Ten years ago or so, the required text for one of the classes I took through Wesley Seminary for my certification in Older Adult Ministries was “Saving Jesus From Those Who are Right: Rethinking What it Means to be Christians” by Carter Heyward (1999). For Heyward, those who are “right” are any of us whose socio-political commitments are hardened fast and whose spiritual dispositions are tightly boundaried – people who are so sure they are “right” that they don’t notice the complexities of our world.

One of the most powerful statements in the book for me reads:

“…the only way we can live really creative, caring lives here on earth, lives rooted deeply in the Spirit, is to learn to struggle together – mutually – to build communities, institutions, and relationships in which everyone’s well-being is secured.”

As General Conference moves closer, I wonder what our United Methodist Church would look like if we were fully alive in the Spirit…

…if the fear of living passionately as disciples of Jesus was not ever present in our lives and churches –

…if the fear of following the Spirit’s leading didn’t cause us to retreat into the safety of church building walls, didn’t cause us to take our sides, didn’t cause us to question each other’s intentions.

Since becoming the chair of our delegation in June, I’ve been told many things which have filled me with fear: a fear of how the church looks and sounds to the world.  I must admit that I’m afraid of and anxious about many things in my middle age these days: health concerns, retirement investments, Alzheimer’s disease, becoming an “elder orphan,” my house being too big and not accessible. However, none of them have to do with being afraid to struggle together in the church so that I might live a life deeply rooted in the Spirit and so that others may know the message of love that Jesus modeled.

The book I’ve been trying to read in the midst of petitions, letters, and email is Eugene Peterson’s “Run with the Horses: The Quest for Life at its Best” (2009).  In it, Peterson writes:

“The aim of the person of faith is not to be as comfortable as possible but to live as deeply and thoroughly as possible – to deal with the reality of life, to discover truth, create beauty, act out of love…The only opportunity you will ever have to live by faith is in the circumstances you are provided this day.”

Two writers, ten years apart. Both with a message I need to be reminded of this day.

My family history in church music began here.

My aunt, Bea Ensley Meeks, is second from the left on the front row.  My grandmother, Ethel Ensley (later Harrington), is last on the right in the same row.  My grandfather, Ralph, who died long before I was born, is second from the left in the middle row.  He served as director of the choir at Fieldale Methodist Church.  His pitch pipe and hymnal marker sit on the bookcases in my house.  My dad, Gene Ensley, is next to last on the right in the back row.  He had to have been only a teenager.

I was 13 when I started singing in the adult choir at Fieldale Church.  Here’s my confession for today:  I pretty much stopped singing in the church choir about 5 years ago.  At first I said it was because of my schedule and needing to take some time away.  Then came General Conference of 2012, and other than one funeral, a few Sundays of song leading, and a very occasional anthem or special, there’s been no singing other than hymns.  Steve has often asked why.  I’ve been unable to articulate a good explanation. Until now.

This journey to General Conference 2016 has already been filled with many challenging moments and experiences.  In late December, I decided that I had to find someone to walk along beside me.  I must also admit…since I’m in a confessing mood…that I’m one of those midlife Boomers really struggling with the role, if any, I see the institutional church taking to help me and others with what Richard Rohr calls the “second half of life questions.”  (Richard Rohr, Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life)

A few weeks ago, the conversation with my Spiritual Director turned to tap roots of trees.  Some trees develop them, others do not.  Some of us have them in our spiritual lives, others do not.  Our conversation went on to the seasons in our lives when branches must be pruned for new growth to take place.  When asked what I had pruned from my spiritual life, “music” came immediately from my mouth.  …Sometimes you just need that person in your life who asks the right questions.

That night, I downloaded a playlist of hymns and anthems that have been meaningful to me over the last 15 years or so. The next time I was traveling alone in the car, I sang along with them all…and came to the realization that the reason my heart had not been in singing was the hurt and deep emotions experienced at General Conference in 2012.  The songs I had downloaded were all by contemporary hymn and anthem composers and shared common themes:  seeing God in one another, seeking to be like Jesus, offering love instead of legalities, putting faith into action, seeking justice.  It hit me like a brick that my challenge was in singing the words and melodies that touched my soul while living in the Body of Christ that does not always seem to practice what we say we believe.

I sang along with the playlist again this morning as I traveled to Culpeper.  Right as I came to the top of the knoll that offers one of the most beautiful views of the mountains, with all the dogwoods and flowering trees in full bloom, and fields of purple clover stretched before me, the chorus of my favorite hymn began:

“Do not be afraid, I am with you.

