My reading habits have taken a dive in the last few years. I’ve been parenting a baby or a toddler continually since 2006, when Zora was born, and I tend to blame my brain’s decreased ability to focus long enough to read actual books on the sleep deprivation, life interruptions, and mental bandwidth that parenting, and particularly stay at home parenting, requires. Mysteries are the one exception. I plow through those with ease, but I think the drive to know what happens keeps me going.

Every year, I have friends who announce a new year’s resolution to read a certain number of books. And every year, I think I might do it, too. But I don’t really like resolutions much and rarely seem to keep them, so I’ve sort of decided I’m not doing them anymore because I inevitably feel bad when I don’t keep them (plus, it looks like social science and theology back me up on this.)

But, I want to read more, and while I was starting my new bullet journal for 2018, I thought I’d try getting a list of recommendations and keeping them handy. So, I threw out the question on facebook: if you were to recommend one book that I should read in 2018, what would it be?

And something lovely happened: I was reminded that I have the most amazing group of smart, funny, talented friends. (I wish I could get them all in a room together for an evening.) They gave me such an eclectic list, and there’s nothing I love more than eclecticism.

Recommendations came from friends who are pastors (OK, it’s probably majority pastors…I admit); librarians; authors; a retired book review editor; people who teach college literature; psychologists; former colleagues; the principal of the school where I taught in urban Chicago; relatives; Americans; Canadians; Brits; my doula when my middle kid was born; former youth group members; someone who spent a week being my writing tutor; former congregants; people I currently attend church with; my landlord; sci-fi enthusiasts; two of my husband’s college RAs; pharmaceutical researchers; community activists.

So now, I have this brilliant list. I’ve got it written down, and I’m excited to get going on this reading, because I have these friends with such beautiful minds, and if I can’t live close enough to get them all to hang out in my living room, at least I can read what is inspiring them!

In case you need some reading inspiration (and the fun of who might have recommended these), here you go!

Composing a Life, Mary Catherine Bateson

From my aunt, who knows I’m trying to figure out what to do next, and who herself has had to reinvent her career as a nurse once or twice.

The Hate U Give, Angie Thomas

Homegoing, Yaa Gyasi

From several people: pastor colleagues; community rights activists; and others.

Frederik Backman novels, all of them

My college roommate’s mom; a friend who teaches communications; my doula; several ministry friends. I made it through A Man Called Ove this fall on a rare couple of days when I got to sit by a pool and read, sans kids.

Americanah, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

The Sun and Her Flowers, Rupi Kaur

The Sleeper and the Spindle, Neil Gaiman

Priestdaddy, Patricia Lockwood

This one came from a retired book review editor. Must be good!

The Odyssey, translated by Emily Wilson

From my husband. He put it on the list, but given the way he’s been raving about it since he started reading it, I already knew I’d have to read it, too.

How to Talk About Books You Haven’t Read, Pierre Bayard

This one, from one of the funniest, and yet most practical, family friends I know.

March, Geraldine Brooks

One person recommended this, then others started raving about it, too.

Mr. Fox, Helen Oyeyemi

From a friend who is a musician and composer.

The Story of Arthur Trulove, Elizabeth Berg

From one of my dearest ministry colleagues, who said, “it’ll preach.”

Guns, Germs, and Steel, Jared Diamond

From my uncle. I read it years ago, but might be time for another go.

Unbound: A Story of Snow and Self Discovery, Steph Jagger

From a former youth group member who has grown up and moved away to the mountains.

Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body, Roxane Gaye

The Warmth of Other Suns, Isabel Wilkerson

This one is about the Great Migration, the movement of African Americans from the South to northern cities. Another one that a whole bunch of people jumped in to recommend, all of them respected friends and colleagues who work in urban Chicago, in the African American community. So I assume they know their stuff!

Dreamland: The True Story of America’s Opiate Epidemic, Sam Quinones

A friend who recommended this knows good writing when she sees it: I know because we worked together in a group that founded an online zine for female ministers!

Miss Burma, Charmaine Craig

From a writing teacher who also knows her stuff!

Meddling Kids, Edgar Cantero

One of my sci-fi aficionados recommends this. I’m not a big sci-fi girl myself, but I trust her brilliant judgement. And she says it has notes of Scooby Doo and the Gang, and I loved that cartoon as a kid. (Also, she spent a good deal of time this summer entertaining my youngest by playing “monster” with her. So she’s good people.)

Winter Tide, Ruthanna Emrys

Another one that would be not my usual thing, but who knows? Recommended by a lovely Anglican priest I met this summer.

Ongoingness: The End of Diary, Sarah Magnuso

Dying: A Memoir, Cory Taylor

Women and Power: A Manifesto, Mary Beard

All from a college classmate who is now a college librarian.

A Pirate of Exquisite Mind: The Life of William Dampier: Explorer, Naturalist, and Buccaneer, Diana Preston

From a friend who has herself lived a pretty fascinating life. Seems promising!

Born a Crime, Trevor Noah

It’s great as an audio book, I hear.

The New Jim Crow, Michelle Alexander

The Kite Runner, Khalid Hosseini

High school student from my current church recommends this. And, yes, I have not read it yet. I clearly need to fix that.

Winterdance: The Fine Madness of Running the Iditarod, Gary Paulsen

An entire family recommended this to me. They all love it.

