The Feast is at the core of every Godly Play community. It plays an important role in the life of a little community of people. Yet, as the adults preparing the environment are getting ready, our focus often stays fixed on the story materials. Let’s take some time to put a magnifying glass on the Feast.

Keep it green! After telling the Creation story in our second year of Godly Play, it became apparent as we passed the trash can around that we were presenting an unintended, unspoken lesson. We had just spoken of the light, water, dry land and the creatures that inhabit it, and it was good, but we were about to dump an entire small trashcan of napkins and paper cups somewhere out there. We decided then to “go green.” Our checklist of a “green feast” was this:

• set of green napkins (cocktail size), made by a woman in our sewing guild (we also have purple, with hopes of adding other liturgical colors)
• some small tumblers from a restaurant supply store
• tiny plastic bowls from the dollar store for food like goldfish or pretzels
• a wicker laundry basket for used napkins
• a plastic wash basin for the used cups and bowls
• a plant to receive the unconsumed water.

That was eight years ago and we’ve been green ever since! Gladly, we have kept some trash out of the landfill, but even more of a delight, we recognize a new unspoken lesson. Somehow we have managed to convey permanence, intention and value on the Feast just by not throwing away the sacred objects that help contain it. A response from a boy on a day I didn’t have the napkins washed and we used paper, “What happened to our napkins that don’t tear?”  When asked recently what the Good Shepherd’s green underlay was, a child replied with joyful surprise, “It is a giant napkin for Feast!”

It is their work, too.
We’ve also recognized that the actual preparation of the Feast, can be fully owned by the children. We have set up a child-sized table with sealed bins of pretzels, goldfish and animal-crackers and small pitchers of water that the children can have full access. Feast preparation has become simply another piece of work to choose in the classroom. It frees the Doorperson to become fully available for as-needed art response assistance, as well as gives the children the validation of serving the community. Now, of course, there are days when no one is interested in doing the work of Feast preparation, in which case the doorperson fills that responsibility.

Slow food in a fast world.  Sometimes I wonder if Feast is the only meal that the children get that is slow, intentional and rooted in thanksgiving and caring conversation? We can’t deny that we are surrounded by a fast-food, fast-paced culture and for many families (including mine) that can become an easy habit. Feast not only models the liturgy (the work of the people) of the church, but it models the liturgy of the family. The central two ingredients in the recipe of the Feast are giving thanks and sharing our lives.

We celebrate the long-time, built-in spirit of thanksgiving and community in the Godly Play feast. These are the golden, unspoken lessons children will keep with them, even when the car finds its way to McDonalds. It could also be a flash of insight they feel when they gather around other tables, at home and church, and know that God is here, too.

Today is Groundhog’s Day. One of the more bizarre holidays that still winds up on our calendar. Yet, it is fun to imagine a large rodent could change the course of the weather for the coming weeks on a chance glance of it’s own shadow. Why it falls on the same day as the Presentation of our Lord or Candlemas, escapes me. If you know, please tell.

Reprinted from ELCA Sundays and Seasons:

The Presentation of Our Lord is referred to in some corners of the church as Candlemas because of an ancient tradition of blessing all the candles to be used in the church in the coming year at the mass celebrated on that day. It was a way of underscoring the truth of Simeon’s confession that this baby Jesus was “a light for revelation to the Gentiles” and a light for glory to Israel. Let the light of every candle in church be a little epiphany of the love of God for all people in the person of God’s son, Jesus, the light of the world.

Presentation of Our Lord
Forty days after the birth of Jesus we mark the day Mary and Joseph presented him in the temple in accordance with Jewish law. There they were greeted by Simeon, an aged priest who offered the song “Lord, now you let your servant depart in peace,” as well as by the prophet Anna, who spoke of the redemption of Israel.

I do love this story. It makes me happy to think of Simeon is at last at peace.

The Godly Play lessons during Advent and at Baptism brings out the Light. The Christ candle is lighted and sometimes we even turn the overhead lights off and bask in the candle glow. But my very favorite part is when the light is changed. Not put out. Not blown out. Not snuffed out.–but changed. The light of the tiny flame, that only can be seen or felt in that place and very close, changes into smoke that can fill the room and even seep out under the door. God’s presence transcends the tangible, spoken, reasonable and rationale to something invisible that fully surrounds us and sometimes we know it.

