Flint and Fear (Part 1...maybe)

I have grasped this before.
At least cerebrally.
If not experientially.

Understanding is a great deterrent to fear.

Understanding is gained through 
knowing someone or something.
And knowing, by its nature, 
diminishes ignorance.

Ignorance, however, can be a great friend to fear.

When we are without knowledge, 
and thus without understanding, 
fear can easily make reason to a pile of rubble.

In the animated film Beauty and the Beast, 
as the rioting villagers head out to storm the Beast's castle, 
they sing these lines...
"We don't like what we don't understand; in fact, it scares us..."
Who knew Disney could turn philosophical?

But I have grasped this before.
At least cerebrally.
Understanding is a great deterrent to fear.

Knowledge really can be power.
When one feels armed with understanding 
of another
or a context
or a circumstance
or a system
there is greater hope of acting even when afraid.

I live in, 
what many surveys deem, 
one of the country's most dangerous cities.

I live in, 
what some polls have described as, 
one of the country's most miserable cities.

Jobs have left.
And so have people.
Drugs are common.
And so is homicide.
Blight is abundant.
And arson prevalent.

I have plenty of reason to fear.
And the truth is, I have.
I have lived afraid.

I have allowed fear to 
have a voice 
and isolate me.

I have permitted fear to 
draw my proverbial shades
and ignore my neighbor.

And as the neighborhood around me changes.
some say for the worse, 
what I need is some understanding.

I need to understand my community.
My neighborhood.
My neighbors.
I need to understand 
a city can suffer from stress 
for so long that it's crippled.
I need to understand 
how to function effectively 
in an ever-transitioning and needy area.

And maybe, just maybe, 
some of that understanding
can burgeon 
into hope
and compassion
and courage
and action.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, 

the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, 

who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble 

with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.

2 Corinthians 1:3-4

the gift of longevity

While driving out to a friend's house the other day, I passed a house that was in the process of being built early in our tenure here. In front of the house were several linear rows of pears trees. 

I remember those trees when they were planted. 

Saplings. Barely green in spring. 

And then they grew. and grew. 

And now are tall and sturdy, brilliant white blossoms shining in the early spring.

I have been here long enough to see trees mature.

And then, while still driving, I thought of my friend's daughter who will be graduating high school in June. 

I remember her as a preschooler with a scrunchy on the top of her head.

Who would barely speak. who would laugh as we sang "Inchworm"together.

And she has grown. and grown.

And now she is a lovely young woman embarking confidently into adulthood.

I have been here long enough to see her mature.

It's a gift.

In ministry nothing seems a guarantee. Your time in one place is more than likely short-lived.


I don't know current statistics, but the average stay for a pastor in one congregation is...well, not that many years.


There's a WHOLE lot I could say on this subject, but for now I find myself filled with gratitude for longevity...


being in one place for one long while. 


being gifted stability and steadiness. our congregation being gifted the same.


having the opportunity to put down roots that could actually take hold and strengthen.


I do not think length of time always correlates to effectiveness or influence, but in this world of perpetual shifts and ever-new methods, it seems refreshing to think some things (and people) can remain fixed.


Going on 14 years now...over a decade with one church family. Through ups and downs. Through winning and losing. Longevity. Endurance. Mutual commitment.


What a gift...and today I am filled with gratitude.

On sickness and carols

I have a sick child.  I suppose it was inevitable.  We have side-stepped our share of illness this fall. But today? This day of pomp and circumstance for the season. A day we anticipate from December to December. It's Carols & Candles night.

Paul's dressed up. He will shine and bring out the best of the musicians.  He has prepared the details and internally he may sweat tonight. But the people - they will see the majesty and the glory of the season.  They will revel in the singing of carols and the magic of candlelight.

Eliana is princess-like.  She will look grown up in her purple plaid taffeta and will stand tall as the handbells chime and she joins with the children to sing.  She has rehearsed toward this night and she might feel a smidgen of anxiety. But the parents - they will listen with pride and gladness.  They will alight with the joy their children are singing of Christmas.

But not me. I won't witness those triumphs.

I am here with a sick child.  One who awoke late last night to a belly upset but no temperature. One who lay on a sheet and carpet in the living room so he could be close to us.

And while I am disappointed that I will not share in the annual splendor of this event, I also am honored to have an important job of my own on this night.  

There will be no pomp or circumstance here. No lovely taffeta gowns or ringing bells. I will sit with my children (one sick and one young) and I will be mother. There will be a soft glow of light, not from candles, but from the lights of our tree. If carols are heard, it will be thanks to a CD player. I will not be angry at what I missed...for here I will find my own melodies. My heart song tonight will be one of peace offered to a sick child.  One of joy offered through contented acceptance. One of love for a family who, while separate in duties tonight, are knit together by the One who is love.

I have a sick child but I have never felt better.