The street sweeper went by our house today.  It blew up a lot of dust and sucked it all back up into its big dark tank.  It was very quick and painless.  Our little cul de sac only took about a minute … maybe two.

It came early in the morning.  Shortly afterwards I left to go to the gym.  As I drove down a nearby street I noticed that the street sweeper had been there as well.  It had only been down one side of that street though because parking is allowed on on the other side of that street.  I admired how clean and grime free the curb area was on the “clean” side.  Then I looked at the “unclean” side.  It was full of leaves and clutter.  And mostly cars.  It was not clean because the street sweeper couldn’t get there when the cars were parked there.  It being basically a huge gasoline driven power scrubber and vacuum cleaner, it cannot go where cars are parked.

It really bugged me seeing one side of the street clean and the other messy.  I like matched sets.  So I started to think about ways that the messy side could be cleaned.  I came up with a novel approach.  I thought of …

… wait for it …

… a broom.

Then I began to think more about it.  What would happen if we got rid of all the gas powered street sweepers and replaced them with brooms?  And paid people who don’t have jobs (homeless people, for example) to sweep the streets?  What might happen?  What other jobs, simple jobs, do we now engage gasoline or oil powered machines to do that people might do?  I think it might kill two birds with one stone.  We could simultaneously give people employment while reducing our dependence on petroleum products.  It might not be much of a reduction, but it would be some.  Maybe there are some other things we can do in small ways to reduce our dependence.

In a similar vein, we participated in the Gas Out the other day.  Which is to say, by coincidence we did not need to purchase gas on May 15, so we did not.  LightGirl and I were talking about it later and thinking about how it really probably didn’t do any good.  Her idea was that there should be a Gas Out Month!  “That would make a difference!” she declared.  “Well … yes,” I thought.  Then I began to imagine what that might do our economy.  How would we go about managing to not buy gas for a month?  How about a week?  Think about it … how long can you reasonably go without getting gas?  How long can you make a tank stretch?  Can you make it go longer?  I wonder if we all just started thinking in terms of how long can I make it before I have to fill up again? it might change our use habits, which might change our dependence.  It might just take a slight change of perspective.

Like brooms, and paying people instead of buying machines.  Like finding out how many days you can take a tank of gas.

Breakfast at our lovely inn is served family style. This morning there was another couple here. So we sat at a long table with strangers in that uncomfortable place where conversation is anticipated but no one quite knows where to begin. And no one has really had a cup of coffee yet either. LightHusband excels in those situations; I feel like a turtle who has lost her shell. But we all survived and got know one another over some of the most delicious baked french toast with blackberry compote you will eat this side of heaven. Oh … well … none of you, dear readers will get to eat it; you’ll have to imagine it.

We discovered that our fellow inn-mates were here in Estes Park to get married. It is a second marriage for both so they were keeping it small. Our inn keeper doubles as a justice of the peace, so he would do the honors. We wished them well as they left the breakfast table and each went on our way.

It so happened that they were out in the courtyard when we came back out to leave on our adventures for the day. We wished them well again and off we went in our “keen-vertible” (as the gate-keeper at Rocky Mountain National Park dubbed it). We only got about 50 feet down the road when I said to LightHusband, “Do you suppose they have a photographer for their wedding?” He said, “You know, I was just thinking the same thing.” So we turned around, went back and asked if they’d like a few photos of their wedding. Um … why … certainly. Beaming, grinning from ear to ear. So we arranged to meet them and went on our way (to a quilt shop … hehehehe … I must get my quilting in). Across the road from the quilt shop some elk came to mow the neighborhood lawns.

We arrived back at the inn at the appointed time to find the groom looking anticipatory and somewhat taxed with the weight of expectation. The participants gathered and we all found our way to Lily Lake, which is a beautiful spot at the foot of Longs Peak. It is also part of the Rocky Mountain National Park. LightHusband took some wonderful photos and we both were witness to a beautiful ceremony that had more depth and heart than many large church weddings we’ve been to. Mr. InnKeeper is a deep well and has put together some profoundly moving thoughts about marriage and life that I was privileged to hear this morning. Both LightHusband and I were honored in some deep part of our souls that this couple opened up their sacred space and shared it with us. It made our time here very special.