Indeed, Simeon be at peace! Rest is the light of presence.

And as for Puxatony Phil, whatever he has to do with this day, peace, too. Are the flashbulbs too bright for you? Sleep for six more weeks.

We have been blindsided by the stories and images coming out of Haiti, after the devastating earthquake. A frequent question from parents, now and at past similar events, is how to support children to move from worry and fear, to compassion and care for others. This is a challenging parenting task, dealing with our own fears and grief while reflecting confidence to our children about faith, safety and humanity. You’d think we’d be good at this–for certainly no parent, throughout time, has been able to make it through the parenting years without a catastrophe in the family, town or world. And yet, this part of parenting doesn’t always come naturally.

Prepare and insulate. Commit to caring for children (and even teens) enough to set aside your hunger for news, to turn the TV, radio and screen media off. The motivation for network television is ratings, not conveying news in such a way that is appropriate for children. Even if you think your children are not paying attention, the tone of the news reporter’s voice and the emotional soundtrack, will draw children in. The images and shocking stories will make your conversations nearly impossible to move children from fear to empowered caring. This may mean avoiding waiting rooms with television or having a conversation with unaware grandparents, and it will take purpose and intention.

Don’t sugar coat. We all know sugar is bad for children–even when it’s used to cover up bad news. Present your child with the information they NEED to know in an age appropriate way. Preschool children have very few tools to deal with news like the ground shaking, and buildings falling on people. They do not have the skills of abstraction to know it is not imminent to them. Focus on tangible ways they can help–they can understand you saying, “I heard about some people that need shoes. Could we look in your closet to see if there is an extra pair of shoes to share?” Elementary children are likely to have heard about such a catastrophe from sources other than you. The facts could be tainted-but in the case of Haiti, the facts are scary enough. Even though they have the capacity to reason it happened far away, in a fault area, with bad building codes, their worry and emotions can easily get the best of them. Help them know that they are safe, but more importantly, let them know they are loved. Assure them that sometimes, even in our own lives, sad things happen, but you will always seek to protect them, be on their side and love them, no matter what. You are the closest thing to a Good Shepherd they will physically know. Teens seem so tough, but they may be the most vulnerable to such events because they may be more bombarded by sensational media and social networks. Their immense concern, can give way to despair and hopelessness if they feel like their help is just a drop in the ocean. Confront this directly by saying (and modeling) that they need to limit absorbing and worrying about the events, and try to find ways to help. Teens need to know the justice that comes from empowerment to affect change, instead of feeling hopeless and helpless at a seemingly overwhelming situation.

I hear Rachel crying for her children. Listen. Give way to your own sadness and grief, in ways that convey to your children empathy, but doesn’t scare them. Pull out the candles and dust off the prayers! And cry deeply in the shower. It is impossible to not see the images and hear the stories, without our own hearts breaking. Empathy is a wonderful human emotion. When we mark the sadness in tangible and hopeful ways we provide tools for our children to recognize the presence of the divine in others and themselves. Seek out ways, either in families or faith communities, for spiritual direction, such as storytelling, wondering and singing in community. Children at St. Martin’s are hearing in their Godly Play Sunday School the parables of the Good Shepherd, Good Samaritan, Great Pearl and Mustard Seed soon. These stories guide children to wonder about being cared for in a scary place or time, an inclusive kingdom, value, worth and a global neighborhood.

Don’t drag the wrath of God into this! Avoid language that would convey that God caused such suffering or is in some way punishing someone. Bad things happen, and have been happening for all of history. If we have faith in a merciful, loving God, we know that God is crying, too, when any children of the Earth are hurting. This is surely the most paramount teachable moment that comes from a disaster. When children know that God doesn’t take sides or toss lightening bolts at the wicked, they are empowered to love each other as God loves them. If that happens one by one, there WILL be peace on earth, even amid earthquakes, tornadoes and floods.

Share with each other. Children and youth model what they see in their family. Use tragedies such as this to become a family that donates time, energy and resources to others with no other motivation than to help your global neighbor.

