Thursday, January 18, 2013

Today was an odd day.  Kinda rough, actually.  I hesitate to write about it, since I don't want to write an entirely negative representation of life here.  I need to be honest in sharing my stories of life here though and this is what today held.  To be fair, I firmly believe that these experiences could have happened anywhere.

My morning started off by leaving my apartment to let Steve out.  I noticed a man at the kitchen table who I didn't recognize.  When I came back inside and sat down for breakfast, I had no idea who he was and nobody introduced him to me.  As someone who was a social worker for awhile and as the child of a social worker, I have a pretty good sense about people.  Something didn't click right for me with this visitor.  He seemed to talk in circles and said some pretty harsh things.  At one point, he said that Jesus lost his salvation when the people killed him and that we lose our salvation when we do bad things.  I listened patiently, then interjected that I don't believe Christ or we lose our salvation because nothing can separate us from God.  He seemed slightly appeased by this idea, but quickly moved onto his set of statements.  There were some other odd details about his story, but I'm not going to share those in such a public way.

My morning continued when my supervisor and I were invited to "do prayers" for a "fetal demise."  I was just talking with Karen yesterday about the different language surrounding fetal death: stillborn, remains of conception, etc.  I struggle with how to appropriately gauge what language to use based on the family's needs.  Some parents consider the fetus a child and a part of their family from the moment of conception.  Others seem to disregard it, preferring to designate it as remains.  When we headed to the hospital this morning, we really had no idea how far along the mother had been or what the story was.

Upon arriving at the hospital, I saw a man who had built himself a little cave in a pile of snow and was sleeping in it.  I've seen plenty of people who are sleeping on the sidewalk, park benches or public transit before, but seeing a man who had found the most protection and warmth out of sleeping in a pile of snow was a new one for me.

We visited with the mother who asked for our prayers.  We went through the Evangelical Lutheran Worship Pastoral Care book's service to commend an unborn child to God.  We prayed for her and sang "Precious Lord, Take My Hand" when she asked for it.  After going through most of the prayers and readings, a nurse came in with a plastic bin and what appeared to be some fabric in it.  I assumed the nurse was ready to do some sort of bath with the mother.  Eventually, the nurse joined us on our side of the room, holding the fabric in the bin and handed it to the mother.  The fabric bundle was actually the child that wasn't living.  The mother held her lifeless child and said that had the little girl made it eight more days, she could have lived.  Eight days.  Eight days stood between this perfectly formed, but very, very small infant, and life.  Sure, being born would have meant some time in the NICU and lots of medical care, but she would have been born.  She would have grown into a baby, a toddler, a child, a teenager and eventually, she would become an adult.  

I completed my Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) at a great community hospital in North Carolina.  Spending the summer as a hospital chaplain was interesting.  I didn't have a lot of trauma cases, since I was assigned to a medical floor and to an outpatient rehab section.  Part of me wanted to have the Obstetrics ward or the Emergency Room, just to experience the "bigger" cases.  Of course I say that and I'm pretty sure that I was a part of the most deaths of my CPE group--not fun.  I returned to LSTC feeling challenged and changed by my CPE experience, but always questioning if I had experienced everything.

Today, after doing prayers and trying to provide words of comfort, the mother held out her baby to us and asked if we wanted to hold her.  I've never felt so simultaneously honored and horrified at the same time.  I was a stranger, a nobody to her, and I was about to hold this child that never took a breath?  Who the heck am I?

Then, on top of all of this, my head is spinning around the fact that my precious godson Henry was in the NICU for the first month of his life.  He could have been born eight days too early.

I held that precious baby and focused on the moment with the mother, but my head feels incredibly heavy right now.

My supervisor stepped out of the room to get the nurse at one point and the mother said, "It's really hard to be here [in the OB ward] and hear all the other babies crying."  I spent nearly a week holding Henry and hearing him cry, not realizing how painful a baby's cry could be to a parent who's body is convulsing in pain from the greatest grief that I think one can experience.

The day went on to hold some weird and some hard experiences.  People keep asking me how internship is going.  I generally say that it's good, but difficult.  I wish that I could just show you the images in my brain of the hard stuff.

Baptism: Sanctifying the mundane

How could you NOT fall in love with this little guy?

