stayed in our hometown. Late night TV and breakfast conversations with her and her husband, a great storyteller himself, were both merry and meaningful. They’re easy people to be around, with their attentive yet relaxed hospitality. With her help, I upgraded my wardrobe with bargain deals, had the technology I needed to keep things rolling, did some personal banking, and much more. I had several special days and nights with another sister, as well, seeing her new place and relishing time together. Another sister’s family hosted Thanksgiving dinner in their lovely new home. A cousin and his wife provided bread and board and many kind accoutrements for a few days and nights. Reunion was in the air as I was treated to lovely meals and perhaps overnights with my brother, high school friends, former teaching colleagues, and fellow church members from days gone by. New friends, too. “One is silver and the other gold…”
Obviously, there would have been no tour without the books and my marvelous writing/publication team: consultants and resource people for various aspects of the stories, editors—the main one and three others, tech assistants, graphic designer, printer, manufacturer of the gift boxes, encouraging readers and fans. And I can’t forget Kickstarter, the online platform through which I raised the upfront money to publish Sunday by Sunday III. All my backers and all the folks at Kickstarter.com are most definitely part of my team.
I find the world to be a very friendly place. And (indebted to e e cummings) i thank you, God, for most this amazing team!
At the top of the list are those people who I laughingly refer to as my “handlers”—the folks at churches and stores and book clubs who replied affirmatively to my inquiry about holding an event at their places and then followed through with publicity and warm welcomes and supplying my every need, sometimes on short notice. When I say “on short notice,” one matter I’m thinking of is the magical assembly of acting troupes to help me with my programs. (Read about the thespian team members when I write on the topic “Drama.”)
My hosts were equally crucial to the economy and pleasure of my trip, and I am deeply gratefully for their generous support along the way. My most extended stay was with the sister who has stayed in our hometown. Late night TV and breakfast conversations with her and her husband, a great storyteller himself, were both merry and meaningful. They’re easy people to be around, with their attentive yet relaxed hospitality. With her help, I upgraded my wardrobe with bargain deals, had the technology I needed to keep things rolling, did some personal banking, and much more. I had several special days and nights with another sister, as well, seeing her new place and relishing time together. Another sister’s family hosted Thanksgiving dinner in their lovely new home. A cousin and his wife provided bread and board and many kind accoutrements for a few days and nights. Reunion was in the air as I was treated to lovely meals and perhaps overnights with my brother, high school friends, former teaching colleagues, and fellow church members from days gone by. New friends, too. “One is silver and the other gold…”
Obviously, there would have been no tour without the books and my marvelous writing/publication team: consultants and resource people for various aspects of the stories, editors—the main one and three others, tech assistants, graphic designer, printer, manufacturer of the gift boxes, encouraging readers and fans. And I can’t forget Kickstarter, the online platform through which I raised the upfront money to publish Sunday by Sunday III. All my backers and all the folks at Kickstarter.com are most definitely part of my team.
I find the world to be a very friendly place. And (indebted to e e cummings) i thank you, God, for most this amazing team!
Friday, December 9, 2011
Book Tour 2011
Wednesday afternoon, I drove back into town at the end of my 26-day book tour and vacation. A school bus approached from the opposite direction. Figuring Buddy Boy (grandson #1) would be on it, I slowed to let the bus make its right turn and then made my left turn, slipping in behind it. Sure enough, my first grade guy hopped off with a few other munchkins and pranced the short distance to his house. As he opened the side door to go in, I pulled into his driveway and tooted my horn. His excited dance at seeing me was the best welcome home imaginable. And then, my kids and other grandkids gathered for supper and a happy reunion that was oh! so excellent.
The welcome dance and fun of the evening mirrored my own joy at being home, but the trip itself was also part of the joy. Memories and reflections fly around my brain along with tasks and agenda items needing attention. Fatigue and disorganization keep me off balance a bit and measure out a gradual re-entry. As part of the process, I want to capture, nonetheless, the essence of this journey undertaken in conjunction with the release of Sunday by Sunday III.
To cover every detail would be not only impossible but also boring. So, blogging daily (at least that’s the plan), I will hit the highs—and maybe some lows, though there weren’t many of those. The following topics, which I jotted down with some notes on one of the last nights on the road, should provide a pretty good framework for documenting this momentous occasion in my writing adventures. And with a little luck, this document may be entertaining as well (at least that’s the hope).
