Happy Advent...How many sleeps until...?

 Make me to know your ways, O Lord; teach me your paths. Lead me in your truth, and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation; for you I wait all day long.

 ~Psalm 25:4-5 

How many sleeps? 

How many sleeps until you come to visit? 

How many sleeps until I go to school? 

How many sleeps until Christmas?

How many sleeps until...

The number of sleeps between the present moment and the anticipated moment is how my 5-year old niece Lilianna marks her periods of waiting. Both big and small events are marked in this way and she keeps the countdown going from when it begins to when the time finally arrives. 

The Advent season is its own period of waiting and there are a variety of ways for how to mark this time. This Advent devotion is one way, and perhaps you have others such as a wreath or a calendar or a paper chain. 

As I ponder this season of waiting I invite us to wonder about what it is we might be waiting for. Are we waiting for Christmas? For family to gather, for celebrations to be had, for baby Jesus to be welcomed? Are we waiting for a prayer to be answered? For hope to be restored? For love to be made known? Are we waiting for all of creation to be made new?

As the psalmist waits for God, they do so wanting their waiting to be illuminated by God’s presence, for God to make known their ways, for God to lead and guide, and for God to share their truth. There is a reciprocal relationship in this waiting. There is acknowledgement of who God is and a prayer for what God might do for us. There is also trust that there will come a time both now and in the future where God’s promises will be fulfilled.

The psalmist lingers in the waiting. It is a daily waiting as much as it is a seasonal or lifetime period of waiting. We wait for the gifts of God for the people of God. As we wait though, God acts. Life still happens in between each sleep. God shows up sometimes in the places we expect and oftentimes in the places we don’t. God’s love and grace is all around us, calling out to us, inviting us in, filling us up, strengthening us, equipping and empowering us. In the midst of our waiting, remember God is always at the ready, loving you and this world. 

Dear God, I wait for you. Help me to open myself to your presence and your power each and every day. Guide me as I strive to follow you. Gift me with your grace. Enable me to love your people as you love me. Watch over me as I sleep and as I rise. Bless me and keep me today and everyday. In Jesus name, Amen. 

The First 3.1

The Color Run is marketed as “the happiest 5K on the planet” and it only has two rules: begin the race wearing all white and finish covered in color. It was all that and more. 

For the six or so years before that July morning, I was what I call a sporadic runner. I would go through phases where I would run consistently and then I wouldn’t for months. I can’t remember my first run or why I decided I would try it out, but somewhere along the way of balancing school and work, family and friends, I added running to my life. There aren’t that many memories, but  I can bring to mind an occasional run if I try really hard. There was an early morning track run in the rain, the day I tried to run in the Australian heat after a long day of student teaching, and the first time I ran from my grandmother’s house in my hometown. I also can remember long periods of time where there was no running at all. 

Eventually, though, my running increased. Again, I’m not sure when and I’m not sure why. I joined a gym during my internship year and that is where I slowly became a little more consistent. I found myself frequently running on the treadmill. I was working on getting a little faster, going a little further, and I got to the point where I was even feeling confident in my progress and I kept at it. I wasn’t running far. I definitely wasn’t running fast. I didn’t even call myself a runner. 

But then, I decided the time had come. It was time to think about a race and to begin to make a plan. The Color Run was what energized me to commit. It was low stakes. It was friendly to beginners. It wasn’t even timed. It was meant to be fun. And I decided it should be a family affair. I had a few others in my family who had been getting active in their own ways and so it made sense that we would do this together. 

Deciding to sign-up for my very first race was the easy part. Getting to the start line and then on to the finish, would take some work. A couch to 5K training plan became my friend. I downloaded a free app on my phone and with a few runs each week, I got to it. Over the course of a couple of months, I ran and walked, eventually running more than I walked, eventually running without walking at all. 

My race goal was to run the whole 3.1 miles, which I did, but a few other things didn’t quite go as planned. On the morning of the race, I got up early to have a good breakfast and to drink plenty of water. I wanted to be sure I was properly nourished and hydrated. I didn’t wear my race shirt (starting a habit I still have today), but I did wear a white t-shirt. I also wore old shorts and shoes so as to not have to worry about colored powder staining anything good. When I was picked up to head downtown to the race, I was feeling ready. And I was excited. 

