Christmas came early this year

Posted on November 28, 2013 by isplainasjane

I haven’t posted in a while.  I’ve been immersed, body and heart, in Advent.  Yes, today is Thanksgiving and the first Sunday of Advent isn’t until this coming Sunday, December 1.  But Christmas came to my family early this year.  Tuesday afternoon, in fact, around 4:00PM when my daughter and son-in-law brought their infant child home after nearly 12 weeks in neonatal ICU.  The sight of seeing this 7 pound joyous bundle of God’s incarnational love meeting her big sis, who is all of 20 months, for the first time was the best Christmas moment I have ever experienced.  Hands down!  Ever.  The joy and celebration we shared together was one of those holy and sacred experiences that stay with you forever.   One of those treasured moments of light that is more than enough to get us through the trials in the dark that come all too frequently in the life of being human.  A moment when God’s love bursts through everything to bring peace and goodwill and hope.  A moment that pierces through all doubt or cynicism and softens even the most calloused of hearts.

The year’s arrival of Christmas did not come without a time of preparation, or advent.  Advent means waiting for something that has been promised.  It’s about anticipating and preparing for what is to come. And specifically in the Christian church, it is about anticipating once again the arrival of God with us in Jesus Christ.  I don’t think I really understood the meaning of an advent season before this year.  I think I just went through the motions.  As an ordained pastor, I make sure I wear the purple stole during Advent, that we sing “Advent” hymns, not Christmas hymns, and that the Advent candles are lit in proper order each Sunday leading to Christmas Eve.  I make sure to preach the texts that are messages of Advent as shown in the church lectionary readings.  On Christmas Eve, I make sure there are candles in the sanctuary for each person to light so that we can once again be reminded that the Light of the world has come.  I do that kind of preparation without hesitation.  But I can honestly say I never understood how important and how difficult it is to totally surrender to the kind of preparation it takes to be able to experience the full impact of the Christmas moment. 

 Because this baby granddaughter of mine was born at 26 weeks, as I have previously shared, she has spent the last eleven weeks developing, “preparing” for life, outside of the womb in ICU.  For a while her breathing was strengthened through tubes carrying oxygen, her nourishment was provided through a tube until her body was ready to coordinate sucking, swallowing, and breathing all at the same time.  Her body temperature was kept stable in an artificially womblike environment until her body was ready to regulate itself.  She was in the hands and custody of a capable, compassionate, but nevertheless professional institution until it was deemed she was ready for her parents to take her home, as promised.  This baby girl has had a very obvious season of advent in preparation for life.  And she has steadily shown us what it looks likes to work hard and show courage, literally what it is to be mini but mighty.

 My daughter and son-in-law, forced to face the scariest of uncertainties, have authentically, in the midst of fears and doubt and hope, surrendered control to God and to the love and care of community.  The advent season they were thrown into isn’t something they would’ve wished on their worst enemy, but as with so many walks through the dark valley, they now experience the beauty of thanking God once again for seeing them through to this glorious time of light. Their complete surrender to this time of preparation has made it possible to fully experience the delight and gift of having their baby girl home with them. 

As I sit drinking coffee, listening to Christmas music, and preparing that last minute grocery list for my husband to pick up those few ingredients I forgot (sign of unpreparedness no doubt) I am thankful beyond words for this special Christmas moment that has graced our family.  There will be more seasons of uncertainty, challenges, and no doubt darkness in the future I am sure.  But in this moment I fully surrender to joy and trust that the One who brought us here will see us through. 

Happy Thanksgiving.  May you experience the surrender of Advent and the joy of the Christmas moment.  Over and over again.  Something to chew on….

 

 

 

