Last week, I ordered our weekly Door Dash dinner while at my son and daughter-in-law’s house. The restaurant is one of our favorites and about 15 minutes from the house, so the food travels pretty well. When the food arrived, I quickly discovered that my meal was not there. All the other meals were included just as I ordered them. I called the restaurant and they said I would have to contact Door Dash to get a refund or to have a driver go back to the store to get the meal. I was so frustrated. I did not want to eat 20-30 minutes after my family did. I did not want a refund. I wanted my food!

Now, I did not really want my food. The meal I had ordered was fine, but not something I was truly craving. I had eaten well all day and was not even particularly hungry. I contacted Door Dash and got my refund and eventually ate my granddaughter’s meal that she opted out of. But I was still out of sorts. I felt personally slighted since I did all of the work to get everyone’s order there and only mine was missing. My family members offered to share their food with me, but they were not as outraged as I was. By the time we drove home I had calmed down and gotten over my situation.

Later, I reflected on why I got so upset that the meal I did not really even want was missing. I realized that I was disappointed that the system that seems so simple did not work. We are so spoiled by our smart phones and other devices. We think that by simply using the program correctly we will get the desired result. When that result is not obtained, frustration occurs.

Of course, not getting a $15 salad when an abundance of food exists all around me is not a crisis situation. My mind might realize that I am not in crisis, but my body did not. Then I thought about often the system fails others with so much fewer resources than I have. The public utility system that should bring clean and healthy water to all fails due to delayed maintenance. The public school system where our children should be safely educated fails due to politicians who pander to special interest groups for power and influence. The health system fails to provide adequate attention to our medical needs due to insurance regulations and overworked staff.

We are arguing over the increased use of Artificial Intelligence in our society. The income that CEO’s and other executives receive versus the rest of the employees is vast. And yet, the systems are still failing and the result is the people who can least afford to have the systems fail them are impacted the greatest. Do I have an answer? Not immediately. However, I feel like those who benefit most from the systems should be impacted more when the systems fail. That means those with the deepest pockets should be in the trenches trying to fix the problems, not sitting in their mansions waiting for a delivery driver, a medical tech, or a

very morning pictures and posts pop up on my social media of events and thoughts that occurred in previous years. Recently, pictures from a lock-in twelve years ago were share and one stuck out to me due to the ridiculous nature of the content. This picture contained a dozen sleepy students wrapped in blankets in a church basement hallway. A few of those faces were of kids I had known since they were little and others were teenagers from another church led by a dear friend of mine about a mile south of us. The two groups had bonded during the previous summer at camps.

None of the above description is unique to church lock-ins. The same tableau has been created and recreated over many years and will continue into the future. However, what made this picture stand out was the four large stuffed fish that the students were holding. At some point in the past my friend’s church group had started to carry a large pillow type fish around at Youth events. I cannot remember the inspiration for this fish, but they adopted it as a mascot and our kids loved the idea. So of course we had to get some stuffed fish as well to adorn the youth room at church.

That is how we ended up with a picture of a dozen students and four large fish. I have no idea where those fish ended up. There have been several Youth Ministers and a complete remodel of the Youth area since that picture was taken. Everyone in that picture is now a full fledged adult and working out in the world. At least one of them is now a Youth Minister herself.

We need those touchstones in life. The silly and absurd to remember moments in our lives. It can be a song, a story, or a movie. It can be a restaurant, a school, or a painting. Take all the pictures and post them on your social media so that in future years can you can remember the good and the bad, not just the staged. Grab yourself a large pillow fish and take it with you to see old friends.

Two years after making the decision to leave the church we raised our son in we are finally trying out a new church. This is a church that I am pretty familiar with from my days working with Youth and some people from our old church are already attending. The Senior Pastor is one of our son’s mentors and conducted part of his wedding. We feel comfortable with the structure of the building, there is a wide variety of ages and stages of life in the congregation, and it is just a few miles from our home. After four weeks it feels like a place we can worship and get involved.

One of the things that prevented me from trying church again is the amount of energy I thought it would take just to show up. I am pleased to realize that this church does not need us. It is a vibrant church, mid sized and full of activity. We can show up and then leave without feeling like we are letting anybody down. After close to thirty years of active ministry, what a relief to not feel like I am carrying any responsibility. I know that I will want to get more involved in the future, but knowing that I can pick my pace is healing.

All of this brings me to two Sundays ago when the pastor gave the invitation to join the church. He went into more detail than he had the previous Sundays, so I felt like someone must be planning on joining. He instructed those who wanted to join to come forward at the beginning of the second verse of the closing song. After the first verse, the instrumentalist played an interlude and no one moved. With the first note of the second verse, six people made their way to the front of the congregation. I was shocked that I got choked up. My ears teared up as I watched them join the church. Six people transferred from another church and I was crying?

The next week two more people joined. What a joy to see people finding a church to connect with. With all of the talk of churches dying and the turmoil within our denomination, it brings me hope that people are still gathering to live out their faith in community when it is often easier to watch church online or get brunch. I loved our previous church so much for so many years and I love the people there still. When we realized that we needed to worship elsewhere right before Covid hit, we were not sure where would end up. We now have hope that we can find community again.

