Because in my recent travels I have been logging miles, and hours, and words, and laughs, and meals. When we last left each other, I had just enjoyed a delightful birthday party Saturday night in the West Orange yard of my dear friend, circe. Well, Sunday came and off I went to visit my New Jersey church family at First Baptist Church of Madison. So much love to Rev. Dunn, Fonda, Mary, Eddie, Jackie, Evelin, Rochelle, Jessica, Natasha, Mrs. Brewster, et al! Evelin and I then enjoyed brunch afterwards wherein I ordered the chicken and waffles.

Monday I taught my last-minute class assignment for Bard Early College: U.S. History 1960s to the Present. Funny thing, that’s my life span. Guess I’m made for the job. Monday night I headed to Newark’s Ironbound for a dinner meeting with the Newark-Scott Cultural and Civic Foundation, at Forno’s of Spain on Ferry Street. Many of us were meeting for the first time in person as we continued our discussions and plans around ensuring that the legacy of Madam Louise Scott, as well as other African-American philanthropists and entrepreneurs, remains at the forefront of Newark’s history — and American History writ large. (Here is our Facebook page — please follow! https://www.facebook.com/newarkscottccf/ Plus there was sangria, and July birthdays and retirements were also celebrated. What a treat. After a vast paella dinner I waddled over to the long, marble bar to meet a wonderful friend for black sambuca and espresso. Thanks for finishing your laundry in time, Mary!

Tuesday, Evelin was kind enough to fetch me once more so we could have lunch with Miss Lottie, the most senior member of First Baptist Church, at age ninety-two. Lottie is one of a handful of women who truly inspire me. She is smart, and funny, and full of faith. We got BLTs and talked everything from church politics to banana pudding. Tuesday night my kids came back over to West Orange and we cooked dinner together and then had a sleepover. Jake made sweet potato gnocchi — from scratch.

Wednesday had me teaching again. Then I went to visit my friend Tammy who hosted me and our way-back friend Donna, who came all the way from Georgia! We drank Chardonnay while Tammy’s wonderful husband Rich cooked up the most delicious spicy chicken tacos for us. I mean who says I have to forego Mexican food just because I came East? We sat outside in their lovely garden (because finally it was not one million degrees outside! I mean was it always this humid out here?!). I returned home, full as usual, and so happy to have caught up with my friends. By this time I had received temporary custody of my son’s elderly Mazda, whose climate control consists of rolling down all the windows and driving very fast. But it saved me from spending major amounts of cash on a rental — have you seen the prices lately?!

Thursday may have been the second major highlight of the trip, my party being the first. Of course they both involved my children. On a warehouse rooftop garden, in Long Island City, I had the pleasure of attending a poetry and performance event organized by my amazing daughter, Kayla. All sorts of young people were there, many whom I call friends. The West Coast was well represented, as a lot of folks apparently make annual summer pilgrimages from the Pacific Ocean over to the Atlantic side. There were gorgeous poetry readings — my daughter’s included — and awesome performances by other artists. I even got to read spontaneously, a short piece I had come across in a literary journal I brought with me for the ride on New Jersey Transit. It was called “The Poets,” by Moroccan writer Mohamed Choukri. It’s an allegory about a society vanquishing its artists, a cautionary tale that no one in this group actually needed to hear.

We stayed late that night on the rooftop, drinking beer and eating — you guessed it — tacos. My son and I finally made it back to his apartment only to awake too few hours later for our prospective jobs. And oh, how worthwhile that loss of sleep had been. That next night I was out once again. This time in Montclair, a town which barely resembles the sleepy burg I moved to from Manhattan in 1990. Naomi (my comrade-in-arms from grad school) and I circled the whole of Montclair before finally finding a parking spot in downtown. The parking space chose our destination, not the other way around. A couple of frosés later we called it a night.

Saturday had me heading back to the city. The day started right out of a scene from Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. I was John Candy! Bus didn’t show, mercurial heat and humidity and then a rainstorm kept me damp most of the day… But I hiked to the Upper East Side to visit my ninety-two year old aunt who just kept saying in disbelief, “Do you know I am 92?” She is looking good, even if she doesn’t think so. After that I was off to Chelsea having been invited by my friends Mark and Robert for what turned out to be one of the most perfectly cooked pieces of salmon I have ever had! (I’ll never make it myself again). More crazy travel ensued — I think the transportation authorities are as out of practice as we travelers are. Finally made it home sometime after two a.m. I think I just sort of stayed on West Coast time during my whole visit.

Sunday was right out of a movie montage. I headed to Jersey City again where I met up with both kids and we walked, and ate pizza, and got ices, and lay on the grass at the Hoboken waterfront. The past rainstorms had broken the smarminess of the air, and it was simply a perfect time to walk the day away. Back to Jake’s apartment for some refreshments and a quick change before returning to the neighborhood for oysters and cocktails. Jersey City. Sunday night. Happenin’!

Last night my son came over and cooked for me: black beans and beet greens that people would give up a limb for if they could. I mean, delicious. Fried yucca and plantains to accompany. Wow. We did some more transporting, once he found a free charging station for his new electric car. And yes, every time I get in The Electric Slide plays in my head. Because of the important work he is doing as a union organizer he had to get up way before dawn cracked today, so we said our goodbyes last night, reluctantly. I am never okay saying goodbye to my kids; they are a major reason I am so happy in this life.

Today I am washing sheets as I put the finishing touches on this 2-day late blog. (I am sure you understand). God-willing, my flight does not get cancelled this time and I get home in due course to my bright, sunny apartment and my fluffy, white cat. (I really miss Skittles and I don’t care who knows it)! This trip was a marker for me of many sorts: the first major travel since the pandemic hit, and the first time as a visitor in a place I lived for so very long. And it is a nice place to visit — but I wouldn’t want to live here, anymore. My heart is in my new home and I am excited to return. And all these wonderful people I have seen over the last 10 days just need to come visit me in LA! It’s a great place to visit, too. Here’s to living where you land.

