i'm not sure which of today's events is most important, so i'll use a lot of italics everywhere just in case

To start with, I've never baptized anyone, and never said the Big Words at communion. Never at seminary, never at church, never as a kid trying to dunk a cat, which apparently is a rite of passage for everyone else who's ever turned out to be a minister. Probably a good thing we didn't have cats growing up.

In seminary, people frequently groused about the fact that no one really teaches you to do the sacraments. (For Presbyterians, the sacraments are baptism and communion. Everything else is really nice, but not a sacrament.) We read about them and talked about them exhaustively, but there's no required class in which you physically stand at the font or table and pour water or break bread. Nine times out of ten, the first time you do these things, these hugely significant moments in the Christian life, you're going to be doing them in front of a congregation who has just hired you and is watching you like a hawk to see how you do.

Jitter-inducing.

Fortunately, this summer I have a wonderfully intelligent and indulgent mentor-friend-boss, whose wisdom and patience and capacity for making me feel brilliant has led me to think of a trillion questions I didn't know I had. Last week, I timidly asked her, "Can you teach me to do the sacraments? Can we practice?" She immediately made me feel that this was the most strikingly original genius suggestion anyone's ever made, that we can actually practice something fundamentally important in our faith, something that lies at the heart of our most sacred worship, and that perhaps might be important to, I don't know, not botch the first time I do it for real. As I mentioned, she is intelligent and indulgent and patient, and a fabulous teacher.

So today, I practiced the sacraments. I took the Book of Common Worship and she took her plate of corn chips (her lunch) and we went to the sanctuary. We didn't turn on the lights because the afternoon light was pretty, and because it made it feel less formal. I needed that reminder, because:

this was one of the biggest moments of my life.

Wasn't really expecting the emotional oomph. Even in the half-light, with my boss-friend dropping chips on the floor when she wasn't chomping on them, me reading straight from the book, and both of us cracking up because I unintentionally sounded like a yenta ("Take! Eat!"), I still had trouble breathing and not crying. Taking the last few steps until I was standing in The Spot behind the table was almost like walking in slow motion. My boss-friend suggested that I might not want to stand with my weight on one leg, hip thrust out, because, you know, the minister is supposed to embody the priestly role of the church and Christ's incarnation and lead the congregation in reverent worship, and my body language was perhaps less reverent and more punk rock, but that's what I needed to do.

You see, for the past six years I've been looking forward to two moments: the first time I preside at the communion table, and the first time I baptize someone. Those images are my constants. I'm grateful grateful grateful to have had today's practice, but it wasn't real. I said the words (my boss-friend was amazed when I said it was the first time I'd ever even read them out loud; hearing them in my own voice was freaky) but held something back. For when it's real.

Those words.

Even when I pretended to baptize a baby, christened with her dog's name, those words still made me shaky. "How did you feel?" boss-friend asked afterward. I had to think about it for a minute. Overwhelmed. Awed. Nostalgic for my childhood pastor. Unworthy. Humbled. Joyful. A little sad -- I really want to talk to my grandparents and my aunt about this. I think they'd be proud.

Next big thing! I'm teaching a Bible study this summer using Walter Wink's approach, which is less about me standing up and lecturing, and more about the participants talking together and understanding a given scriptural passage with their combined experience and wisdom and embodiedness and critical skill and searching for personal and corporate transformation, which trust me when I say that it's a heck of a lot harder to write a lesson plan for this approach than it is for a lecture.

And yet, it works. I stress and fret and lose sleep, and then something beautiful happens, and the conversation actually evinces tiny bud-like transformations. Those shining pops of illumination and reconciliation, seeing the excitement in everyone's faces, hearing them ask at the end of the class "What are we doing next week?" and then go "Oooooh!" when I tell them, and thinking, "Wow, they're this excited about the Bible, some of them for the first time"...well, it's the reason I'm still awake at almost 2 a.m. The adrenaline. Seriously, they should market this stuff. What's amazing is the transition from last night, when I went to bed in a fit of despair over this whole delusion that I could possibly be a teacher in the church, to tonight, when I felt the Spirit kindly take over, and I remembered for the millionth time that it's not about me.

Six days out of seven, I am unconvinced that the payoff is worth the angst. But tonight, as day seven winds down, I say, it's totally worth it.

The final big thing! I've lived here for how long now? Nine weeks? And I just now found where they keep the wine glasses. And smack me down, they've got pretty glasses for beer too!

surprise painting

Tonight was my first painting lesson.

I'm participating in a spiritual formation group at the church this summer. The oldest participant is a 90-something-year-old woman who lives at a local retirement facility. She told the group how much she loves to paint (watercolors), and I idly mentioned that I'd like to see her studio. An invitation swiftly followed.

Turns out she's an award-winning artist. How do I fall into these things?