The rest of the afternoon was spent dwawdling around in Estes Park and the RMNP. This evening we had a special quiet candle lit dinner for two … just us two in the dining room here at the inn. It was delicious. Every moment of it was delicious. The best part was coming out and discovering a sunset straight from heaven. See:

Yesterday, Smaug roared. He didn’t just rumble or growl or roll over a bit. He sat up and roared. It made for a bad morning. I didn’t know where to turn or if I would be able to escape. Fortunately, I had an appointment for a med check with my psychiatrist in the afternoon.

My psychiatrist is truly wonderful. He’s not supposed to listen to me as much as he does, but he does. I told him about Smaug’s roar and how I’ve lost my way and I don’t know quite know who I am anymore. We talked for a while. He had a suggestion. Now I have a doctor’s note to quilt more. To define myself by the things I like to do rather than the things that I hate. But I have permission to have fun. Permission. I stole something from Smaug yesterday and he doesn’t realize it yet. I think I’ll get this one out of the cave too.

BlazingEwe and I were all set to go out to dinner.  The LightChildren and FlamingLambs were at the rink with LightHusband.  BlisteringSh33p has a mysterious fever so he was home in bed.  BlazingEwe got a phonecall from a mutual friend, TexasBlueBelle.  Her teenage son had disobeyed his father and had left their house when he’d been told not to.  Both parents were over an hour away and son has been having a troubling year.  Would we go pick him up?  He considers us his other mothers.  So, off we went on a mission of merciful chastisement.

It proved to be an interesting several hours long conversation.  BelleSon was completely and utterly honest with us.  Oh, he spun a few yarns and gave us a few lines that he thought we’d want to hear (and I will revisit those at another time).  But it was another gem I stole from Smaug’s pile to recover and build a relationship with a teenager last night.  I had forgotten how wonderful those interactions with teens are.  We laughed some and gave him some key things to work on.  He said he’d like to keep meeting with us.  A small miracle happened right in front of my eyes.

So I ended the day with 2 pearls in my pocket, two miracles that I do not deserve.  But I will keep these.  Somehow I will get out of the cave with these.

As the rain hides the stars,
as the autumn mist hides the hills,
happenings of my lot
hide the shining of Thy face from me.
Yet, If I may hold Thy hand
in the darkness,
it is enough;
since I know that,
though I may stumble in my going,
Thou dost not fall.
Alistair Maclean

Tomorrow this blog will be silent and dark in honor of the victims of violence at Virginia Tech and around the world. It will sit quietly in memory and prayer for their pain and suffering.

Today, however, I’d like to quibble with words. It bothers me that the incident has been coined a “massacre.” I have issues on a number of different levels with this. First and foremost is that Virginia Tech has and will continue to contribute many stars to the galaxy of engineering universe. It is a top school for engineering in the country. Henceforth now though, it will be known as “that massascre” school.

Secondly, the incident was not, NOT, a massacre. Yes, a large number of people were killed by someone who was more heavily weaponed than they. Yes, he came upon them when they did not expect him. They had no defenses. However, the word massacre implies a certain sense that the forces of killing have the support of higher authority (government usually). A massacre usually occurs during a state of war. The MyLai massacre is a modern occurence. The Anfal Campaign was a several years long massacre undertaken by Sadaam Hussien to punish the Kurds in northern Iraq. The Battle of the Little Big Horn is another well known episode. In a wonderful turnabout the U.S. government is attempting to right the wrongs done in the Sandy Creek Massacre 142 years ago by establishing a memorial to the Cheyenne there. A massacre is also undertaken by many who have full control of their faculties. They are following the logical (if misguided) precepts upon which their way of life is based.

The incident at Virginia Tech ought more properly to be coined a tragedy (an event resulting in great loss or misfortune), or a catastrophe (a state of extreme -usually irredemediable- ruin and misfortune). Seung Hui Cho very clearly did not have full control of his faculties for quite some time before April 16 and likely for years previous to the event. This was no military campaign which was following the logical (if misguided) precepts based upon a way of life. This was anger, frustration, howling rage, fear, and evil personified and it ended with the taking of his own life, something that true massacres never end with.

