A Threadbare Palantir

… hockey rink.

As Bill Kinnon is wont to quote from Eugene Peterson, on keeping missional simple -

The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighborhood. And that is what He is calling us to do.

This year my lovely daughter, light of my eyes, is playing hockey on a boys team. She is sixteen and the only girl on a team of boys who are all 15 about to turn 16. When the season started, we were welcomed to the team very cordially.  But she came home from practice and announced that, “the Terror Twins are on my team!”  These are two young men she tried out with two springs ago and they were beyond annoying during tryouts.  They are indeed identical twins.  You can tell them apart by the difference in their hair length and the numbers on their jerseys and that’s about it for most of us mortals.  And her description of them has proven apt over the course of this season.  One of them has gotten himself kicked off the team for poor sportsmaship … after being on probation for the month of December.  Together, they caused division on the team, anger and strife amongst the players, the coaches and the parents.  Quite a twosome, these two spindly 15 year old boys, with their single mom clearly at the end of her rope.

Sometimes there just ain’t nuthin’ can be done.  People are too entrenched in the way they think about a person or a situation.  But you can change their response to another tangential situation and help them grow closer in another area.  That in turn allows some of the ice to thaw or crack and some other things to begin to change.  So it is with the Terror Twins.

Recently another young man on the team, a friend of the Terror Twins, became quite ill.  He was hospitalized with double pneumonia and had to miss going to a tournament we were all looking forward to.  Suddenly, I knew exactly what to do.  So I wrote an e-mail to all the parents on the team and told them that I was going to send the young man an Edible Arrangement (chocolate dipped strawberries, bananas and pineapples) and if anyone would like to chip in to help out, they could.  But there would be no repercussions if not.  It was just pass the hat.  Almost everyone did, but some did not.  I’ve lost track … no … I never kept track of who did or who did not.  But the effect on the team and the parents was so much fun to watch.  They began to smile at each other again.  They began to remember that these are boys (plus one girl) and it’s not the NHL.  Really.  They began to realize that it had been bad, but not that bad and yes, we could all go on and finish the season.  They found their hope again.

Sometimes the neighborhood looks suspiciously like a hockey rink.

Filed under: Livin' the missional life, Lovin' my neighbor by threadbaresonja

I heard this week that (of all things) Liberty University has a women’s hockey team. Yes, poodles, **that** Liberty University. What will the Baptists think of next? In fact, one of the young women that I know is thinking of attending Liberty so that she can play on their hockey team. Her quote? “Yeah, I don’t go to church much, but I wanna play hockey.” I said, “Well, you’ll be going to church AND playing hockey if you go to Liberty.” She shrugged and indicated that wouldn’t be a big deal. Alrighty then. Hockey really can be a mission field.

I’ve been reunited with a long-time and dear friend. We first met about sixteen years ago or maybe more. I can’t remember now. I know I’ve known her since before her daughter who will be sixteen in July. Our girls are six months apart and played together from the moment they could play. They were practically inseparable until they were about 9 or 10. And then we fell apart. Nothing major happened. There was no falling out. We just sort of drifted. Life happened. Our family left the church and it was hard.

Recently both girls joined Facebook and found each other there. They started chatting away again. Then they made arrangements to meet up at a homeschool event one Friday morning. My friend came too. What a joy it was to see her sparkly eyes again; to talk and laugh and cry with her again. The girls are talking and laughing together again just like old times too. Although … they are all grown up now and we must remember that [rolls eyes].

I found out that their family left the church as well. Different circumstances, similar reasons … pastor had developed hearing loss. Or perhaps a case of arrogance. Whatever the case may be, I was struck by the author of “Pastoralia” who quoted from Luke 3 “Produce fruit in keeping with repentance.”

Well, I wanted to know more, so I went to read more from Luke 3 and this is what I found:

John said to the crowds coming out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath? Produce fruit in keeping with repentance. And do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father.’ For I tell you that out of these stones God can raise up children for Abraham. The axe is already at the root of the trees, and every tree that does not produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire.”

“What should we do then?” the crowd asked.

John answered, “The man with two tunics should share with him who has none, and the one who has food should do the same.”

Tax collectors also came to be baptized. “Teacher,” they asked, “what should we do?”

“Don’t collect any more than you are required to,” he told them. Then some soldiers asked him, “And what should we do?”

He replied, “Don’t extort money and don’t accuse people falsely—be content with your pay.”
(Luke 3:7-13)

Produce fruit in keeping with repentance - what is that? It’s not pride, John warns. Share, collect only what is due, and be honest and content.  Ultimately, that was why we had both left that church.  Too many of those who were there were proud of their father Abraham and no one was willing to share their spare tunics.  There was no fruit in keeping with repentance.

