Category Archives: Uncategorized

“God lives in your dreams.” So says a line in one of Gwyn’s children’s books.  Our congregation is beginning to dream again, and I’m curious how this dreaming can invite God more fully into our midst. When I’ve dreamed dreams for my future, those dreams that tug me with longing are born of both me (my talents, my interests, my personality) and God.  How do I know God’s in the mix?  Usually some mystery is involved—where did this longing originate?  Where is it taking me?—with no logical explanation.  Usually the essence of my being is stirred when I work with the dream.  Usually the dream pulls me into my best self while also serving some pressing need evident in the world.  Almost always the dream seems impossible or stupid; it rarely comes with cultural affirmation and almost never with money.  By following the dream, the world becomes a better place,…

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Snowless?  45 degree days in January?  Sure, like everyone else I’m reveling in the sun’s warmth and I appreciate being able to bike through this winter, but every time fellow Minnesotans wax poetic about this lovely weather I feel an awful sense of doom.  The elm trees need long periods of icy temperatures to ward off Dutch Elm disease.  Cold wards off the tent caterpillars; it permits native fish to survive in our lakes.  I’m afraid the immediate pleasure of warm afternoon walks could blind us to the long-term gifts of our normally cold climate. Emily has begun a weekly Qi Gong practice of praying for the earth’s healing.  Usually in such matters I’m infinitely practical:  If I want to end global warming, I need to radically change my lifestyle and support those working for systemic change.  This is prayer in action.  To some small degree I am culpable in…

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About a year ago Gwyn went to the doctor for an annual check-up and received her two-year immunizations.  She screamed the entire visit.  Shortly afterward she began requesting the story—“Tell the story about going to the doctor”—three, four, even five times a day.  Almost twelve months later we still tell the story with countless variations; we play doctor and “tickle doctor” and acupuncturist and midwife.  Every piece of tape is a band-aid.  Anything with earplugs is a stethoscope.  Gwyn still gnaws on the doctor story fiercely, like a bone. We have many theories about why.  Perhaps the shots were traumatic, and she’s trying to understand why her loving moms would let someone inflict her with pain.  Emily took her to that two-year appointment after a long recovery from cancer; perhaps the visit was a turning point in their relationship, when Gwyn realized Emily would reliably care for her.  Perhaps the…

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My mother-in-law’s church has issued a spiritual challenge to its members:  Buy nothing new for a whole year.  In response, support groups have sprung up like weeds.  There are purists whose underwear will grow thin, there are realists who gather to weigh alternatives before making a purchase, and there are new communication networks to facilitate the movement of used items between parishioners.  Why shouldn’t the retirees clean out their basements and simultaneously help new graduates set up apartments?  If Sue needs a lawn mower and Joe has one languishing in the garage, shouldn’t the church play a role in conserving these resources? As an inveterate garage saler and chief proponent of Twice Nice at our annual church bazaar (which, by the way, netted over a grand this year), I get shivers of glee hearing about Epworth’s commitment.  I love the alternative economy they’re creating, how individuals are learning to tap…

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After dropping Gwyn off for her first morning of preschool—she was too interested in the puzzles to say goodbye—I came home and cried.  I was proud that she was eager and ready; I was thrilled for some extra time in my week; I grieved the seven hours I now won’t see her; and I ached for the baby who is no longer.  Mostly I cried because this step is the first in a long progression as Gwyn begins a life quite separate from mine.  She’ll make her own friends, eat food I don’t approve of, hear stories that scare her, and be exposed to people and ideas beyond my control. As happens often with parenting, I find myself wondering what my feelings have to teach me about God.  Surely the free will we’ve all been granted causes God lots of tears.  I take comfort in the thought that this tremendous…

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9.15.11 Despite our determination to teach Gwyn to pick up her toys, our house is littered with things:  paperclips moved from the office to her toy kitchen, a nickel on the back of the toilet, Mardi Gras beads in the mixing bowl—you get the picture.  I spend a ridiculous amount of time putting things away.  At times I get fed up and decide to purge; if we didn’t have so much stuff, Gwyn couldn’t move it.  Clutter irritates me; as I pick up, I must work hard not to get annoyed.  I hope all the bending over at least counts as exercise. A year ago I began to make peace with the mundane nature of my spiritual path. Others are called to service or silence or ecstasy; my fate is to find God in the details.  The doll clothes I discover at the bottom of the laundry chute and must…

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