When we call an event of this nature a massacre we separate the shooter from his community in such a way that the community is no longer responsible for him or to him in any fashion. He must exist outside of the community in order to wreak such destruction. And yet, Seung existed within his community. What can we learn from this about the nature of community? About the nature of this specific community? What must change within that system or other larger systems to prevent these sorts of brokenness from occurring in the future? This was no massacre because Seung was part of these people. This was a tragedy, a heartwrenching, gut twisting failure on the part of our whole system to help the Seung Cho’s of this world find their voice.

Since I left my church almost 2 months ago, I’ve begun working out regularly. I realized this morning that it’s become a place of worship for me. Is that possible? There is music. There are people. There are encouragers, exhorters, evangelists, prayers (spoken and unspoken). There is no sermon; not directly. A wonderful thing about my place of worship is that it is for women only. Women have voices here and women are heard. My voice is heard here. I do not choose to speak tho. I have nothing to say. I watch and listen and exercise.

On Saturdays when I go to my place of exercise/worship I drive past a set of low office buildings. They are mostly nondescript. I drive past them on weekdays too, but there is nothing noticeable about them on weekdays. I think that there must be a women’s health services clinic in one of the offices, because on Saturdays there is always a small group of people picketing against abortion on the side of the road. It’s almost always all men. I know that abortion is a tangential issue for men. But why don’t more women take up pickets against it? That’s interesting.

Hockey has now consumed our home. LightGirl has 2 sets of goalie gear and 2 of skater gear (in-line and ice) and LightBoy is working on 2 sets of gear. There are bags, sticks, skates and pads everywhere.

Missional is becoming trendy in Christian circles. Brother Maynard even has a cool graphic to show which way the trend is turning. It’s the latest watch word for Christian branders to run after and get while the money is to be made; WWJD for the 2000’s? The only problem is that actually being missional is important. Bro. M. posted his cool graphic because that’s where his heart is at. There are a lot of us following those numbers in a not so idle fashion because we want to see it catch on somewhere deep. We want it to be real … not trendy. Trendy would just break my heart one more time.

So missional means (to me) living a life that more and more comes to resemble that of Jesus. It means treating everyone who’s path I cross as individuals with gifts and needs and a life and a story to tell, even if all I will hear that day is a sentence. It means giving out of my abundance to those with less; not from a pedestal on high, but from a bridge across. For many people missional seems to mean living an urban lifestyle. Their desire is to live in and among the urban poor. I’ve been contemplating whether or not missional can be taken to the mountains successfully. Do rural folks need missionally minded people in their midst? Maybe an artistic quilter or something? I don’t think I’m cut out for many more years of this city living. It’s strangling my soul.

We had an interesting conversation over dinner this evening. LightHusband is reading The Places In Between, by Rory Stewart. We picked it up last summer. I was going to read it, but haven’t gotten around to it, so he’s reading it. Here’s the description on the back cover:

In January 2002 Rory Stewart walked across Afghanistan–surviving by his wits, his knowledge of Persian dialects and Muslim customs, and the kindness of strangers. By day he passed through mountain covered in nine feet of snow, hamlets burned and emptied by the Taliban, and communities thriving amid the remains of medieval civilizations. By night he slept on villagers’ floors, shared their meals, and listened to their stories of the recent and ancient past. Along the way Stewart met heroes and rogues, tribal elders and teenage soldiers, Taliban commanders and foreign-aid workers. He was also adopted by an unexpected companion–a retired fighting mastiff he named Babur in honor of Afghanistan’s first Mughal emperor, in whose footsteps the pair was following.

Through these encounters–by turns touching, confounding, surprising, and funny–Stewart makes tangible the forces of traidition, ideology, and allegiance that shape life in the map’s countless places in between.