Little Fires Everywhere, Celeste Ng

Dorothy Day: The World Will Be Saved by Beauty: An Intimate Portrait of My Grandmother, Kate Hennessy

The Art of Hearing Heartbeats, Jan-Philipp Sendker

Unaccompanied: Javier Zamora

My Brilliant Friend, Elena Ferrante

Underground Railroad, Colson Whitehead

From one of my brilliant friends, an Episcopal priest who has been exceptionally brave in following her call in the last couple of years.

Ursula Under, Ingrid Hill

From one of my best writing friends, who says this is her absolute favorite novel.

Dark Days Club, Alison Goodman

This one is about a demon hunting woman, set in Regency England. Not what I’d usually pick, but my friend who is a bit more than a history buff (she’s got a doctorate in English history) says it’s good.

I Hate the Internet, Jarett Kobek

Margaret the First, Danielle Dutton

From a college classmate who was my husband’s RA and one of my fellow students on an interim month in Chicago studying Puritan texts at the Newberry Library. He must still know us both pretty well, as he recommends one book about the insanity that is the San Francisco tech boom, and another about a woman who is trying to break out of the expectations for women and write. Seems to sum up a few things about my husband the tech worker and my frustrated attempts to get stuff written while juggling being a suburban mom.

Isaiah 55: 1-5

Erica Schemper

Holy Trinity Lutheran Church, San Carlos, CA

“It’s like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.”

― Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

I sometimes find it harder to preach on texts like this one, the ones every one knows. The ones we hear over and over again. Because it’s hard to find something fresh.

This miracle of feeding the multitudes? It’s a much told story. It was important to the early Christians. It’s the only miracle that appears in all 4 gospels. And Matthew and Mark each tell an additional story about Jesus feeding 4000.

We tell it to children. Many of us heard it as children.

It resonates with the story we reenact every week when we come forward and break bread together at this table.

But what does it mean? How does it shape us? Have we heard it so often that we’ve forgotten?

What if we’ve worn it out in the telling?

Two weeks ago, I was the pulpit supply for Sturge Memorial Presbyterian Church in San Mateo. They don’t do lectionary, so I decided to preach this text so that I could re-preach it for you. I was grasping to make it fresh, to figure it out. So I dug around in the story for some new insight, and I found a few things. And that’s what I preached. And it was OK. But you all won’t be hearing that version of the sermon, because something happened to me in the parking lot two weeks ago before I preached. This Bible story ran head on into a family story, and it built something new in me. So that’s the story you’ll be hearing this morning.

My Dad’s side of the family is from California. They were Dust bowl migrants: Henry and Alberta, my great grandparents, left Kansas after a few years of farming disaster, packed their two little children, and everything they owned into a car, and drove to Los Angeles.

In 1942, they were living in Long Beach, CA.  And my great grandpa was working in the shipyards. My grandpa Loyd was 13.

My Grandparents and my Great Grandparents were lovely people. Church going. Boundary pushing. FDR democrats and union members. They lived in working class LA suburbs that were pretty diverse, and my Grandpa, by his retirement, was a foreman of a work team at an aerospace company, and his work teams over the years were diverse, and he talked about how much they all learned from each other.

About 10 years ago, I was attending a professional conference in Southern CA, and one of the speakers, Rodger Nishioka, told us about his family’s experience of being rounded up during WWII and send to a Japanese internment camp.

They were from Long Beach, CA.

I asked my Grandpa about it.

He remembered that time. But they didn’t do anything. “What you have to understand: we were scared.”

This is part of my family story: my wonderful, Christian, family, people who tried to teach me not to be prejudiced by skin color, sat back and did nothing when their neighbors were taken away.

I think of that every time I encounter this horrible story of American history.

Last month, we visited Lava Bed National Monument. Beautiful, breathtaking. Desolate high desert.

There are the ruins on an internment camp on one edge of the park.

So that piece of history was taking up some space in the back of my brain.

Two weeks ago, I arrived to preach on this text at a congregation in San Mateo.

This congregation is in a part of San Mateo where the houses are built close together, prewar and a few post war, stucco. Not unlike the neighborhoods where my grandparents and great grandparents lived when I was growing up.

I sat in the car reviewing my sermon. Thinking about this story of this crowd in the wilderness, wondering where they would find food.

And that was when it hit me.

The wilderness.

You see, this is a historically Japanese congregation. It’s been in San Mateo since 1929.

And, as I watched other cars pull into the parking lot, it was clear that my congregation for the morning would primarily be elderly Japanese women.

Many of whom, as children, found themselves in the wilderness, where it wasn’t clear that there would be enough.

And I, a white woman whose grandparents and great grandparents stood idly by while their Japanese neighbors were sent to the wilderness, was about to preach this text.

I spent the next 5 minutes frantically combing through my text to make sure I wasn’t about to accidentally say something offensive.

Then I went in and preached, and afterward I drank coffee and ate sweet rolls with these dear women.

And Jesus feeding the multitudes will never sound the same to me. The story has changed, because I now enter it differently.

You see, the stories we tell about Jesus, the stories the early church chose to tell over and over and over about Jesus, they shape how we understand who God is, and who we are.

They shape how we understand the world.

