to mark the season of advent and the accompanying waiting and yearning for new life in all of its various forms, i’m posting a sermon i preached this time last year at shady grove church. it’s the most honest and vulnerable sermon i’ve ever preached, and i’m including it in the MakeShift revolution because it is equally influenced by my ministry and my motherhood. the texts of the day were jeremiah 33:14-16 and luke 21:25-36. interspersed throughout the text are some block prints i did in 2007 for the advent bulletin covers atidlewild church.

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The “baby watch” had begun. The future grandparents called every 12 hours or so to ask about signs of labor. The great-aunt was on standby, ready to babysit the two-year-old on a moment’s notice. The nursery had been complete for a good month, the baby clothes had been washed, folded, and put away, the name had been selected, and the birthing plan had been mapped out. The new car seat was secure in the car. The two-year-old endured periodic explanations about what was about to happen, even though he really just wanted to play with his play dough in peace. And everywhere she went, that is, everywhere I went, I was a walking, waddling, symbol of Advent, pregnant, like Mary, during the days leading up to last Christmas. 

Meanwhile, the season of Advent set the stage with its rich stories. The prophets were prophesying the coming of a new king. John the Baptist was urging his congregation, the brood of vipers, to repent. Mary and Joseph saddled up a pack animal and went to be registered. The young adult Jesus was telling his disciples, and us, to look for the signs of the second coming. The weeks unfurled to the sights of Christmas lights, and the sounds of TV ads meant to herald, or perhaps beg for, salvation for our broken economy. There were the usual to-do lists and the painfully unusual absences left by death and empty nests. I don’t need to tell you what the holidays are like. We all know that strange hybrid of hope and impatience, excitement and desperation that comes when we are expecting God to break into our midst. But for me, last year, it really did all come down to the baby. My baby, who threatened all winter to make an early arrival and beat the baby Jesus to the punch.

I spent some time last year thinking that being very pregnant during Advent gave me a special entry point into this season of preparation and waiting. This brought an added measure of importance to the usual third-trimester symptoms: shortness of breath, night-waking, paranoia about missing the signs of imminent birth, mistaking my own impatience for signs of imminent birth, indigestion, emotional highs and lows, and attempts to conform this miracle to my schedule by eating spicy food, standing on my head, walking laps around the mall, etcetera.

But then I remembered that all of my Advents before had been marked by the same symptoms. Perhaps you suffer from some of these inflictions too: shortness of breath, night-waking, paranoia about missing the signs of imminent birth, mistaking your own impatience for signs of imminent birth, indigestion, emotional highs and lows, and attempts to conform this miracle to your schedule. After all, Advent’s vulnerable waiting wrapped up in the frenzy of pomp and circumstance transforms us all, every year, into people who are expecting, whether we’ve ever been pregnant or not.

But it was not just my pregnancy that connected me so intimately to the Advent story last year. It was another common thread that weaves through the prophecies and the gospels, through my story, and perhaps yours too. I was lured into believing that I knew what to expect when I was expecting.

The people of the houses of Israel and Judah are certain that the coming king will be a ruler, like the rulers of their day. Jeremiah TELLS them that the coming king will establish justice and righteousness in the land, and they just assume that this justice and righteousness will happen in the usual way – by killing off their enemies. They are lured into believing that they know what to expect when they are expecting.

The people who crowd around Jesus in the gospel of Luke, and later many Christians of our time are certain that the second coming of our king will be signaled by the sun, moon, and stars; distress among the nations; and the roaring of the sea and the waves. Jesus TELLS them and us that the Son of Man is coming on a cloud, and from then on our generation of followers has just assumed that this event can be quantified, predicted, screen lit, packaged, and sold. We, that is many Christians of our day and time, are lured into believing that we know what to expect when we are expecting.

The ultrasound tech told my husband and me that our baby was to be a boy. And because we already had one of those — a precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder –  we just assumed that the baby growing in my womb would be another precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder. We were lured into believing that we knew what to expect when we were expecting.