All day I’ve been recalling a time about fifteen years ago, when I fell into the category of being a “mother of a young child.”

When my oldest daughter, Navy, was about 3 months old, our little trio of a family was temporarily re-located to the happiest place on earth, Disney World. Well, to be fair and specific, we lived “off-property” in Orlando, and Duke went to work everyday at the giant sun-dial building (Team Disney building) designed by Arata Isosaki. The move was supposed to be short–6 weeks, but extended into almost a year. I had gone back to work when Navy was 6 weeks old–and was ecstatic to get to be a stay at home mom, but sad to leave family and friends behind with my ever changing infant. Other than Duke and baby Navy, my first weeks in Florida, I only met one other wife/mother (of a 5, 7 and 9 year olds) and the cleaning lady for our room at the Residence Inn. (She was from Laos and didn’t speak a word of English, but was very nice.)

And then I met Chiquita.

Chiquita’s husband worked with Duke in the sun-dial building and she, too, had a 3 month old baby girl. We hit it off. Soon, we began to fill our days doing baby and mom things together. We’d go to Gymboree and Discovery Zone. We had serious conversations about what was rumored to be found in the ball pit, but climbed in anyway with our baby girls. We were fellow skeptics of Florida–she hailing from Washington D.C. and I from Texas. (Florida had giant bugs and an alligator in every duck pond.) We worried over buying the best first pair of little white shoes for our girls to walk in. If she needed to go somewhere, I would babysit. If I needed to go somewhere, she would babysit. I missed my friends and family in Texas. She missed her friends and family in Washington D.C. We’d rejoice together over Navy and Gabby’s new teeth, new foods and first steps.

I convinced her to go to the “Southern Women’s Expo” which was a JCPenney style show and whoever was on the cover of People magazine as the keynote speaker. Upon leaving she said, “Well that wasn’t too bad. I guess I expected lawn jockeys by the door.” We giggled hysterically and we both shed some thin and almost invisible prejudices. She was my first friend that I got to know because of our children. She was brilliant and hilarious and she was a part of making Florida bearable.

I wonder if scientists were to study humans in their wild, native habitat (like Florida) they might observe something about mothers of young children? I wonder if they might observe such mothers cling to each other in those formative years–learning this new role of motherhood? I wonder if young mothers come armed with their history (or baggage) of being mothered, but are fed and supported by their peers in those formative years? Almost saying to each other, “You can do this, and I’m here to do it right beside you.” I remember this. I have been the receiver and giver of this many times since, and have seen it in others, most recently and frequently in the St. Martin’s Mothers of Young Children group.

I’m now the mother of an adolescent. I’ve have countless, golden wonderful friendships with people I have met through my children. I cherish them all in how they have informed my life and mothering.

This morning, the first words I heard was that “Chiquita Durham died.” It took me a second to swish the cobwebs in my brain away to remember how important that name is. Our friendship was short. They went back to D.C. and we came back to Texas, and we lost touch. She evidently has been fighting cancer for some time. I’ve remembered her all day. She was the little girl I blessed at the end of Godly Play, she was the woman I bumped into at Lowe’s and she was the old woman I let over on the freeway. This was a good day to remember her wonderful friendship and to honor the spirit of loving support we give each other as we parent.

My dear Chiquita, rest in peace.

An alien abduction is about the only explanation I can muster regarding our recent family trip to Chicago.

We had it planned for awhile, but we didn’t fully work out the details until the last week or really when we got there. The purpose of our trip was to visit our friends, Carmen, Mike, Jesse and Elan, who have recently moved to Chicago from Austin, so Carmen could finish seminary. They live on Sesame Street. Not really, but they might as well. They only need a giant prehistoric furry elephant lumbering down the alley and a monster in the trashcan. The rest is the same. The stoop, the courtyard filled with people, the school just down the street with a US map on the concrete basketball court. It was really like falling into the Sesame Street set–and these kids from the wide-open Texas loved it.

The word “differences” was ringing in my ears. Sometimes a bit of a Godly Play story just hangs with me. Even if I’ve heard it before, I’ll latch onto to some new favorite part. This time it was from the “Falling Apart” lesson-recognizable to most as the Adam and Eve story. The lingering text is:

The differences also did something wonderful. Now Adam and Eve could take things apart and put them back together again. They could be creators, almost like God. They couldn’t make something out of nothing, but they could make something out of differences.

