“When you realize how perfect everything is you will tilt your head back and laugh at the sky”.
~The Buddha

This morning I began a writing class at the seminary from which I graduated. The class I am taking is nestled among others on the theme of spirituality and the arts. My sense is that it is going to be a lovely week of not only writing but also having the opportunity to hear the fine words of many of the writers I already love and few that are new to me. It is a gift to be able to spend these early summer mornings in this way.

Halfway through one of the morning’s writing exercises, my eyes wandered to the floor in front of me. I noticed that one of the people I had met earlier was wearing two different shoes. They were both the rubbery, comfy clogs known as ‘Crocs’. One was red and one was orange. My observation had already been that she was a friendly, free spirit and as I saw her shoes, the deal was sealed. I liked her a lot!

The Croc-wearer made me think of a North Carolina friend who always wears two different socks. Why, you ask? So every time he looks down at his feet he is reminded not to take himself too seriously. I smile just thinking of him and this fashion statement turned personality check. Perhaps there is a similar reason for the woman with different shoes.

All this varied foot wear sent me on a time machine to a time when my Aunt Nell showed up at church one Sunday in her go-to-meetin’ best. Worship was held and adults and children alike attended Sunday school. Toward noon we all stood outside on the lawn and the church steps talking in that slow, meandering ways adults love and children hate. The children were hungry and tired of being held captive by our Sunday clothes. Sidling up to my Mother who stood in the circle of women talking, I heard my mom say, “Well, Nell. You have on two different shoes!” We all looked down and sure enough, there she stood with two different, black high heeled shoes. I remember being dumb founded by this. How was it possible to wear two shoes that weren’t mates, especially ones with heels? Didn’t she feel unbalanced all morning?

This is one of my clearer childhood memories. But as I pull it out from the deep recesses of my brain, what strikes me is that what I remember is the laughter. I remember being surrounded by the high pitched laughter of my mother and grandmother and the women of the church. And I remember Aunt Nell laughing at herself till she doubled over. These women who most often I had observed cooking, cleaning, teaching, and caring for children, were also capable of laughing like giddy school girls. Standing in the best clothes any of them owned, they laughed and laughed and somehow, through my gender and my close proximity to the shoe discovery, I became a part of their world. Thinking back now, I imagine them later in the day, after the Sunday dinner had been consumed and the dishes were done, sitting around telling the story of Aunt Nell’s mismatched shoes. Perhaps the whole family got a second helping of laughter out of it.

It doesn’t take much to bring a little joy into any day. Most of us(I am pointing a big finger at myself here.) take ourselves and life far too seriously. Maybe each of us could do with a little creative footwear. And a good laugh.

“Surely there is a future, and your hope will not be cut off.” Proverbs 23:18

In my early morning trek across the Mendota Bridge, I noticed a flash of red out of the corner of my eye. I turned quickly to see what it was. There, embedded in the chain link fence that joins the massive stone bridge structure, were bright, red plastic cups. The cups, normally used for holding picnic beverages, spelled out one, simple word: ‘HOPE’. Seeing this message, I felt a warmth wash over me that felt like a healing. As traffic rushed by on both sides, as bikers huffed and puffed across the windy, expanse of the bridge, someone had offered an urging, a blessing, for whatever the day might hold.

My mind was instantly filled with a thousand questions. Who created this message? Why the cups? Why in this particular place, on this specific stretch of highway? How did they know the cups would fit so perfectly? Why did they feel the need to offer this word to the world? Was the word used as a noun or as a verb, as command or comfort? So many questions continued to flood my mind as I journeyed on.