• The team
• Itinerary
• Family
• Friends
• Drama
• Futility of quantifying
• Infrastructure accidents and incidents
• Serendipity
• Driving
• Weather
• Itinerary/Memory lane
• Re-entry
• Next
The welcome dance and fun of the evening mirrored my own joy at being home, but the trip itself was also part of the joy. Memories and reflections fly around my brain along with tasks and agenda items needing attention. Fatigue and disorganization keep me off balance a bit and measure out a gradual re-entry. As part of the process, I want to capture, nonetheless, the essence of this journey undertaken in conjunction with the release of Sunday by Sunday III.
To cover every detail would be not only impossible but also boring. So, blogging daily (at least that’s the plan), I will hit the highs—and maybe some lows, though there weren’t many of those. The following topics, which I jotted down with some notes on one of the last nights on the road, should provide a pretty good framework for documenting this momentous occasion in my writing adventures. And with a little luck, this document may be entertaining as well (at least that’s the hope).
• The team
• Itinerary
• Family
• Friends
• Drama
• Futility of quantifying
• Infrastructure accidents and incidents
• Serendipity
• Driving
• Weather
• Itinerary/Memory lane
• Re-entry
• Next
Friday, September 16, 2011
The joy of puttering
The joy of puttering around! Maybe I’ll write a book with that name to add to the library of The Joy of ... books—Gardening, Motherhood, Sex. Anyway, today is being a lovely, satisfying day of puttering, frittering, dawdling. Not inactive, high energy, actually, doing whatever I wish.
Worked out with Spike and the Bulldogs, my 35-minute, self-choreographed routine.
Had pancakes and eggs and read more in The Creed, What Christians Believe and Why It Matters for breakfast.
Communicated with friends and readers to try and get my Kickstarter campaign popping. Not looking good to reach my goal, but I’m not going down without a fight. Good to catch up with people I haven’t been in touch with for awhile. And, these contacts held encouragement, which is good because self-promotion and marketing require massive amounts of encouragement—and determination. There are days when I just can’t do it. But today—yes I can!
Listened to the inimitable Dorothea Benton Frank on the delightful Walter Edgar’s Journal. What a hoot that woman is, and she had so much inspiration for writers in their hour-long conversation. I’m going to listen again and take notes.
Cleaned my toaster oven while listening to Dottie and Walter. This is a household task I perform on a regular schedule—whenever the crumbs catch on fire.
Talked with precious daughter for a good while, professional to professional. Joy.
Hung out a load of wash. Another household task that needs doing is to take the dirty clothesline down, scrub it, and rehang it. I also rehang my clothesline on a regular schedule—whenever the sheets touch the ground. (I’m not that good at knots.)
Social networked for awhile and had fun doing it. Days off from the computer, nonetheless, are important, too.
Now, going to look for $5 summer shoes on the sale rack and get what I need to make a batch of oatmealers.
Then, PBS Newshour and Washington Week in Review, my typical wild Friday night—unless the news is so maddening and/or depressing I switch to reruns of Mash (the cleverest program on TV according to me) like I did the other night.
These are a few of my favorite things, and it’s a whole different deal to do them because I feel like it rather than because I must. Luxurious.
This free and easy schedule has a marvelous edge to it following the 12+ hours per day intensity of finishing the composition stage of the book, starting up the campaign, and scheduling events and book tour. I’m beginning to feel human again. Thank you, God, for all of this. All of it.
Worked out with Spike and the Bulldogs, my 35-minute, self-choreographed routine.
Had pancakes and eggs and read more in The Creed, What Christians Believe and Why It Matters for breakfast.
Communicated with friends and readers to try and get my Kickstarter campaign popping. Not looking good to reach my goal, but I’m not going down without a fight. Good to catch up with people I haven’t been in touch with for awhile. And, these contacts held encouragement, which is good because self-promotion and marketing require massive amounts of encouragement—and determination. There are days when I just can’t do it. But today—yes I can!
Listened to the inimitable Dorothea Benton Frank on the delightful Walter Edgar’s Journal. What a hoot that woman is, and she had so much inspiration for writers in their hour-long conversation. I’m going to listen again and take notes.