One of my favorite ways to spend my time is listening to podcasts. From pop culture and political issues, to current events, the range is vast. I recently stumbled upon a podcast that examines church trauma experienced by church staff or volunteers. The focus of the podcast is primarily Acts 29 churches or those within the Southern Baptist Convention. Growing up United Methodist, it was intriguing to learn about the make up and processes of these churches. The expectations described were so intense and bordered on cultish.

One of the things that shocked me me the most is the inappropriate interest church leaders have in the sex lives of their staff and congregation. I knew that the church cared about adultery and non heterosexual relationships. However, I did not realize that there are entire networks of churches that feel that it is their right and responsibility to dictate how often couples should have sex and the details of those interactions. Never, in all of my years of attending church, has a pastor preached from the pulpit about sex. Nothing about who should or should not be engaging in sex, or how to dress to avoid tempting others.

In the weeks since beginning to listen to the podcast, a lot of things have become clearer for me. There is an entire subset of churches that revolve around sex. They spend much of their energy preventing sex before marriage. Then they spend more energy encouraging sex within marriage. This is why they are so concerned about LGBTQIA individuals and drag shows. Their faith revolves not around Jesus, but around sex.

About twenty years ago I began my longest stint working at the church where we raised our son. I had previously worked briefly n the Children’s Day Out program, as the newsletter editor, and as part time Youth Minister. After a three year break to return to school for my teaching certificate, I went back to work at the church as full time Children and Youth Minister. That job shifted after a year to Communications and Youth Minister.

Looking back, I remember my time in that position fondly. So many memories of mission trips, weeklong summer camps, mystery trips, Confirmation classes, retreats, lock-ins and special events. Sunday afternoon Youth was a mixture of Bible Study, all sort of games, and general hang out time. One of our primary sponsors was a photographer, so I have tons of pictures capturing the moments.

Of course, not all of the experiences are joyful. Being a Youth Minister is hard work and comes with a lot of judgment. Everyone has an opinion about how to attract Youth to the church and feel free to share their opinions. Preteens and teenagers can be fickle and are at the mercy of their parents to get to the church. There were many Sundays where it was just my son and one other student with four sponsors. I tried to remember that number did not matter, but it could be discouraging.

Over ten years have passed since my last Youth event. Most of the students that we shared those years with I only see on social media or catch a reference from their parents or grandparents. Last week, I was getting my haircut by one of my favorite former students’ mom. She mentioned his age and I was startled to realize he is closing in on thirty years old. In my memory, he is always sixteen.

We have two choices when faced with memories from our past. We can focus on the good times, or we can dwell on the bad. I have done both during the ten years since I left paid church ministry. The highlights have been glamorized and made better than they were. In an attempt to brush over the low points, I suppressed them until they roared back to the forefront at inopportune times. The pandemic gave me the opportunity to step away from the building of that church and the community. Now all I have are memories captured in time.

When Shannan Martin writes about community, I can feel the crunch of leaves and see the cloud filled skies as she walk in her neighborhood. I have been reading her newest book Start With Hello as part of my morning devotion time. Today she described her experiences accompanying her children to and from school when they were elementary age. After some time driving them the short distance, she made the choice to make the trip by foot no matter what the weather conditions. Martin tells about the people she would see as they also made the same journey.

I was immediately transported back to when my son was in elementary school and we lived nearby. I usually drove him to school and picked him up in the afternoons. We did not live very far from the school, but had to cross a busy street to get to the school building and Oklahoma is very much oriented around vehicles. As with most elementary schools, there was a specific pick up process that involved long lines snaking through the parking lot and onto the main road. In an effort to circumvent the pick up line, several of the other moms and I would park in front of the school and wait in the lobby together. Often we were finishing up some type of volunteer project and stayed to visit as we waited. A type of support group developed in those moments as we gathered. We touched base about what our children were experiencing in their classrooms and sports. We discussed our own feelings about parenthood and life.

One afternoon the school counselor judged us to be helicopter parents and we were insulted by her labeling. Our kids were good kids and leaders in the school. How dare she take our presence to mean that we were overly involved in our children’s lives! Looking back, she was probably not totally wrong in her assessment, but the kids all turned out ok and are fully functioning adults. What she did not know was that we were not there to rescue our children, but to get some much needed support from other moms. This was before the days of the internet where affinity groups are at our fingertips. Most of us had stepped back from fulfilling careers to support our children and spouses. Those fifteen to thirty minutes were balm to our souls.

A few weeks ago I found our that one of those moms recently passed away. After the kids moved on to middle school, I lost touch with her. She divorced and had many struggles. I think about how much I enjoyed our conversations and am sad that I did not try to forge a more sustainable friendship with her. I miss those days of parenting side by side with my son’s friends parents. People will tell you how fast childhood passes as it relates to being a parent. What they do not tell you is how relationships change during those times as well.

There is a popular meme that discusses the difference between buying books and reading books. The idea is that these are two different hobbies and it hits close to home. As much as I read, I still have hundreds of books on my shelves and on my Kindle waiting to be read. Since discovering the Libby app that is connected to our local library, I now limit my “real” book purchasing to books that I feel I will want to share with others.