I have called you each by name.

Come and follow Me.

I will bring you home.

I love you and you are mine.”

(“You Are Mine,” David Haas)

Another David Haas song followed:

“Come to the song, come to the dance,

Bring all you are, and all you can be.

Come with your voice, come with your heart.

Come and journey with Me.”

(“Come and Journey with Me”)

And the tears flowed.  No church-bound worship experience could have brought me to the same place this morning. Especially after the last delegation meeting before General Conference. Especially after months of questions.

On the way home, the words that brought the tears were from Shirley Erena Murray’s “For Everyone Born” (“…a voice to be heard, a part in the song…”) and Mark Miller’s “I Dream of a Church” (“I dream of a place we all can call home….”). Certainly not the same type of words that my family sang when they stood for the picture above, but the same love of the church and its people.

The start of General Conference is only 5 weeks away. What song will it cause to be sung… or left unheard – for a day, for a week, for 5 years, forever?

 “You have a pure and enduring inheritance that cannot perish – an inheritance that is presently kept safe in heaven for you.” –  1 Peter 1:4 Common English Bible (CEB)

You never move away from or outgrow your roots.  I walked into a meeting for the Hermitage in Roanoke last year and was greeted with “You’re not Martha Stokes. You’re Martha Ensley.”  The person making the comment worked with my mother many years ago.  That same week I was telling clergy gathered at WindsorMeade for a program that when I was little, my cousins in New York used to put me on the ottoman in the living room as soon as we got to their house to visit and say, “Now talk,” just to hear my accent.  One of my VUMH co-workers quickly added, “She doesn’t realize it but we do the same thing in the office.”  Soon after these experiences, I was in Nashville trying to explain to a United Methodist Bishop from The Philippines how you make true southern pound cake, including the fact that you have to be very still and quiet in the house while the cake is in the oven – otherwise, you’re the one in big trouble if the cake falls.  The real fun in that experience came after my description of a pound of sugar and a pound of butter going into the recipe when the Bishop took his first bite of a very sweet brown sugar pound cake and said, “I understand what you mean.”

I pray I never forget my roots – my southwestern Virginia history, language and family stories. Yet, I have an even greater inheritance: that of being a beloved child of God.  No matter where I find myself as I age, that inheritance will never fade away.

Prayer:  Dear God, help me to live each day knowing that I am your beloved child: chosen, forgiven, and filled with hope and purpose.  Amen.

Mom has been fighting a respiratory bug this week.  As I came in the door from work on Tuesday, my brother was calling to say he wouldn’t be surprised if she was taken to the hospital.  She looked and sounded to him like she did back in August when pneumonia set in.  I came to Culpeper on Wednesday to find her a little stronger.  Last night, she told me she had gotten her hair done and walked some, both good signs.

This afternoon, Ralph called again.  Fever, delirium, deep cough, pale.  By the time I got to Culpeper tonight, Mom was again somewhat better and didn’t remember a thing about earlier in the afternoon.

The conversations that led to me accepting my current role with Virginia United Methodist Homes began almost exactly 2 years ago.  The offer and decision didn’t happen until July, 2014. In the 4 months that I thought about and considered the possibility, I struggled with the fact that my then 88-year old mother would never live in a place like our VUMH communities.  Maybe I never will either.  What I saw was an opportunity for VUMH to become a tremendous resource for all families and especially for our Virginia United Methodist Churches as together we address the needs of aging congregations.  Little did I know how our family situation would change in these two short years. I also had no idea how challenging it would be to balance this work role and having Mom in a residential care setting.

I cried my way out of the health care center tonight – walking beside my brother – because of three things. First, my mother and her roommate share a “boyfriend” as they call him.  He is an aide that every morning brings them a cup of 7-11 coffee because he knows good coffee makes them happy.  They will both tell you the health care center’s coffee is not good, but then my Mom’s choice for many, many years was instant coffee. In the midst of Mom’s coughing, this man came in to tell them he was leaving for the night, grabbed both their hands across the bed, wished them a good rest, and said he’d be there with their coffee in the morning. Both grinned broadly. This man whom I am sure gets paid very little brings a fresh cup of coffee to a 90 and 95 year old each day he works.  To them, there could be no greater gift.