But the people of the houses of Israel and Judah did not get what they were expecting. Their king was a baby, and though he eventually did work for justice and righteousness, he didn’t follow the military model. Instead, he preached about forgiveness and nonviolence

The people who crowd around Jesus in Luke and even now don’t always get what we are expecting either. There are glimmers of the second coming all the time but the cataclysmic event that hits it big in the box office does not seem imminent, nor does longing for it heal the longing in our souls

And a test in the sixteenth week of my pregnancy revealed that my expectations were not accurate either. My little boy had an elevated risk for downs syndrome. Downs or no downs, he could still be a precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder, but I could no longer cling to the silly notion that my second son would be just like my first.

Twice, I endured procedures designed to tell me for sure whether or not my son had Downs. Twice these procedures failed. I was left with no choice but to move through the season in a sort of embodied uncertainty. I had no idea what to expect while I was expecting, and I realized then that nobody else REALLY does either.

Well, this was an entirely different kind of waiting than I had signed up for. The place in my heart that I was preparing for another precious, curly-headed, spirited wonder slowly died, and in its place grew a reluctant, and eventually exuberant openness to this baby, who would change my life forever. Advent comes each year with its traditions and stories, associations, and plans. We have learned to prepare our hearts for these things, so comforting with their certainty. But only the uncertainty, only the wild prospect of an unpredictable savior, only this different kind of reluctant and eventually exuberant waiting can really open us up to the fullness of new life that is promised. Sometimes our expectations keep us from the radically receptive kind of expecting to which we are called.

My son, [the bird], was born on January 17^th of this year, and he does not have Downs Syndrome. But in my opinion, the real victory in this story lies elsewhere. From the moment the doctor handed me my baby, fresh from the womb, I felt nothing but unconditional love. The question about Downs that had ruled so much of my pregnancy had no relevance at all in the face of this love, so powerful, this baby, so divine. Miraculously, I had made room for him, and all that he is, and all that he will become.

This is how my little [bird] taught me what Advent is all about before he was even 5 minutes old. It’s about opening our hearts to a God who is never limited by our expectations. It’s about embracing uncertainty. It’s about casting aside all of those things that have no relevance at all in the face of love and divinity. But most of all, it’s about making room for the baby, born in the city of David, and all that he is, and all that he will become.

AMEN.

last tuesday, my husband received his latest hepatitis c test results.

for those who are just now tuning into this saga, we think he contracted hep c during a surgery five years ago, and life since this shocking news hit has never been the same. we were in our twenties, prematurely grappling with our mortality. i was doing in vitro, he was enduring a year-long chemo-like treatment, and syringes and sharpe’s containers were among our regular household items. six months post-treatment, we got the news that the virus was back. there were treatments in the works but nothing new was on the market. hep c is a slowly progressing virus, so andy set out to control what he could control and live his life.

andy had regular acupuncture appointments and took fist fulls of herbs morning, noon, and night. he stopped drinking, stopped eating red meat, and eliminated unnecessary stress. he committed himself to getting more sleep, and he became a force of nature in the weight room and during his frequent jogs. i am still in awe of his determination and persistence.

last year, a hep c test revealed that he had no more virus in his blood. we were told that if he got similar results this year, he would be counted among the small percentage of people who manage to fight the virus off themselves. last tuesday, he joined this modest and grateful category of healthy men and women.

just as we were beginning to process this news, our neighbor and very dear friend, steve, passed away suddenly. steve was an almost daily part of our lives. in the two years since we moved in next door, we have had many meals together outside, in the cove, and inside, around our table. every member of our family loved him.

i was asked to officiate steve’s funeral yesterday, and driving away from the graveside after it was all over, i told andy that i am not sure i will ever receive a higher honor in my ministry. i am including some segments from my homily (crafted from many emails i received from his friends) that describe the kind of person he was. but i think andy really said it best when he said, “you know someone was a good person when his mailman shows up for his funeral.”

Steve was fun loving.

Perhaps this trait was the most obvious in Spin Class, where he always had “his” spot, right in front of the mirror. After leaving several times to change out of sweaty shirts, Steve could be counted on to have a water fight with Liz, or to stand up and start singing to his favorite Spin Class song, which, by the way, “That’s not My Name” by the Ting Tings.

Outside of Spin Class, Steve knew how to find a certain lightness about life and tap into it. And then, with a smile or a laugh, or just the right amount of teasing, he’d bring his friends into this lightness too….