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Seeking Center

Posted on October 25, 2013 by isplainasjane

It was my first meeting of this sort.   There was an important controversial matter up for discussion and vote which would most surely prove to be lively. A decision that would inform the future of the larger body. I had entered with my own preconceived outcome in mind, sure that I was right.  Apparently so had everyone else because the tension was palpable. There were two microphones set up.  One on the far left.  One on the far right.  The folks who felt strongly one way lined up on the right side to speak into the right microphone.  The folks who felt strongly the other way lined up on the left side to speak into the left microphone. (Of course, even as I type this I see that the right and the left are a matter of perspective, although therein lies a whole ‘nother argument!)  The debate was very organized and very civilized.  But underneath all that organization and civil-ization, hmmm, there was passion and anger.  And as the passion rose and the anger heated, the words became more and more hostile. And those of us who didn’t have the nerve, or permission, to speak were sitting and stewing in our own level of hostility.  How can “they” think that way?  They are just plain wrong!  My sense of foundational righteousness was reaching a fevered pitch when it was abruptly interrupted as my eye caught sight of the cross. The cross in the middle of the sanctuary.  In the center, high above all of us.  Perhaps it was the light reflecting from its polished brass that revealed the dark brooding state of my heart.  Or perhaps because I had to stop looking down at others in order to look up to see it.  Whatever the reason, I was halted in my own self-righteous tracks.  Convicted.  Busted. Who did I think I was?  Who were any of us?  What were we doing?  Was anything going on here revealing even the slightest reflection of the love of Christ? Would anyone be able to recognize grace among us?

I began to wonder.  What if?  What if, instead of two microphones on the far sides, a great distance from one another, there was one?  Right there in the center.  Under the cross.  What if folks from both sides of the argument had to meet in the middle in order to speak for their side? What if people from differing sides had to stand in the same line?  Next to one another, waiting their turn.  What if “opponents” had to look each other in the eye and pass the microphone to one another, perhaps brushing against each other, skin to skin?  Skin to skin is an important bonding experience for preemies and their mothers. Could it be so for theological warriors?  That’s crazy I suppose. Silly even.  Probably wouldn’t change a thing. One microphone, in the center? It would take too much time. People would have to exert more effort walking the distance to the microphone in order to speak if it was in the center, away from the sides on which they were sitting.  Yes, it would take more time and effort, and patience.  And patience is hard to come by in the midst of a heated and polarizing battle of proof text, when each and every word weighs heavily against the other.  But, wouldn’t it be something?

My conviction, my wondering, my yearning is, of course, not about a microphone. But about a way in which we might somehow give voice to the incarnational Love that has been poured out as a gift of humility and grace.  Love that has the power to transform an instrument of division and death into a bridge of hope and life for all.  A love that demands no defense, but desires to be lived.  A love that flows from the very heart of God, entrusted to the body of humanity. Something to chew on….

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seeing jesus

Posted on October 18, 2013 by isplainasjane

I arrived early in the morning to begin my day as chaplain on duty. After checking in I made my way to the pediatric chronic care unit to check on Martin. Martin was thirteen years old and, due to many birth complications, had spent his entire life in and out of the hospital. He had fought fiercely and bravely in the midst of countless obstacles, but it was clear his strength for battle was waning. And so, on a midwinter’s Sunday morning, the vigil began.

As the day wore on he would struggle increasingly for each breath. His mother sat loyally at his bedside, full of pain, full of love. Throughout the day other visitors would come and go, but there she remained. In between other calls I spent as much time as possible with Martin and his mom. For the first time in my life, I got an inkling of what ministry of presence means. My body in this space was all I had to offer. Painfully insufficient. Yet, I felt compelled to remain. As I spent time at his bedside Martin’s mother re-lived in words, through tears and laughter, the ways in which this son of hers had brought joy and life to all who knew him. She had learned from him the lesson of resiliency in the midst of challenges. What others might see as a lifetime of burden she saw as a lifetime of privilege and honor.

Their struggles had been expensive, not only in terms of money, but also in relationship currency. This was painfully obvious when, at dusk, Martin’s father walked in with his present wife and their children. The look on the man’s face was a mixture of shame and helplessness and regret. The kind that comes from missed opportunity. My heart broke for this young boy, for his mother, and for his father. There was a suffocating stillness in the room as we listened to Martin’s strain in each breath. I stood with the rest. Useless. Waiting. Unable to move the mountain in my throat.

The energy abruptly shifted in the room when an overgrown adolescent filled the doorway with his presence. The beloved big brother I had heard about, the only person in Martin’s life who treated him like a normal kid. His mom had told me Martin and his brother would wrestle and laugh for hours. The young man was about seventeen years old and he had the build and posture of a football tackle. He was visibly uncomfortable in this hospital atmosphere, embodying the proverbial bull in a china shop. Something about his presence made me feel small in stature and also in heart. He made eye contact with no one. Not his mother, his father, his step-siblings, nor me.