How liberating and beautiful it is to see differences as our raw material for our own creations. It was a wonderful thing to have ringing in my ears in Chicago–it embodies diversity AND it is one fertile, creative place.

We walked or took the train most everywhere-that was a huge difference, right off the bat from Austin. But, that was great because not only did we lighten our carbon footprint and exercise–but we could see people. As you passed, you’d look in their eyes and nod or say hello. You could appreciate the beautiful saxophone music under the bridge and notice how stylish comfortable shoes could be. I felt connected to be in the web of the city. We went to the most breathtaking monuments to creativity and differences: the Art Institute, the Field Museum and the Robie House–the details of which could be an entire post on its own. I’ve now added museums right there with nature as those contemplative places that you must be fully present in the now and might get a glimpse of God. We went to two worships, both the Blessing of the Animals, St. James Episcopal Cathedral and the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago’s Monday chapel. A well-placed bark is always a blessed juxtaposition to liturgy.

I know you’re curious about the space aliens. I don’t really remember the actual aliens, but still I argue that is the only explanation. It happened on Friday night. You see, our friend Carmen, not known for her singing or musical ability (I didn’t say bad–just not known) has joined a Gospel Choir. At this point insert the image of a spaceship dropping me, Carmen and Duke in the middle of a South Chicago Church Revival. Oh yes, it was cool. Different–absolutely. Creative–totally. It was an old Lutheran church, and probably many of the old folks had been baptized there as babies. Just about every part of it was different from the worship I am accustom to, and that made the things that were the same stick out. The hymnal in the pews were the same, and I knew all the words by heart to one of the songs–although I’ve not ever sung it so soulfully. The old folks were at the front and the youth at the back. The chicken and bundt cake at the pot luck was made with the same care. The only difference between my grandmother’s hand and one of their’s was the shade of the skin. It was a happy abduction.

For me, this trip became how I played with the story ringing in my ears, and it was a wonderful place to play. Chicago (or I wonder if any place that is not our home) can highlight our differences as points of creativity and growth. I wonder if differences ARE the parts of humanity that connect the many ways we are created in God’s image? I wonder if we are more like God because of our differences, than because of our likenesses?

I realize I’ve been practicing Godly Play so long, that I crave the debriefing process of the “I wonder” questions. I also know that for most folks reading this, I might as well have said, “Blah, blah, blah.” An “I wonder” question in Godly Play is an open ended question that serves as a tool for spiritual direction after a story. There are no right or wrong answers, but instead it guides the questioned to look inside themselves for where the Spirit is guiding.

The Story was epic. On Saturday night, I heard the entire Gospel of Mark from beginning to end–live and from the heart of Dr. Phil Ruge-Jones. I’ve heard it and read it and heard it again–in pieces. But to hear it in one voice from beginning to end is–well, epic. So let me wonder….

I wonder what was your favorite part?…

• I loved the beginning with Jesus’ baptism–and then the recollection of Baptism with that mysterious youth at the garden of Gethsemane and then again at the resurrection–what’s up with that anyway?
  
• I loved that every time Jesus fed a crowd, whether Jews, Gentiles or disciples–he blessed the bread and broke it and shared with those gathered.
  
• The story of Legion is always hilarious, that is until you think of the reeking mess of pigs that went over the cliff.
  
• The part about the man carried by four men to the crowded house that Jesus was preaching–only to not be able to get in. So his friends carry him to the roof, make a hole and lower him down. Wow–the imagery–carried like the Ark of the Covenant and lowered into the house as if through some sacred oculus–a paralytic.
• But I suppose, my favorite part was the blind man, only after the second try at healing by Jesus does he see. The first try the man can only see “trees walking” instead of people. What a puzzle and yet perhaps the way my perception is most of the time–fuzzy. I wish I had something like Dumbledore’s penseive, to grab thoughts, memories and insights fast, before they blur.
  

I wonder what was the most important part?…

Surely it was courageous trust. Time and time again we heard the greatness of the courageous trust. That is harder to hear when it is broken up into little pieces of lectionary.