Steve made Midtown better.

According to one business owner, “He didn’t just own the buildings in Midtown that so many popular businesses occupy, but he participated in our success. He patronized us all and helped so many of us become or remain successful.”…

If the grass got too high at Peabody Park, Steve would arrive on the scene with his lawnmower. Because of things like this, even those who didn’t know Steve personally have suffered a loss….

Finally, Steve was a “passionate participant in life.”

In other words, whether it was yoga, spinning, cycling, running, tennis, art, or [his granddaughter], Steve approached everything with passion and had a blast in the process. He truly enjoyed life and set a great example for all of us.”

He once told one of you, “I love my life, and I look forward to waking up every day.”….

It is with enormous grief that we gather here. But we do not have to say goodbye to Steve. Time will bring back that sense of lightness Steve loved to show us. The grief will fade. And we will remember him with nothing but gratitude.

friday and saturday brought us back topinecrest, the presbyterian camp where andy and i both spent time as campers and counselors. i officiated a five o’clock wedding there in the beautiful new chapel, so we packed up the whole fam damily and left memphis around noon. after the hour’s drive, there was plenty of time to enjoy the fall day in the country before the shin-dig.

i could write a whole post about what it’s like to try to keep up with two small boys at a wedding. there was the part where i was making small talk in the food line while the monkey engulfed himself in my dress and wrapped his body around my legs, the scene where the bird ran off into the wooded darkness, the ten minutes before the ceremony that i spent frantically looking for drawing paper for the monkey, and the constant and desperate begging for slices of the not-yet-cut wedding cake.

but this is not a post about the split second it takes for my family to turn a party into a circus. this is a post about marrying young.

the ages of the bride and groom were a topic of conversation among dismayed family and friends during the wedding weekend. the bride is 22 and the groom is 21, which makes them a year younger than andy and i were when we got married and several years older than the bride’s parents when they got married. modern wisdom suggests that it is best to do a bit of growing up before one joins one’s life to another, and though this was not my experience, i certainly see the value in doing so. but it seemed appropriate, in celebrating this couple’s courtship and marriage, to highlight the particular challenges and joys that arise when the newlywed years contain the decisions and experiences brought about by college, graduations, grad schools, vocational discernment, and watching cake boss on tv. here are some excerpts from my homily:

[Groom] and [Bride], “people are going to say that you are too young to get married.”

At least, these were the words of [Bride’s] dad, who warned his daughter of such nay saying.

 Then, he shared his own experience of marrying early, and of the grand privilege it is to grow up with one’s partner. There is something to be said for learning life’s lessons together in young adulthood… and in every age and stage to follow.

[Groom’s] sister chose and read scripture from 1^st Peter for this service, and, [Groom and Bride,] I cannot think of more fitting words for you. These words are a call for all people of faith to discern what our God-given gifts are, and to use these gifts to uplift those around us.

 This kind of discernment is ongoing, of course, but the crash course in self-discovery happens when we are young. This means that by marrying early, you will be doing the kind of work together that many people do alone…

…We are all here to celebrate the life you are building together, your shared journey of faithfully administering God’s grace in its various forms. Let this be so, in young adulthood…. and in every age and stage to follow.

of course, there was much  more to it than this, but while i was delivering the homily, i had one of those rare (for me) preaching experiences where i was actually feeling the words and saying them at the same time. all weddings are supposed to be a time for all of those in partnership to celebrate their lives together but at this occasion, it was especially natural and easy for andy and me to celebrate our marriage. we were in a place where we did some growing up together, and 17 years after we chased campers around the pines, we found ourselves chasing our very own children among those same old trees.

there is no one right time to get married, but marrying young was right for us. it was right for the parents of saturday’s bride, and it seems right for the newlyweds, who are presently honeymooning in st. lucia — the same place andy and i went after our wedding 11 years ago.

i am not a science person, and i never took physics. perhaps this is why i have managed to reach the age of 34 without fully grasping the simple concept that i cannot be two places at once. but andy’s three-day out-of-town conference last week was just the crash course i needed to fulfill my “knowing one’s limitations” requirement.