As a result of my book purchasing pattern, I choose books to read based on my mood at the time, not in order of when they were purchased. One of the books I have been reading in the morning with my coffee deals with rituals surrounding grief. Released this Fall, the book features personal accounts of the author’s experiences with grief in relationship with these rituals. On Sunday, I felt the urge to add another book to my morning reading. I dug a book out of the piles that was published at the beginning of the pandemic in April of 2020. This book is a first person account of tragedy and healing and has engrossed me from the first page.

Both of the authors are female and both of them are proficient writers. However, the first book feels more like a textbook where the other one feels like a revelation of her soul. I am left to wonder how one book can resonate so deeply with me where the other one is surface level. Part of the difference is the structure of each book, but that is not the entire explanation. I look forward to seeing how these books work together to teach me something about my faith, my writing, and my life journey.

The other day I went by the Conference Office of the United Methodist Church for the first time in several years. When I worked in the local church, I spent many hours at this building in meetings and trainings for camp and other events. One of my former pastors had left a box of hymnals that I requested for an art project I am working on. Due to the disaffiliation from the UMC of several churches, there is an unusual availability of free hymnals. One of the items in the contract that the disaffiliating churches commits to fulfill is the removal of the church logo from their building and other elements in the church. Since the cross and flame are on the cover of the hymnals, they can no longer be used in worship unless they are granted special permission.

As I went into the room to pick up the box full of hymnals, I noticed two rows of boxes sealed with packing tape. As I walked by, I read the names on the boxes and realized that these are boxes from the churches that have officially separated themselves from our denomination. The labels indicated that within the boxes were records from those churches. Although I did not look in the boxes, I can imagine what those records contain based on the agreement that churches had to sign. In those boxes are documents that reflect church membership, baptisms, weddings, and deaths. There may be financial records that represent ministries such as missions trips, camps, United Methodist Men and Women, community outreach, and financial assistance for those struggling. Evidence of the lives that had been impacted by the churches over the years when they were part of the United Methodist Church.

These churches were not asked to leave, they chose to remove themselves. It is a small number in our Annual Conference right now, about six percent. But it hurts. It hurts to hear the lies and judgment from those who feel like the history that we share is not worth fighting for. I was born into the Methodist Church and it is an important part of my heritage. I would like to be able to simply write those churches off and move on, but it is a sad time. To see boxes lined up on two sides of the room as all that is left of the connection between us reminded me of a funeral, or maybe a divorce. All that remans of the relationship is contained in a cardboard box.

When I think about my grandparents I have vague memories of spending time at their homes. My mom’s parents were grandmother and grandaddy and they lived in a little town in East Texas. We loved sitting on their screened in porch and enjoying small town life. We would walk to the corner store with pennies to get a snack. My dad was raised by a single mother and her extended family. Nanny lived in a big two story house that she used for her catering business and as a tea room for women’s groups. There were always cousins around and we ran up and down the stairs and played in the Magnolia trees in the yard. I have a few pictures of my grandparents, but nothing that captures their voices or movements.

My parents and in-laws were loving grandparents to our son, but they lived a few hours away so we mostly saw them at holidays and special events. I would print pictures of Trey to send to them and a few times I compiled videos to share. Trey’s last grandfather died when he was in college, so he knew him a little better than the others. When the Timehop app brings up pictures of the family members that have passed, the still image reminds me of times we shared.

Technology has changed greatly in the last 20 years. Instead of having to wait several day for a picture to be developed, or transferring video from tape to tape, pictures or a video can be sent instantaneously. On my birthday this year, I received the cutest video from my son of my granddaughter telling me “Happy Birthday.” In true The Office style, she started the video telling me that “It’s Your Birthday!” Then she moved into birthday wishes and her own unique rendition of the Birthday Song. That thirty-four second video ties us together in a manner that a card or picture could not. This morning I got another video of her pretending to call me on the phone (which was actually her dad’s pickle ball medal). As she ended the call she said “I love you.”

What a gift to receive these short bursts of her life through video or picture. Although I see her almost every week, knowing that she is thinking of me as she goes about her regular schedule lets me know that we are building memories that she will have when she approaches fifty and thinks back on our relationship.

While running errands, I stopped by the local supplement store to get vitamins for my husband. The guys who work at these stores mostly look like personal trainers or bodybuilders. The young man checking me out asked what kind of work my husband was in and then asked me “Do you do anything?” I was startled by the question since people usually ask “where do you work” or “is this your day off.” My response was something like “I do some things from home.” I was embarrassed to say that I do not have a job, even though I have been mostly unemployed by choice for over ten years.

I could have said that I spend time with my granddaughter. I might have said I manage our household. Another truthful statement is that I support my friends and family in their endeavors. What I wanted to say is that I create art, walk several miles, and I read a book a day. But none of those things generate an income, which is how we measure our worth. After all this time, I still do not have a good answer when someone asks me “Do you do anything?”

My hope is that by the time I turn sixty in a year I will have an honest answer that I can proudly state when asked that sorting question when I meet a new person.