I wonder where you are in the story?…

Often, I am Jairus. Just mentioning the name, raises goosebumps. I know Jairus so well–the privileged beggar. But this night, it was nice to give Jairus a rest. This hearing of the story placed me firmly on the hill in the crowd, just another one richly fed by the miracle.

I wondered what part could you take out and still have all the story you need?…

It would be nice to take the intermissions out, but then they were probably necessary. Something that was easily taken out–both in the oration and reflection was the arbitrary numerical markers of chapters and verses. The telling made it one story. I reflect on “the part about the so-and-so” instead of the chapter number. So, I guess my final answer is nothing.

Thanks to the many orators who carried this story in their hearts before anyone ever wrote it down. And thanks to Dr. Phil Ruge-Jones for presenting it so beautifully this past weekend!

Keep wondering…

This past month would count in my life as “the month of the child.”

I suppose for most parents, “back to school” is very child-centered. For me this past month has also included “back to Sunday School”, my youngest daughter’s birthday and my oldest daughter beginning her last year at a school she’s attended for eleven years. In our church community, we all cautiously rejoiced at the birth of twins and welcomed them in baptism, and in nearly the same breath, told them both goodbye for now. In our extended family, we had news that our cousins will in fact get to adopt two sweet girls who need a home. We’ve seen the first smiles and first laughs of friends children over the internet. This very weekend, we got to spend time with another cousin and her children, who are her spitting image.

Tonight this is pause in thanksgiving for the month of the child. And today was one of my favorite Gospel readings.

Then they came to Capernaum; and when he was in the house he asked them, “What were you arguing about on the way?” But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest. He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me. Mark 9:33-37

I usually LOVE to do the Children’s Story (sermon) in worship, and you would think I would have looked forward to this one. However, I’m a stickler for not wanting to stage a cheap laugh (even though sometimes it happens), or teach the adults through the child’s unknowing responses (even though sometimes it happens). I really want to be authentic with children–so today I struggled getting ready.

It would be so easy to just say, “Hey, kids you transform adults completely into jiggling vats of Jello because they love you so much. You drive them crazy, some, if not most, of the time. But they are addicted to you, because you are the closest glimpse of God most of them will ever see.” While true, I’ve heard that Truth is best welcomed when disguised as her sister, Story, so I stuck with the Gospel story.

So, the story hatched–it seemed safe. In telling the Gospel, I would line the children up in a line and remind them how it feels to be “the line leader.” I knew they’d been working on this at school. I’d seen them in the church hallway during the week, holding onto the little rope with handles. So during worship, the really wise ones, un-tainted by too much school yet, shook their heads and teared up at the mention of standing in line. Standing in line is hard when you are a child. Adults do it with ease, forming a line at the drop of the hat. We relish orderly establishments like the bank, theme parks and Southwest Airlines that have made “standing-in-line design” a career option.

I wonder if adults are okay with standing in line because it speaks to what Jesus’ disciples were arguing about–who gets to be the first-est with the most-est? It is a safe feeling to know your place. As long as there are fewer in front of you then there are behind you, one might feel pretty good. Lines are great because you don’t really have to look any one in the eye, touch them or react in any other way then step forward when it’s your turn.

Children don’t stand in lines well. They clump and circle. They relate and cling.

So I thought I could get the children in the line, and move the ones at the front to the back, but I didn’t really know how it could end. I knew that somewhere in that last part of the Gospel, rested the really important part, but I was going to have to wing-it. I really don’t like to wing-it, but I’ve done it enough to know that there lies the Spirit. Somehow, in the midst of children and chance, the ether catches fire and evaporates to insight.

Jesus put a little child AMONG them.

One cannot put a child “AMONG” folks that are in a line. If we think we are in a line, needing to gain on the guy in front of us, and hold back the guy behind us, we are wrong. The disciples then and we today, are in an amorphous clump–just like what the line of the children disintegrates into as soon as given the chance.  We are clinging to each other–whether we know it or not. The clump is not necessarily a hand-holding, daisy-chain wearing, Kum-ba-jah singing clump of happy people. But it is relational and responsible to the whole.