lesson one occured at memphis botanic gardens’ big back yard, where i encountered another mom, who was expertly holding her ten-week-old while her three-year-old was tentatively exploring.  

i, on the other hand, darted frantically from one child-in-constant-motion to the other. the bird fell, the monkey was hogging the slide, the bird nibbled on someone else’s lunch, the monkey needed help finding the mallets for the “house of rock,” the bird was dangerously close to the creek, the monkey…

wait! where was the monkey? hiding in the worm hole. cool.

only this wasn’t so cool with the aforementioned mother, because while my attention was on the monkey, the bird was playing with the enticing gadgets on her ten-week-old’s empty stroller.

i scooped up the bird in a flurry of apologies. she said nothing but went to work on the stroller with wet wipes.

the big back yard is just that — big. but no matter how far we strayed from the perturbed mother and her statuesque children, the bird always managed to find his way back to her alluring collection of stroller toys. when she started scolding the bird and yanking him away from the empty stroller, i knew it was time to go. i also knew that in about a year, when her baby is walking, this mother would be joining me in the impossible attempt to be in two places at once.

lesson two occurred at the end of my solo-parenting duty, just as i was congratulating myself for maintaining patience, relative calm, and a sense of adventure while andy was away. the phone rang, and a kind and gentle church parishioner on the other end of the line expressed legitimate disappointment that i had not visited his family during a very critical time they had experienced in the previous few days, the same few days i spent playing the roles of mom, dad, and cruise director for my kids.

i was, and still am, riddled with guilt.

i’m also frustrated that in many cases for me, quality ministry and quality parenting are mutually exclusive. but no matter how hard i try, i cannot be in two places at once. sometimes being fully present to one child means being only marginally present to the other. sometimes providing stability during a critical time for my children means not providing empathy during a critical time for parishioners.

this is the reality of my life right now, one that i am having a hard time embracing. even i were a science person, i cannot change the laws of physics.

“what made you decide to become a minister?”

i have been on the receiving end of this question for over ten years now, and i have spouted off my answer the way a runner trots down a well-worn path, pointing out landmarks (female minister role models, a life-long fascination with mystery) as i (r)amble on. but every once in a while, a wise questioner will cut me off and say,

“no, really. what do YOU get out of having the title of minister, wearing the robe, the instant intimacy, et cetera. what is it about you that needs that?”

divinity school afforded me the kind of introspection required to honestly answer this question. i became more and more comfortable owning not only my purest and most altruistic reasons for entering the ministry, but also my need to be needed, the relief i found in the robe’s instant validation, and the sense of inclusion i felt when others let me in to their deepest experiences of joy and despair. the key, i learned back then, was to own these things and keep them in check. dishonesty about my own fulfillment would result in harm to others.

nobody ever asks me anymore why i went into the ministry. perhaps this is because i have made choices that translate into a vocational hybrid of writing and working floor puzzles, leading study groups and changing diapers, performing the occasional religious ritual and the kids’ nightly bedtime rituals. but the irony is that now that so little of my time is spent wearing a robe, being needed by other adults, and treading lightly on the sacred ground of others’ intimate affairs, some of my more base reasons for entering the ministry are more obvious to me than they ever have been before.

reorienting myself to the very different kind of validation and intimacy that comes with motherhood is a continuous challenge for me. sometimes i feel as if there is a vacuum (or perhaps a shark steam mop) where my healthy ego used to be, and a tinge a loneliness that was formerly squelched by the stream of college students making their way to my college chaplaincy office.

but i am still grateful for the two wise questioners in my life, the little boys who don’t care at all about my female minister role models or my fascination with mystery. they don’t care whether i’m wearing clergy garments or even undergarments. they love me just the same.

the key now is for me to learn to follow their lead.

a few weeks ago, my friend maryann reminded me of this wonderful quotation about motherhood and ministry, found in the equally wonderful book listening for god by renita weems. i think it can be easily stretched to speak to all mothers who are modifying and trying to integrate their visions of vocation and motherhood. i forgot to breathe while i was reading these words: 