One of the hardest things about leaving Chicago for internship in South Dakota was realizing that I wouldn't be there when my friends Zak and Katie would be giving birth to a baby boy.  They were due in October, but actually started pre-term contractions in August...the day that I left Chicago.  I was halfway through Minnesota when I got a text from Zak and nearly turned around to go back to Chicago!  I didn't, but I was incredibly worried.  August is a bit earlier than October, so I called my mom and had her talk through the stages of development for a fetus and tried to figure out what the risks would be.  Fortunately, that little baby stayed inside for another week, but was born into this world happy and healthy.

Katie was especially sad that we were all going to be out on internship when the baby was born, so I said that I would try to come back and visit.

Well, I love Katie and Zak...and I love traveling...and I couldn't even IMAGINE missing the opportunity to meet little Henry Christian Wagner as a baby.  So, I bought my plane tickets.  At some point in the fall during a conversation with Katie, she asked me if I would be Henry's godmother.  My heart nearly stopped.  I started to tear up and got SO excited to support Henry in his faith journey.  Needless to say, I've been planning for January 6th, the day Henry was baptized, for months.

I arrived in Chicago on January 4th, giving myself plenty of time in case weather would affect my trip.  I spent the 4th through the 9th with Zak and Katie, falling absolutely in love with my godson.  On the night of the 5th, the night before his baptism, Katie asked if I wanted to help bathe Henry.  As I watched Katie gingerly place this four-month old angel into his bath tub, I started to feel the emotions churn.  Katie looked into Henry's eyes as she wiped him clean, smiling at him and he smiled at her.  I felt like I was witnessing one of the most sacred moments in my life.  For Katie, it's a regular occurrence to bathe her baby, but for me, I felt this palpable love exchanged between mother and child.  I kept the tears in, but it was a struggle to keep it together.

The next morning, I stood with Zak's brother Jake, Henry's godfather, and promised God, the Church, and Henry, that I would support him in his faith journey.  It was the absolute COOLEST thing that I have ever done!!!  I've been all over the world.  I've been skydiving.  I've snorkeled in the Caribbean.  I've gone scuba diving in the Red Sea.  I've climbed into a pyramid and I've sat at the top of the ski jump in Lillehammer.  I have done awesome things.  Really.  None of these things are nearly as awesome as promising to love and support Henry for my lifetime.

Now, you may start to be asking yourself why you're reading this.  Let's be honest--does it matter to you who my godson is?  No.  Not really.  I write all of this to share what being a Christian is about for me.

The sacraments of the ELCA: Eucharist and baptism, are both mundane, regular tasks.  Eating and bathing.  Sure, we all eat different things and clean ourselves in different ways, but we all do it.  Standing in a large congregation, surrounded by six hundred people worshiping on a Sunday morning didn't make the act of baptism any more sacred for me than the bath that Katie gave Henry the night before.  God is in both of those acts.  God is the parent's love, gazing into our eyes and loving us from before we were even formed in the womb.  God is the godparents' love, committing to raise us up in God's house, walking beside us in our journey.  God is the community's love, supporting and celebrating with us.

And that, my friends, is pretty stinkin' cool.

Christmas!

Christmas was crazy busy here, but so good!  At the Center, we estimate that we gave gifts to 200 children (with the help of sponsors and friends all over the country), gift cards for the grocery store and restaurants to 65 families, 250 treat bags to members of the community and 18 cookie trays for friends of the Center.  We were a tad busy.

The bag making team!

Some of Santa's workshop

After all of the baking and wrapping, my family showed up for about a week to celebrate Christmas with me here in South Dakota.  I am incredibly grateful for how supportive my family has been throughout my whole life, but especially since starting seminary.  I have struggled over the last two and a half years to figure out what it means for me to be a pastor.  It's a hard profession to go into, knowing that everybody I meet has a pretty personal understanding of faith/church/God/religion/spirituality, whether that's a positive or negative sense of things.  And, once people find out that I'm becoming a pastor, they feel free to share any and all of their thoughts about my profession and what it means to them.  I've gotten pretty used to it, but I've also watched my family adjust to my profession.  I am blessed to have a family that is supportive and willing to meet me where I am to celebrate.  Last year, everyone came to Chicago for Easter, since I needed to be at my Ministry in Context (field site placement) congregation.  This year, they came west for Christmas.  I was responsible for services at the Presbyterian congregation and the Episcopal congregation.

Not about where you're at, but who you're with!