This is what I said when my birthday cake was presented to me last night. (Strawberry shortcake, thank you, circe)! People at the party seemed to think that statement was pretty profound, although maybe it sounds like resignation to some who are reading this. I had not meant it to be either. It was just that as I stood, surrounded by a beautiful collection of beautiful people all wishing me love and good life… as I stood, strong and healthy, tired only by a trip across the country that so many folks — for a variety of reasons — will never have the opportunity to take… while I stood, gazing at my fabulous children who are deep and lovely souls, who care and laugh and think and give… as I stood, being asked to make a wish for yet one more thing, no words came.

I believe that people looking at my life from the outside might just be moved to make some wishes for me, might see where there is lack. Perhaps they would wish a fulltime job for me, or a bigger home, or a romantic partner. The way I see it, those will come if they are meant to, but they are not missing. I have no wishes left to make. Of course there are things I imagine for my life (like living by the beach). And even stuff I think I want (some fancy sunglasses). But it seems to me that the more I leave these wishes to God, the better I do. See, God has ideas and an imagination that I cannot even aspire to. God has thought up stuff that I just cannot.

It feels like boasting if I list here all that I believe I “have.” Then again, I am told that I see my life as full no matter where the waterline in my glass is. Gratitude is funny that way, it makes no room for want. Desire, dreams, destinations, yes those all travel across my mind. But I do not await them. I only await the next thing, the next surprise, the next chapter, phase, or moment. I especially like the ones I do not expect (even when they are difficult, because I know I needed that particular challenge).

Please don’t get me wrong, I am not 100% without complaints and criticisms, after all I am very human, fallible, and weak. But this faith thing, man it makes me feel like Superwoman. And that’s how I felt last night, turning, sixty, surrounded by strawberry shortcake, hydrangeas, friends, and champagne — and most of all my beautiful, wonderful children. Like Superwoman. Super glad, super grateful, super happy, super proud, and super excited for whatever is coming next.

So happy birthday to me! And happy birthday to every summer baby (who is just a little extra special because we are born in the season of the hopeful sun)!

In between church and Kool and the Gang I want to say a few things about July 4th. It is a holiday that I am most ambivalent about.

“Fellow Citizens, I am not wanting in respect for the fathers of this republic,” begins Mr. Frederick Douglass in his famous speech, quoted so often (and sometimes out of context) on this day). https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/aia/part4/4h2927t.html

He picked a great way in to reminding the audience that this country has problems. It’s pretty much how I start off every history class that I teach. You see, there’s this suggestion going around that we liberal professors are on campuses across the country extolling the evils of the U.S. of A. I mean, critical race theory and then some! Thing is, this country was built on a lot of really bad things, literally and figuratively. Bringing that perspective into the classroom, and into revered holidays, requires some gentle handling.

Church today was wonderful, as always. Pastor Smith was speaking about sacred symbols, among other things — the way we get so carried away with the symbols that they themselves become sacred, instead of the thing they symbolize — in our case, God. The American flag, he reminded, is a symbol. And it is one that has become sacred for many. So much so, that when folks — following the supposed tenets of American freedom, the way I see it — protest the governing of the country that flag symbolizes, those protestors come under fire. Literally, as well as figuratively. And this got me to wondering, if Frederick Douglass gave that famous speech today, would he even have survived. What with the violent gun culture, White supremacy, and hostility nurtured in this country (and yes, it took all kinds of nurturing; it does not come out of nowhere). I mean Douglass was saying some way-out stuff to a bunch of people who were expecting a polite, gracious — maybe even grateful — oration from this famous Black man. That’s not, in fact, what they got. (Please read the whole speech if you have not yet).

“The sunlight that brought light and healing to you, has brought stripes and death to me.” That’s what he said. As in, you all celebrate if you like, but there is work to be done. It’s what those of us who feel ambivalent about this holiday, and about this country, are saying. It’s not a bad place, America, I enjoy a lot of things about this country. But there is so much work to be done. Today, while people are dressed up in red, white, and blue, eating burgers, and watching fireworks, there’s a good chance an African American will be murdered by a police officer. There is also a good chance that an immigrant, locked up in a detention center under illegal pretenses, will succumb to COVID. There’s a good chance some family member of a gun owner will accidentally shoot themselves or a loved one with that gun. There’s a good chance a person of Asian descent will be assaulted on an American street today, and also a good chance that another “essential worker” will find out they are no longer so essential. And there’s a really good chance that most of us will forget that the parks in which we celebrate today have a good chance of being stolen indigenous land.

There are a lot of stripes and death still happening in this stars and stripes country. And if we really want to celebrate this country, then let’s celebrate our alleged freedoms: to assemble, to speak freely, to publicize that which we believe to be true… There is so much opportunity to heal this broken place. And yes, it is broken, just look who we voted into the Oval Office last time. Americans have been reaping what we have been sowing for a very long time; some fields are fertile, others are dust. I’d like to think of Independence Day as a day to remember to think independently of others, to act independent of the crowd. This is an individualistic country but that does not necessarily mean independent. We could be independently collective, going out into the vineyards to toil — for ourselves, and for our fellow citizens (and by that I mean anyone living on this soil).

“Fellow-citizens, above your national, tumultuous joy, I hear the mournful wail of millions!” said Douglass. It is lovely to celebrate our freedom, our families, our faith, but it does not mean we need to turn blind eyes to those living here bereft of the same things. Frederick Douglass was not some well-behaved man in a starched collar to be referenced briefly each February and July. He was a trouble maker. So were Harriet, and Martin, and Shirley; and so are Colin, and Stacey. We admire them but can get a little uncomfortable with the activist sides of these icons. America encourages radicalism — for better and worse, let’s not erase that facet of our history.

On this Independence Day, maybe we can declare freedom from caring what others think — and even feel — and just speak truth through love, for humanity’s sake. Like Douglass said, we have a lot of work to do.