“i will never be the writer i would have been had i not become a mother. nor will i be the minister or professor i could have been if i hadn’t had to suffer the interruptions of a sulking child or the vibes of a brooding husband transmitted under the door of my study. i give up writing the book i might have written or the sermon i might have preached every time i wander out of my study and follow the smell of popcorn wafting in the air, follow it in to the family room, where the rest of the family is watching the lion king for the forty-second time. i’ll never be able to recapture the fine sentences swirling in my head, or the fresh revelations that were about to lay hold of me. but for the joy of getting down on the cold hardwood floor and singing, “hakuna matata,” i’ll settle for bits and pieces of revelation god sends my way, and see what, if anything, i can make of them when i can. because today is today, and that’s all i have.”

and now, in light of a restless night with the bird and the inevitable morning-after fog that now surrounds me, i’m going to “wander out of my study,” as renita writes. happy thursday!

and p.s. renita still managed to be a wonderful professor. i was lucky enough to have her for hebrew bible at vanderbilt.

[the source for this post can be found on the bibliography page located in the sidebar to your right.]

when i was in divinity school, i was surrounded by people who had very specific callings. some knew they would be working as chaplains in prisons. others  were going on to work in public policy. one of my favorite colleagues was dead set (pun intended) on entering the field of thanatology.

because my husband’s job ties us to memphis, my vocational narrative has always been a bit different. out of necessity, my calling has always been to find meaningful work in ways that  fit well within the parameters of meaningful family life. luckily, i don’t have the slightest predisposition toward teaching snow skiing in colorado or studying the chestnut blight in appalachia. the field of ministry is, itself, a vast city with major thoroughfares and meandering back roads. somehow, i have always known that the backroads are my place.

after the monkey was born, i gave up the traveling supply preaching gigs and the late-night college chaplaincy commitments. i traded these things for a regular preaching gig in a nearby church and the chance to lead several weekday morning study groups. when the bird was born, i cut back on the preaching even more but started this blog and increased the number of other commitments such as weddings, funerals and baptisms. all the while, i have been thankful for a vocation that can take on so many forms.

but somewhere along the way, in trading the risky thrill of writing on a sunday morning deadline for the even pace of study-group-prep, i have sacrificed some things that i am good at. and, in so doing, i have sacrificed some of the meaning. but i don’t know how to restore meaning to my vocation without taking away from the meaning of family life.

so i’m trying something new. i have removed myself from some major, long-standing work commitments, AND i am not going to fill this time immediately with other work commitments.  i am uncomfortable with empty space, and saying no, and the long rambling answer i give people when they ask if i work outside of the home. but for the first time in a long time, i’m beginning to get that old divinity school feeling back — that blind sort of trust that meaningful work will present itself if i am open and patient.

i guess, in a sense, i am returning to my place in the world: the indirect but infinitely interesting back roads.

most people mistakenly think that because i am a minister and a mother, i must have some special, handed-down-from-god, ability to explain matters of the ultimate to children. i’ll never forget walking with the monkey into his school last december. the preschool director had proudly installed a life-sized nativity scene:

she greeted us with a smile and a wink and said, “monkey, i know that YOU of all people must know who all of these characters are!”

she quizzed him on everyone from the animals, to mary and joseph, to jesus, himself. i am here to tell you that apart from the slight recognition of a sheep, my little guy had no earthly idea what the director was talking about.

“we’ll work on this,” i said.

yesterday, i had another opportunity to display my deficits in the area of early childhood religious education when i did the children’s sermon at church. i learned later from the monkey that my explanation of the word “perseverance” had not been clear (as found in the hebrews text, “let us run with perseverance the race set before us”). the monkey informed me confidently, as he was attempting to dismount his new trampoline, that i had nothing to worry about. he was “not going to have perseverance.” when i flashed a puzzled look he said, “that means that i am not going to get too tired or fall down.” hmmn…

finally, the monkey and i had the following interaction before bedtime last night. i was singing, and he was to fill in the gaps in the song with rhyming phrases:

mommy: (singing) “the ants go marching 12 by 12 hurrah, hurrah; the ants go marching 12 by 12, the little one stops to…”

monkey: “…go to hell!”

mommy: “what? what is hell?”

monkey: “it’s just a place you go.”

mommy: (dumbfounded) “well, where in the world have you heard of this place?”

monkey: “all the time, mommy. you know… when i go up a hill…”

mommy: “so you are saying HILL?”