Stewart walked across Asia; Pakistan, Iran, Afghanistan, India and Nepal, a journey of 6000 miles … according to the wiki on him. This book chronicles his journey through Afghanistan. He walked. This might not sound amazing. But he walked through places that have remained unchanged since Genghis Khan burned them out in the early Middle Ages. These are places that really haven’t made it onto GoogleMaps. Holiday Inn has not set up for business out there (to say the least). He was at the mercy of the hospitality of each local village that he came upon.

Fortunately for Stewart the practice of hospitality is considered a religious duty for Muslims. It is not one of the Five Pillars of Islam, but it’s the next step down. However, every once in a while the head man needed to be convinced that Mr. Stewart was indeed worthy of his hospitality:

After a cool reception, despite a letter of introduction, Babur is banished to the deepest cellar on a straw bed and Rory returned to the mosque to speak once again with Haji Nasir, who is exceedingly tight-lipped.

I reentered the mosque and took off my iced and soaking socks. Haji Nasir watched. He did not suggest I dry them on the stove; he did not offer tea. I clearly needed to persuade him I was worth speaking to. We were eleven days’ walk from Kamenj and had just reached a village that had not heard of Haji Mohsin Khan, so I dropped him from my introductory speech.

“I have walked here from Chaghcharan,” I said. “On the first night I stayed with Commandant Maududi in Baghdad, on the second with Abdul Rauf Ghafuri in Daulatyar, on the third with Bushire Khan in Sang-i-zard, and last night with the nephew of Mir Ali Hussein Beg in Katlish. They have treated me very well.”

Then I took out my notebook and showed him the pictures I had drawn of these men.

He looked at the pictures and said, “You can stay here tonight and someone will bring you some tea.” Then he walked into the inner room of the mosque to pray. (p. 209)

LightHusband went on to describe how Stewart had to remember the genealogy each night of who he had stayed with to establish his credentials for each village. Often he had teenage boys who would take him through the mountain passes. But they did not want money, they wanted to be sure that he told the story of the great honor they had done. They wanted credit. We talked some about that. About honor and credit in that culture.

LightBoy wondered where honor and credit are in our culture. The only place we could think of was in plastic cards. We find places to stay based on our plastic cards. And honor is based on how much money is backing up those plastic cards. Are we really more advanced?

I grew up in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere in the middle of Vermont. Here’s a photo of the house and surrounding grounds that I spent the 5 years from 1st through 5th grades in. Granted this photo was taken in about 1900 and though the LightChildren think I’m ancient, I’m not quite that old … yet.

Now the Belchers (handily indicated by the red dot) were an elderly couple who lived down the road from us. Aunt Jo(sephine) and Uncle Greg. I used to visit them every Thursday afternoon for tea. They were originally from Canada and very delightful. They taught me many skills. How to make the cross bars on peanutbutter cookies. How to tell the difference between “like” and “as” and when to use which. How to play cribbage. And most importantly how to beep the letter “R” in Morse code. R being Uncle Greg’s first initial. I used to walk down to their house after school and Uncle Greg would bring me home on his way to the post office to pick up the mail.

Now, if you also look carefully at the photo, you will see that facing “my house,” and a little to the left is a somewhat large-ish brick house with two chimneys. I’m not certain what that building was used for at the time this photo was taken. But by the time we lived here it had become a museum called the Kent Tavern Museum. The building had originally been built as a home and “… from 1837 to 1846 was a stagecoach stop on the road from Montpelier to Canada.” Since we were only about 15 miles from Montpelier, this tells you something about the length of time it took to get to Canada in those days.

So it was a museum with artifacts from its glory days as a tavern. My mother was the curator. This sounds far more grand than it was. She loves history as much as I and this wonderful old building was lying fallow. So she rounded up some of the elderly ladies in town to get it open a few hours a week. The best part (as far as I was concerned) was the gift store and the fudge! That was a magical fudge recipe that I have never been able to duplicate. It was all volunteer to the best of my knowledge and the old ladies in town gave of their time and their institutional knowledge of town history to run it.