So to all teachers out there, my apologies. I told the children, “Jesus messed up the line. Look! When we come close to each other, we are more like a circle.” Maybe you could get a bunch of hula-hoops for them to hold onto to walk down the hallway?

I know, I know. I’m behind on writing. It’s not because I haven’t been thinking–just not writing. It is summertime and things have both slowed down and sped up.

One of my favorite summer activities is going to the movies. It satisfies both my love of nostalgia (watching great flicks at the Paramount Theatre downtown on a hot, summer afternoon as a kid) and my love of great storytelling. The movie, for better or worse, is our culture’s primary source of storytelling. We all gather around with our bushel basket of popcorn for the story to unfold. We must be hard-wired to hear stories in community, like gathering around a campfire or stage. Since there is a burn-ban in Central Texas, the closest thing to a campfire becomes the well-refrigerated cinema.

It’s hard turn off the lens of “Child & Family Minister” and even more challenging to just watch the story for what it is, and not look for imbedded poetry. And yet, that is where we all connect with the story–at the level of the soul in community with other souls. I’d like to offer some observations and recommendations of three summer blockbusters:

UP: I think the storytellers at Pixar are masterful. They have transcended the children’s genre of animation, both in their short and feature films, to wrestle with existential limits with humor and gentleness. UP is no exception, but very different than many of their other films. It is about an old man, near the end of his life. During the film, we see his life unfold and a beautiful relationship with his wife. This element of the story was especially poignant and made me aware of my own context in that place. I was holding hands with my husband of twenty years in a theatre we had been to in high-school. On the other side of me, was a young couple we would refer to as “daters” (with an eye-roll.) The old man is wrestling with the threat of freedom: some of it being taken from him and the freedom he had traded a long time ago for what we know as “responsibility.” He conjures some remaining spirit of childhood, aided by a helium tank, balloons and a Boy Scout. In a beautifully symbolic act, he sets his house afloat with balloons, bound for South America and a persistent childhood fantasy. He wants it all: the dream of freedom and the safety of home. The most beautiful image was a choice between reaching out for a new responsibility he found or holding tight to his old dream and old house about to float away. It was like the Parable of the Great Pearl–he traded everything, even his house, for the great pearl. Go–and take tissues.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: Okay, I’ll admit it–I’m a huge fan. We waited to see this one until my little one was at camp, but then saw it twice in three days. (sheepish grin) What I love most about Harry Potter is on the surface it seems like a story of good on one side and evil on the other. I wonder if it is really closer to describe it as the good and evil, saint and sinner, that exists in all of us. (I know, I’m waxing Lutheran.) The dichotomy is ever present in this sixth film. Every character, even Voldemort and Dumbledore, unfold as one who posesses good and bad qualities. I wonder, too, if this was a story of baptism. Maybe not the “white-dress and promises” Baptism–but the baptism we live in. Harry, time and time again, plunges his face in the penseive, searching for meaning in the shared memory of the community. And then the scene of Harry and Dumbledore in the cave, a font surrounded by water, that is afloat in death and yet the answers they seek. Living in our baptism is that daily dying of our old self and being born into a new life. Like the saint and sinner existing in the same person, Baptism cannot bring life without death. The poignant scene of the Hogwarts community pointing their wands to the deathmask in the night sky also reminded me of baptism or even closer, the Godly Play Baptism lesson. Each of us bears the Light in the world, and yet the Light is brighter when gathered in community. When will the 7th movie come out???

Year One: Yes, I saw this. It is hilarious! Hilarious! Don’t take your children. We took our fourteen-year-old and I nearly broke a rib trying to suppress the laughter while sitting beside her. It is irreverent. It has little to no poetry. I’d like to throw-out the shred of theology it has. Did I mention it was hilarious?

(Disclaimer: This is my vocational blog and my vocatation is Child and Family Ministry. Feel free to not read this you are one of my Facebook friends that might be the least bit squeemish about children, God or faith–somehow I’ve linked my blog to Facebook as a note and can’t quite decide if I should change that. Talk amongst yourselves. ;-))

It is the middle day of VBS. No, I’m not a adolescent texter using BFF, BTW, FWIW, LOL, G2G. If you’ve been a part of a church community over a summer (in the south?) you know VBS stands for Vacation Bible School. This is the day of VBS that I look forward to. It is half-way over, I usually have worked out the old kinks and fewer new kinks show up on this day. This is usually the day that I can slow down enough to find an “a-ha” somewhere in the day. I can be slow and present enough, for even a moment, to feel God’s presence. I love those a-ha’s. That is why I love my job so much, because few other jobs other than Child and Family Ministry can offer these kind of a-ha’s. (Maybe a Mt. Everest sherpa, Scottish shepherd or New York bicycle delivery person, but that is too close to call.)