“Go where you may, search where you will, roam through all the monarchies and despotisms of the Old World, travel through South America, search out every abuse, and when you have found the last, lay your facts by the side of the everyday practices of this nation, and you will say with me, that, for revolting barbarity and shameless hypocrisy, America reigns without a rival….”

The Life and Writings of Frederick Douglass, Volume II
Pre-Civil War Decade 1850-1860
Philip S. Foner
International Publishers Co., Inc., New York, 1950

Today was an auspicious day: the first time I turned down an invitation since I got to Los Angeles. Why is that auspicious? Because I am in a new city, a place where I have had to start over making friends. I’ve been in this situation before, several times; it is a challenging and also fulfilling place to be. It can be lonely, but it can also be fantastic, because I get to approach each new person with fresh eyes, and hopefully an open heart. Little by little, one makes a few connections, then comes an outing, a dinner, perhaps. And then one day, before you even know it, you have actual plans with a lovely person when another lovely person invites you to a cookout and you have to decline. That feels auspicious to me.

I have had some good training in all of this, as a kid. While not an “army brat,” one might call me an academic brat. My father, whose specialty was international politics, regularly took summers and sabbaticals in foreign countries. And the family went with. From nursery-school on, I lived in neighborhoods and attended schools where I not only knew no one, but often did not understand the language, nor have any familiarity with the customs. You never pay as much attention to the world around you as when everything is unfamiliar. It’s why so many of us love traveling.

What you wear, how you express yourself, the foods you eat, they all stand out when you are from somewhere else. At times you may seem exotic and interesting to people, but other times you are seen as simply alien. In nursery school in Oslo Norway, I may have been too young to know whether I was being ostracized or not. But let me tell you that first grade in Geneva, Switzerland made up for any past blissful ignorance. No, I did not speak French, but my parents chose to enroll me in a French-speaking school all the same. No, I had never used a fountain pen and inkwell to write with, but that was the only option and I made a mess of things. No, I did not get a new dress for the Parade L’Escalade that all the students marched in, while the most popular girl looked at me as though I were dressed in burlap. Yes, I got really used to eating chocolate bars sandwiched between bread for lunch. And yes, there was a really cute boy who carried my books as we walked home from school each day (Those French men start young)! So many stories, a lot of them difficult. And I would not change a thing.

There were many summers abroad of loneliness, alienation, and the overcoming thereof. Then I grew up (somewhat) and went to college, and mid-way through decided I needed to get out of Dodge. And perhaps, because it was more the norm for me than some, I moved to a city where I knew no one again (except my father’s ex-girlfriend who put me up for one night and drove me to the grocery store the next day to buy food for my new apartment I had found that morning). Tucson, Arizona. Capistrano Apartments. I wasn’t back in school yet (another story) so I was an oddball at this complex filled with students. I was very lonely at first, though I remember telling my dad on the phone that everything was great. And it was in a way. I was in a beautiful place, where mountains encircled me. (And I have finally gotten back to that landscape again)! I was far away from my origin story, which was a goal of mine. Plus there was a pool! Little by little I met some folks, even made a few close friends. I loved being just me, not my father’s daughter, nor my high school’s tennis player, nor even my road’s resident. No one knew anything about me, and that helped me re-see me.

I moved to Manhattan next. Lived with my sister. A whole new place. I mean really brand new. Then New Jersey. Made a new set of friends with whom I shared so very many things. What a gift to meet women at a time where we are all newly married and/ or new mothers, wondering what we are doing, and what we will do in the future. I am still close with a number of those women today. In fact, the reason I cannot accept the gracious invitation of my new acquaintance from church to attend his family’s cookout is because my dear New Jersey friend is coming to visit me. I am so excited to share my new world with her; she loves new worlds herself, and seeks them out quite often. We are going to explore my new city, get comfortable in my digs, and talk about things old and new. I even get to take her to church where I will introduce her to my new church family, a most beautiful group of saints that I am blessed to be a part of.

Yesterday I texted my daughter that my newest tennis date — it’s really like a blind date, trying to gather a few good tennis partners! — was a real fail. He was not a very good player, but more importantly to me he was an unpleasant person: a know-it-all, a mansplainer. (After I answered that African-American history was my specialty, he then proceeded to explain to me that African-American history began in the 1600s when the first enslaved Africans were brought over). Anyway, my daughter can’t stand when her mother spends time with anyone unworthy, one of the many things I love about both my children! But I reminded her that one has to kiss some frogs along the way.

I have met — and even kissed — a lot of frogs. That is necessary when you are the new kid in the pond so often. And it is worth the effort. Because what eventually is revealed to me is an intimate community of beautiful humans to share life with, and to love. And when I’ve gotten to the point in my new place where I have to turn down an invitation — a thing I long for so much at the start of each new adventure — I know I am in the right place, building that community slowly and intentionally. For that I am ever so willing to wait. And before I know it, I will have more invitations than time — instead of the other way around.

“If writing is thinking and discovery and selection and order and meaning, it is also awe and reverence and mystery and magic.”

Toni Morrison, Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir

Writing is the full experience of getting hit with an idea — or image, or sentence — and then getting all the way to the place where you put those items down in some sort of coherent order such that others might also see them. I write every day, if writing is thinking. I think about what I might write in my Sunday blog most every day of the week. And guess what? Just like other plans that we feeble humans make, the plans I have for my blog rarely turn out to be that which ultimately unfolds once I sit down after church to write. And church has a lot to do with that.

We have just started meeting in person at Friendship Pasadena Church. It’s such a gift to assemble again in a sanctuary. But, being a only a humble human being, I am already feeling some kind of way about having to wear a mask in the church. Not because I necessarily think they are wrong for keeping that rule, but just simply because I. Don’t. Want. To. How quickly we can move from gratitude to wanting more. Or at least I find myself doing that. It happens a lot because I have soooooo many things to be grateful for; I can always imagine how things could be even better. Now that could be a positive trait in some fashion, keeping me striving and all that. But if two weeks ago you were praying for a job, or a partner, or a new pair of shoes and then that thing came and you found yourself wanting more money, more attention, or more shoes then maybe you need to stay in Gratitude Arena just a little longer before heading over to Desire Destination.