In many places of our world, hope is certainly in short supply. I think of all the places where war continues to rage with no end in sight and of all the lives that will be damaged by the fighting on just this day alone. I think of the many places that are a headline one day and forgotten the next. Places like Japan and Joplin. What kind of hope do the people in these places need to help them get up and face each day? I think of the people in MInnesota who struggle each day to make a life with few resources and no safety net. I am equally aware that the systems that have provided them with basic needs are in serious jeopardy as our elected officials seem incapable of working out any compromises for our state budget. These are just the big picture places where hope is waiting to be born. To say nothing of individual lives that long for little sips of hope as they go to work, out to play, off to school, out to lunch, to bed at night.

Seeing all those cups, I was reminded of one of the things those of us who serve communion often say as we offer the Lord’s Supper. Raising the chalice into the outstretched hand of another, we say “Cup of Hope.” As the offered Bread of Life is dipped into the cup, the receiver takes these simple elements and makes them a part of their own body. Eating and drinking these simple gifts are both symbol and reality.

Whoever took the time, perhaps in the dark of night, to spell out the word ‘Hope’ with red plastic cups must have known that there are times when just one cup will not do. Sometime we need multiple cups of hope. For those who are in this very place, longing to drink their fill of a hope that will quench a powerful thirst, I offer prayers. May you step up to a table…..or a bridge….which will bring all you need. And may your cup overflow.

This morning I watched as the children who board the school bus in front of our house got on for the last time this school year. I had already heard from one of them the many things she was looking forward to this week. The final week of school was to be filled with fun things…..water games, field sports, ice cream, many special outings to various parks and other amusements. The learning of this year is complete. They have, no doubt, cleaned out their desks and have a grocery bag of things to take home. Tests are finished. What was hoped to be accomplished is past, whether the goal was met or not.

As the kids got on the bus I noticed the changes in some of them. All are taller, their now longer legs attached to torsos that are beginning to lengthen or fill out in ways that point to the development to come. I watched as one of the moms took a picture of them boarding the bus, a hoped-for mirror of ‘before’ and ‘after’ which will fill the scrapbook of the first and last days of school. Only one will move on to middle school next year and he patiently stood as his mom snapped one more picture of his elementary school days. I dare say he will not stand for such a thing come fall. But she does not know that yet.

I thought of the year that has gone by for these students. They have learned many important new skills, valuable information, and have overcome obstacles that are a part of moving from childhood to adolescence. Many have also made new friends and come to love teachers they weren’t too sure of in September. Some have learned to deal with words that have hurt them, ways they have been ridiculed by those who make it their business to make certain children’s lives miserable. My prayer is that they have acquired ways to heal those wounds so they do not carry them into the next school year or into the rest of their lives. Some have been so inspired and moved by something they have learned that it has planted a seed that will carry them toward their life’s work. Others have continued to struggle to understand what the subjects they study have to do with their real life. All this and so much more happens in any given school year.

Those of us who are no longer in the school year mode often forget this rhythm, this nine month attempt to grow in new ways. But if we allow ourselves to reflect on these past school year months, we will all come to see that we, too, have learned new skills, gained some information that has shaped who we have become now that summer is here. Some of us have made new friends and lost very dear ones. Many of us have found new teachers we never thought we’d find. Like those elementary school kids, many have also had to use deflective armor to ward of hurtful words and rise to our highest selves to not be taken down by some real life playground bully. If we are blessed, we may also have learned something that planted a seed for the ‘what next’ in our lives, something we never thought we would have the opportunity to experience, something that may move us down our life’s path in an adventure we only dreamed about in September.

September to June doesn’t seem like a very long time. But when measured by all the lessons, tests, friendships, teachers, we might experience, it can be an amazing nine months. As adults, we have most likely not grown taller. Many of simply hope to not grow shorter! But hopefully we have grown in ways that have made us healthier and stronger. No one captured our entry into the journey in September and no one came to snap our photo as we headed out into this particular morning. But make no mistake about it, we each have changed in ways that are visible and invisible.

May God add a blessing to this school year for the children and for all of us.