During the Episcopal service, I looked out and realized how out of place my family looked and really, how out of place they were.  We have celebrated Christmas Eve service at Zion Lutheran Church in Indiana, Pennsylvania, every year since we've lived there.  Now, here were the people who love me most in the world, huddled into an Episcopal congregation on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, in South Dakota.  They were singing Silent Night in Lakota in a tiny country church with only a wood stove for heat.  It was so cold that there was a jug of water under the pulpit frozen in a block.  Did I mention that we do frontier ministry here?  They strategized how much liquid to drink before the service, since they didn't want to use the outhouses in the negative degree weather we have.

When I signed up for seminary, I really didn't think about what it meant for my family--sorry, y'all.  But to see them in South Dakota, ready to hear me preach the Gospel, the good news, while stumbling through the Lakota hymns and wondering what the heck they had signed up for, was an awesome gift.  I am so blessed and honored to have them in my life.  :)

Taking the traditional family on Christmas Eve in a less than traditional spot.  

Magnificat

I've got the time, so this will be a pile-up of blog posts.  Get ready!

Every month, we gather together with the pastors and leaders of our conference.  I look forward to each one of these gatherings, because it's incredibly refreshing to move quickly in our conversations from the weather to the theological implication of preaching the crucifixion on Christmas Eve to ecumenical youth trips to the best Thai food in Rapid City.  In December, we met in Bellefourche, South Dakota, and did Holden Evening Prayer...in the morning.  The pastor leading the devotion asked me if I thought I could say something with a loud voice.

Hah.  Clearly, he doesn't know me that well.  I've been asked, on more than one occasion, to use my "inside voice" by my family.  Needless to say, I was up for the gig.

As he was reading from the Gospel of Luke, the first chapter, verses 39 to 55, it was my job to start this sound-off of women.  He read, "⁴¹When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child lept in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit ⁴²and exclaimed with a loud cry, ‘Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb."  I spoke loudly from my seat in the pew, "Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb."  Then, another woman spoke it.  And another.  And another.  In total, approximately six women repeated the line.  It was haunting to hear the the different voices repeat the blessing from the pews.

With each voice, the line hit me harder each time.  I'm not a mother.  I don't know what it's like to have a child in my womb leaping for joy when someone else comes in to visit.  In fact, this just sounds alien and a bit creepy to me.  I never know where to place myself in the Christmas narrative as Mary is preparing herself to carry the Christ-child.  Hearing the different women say this line, some who are mothers and some who are not, pushed me to realize that our "wombs" are not only the reproductive organs in a female body.  We all have wombs.  We are wombs.

Alright, Mer, you're talking crazy stuff now.  No, seriously.  This blessing is for all of us--all sexes and all positions in life.  Our bodies, including our minds and spirits, are to produce fruit for God.  For some, that's the act of bringing a child into the world and raising her to be a faith-filled leader in the Church.  For others, it's serving the community around them as the best dentist that he can be or the faithful accountant.  We, as created children of God, are blessed by our own lives and are given the ability to create life and goodness out of our own works.  And that is blessed in God's sight as well.

I don't know that I have any good pictures to describe this, but I challenge you to think of yourself as a womb, capable of nurturing good in the world.  Peace be with you, friends.

Historical Events

December was rather busy and I'll blog some more about those happenings, but I want to take some time to talk about the significance of December for the Lakota people.

December 26, 1862: Mass hanging at Mankato, the largest mass hanging in US history
I've read several articles about this to try to have a thorough way of presenting what happened in this instance.  Sadly, I can't.  What it seems to come down to is that Lincoln ordered the execution of 38 Indians to make his political allies happy and to further eliminate the Native peoples.  Maybe, I can't find a nice way of talking about all of this because I was born and raised in the United States, learning about the great work that Abraham Lincoln did in emanicipating the people who were enslaved in the United States.  I've always preferred Lincoln to some of the other historical figures.  Honest Abe, right?  He's a good guy, right?  We've got his face on Mount Rushmore because as the Mount Rushmore museum and displays says something along the lines of 'The faces of the men chosen for this monument are the faces of those that represent life, liberty and freedom for all.'

Wait, life, liberty and freedom for all?  Was Lincoln supporting life, liberty and freedom for the 38 men who he ordered to be slaughtered in a town square to eliminate the Indians in Minnesota?  Not to mention that these men were buried in a mass grave, after some of their skin was cut off and sold (http://www.cr.nps.gov/nagpra/fed_notices/nagpradir/nic0342.html).