So what am I writing about today? Well, Father’s Day. And Church. And Legacies. And the Bible. But not necessarily in that order. And as the best Baptist preachers say, I’ll keep it short. (And then they/we don’t). So it’s Father’s Day and some beautiful family portraits are showing up on Facebook and Instagram. There are old-time black and whites, colorful images of recent celebrations, and grainy pictures of loved ones long departed. But what I notice most are the posts that don’t appear today. And this connects to a point Pastor Smith made in today’s sermon, in my opinion anyway. (I have been known to draw connections between things that make some folks wonder what I really think a connection is). Pastor Smith was preaching some “Father’s Day Advice” this morning that included a point on listening to the hearts of our children. As in, look not just at what they do — or don’t do — but also pay attention to what may well be brewing below the surface.

Like jazz music, made up of the spaces between the notes as much as the notes themselves, our lives often speak volumes in that which we refrain from saying and doing. So today I noticed that my friends who usually post quite regularly on social media are not doing so today. And I am one of them. Sure, I thought about sharing another photo of my late, handsome father, but I did that on his birthday in December. I think about him a lot on his birthday. Father’s Day is different. I think of him today, too, but as with so many people, his fathering was a complicated experience. It’s easier for me to think of him as an admirable individual than perhaps that Dad you buy a tie for every year. My friend, Tish Hamilton, wrote a lovely piece about complicated fathering if you’d like to read it. https://anothermotherrunner.com/fathers-day/?inf_contact_key=31c423551adbf3e482f0e29e044bd6dc680f8914173f9191b1c0223e68310bb1&fbclid=IwAR20oVKD43Mfj_9N7LEdE7NqpeqRa4tioD7ihQ0f5OGHPUocBAsRfbh_YPg

There are a lot of fathers in the Bible. Makes sense, of course. And the story featured in today’s sermon, about the prodigal son, reminded me of the story that we looked at last Sunday, that of King David and his son, Adonijah. In 1 Kings 1 it reads, “King David never corrected his son Adonijah, and he never made him explain his actions.” That’s not much of a dad, most of us would agree. While we have to “let them learn,” as Pastor Smith advised us today, kids can’t learn anything if we don’t teach them something in the first place. Well, King David suffered the consequences of his passivity: some of his kids were brats. They lived easy, played hard, and wanted everything. David had a lot of kids (that’s a lot of ties) and didn’t seem to care too much what direction they took. But of course, some children always make it in spite of things: Solomon turned out pretty well, after all.

Now when we look at the father in Luke 15, told as a parable by Jesus (now there’s a man who looked after his “children”), we don’t know exactly how that father raised his kids but we do know he “let them learn” by giving them their inheritance early (their legacy, as per the sermon today). One of them took the money and run. But as most of us know, this son came back, tale between his legs, and was rewarded for his repentance. But his bro got jealous, complained that the squeaky wheel always got the grease whilst he was quietly toiling away in the fields with nary a fatted calf to show for it. His Dad explained the situation to his angry son, and things hopefully fell into place eventually for that family. (We don’t know how it turned out exactly, Jesus kept the disciples in suspense about that). My dad probably would have taken me back had I wanted to return. But I took off (sans monetary legacy) and didn’t look back for quite some time. Sure, I’d go visit now and again, but I was living my life intentionally distanced from family. And I think that served me well at the time.

Now, I said I’d write about Father’s Day, church, legacies and the Bible. Today is as a good a day as any to think about my father, to be grateful for much that he did for me, like keeping a roof over my head, which if you read Tish’s abovementioned piece you’ll see is not to be taken lightly. Dad did not “believe” in church, deriding religious folks in general as weak. But I still went off with the Thompson family each Sunday morning to their toaster-shaped Protestant church downtown. That was actually part of my father’s legacy, that doing of something I believed in no matter what. It’s really the gift I think I am most grateful for from my dad, following and speaking truth. I said as much at his memorial service, between tears. I mean that is really worth more than a financial inheritance — which it did not occur to him to provide. I have invested my legacy of truth, sometimes less wisely than other times, and it has paid off in dividends.

My father’s name was David, and he was probably named after that king in what would have been for his parents the Torah. But this David corrected his children non-stop, and we were made to explain actions we sometimes didn’t even know had been enacted! He was on us —not necessarily gently — but certainly we must have known he cared if he spent all that energy training us up. And believe me, it was a lot of energy. I learned from my father, and my mother, many things not to do as a parent — and a couple of really important things to do. I walk this life with my father’s legacy as a thinker, activist, and truth-teller, and for that I am grateful. And, because I’m growing up a little more every day, I do not even wish for more.

Last week I said I would write about fear this week. We’ll see what happens…

Most every morning I read the devotional, Jesus Calling: Enjoying Peace in His Presence by Sarah Young. https://www.jesuscalling.com/ Last Thursday it read in part, “Let trust and thankfulness stand guard, turning back fear before it can gain a foothold.”

I had an arrogant moment, thinking I didn’t really fear things. I mean people tell me I’m brave a lot, they’ve done so for years. Apparently I have made some decisions in life that others would not have, and that seems to be called bravery. (Or people might just be using it as a euphemism for crazy, stupid, irrational, or irresponsible)! After my arrogant moment passed, however, I did think of a few things that I feared.

Another book I have been looking at recently is DailyOM: Inspirational Thoughts for a Happy, Healthy and Fulfilling Day. https://www.dailyom.com/book/offer.html On that same Thursday, DailyOM was likening the process of moving past fear to the peeling of an onion: one goes through our own layers to find the cause or origin of said fear. I saw those readings as conflicting, if not exactly contradictory. As in, Believers ward off fear, while Spiritual Seekers seek out fear? Which one was I supposed to do?! Was I an onion or a fortress?