One of the cultural messages that we struggle against, I think, is the idea that there is not quite enough. True, we live in a culture that celebrates excess. But I think we also have a cultural idea that we need to accumulate, and hold onto thing, because there might not be enough.  We guard our time. We save up. We keep all kinds of extra stuff in our garage because we might need it someday. And there’s some virtue in this. But there’s also little tiny bit of it that can be about the worry that there’s not going to be enough. I mean: I love me a good black dress. I think of them as a basic and a necessity, the height of simple dressing. However, I happen to own enough of them that, well, I could get through a week, at least, without repeating. I mostly wear jeans and yoga pants as a stay at home parent. But I tell myself my black dress habit isn’t that bad: I mean, they’re a classic! But, let’s be honest. I hoard black dresses. I have more than I need. (Don’t judge. I know you’ve each got some secret like this.)

First century Palestine was a place with great contrasts of excess and deprivation. (This text, a story about people with nothing to eat actually, comes right after the story of a great, excessive, decadent banquet, in Herod’s palace. The banquet the ends with the beheading of John the Baptist.) In societies with these contrasts of people with too much and people with too little, I think there’s always an undercurrent: the fear that the resources will run out.

But Jesus turned this sort of worldview on its head.

Walter Bruggeman:

Bruggeman: . . . Everywhere Jesus goes, the world is rearranged: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor are freed from debt. The forgiveness of debts is listed last because it’s the hardest thing to do—harder even than raising the dead to life. Jesus left ordinary people dazzled, amazed, and grateful; he left powerful people angry and upset, because every time he performed a wonder, they lost a little of their clout.

When we are the “haves” in society, we have power and clout.

So I wonder, what are the 5 loaves and 2 fish that I am hanging onto, that you are hanging onto? What are the things you have that you are sure can’t possibly be enough? And what would it mean to hand them over to Jesus, and then to say, “Yes” to whatever crazy impossible solution Jesus calls you into? Could we feel empowered to do the big things that God calls us to do, even with resources that feel inadequate? Can we remember that we, with what we have in our hands, are the people who have power, and that we are called to give what we have, even if we worry that it won’t be enough?

This is often what it means to follow Jesus: we are led into the desert, and we are sure there is not enough.

But Jesus takes what little we have, blesses it, and, even when the plan seems crazy,

It turns out? There is enough…more than enough.

After the conference, I had time to visit my grandparents. I asked my Grandpa what he remembered. There were Japanese families taken from his neighborhood in Long Beach. I told him the stories our conference speaker had told. And I asked him what my family thought about this at the time, hoping to learn that they had done something to help their neighbors. “You have to understand,” he said, “It was after Pearl Harbor. People were scared.” With hindsight, he knew this was wrong. But at the time, people were scared. My family didn’t do anything.

My ancestors, on both maternal and paternal sides, came to the US from the Netherlands between the late 1800s and early 1900s. They settled in Michigan and Kansas; no one fought in the Civil War; no one owned slaves. (Back in the Netherlands, they were farming families, not sailors, so I don’t think there’s a direct family history of being involved in the slave trade, either.) Intellectually, I know that this doesn’t absolve me, but I recognize that, on an emotional level, I give myself a pass on a family history of racism. Again, I’m working on recognizing how, in fact, even without ancestors directly involved in slavery, I still benefit from that history as a white person.

This week marks the 75th anniversary of the executive order that forced Japanese Americans into camps. I live in northern California now, and the reminders of this in the news are very close to home. I live in the place where this happened; I’ve taken my kids to movies at the mall that sits on the site of an internment camp. And as I listen to the news, I can’t forget that my family was on the scene as this executive order was implemented.

But here’s where things gets tricky. I am a progressive Democrat in no small part because of the paternal side of my family. I am proud of my Grandpa (and his father, my Great Grandpa, whom I knew well: he lived until I was a college student). They were Roosevelt New Deal Democrats; they were union people who worked in shipyards and aerospace manufacturing; they were people who, at other times in their life, took a stand for tolerance and diversity. I love the stories about the times they were progressive: Great Grandma was a Rosie the Riveter; my Great Grandpa refused to buy table grapes during the farm worker strikes; my Grandpa used to tell stories about the people on his team of workers with joy and love and appreciation for diversity among them. I remain proud of them for these things.

I suspect, these days, many of us are assessing the state of our country, looking back at history, asking this question of ourselves, “What would I have done had I been there?” For some of us, with deep connections to family stories, we’re also asking what they would have done, or did, as a way to calibrate our own courage to act.
But it’s always complicated. Human beings are capable of great good, and great evil, and of great action, and great passivity.

I sit this week with my family history, and with my nation’s history, remembering that we have so often fallen short of being the people we could be, and hoping we can do better. And, honestly, sitting with the discomfort of knowing that racism is rooted so deeply in our social system that we don’t even realize how deeply it’s soaked into us.

The first assignment was to take a self portrait. We’re each our own worst critics. This makes me cringe. I am convinced that I photograph very badly. I have dark skin around my eyes that looks like a makeup disaster happened. The camera adds pounds that I’d like to ignore. I smile weird. My skin looks patchy, or my hair is out of order, or there’s just no way that actually looks like how I actually look. Even when I have an online video conference (I serve on the board of an organization that meets this way quite a bit: it happens once or twice a month at least) I make sure the video camera on my computer is at an optimal angle, and the lighting is good. It’s a little sick, I’ll admit it.