In an effort to get a jump on the heat that was to arrive yesterday, I headed out early for my morning exercise. Making my way through my neighborhood and along the bluffs of the Mississippi River, I encountered many other runners, walkers and bikers who were doing the same. We were all out early trying to get in some cardio before the heat and humidity could make the process unbearable.

Along this particular stretch of sidewalk I frequent are poems printed directly into the concrete. They were printed there last year as a part of a project by the city. I love coming upon these words, now permanent, in the concrete I so often pound with my running shoes. I always take a moment to reread the lines that were, I imagine, labored over by poets as they sought to make beauty, humor, wisdom out a few, spare words.

But yesterday brought an added surprise. As the humidity began to rise, I made my way up the shaded side of the street. There, in yellow and blue sidewalk chalk were the words:“The world is a hologram. Make it your adventure.” What a great gift for a soon-to-be hot day! This invitation to adventure began to open up before me. Suddenly my day began to have more possibility that it had had just a few minutes ago. I wondered at the person who had printed this message with such intention. Were they hiding behind the curtained windows nearby to see who stopped to read their message?

Moving on down the block, I found another message: “Life can be fun….if you are on the right path.” Now they had my attention. Yes, life can be fun, is fun, but I so often take myself too seriously to remember. Does that ever happen to you?  I am not sure what the writer meant by ‘right’ path but I am going to assume it is the one that connects with that ‘adventure’ message. If we see life as an adventure, fun must be in it someplace.

Not too much farther along the sidewalk were just two simple words: “Be curious.” Ahhh, yes. Curiosity. The gift and playground of all creative people….artists, inventors, teachers, parents, and especially children. So the message of this sidewalk prophet was to embrace the adventure, to have fun and to be curious. My day was being seeded for something I hadn’t planned, that did not exist on any to do list I had made earlier.

And finally one last message: “Life is good.” Indeed, it is. And my life was made better by one person who took the time to grab a piece of chalk and head out to the sidewalk. Leaving a message in the spirit of a child this person gave shape to my day and lifted my spirits in ways they will never know. It was a gift. It was fun. It was an adventure.

The sidewalk prophet’s words were not permanent in concrete like the poets’. A rain or a lawn sprinkler could erase them at any moment. But nothing the heat of the day could conjure up could dampen my lifted spirits after reading their words.

And so I give thanks for this person who had an idea and followed through. Blessings on you, dear one. You made more of an impact than you might ever know.

When United Methodists gather, as we have over the last few days from all over the state, there are many traditions. One of those traditions is a worship service that honors the ministers and spouses who have died over this past year. It is always a meaningful and touching service.People are reminded of those spiritual leaders who helped them struggle with their big questions.Those who sat with them when a loved one was ill or dying. The person who accompanied them on a part of their life’s journey that was transformative. Or those who simply were a good friend, a deep listener, a faithful companion. This is true, not only for those who were a part of a church these people knew as home for awhile, but also for those of us who knew them as mentors, teachers, nudgers, inspirers.

One part of the service involves the slow, measured reading of the names of those whose faces no longer grace our circle. As their name is read into the silence of the room, a bell is rung and that clear tone carries out over the people until its sound dissolves. Those who have had a relationship with the now departed person, stands at hearing their name. It is a witness to the imprint this person has made on our common life.

At this morning’s service, I became aware of how our bishop stood as the first name was read and remained standing throughout the entire reading of all the names. Perhaps this has always happened and I simply have not noticed. But as she remained standing, I began to realize that she has indeed been touched by all these lives.She has known their churches, their homes, their families, their gifts and their challenges. She has known where they struggled and the people within their churches who loved them and those who didn’t. She has heard glowing love of them. And she has also, I’m sure, heard vile complaints. As I became aware of her standing, it seemed to me a terrific load to bear.

The United Methodist Church claims as one of its central tenets a concept we call connectionalism. Each church is seen as a little point of light connected to another for reflecting into the world our understanding and experience of God. This is done through how we are church in any given community through worship and service, through trying as best we can to be the hands and feet of Christ in a world in desperate need of healing. The picture of this work comes in many forms, as many as there are people who try to express it. But the point of this ‘connection’ is that we are never in this work alone. No church, no minister, no member or constant visitor stands alone.