I’m going to have to refer once more to the message provided today at Friendship Pasadena Church. Pastor Nick Sherman gave quite the sermon today, braiding together the experience of graduation with the ongoing revival of Friendship. And he differentiated between renewal and revival. Kinda like, are you just trying to extend your stay on the farm team for another season, or are you ready to move on to the majors? (The LA Dodgers fever out here is contagious)! Pastor Nick also reminded us that every era ends. Which can be scary, right? Even — or maybe especially — when something amazing is sitting right ahead of you.

I once learned that runners in a race often slow down once the finish line is in sight. I use this metaphor a lot to encourage my students to keep going at the end of the semester when they — and their professors! — are pretty much over it. Apparently, in the book The Big Leap: Conquer Your Hidden Fear and Take Life to the Next Level, by Gay Hendricks, he makes reference to this principle. Note that I said “apparently,” which means I did not read the book, which is what I am trying to help my students understand: you can’t say you read a book when you didn’t! But I did find an article that references that book, which references the principle in question, and because this is a blog and not a college paper that will suffice. On a website called 99 Walks, the unnamed author writes:

“…author Gay Hendricks theorizes that we all face what he calls an ‘upper limit problem.’ He believes that each of us has a level of success that feels comfortable and that when we reach that upper limit, we will subconsciously self-sabotage to stay there.”

https://www.99walks.fit/blog/2019/6/23/why-we-slow-down-at-the-finish-line

Whoah. But then think about it. Ever stopped short of some stuff? Maybe you don’t even know what you missed. Or maybe you slowed down in one proverbial race, but the next time you powered through and got that “success.” When it comes to churches — and so many other organizations — there are certainly folks who become more fearful as that finish line approaches. Or should I say that start line. Because, as Pastor Nick reminded us, endings can really be beginnings. So if we are to “live in revival,” as Pastor Smith is exhorting us to do, then there can be no slowing down, but only the speeding up of our commitment, our excitement, and our faith. How are we going to “discover our gifts” if we stop before the race is over and just say, I’m good over here. I don’t really want to know what else I am capable of. Thanks anyway.

“For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love, and self-discipline.”

2 Timothy 1:7 

Even if you don’t think (a) God has provided you with what’s inside you, do you think we humans are on this planet to be afraid? I mean humans created societies, figured out out to hunt so we could eat, even figured out how to have kids so there’d be more humans! There’d be no us if our ancestors had lived with spirits of fear.

And here’s where I’ll finish up, where Pastor Nick really got me. You know those words you hear that kinda shoot right through you? Like, “how’d you know to say that” kind of words? Well he did this great history lesson about Passive King David, his selfish son Adonijah, and finally the wise (and somewhat wistful) Solomon. He summed it up with a great parallel to Pastor Smith as King David, but you really had to be there. More generally, Pastor Nick noted that one generation fights battles so that our next generation does not have to. It’s what we parents tend to do for our children, sometimes without even knowing it. My daughter recently explained to me that the way I handled a particular issue as a woman was why she was able to navigate the same issue she faced in her young life. I was over there apologizing to her that I hadn’t spoken about the subject enough and it turns out that the fact that I fought/was fighting that (inner) battle, provided her a level of peace I had not had. So, yeah, there are a lot of ways to fight a battle it turns out.

Fear. Do we ward it off with faith, or do we look within to see where it came from? I think the important thing is to acknowledge it. We spend too much time trying to avoid fear, performing around it, turning away from it… While fear is there because we are human, also because we are human we have the free will to face it, and to move forward. That’s usually scary. But the pay-offs can be oh so handsome.

Run-fromming. This is a word that Pastor Smith spoke in his message today. He said he mis-spoke it, but I am wondering if God didn’t just “drop that on his spirit,” as he is wont to say. Because, I mean, run-fromming is amazing, and an awfully useful term when you think it about it. It’s a verb, obviously, and one that seems to imply a sort of regular habit of running from things. That’s part of what Pastor was speaking about today; and it is something I have been thinking about a lot lately. As in, when do you fold and when do you hold? When do you insist that your gifts be received, and when do you “shake the dust off your feet?”

Friendship Pasadena Church (MY church now!) chooses a weekly prayer based upon a piece of scripture. This week it comes from Isaiah 43:18-19

“Forget the former things;
    do not dwell on the past.
See, I am doing a new thing!
    Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?

Do you not perceive it? Do you not perceive how badly I want this organization to succeed? How much I want our project to receive support? How vibrant this ministry could be? That you could live a more peaceful life?! Take. My. Gifts! (Does this sound familiar to anyone else)? As Pastor reminded us this morning, we all have gifts (Romans 12:8). And we get told this a lot. Sometimes our parents say so, other times our friends, coworkers — and even once in a while a supervisor tell us that. I guess that’s where the idea of Gifted and Talented Schools came from? Only I always found the idea somewhat confusing because not only did they express that every child was gifted (as in has some gifts) but it always seemed to be that the gifts in question were pretty limited. Like some gifts were more important to nurture than others. Of course (apparently like Pastor Smith) school was not my favorite subject so maybe I’m just being cranky right now.

So what happens when you offer someone what you think is a pretty fabulous gift of yours and they don’t want it? As Jill Scott sings in “Hate On Me,” sometimes folks are just too miserable to accept your offering. As in, one might make someone a peach pie – straight from their own peach tree, no less – and the recipient might just slap them out anyway. (Here’s the fabulous song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qw3Z8Oa7E3Y ). I am guessing we all know some people like that. And we probably even know ourselves to have gone back to some of those people with our peaches anyway. And that’s not always the wrong move. I mean, think of the story of Paul and Barnabas in Acts 14. (Shout out to Friendship Pasadena Kitchen Table Bible Study)!