But I still think taking pictures of people is magical. If you do it right, you see who they are. (My uncle takes incredible photos of people, I think because he takes time to see who they are.) Taking a good self-portrait? What an opportunity to think about what you see in yourself.

I thought about showering and doing my hair, but figured maybe I should be a little bit honest about the life and times of the stay at home parent. I settled for a little makeup. I decided to use my little Olympus E-P3 instead of my phone. It has settings that do things for me. (I was sort of robbed of the opportunity to take a photography class in high school. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you sometime.) I don’t have a tripod of any kind, so I stacked little pieces of furniture as a makeshift tripod. (At one point, I used one of the toddler’s socks to tilt the camera just a little bit.)

I tried everything from laying on the floor to sitting against a backdrop. I finally figured out that the living room had the best lighting, but only if I sat on the floor. No where for a backdrop. This was going to have to be in my natural environment. I took about 30 pictures (I love digital.) Then I had to pick.

Some of my favorites:

This was interesting: I didn’t hustle back to my spot quick enough and the timer caught half my face.

This one: a little arty, still with the black and white. Staring off into space like I’m thinking deep thoughts.

Next we have in color, and dreamy because it’s out of focus, and whatever filter I picked made things a little hazy.

This one is good. Too bright, though I like the contrast. And look at my dimple!

And here’s the winner. When I was done taking these, this was the one I thought of as the least bad option. But coming back to look at it, I like it. I’ve got very blue eyes, and great glasses. There are nice warm colors behind me. There’s enough sun coming through the window to light things up, and you know, it’s a pretty good place to be, worthy of a smile.

Get ready. In two days it’ll be Christmas Eve, your congregation will welcome people in for one of the biggest nights of the year. Get ready: you may be blessed with an overrun of visitors, and I hope some of those visitors will be children and their parents.

In the spirit of preparation (it is Advent, after all), I write to you with my qualifications as both a minister who has specialized in children and youth and, for the last few years, a pew-sitter: without a full time clergy position, I have done more pew sitting than worship leading.

And this season, I suspect, is the hardest of my pew sitting: I currently have a three lovely children, and we’re doing all the ages and stages right now. The oldest, at 10, is in that phase where she can follow along in church, but sometimes I have to remind her. Sometimes, this results in a little preteen mother daughter drama. The 5 year old wants to move. He has the energy of a Pentecostal, which is perhaps a bit more than your average grown up Lutheran (we currently attend a Lutheran church). And the 2 year old has recently learned that she has pipes, so she will deliver quite the yelp if someone takes what she believes to be her crayon. She’s also a bit of a Pentecostal, occasionally making a dash for the aisle because she thinks that music is for dancing, and she has a hard time waiting her turn when it’s time to go forward to receive communion. Sundays in our pew are sort of like wrestling a squirmy pet monkey, all while juggling hymnals and Bibles, with my husband and I tag teaming the kids when one or the other of us has to attend to something we’ve volunteered for (he’s a frequent worship assistant; we both teach in the short Sunday School pull out that happens during our church’s sermon.)

All this is to say, I know what I’m talking about when it comes to being in the pews with kids during worship. I know that they are not, in fact, the most contemplative pew companions. I also know, from a professional standpoint, that there’s some pretty significant evidence that children who feel welcome during the worship service that’s meant for the entire gathered community are more likely to be involved church members when they grow up. It’s important to me that I leave that legacy for my children, so I’m doing my best to keep them in worship as much as possible. This is why we attend a church that is very welcoming to children (with the occasional lapse: no one is perfect).

And so, here are my requests for Christmas Eve worship, when you may have many children and families in your pews. You may have regular attenders, occasional visitors, first timers, grown up children of the church coming home. There may a be a few kids who have never set foot inside a church before. This is a huge responsibility for a congregation. Please, for the sake of the baby Jesus, try to be as welcoming as possible.

If a kid is loud or squirmy or even gets away from their family, do not stare, give a side eye, or (God forbid) reprimand. Smile warmly. Practice this in the mirror if you have to. If it bothers you that this is disruptive to the peace and quiet you expect of Christmas celebrations, remind yourself that Jesus was a baby, who was probably noisy despite what the Christmas carols claim; and that Jesus born in a stable in a town that was overflowing with visitors. The first Christmas was probably a little chaotic. And the point of the incarnation is that God shows up among us, even with all our messiness and chaos.

If you can see any way to be helpful, do it. Offer to carry a diaper bag for a Dad whose hands are full. Play peek-a-boo over the pew with a kid who grins at you. If you are greeting visitors, go out of your way to talk to the children (sometimes I bend down and introduce myself to a child before a parent), and tell them you are so glad they brought their children. If there’s a nursery, feel free to tell parents it’s available, but add a comment like, “but your children are of course welcome here if that’s more comfortable for your family.” (Remember that, particularly for a family that’s unfamiliar with your church, dropping their kid off with a stranger, even if you have the best nursery attendants ever, might not work.) Think hospitality: how can you welcome every person, with your complete attention, and without any judgment? And welcoming all children on Christmas Eve? It’s a spiritual practice: remember how Jesus said that in welcoming the stranger you welcome him (Matthew 25:35-36)?