Moving forward, his body cut a path directly to the bed where his brother lay. The tough young mountain of a man picked up Martin and cradled him in his arms as gently as any mother ever could. He made his way over to a rocking chair. A chair that held purpose the rest of us had failed to recognize. He sat down and began to rock his little brother. He didn’t speak and Martin didn’t try to. They rocked in silence. The quiet that a few minutes before seemed to rob the room of breath, now provided a sweet blanket of comfort for these two young souls. For another half hour or so the only sound heard was the slight creaking of the rocking chair under the weight of these two brothers and Martin’s decreasing breaths.

From where I was standing I could see Martin’s eyes looking up at his brother. It was pure beauty. Not the kind of beauty that comes from adornment. Not the kind of beauty you see in a painting. More like the raw beauty of nature. Beauty that humbles.

Without fanfare, Martin quietly sighed and released his last breath. It was finished. The creaking of the rocking chair ceased and it seemed as if all of eternity rested in this one moment. Slowly Martin’s brother stood up and carried him back to the bed, ever so gently laying him down. It was only then that this boy in a man’s body buried his head into his little brother’s chest and cried the tears of a hurting child. His pain pierced all hearts present. Only when his tears were emptied did he stand up and turn, again looking at no one, and quietly walk out of the room.

I’m still processing the experience of that evening, now long ago. Something holy happened in that room. A moment where pain and beauty came together and somehow revealed something of God’s glory. There he was before me, Jesus, with the strong arms, rocking Martin into eternity. And, Jesus, in the complete vulnerability of Martin, trusting those arms for the journey. I witnessed something of incarnation. Dust and divine coming together in the power of Love.

Something to chew on….

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Beauty and the beast in my head

Posted on October 11, 2013 by isplainasjane

At age ten I fell in love with the ocean for the first time. Well, it was really the Gulf of Mexico as it looked from the sea wall in Galveston, Texas, but it was love at first sight. I thought it was the most mysterious and beautiful sight I’d ever seen. Thankfully I’ve had many opportunities to experience blue waters and white sands since then but, even the brown water and dirty sand of the Texas coast have the power to soothe and relax me as no other nature can.

Last winter I attended a preaching/writing conference in Laguna Beach, California. Image To my delight, my room overlooked the Pacific Ocean. The waves actually broke beneath the balcony! To witness God’s creativity in action in the beauty of the sunset over the water was not only an experience in wonder, but a convicting reminder of how often I miss God’s fingerprints in the world. The lower the sun sank into the horizon, the brighter the hues of orange and blue and amber in the sky. I refused to blink, not wanting to miss a second of this sight.

In that moment I questioned how anyone would not believe in a loving God when there is a new masterpiece provided for us in each and every sunset.

The first night I was rocked to sleep by the rhythmic melody of the waves. It was perfect. Perfect that is, until I woke up in a fit of terror in the middle of the night. Suddenly the joy of being in a room right on the water became a nightmare.

The week before my trip I saw the movie The Impossible, a true story about a family that survived a tsunami. A terrifyingly graphic portrayal of nature’s wrath, the movie opened my awareness to another dimension of water of which I would rather not be aware. And a dimension of God’s power in nature that played havoc with my kind and loving image.

As I awoke from sleep and lay there in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the waves, a gripping fear filled me and my only thought was of the liquid wall of violence that had consumed this family’s peaceful seaside vacation without warning. What was that sound that occurred right before it hit…wasn’t that the same sound I just heard? To make matters worse, I had made the unfortunate mistake of looking at the hotel information booklet which contained instructions for the proper response to a tsunami alarm. Tsunami alarm?! What the hell? We didn’t have tsunami’s in west Texas. Or east Texas. Or anywhere in Texas for that matter. What did that alarm sound like? And did the instructions really say get up on the roof? Why did I read those hotel instructions? I wish I hadn’t seen that stupid movie, and I wish I had stayed in a different room; a different hotel; like maybe near the airport. Why did I think this conference was a good idea anyway?

I didn’t want to know about the possibility of dangers being attached to this beauty. I didn’t want to know anything that might require an evacuation route. I didn’t want to be swept away without warning. Better to stay awake and listen for the alarm. The sun rose, but that didn’t help much. In the movie, the tsunami struck in the morning….

What had always been a source of peace for me had become the trigger of a gut-level terror. The calmer the waves became the more worked up I got. I badly needed an interruption to the momentum of my fear. I needed rescue. No, there were no real signs of impending doom, but adrenaline producing fear had full control of me. Irrational as it was I was paralyzed in its grip.