We join Paul and Barnabas preaching in Lystra. Well, let’s just say things got ugly (as they can in the Bible) and Paul was pelted with stones until the assailants figured he was dead. They dragged him out of the the city limits like yesterday’s trash. But other disciples came running to Paul, “gathered around him,” and don’t you know that man got back up and went into that self-same city again, the one where the folks wanted him dead. Turned out that was a good move because, “They preached the good news in that city and won a large number of disciples” (Acts 14:21). That was their goal and they followed the “if at first you don’t succeed” method. They were not afraid, or at least the fear was not strong enough to keep them from marching straight back into the mouth of that proverbial lion. No run-fromming happened there!

What then of the counsel that the twelve disciples received from Jesus in the book of Matthew, when it was time for them to go out and do their rounds, canvass for the Lord? The disciples were tasked with finding “the lost sheep” and preaching and healing and doing all sorts of good stuff for those in need. “Freely you have received, freely give,” Jesus reminded them (10:8). I bet a lot of us could use that reminder, the one about receiving freely. Some of us — and by us maybe I mean just me — have a hard time receiving. I am way better at giving. Ooh, I love giving, and apparently I think I have lots to give. I have, as Pastor Smith encouraged us today, discovered many of my gifts. (I mean I better have, right? This gift-giving gig isn’t going to last forever). I love the act of giving. But receiving? Nah, I’m good. I don’t need that. Find someone more in need. (Or perhaps I mean more deserving)? Maybe I am afraid to receive. Fear is, after all, tied up in this gift thing but I’ll try to stay on point for the moment.

So back to the disciples, the twelve guys are to go out and perform miracles and preach the gospel. They are told to connect quickly with a “worthy person” in each town that they enter. I mean that’s what you do when you’re new in town, you introduce yourself to the folks who seem like they would be on your side, maybe even show you some extra kindness being as how you’re on your own and all. So Coach Jesus tells his team to go in with a positive attitude, to share their gifts of peace — and then some — as long as they are welcomed! But he doesn’t want them spinning their wheels either, following some playbook just for the sake of staying on task. “If anyone will not welcome you or listen to your words, shake the dust off your feet when you leave that home or town (10:14). I mean this is just about my favorite Bible verse. (And I guess Paul didn’t get the memo either, but we all have different paths to take with our various gifts so he was probably doing the right thing for his own personal journey). The twelve disciples weren’t run-fromming, mind you, they were simply turning on their heels and walking down their proscribed paths. Run-fromming is when you find yourself sprinting away from the scene. It’s when you start tripping over things, getting lost, screaming irrationally at the world because you’re hurt and lost… That’s run-fromming.

But my question remains, how do you know when to walk away and when to stay? When should we persist in offering our pies, and when should we take our beautiful one-of-a kind-baked-good and knock on someone else’s door? It’s about discernment, and that is something that takes a daily practice — and many years of days — to even get the hang of. If you’re me anyway. A lot has to do with the aforementioned fear thing. I am a strong believer that fear is the answer to why we do so many dumb, self-injurious things. I think I’ll probably write about that next week. My friends will recognize this theme immediately, as in there goes Katie with that “everything’s about fear” stuff. But my friends are good people, so they’ll probably listen to it again anyway.

For now I am still puzzling over discernment in terms of giving. I need to learn to recognize when I am withholding gifts for a good and right reason, and when, perhaps, I am simply leaving my gifts up on the shelf so as not to show off or bother anyone. In tandem, one also wants to learn to discern when it’s time to take their ball and go home, because the people they’re playing with aren’t playing with a love for the game. I mean I think we humans shake the dust off our feet prematurely sometimes. But I also think there are occasions when we just keep knocking on the door that’s getting slammed in our faces. Because sometimes it’s easier to receive rejection than approval; sometimes that rejection affirms our unworthiness, confirms our fears. But I’ll leave that for next week. So go give of your gifts. Ask yourself what they are. Tell somebody what they are. Better yet, ask somebody what they see as your gifts. Write them down, if you want. Just know this, we all have way more than we think.

*You may want to watch today’s powerful sermon: https://www.facebook.com/170037199836336/videos/162988782386418

Wouldn’t it be great if there were practice runs for losing loved ones? Like they pass on but just temporarily, so that you can do the work that seems to come out of losing someone close, and then get to use those lessons you’ve gained towards a better relationship. I’ve been doing a lot of work on my relationship with my mom recently, but it seems slightly futile as she is not here for me to practice my newfound relationship skills upon. So I end up just writing down revelations and sighing a lot.

My latest mom-lesson was triggered by a string of things — which is how triggers work after all. I was applying to a writing retreat called Tusen Takk. I applied because of the name. Tusen takk means “thank you” in Norwegian. Here comes the string: I lived in Oslo, Norway for a year (not by myself, precocious as I was); my dad was teaching at the university, so the family accompanied him on his sabbatical. I attended nursery school at what I believe was called (a?) Børnehaven. It rained a lot and I remember a plaid rubber rain coat, how heavy and wet it felt against my little body. Anyway, when we returned home, my mother took to saying tusen takk for a while. You know how we return from big trips and try to hold onto some shred of what we just experienced as long as we possibly can? (Like the last time I was in Paris and I swore I would only wear heels when I went out for the rest of my life. Like French women. Before the pandemic. So, yeah). At any rate, when I saw a retreat with this Norwegian name — located in my home state of Michigan, no less — I felt compelled to apply. (I’ll let you know if I get it).