If there’s something going on between a child and a parent and it’s not how you would do things were you in that parent’s shoes, create for yourself a mindset of gracious imagination. You probably don’t know the whole story for this family, even if they are regular members of your church. A toddler might be teething. There might be extra stressors in this family’s life right now. Sibling rivalry may be at a high point between two children. A child may have some special needs of which you are unaware. The comment you think is polite, or the eyeroll you thought was subtle might be the final straw for a family that is struggling, a stab to the heart of a parent who is trying their best.

And, if after putting all these things into practice on Christmas Eve, you are still left feeling like something about the presence of children took away from your experience of worship, I’d encourage you to ask yourself two questions. First, are there things about the way your congregation does worship that are, in fact, unwelcoming to children? For instance, worship that is completely un-interactive is incredibly boring for children: they are asked to simply listen, rather than participate, for over an hour. This can happen by accident in some churches around Christmas if we have fewer opportunities for people to sing because we pack the service with as many choir pieces as possible. Not that I don’t love the choir at Christmas…or, when we are so concerned that with so many people in worship any of the times when we might normally have an opportunity to move around (passing the peace; coming forward for communion, etc.) are viewed as a hassle and cut from the liturgy. Maybe there’s a way you can help be an agent for change in your church, and help to ensure that worship engages people at all ages and stages of life: jot down some notes and ideas, and see if you can chat with your pastor (offer to wait until February: most pastors are actually quite busy catching up with the things that just didn’t get done in December, as well as the general business of church in January). Go into this conversation prepared to listen to what the pastor might say (they have some expertise in this area) and prepared to offer to help with implementation.

The second question is more important, though. If children took away from your experience of worship, is that because worship is about you, or about the community? If communal worship is your only time for a quiet, peaceful, personal experience of God’s presence, you may need to rethink your spiritual practices. If worship is meant for the entire community of God’s people (which includes people of all ages), it may not be the best chance for you to find peace amidst complete silence and without distraction.

Come to think of it, most of this is pretty good guidance for worship throughout the year.

So, get ready, Church folk: Christmas Eve is an incredible opportunity to open your doors and let the world know who we are. We are a people who believe that God came to us, in the midst of chaos, long nights, and messiness, and came into the world as one of us, kicking and screaming. And because of this, our arms are open, no matter who you are, how old you are, or how well you sit still in a pew.

I filter pretty much everything I hear right now through the perspective of a parent. That’s the main gig in my life.

So, when I heard what Trump had said, it made me think about the fact that, if one of my kids, even “joking” suggested killing someone, or any form of violence, that would be occasion for us to slow down and talk about what was just said. It’s not that they are “forbidden” from expressing how they feel. It’s just that, as a parent, part of my job is to raise children who strive for peace and justice, and respect the life and limb of others. (For instance, of their siblings. Their friends. Kids who are not their friends. Sometimes me and their Dad.) Fine. You can say what you feel, but after you say it, we’re going to get introspective about it. In our family, that’s the standard we’re working toward. And often, I find that Mr. Trump does not measure up to the standards I have for my own five year old. This worries me.

But then last night, I was thinking about this a little more, and I realized: an adult person who is running for president should be held to a higher standard than a five year old.

I’m going to take a risk here and tell a story about a youth group error I made almost a decade ago, no names. It’s possible someone might recognize themselves in this story, and if you do (Hello, friend!), please grant me some leeway? I have some qualms about telling ministry stories, but this is in service of something I think is important.

On a long long long youth group trip bus ride, I made the mistake of not taking hold of my authority as the church staff person and making the adult chaperones sit throughout the bus for the trip. After we returned, we found out that in the back of the bus, there was a pretty serious game of “MFK” going on (in which you name a person and have to say if you would…well, look it up online). Names of other youth group members were used. Word about the game got around among youth group members and it was something that created repercussions in relationships throughout the week.

I suspect (hope?) that the kids in my youth group who were doing this knew it probably wasn’t an OK way to treat each other. And I also suspect that had there been a caring adult sitting a few seats away, that might have served as enough of a reminder of the bounds of caring behavior that this would not have happened.

And this game bothers me for a few reasons. First, it objectifies people. Second, it combines violence and sex. Third, all pretty serious things to talk about as a “joke.” (Also, I do not buy “kids will be kids” as an excuse for this kind of behavior. Why? Because I have worked with teens for years, and I know them to be kind, sensitive, mature human beings who care deeply about other people.) Words have meaning. And even “jokes” have meaning. Sex and life are pretty sacred things, too. I don’t mind when we are playful about those things. But I do mind when we are flippant about them. And I should have known better, not to be present or make sure my adult leaders were present enough to help set boundaries and boost our kids toward a standard of maturity.

I don’t think it’s too much to ask that a presidential candidate can reach the maturity bar that I set for high schoolers in a church youth group. And by every mark, Trump misses that. He is way too old for people to make the excuse “he’s joking,” “he misspoke,” or, worse yet, “boys will be boys.” I get that there are people who are angry about the state of politics in our country, who feel left behind and shoved to the margins. But someone who can’t meet the basic emotional maturity of a bunch of high schoolers? That’s a horrible thing for our country.