She told me about the church they go to now and I was astonished.  It’s the local Baptist church.  Large and imposing.  But she gets to spend two nights a week teaching English as a second language (the county we live in has one of the largest Hispanic communities on the East Coast).  And she works in their food pantry.  As she said, “Now when someone comes to me asking for something to eat or something to wear, I don’t have to tell them no.  I can open the door and smile.”

And the youth group that her daughter is part of?  Well, they go into the low rent townhouse neighborhood that our former church shunned (right across the street) to hand out food, make friends and meet needs.

I’m thinkin’ what is up with the Baptists?  First a hockey team, now this?  I may end up back in church after all.

Filed under: Gellies, Livin' the missional life by threadbaresonja

Monday evening I attended an inaugural ball. I wore a gown made with the help of a friend. You can read more about why I’m insane and chose to make a formal evening gown out of silk in less than a week at my home blog. But that’s not the point of this post. And, yes, I am insane.

Here is a photo of me and LightHusband (I’m wearing the dress and we’re on our way to the Ball):

Dressed & Ready

BlazingEwe (my BFF) and I made that gown in about three days.  Not only did we make it, but it’s a mash-up of two patterns.  And we didn’t have either pattern in the correct size, so we had to redraft both in addition to putting them together.  Yes, it was a high pressure situation.  We left for the ball at approximately 4:30 p.m. and we finished the dress at 2 p.m.  On the same day.  Yes, I cried several times.  Yes, I said I wasn’t going at least twice.  No, I was not kind or gracious when I said it.  But I never threw anything.  So I get one point for that.  Just one.

For the most part I made it on my trusty sewing machine; my Bernina Virtuosa 153QE (that’s Quilter’s Edition).  But my dress is made from dupioni silk; a fabric notorious for the way it ravels and shreds after it’s been cut.  So the seams had to be finished.  As you can see there are flounces along the bottom.  They are made from silk organza and needed a handkerchief hem.  Have you ever tried to fold and press silk organza into 1/8″ folds twice over?  On a curve?  I’ll never, ever try it again.  The trials of Sisyphus come to mind.  I sort of had one (out of six) done after about two hours of fiddling with it and a hot steam iron.  I still had to sew this hem down and it wasn’t nearly prepared enough.  It was Saturday afternoon and I’m thinking, “Alright … just the [insert several choice curse words here] flounces will take 12 hours to put a hem on them and then we’ll be able to start on the dress.  That’s soooo not going to work.”  I think that might have lead to crying jag number two and rant number one.  But right then TallCoolWoman called and asked how things were going.  I couldn’t talk, but BlazingEwe could and she described the scene.  TallCoolWoman had just the solution.  Her serger!

A serger is the machine that finishes seams in a manner like you find on manufactured clothing.  It will also create a handkerchief hem on organza without any pressing involved!  So those flounces?  They took 45 minutes total, plus 15 minutes for a lesson and practice.  One hour versus 12.  Yeah, baby!!  Then she loaned it to us so that we could finish all the seams on the gown.  That process took about a minute per seam, rather than 5 - 10 minutes per seam.  I am sold.  Now, I “need” a serger.

I have resisted these for years.  Turned my nose up at them.  There was no reason for a serger in my world.  They couldn’t do anything my trusty sewing machine couldn’t do.  But, now?  Now I’m sold.  What just happened here?

Here’s the interesting thing.  I have another acquaintance who has extolled the virtues of these machines to me for years.  She has come right out and told me that I need to have one.  Wondered openly why I won’t get one.  Used one in my presence several times in attempts to show me how wonderful they are.   She made excellent arguments.  Told me all the right things.  Gave me great reasons for trying one and needing one.  But all her efforts were in vain; I was never even tempted.  Mostly because her case was too good and too perfect.  I saw nothing in it that was appealing or inviting.

TallCoolWoman on the other never gave me one argument.  Not one.  She simply extended an invitation during a moment of need.  And offered an open hand up when I needed it.  Now I’m looking for sergers, finding prices and learning everything I can about them.

I’ve been thinking in the week or so since about this … and about how we can have the best argument in the world, but it’s an open hand and a winsome invitation that are more likely gain a hearing.

Filed under: Gellies, Livin' the missional life by threadbaresonja

PRECALCULUS TEACHER NEEDED - (NoVa Suburb - adult) - Due to serious illness of our current instructor, [Local High Powered Homeschool Co-op] seeks an instructor for Precalculus class, meeting 11:30-12:30 AM Mondays and Wednesdays now through May 20. Instructor must have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ, provide two references, and have a positive and supportive attitude toward homeschooling. Contact Co-op Administrator at __________.