As you likely know by now, I could go off on rants about the injustice of the US government to the Native people for days.  I present this information to you as a starting point to learn more about the nation that you call home and the history that you have been taught.

Here are some more sites with interesting articles.  They may not be credible or academic, but here's what I've found:
http://www.unitednativeamerica.com/hanging.html
http://law2.umkc.edu/faculty/projects/ftrials/dakota/dakota.html
http://minnesota.publicradio.org/display/web/2010/12/22/dakota-conflict

December 29, 1890: Massacre at Wounded Knee

I'd love to write some eloquent version of this story, but I'd rather quote it from someone who has already described it.

On the morning of December 29, 1890, the Sioux chief Big Foot and some 350 of his followers camped on the banks of Wounded Knee creek. Surrounding their camp was a force of U.S. troops charged with the responsibility of arresting Big Foot and disarming his warriors. The scene was tense. Trouble had been brewing for months.

The hope of the Ghost Dance

The once proud Sioux found their free-roaming life destroyed, the buffalo gone, themselves confined to reservations dependent on Indian Agents for their existence. In a desperate attempt to return to the days of their glory, many sought salvation in a new mysticism preached by a Paiute shaman called Wovoka. Emissaries from the Sioux in South Dakota traveled to Nevada to hear his words. Wovoka called himself the Messiah and prophesied that the dead would soon join the living in a world in which the Indians could live in the old way surrounded by plentiful game. A tidal wave of new soil would cover the earth, bury the whites, and restore the prairie. To hasten the event, the Indians were to dance the Ghost Dance. Many dancers wore brightly colored shirts emblazoned with images of eagles and buffaloes. These "Ghost Shirts" they believed would protect them from the bluecoats' bullets. During the fall of 1890, the Ghost Dance spread through the Sioux villages of the Dakota reservations, revitalizing the Indians and bringing fear to the whites. A desperate Indian Agent at Pine Ridge wired his superiors in Washington, "Indians are dancing in the snow and are wild and crazy....We need protection and we need it now. The leaders should be arrested and confined at some military post until the matter is quieted, and this should be done now." The order went out to arrest Chief Sitting Bull at the Standing Rock Reservation. Sitting Bull was killed in the attempt on December 15. Chief Big Foot was next on the list.

When he heard of Sitting Bull's death, Big Foot led his people south to seek protection at the Pine Ridge Reservation. The army intercepted the band on December 28 and brought them to the edge of the Wounded Knee to camp. The next morning the chief, racked with pneumonia and dying, sat among his warriors and powwowed with the army officers. Suddenly the sound of a shot pierced the early morning gloom. Within seconds the charged atmosphere erupted as Indian braves scurried to retrieve their discarded rifles and troopers fired volley after volley into the Sioux camp. From the heights above, the army's Hotchkiss guns raked the Indian teepees with grapeshot. Clouds of gun smoke filled the air as men, women and children scrambled for their lives. Many ran for a ravine next to the camp only to be cut down in a withering cross fire.

When the smoke cleared and the shooting stopped, approximately 300 Sioux were dead, Big Foot among them. Twenty-five soldiers lost their lives. As the remaining troopers began the grim task of removing the dead, a blizzard swept in from the North. A few days later they returned to complete the job. Scattered fighting continued, but the massacre at Wounded Knee effectively squelched the Ghost Dance movement and ended the Indian Wars.

**This information comes from http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/knee.htm

The Massacre at Wounded Knee is a very real part of everyday life here on Pine Ridge.  We take all of our retreat groups to visit the mass grave and pay their respects to the deceased.  There's something haunting about walking around a mass grave, knowing how many lives were ended because of racism and misunderstanding about who people are.  The grave is a patch of grass surrounded by a small sidewalk on the perimeter, then a chain link fence.  I've been to other grave sites where there's lots of concrete or structures to mark the grave, which seem to take away the rawness of what this massacre meant.  When I stand on the sidewalk, looking at the maybe four foot by twenty foot grave, I stand in the same spot where people threw the deceased, frozen from the cold, into this pit.

It's also important to mention that often the Massacre at Wounded Knee is called the Battle at Wounded Knee.  Prior to coming out to Pine Ridge, I watched a documentary discussing the native presence in the Chicago area and the history there.  One historian said, "If the Indians killed the white men, we call it a massacre.  If the white men killed the Indians, we call it a battle."  We, as people of 2012, do have power to choose how we acknowledge the history of peoples all over the world.  My plea for you, as my readers, is to consider the language of how we tell the stories of our history.