Big a-ha’s come from small things.

Just before the closing worship for VBS, before everyone arrives in the nave, I go in and prepare a bit. I turn on the mics, adjust the decorations and dim the lights. These past few nights I have had to stop that and simply look up. As the sun sets in the west, it streams through the arching stained glass windows and cast the most extraordinary light show the whole length of the ceiling and nearly touches the front altar. The spectacle only lasts a few minutes and then the sunset darkens the ceiling. Most of the children never see it.

Tonight, some other early arriving adults marveled at it too and joked that it is like some Mayan ruin on an equinox. What if the architect gifted us with some secret treasure that is revealed when the light touches some critical spot in the church. Of course, while unfailing, the light is not unchanging, so in the building’s 50 years, no one has figured this mystery out as of yet. It very well could have happened already and no one was there. The custodian was down the hall. Maybe I was at the grocery store or some such place, completely unaware of the awesome light dancing on the ceiling of our church, unleashing some Indiana-Jones-esque drama.

Last night, I had the children look up at the ceiling for a milli-second to see the awe of the tail end of the spectacular light show. It was only a glimpse. Tonight, by the time the first group of children was coming in, I was making small talk with some grown-ups when out of the corner of my eye I saw three tiny two-year-olds looking up at the ceiling, saying “Wow.” (I can’t write Wow in such a way to convey the pitch, duration and overall cuteness.) We stood there together for a milli-second in awe together.

I often feel in my life of relative luxury (I have food, a bed and air-conditioning, plus a lot more), I should be more present, aware and thankful for the mysteries around me that point to the divine. And yet, how often I find myself caught up in the to-do lists, the traffic and the bummers of life. Come to me like a little child?

I read in the newspaper recently that Julian Lennon recently contacted childhood friend Lucy (something?). She was the inspiration of the song Lucy in the sky with diamonds. The child Julian, showed his father, John Lennon, a crayon drawing and explained it was his friend Lucy in the sky with diamonds. Big a-ha’s come from small things.

I wonder what light show will be on the ceiling next week with no one there to see it?

Today is one of those family anniversaries that go by with little fanfare. Yet we quietly remember this day as the day our understanding of HOPE changed. I wish all we needed to do to keep our children safe, was to hold them close. Parenting is as much (or more) about letting them go, then holding them tight.

The last time I was in New Orleans was also the last time the Evanagelical Lutheran Church in America youth gathered there. Seems like a weird place to send 50,000 high school youth. We have had a lot of water under the bridge since the River of Hope in July of 1997. It was before 911 and before Katrina. The River of Hope marked the very beginning of a chapter in my own life, too. As youth prepare to gather in New Orleans once again, I can’t help but feel a sense of joy and anticipation at what new hope will be found there in that city once again.

My husband, Duke and I were accompanying seventeen young people from our church, Trinity in Fort Worth. We had spent a lot of time with these people as their volunteer youth sponsors when they were in middle school. They were so different as high school youth—grown-up. We felt so lucky to get to be with them on this trip. We joked with our third chaperone, Cameron Brown, on the bus-ride south “We’re taking seventeen youth down there, we just need to bring seventeen back.” It was a joke, because we knew only good things were in store for us.

New Orleans is hot and humid in July. The easiest way to get around was to walk–close to 50,000 of us—walking. We walked from our hotel, near the water, up to the Super Dome and back again, morning and evening. We always walked behind and in front of someone wearing a River of Hope t-shirt—always hope, always walking. In the middle of the day, we walked around New Orleans, going on service treks or devo’s especially designed to let us see sights or serve the city. We ate great food.