The above notice was in the bi-monthly homeschooling newsletter I get. Do you see what the issues might be with this?

Filed under: Livin' the missional life, Walk Humbly by threadbaresonja

Yesterday was a whirlwhind here at the LightHouse.  We were having company for dinner and the house was beyond wrecked.  It was wrecky-wrecked.  The school room (aka the dining room, but we never use it for that) had become the junkroom over the holidays and it is just off the living room, connected by an archway.  So to have it be a junkroom is very unsightly and much less than relaxing if one is sitting in the livingroom.  So we cleaned and we cooked and two friends stopped by at separate times.  One is going through a divorce, she was in between a lawyer’s visit and work.  So we fed her lunch and she talked.

We baked a cake and I made candy cane ice cream for dessert.  We had cassoulet, salad, bread and wine for dinner.  More importantly, we had a lot of great conversation and laughter.  We re-connected again.  You see, this wasn’t just any company.  This was family.  And it wasn’t just any family, it was a branch of the family with whom there was a falling out about nine years ago.  Granted, we and they were not the main participants in the falling out but we and they became collateral damage.  So we are now finding our way back to one another.

Baby and Me

My family is complex because I have cousins who are my parents age and they have children who are near to my age.  So I loosely refer to all of them as my cousins, but really some are cousins and some are cousins-once-removed.  At dinner last night we had my cousin and his wife, and the son and his wife and their baby daughter.  We told tales of long ago and talked about mutual relatives and laughed at antics of pets.  It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening seasoned with much grace and love.

Our mutual ancestor, a grandfather, was well-known for his insistence on supporting those with less than he.  Though he had very little to begin with.  The family stories, which I find are not exaggerated, abound.  The most well-known centers around his imprisonment during the 1930’s for his support of a Teamsters Union.  He was the treasurer and was framed for embezzling funds.  He spent a year in prison before he was granted a full pardon by the governor because … my grandfather just never, no never, used money that was not his.  And he kept meticulous records.

So one of the stories that was shared around the dinner table last night had to do with the adolescent misbehavior of my cousin’s son, now a grown-up with a daughter of his own.  He was, as they say, having an obstreperous youth.  This came as a surprise to me because my memories of him were that he was quite responsible and well balanced.  In any case, the phone call came one day to my cousin and his wife, “We are sorry sir, but your son is being suspended from Local Middle School.”  This phone call carried a certain sting because my cousin taught middle school in this school district, but not in that school.  Well, why was young son being suspended?  He saw an altercation at a nearby table during the lunch hour.  There was an underdog (no one he knew at all; not a friend, not an acquaintance) who was being unjustly accused and punished.  So young son rode in on his trusty white steed to save that underdog from his unjust accusation and punishment by the powers that were.  And he stood his ground long past the time that it was perhaps a good idea.  He stood his ground and stood it and stood it … right into gaining a suspension for himself.

We all laughed at the story, including now middle-aged son.  I recognized a bit of my own DNA at work in the scene and commented, “That darn stubborn streak.  It’ll get you every time.  Especially when you’re standing up for the little guy.”   We all looked at each other with that sense of epiphany and realized another sense of family connection.  A piece of heritage handed to us by our (great)grandfather.  The sense that the little guy is worth protecting and helping.  That little guy that you see here and there as you go about your day.  The cashier in the grocery store, the garbage man in the cold rain, the lady sitting outside the train station in a garish outfit with no place to go … they are the little people who deserve attention and time and protection by those who have more, even if it’s just enough to buy a cup of coffee.  Sometimes just saying hello and how are you while checking out is enough.  Or talking to the garbage guys as they do their untouchable work.  It’s worth it you know.

It’s just like bringing a cup of water to Jesus.

Filed under: Livin' the missional life, Love Mercy, Lovin' my neighbor, Seek Justice by threadbaresonja

This was originally posted on my home blog “Calacirian” as part of the Missional Synchroblog in June 2008.

So … here it is. Today’s the day. The day of the big synchroblog. The big hitters are writing about this. Fifty of us are writing to define the word “missional.” When Rick sent out his call for this by blog and by e-mail (thank you, Rick), I thought, “Yeah … I do have something to say.” In the intervening weeks though, my scattered thoughts have not gathered themselves.

I am no theologian. I am not trained in exegesis or any of the other long scary unknowable words that people use to make themselves seem smart. I am, at the end of the day, a teacher. And a quilter (I love color) And a story-teller. So I will tell a story and teach a lesson about how I and my family are missional in the suburbs. In our house missional means lawncare … among other things.