I don’t know what you do when you are afraid, but I pray. Fervently. Not the blessing at the table kind of prayer. Or even the prayers of a pastor in church kind of prayer. Not gracefully articulated poetry, but rather a guttural moan for help. To my relief (and a little bit to my shame because, after all, this was a self-imposed crisis into which I was asking God to intervene), God met me right there in my fears, as unfounded or founded as they might be.

Ever so peacefully, the sound of the waves loosened their grip on me and slowly, gently rocked me back to sanity. The adrenaline force subsided and I began to think again.

Regardless of whether or not there “might” be a tsunami, I had come to this place to be fed, to sense the Living Presence, to be refreshed in my spirit by the power of the creativity around me. I had been given this opportunity of learning new ideas and ways to communicate the enduring nature of Love, which is supposed to be good news to the downtrodden, the weary, the terrified. To me.

To miss a moment of that gift due to my fear of uncertainty, of what might or might not happen was not only wasteful, but missed the point of life entirely. By letting my fear overwhelm my sense of wonder and joy, I was in essence saying that I didn’t believe that the Power that created the beauty of the sunset was enough power to take care of me. I’m embarrassed even as I read back over that sentence. Embarrassed, but convicted.

Thankfully there was no tsunami in Laguna Beach that week, except for the one in my mind. This was a silly incident that keeps me thinking, and watching. Watching for the beauty. In the midst of uncertainty. Something to chew on…

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Remembering into memory

Posted on October 1, 2013 by isplainasjane

What is your earliest memory? I’ve read that around 3 is about the time memory can kick into action as that is about the point in our development when we discover we’re our own persons. Hmm, it took me much longer than that to figure out I could be my own person. Or, maybe I knew it but didn’t remember it. Anyway, again, what is your first memory? The very first thing I remember is a bright light and being held down against my will. I remember not being happy about this but, thankfully, I don’t remember pain in this memory. At some age I was told about an incident in our backyard that occurred when I was about two years old. Apparently I picked up one of those plastic practice golf balls off the ground at the precise moment my sister was in full swing towards it with one of my dad’s golf clubs. The hole in my head was not exactly the hole in one she was after. I was rushed to the emergency room and received some dandy stitches, the scar of which decorates my forehead even all these decades later. So, I have concluded that the bright light memory I have comes from the emergency room experience of being held down for stitches.

As I guess all families have stories that get passed down, this was one of those stories that got repeated through the years in my family. I’m sure it wasn’t my sister’s favorite. I think she’s felt responsible for the pain of the world ever since. When, in fact, she does more than her share of trying to relieve the pain of others. (Proof perhaps that memories have a hold on the future?) I’ve heard the story of the golf clubs and the backyard party that was going on, the reason the clubs were brought out in the first place. My sister having to stay behind with my grandparents while my parents took me to the hospital. I’ve heard about getting to have ice cream after enduring the whole stitch trauma. I heard the story so many times as a child that at some point the hearing of what happened blurred with my memory of what I experienced so that I could no longer separate what I heard from what I truly remembered. It all became “membered” together.

I’m not sure what has brought this silly incident to the forefront of my consciousness again. But it has made me think about how important it is to tell our family stories and to tell them often so that we can fill in those memory gaps for each other, and so we can affirm our identity in one another. I have shared with you in a previous post that I have a granddaughter in the neonatal icu unit at a local hospital, born early so we all must wait until she is big enough and strong enough to go home with her family. My daughter is keeping a page of updates on her on a caring website. Beautiful posts that speak of her progress, her prayers and hopes, and their gratitude for the love and support of God and family and friends. Many have expressed to my daughter how much they appreciate her updates. She told me that what she is really doing is creating a memory of all of this. A memory to share with her daughter as she grows so that she will know all of the love and prayers and support she received in her start of life. Memory for them all to see the ways God has been with them in the difficult times and in the joys of the moment. Memory of God’s presence in the past so that they will remember to trust God’s presence in their future journeys. I wonder if my granddaughter will have the slightest true memory of any of this. Highly unlikely at her tiny age. However, I am so thankful to know that through my daughter’s loving words, the experience of this courageous one’s entry into life will be “membered” into her mind’s eye forever.