Second thing that made my eyes tear up was when Mom looked over to her roommate and said, I’m so glad I found another sister.” Mrs. Lois is the 95 year old, but will do everything she can to help Mom.  Tonight, Lois said she knew Mom felt really bad because this was the first day since they had been together that Mom had not brushed her hair or put on her powder and lipstick.  She knows Mom well because, if you know Trula, you know she would never be seen without her lipstick! Tomorrow morning when I go over they will be watching Joel Olsteen on TV, while sipping their coffee.  A new friendship that means so much to them and to both families – at 90 and 95.  God was watching over this match.

But the real reason I cried my way out has to do with the Charge Nurse tonight. Ralph and I were getting ready to leave when she walked in with Mom’s medicine. Mom grabbed her hand and said, “They need to hear you sing.” She made Mom take her medicine first, took both their hands across the bed, sang a worship and praise song, and then immediately offered a prayer for both of them, including for Mom’s cough to ease. She said she has to be prepared to sing every night before she comes into their room. I responded with a thank you and told her that (her singing and prayer) made me cry.

As Ralph and I walked down the hallway, I wiped the tears from my eyes.  “You really are crying,” he said.

“Yes, but I seem to cry at everything these days.”

“Well, you get it naturally,” was his response, as he has always seemed to think Mom cried over everything.  However, my first memory of her crying in front of him was not long after his return from his service during the Vietnam Conflict.  Ralph, Dad, and Mom were taking me to the zoo (since I was only about 5 years old) when Ralph got pulled for speeding.  Mom cried in front of the female judge to get him out of the ticket.

I cry because my Mom is loved, sung to, and prayed for in this new place where she finds herself.  And I give thanks for the care givers, the medical personnel, and all the staff who care for her.  And I cry because of a heartfelt song and prayer offered by one disciple of Jesus as she shares her faith so freely and beautifully.

May I be able to do the same.

I started writing this early this morning while waiting on the first of a few airplanes to try to get home tonight.  Now I sit in a hotel in Chicago, not knowing if I’ll even get home tomorrow.  In a way, I’d love to have been home to watch the snow fall this weekend. It would have been nice to curl up with a blanket and the dogs, watch the flames dance in the fireplace, and put on a pot of homemade soup. It would have been nice to not be anxious about flights or extra nights in hotels.

I’m realizing there was a reason to be stuck, though.  And no, it was not just to experience treasured time with friends old and new, or finally get my first Voodoo doughnut, or sleep, or eat the wonderful Sweet Potato Pumpkin soup I just had for dinner. No, it was to begin to think about how a group of 1,000+ United Methodists might impact a city for two weeks in May during the 2016 General Conference…if we choose to.  Wait!  That was part of yesterday’s ponderings while being stuck in Portland.

More than a thousand United Methodist from all around the world, speaking various languages in a multitude of accents and local dialects. United Methodists with political views and understandings of life from one end of the spectrum to the other.  A group of people from places where fracking is a major environmental concern to communities where disease-carrying mosquitoes cause loss of life on a regular basis.  People from cultures and heritages that teach them that even talk about sex among family members is taboo to countries like ours where same-sex marriage is the law of the land.  United Methodists who gather every 4 years to try to represent a global church that at the forefront should model to every person in the city where we gather what it means to be authentic followers of Jesus Christ.

So in a few months we’ll assemble in Portland, a city as diverse as we United Methodists, yet in many ways an example forus.  I heard one person these last few days say that Portland was a place where no one judged another. My Birkenstock wearing feet in January weren’t even noticed.  Never have I experienced a place with as many ways to recycle, reuse or compost.  Know what else I learned about Portland?