Cleaned my toaster oven while listening to Dottie and Walter. This is a household task I perform on a regular schedule—whenever the crumbs catch on fire.
Talked with precious daughter for a good while, professional to professional. Joy.
Hung out a load of wash. Another household task that needs doing is to take the dirty clothesline down, scrub it, and rehang it. I also rehang my clothesline on a regular schedule—whenever the sheets touch the ground. (I’m not that good at knots.)
Social networked for awhile and had fun doing it. Days off from the computer, nonetheless, are important, too.
Now, going to look for $5 summer shoes on the sale rack and get what I need to make a batch of oatmealers.
Then, PBS Newshour and Washington Week in Review, my typical wild Friday night—unless the news is so maddening and/or depressing I switch to reruns of Mash (the cleverest program on TV according to me) like I did the other night.
These are a few of my favorite things, and it’s a whole different deal to do them because I feel like it rather than because I must. Luxurious.
This free and easy schedule has a marvelous edge to it following the 12+ hours per day intensity of finishing the composition stage of the book, starting up the campaign, and scheduling events and book tour. I’m beginning to feel human again. Thank you, God, for all of this. All of it.
Friday, September 9, 2011
I just finished my book
I just finished my latest book, Sunday by Sunday III, a little past midnight. I had set last Friday as my deadline. And I take deadlines very seriously, not like Douglas Adams (The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy), who claims to “love deadlines…the whooshing sound they make when they fly by.” But, alas, Friday whooshed by, and I wasn’t done. Then, Monday, for absolutely sure. Nope. On Wednesday I wrote to a friend, “I’m finishing III today. I struggled all day yesterday for the exact right ending. Finally, this morning as I boiled my oatmeal, it came.” Discovering how to end it was about being still and knowing that God is God. About “getting out of the way,” as Madeleine L’Engle, and many others, put it. “Art is collaboration between God and the artist, and the less the artist does the better.” ~André Gide
Anyway, yee-haw! God and I are done. Tomorrow I’ll send the manuscript to my main editor and several other readers for final feedback Most of the characters will survive revision, I think, and most of the story lines are pretty well set, and yet, there is more work. (“A book is never finished, you just finally have to abandon it.”) But the hardest part, making it all up, is over. Thank God.
Composition is like taming a lion. Revising is like playing with a kitten. That’s how it is for me. I relish the fine tuning. Tightening is in order, striving to cut out every word that isn’t necessary. Making sure that the action builds on itself convincingly is important, and there will be some backtracking to make that happen. Consistency of facts is obviously important, too—and tricky. As I’ve delved back into the first two books in the series, I’ve discovered three major errors regarding consistency of factual information. I hope no reader ever discovers them, but if someone does, s/he will receive a free book (if s/he keeps her/his mouth shut).
Seriously, typos can occur even with a spell checker and half a dozen proofreaders. Inconsistencies arise even with the search function and diligent editors. A book is a big document, and the writing process complex. I guess for that reason, I don’t get upset or (too) embarrassed when my mistakes are caught. Oops. Darn. Sorry. I re-e-eally wanted it to be perfect, but… Do I sound lame, as though I have low standards? Maybe self-published works like mine typically do have more errors. But I’ll say this: I recently read a hard cover novel by a best-selling, very prominent author published, of course, by a huge publishing house, that had a lot more typos than any of my books. What’s my point here? Maybe I should omit this paragraph.
Anyway, whew. Annie Dillard told authors in The Writing Life, “Your one necessity: …to dangle from it limp, wherever it takes you…” I am definitely limp, so maybe I’ve done something write. Oops, I mean right.
Anyway, yee-haw! God and I are done. Tomorrow I’ll send the manuscript to my main editor and several other readers for final feedback Most of the characters will survive revision, I think, and most of the story lines are pretty well set, and yet, there is more work. (“A book is never finished, you just finally have to abandon it.”) But the hardest part, making it all up, is over. Thank God.