It all began with a door to nowhere. Or more precisely, a door to our backyard with a 5 foot drop for a first step. We lived in our house for 3 years with a french door that we could not use because, well, “Watch out for the first step, it’s a lou-lou.” So we had a deck built.

Two guys built it. I think they spoke about 10 words of English between the two of them. Just enough to ask for the bathroom and water when they needed it. We’d go out and admire their workmanship occasionally; they’d smile and nod.

During this time I was caring for a friend’s four children once a week while she and her husband went to marriage counseling. It was the tradition for she and her kids to have dinner with us when the counseling was done. One evening, it happened that the deck makers were also there. We invited them to have dinner with us in the back yard. We’d have eaten in the house, but we had no way to get the grilled meat into the house because of the construction. We set up a plastic banquet table and paper plates. BlazingEwe and her FlamingLambs were here too. The kids ate all over the yard and the grown ups ate together at the table. I remembered about as much Spanish from highschool as they knew English. So we were able to communicate over sticky drumsticks and gooey potato salad. We all ate and smiled until our stomachs and faces were full. It was one of the happiest meals I remember.

We’ve carried on the tradition since then. Whenever people come to work on or around our home, we bring them water or share a meal with them depending on the circumstances. This year, we’ve finally broken down and hired a lawncare service. This has turned out to be a Hispanic man and his sons. We don’t do lawn care with any regularity and our lawn has always been the po’white trash lawn on the block … a certain disgrace to a particular neighbor of ours. It is the elder son who does the talking and negotiating with us. He must be about LightGirl’s age, but sober and sturdy. Responsible, quick and dependable. They come whenever to mow our lawn, if we’re here we pay them, otherwise, they come another time for payment. If we’re here, we take them water. One evening the father was taking a little too long with his part and the sons played joyfully on our trampoline. LightBoy joined them. And the joy was exponential. Our lawn has become beautiful in their capable hands, but more importantly we are slowly building a friendship with them. Our goal is to invite them to a meal soon. To share our hospitality with them.

You see, to me, missional is about giving hope in a world of gray. It’s about smiling at people who routinely wear frowns. I may never have the chance to speak the words of the Gospel to them in my outloud voice. But I can say to my (agnostic) friend when her sense of being gets too tied up in her website, “You are more than that. You are not your website. You are beautiful and created for much more than that.” Help her move beyond despair and into grace.

Missional is about loving my neighbor and that can be expressed in thousands of ways, but the thought that came into my head this morning and will not leave is the verse from Jeremiah that most people use in very different circumstances. Jeremiah 29:11 … “1 For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Plans to give hope and a future. You see that’s so often lacking in our world today. Hope … AND a future.

So I speak hope into the lives of the people I know and the people I meet. I try to know them and find the hope that is there. Find the light that leads to the future and together we will walk towards God.

Filed under: Livin' the missional life, Lovin' my neighbor, Walk Humbly by threadbaresonja

In some ways I hate to write posts like this.  They seem sort of braggy and that’s not me at all.  On the other hand, this is perhaps the latest example I have in my own life of how to live missional.  That it’s not about buzz words or theory, but how to love others when no one is looking.

Under ordinary circumstances, LightHusband and I avoid our Costco as if it were under quarantine during the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, but for some reason we ventured near on the Monday after Thanksgiving this year.  I can’t remember what lead us there, but there was something we “needed.”  We went in prepared, list in hand, mentally ready for the crowd.  We went in, got out in about an hour and considered ourselves lucky.  As we were loading the cart into the car, a tall man approached us and asked for directions to the local Social Security office.

Now this office is across town from the Costco so we assumed he was driving and gave him directions by car.  He thanked us and strolled away across the parking lot.  I watched him go into the bright but useless sunshine of December 1.  I turned to LightHusband and commented that I didn’t think he was driving and it was quite a hike to the Social Security office from where we were.

It so happened that we were driving down the very road we’d giving him directions for, so we looked out for him.  Sure enough, there he was striding along.  So we drove up and asked him if he’d like a ride.  He was grateful in the understated way of strangers.  We also gave him cab fare for the journey home.  I regret we never got his name.

Since that short trip across town on a blustery day, I’ve been thinking about the people I see walking on the roadsides.  How many of them don’t know that the bus system exists?  Or how to find the schedule?  Or how to use it?  I don’t know why that man had to go to Social Security, but I’m sure it was a short-ish visit and it was going to take him all day with that walk thrown in.  If you have a job, how do you take a whole day to go to these things?  It was one more place where I could see that being poor was quite expensive.

Filed under: Livin' the missional life, Lovin' my neighbor by threadbaresonja