Still, to tell the truth, I went over there tonight reluctantly. I'm overwhelmed by my schedule this week, and am juggling approximately a jillion things. I intended to spend a pleasant evening's visit, and having her show me some basic techniques, just for curiosity's sake. Watercolors have always escaped me. I was more interested in hearing her stories than anything else.

She had the whole thing planned out. She sat me down in front of a tablet with a variety of graphite pencils and said, "Draw lines." I did. She said, "I like your lines. Now draw spirals." I did. She said, "Shade them." I did. She said, "Okay, now do all that with these paintbrushes."

By the end of the lesson, something inside me had burst open. The flower I painted with my right hand looked very little like the flower I held in my left, but when I stood back and looked at the paper, I saw a starburst with wings. That's how my spirit felt.

When I was a teenager, I used to draw, all the time. Hours upon hours would vanish at the points of colored pencils. The older I got, though, as I got ready to go to college/started dating/searched for a career/had my first depression event, the less I felt that impulse.

I missed it terribly. It felt like I'd lost a limb. I'd cry about it, sometimes.

Painting tonight, I felt life in that part of myself again. I couldn't stop laughing.

My teacher understood. "You've got it," she said. "It's inside you," she said. "You have to let it out."

There are no stories without the paint on the page.

4th of july weekend

That was a crazy weekend.

It all kicked off on Thursday, with the town's annual fireworks show. Pretty much the whole town goes to the park, eats hotdogs, drinks lemonade, and listens to the band. This was my church's house band, which I hadn't gotten to hear yet, since they take the summers off. They're a lot of fun in the classic-rock vein -- they do some mean Pretenders, Bonnie Raitt and Fleetwood Mac covers. I presume they don't play those in worship, although that would be fun.

As the daylight vanished, glowsticks came out. We asked some kids where they'd bought them, and they gave us some. Generous souls.


I started to take pictures of the fireworks, but decided to just watch instead. You understand. It was a really nice show -- about on par with the ones we used to see at July 4th Richmond Braves games. My friends and I were distracted by the music, though. Some of it was hokey fun marches, but they played several "America's Gonna **** You Up"-type country songs, which I could have done without. Why couldn't they have stuck with Neil Diamond and the 1812 Overture?

Starting Thursday, and going through today, there was a street carnival downtown. The main road was cordoned off for three blocks (right by the church, which meant we could hear the rides and screams during worship. Fun!) and pulled out all the stops. This town goes in heavy for the Americana nostalgia.

There were plenty of terrifying-looking rides that, if I were a parent, I wouldn't let my kids anywhere near:


Rows upon rows of vendors, food carts (deep-fried everything, you name it), and games, including dunking booths:



A particularly terrifying portrait of Justin Timberlake (on the side of a fun house):


I love how even the Baptist church steeple in the distance looks like Disney's castle.


I took this picture because I am 14 years old and the word "weenies" is hilarious.


The battering ram. See my above comment on terrifying rides.


I went to the carnival on Saturday afternoon. Unfortunately, I missed the annual parade because I was editing my sermon. I'm sorry for that; apparently the parade is THE big thing. There's a Queen of Beef, or something like that.

I did see the egg toss in front of the grandstand, though. I was torn between being hugely entertained by seeing little kids spattered by raw eggs, and thinking, "Wow, what a waste of food while there are hungry people everywhere." My social conscience = buzz kill.

It would have been great if I could have taken more time to enjoy everything. The fireworks and sugar and fried food and tacky clothes were overshadowed for me by sermon-writing. I wanted to write a sermon that would be faithful to the lectionary text, acknowledge the context of the holiday weekend and relate the idealism to the text, and not inspire the congregation to run me out of town for being a liberal commie peacenik.

The real challenge came in making the sermon adaptable to the setting of the four worship services at which I had to preach. (So glad they don't expect me to have a completely different sermon for each one!) Saturday night in the sanctuary is casual and informal, Sunday 8 a.m. in the chapel is intimite and opinionated, Sunday 10 a.m. in the sanctuary is high-church and traditional, and Sunday 2 p.m. at the retirement center is ultra-traditional and short, with communion.

I came through unscathed. The congregation still likes me. And I felt the movement of the Spirit both while I was writing and while I was preaching, which is the only thing that really matters.

This afternoon, I napped hard. When I woke up and looked outside, this guy was giving me the stink-eye. I think he's pissy that I missed the parade.

after michael jackson died

Like many others, I was surprised and sad when Michael Jackson died. Like many others, I am sad that there are so many problems and horrible things in the world right now that demand our attention and outrage, and spending time mourning a superstar feels superfluous somehow.

But Michael Jackson's life and death deserve our time, for many reasons. He meant different things to different people. But there'll never be a talent like his again, that changed the world in so many ways.

I saw this poem today, and it said it all better than I could. The conflict, the sorrow and the joy that'll still be here because of his music.