Composition is like taming a lion. Revising is like playing with a kitten. That’s how it is for me. I relish the fine tuning. Tightening is in order, striving to cut out every word that isn’t necessary. Making sure that the action builds on itself convincingly is important, and there will be some backtracking to make that happen. Consistency of facts is obviously important, too—and tricky. As I’ve delved back into the first two books in the series, I’ve discovered three major errors regarding consistency of factual information. I hope no reader ever discovers them, but if someone does, s/he will receive a free book (if s/he keeps her/his mouth shut).
Seriously, typos can occur even with a spell checker and half a dozen proofreaders. Inconsistencies arise even with the search function and diligent editors. A book is a big document, and the writing process complex. I guess for that reason, I don’t get upset or (too) embarrassed when my mistakes are caught. Oops. Darn. Sorry. I re-e-eally wanted it to be perfect, but… Do I sound lame, as though I have low standards? Maybe self-published works like mine typically do have more errors. But I’ll say this: I recently read a hard cover novel by a best-selling, very prominent author published, of course, by a huge publishing house, that had a lot more typos than any of my books. What’s my point here? Maybe I should omit this paragraph.
Anyway, whew. Annie Dillard told authors in The Writing Life, “Your one necessity: …to dangle from it limp, wherever it takes you…” I am definitely limp, so maybe I’ve done something write. Oops, I mean right.
Friday, August 19, 2011
My neighborhood meeting last night disturbed me
My neighborhood meeting last night disturbed me, and I sat on my front step this morning and prayed a lot and cried a little over it. Crime is up in our neighborhood and city. One man has had his house broken into twice in the last year, his car broken into twice, too. Wrong. Bad. Air conditioning units are being destroyed left and right for the copper. Four houses/buildings (all vacant) across from me have had their units destroyed. The church fellowship hall in which we sat was uncomfortably warm because they were hit by the copper thieves the other day.
Police were on hand to exchange information, defend and explain their work, listen sympathetically. Anger escalated with each account of being victimized and afraid and pretty soon, the question that always gets asked at this moment was asked of the officers:
“What’s the law about me protecting my property? Can I shoot someone?” and we began to smile and laugh in our discomfort, in our relief at the thought of taking control, fighting back. Some murmured “shoot to disable,” others “shoot to kill.”
We talked of absentee landlords, too, a problem on my block that leads to bigger problems from vandalism to falling property values to rats (the worst of the three in my mind!). And how landlords rent to convicted sex offenders and other felons. Not good. But I asked myself, for Christ’s sake, where is mercy for these offenders? Are they to be denied a place to lay their heads? Denied a fresh start? Do I want to live next door to a sex offender? Not particularly. But I ask, for Christ’s sake…
In broad daylight in Chicago c. 1967 I was attacked, rape was attempted, and my purse stolen. The perpetrator had my address and the keys to my apartment. I’m pretty sure he tried to get in before the locks were changed but was stopped by the safety chain. Which is to say I know fear and violation and outrage. But still I ask, what is the best response, for Christ’s sake? WWJD? Seriously, what would he do? What did he do? What has he told us, time and again in the Scriptures, to do? Be not afraid. Trust in God. Show mercy.
Like Renee Splichal Larson said in her sermon just now at the churchwide assembly of my denomination, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America /ELCA (I attended the closing communion service virtually), “I just can’t get my mind around how different the world’s idea of justice is from God’s justice.” She said something close to that, and my head was spinning with that same confusion in the meeting last night, when we were laughing about killing someone. We are good, decent people, not killers, and yet we laughed at the prospect, even the satisfaction, of ending another human life. Pastor Larson’s passionate sermon was precisely relevant to our community meeting and to living out God’s justice even when it’s hard and risky. But last night, I felt alone sitting on my molded plastic chair in that hall, and I felt weak that I could not speak for mercy and a reasoned approach to the problem, couldn’t seem to live out my convictions at that exact moment, even when I was pretty sure that there would be others who would share my perspective.
In my prayers this morning, I heard words of grace: 1) Stop bemoaning your presumed guilt for not being a super-hero of faith in a complicated situation; you’re not the point, and, more importantly, you’re baptized. Live in grace, for crying out loud. 2) There are always more chances to behold God’s light in the world and witness to it. “Don’t worry what you have to say; don’t worry because on that day, God’s Spirit will speak in your heart…” 3) Call Margaret. So I called my friend Margaret, steeped in the African-American church and that style of preaching so that sanctified, encouraging Bible verses and faith slogans roll off her tongue like honey. She talked me down—or up, actually, as in lifted my spirits, reminded me of what we believe and what God promises. Sweet words, sweet as honey.