This all got me to thinking how whimsical my mother could be — and must have been so long ago. The research shows that the manner in which our very first years go can greatly affect the way our lives will progress as we grow older. If there is love to be had at the start, a whole lot can go wrong and yet we can prevail, because we stand upon this little child-size foundation of confidence that says we are worthy of being loved. (And so it goes to the contrary, apparently). I think my mom was pretty loving at the start. I have seen photos where she’s holding me or my sister and looking like a very loving mother, happy to have her children in her arms. I recall funny songs she would sing — mostly to our dogs, but I think to entertain us, as well. Like Popocatepetl. It does not seem to actually exist as a song, but it is most certainly a volcano in Mexico. My mom would sing, “Popocatepetl, Popocatepetl, mountain of looooove…” I can hear her intonation even as I write this. If you read, “The Legend of Popocatepetl & Iztaccíhuatl: A Love Story” you’ll see where the “love” part came from! https://www.inside-mexico.com/the-legend-of-popocatepetl-iztaccihuatl/

Now you might be thinking, So what if your mom sang funny songs. That’s what moms do. But, you see, this particular mom in question soon stopped the “silly love songs,” and in place of that music silence invaded our home. That kind of silence you can slice with a proverbial knife. An angry, resentful kind of hush that made us sure a shoe was going to drop, but of course we never knew when. That silence, that sadness in our home, is what I carried away from it. It is why I took flight as soon as I possibly could, why before that I spent more time at my best friend’s house in a subdivision than our quite charming home located on an acre of land. It’s why I did a whole bunch of other things that did not reflect a whole lot of self-esteem. I just hated the silence.

But now. Now I have had so much time to think over this past, almost three years of time spent far from my mother’s being — and all the varying requirements of those last decades. I am remembering the songs and the quirky art projects and wondering how they vanished so quickly — from our lives, and from the forefront of my memory. And that’s what I mean by suggesting how magic it would be to have a second chance to see my mom. I mean I forgave her all the anger a long time ago, but I did not really engage her as someone who sang songs about Aztec princesses and thought decoupaging kids’ lunchboxes was a fun idea. I responded to her as the woman she had come to be — on the outside anyway. But imagine if I had spoken to the playful, witty mom with a penchant for foreign languages and sword dances — even when the woman in front of me was deeply focused on the inequities of life. Might that have awakened those dormant traits in her? (Traits, I might add, that she shared with her grandchildren now and again. And for that I am so very thankful).

I do not know the answer to this question, of course. And now I cannot experimentally look upon my mom as that young mother, or ask questions about when things all went wrong. I don’t have the opportunity to encourage her to explain feelings, describe the process she engaged in of leaving her children behind in a certain kind of way. I know she knew that’s what she did, but I never gave her the space to say it. I was too busy combatting what was emanating from her spirit at the moment. There is just so much more room to think about people when they are not in your life anymore. Ironic, no? Absence makes the heart grow fonder, yes, and it also makes the mind grow broader. I see my mother — and my father — so much more expansively than before. I just wish I could talk to those expansive figures now, no longer spending time fending off old hurts from days gone by, or explaining my apparently alien self to them. But alas, that will not happen in this realm. And so I pray. And I write in my journal. And I bend the ear of a few good friends, lean on my children now and again, as I slowly put together these puzzle pieces that are producing a picture much more beautiful and radiant than I was able to see in those disarrayed pieces of mom, so many still in the box where she kept them.

Yes, I think we are all puzzles. We are formed with pieces of nature and nurture, jumbled together, ill-fitting at times, fully missing at other times. I have always admired folks who sit down to do a puzzle, impressed by their patience and the focus required. I think I am becoming one of those people in my own way, albeit a bit later in life than I would have liked. And because I cannot use this newfound wisdom on my mother, I am going to put it to use considering the other human beings in my life. I am going to step back and look at them more fully, missing pieces and all, and simply admire their unique images coming slowly to light in front of me. And for that lesson I must say, “tusen takk, Mom.”

“You can choose your friends but you sho’ can’t choose your family, an’ they’re still kin to you no matter whether you acknowledge ’em or not, and it makes you look right silly when you don’t.”

― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

Is it friends ‘n’ family or friends versus family? Do we have to choose to invest in one entity over the other? Does one group take more work than the other, need more of our attention? What, if anything, should we do when family gets in the way of friendship?

Most of my friends care a lot about their families. I have friends who fly across the country — and even across oceans — to visit their parents regularly; I know friends who call their fathers every week, even when it’s often less than pleasant; and I have friends incredibly devoted to ailing parents, caring for them in a myriad of ways. And these people also have good friends.

I certainly care about my family, although it has dwindled these last years with the loss of my parents, and we did not start out with such a large family to begin with. I am quite intentional about keeping in touch with aunts, and cousins, and even an ex-husband — because he is family to my children, and so to me. And my children, well Fuggedabout. They are everything to me. But I still have friends. In fact, all sorts of folks I know stay connected to family — but also stay connected to friends. And that takes a lot of work.

I am thinking of a couple of friends who are so involved with family that keeping up their friendships is not a top priority. I am not saying this is in a critical way either, I am simply wondering about it. These particular people say they are my friend, for example, but I think we have different versions of what it means to be a friend. Maybe that’s the part that confuses me. Maybe what creates friendships is people who “friend” the same way. I truly believe it takes more work to keep a friendship going than a family connection in tact. (If you disagree, I would love to hear that take). Family will always be family. Certainly, there are numerous situations where members disengage from family, but even then that person you choose to remove from your life is still lurking around as your brother, mother, or cousin. But friendships on the other hand, well they can wither, and finally die, when no attention is being paid to them. Friends can disappear.

Probably in large part because I was raised in a small family, I have always relied on friendships as my network, my community. I have had all kinds of different friends: best friends, tennis friends, work friends, party friends… And these relationships have required nurturing from both sides. I could not call someone my best friend and then make a habit of ignoring her communications. That’s not friendly. And my tennis friends need me to ask them to play sometimes — it can’t always be on them to initiate a date. Work friends have to know that they can trust each other, that they can say things to each other that would possibly be used against them if those words fell into the wrong hands. Work friends are really important to cultivate, support, and encourage. My party friends? Well, thank God for them! They are the ones I can invite over for wine (my idea of a party is much broader than it once was), wherein they bring olives and crusty bread and I supply goat brie and a cozy venue for talking, relaxing, and enjoying each other’s company. Ya gotta bring something to the table with party friends, literally.

