Via Beatta--the Blessed Way

  In observance of what would have been my father's 99th birthday, I had the oil changed in my car. It was not really intentional--I had tried to make an appointment for Wednesday or Thursday, but that was not possible. It is fit and proper, though, that I did it on July 23. My dad was not always a man of many words in expressing his fatherly feelings about us. But the words were demonstrated in other ways--in making sure we were safe and provided for and asking such questions as: "Have you been checking your oil?" "When did you last get an oil change?" He knew that as young adults such things would not be foremost in our minds. And, I expect, he was protecting himself from being called out late at night to rescue us from some car misadventure. (That happened often enough, I'm afraid, even with fresh, topped up oil.) He was almost obsessive about his own cars. They were always spanking clean and polished--and then put in the garage to keep ...

Did you ever notice how there is almost never a time without trash? On Tuesday evening or early Wednesday morning the cat box is cleaned, the wastebasket contents gathered and all is deposited in the trash can, dragged to the alley well before the rumble of the city trucks in the next blocks signals the weekly pick-up. Oh, and this is recycling week, too, so the paper--newspapers and junk mail, drafts of reports and sermons--along with rinsed plastic containers and cereal boxes are in the bin. For one brief moment, a sigh of satisfaction. The mess is gone. I walk through the living room on my way to dress for the day. Oh, no! There's the pile of discarded mail from yesterday next to my chair. And that pint of fuzzy berries still in the fridge. And, what's that? Feathers on the dining room rug? Naughty cat! I suppose trash and litter is not a very attractive metaphor for life and work. It is apt, though, in describing what seem to be obstacles to the "real" wor...

This is triggered by reading a Nadia Bolz Weber sermon about the Woman at the Well. She reflects that the woman may have gone to the well at noon instead of the usual women's hours in order to avoid the shunning and judgment she had experienced. Nadia, in her time, took her children to playgrounds at odd hours because she didn't feel a fit with the other moms.       I immediately time-traveled back to my first--and last--invitation to a gathering of stay-at-home moms in my new upscale, suburban neighborhood. It was a tea that turned out to be a fundraiser for the hostess's sorority. I arrived at the appointed time--a bit before the full group assembled with little ones in tow.       It was probably just polite getting-to-know-you talk. Having recently moved from another suburb, I had not yet met my neighbors. Yet, I quickly felt the questions as more like an interrogation. I responded, telling about my part-time job in a medical labora...

I 'm not sure why trains bring back Christmas memories for me, but they do. Maybe it came from ads or Marshall Field's window displays. Certainly not from the symbols of Advent or the Nativity!      In the house where we lived when both of my sons were still at home, as soon as the tree was in place and the lights strung on its branches along with the cranberry ropes (wooden ones from Crate &  Barrel, not hand-strung fresh berries), the train tracks would be put together and  arranged in an oval around the tree. It was not a fancy train with lots of accessories, just a simple Lionel with a few cars and caboose--and, of course, a whistle. It was always a lot of trouble, really, because sitting on carpet, the connections between tracks inevitably became loose or a car jumped the tracks rather than doing what it was supposed to do. Nevertheless, the tree was a necessary part of our holiday decorating.      The house was ...

I am so grateful for being given the opportunity to take the past six weeks' sabbatical and for the lovely welcome back!      There are so many memories of this brief time and stories to tell about the places I visited, the people I met, and just the plain old time of relaxation without deadlines and undone tasks to worry about.      It may seem like a "busman's holiday," but one of the favorite parts was the ability to attend a variety of church services, mostly as a member of the congregation. It is a rare pleasure when serving a church on most Sunday mornings. This time, I experienced endings: a colleague's final service before moving on to a bishop's position in another diocese; the final service of a church closing after 130 years; and a requiem mass at our cathedral for Bp. Montgomery.   All Saints Chicago's Day of the Dead and Rector's Farewell I was involved in beginnings, too, especially my participation...

“I have come to appreciate Advent so much more without the light/dark binary. Rather, I see darkness as the generative space in which light is conceived and from which it is born. Both holy, both life-giving.” This morning, these words by Episcopal priest and biblical scholar, Wil Gafney, were shared on social media. It immediately made me consider the truth that darkness is not always scary and best avoided. Without darkness, we could not see the beauty of stars and moon in the night sky. Without darkness, we would not need candles. Without darkness, we could not sleep—at least not so soundly. But even more, I think of the spring bulbs planted in the fall that will rest in the dark earth before bringing the beauty of blossoms to our summer gardens. I think of dough rising beneath a warm towel to leaven the bread and bakery goods that we share with delight. I think of worries or puzzlements that we take to bed with us that simmer through the night and become clear with the morning ...

On this rainy and drear late October day, I resist going outside and spend much of my day in my bathrobe reading older posts and journal entries, avoiding looking forward to the next leg of my path in ministry.      My eye is caught by a small quilt that still hangs on my wall where it has been for nearly fifteen years. It was made for me by my Sunday School children as a farewell gift when I left their church. At the top, it says "Rev. Gloria's Favorite Things," and consists of quilt blocks with hand drawn pictures. Now, I'm certain the adults guided this creation. Otherwise, these children and youth saw far more into my person than I ever would have guessed! The depictions of favorite things follow themes that truly reflect my personal life. A bit of church life, too, I suppose, though there is nothing overtly theological. There are dogs and cats; coffee, candles, and music; books--fortunately the Bible is included; mountains and airplanes; and, less frequently...