• Oregon’s Interstate 5 corridor is known as a hub for prostitution and sex trafficking.Walking around yesterday, one of the young ones told us that he had read in a Time Magazine article that Portland has the most strips clubs per capita in the country.  Yes, Portland has long been touted as the exotic dance capital of the U.S. The State Supreme Court has long protected the right of strip clubs to host totally nude entertainment.  In a couple of the areas we walked through, there were multiple clubs on one block. Friday night, we ate at a unique gathering, really a “church” of sorts, called The Oregon Public House. The first nonprofit pub of its type, their website reads: “Running our Pub in this way has allowed us to create over a dozen new jobs that pay industry-standard wages, provide advertising and promote awareness for nearly 100 different NPO’s, donate thousands of dollars each month, and create a venue and place of community for new friends and neighbors to chip in and be a part of something truly world changing. This ground-breaking model for business is literally the first of its kind and we believe this could begin a new wave of business and mission that has the possibility of changing the way we work, spend, and care for our communities.” – Isn’t this what church is supposed to be?  Portland also has the title of the craft brewing capital of America.  At the same time, the city hosts more nonprofit organizations per capita than any other city in America.  So what an idea! Combine the craft beer, fellowship around great food, and support of nonprofit work that betters the community – even the adult entertainment industry.  One of the charities supported by The Oregon Public House and its patrons is The Cupcake Girls, a nonprofit working to bring respect, resources, and relationship to those working in the adult entertainment industry.  Might not be our image of “church,” but it focuses on mission, nurture, and transformation of the world.  Umm???
• Despite Portland’s reputation for liberal politics and deep commitment to doing good, homelessness is in your face all the time.  One estimate is that there are almost 4,000 homeless men, women and children in Multnomah County alone, and experts estimate the actual number of people who are sleeping outdoors, in shelters, in their cars, in temporary transitional housing or on someone else’s couch may be four times that. News reports say homelessness in Portland is actually a housing  Portland lacks enough permanent housing andemergency shelter space. Help is everywhere – we passed Gospel missions, feeding programs, health care clinics – but housing is not.  What’s the role of the church – offering one-time help or being part of the sustainable solution?
• A 2011 study found 876 coffee shops brewing in town. Travel+Leisurenamed Portland the #1 coffee city in America. You will never go un-caffeinated – and please don’t come in May asking for Starbucks.  And don’t go looking for what we consider a traditional lunch on the weekends.  Portlanders love brunch – as we learned yesterday when only the brunch menu was available until 3:00 PM.  Food carts are everywhere.  One writer said food trucks “pop up in Portland faster than the hair on a Chia pet.”  Portland is known for having over 400 food carts and mobile eateries – every possible type of food you can imagine.  You’ll also discover there’s a serious gluten shortage in Portland. You literally can drink (coffee or beer) and eat yourself into a coma if you’re not careful.  Funny, isn’t it then, that we United Methodists can work ourselves into real tizzies about how we offer communion elements. One common loaf vs. tiny little pieces of pita bread vs. gluten-free for everyone vs. purchased, no taste wafers.  Hand sanitizer, plastic individual cups, full liturgy or informal, sung or recited responses, once a month or every Sunday, and oh, the number of laity who have no idea that once the elements are consecrated they can take them out to others. Yet, we’ll go to Portland and try all kinds of new things, lick our fingers, not wipe our mouths, and stand in line with people of every type and background for doughnuts. Where’s the real open table?
• We walked by a building yesterday where the side was painted with “Keep Portland Weird.”  Some say Portland is so weird because the Willamette River flows north. Portland is a city of bridges; 11 bridges span the Willamette River.There are even pedestrian crossbucks to stop you from walking into street cars on the bridges.  There are a multitude of walkers and cyclists.  The public transportation system is so easily accessible and reasonable in cost that you’ll be using the light rail, buses, or streetcars to get around the city easily in no time.  What impression will the people of Portland get when we walk all the way around the Convention Center to avoid another United Methodist whose views are different from ours?  What will they say when we cross the street to avoid the homeless? What will they say when our meal tables are segregated by skin color or gender or politics or geography?
• We walked lots of places and road around on the light rail, but I saw only one church.  That just happened to be the Church of Scientology in a storefront in downtown. One reason why – only 32% of Portlanders identify as being religious adherent, the least in America.  What an opportunity we have when we’re there!  What are we going to do with it?

I’ll stop there with my ramblings for tonight about The UMC and our opportunities while we’re in Portland for General Conference.

But wait, there are a few other things you might want to know if you’re headed out west with us…

• Yes, it rains but bring your hooded jacket or sweatshirt. Umbrellas are for tourists.  I am thinking seriously about cutting my hair before going back in May. When your hair responds to humidity like mine, there might not be another option.
• All carbonated beverage containers are worth $.05 including soda, beer, and fizzy water. If it has bubbles, it’s worth money! Save them and take them back to the grocery store to get your money back. At the least, place them beside a trash can so someone else can benefit. (And by the way, Portland is a Pepsi city. If you are a Coke fan, plan to get your fix from the store.)
• If you’re going to rent a car, in Oregon only the gas station’s attendant may legally operate the pump. Do it yourself and you’ll get slapped with a $500 fine.
• Portland does not fluoridate its drinking water.  If that’s an issue for you, make sure you bring fluoridated toothpaste and mouthwash.
• Portland is lax on a lot of laws and a big one is nudity, which is totally allowed if done as a form of protest. Enough said about that!