God told the Israelites to tell the story of the Passover. To remember the time when God delivered a people out of slavery. A deliverance born of a love which intended for them to be future vessels of blessing to the world. A loving freedom to be remembered for themselves and for future generations. A story to be told over and over again so that the memory could be grafted into their children’s hearts to enable them to love God and to love their neighbor. They didn’t do it perfectly, but faithfully in their brokenness. Time and time again their memories needed to be refreshed. We too, on the resurrection side of Jesus, are called to do the same. To remember the love and grace we have been given, to live it’s memory in our present, and to be that love for the future memory of others. I wonder sometimes, in the midst of all of the doctrinal and political arguments that plague the church today, if perhaps we have forgotten to remember. And I wonder, what future memories are being grafted into our children through what they are seeing in us today? Will they remember love? Something to chew on…

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Self consciously, she blogs

Posted on September 24, 2013 by isplainasjane

This whole blog thing was really three years and some months in the making. I took a writing class the last semester of seminary and a whole new world opened up to me. A scary, intimidating, exhilarating, challenging, frustrating, fun- you get the point. A complicated world opened up to me. I remembered writing was something I had done for a short time as a kid. Even started a novel once. About a girl and her horse. The problem was I didn’t have a horse and the only thing I knew about them was how to ride my imaginary one. Maybe that’s why I stopped writing. Somewhere along the line I stopped imagining I could. And then, there was this writing class. I graduated seminary and had one of my writing entries published in the local paper and some other publication call to say that they were interested in publishing it also. And that was that. End of story. End of writing.

I went on to more urgent matters at hand. Such as helping my daughter plan her wedding. Finding a call, aka job, so that I could finally be ordained as a Presbyterian pastor. Resuming life with my husband, who is my definitely better half, after three years of living the lifestyle of weekly commuting. It’s been three years and I am now in my second call. (Maybe I’ll talk about that publicly one day but still too much for me to chew on personally at this point.) My daughter not only got married but just gave birth to her second child, the little burst of wonder I told you about last week. All wonderful life enriching and engrossing family experiences! But now the itch to write has surfaced once again. So here I am.

A blog seemed like the natural choice because, well I have no idea, but it seemed like the best way to force myself to write. If I do it publicly then maybe I will give myself the opportunity to learn something. And perhaps someone else will enjoy the fruits of my labor. However, this whole blogging thing is way more complicated than I thought. What website to go through. What theme. What header. What username. What tag line. How to expose one’s site to other sites to be sure to get as many views as possible. Yikes, it’s enough to make me run for cover. But here we are and, finally, I have settled in for the long haul. Or as long of a haul as anything is in this ever changing chaos known as life.

So, I am excited and hopeful to be finally on my way in this new strange world. But then, as I read the blogs of other much more talented writers, that old familiar self-consciousness creeps up into the keyboard. Why is it, when we finally let ourselves step out onto the proverbial limb, where we’ll find the view and the breeze, the age old serpent of negativity rises like a cobra to cut off the breath of air. I wonder sometimes if there is something tied to what has been taught as original sin that has to do with believing the negative voices in our heads. I know you have them too. Lord help us!

And oh how those voices can coax one into giving up the art of being oneself. I thought about this the other night when my husband and I went to our local pizza bistro. It was raining or I might not have noticed this overtly self-conscious guy. He came in shaking his umbrella and sort of adjusting his hair, which was the worst looking toupee I’d ever seen. Seriously, not trying to be mean but it looked like a mass of brown strings sitting on top of an aging melon. Because I sometimes make up a story for what I see I will tell you that he was there to meet a blind date. I surmised this from the look on the woman’s face I’d seen come in two minutes earlier. They had matching expressions of anticipated dread/hope. I bemoaned to my husband that I didn’t understand why in the world the man would wear such an ugly rug on his head when he would look so much better if he would simply let his bare head show. My husband, accustomed to my rants and totally uninterested in this one (hang in there with me, please!), said simply that the guy obviously thought he looked better in the toupee than with his bald head.

I wasn’t satisfied, still not. I wish I could tell the guy to be himself. To be brave on his blind dates. Stop overthinking it. Let her see your baldness. If this relationship were to get very far she would see it anyway. Sooner or later all the things we try to hide come out. And sometimes, it turns out that those are the most enduring things of all. I wonder what I am hiding. You? Something to chew on…Jesus came to free the captives.