More information can be found at this great site that my mom found: http://www.woundedkneemuseum.org/main_menu.html

Interview with the....Peter.

Current view of the front porch of our building and the parking lot...snow!

My friend Peter sent me an email this morning asking me a couple of questions about life here, so I thought I'd share my answers with you all.  They seem like questions that many of you would ask.  Peter asked me to blog about another topic, comparing my experiences of living in Occupied Palestine to living on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, and I'm still working that one out in my head.  So, here you go, Peter!




How's life on the rez?
Life on the rez is good.  Things are feeling better these days.  I don't know if I've finally adjusted more or stopped resisting the move...or what, but life feels a bit more normal.  I had a rough couple of weeks where I felt really out of sorts and like I wasn't "clicking" here.  I should add that I am hyper self-aware, so I was still happy to be here and doing my work well, but I didn't feel as in-sync as I would have liked.  I told my friend Vance the other day that since the last three months have shown me a lot of negatives, I'm hoping to pick up on more positives.  We went to a Christmas program yesterday where I watched some of our young people perform different songs, including Jingle Bells in Lakota.  Awesome, right??!!

Is rez politically correct?I'm not sure.  People here use it a lot.  One of the pastors in town wrote a book called "Rez Ramblings."  So, I guess people use it.  Someone told me recently that I have a "rez car."  A lot of the cars around town are missing windows, including the front windshield, or seem to be held together by tape and bungee cords.  "Rez car" doesn't sound like a compliment.  Though, there are plenty of really nice cars around town--brand new SUVs, Lexus models, etc.  I hope that they're describing my 2000 Chevy Cavalier as one of those rez cars.

Speaking of being PC, do people prefer to be called Indians?
Good question!  A lot of people call themselves Indians here.  Most say Indians and non-Indians or Indians and Wasichu (white people, but it really means "The one who takes all the meat.")  I appreciate the irony when I, the vegetarian, am called Wasichu.  I try to use "Natives" and "Lakota" when possible, but it always feels really awkward in conversations with the community here.  There are a lot of sweatshirts around that say "Native Pride" and most formal things use "Lakota" or "Native."

Have you been un-PC so far?
Have I been un-PC?  I'm not sure what that means exactly.  I use "Indians" in conversations, since that's what people around me are using.  I still use "Native" or "Lakota" mostly when talking to non-Natives.  As with most titles, I find that the way a person uses it or the feelings behind how they use it determine the meaning, more than the word itself.  The same goes for "rez."  It's one thing for a bunch of 70 year-old grandmas to talk about themselves being "old Indians," but it's another for the US Government to call them Indians.  This may sound like a double-standard, but part of being in a community of people means that you determine what language you want used for that community and that use for yourself.  Before moving here, I really got into a habit of calling myself a Euro-American.  This isn't to deny that I am a white person by color-definitions, even though I can get a mean sunburn.  It's to acknowledge that I identify myself as having Euro-American heritage.  The way that I process the world comes from a point of being a third and fourth-generation immigrant from Europe.  This is different than someone who has had family in the United States for centuries and from someone who is first generation.  Here, to call myself Euro-American, seems almost silly.  The Lakota community knows that I am not Indian.  It's pretty clear.  In fact, the word wasichu is so often used in my presence, that I start to resent it.  It's made me think a lot about how words and titles define and separate people from circles.  My supervisor and I led a funeral a few weeks ago.  My supervisor checked in with the family and decided that we would wait until a certain few family members arrived before starting it.  One of the drummers had volunteered to act as the sort of MC, which is common at wakes and funerals here.  Since the service was scheduled to start at 2pm, my supervisor went to ask him if everyone had shown up at 2:15pm.  He announced to the whole crowd that we were on "white people time, so we better get moving!"  My supervisor and I were in no rush, but our race was pointed out as to the reason why she was checking on family.  I don't think it's a negative thing here, that my race is identified so openly, but it still makes me a little uncomfortable.  It is what it is though.  In a community where the wasichu have taken all the meat and where the white people continue to break promises with the Indians, then yes, I am an outsider.  Yes, my skin resembles the people who have torn the land from the hands of my neighbors' ancestors and continue to take it out of their hands today.  It makes me uncomfortable to be called white and wasichu all the time, because the history is uncomfortable and nasty.