And you know what? I bet he won’t win. It’s such a relief to look at polls and see that this may very well be the case (although I’m terrified at the possibility.)

But those politicians and private citizens who are excusing his behavior as “a joke”? I truly wonder what sort of standard you expect for children; for teenagers; for adults…

…for that matter, what sort of standard of peace and justice do you want for our society? Because Trump cannot be possibly be it. And that’s more important than any sense of party allegiance.

Woodside Road UMC, Redwood City, CA

I’m not going to lie: I spend too much time on the interwebs.

In my defense, after years of being a pastor,

an extrovert who likes being with people,

a thinker who likes talking about big ideas,

I am now a stay at home parent,

and I have been home with my three kids all summer. And by “home” I really do mean “home”. We’re saving up vacation time for a thing this fall. Meanwhile, my kids’ friends are on vacation or in day camps. We don’t live on a block where the neighborhood kids roam yard to yard. Except for one precious week, my kids have not been in camps. So, this summer I have delved full on into the world of intensive parenting.

To keep in touch with a world beyond legos, laundry, and magic marker accidents with the baby, I pop over to facebook and twitter and check how the world is doing.

And the world is kind of a mess.

I am near tears whenever I read about refugees in Europe,

I’m embarrassed at my country’s inability to take care of people who come to us for refuge.

I am so angry about the way that we treat black people in America.

I am sad about the state of politics, Republican and Democrat.

I am worried for my two daughters,

growing up in a world that just can’t figure out how to treat women as equals.

I am floored by the responsibility of raising my son to be a man

who doesn’t believe that he should always get what he wants just because he’s a white man.

I am grieved for children in other countries

AND in the urban US who live in places where bullets fly.

I could go on. You could, too.

And sometimes, I just want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head because it is all too much, this echo-chamber of everything that is wrong with the world.

But, I suspect that Jesus wants me to do something about it. So instead of burying my head under a pillow,

I try to fit in time to write a letter to my congressperson,

or to make a little donation here or there.

I contemplate throwing on my clerical collar and heading to a protest, but it often interferes with the baby’s naptime, or the 5 year old is just too squirmy to make it practical.

What I can do to fix the world seems pretty insignificant. I’m supposed to love my neighbor.

But there are so many neighbors to love, so many injustices to address. And in the meantime, I still have to do the laundry.

How much can I really do?

It is almost backwards that I find some comfort for my pessimism in this passage from Jeremiah. This is a word written originally for people who were too optimistic. I

t’s written to the people of Israel, in exile in Babylon, who are hearing from some prophets that the return to Israel will happen soon. Don’t get too comfortable: we’ll be going home before we know it.

But Jeremiah has a different take. This exile is going to be a little longer than we expected.

And so, this is our reality,

this place,

this time,

these people.

We need to settle in and do what God would have us do in the place where we find ourselves.

Stop packing.

Plan a wedding.

Plant a garden.

Put down some roots.

I think it’s pretty common that we do not find ourselves in exactly the place we wish to be.

It might be that we are in exile from the place we always imagined for ourselves.

Or perhaps our relationships aren’t what we envisioned.

We are living life without someone who was central to our being.

We are not where we ought to be financially.

And sometimes, that feeling of exile also extends to our sense of what we’re supposed to be doing for God.

We find ourselves in life circumstances where we feel like we just can’t do enough to work toward the justice and peace that God desires for the world.

Now, there are times when our circumstances become a cop out. I certainly acknowledge that. We probably could do more.

But we also need to recognize that it is OK to be called to rather mundane things.

Like doing the laundry.

Being an excellent lawyer.

Coaching a kid’s baseball team.

Taking the kids camping.

Repairing the fence.

Planting a garden.

Here’s where Jeremiah 29 helps me.

We might need to peel our eyes off of the internet, out of the newspaper, and off of cable TV to be reminded of our current location.

What am I called to right now?

And where am placed right now?

Who has God placed next to me and who does God ask me to recognize as my nearest neighbors?

What patch of earth is mine to tend?

In a way, this is what Jeremiah is telling Israel:

you are so focused on the big picture

that you are losing sight of your own backyard.

So, what can you do

in the mundane world of your own backyard

to help God’s Kingdom come?

Or, for that matter, at your work desk,

during your commute,

with your morning exercise group,

in your bookclub?

Because love and compassion begin with every person you encounter.

I’m struck by how Jesus, in his life, was headed for a show-down with the greatest earthly power of his time, not to mention a show-down with cosmic forces of sin and evil…

and yet the radical acts that get him to that showdown?

Everyday love and compassion for the people he encountered along the way.

What does that look like for you?

Take a moment to think of the people you might encounter in a regular day.

Some of them are people you know and love well:

partners and children and parents and friends.

Some are people you encounter in the business of your day and don’t always slow down to notice:

Your boss;

Fellow co-workers;

Your kids’ teachers;

The neighbor who is not really your favorite.

Some of them are the people you might overlook:

the checkout cashier;

The landscapers;

a family living out of their camper in a parking lot;

What happens when you see each of those people

with the eyes of Jesus?

What happens if you love them because God loved you first?

Doesn’t it shift the world just a little when we slow down, take notice, and show compassion to the person who just happens to be next to us in the moment?

What if I remind myself that, just as much as any protest, my call right now is to raise these three children to look at people as Jesus looks at them, with love and compassion? That might bear fruit as much as any protest.