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Learning what is

Posted on September 20, 2013 by isplainasjane

  It is interesting to me that Jesus didn’t come to us as a king, a lord, or a ruler.  Those titles have come later. (Sometimes I wonder what Jesus really thinks about some of these titles…but that’s for chewing another day.) No, Jesus came to us as a teacher, a rabbi, a show-er of a way of being. A way of living in reality founded through love.  He said that we are his friends if we do what he has taught us.  The obvious goal of any teacher, right?  I’m a preacher.  Not a teacher.  I have the utmost admiration and respect for those who teach.  Teaching requires so much patience, and patience is something in which I continue the need to be schooled.  However, two weeks ago God brought the most amazing teacher into my life, and I’m hopeful that this time maybe I will really learn how to be patient.  You see two weeks ago at 4:56am my second granddaughter was born three months early, weighing just about two pounds.  This wee one is spending the first months of her life in a neonatal intensive care unit. There she is getting what she needs to grow stronger and sturdier, and fatter, so that she can come home and meet her big sister who is 18 months old and my definition of joy.  The story of her arrival is not my story to tell.  It is my daughter’s story, who by the way has always been one of my most beautiful teachers in the important things of life. 

 So I will not tell the story of this precious bundle’s arrival, but I will tell you of how God is already using her to teach me a lesson I have sorely needed to learn.  You see, this precious one knows an important secret to life.   Perhaps we all do when we arrive into this earthly passage but then we spend the rest of our lives forgetting.  Only to realize we’ve lost something we really need.  This precious little tiny bundle of skin and bones and heart and soul is showing me the key to patience is simply, to be.  I know, it sounds trite, right?  Simplistic.  Naïve.  Idealistic.  But seriously, as the rest of us circle around her, ask questions of the doctors and nurses and occupational therapists (yes they have those for babies), pray to God, fret in the wee hours of the night tossing between thanksgiving for her arrival and worry over the “what ifs”, she continues to rest beautifully in the what is.  Don’t misunderstand.  Her what is is not all that easy and that’s what makes her sense of patient peace all the more amazing, challenging, and inspiring. She’s tiny and she was early and she is presently residing in a clear plastic little incubator that is a poor but necessary substitute for her mother’s womb.  Not the most natural way to start the adventure of life. But this little courageous one, she’s a fighter. She’s brave like her mother. Her steady heartbeat continues to speak words of comfort and strength to all of us.  She doesn’t get upset or worried about things like brain scans and body temperature and lung development and pic lines.  She doesn’t know, and apparently doesn’t care, about the statistics surrounding birth weight and infections and all of the other uncertainties that are associated with the term preemie.  A term I have strangely grown to resent.  But our little courageous one doesn’t resent anything. Neither the uncertainties nor the time this is taking. Neither the tubes nor the monitors.  She sleeps.  She takes and digests the nourishment of her mother’s milk given to her through a tube. She stretches and lifts her head that is cradled in the tiny knitted cap, opening her eyes for just a second to give us a thrill.  She’s feeling no pressure to rush.  She’s living.  She’s thriving.  She doesn’t know how to do anything else than to be who she is. 

 In this moment.  As I look at her I realize again just how precious the gift of life is.  And maybe just as life is a gift, patience is as well.  Courageous one is teaching me, hour by hour, day by day, that there is no way for me to earn patience, or practice patience until I get good at it.  Because the more I “try” to be patient about her being in a hospital instead of at home with her family the more impatient I become.  But if I will pay attention to what she is teaching, as I watch her closely, I see the gift of this moment.  And, if I will allow myself to be in this moment as she is, maybe I too can experience the gift of patience which will of course bring with it the gift of peace.  I wonder if perhaps this is one of the things Jesus was talking about when he said we must be like little children.  I think he knew what good teachers they are.  Something to chew on…

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The need to chew

Posted on September 19, 2013 by isplainasjane

Some years ago I was preparing a message on the 23rd Psalm.  I read that shepherds take their flocks out early in the morning to graze and then make them lie down in (think green) pastures to chew their cud, metabalize what they have taken in.  This important time of processing also allows their body temperature time to cool down before they can safely drink water.  I don’t know if this is catagorically correct but it makes sense to me.  And it got me thinking.  Sometimes I will read something that is so rich with meaning or gives me so much food for thought (sorry), or I get so excited about something I’m hearing or seeing that I can’t process it all in the moment.  I need time and space to metabolize what it is I have just taken in before I can even figure out whether it is helpful or useful.  Basically, I need an opportunity to chew the cud.  And that is exactly what this blog will be about.  A place to ruminate about what I’m reading, hearing, seeing, experiencing.  A place to gain perspective on the ways God is speaking to me, moving in the world, moving in me and those around me. I hope you will join me.  Maybe together we can digest enough to deepen our faith and perhaps be a source of nourishment for others.  Chomp. 

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