A family photo was taken right before the start.  Five of us showed up at the start line together. But only two of us stayed together from beginning to end. My cousin and I ran the whole course side by side. Along the route, I got a little thirsty and I was grateful that I had decided to bring a water bottle along after all. As I took one drink, my body immediately reacted by sending a signal from my bladder to my brain. I needed to pee. But I was running a race. I kept moving, trying to focus on getting to the finish, when my mind was overtaken. I started to pee. But I kept running. I’m not sure how many seconds passed as my bladder released itself and sent warm liquid running down my legs and into my shoes all while I kept my legs moving forward. 

I just kept running and finally finished. I crossed the finish line with a smile on my face having run the whole thing. I didn't have a smartwatch back then, but I did have a watch with a stopwatch feature that I used. I don’t remember the time, but I remember being pleased. We found the others and took another photo capturing all our color and our accomplishment. Following the race we went to brunch, another habit that continues to today. Between ordering and our food and drink arriving, each of us took turns using the one-stall bathroom to change our clothes. After we were all cleaned up and I was dry, I told my story. I told them about the time I peed myself while running my very first race. 

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Novel".

From One Pastor to Another

Three witches occupy my neighbor’s yard this time of year. 

Surrounded by crows, bones, rats, chains and broken pumpkins, one witch, the one closest to the passerby, comes alive in the darker hours. Standing over her black kettle, she methodically stirs the substance hidden within, the sounds of moving liquid not to be missed. Beyond her, along the back, there is a coffin propped up horizontally, the lid opened, exposing a skeletal man dressed in black.

The summer lawn that once contained green grass, tulips, blue jays and cardinals in the tree and flower boxes along the window frames is now a graveyard. This is a house I walk by almost daily, but usually try to avoid during the month of October. In years past this was another Halloween display that creeped me out, made me uneasy, caused me to cross the street to the other side.  This year, though, I have a new perspective. 

As I made my usual walk home one late afternoon, I got to witness the project being constructed. Many of the pieces were in place, but not all. The owner of the house and his friend, the masterminds behind the creation, were hard at work. I slowed my pace to watch them a little and took the opportunity to acknowledge their artwork. In the midst of the conversation, I decided to ask the question I have long wondered about. 

“Is the man in the coffin supposed to be a pastor?” 

Both men stopped what they were doing and looked at me.

 “You’re the first person that we know of who has ever noticed.”

___________________________

Another house on my street, one that is almost equal distance between the one with the graveyard and my own, contains a single Halloween decoration, but it’s presence is looming. Across the walkway is an inflatable arch. The center contains the head of a clown with its hands reaching out through the pillars. Across the top are the words “fun house.” 

When I saw the arch for the first time, I immediately recognized it because a few days earlier I had received a photo of the very same decoration. The picture my mother sent wasn’t of the one found on my street, but one my 5-year old niece had spotted in my hometown. The story goes that when my niece Lilianna saw the “fun house” arch with the big clown face, she immediately asked my mother to stop the car and to then take a photo. Accompanying the picture my mother sent was also a video where my niece explained what she was up to. She wanted to play a little trick on her Aunt Sara. She wanted to see me “freak out like a little baby.” She too knows how much I dislike Halloween, likely thanks to my sisters who like to pull their own little pranks. 

___________________________

It is no secret that I do not like Halloween. 

I have never ever and I doubt I ever will. 

I do not like clowns, masks, costumes, or bad drag. 

I do not go to haunted houses.

I do not watch scary movies. 

I do not pass out candy to trick-or-treaters by myself. 

This year though, thanks to a coffin in my neighbor’s graveyard scene, I am acknowledging fears within fears. 

My fear of most things related to Halloween is parallel to my other fears - 

my fear of the unknown, of things being beyond my control, of failure, of death

I am often motivated by fear - 

the fear of not being loved, of not being enough, of being misunderstood.

__________________________

In talking with the two men about their vision for the pastor in the coffin, I realized that I don’t want to be that pastor. The story that this scene is meant to accompany is that the pastor is responsible for attempting to burn the three witches at the stake, but they don’t die. 

In retaliation, they then burn the pastor.

I doubt I will die from being burned at the stake as a result of my perpetuation and participation in toxic theology. But I also don’t want to die to the institutional church or the status quo or the unjust systems of patriarchy, heterosexism, racism, and white Christian nationalism. I believe the church is in a liminal space. This was true before the pandemic, but has been exasperated because of it. I’m also not the same pastor I was before and I realize there is no turning back. 

Often my fear of many things keeps me from doing what I feel called to do. I am feeling called to see where new innovation and creativity might take me. There is hope to be found in the good news of the gospel and I am being transformed to take my seat at the table and invite others along. Thanks to the unnamed, barely recognized pastor I know now the fear of not following the call that is on my heart is larger than the fear that usually holds me in place.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Unmaking Fears".