There are people who I think consider themselves my friends but don’t nurture the friendship. Again, I am not saying this is a wrong, it is simply a choice. But it confuses me as to the definition of friend. Oxford explains that the word’s origins are from “an Indo-European root meaning ‘to love’, shared by free.” Now, if you have ever been to First Baptist Church of Madison, New Jersey, you know that love is an action. Rev. (Dr.!) A. Craig Dunn made a point of saying that, and it has stuck with me. So, if to have a friend is to love someone then it cannot simply be a passive feeling of love, but must be an active show of love. That’s my take anyway. The people who call us friends but who are forever involved in family projects, issues, and events might be confused about the definition — or the requirements — of friendship. Maybe they think you can just entitle someone a friend and poof they are your friend. But, unlike your Uncle Joe who, like it or not, will always be your uncle, a friend can easily stop being a friend.

I’m not proposing anything dramatic here. As a matter of fact, I’m simply observing life and wondering aloud about it. But maybe this will help a few people ask themselves about their friendships — or just give some extra praise for the friendships they cherish. My astrological sign is Cancer, and supposedly that means I am extra emotional about friendship. You know, I have that shell I tend run into and all. And now, get this, I am involved (and looking to join whenever they “open the door of the church”) with Friendship Pasadena Church. And I work at Friends In Deed food pantry, for goodness’ sake! Because friendship!

I guess what I’m saying is that I have witnessed some people lose themselves in family to an extent that they have no real friends, no one who truly feels that they can count on these people. Maybe that’s fine with them, too. But I do think that sometimes we humans can sort of default to family because it’s a lot easier (even when it’s hard) to track with family than to work at getting to know someone whose communication style, background, and even beliefs can be so different from our own. And yet sometimes those can be our best of friends. If we give them a chance.

I’m just going to check myself every once in a while, make sure I’m treating my friends the way I would want to be treated. And I think I’ll stop expecting Family People to be different than they are, even when they call me friend. I am wondering, do you have people in your life that you feel sometimes hide behind “family matters?” Or maybe you know the opposite, those who have abandoned family — for a myriad of reasons — and pour everything they have into friendship. What is a friend to you? In this pandemic that we’ve been living through, friends and family gets bandied about all over the place. But they are not one and the same; they come with different directions, and I’m wondering what your interpersonal recipes might just call for.

It’s raining in sunny Southern California right now. (And they said it never rains here). I was supposed to play tennis today and it was cancelled! Do you know how few things get cancelled due to weather here? Whereas that was life on the East coast. We even had a phrase for it, weather permitting, an acknowledgment that all plans were contingent upon forces outside our control. Some, like me, might say contingent upon God. (Although I do wonder just how much God really cares about family reunions and soccer games going on as scheduled).

So what does one do in sunny Southern California when the rain falls? Well, here’s what you don’t do:

1. The weekly plant watering. I have a succulent garden in its infancy, thanks to adopted cuttings from some co-workers at Friends In Deed Food Pantry. (See how I included a plug there? Donations always accepted as I have made mention in other posts). https://friendsindeedpas.org/fid/what-we-do/our-programs/the-food-pantry/ I do not seem to have killed these plants yet, and am hoping that part of my new West Coast life will include a better handle on growing things from the ground. What I do know is my cacti don’t need me to bring the hose out today.
2. Take my newly discovered ArmorAll cloths to the yellow bird poop on my car. See, I got a new (to me, as they say) car last month and I find myself suddenly concerned with the paint job, small scratches, and errant leaves on the floor mats. I am sure there was also a point in time when I focused such attention on my Toyota Rav4 Sport, but I can’t remember that. What I do remember is hauling kids and their friends, furniture, and pets all around Northern New Jersey. And then, what would end up the Rav 4’s last big haul, driving across the country to my new home in sunny, Southern California. Thanks Rav4, but I have moved on. (If only I could let go of other relationships as cleanly).
3. Feed the birds. Because who wants wet seed — and who wants to get wet putting bird food on a plate in their backyard when 98% of the time there would be no such risk involved? I can wait, so can the birds. (And yes, I see there may well be a correlation between the need to regularly clean the car and my Mary Poppins-like desire to “feed the birds, tuppence a bag.”
4. Go for a walk behind the LA River. My usual one-hour loop is a good one, lots of hills and very few people. You would think after all this isolation I would be hungry for humanity, but I still feel pretty selective about human company and don’t think I’m going to make any new best friends in these neighborhoods of gaudy homes and high-end vehicles. Now this is not judgement as much as it’s simply an understanding, based upon over a half century of making friends. My friends have not lived in houses, nor driven cars, like those lining Royal Boulevard. Just saying.
5. Go to the grocery store. Again, it’ll not be raining very soon and life is just easier running errands when it’s not raining. And, by the way, I noticed only days after bringing my new car home, that the back window has no wiper! It never occurred to me, but I guess when you move into a relatively sporty 2-door Honda Accord — with a V6, mind you! — back window wipers are no longer deemed necessary. So yeah, I’d have to get wet wiping down my back window if I went out now. (See #3).

By now, some of my East Coast friends may be fretting that I have quickly turned soft out here. They would be wrong. That is because I was always soft when it came to weather. Yes, I forced myself to go for long walks in 30 degree temperatures (at least the sun is shining, I would say, pushing myself out the door). I also ran errands in the snow; and swept off wet tennis courts in the spring, hoping that the rain would hold off for even just an hour. I detested those experiences. My dad told me when I was young that I was too sensitive to the weather, that I should not allow what was happening outside to affect my insides essentially. But Dad, science says that our environments shape who we are, so why wouldn’t howling wind or driving rain or pelting hail make me feel some kind of way? (If only I had been able to articulate such an idea back then. Instead I just felt I had let him down again, revealed my to-be-avoided weakness once more).

So until this rain is over, and the ground returns to its normal desert-state, I’m going to do indoor things. And, unlike most days, I will not feel the need to scheme in order to figure out how to get these things done outside, because, well, it’s raining right now in sunny, Southern California. But just for now.

*Albert Hammond – “It Never Rains In Southern California” (1973) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gmq4WIjQxp0