Well, big thanks to Peter for some good questions that made me think and I hope provided some thoughts for y'all to mull over.  

My. Friends. Are. Awesome.

My friends are awesome.  Really. 

1.)  Vance helped get Google to add Cherokee to their languages.  Check out the blog post here.

2.)  Kelly sent me the the aforementioned Vicar of Dibley boxed set.  Lady pastors rock.

3.)    Alex sent me the COOLEST card ever.  It included the parking sticker from our last adventure together in Chicago.  You pay for parking in Chicago at these little machines and then it prints a sticker with the time it expires.  Our last adventure was heading to the Signature Lounge at the Hancock Building.  Sometimes, in the middle of nowhere, South Dakota, I really miss living in the city and coming up with great adventures with one of my best friends.

4.)    Sara, Ashley, Justin and Ryan made this cool video about donating blood at LSTC.  Sweet, right???!!  The ELCA is lucky to have such talented folks around.

5.)    Katie is forcing me to take some “me” time.  She wants me to watch two episodes of Honey Boo Boo Child (don’t judge me) and turn my brain off for a bit.  I haven't watched the episodes yet, but I am getting better at taking "me" time.   

I could probably list 200 friends here who have been awesome in one way or another, whether in supporting me in particular, or just making this world a better place. 

Y’all are fantastic.  J

Your finger prints are everywhere…

The title of this post is from The Hippo Song.  If you don’t have the pleasure of knowing this ridiculous tune, it goes like this:

In the beginning God made the seas and the forests filled with trees.  God stacked the mountains up so high, and above it all, God placed a sky.  God’s fingerprints are everywhere, just to show us that God cares.  And in the middle, God had some fun.  Made a hippo that weighs a ton.  Hip-hip-hippopotamus.  Hip-hip-hooray, God made all of us!

I love this silly song, complete with ridiculous hand motions, because it really names some of the cool things that God has created.  I am always in awe of where I see God creating today, especially when God is creating through precious little fingerprints.

One of my favorite things about working with kids is that they are the best artists.  I was so pleased the first time that one of the kids gave me a piece of art—a purple construction paper piece, similar to a paper snowflake—that I promised him I would hang it on my apartment door.  Since I live in the Retreat Center, my apartment is right off of the community kitchen.  In fact, my door is seen easily from the front door.  As soon as you step inside the center, you can see my door decorated with now a gallery of children’s art.  With each day that goes on, more and more sacred art is created and placed into my hands by a smaller set of hands.  I promise each one of them that their art will end up on my door. 

I am so thankful for each of these little creations that end up on my door.

As you can see from the picture, there are a few pieces that are in the “gallery” which were not created by young artists.  The first one you may notice is a sign that says “Quarantine.”  This was a gift from Alicia and Trish, one of the other center employees.  My bug bites have continued for over two months now, so they decided to secretly hang this sign on my door to guard others against my ailment.  It’s all in good fun.

The other non-art piece is a quote that I printed and hung on the door.  The quote is by an Aborginal woman regarding missionaries.  She said, “If you have come to help me, you are wasting your time.  But if you have come because your liberation is bound up in mine, then let us walk together.”  Following my time with ELCA Global Mission, I’ve become very passionate about “mission” and how we see our relationship with others.  If we, and specifically, retreat groups, come into the Reservation with the intention to “fix” things or to simply provide food, clothing, money, etc, because they want to help, then we need to move along and help ourselves.  If we instead look at our own responsibility to our sisters and brothers, our interconnectedness, our shackles of commitment to one another, then we enter into relationship with one another, knowing that when we walk together, we are one common people, God’s creation, seeking understanding and healing. 

This quote speaks loudly to my heart and soul, but feels especially appropriate mixed in with the art of the children I work with everyday.  I am honored and blessed to be here.  I am thankful for the hugs, the smiles, the handshakes, the cups of coffee, the frybread, the friendship and the exchange of stories.  These relationships are changing and shaping my understanding of faith and Christian community.  Thanks be to God!

Blue!

I think I’ve said before on this blog that I really appreciate the pastors’ conference that we’re a part of.  It’s a fantastic group of people who really support the ministry of one another.  We had our monthly meeting at the Lutheran Social Services office in Rapid City recently.  We began our meeting with a devotional.  This particular devotional required us to pick a piece of colored paper out of an icecream bucket.  Each color represented a category of things and we were to pray a prayer of thanks for what was listed on our piece of paper. 