I knew every single one of those ladies by first and last name. But I would get ferocious looks if I dared use their first names. They had earned the title Mrs. So and So and I’d best use it. Even my mother called them Mrs. So and So. They were wonderful farmers wives who knew the seasons (all five) and when they weren’t helping their husbands, they were helping their daughters. They taught me a little about sewing, knitting, crocheting, tatting, drawing and whatever else they’d brought to keep their hands busy. You see, I had free run of the place when it was open as long as I didn’t bother the visitors and stayed out of the way. And those old ladies were a magnet to me. They had stories to tell. And I might get a piece of fudge.

Now if you look further around to the left at the pond and go around the pond to the left you’ll a sawmill. That’s Robinson’s mill and it’s still there. It was there when I was a child too. We used to go and play in it. Gingerly, because it was a kind of creepy place and floor boards were a bit rotten. But there’s an open area next to the mill that’s used a couple of times a year for town potlucks and cookouts (that’s what we call barbeques up north). We roast corn on the cob in it’s husks. Several people bring homemade baked beans. There are lots of hamburgers and hotdogs. When we lived in the house marked “my house,” we could just walk. But people of all ages came to the cook outs. Almost all of the adults knew all of the children’s names. At the very least they knew who they belonged to. Even if we’d wanted to, my brothers and I couldn’t get into very much trouble. My brothers tried pretty hard too. But someone always knew what we were up to almost before we thought about it.

I know that when you get a “certain” age you begin to immortalize your upbringing. So, yeah, maybe there’s a little of that going on here. And, believe me, I know about the down side of growing up in small town New England. It can be ingrown, inbred, insular and just as horrid as any ivory tower. But my vision for a healthy church looks like these vignettes from my childhood. There are old people who are interested in young people. There are young people who are interested in old people. There are people from all generations who pause and have time for each other; to listen to each other’s stories, to value one another for the gifts they bring. To understand that some people bring baked beans and some people just bring chips. And all of the grownups look out for all of the kids in a community because they know them and love them. The children, by the same token, know that they are known and loved by all the grown ups. The boundaries on the community are porous enough that people can come and go without regret or animosity. There is healthy respect for all embraced by all. That this healthy church will have many generations where all people will be welcome and all stories will be heard and the journey will include good food along the way.

My most beloved television program is “Law & Order.” I’ve been watching it for years. I first discovered it in re-runs on A&E during the day. I was breaking a very naughty soap opera habit and looking for something to replace them with. I was newly home with a baby and bored out of my skull. I know that the proper emotion to express as a new mother is delight and everlasting joy at your new child. But housework and infant care are also boring beyond belief, especially if one is accustomed to daily adult interaction and stimulation. So, I began watching “Law & Order” reruns during the day … 1 o’clock in the afternoon on A&E. Then I’d turn the television off, in an act of supreme self-discipline. Sometimes.

Imagine my delight when I discovered that this television show was in production on NBC! WOW! What you have to understand is that NBC is not on my radar. It just doesn’t exist. Well, it exists, but you see … we don’t get that channel. It broadcasts on the other side of the mountains in New York, so we don’t get it. I know, now there are the wonders of cable and satellite (not to mention that I currently live in Virginia not Vermont), but I forget about all of that and just discount NBC. It’s just not on my radar. Other people watch it, because they get that channel. I don’t. Weird wiring from my childhood strikes again. So anyway. I watch Law & Order very nearly obsessively. I watch it in reruns on TNT. I watch Special Victims Unit on USA. I watch Criminal Intent on Bravo. If it’s on, I find it and watch it. Some of the episodes I know so well, I can begin to recite the dialog. But there is one episode in particular that haunts me.

It’s one of my favorites and, yet, it makes me cry every time it airs. It was first aired in season 6, entitled Pro Se. It’s about a homeless man who went on a murderous rampage and killed 3 people. It turned out that he was schizophrenic and off his medication. Once he was in jail and on his meds, he calmed down, stopped hearing voices and turned out to be a brilliant attorney. He defended himself during the case (hence the title of the program) and was well on his way to winning when suddenly he threw it all down, decided to allocute and spend the rest of his life in a mental institution.