I’m not alone at all, I realize once again. Seems strange, now, how often I forget that.
I took communion in front of my computer with the ELCA crowd in assembly. And I prayed for Earlewood, my neighborhood; and for all victims of crime, including crimes of oppression and economic injustice; and for those who would shoot to kill and those who would shoot to disable and those who would rather die than shoot; and for sex offenders and law-breaking citizens, that they might find enough mercy to repent and heal; and for irresponsible landlords, that the same might happen to them.
Whew. I’m better now. Thank you, God.
“Kyrie eleison, on our world and on our way, kryie elieson everyday…”
Police were on hand to exchange information, defend and explain their work, listen sympathetically. Anger escalated with each account of being victimized and afraid and pretty soon, the question that always gets asked at this moment was asked of the officers:
“What’s the law about me protecting my property? Can I shoot someone?” and we began to smile and laugh in our discomfort, in our relief at the thought of taking control, fighting back. Some murmured “shoot to disable,” others “shoot to kill.”
We talked of absentee landlords, too, a problem on my block that leads to bigger problems from vandalism to falling property values to rats (the worst of the three in my mind!). And how landlords rent to convicted sex offenders and other felons. Not good. But I asked myself, for Christ’s sake, where is mercy for these offenders? Are they to be denied a place to lay their heads? Denied a fresh start? Do I want to live next door to a sex offender? Not particularly. But I ask, for Christ’s sake…
In broad daylight in Chicago c. 1967 I was attacked, rape was attempted, and my purse stolen. The perpetrator had my address and the keys to my apartment. I’m pretty sure he tried to get in before the locks were changed but was stopped by the safety chain. Which is to say I know fear and violation and outrage. But still I ask, what is the best response, for Christ’s sake? WWJD? Seriously, what would he do? What did he do? What has he told us, time and again in the Scriptures, to do? Be not afraid. Trust in God. Show mercy.
Like Renee Splichal Larson said in her sermon just now at the churchwide assembly of my denomination, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America /ELCA (I attended the closing communion service virtually), “I just can’t get my mind around how different the world’s idea of justice is from God’s justice.” She said something close to that, and my head was spinning with that same confusion in the meeting last night, when we were laughing about killing someone. We are good, decent people, not killers, and yet we laughed at the prospect, even the satisfaction, of ending another human life. Pastor Larson’s passionate sermon was precisely relevant to our community meeting and to living out God’s justice even when it’s hard and risky. But last night, I felt alone sitting on my molded plastic chair in that hall, and I felt weak that I could not speak for mercy and a reasoned approach to the problem, couldn’t seem to live out my convictions at that exact moment, even when I was pretty sure that there would be others who would share my perspective.
In my prayers this morning, I heard words of grace: 1) Stop bemoaning your presumed guilt for not being a super-hero of faith in a complicated situation; you’re not the point, and, more importantly, you’re baptized. Live in grace, for crying out loud. 2) There are always more chances to behold God’s light in the world and witness to it. “Don’t worry what you have to say; don’t worry because on that day, God’s Spirit will speak in your heart…” 3) Call Margaret. So I called my friend Margaret, steeped in the African-American church and that style of preaching so that sanctified, encouraging Bible verses and faith slogans roll off her tongue like honey. She talked me down—or up, actually, as in lifted my spirits, reminded me of what we believe and what God promises. Sweet words, sweet as honey.
I’m not alone at all, I realize once again. Seems strange, now, how often I forget that.
I took communion in front of my computer with the ELCA crowd in assembly. And I prayed for Earlewood, my neighborhood; and for all victims of crime, including crimes of oppression and economic injustice; and for those who would shoot to kill and those who would shoot to disable and those who would rather die than shoot; and for sex offenders and law-breaking citizens, that they might find enough mercy to repent and heal; and for irresponsible landlords, that the same might happen to them.
Whew. I’m better now. Thank you, God.