As this bishop, this one person given the responsibility,honor and authority to lead this rag tag gathering of well intentioned, faithful people who don’t always agree……to be honest who often don’t agree….on what that work should look like, she stood. Holding the work and the faith of those who had passed from this life into eternity. She stood holding the grief and pain of the family members who looked back at her from their seats. Both, I imagine, were remembering the people they could no longer reach out and touch. From time to time, others stood around the room as names were read. But the bishop stood for all.

She stood out of respect, as witness, and perhaps out of love. But certainly, most certainly, she stood full of her knowing. And as I became aware of her standing, I was struck that some day, a bishop will stand in just such a way for me. And I felt blessed to be a apart of this connection of people. Blessed and known and filled with humility.

“The sky does it simply, naturally
day by day by day.
The sun does it joyfully,
like someone in love,
like a runner on the starting line.
The sky, the sun,
they just can’t help themselves.
No loud voices, no grand speeches,
but everyone sees, and is happy for them.
Make us like that, Lord,
so that our faith is not in our words but in our lives,
not in what we say but in who we are,
passing on your love like an infectious laugh:
not worried, not threatening, just shining
like the sun, like a starry night,
like a lamp on a stand,
light for life-
your light for our lives.”
~ Kathy Galloway, the Iona Community

I was awakened quite early this morning, and quite literally, by the sun. It has been so overcast these last few days that, when I went to sleep last night, it never occurred to me to close the drapes that covered the windows of my hotel room. It also never occurred to me that those windows were facing east. While I am normally an early riser, this wake up call was more brilliant than I had anticipated. The bright sphere of the sun reminded me of a Georgia O’Keefe painting as it created an enormous yellow-orange circle with shoots of light forming a cross heading up, down, left and right.

Not long after being jarred awake by this powerful light, I read this poem/prayer in a book I had carried with me to the Minnesota Annual Conference. This gathering of United Methodists from around the state is a yearly event in which we come together to remember who we are as the vast diversity that can be this beloved church. Unlike some other denominations, we can paint a wider swath of theological perspectives and ways of seeing and articulating our faith. This has, as you might imagine,both gifts and challenges. Our yearly gathering brings out the fullness of this diversity. We can often rise to our best selves even in that diversity. And we can often fall far short of it. My prayer for this week is that we will be more of the former.

Knowing and being our true selves, which is what I believe Kathy Galloway is pointing toward, is difficult and often risky business. Our culture leans toward human conformity. Our churches have followed that lead. We have not only created creeds we ‘must’ say to fit in,to be a part, we have also fought wars and committed murder in this pursuit. Our schools create tests and curriculum to try to ‘normalize’ behavior and the product of our education. It can make the work of knowing oneself, of being true to any inner voice we hear that might rub against those norms, very difficult, even dangerous to follow.

How is it that we let the light of the Spirit shine through our lives? Certainly how that light shines through my life will be quite different than the way it does through my child’s or my neighbor’s or yours, don’t you think? And what of the person whose life has been laced with experiences so drastically foreign to my own life and yours, experiences that may have imprinted deep wounds we have never known? How could we possibly speak of our faith in similar ways? Holding gently the fullness of these faith experiences is, and should be,the holy work of any church.

In the end, this diversity is the gift of Creation and a Beloved Creator. I do not have to try to be the Sun or a star. Thank heavens! My life’s work, and yours, is to be the fullest expression of the image of God within each us. It will not mean blazing through windows to awaken people from sleep. But it will mean allowing the light of the Spirit to shine boldly through us in a myriad of diverse ways. It will often be messy and chaotic.

But if we are true to ourselves and the God within each of us, it will, I believe, create something beautiful.