I know you hope I’m not stuck in Chicago tomorrow!!!!

It’s been seven months since I was humbled to see my name at the top of the voting for Virginia Conference lay delegates to the 2016 United Methodist General Conference. Having somehow survived the two previous General Conferences and my years of the Conference staff, I knew what that vote entailed. Being a delegate alone calls you to a level of stress and politics in the church that leaves you with a multitude of questions and need for spiritual direction, possibly even serious therapy. But this was the year for the first elected lay person to chair the delegation.  It would not only mean leading the delegation, but also service on the Annual Conference and jurisdictional Committees on the Episcopacy. In simple terms, it means a lot of extra work.

God and I struggled mightily after my General and Jurisdictional Conference experiences in 2008 – to the point where I had pretty much decided that I had no desire to ever return to future conferences. A Spiritual Director was called in to intervene in the months that followed.

God and I had another time of wrestling in 2011.  Many voices were sent to encourage me to do this General/Jurisdictional Conference thing one more time.  God won despite much more hesitancy on my part to listen.  After the 2012 Conferences, a Leadership Coach had to assist in the intervention.

The word that I heard that God sent in 2015 through a multitude of people was “If not you, who?”  My response was to try to ignore those voices, but God won big this time.  I know that others have heard the same question but for the much larger challenge in the denomination today of serving as Bishop. My first meeting with a new Spiritual Director is next week; it’s got to happen before General Conference this time around.

Today, seven months after the first election of lay delegates, I’m stuck in Portland following the General Conference Briefing. Hopefully I’ll get home tomorrow, but I’m not going to be surprised if I hear soon that the flights have been cancelled. God has a wicked sense of humor.

There were a number of questions that I’ve pondered on this trip.

• Why are so many of us fearful of allowing the Holy Spirit to work in and through us?  There is this huge issue of control that governs our individual lives and the church.  What amazing things could happen if we let the Spirit move without placing restrictions on how, when, where, and what that means!
• Why do we harbor this unwillingness to forgive?  Such a basic tenet of our faith, yet it seems that what was good for Jesus isn’t good enough for us.
• How can we keep teaching about God’s unconditional love and grace, but still be so unable to accept our role in bringing about the Kingdom in this day and time?
• Why is it we use more time to talk about how to talk to each other than actually doing it?
• Why are we as “church” so afraid to trust each other?
• One of the presenters during the briefing may have summed it all up for me when she called us to recognize that we don’t understand the complexities of other human beings.  We see only a little of what is really going on in the lives of others.  We understand even less, and jump to so many conclusions.  She followed up with a simple question:  What if we just choose to believe our brothers and sisters?

What if we just choose to believe?  I think that’s the answer to all the questions.

This year has been filled with contrasts, firsts, unexpected crisis, and surprises. Because of all that, there has been no time to write the traditional Christmas letter.  In fact, the Christmas cards just got mailed today. Here’s a glimpse at our year.