Maybe this is my patch of ground for the time being.

And what happens when you have a conversation with someone, and there’s a moment when grace, compassion, or justice might be spoken?

A few weeks ago, in my morning exercise class, our 24 year old instructor, rather bravely, I thought, said, “Did you all see the latest news about a black man shot by the police?!?” And then, for the next 10 minutes, in between ab exercises, a bunch of us, affluent suburban white people talked quite honestly about race in America.

It was so small. But it was like a fresh shoot in the garden. I thought, maybe we are going to be OK.

There is so much we could do. But maybe in trying to do too much we miss the places where we are deeply called. Maybe in doing too much, we miss our garden.

My friend Cat reminded me of this quote this week. It’s from Thomas Merton, who was an early 20th century society mover and shaker… until he became a monk, and lived a quiet, contemplative life.

There is a pervasive form of contemporary violence to which the idealist most easily succumbs: activism and overwork. The rush and pressure of modern life are a form, perhaps the most common form, of its innate violence. To allow oneself to be carried away by a multitude of conflicting concerns, to surrender to too many demands, to commit oneself to too many projects, to want to help everyone in everything, is to succumb to violence. The frenzy of our activism neutralizes our work for peace. It destroys our own inner capacity for peace. It destroys the fruitfulness of our own work, because it kills the root of inner wisdom which makes work fruitful.

So, here’s Merton, reminding us with Jeremiah, that we need to take care of our own gardens. I love this. Because it’s not just about “inner peace” (our OWN inner peace). But a reminder that we need to take care of ourselves in order to care for the world. We can get sucked in and do too much, and miss the true, concentrated places to which we are called.

And if we kill off our inner roots, we lose our connection to the source of love and compassion, the God who calls us to the places where our God-given gifts are most needed.

Friends, there is so much, and it is overwhelming.

But there are so many of us, so many whom God is calling. And each little patch of earth that we tend? It becomes a toe-hold for the kingdom of God.

And all together? Where we see a patch of justice and peace cultivated here and there? That’s just the picture we can see. In the mind of God, it is so much bigger.

May it begin with the smallest seeds.

And may it end in a new creation.

Thanks be to God.

I bought a fitbit a little over a year ago with the goal of getting back to running. Baby number three really did in my exercise routine: three kids to take care of, lots of nighttime feedings, and I was feeling all tapped out energy-wise. I’d go for a few short “runs” (timed, running for a few minutes, then walking for a few), and then give it up. It needed to be more consistent. And I was out of shape: I needed to start somewhere other than running.

I bought the fitbit to make sure I was walking enough. We spent most of Hazel’s first year renting a home that was far enough away from Zora’s and Abram’s schools and my church that I was spending more time in the car driving back and forth, less time walking. Our new neighborhood was arguably more walkable than the last (fewer giant hills; more sidewalks; a park a block away), so I figured I could take advantage of that and walk more to get to the point where I could run more.

Enter the fitbit. Again, with some starts and stops, some months being better than others, it did its job. I walked more. When I used it, I knew how much I was walking. (I will admit to discovering that I got credit for steps sometimes from things like swaying and bouncing a fussy baby, but, hey, that’s physical exertion, too, right?)

Finally, this spring, I decided to take another big step: I enrolled in an early morning bootcamp and committed to a couple weeks of extra walking. And then, I would really make a serious effort at rebooting the running. A few weeks of bootcamp and the walking, and I got brave and registered for a half marathon at the end of the summer. I wrote in a schedule of three runs a week into my planner (I decided to keep up with the bootcamp for 2 or 3 mornings a week).

I feel much better. Honestly, I’m not sure I’ve lost much weight, but I’m finding the scale demoralizing these days (according to BMI, I am obese, and this just makes me feel bad right now). What I do notice: I am stronger. My upper arms maybe don’t look better, but I feel better about them. So, I’m just going to sit with that sense of satisfaction about my body and eventually the scale and I will get reacquainted.

A few weeks ago, I thought I’d lost my fitbit. Turns out I’d just misplaced it. But in the days where I couldn’t find it, I decided to stop wearing it. I noticed two things.

I wasn’t pegging the worth of my day to how many steps I’d taken. For instance, a couple weeks earlier, I’d actually gotten halfway to bootcamp when I realized I’d forgotten (HORRORS!!!) to put on my fitbit (I don’t wear it all night: I never got into the sleep functionality part because when I started wearing it, as a nursing mother, my sleep stats were just awful). I turned the car around and went home to get it, and missed 10 minutes of my class. Because I needed those steps. The sheer crazy of this hit me later. I missed 10 minutes of exercise because I was somehow convinced that it wouldn’t count if I didn’t track it. (Yes, I had, prior to this, had a some evenings where I ran in place before bed time just to add a couple hundred steps to reach some sort of goal.) The fitbit was making me a little bit of a crazy person.

Then, my 9 year old started talking about how she wanted to wear a fitbit. I’m not sure I’m ready for my kid to feel the need to track her steps. “Honey,” I said, “I think you are active enough. Or, if you aren’t and you want to take more steps, you should be active for the fun of it, not just the number.”