I reached in and quickly pulled out a small piece of blue paper.  I learned that blue was the color relationships and my paper said “Children.”  It seemed perfect to be thanking God for so much, especially since my assignment was children.  Our group prayer was to be solely “thanking” and not “asking.”  Try praying to God without asking for anything—it’s hard! 

I continue to pray a prayer of thanksgiving for the children we encounter every day.  I pray that they have Sanctuary, more than just an hour a day when they come to us.  

Thanksgiving

Sorry for the delay in posting!  Things have been rather busy here over the last few weeks.  Yesterday was the first day that I spent most of the day at the center, without having to run anywhere else, for at least three weeks.  It was strange to sit at my computer and actually get some measurable work done, since the last few weeks have been more about conversations, wakes and funerals, worship services and less "measurable" work.

I was trying to listen to myself as Thanksgiving was coming up a few weeks ago.  I was curious if I was sad that I wasn’t with my family or confused over how to celebrate Thanksgiving in a community of people who are typically depicted at Thanksgiving as wearing buckskin loin cloths and wearing feather headdresses.  I had prepared myself to curl up on the couch with the boxed DVD set of The Vicar of Dibley, which is a British TV show about a female priest in England.  My friend Kelly, a pastor in Chicago, sent me this boxed set after we had an exchange about some of the difficult days of being an intern.  My supervisor said that we’d close the center on Thanksgiving and the day after. 

I was ready for a break.  Vicar of Dibley.  My couch.  My puppy.  My favorite Thanksgiving leftovers: mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, green bean casserole and brussel sprouts.  The entire month of November has flown by, since it’s been so busy around here.  The idea of having nothing else to do sounded magnificent.

Life in ministry is not just about the plans we make in advance, documenting the dates and times of events into my trusty planner.  Life in ministry often means spontaneous, last minute needs that pop up.  Keep this in mind.

Let’s start with the day before Thanksgiving.  I got up to go the dentist at 7am, then shopped for the necessary fixin’s for our two Thanksgiving meals.  Got back from the store and spent the rest of Wednesday cooking a big meal for the kids.  We ended up serving approximately 40 kids a full meal: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, green bean casserole, gravy, cranberry sauce, rolls and pumpkin pie.  After feeding them and cleaning up the dinner, we left fifteen minutes later to go to a wake.  This particular death was due to suicide and the deceased was 27 years old. 

My first funerals and wakes here were for young children, which carries its own weight and difficulties.  There’s something different about looking into a casket and seeing someone your own age, who chose to take their life.  This death took a lot out of me, since one of my seminary classmates committed suicide this fall, as I was driving across the country to begin internship. 

There are no good answers for suicide, especially young suicide.  You can’t say, “He lived a good life…” when really, I’m very aware of how many hopes, dreams, plans, ideas and adventures are ahead of me, and this man, at my age, is lying in a casket.  It’s difficult.

After several hours at the wake, I went back to the Center and sat down to write my Thanksgiving sermon.  I was trained by my preaching professor, Craig Satterlee, to prepare for your sermon well in advance of preaching it.  I usually have my sermon written by Thursday evening, Friday morning at the latest, allowing me plenty of time to read over it and internalize the words.  Due to the chaos of the last week, sermon writing really couldn’t happen until the day before. 

I got up at 7am on Thanksgiving to start cooking for the meal after the service, and to finish writing my sermon.  I finished just in time to load up the car with all the food and drive out to St. John’s for our Thanksgiving worship service.  As I was setting up the table, I realized that I had left my sermon back at the center. 

Welp.  I did say that I wanted to try preaching without notes a few times on internship.  I didn’t expect to have to do it unplanned.  I think the sermon went well though, probably because I had written it an hour before.  We worshipped. We ate.  We went home.  An hour later, I was back out to the second night of the wake.

Most of Friday was spent at the funeral.  My supervisor and I left “early” after about four and half hours.  The total service, viewing, burial, feed and giveaway probably lasted over six hours. 

So, when people ask about my Thanksgiving, I realize that my plans of curling up with a British sitcom were replaced by being with a room of people grieving the scary, untimely death of a young person.  And I think I was exactly where I needed to be.  And for this, I am most thankful.