• I’ve taught district leadership training and Lay Servant classes; traveled across Virginia to have conversations with clergy and laity, residents and staff; and led a Lenten study. Yet, I’ve struggled to learn how to operate my new washer.
• Events have been planned, articles written, my first special offering emphasis carried out, and the fall donor appeal completed.  And I forgot that I paid the last half of the personal property taxes and sent Steve to stand in line at the County Administration Building on the day before the deadline to see why we hadn’t received a bill.
• I’ve been to board meetings of all kinds, conferences, and trainings.  I’ve talked to General Secretaries for a number of United Methodist Agencies and more medical personnel than I care to count.  But I can’t remember my brother’s phone number without looking it up on the contact list of my phone.
• Awards have been presented, unexpected elected positions accepted, and leadership given for a prayer retreat (- of all things for me if you’ve ever heard me talk about my prayer life).  A keynote address was followed by a couple of nights in really uncomfortable chairs in the hospital next to my mother, one where I thought we were in the midst of a terror attack.  Turned out it was just 2 Polident tablets in a closed denture cup that got a little too hot and fizzy.
• With family, I took care of the last cleaning of my Mom’s apartment, then helped move her to residential care while with work colleagues, I’ve focused on Culture Change in long-term care and “de-institutionalizing” senior communities.  I struggle with this contrast daily.
• We celebrated a 20^thwedding anniversary and a 65^th birthday in the same week. Then a few months later – all in one week – we had the birth of the newest family member, a 90^th birthday that at times during the summer we didn’t think we’d reach, and the sudden death of Steve’s niece at age 42.  We’ve welcomed the strong embraces of family and friends, and started new family relationships with young adults we never knew existed.
• I’ve talked to Bishop Cho more this fall than in all my years on the Conference staff, all while trying to focus on the meaning of the little drops of water of my baptism.
• I’ve been to Nashville twice for church meetings, Boston for a senior services conference, and Las Vegas for fun.  Variety is the spice of life, right?
• I’ve seen some of the most beautiful pieces of artwork, architectural masterpieces, natural scenery so amazing that it takes your breath away, and black & white pictures of my grandmother’s pet pig.
• In a place where 24 World War II veterans and spouses live, I was blessed to offer the benediction for a Veteran’s Day program, then had my mother tell me that she was beginning to forget what my Dad, a WWII paratrooper, looked like. Her birthday present was a framed set of black & white photos of her and Dad, Ralph and Jane, and me and Steve.
• There has been the best wine in fancy glasses, new beers from local brew houses, moonshine from my favorite (legal) distillery, and the best Styrofoam cups of iced tea the hospitals and rehab/health care centers could offer.
• I’ve eaten the freshest scallops you can find in New England, the worst airport food you can find at O’Hare, more flavors of cupcakes for birthday celebrations than you can imagine, and dozens of corn muffins and spoonful after spoonful of pinto beans at Country Cookin’ because it’s easily accessible by decorated rollator.
• I’ve never prayed so hard or so long, cried as often (especially while driving), sung so little, or questioned so much.

Now with Christmas upon us and 2015 coming to a close, I’m reminded of the words of talented writer and artist, Agnes M. Pharo:

“What is Christmas? It is tenderness for the past, courage for the present, hope for the future. It is a fervent wish that every cup may overflow with blessings rich and eternal, and that every path may lead to peace.”

All my questions won’t be answered in 2016.  All my tears won’t stop or laughter be silenced, but there will certainly be blessings rich and eternal.  My prayer is that you may also find tenderness, courage, and hope!

I awoke this morning about 1:45 AM – which is nothing unusual at this stage of life.  But tonight, I woke up in a very different way.  I was very vividly dreaming about the house I grew up in, the house my Mom and Dad bought as a young couple, and that my mother lived in almost as long as a widow as a married woman.  In the dream, Steve and I were living there.  We were asleep in the back bedroom when I heard one of our dogs barking outside.  Not knowing how they would have gotten out, I went to find them. I walked down the hall and reached to flip on the light switch.  An electrical shock ran through my right arm, one of those where you can’t seem to let go, even when trying to pull hard against the current. Stupidly, when I finally did let go, I reached over to flip the switch off.

I looked over at where the recliners my Mom and Dad sat in would have been.  Around the chair came both dogs, stretching and yawning as if they’d been asleep for hours.  I looked to my left into the kitchen and saw the doors – the wooden door with the skeleton key and the screen door – wide open.  It had been raining; I could see a puddle of water on the porch.

I awoke to our quiet house.  Steve (and the dogs) sound asleep.  But my right arm was tingling…and I’ve been pondering ever since what those open doors meant…and why we were living in that house…and why I needed to be shocked so badly at 1:45 AM.

A couple of weeks ago during one of my visits with Mom, she told me she had been dreaming about Gene, my father. The way she told me was unusual itself in that I can only remember a few times when she has ever called him by name to me since he died 40 years ago.  It’s almost always been “Your Dad,” not “Gene.”  Mom described how she was seeing this man that she thought was Dad, but he was not dressed like he normally dressed, which was confusing her.  A few seconds later she looked at me and said, “I think I’m forgetting what he looked like.”

With all of the transitions Mom has faced since July, here is yet another.  One that has nothing to do with loss of physical possessions, nothing to do with loss of independence and mobility, but everything to do with loss of relationships.  Maybe I needed to be reminded tonight of the relationships built in and around that house in Fieldale.  Maybe I needed to see a physical reminder of the many doors that opened in my life because of those who came and went across that back porch – and maybe I need to find the skeleton key to close the door on some of the memories.  Maybe on this Thanksgiving weekend, I just need a shock to remind me to be grateful for the many, many blessings in my life.  Maybe I just need to spend tomorrow looking at all of Mom’s pictures and scrapbooks that are now in my possession.  Maybe….