Did I mention I was seven months pregnant? We were expecting our second daughter soon. We felt a little buoyant and invincible, at least that is how we felt when we signed up to go. But, even in July in New Orleans, I felt pretty buoyant. There is something wonderful about the second baby—we KNEW the immeasurable joy in store for us.

The only dilemma weighing on our mind in New Orleans was what to name this new baby. We picked a very unique name for our first daughter, Navy. The problem with such a perfectly wonderful and unique name for the first baby, is WHAT could we possibly name the second daughter? Somehow the Gathering highlighted this problem. 50,000 names out there, surely we would like one.

We had some rules, like we couldn’t pick a name from our own youth group—that would look like favoritism. It couldn’t start with “B.” (Duke could make up new rules on the fly.) It also seemed like the importance of names were constantly pointed out—many youth were baptized there in the Super Dome—claiming their new name, “child of God.” Walter Wangerin, Jr. was the preacher the last night. It was a story of Jesus on the cross calling out our name. 50,000 people yelled out their name and then silence. 50,000 youth silent. But no new name rang in our ears.

We kept walking beside, behind and ahead of all these youth, with River of Hope emblazoned on their backs. We wanted her to grow-up like them, all 50,000. They were invincible and brave, like youth should be, yet kind. Taxi cab drivers were amazed by them. Old blues-musicians in Preservation Hall had tears in their eyes as the 50,000 begged for multiple encores of “When the Saints Come Marching In.” They danced and sang to Lost and Found’s music. Why couldn’t we name her after them? All of them. And with the songs ringing in our ears, it all made sense. Her name was Hope.

We brought seventeen youth safely back to Fort Worth. Our seventeen went on to go into the Coast Guard, go to college, become Miss Texas, get married, become a pastor and many other wonderfully hopeful paths.

Hope was an easy baby. While still in the hospital, a nurse said “There is that baby with gold in her hair.” She was baptized on the first Sunday in Advent. She loved animals and Sunday School. She had a smile that could melt the coldest heart. She exuded Hope.

On Maundy Thursday, in the year 2000, Hope was sick. We skipped an out-of-town Easter trip. Finally, on Tuesday we took her in to the doctor, and (of course) she appeared well in his office. The doctor was old and wise, and did a CBC “just to be on the safe side.” He came back in the room and said, “I would get down on my knees and pray for this to not be true, but Hope has leukemia.”

Those words were like a hurricane bearing down on the coast, blowing sheet metal and nails. So our understanding of what it meant to hope, shifted.

The book Crazy Talk defines “Hope” as “the promise of a future worth the trouble it takes to get out of bed in the morning.” We knew Hope’s future—it was to grow up to be one of the 50,000. It was what got us up in the morning. It was what made us rewire our brain to understand pediatric oncology. It was what let us receive help, instead of give it.

One week before Thanksgiving, I woke up to hear my name yelled from a cross, or hell, or some terrible place. It was my husband yelling my name from Hope’s bedside. She died during the night. We woke up without Hope.

I think they came to the memorial service and sent cards–the seventeen we brought back from New Orleans. When I looked at them, somehow I could still recognize a thing called hope, even when it seemed the gravity that held Hope to the earth had failed.

Our world kept spinning. The cold of shock, thaws to the pain of grief. It is hard to salvage much from that time, except the air God created continued to fill our lungs. Then our shared world changed. The whole country was brought to its knees and shared grief that had become our “new normal” on September 11, 2001. Four days later our family welcomed a new daughter, Summer Grace.

As the storm surge of a hurricane flooded New Orleans, I cried. The Super Dome had been a sacred place for the 50,000, how could the hope have left even that place, too? They had scattered everywhere around the country, the 50,000. Could they not re-claim that holy ground and reach out to that broken community? Does the call for justice and kindness in youth, fade in adulthood?

Our world (mine and yours) has changed since the last time I was in New Orleans. But it is not a world of despair. To quote Johann von Staupitz speaking to Martin Luther, “Don’t you know that God commands you to hope?”

A new 50,000 (give or take) will gather in New Orleans in July 2009, and the new stories of hope will abound. New Orleans is a little step of independance–the kind of which leads young people beyond their status quo understanding and small home towns. They will change the city, help rebuild, bring tears to the eyes of tired, old men, sing, dance and walk. People will look to them and see hope.