And that’s when it hit me: I also want exercise to be partly about playfulness, and mindful enjoyment of the moment. (In fact, one of the things I like about my bootcamp is that it’s a little bit like gym class for adults. There’s some play to it.)

And then I read this article about all of our smart devices. Now, I am the greatest of smartphone lovers. The smartphone allows me to traipse around with my kids and do stuff outside of the house and still answer emails and jot down notes and read newspapers and take pictures, yes, check facebook. Yes, I use it too much. No, I’m not giving it up. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with every detail of my life being tracked by every single device in my life. I draw the line at a smart blender. And my fitbit had accomplished what I wanted it to do. Why was I still bouncing in place in my bedroom at 10pm to get those extra 472 steps when I was sore from a couple consecutive days of bootcamp and running?

I ran six miles today. I ran it at my tortoise-slow, 12 minute per mile, run five minutes, walk for a minute and a half pace.

So I’m retiring the fitbit, in exchange for a little more running, and more bootcamp. If I can get my pace up enough, hopefully it’ll start looking like this:

via GIPHY

Who is this man and what did he do with my husband? @erikvorhes just decided to get a membership at this vineyard.

A photo posted by Erica Schemper (@eschemper) on Jul 3, 2016 at 2:16pm PDT

The day included: visiting a couple of wineries, one of which Erik decided he loved and wanted to get a year long “membership” (in other words, we’re buying several bottles of their wine every quarter…come visit us: we’ll have great wine!). This was out of character for Erik, but I think it happened because he was smitten with their school-themed marketing and with the fact that the wine maker, who looked like just your average guy wearing 4th of July shorts on the holiday weekend, walked past our kids, who were rather sweetly sharing an iPad, and complimented Erik on how wonderful they were. The key to Erik’s heart is clearly to compliment his children, in case you were wondering. Then off to drop Zora off at camp. When did my little peanut become old enough to confidently spend a week away from home? That’s another blog post!

Waiting while Zora gets checked in. A photo posted by Erik Vorhes (@erikvorhes) on Jul 3, 2016 at 3:24pm PDT

An hour at a park, and burgers for dinner. Then home by way of a windy trip through the mountains, with breathtaking views of the marine layer rolling in from the Pacific.

But the highlight of the trip? Our encounter with probably-not-George R.R. Martin (author of the Game of Thrones series) outside of a coffee shop in a little touristy mountain town.

Here’s how it went down. We were stopping at a coffee shop for their (deservedly) famous chai. Three doors down there’s a ukulele shop that I’ve tried, thrice before, to visit. But my visit has always been foiled by odd hours or some minor calamity with my kids (including, one time, an ER visit). Erik was working to get Hazel out of her carseat and Abram had already bounded out of the car. He’s a wiry ball of five year old energy at this point, after an hour spent getting Zora through registration lines at camp.

“I’m just going to take Abram down to the ukulele store and see if it’s open today.”

“Great,” says Erik.

“Abram, there will be breakable things. How do you look while we’re in the store?”

“With my eyes not with my hands,” he says, while leaping up an unusually high curb. “You know, I still need a new ukulele. My red one is gone. Maybe they have one just like it. But only a red one like the one I had before.”

A guy at the table outside the coffee place is watching this, and starts chuckling, “Ukulele got lost, huh?” (I’m thinking this guy looks familiar but I’m not sure why.)

“Well,” I say, “it was more of a Jimi Hendrix kind of moment on his part and then the thing may have disappeared when his room got organized…”

“How old is he? Six? I have a four year old nephew. They’re something at this age.”

And then I run to catch up with Abram, we get to store, and I realize that I’d be best off drinking my chai in a hurry and returning without Mr. Destructo.

While we’re sitting in the coffee shop, Erik says, “What were you and Abram talking about with George R,R. Martin out there?” We start googling images because he does look shockingly similar. Maybe he’s visiting Santa Cruz. Who knows? I’d go there on vacation!

Erik is sure it’s not him. His hat is not quite right. The hat is apparently always the same. He’s probably right.

We finish our drinks. We wipe ice cream off the kids. We head out to the car. I discover the ukulele shop closed 10 minutes ago. Foiled again.

Erik is trying to load kids into the car. Abram is taking flying leaps off of that unusually high curb and asking questions, “Mom: why is this curb so high? Do you know what? I think it’s here for the cars to not get onto the sidewalk. How do you make a pipe? And how do you put it under the ground? What would happen if there were an earthquake? Or what if someone jumped on the pipe?”

Not-George is barely containing his laughter. “Oh, it’s really not about the answers with this one, is it? It’s all about the questions!”

I’m helping Abram with a seatbelt. Erik, across the car strapping Hazel into her seat, catches my eye. “That’s exactly the kind of thing I imagine George R.R. Martin would say,” he loud-whispers across the car.

Not-George, still quietly guffawing at Abram, shouts to him, “Hey! Who do you think I am?”

I’m not sure if I hope Abram hears him or not, if I sort of hope Abram and has put together what Erik and I have been talking about, and would yell back, “George R. R. Martin!” He doesn’t yell.

We get in the car. Erik and I agree he isn’t George R. R. Martin. He’s probably a sweet guy who works as a nice upscale mall Santa in the winter.

“Although,” says Erik, “I think you quit reading the books before you got to the point where you’d understand the significance of this: the name of the coffee shop?”

The White Raven.