During his allocution it became apparent that his inner demons were back, indicating that he had stopped taking his medication some time during the trial. He had been faced with Hobson’s Choice. He knew that having freedom meant that he was responsible for himself and he was unlikely in that instance to reliably take his medication. Being institutionalized meant that he would be medicated and therefore aware and able to function, yet in an environment where he was unable to use his faculties. Or be institutionalized and not medicated, yet others would be kept safe from his delusions. There was a lot of dialogue concerning this decision and all of the ramifications; whether or not an adult can be forced to take medication against his will when not taking it meant that he became harmful to others. There was even a small part of his mind (soul or brain) which knew this, but could not overcome the power of the delusions caused by the schizophrenia. On the other hand, taking the medications caused such a fog to come over his thought processes that that was not who he was either. In one particularly gripping scene, he said to ADA Claire Kincaid, “It’s taking every single ounce of energy I have, just to hold this conversation with you. When you leave, I will be exhausted.”

In either choice he was caged. In one by his illness, in the other by the state. There were no choices left for him and if he chose physical freedom, he was likely to harm others again. A fact which he knew and abhorred. But neither could he abide the fog the medication caused. I can understand that. I take medications for combined seizure disorder, depression and anxiety disorder. Sometimes it takes all of the energy that I have just to hold a conversation. To keep my thoughts in one place and have them come out of my mouth in a cohesive organized fashion. I did not used to be this way. So I empathize with the character in this episode, even though my problems are an anthill compared to his fictional issues.

All of which is to say that I did not make the comparison between a person with multiple personality disorder (e.g. mentally ill) and the Bride of Christ lightly yesterday. Nor did I do so in criticism of one thread of memes (People Formerly Known As …). My criticism, if any, was aimed at the increasingly shrill commentary coming out of blogs more associated with the institutional church than with the emerging conversation. I am sad because for two years now I still hear the same complaints and criticisms. Yes, indeed we are, many of us, terribly hurt. I’ve been hurt by two churches now; the second badly enough to increase my medications. I’m not for one moment suggesting that the conversation take on a plastic positive spin. I am suggesting that we remember a couple of things.

The first is that we are all of us, both hurting and whole, institutional church and emerging conversation, all who claim the name of Christ as Savior, are part and parcel of His Bride. When we engage in this name calling and so-called Truth bearing, we are harming each other and putting distance between ourselves (Christians) and those we want to invite to the wedding feast. People, for good or ill reason, fear the mentally ill and they are sequestered on the fringes of society. I’m not terribly concerned with being on the fringes, but how can we invite people in to the banquet, if they’re looking askance at us?

The second thing we need to remember is that we have a Lover who is anxious to heal us. So while there is no magic touch. No miraculous cure. He is there is to gather us up under His wings as hen does her chicks; giving consolation and comfort from He who can provide it. I’m not calling for false bravado, but real grace which comes from Living Water. That as the healing takes place we will each encourage one another to stand in forgiveness. That this grief, hurt and anger will indeed be a journey and not a stopping place.

Last, we all in all of our separate communities are standing separately before God. As with my meds, the insanity is taking every ounce of our energy just to think about the conversation. There is very little left for moving forward or even more importantly looking around to seek reconciliation with our brothers and sisters. We were given a commandment by Jesus (to love God and love others – our neighbors) and a Commission (to go out, taking the Gospel to our neighborhoods, our towns, our cities, our countries, to the ends of the earth) and deliver it in a winsome fashion, not beat people over the head with it. What is there about the Gospel that is inviting? We know what is inviting, but we need now to make the venue welcoming. Our human equity has long since vanished. So the time has come, I believe, for us all … every last one … to be humble in repentance for the wrongs we’ve done each other and ask for healing within the Body, the Bride. That the meek will be lifted up and carried forward to receive comfort and blessing. That those without a voice, will be given an open throat and ears willing to hear.

There is a Promised Land somewhere out there and we must stumble towards it together, because separately we are hearing voices and slowly but surely losing our way.

This is a photo capturing the birth of a star taken by the Hubble Space telescope in the summer of 2005. It’s one of our new neighbors on the Milky Way block. The new girls are always gorgeous.