After Michael Jackson Died, by Sean Michaels.

how things are going at this point

My internship responsibilities have picked up in the past two weeks. Visiting people in the hospital, committee meetings, lesson planning, worship planning and leadership, and I'm preaching four times this weekend. (Yes, four. We're doing an extra service at the retirement living facility Sunday afternoon.) I'm feeling a trifle back-of-hand-to-forehead swoonily (swoonily? it's a word now) melodramatic about how this weekend will go. I stress myself out more than these occasions warrant. It's part of my charm, or something. It'll be fine.


That being said, I'm still branching out to explore the area. I love the farmers' markets, which are held every Tuesday and Saturday. Our church sends volunteers around the stalls at the end of the day to collect leftover food that would otherwise be thrown away, and donates it to group homes and food pantries. One halfway house for men got 15 loaves of homemade, fresh-baked bread the other week, and flowers for Fathers Day. The men who unloaded the truck were choked up with emotion that someone had thought of that.


Personally, I'm loving the snap peas and locally made cheeses and bologna. It's also interesting to see how many people I recognize now at these shindigs. I'm starting to consider my social interactions at the farmers' markets as indicative of the progress of my internship.

It all comes down to relationships, in church work. (For me, at least.) Not just how well people know me, and whether I can remember the names of all their kids, but the process of establishing trust in conjunction with my skill in observing and understanding relationship systems. More than simply learning the way things are done, I'm seeking to learn why -- if people can articulate it. (Example: why does the congregation stay seated for the second hymn at the 10 a.m. Sunday worship service? At this point, no one can tell me.)

While meditating on these finer points of congregational dynamics, I'm gazing out the window of my office at church. There are a ton of cars zooming by, which is highly unusual. Even though the church is located in the heart of downtown, not a lot of automobile traffic travels this particular road (foot-and-bike traffic, yes).


However, this is all 4th of July traffic. Most of the street in front of the church is shut down today and tomorrow for a carnival. This is the time of year when everybody comes home. There are rides, parades, vendors, reunions, concerts, and fireworks. It is a Big Deal here. (I promise to take pictures and post them later.)

For now, though, I'm just watching the increasingly desperate drivers zoom past my window in search of parking. It's a little like a spectator sport in schadenfreude. But maybe I'll be nice, and go let someone have my parking space. This sermon feels like it wants to be written from home...

bad veins

Last night, wearing a tank top, I looked in the mirror and got scared -- and not for any sort of obvious reason. I was scared because I could see my veins.

I'm sporting a pretty odd combination of farmer's and trucker's tans right now, so the skin running from the inside of my upper arms up to my neck is much whiter than the rest of my arms. In that skin, it looked like my blue, huge veins were trying to surge up and out.

I turned my arms and body rather desperately, trying to see if it was a fall of the light, an optical illusion, but no. The longer I looked, the more veins I could see. It was horrifying. Of course, I'm thinking, "I'm about to die from some rare blood disorder," and "Was it something I ate?" and "I don't want to die in Ohio, no offense Ohio."

Then, I thought, "I actually feel okay, so maybe it'll go away if I get some sleep." This is much same thought process as when you half-wake-up in the middle of the night, and think, "Was that a burglar? I'm too sleepy to get up and check, I'll just lie here and he'll go away."

I walked from the bathroom to the bedroom, looking at my arms -- and the veins vanished.

Damn you, fluorescent lights above the bathroom mirror! You and your panic-inducing ways. I never want to see that much of my anatomy again. I should only see that much of my blood if there is something very very wrong with me (beyond the distribution of this tan).

bike riding

Just got back from my first bike ride in several years. The family in whose home I'm staying this summer left two bikes for me to use, and this area has more bike paths than roads. (I know!)

First bike: serious stuff. I pulled it out of the garage, got on it, sat there for a minute, and then got off it again. I would have killed myself into tiny gory bits if I'd tried to ride it.

Second bike: smaller, higher handlebars, much more comfortable. It even has a basket on it. Aw.

I rode once around the neighborhood to get familiar with the sensation again, and then headed to the nearest bike path. It runs right by my neighborhood, and dives deep into a mysterious, woody grotto, alongside a creek, with fallen mossy trees and dappled things and birdsong and suchlike. It was lovely: not too many people around during dinner hours, so I didn't have to worry as much about causing bodily harm to anyone but myself, although I did immediately get 10x wobblier when approaching anyone else.

Still: I took the first deep-lung-filling breaths I've taken since getting here. I'm finally relaxing, I think.

Also: riding by the creek and looking at the water reminds me of the summer after 6th grade, when I went to marine biology camp (with Mrs. Keefe). That was some of the most fun I've ever had in my life. I miss using dip nets and looking at microorganisms under microscopes! And that is possibly the geekiest thing I've ever written in my life.