Who knows the reason for this dream tonight?  I am certain it is another lesson for me on aging.  Those lessons come often these days, usually in the least expected ways.  For tonight, in these early morning hours, I remember…and give thanks for open doors.

On left, my dad. On the right, Mom and Cael.

Today, all of our United Methodist churches in the Virginia Annual Conference were asked by Bishop Young Jin Cho to observe a “Day of Confession, Repentance, Prayer and Commitment to End Racism.”  The conditions in our world today call us to do so much more, but I recognize what a giant step this call to action was today for some of our congregations.

Not long into my tenure on the Connectional Ministries staff, I received a call to meet with the Trustees of a southside Virginia church about accessibility of their sanctuary.  It was clearly evident as I drove up to the small rural church that there were multiple entrances to the sanctuary.  I pretty much knew that in their history one entrance was for the landowners, the other for their indentured servants.  The first thing I did was ask those gathered to tell me about the church.  The immediate response came from a man as he pointed up toward the back.  His words were, “That’s the slave balcony.”  Note the words were not, “That used to be…” or even “Prior to the War Between the States….”  No, he said “That’s the slave balcony.”

I wish I could say that was my only encounter with an “-ism” in the church but racism, sexism, ageism, classism, heterosexism, ableism, criticism and every other “-ism” raises it’s ugly head far too often.

I have been blessed by my 3 years of service on the board of directors for UMC Discipleship Ministries in untold ways.  Despite times of challenging discussion and decision-making, I continue to be amazed by the deep faith and witness of those with whom I serve.  We have our differences in theological understandings and at times as individuals find ourselves on different sides of issues.  But this has been one place where we have entered into holy conversation and come forth with beautiful statements of faith that have captured what none of us alone could say.  What follows is the most recent example. Several of my colleagues have already posted this statement in various places, and you may have seen it when it was released to United Methodist Communications following our July meeting.  Even if you have seen it before, I invite you to read the statement once again today and commit to more than just an end to racism – commit to prophetic love.

An Outcry Against Hatred and Hate Crimes and a Commitment to Prophetic Love

Those who say, “I love God,” and hate their brothers or sisters, are liars; for those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen.

1 John 4:20

Hatred stirs up strife, but love covers all offenses. 

Proverbs 10:12

In light of continuing acts of violence, destruction, and murder based upon hatred, racism, fear, bigotry and prejudice:

We recommit ourselves to the life to which our church’s baptismal liturgy calls us—a life in which we “renounce the spiritual forces of wickedness…reject the evil powers of this world…and accept the freedom and power God gives [us] to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves.”

We stand united in our conviction that all human beings are of sacred worth, beloved by God and created in the Divine Image. We therefore denounce all hate crimes committed against women, men, youth, and children of all our racial or ethnic identities.

We deplore the evil of racism and its continued expression in the hearts and institutions of our culture. We therefore repudiate all forms of violence and mistreatment that are fueled by racist hatred and toxic bigotry.

We affirm that all are precious to God, regardless of their sexual orientation or gender identity.

We therefore decry all crimes and violence against people who are gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, or queer.

We maintain that justice must be pursued with both integrity and equity. We therefore denounce police brutality in any form. We also denounce the unjust targeting of law enforcement officers.

We deplore all acts of terrorism, whether foreign or domestic and all forms of social injustice, systemic discrimination, and dehumanizing oppression.

We reject and condemn all hate-fueled crimes of abuse and violence, believing that such crimes are an unacceptable assault on the sacredness of our shared existence.

We believe in the countercultural love and the transformational grace of Jesus Christ, in whom “there is no longer Jew or Greek…slave or free…male and female” (Galatians 3:28). We commit ourselves to building lives and communities in which love, justice, and mercy are as natural as breathing and every bit as urgent. We call for strategic partnerships and meaningful action plans that will lead humankind more deeply into God’s redemptive future.

We believe that God is relentlessly good; that God is far more devastated by our hatred and violence than we are; that God weeps and grieves over the unthinkable distortions of how God created things to be; and that God, even now, is redemptively and dynamically present in the brokenness, holding suffering souls in the quiet depths of the Divine Heart and ushering the church and world into a renewed commitment to justice, oneness, and agapic love.

We the church repent of the ways in which we have nurtured and reinforced hatred, both individually and communally, through our actions, our silence, and our toleration of distorted priorities. We call the church to a deeper and more holistic devotion to the way of Jesus, where grace transforms hatred into love, fractured relationship into reconciliation, and crippling fear into life-giving and world-shaping hope.