“Kyrie eleison, on our world and on our way, kryie elieson everyday…”
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Rainbows
Last week I mentioned on Facebook a little rainbow hunting excursion that ended rather precipitously. I put the account in the form of a (lengthy) sentence poem (I’m getting quite a collection of those). Here it is: I woke from a lazy Saturday afternoon nap to find a gentle rain falling as the sun shone and put on flip-flops so my good sandals wouldn’t get wet and headed out the front door and carefully down the slippery steps but fell on my keister anyway, and there was, unaccountably, no rainbow, so I just went and took down the wet clothes from the line.
Today was quite a different story. I hit the jackpot with a double! The sun was blinding me as I neared home at the end of a Sunday evening walk. To my right was the community garden, 20 or so beds of lush plants in an expanse of very green grass. When a steady rain started up, I stopped and paused before turning around, thinking, “There just has to be a rainbow out of this; it’s purely a law of physics—light shining into water.” Sure enough, as I gazed into the heavens I saw pale colors taking shape on the left, and second by second—absolutely as if by magic (yeah, and physics)—the arc of pastels appeared, perfectly spanning the gardens. Each end of the rainbow disappeared into tree tops.
By now, the curved stripes were as vivid in color as any I’ve ever seen. Roy G Biv, I began, starting at the top and identifying distinct red, orange, yellow, and green stripes. I was trying to break down Biv—the blue, indigo and violet were pretty indistinguishable —when something above it all caught my eye. Another pale, multicolored patch! As I watched in amazement, the process repeated itself exactly, the same celestial magic, faint colors deepening and shaping into another perfect curve in the dome of heaven, two of them hanging over my community and the verdant vegetation in silent blessing. God, it was gorgeous.
The gentle shower waned and the fading began, but I didn’t want to leave them hanging there in the sky without me, so I determined to stay until they disappeared. How gracefully the process reversed itself. First, the higher one dulled but was still fully visible. Then, sections began to get so light that I wondered if I was still seeing color or just seeing where it been a moment before. I could still see parts of it, barely, and it naturally came to the point that when I looked away and looked back it was gone, utterly gone.
The lower won was still quite sharp. In fact, it outlasted me. Some clouds covered part of it and gradually, only a faint half was still visible. Turning my back on it, I walked the half block to my street and looked around one last time before I hung a hard right for home. Still there, still magical.
What privileged moments for me, and I have no profound reflections to add to what the Creator has already reflected in these and all rainbows!
Today was quite a different story. I hit the jackpot with a double! The sun was blinding me as I neared home at the end of a Sunday evening walk. To my right was the community garden, 20 or so beds of lush plants in an expanse of very green grass. When a steady rain started up, I stopped and paused before turning around, thinking, “There just has to be a rainbow out of this; it’s purely a law of physics—light shining into water.” Sure enough, as I gazed into the heavens I saw pale colors taking shape on the left, and second by second—absolutely as if by magic (yeah, and physics)—the arc of pastels appeared, perfectly spanning the gardens. Each end of the rainbow disappeared into tree tops.
By now, the curved stripes were as vivid in color as any I’ve ever seen. Roy G Biv, I began, starting at the top and identifying distinct red, orange, yellow, and green stripes. I was trying to break down Biv—the blue, indigo and violet were pretty indistinguishable —when something above it all caught my eye. Another pale, multicolored patch! As I watched in amazement, the process repeated itself exactly, the same celestial magic, faint colors deepening and shaping into another perfect curve in the dome of heaven, two of them hanging over my community and the verdant vegetation in silent blessing. God, it was gorgeous.
The gentle shower waned and the fading began, but I didn’t want to leave them hanging there in the sky without me, so I determined to stay until they disappeared. How gracefully the process reversed itself. First, the higher one dulled but was still fully visible. Then, sections began to get so light that I wondered if I was still seeing color or just seeing where it been a moment before. I could still see parts of it, barely, and it naturally came to the point that when I looked away and looked back it was gone, utterly gone.
The lower won was still quite sharp. In fact, it outlasted me. Some clouds covered part of it and gradually, only a faint half was still visible. Turning my back on it, I walked the half block to my street and looked around one last time before I hung a hard right for home. Still there, still magical.
What privileged moments for me, and I have no profound reflections to add to what the Creator has already reflected in these and all rainbows!
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