Prayerfully offered by the Board of Directors, GBOD

Never again will I question how much change can occur in a short amount of time.  Seven weeks ago today, life seemed pretty calm.  A visit with Mom right before Annual Conference had been a “normal” part of my routine each time the Virginia Conference UMC met in Roanoke over the last 15 years.

This one was different.  She was battling an infection and resulting reaction to medication that was prescribed to help her get better.  The home health nurse sent to follow-up for a few weeks made her first visit the day I was there, offering diagnoses that I had not heard before. I knew things were a little off when Mom asked me to call and see if she could receive the weekday meal service from the Area Agency on Aging.  She had refused that type of “help” for years, having learned from her sharecropping father and strong mother that you worked for what you needed and didn’t take handouts.  Those lessons were still strong after almost 90 years.

Then came the days of the Annual Conference session and suddenly, my name is at the top of the laity balloting for General Conference delegates.  That came after two days of peddling really good milk chocolate to people stopping by the VUMH display. Life as I knew it changed the moment that Saturday afternoon when I was handed the thumb drive with all of the records from the 2012 cycle of General and Jurisdictional Conferences.  I’ve been trying to keep track of the time spent on this work so far. I’m up to 41 hours, and it’s only the first week of August.

Two ER visits for Mom, under the watchful eye of amazing cousins and church family members.  Another visit to Martinsville on July 4^th to find her continuing to struggle with her health, then a fall later in the weekend. My brother, Ralph, took her to the doctor that week.  After talking about our continuing shared concerns, it was decided that I would go the next week to check on her.  Even though the home health nurse was at the apartment, it was clearly time for immediate response when I arrived.  The decision was made to go to the hospital in Roanoke where Mom was admitted for a three night stay.  I spent the first night in the room with her, arriving home late on Friday night to try to pull myself together for the first delegation meeting the next morning.  I give great and unending thanks for all those who offered help and assistance, making things look good and keeping me calm (and awake)!

With a bad overnight experience in a rehab facility in Martinsville, Mom made the trip to Culpeper where Ralph and his family are within 30 minutes of her.  It’s an hour and a half trip for us, but that’s better than 3 ½ each way to Martinsville.  With sadness and grief, guilt and trepidation, it was time for us all to begin having that conversation we’ve anticipated, but still found ourselves unprepared for, about the future.

Add in the move of our corporate office.  A week in temporary quarters before the transition into bright new spaces this past Monday.  This is my second time doing this in a year.  I’ve realized that it is much easier to move a second time after clearing out 14 years of acquired stuff last time.  The comment I heard most from my colleagues was, “How come you only have 4 boxes?” At the end of my day of being present for the move-in, the call came that Mom was in the ER, her breathing labored and difficult. “You need to come.” Steve and I spent the first night with her, and I returned yesterday to spend the day.  While she is getting stronger, many questions remain…and the life changes continue for all of us.

No matter how prepared you think you are, you’re never ready for a parent to say, “I asked God to take me, but he said ‘No.’” When Mom made that statement a second time yesterday, I responded back with something like, “Well, none of us ever knows when God will take us – maybe tomorrow, maybe a year from now, maybe 15 years.”  Her response: “I think 3 years.”

Who knows what changes will come about in our lives in three years?  I’m struggling to make it 3 days until the end of this week.  Yet, the importance of faith and being part of a community of believers has never been more in focus.  Pastor Tom Durrance from Fieldale UMC called yesterday morning while I was with Mom.  The doctor has told her not to talk so that she can concentrate on her breathing.  For a woman that loves to talk, she’s doing pretty well with that instruction, refusing to talk to people on the phone when they call.  However, as she heard me beginning to close the conversation with Pastor Tom, Mom reached out, and said “Hold my hand, and ask him to pray NOW.” With Pastor Tom on the speaker, we prayed.

As you read this, take a moment and pray NOW.  Pray for those in your family who need to feel the love and care of God’s hand.  Pray for your friends and neighbors.  Pray for your church and community.  Pray for our denomination and its leaders.  Pray for our country and the world.  Pray for the Republican Presidential candidate debate, or for the Nationals to come back up in the MLB standings, or for the end to the wild fires in the West.  Pray that every life matters.  Pray that the shark attacks off the coast of North Carolina have ended. Just pray. NOW.