monkey: “yes!”

mommy: “oh, thank god.”

so, to all the moms out there who know how to talk to children about divnity and mystery, i have a proposition to make. you give my children a foundation of stories — a framework upon which they might hang their questions later. you give them an overwhelming sense that god is love, and you inspire them to give love in return.

then, when your children get to college, you can send them to me. i will happily return to my old college chaplaincy roots. we’ll talk about our questions, our doubts, and the notion that there’s wisdom in recognizing the vast expanse of what we don’t know. we’ll work on integrating head and heart, thinking and being. 

i hope this plan works for you because if it doesn’t, my children are clearly going to hill in a hand basket.

there are many common narratives in the collective story bank of motherhood, each with its own familiar plot and phrases. who hasn’t told or heard a “stuck child” story, complete with words such as

“…and then i realized that [fill in name of small child] had accidentally locked himself/herself in the bathroom.”?

and now, in an age when  modern mothers are increasingly appreciated and accomplished in the workplace, the “vocational turning point” story is becoming a collective throng. it often goes something like this:

“that day, when [insert chaotic clash of work and home life] happened, i knew i needed to change the way i was working.”

as it happens, these two prototypes converged for me last friday night. the bird was singing his own familiar tearful chorus as i showered and got ready to be the liturgist at the final montreat women’s connection worship service. after learning that it is virtually impossible to simultaneously hold a child and don a dress, i allowed him to use my leg as a teething biscuit as i hurriedly applied my makeup.

just as i was feeling smug about the fact that i would have a whole fifteen minutes to go over my part in the service after i dropped the kids off at my mom’s house, the monkey declared that he needed to tee tee. he did his business, and then, so as not to be outdone by his brother, he instantly deteriorated into a fitful rage that reportedly rendered him completely incapable of pulling up his own pants. i calmly closed the bathroom door and told them that he was welcome to come out once his pants were no longer around his ankles.

in his tornadic attempt to liberate himself from captivity, the monkey accidentally turned the tarnished brass lever above the knob on the old mountain house bathroom door. he was locked inside, and getting more panicky by the second.

my friends and temporary roommates calmed the (now hysterical) bird and hovered outside the locked bathroom door with these  necessary tools:

• a knife
• a spatula
• a phillips head screwdriver

meanwhile, i finished buttoning my dress as i walked outside and scaled a bear-proof garbage bin to get a look inside of the window. a neighbor strolled by and inquired as to why i was five feet above the ground, wearing a towel on my head, leaning at a 45 degree angle, peering into a window, and scaling the house’s exterior wall. he reported that in all of his 30 years of living across the street, he has never seen a person exhibit such behavior.

five minutes later, the monkey, who is apparently remarkably stellar at following my directions (when he feels like it), unlocked the door and waltzed out of the bathroom *with* his pants pulled up. i hopped down from my perch, shuttled the kids to my mom’s house, proceeded to the service, did my part without any major incedents, and moved on.

except that i haven’t really moved on. though i am new at telling the “stuck child” story, there are a zillion other stories that coincide with my attempts to maintain my identity as a person who works, albeit part-time, outside of the home. i’ll spare you the details of the “calling poison control” story, the “writing on the walls” story, and the “submerging daddy’s shoes in the bathtub” story. just know that all three of these plots unfolded while i was trying to fulfill obligations pertaining to my job as a minister.

i don’t know what sorts of shifts i will make in the way i structure my work life, but there will be some. and to the neighbor, who marveled at the site of a young mother living out the particulars of her own “stuck child” story, i have this to say:

if you look closely, you will find that mothers all around you are desperately trying to climb “the wall”. they can be heard pumping during conference calls. they can be found supervising third grade math homework while working on their own coursework. many are simply trying to shower for work in relative peace. women’s roles have changed during the last 30 years, but “the wall” is still there. when old challenges crumble away, they are quickly replaced by new ones.

i might be the first person you have seen shouting instructions to a three-year-old from a lofty perch. but i am by no means the first woman to employ flexibility, strength, and a sense of humor while creatively solving a problem and wearing a cute dress!

as a minister and a child of a dynamic presbyterian church, i have been a part of my fair share of foot washings. in fact, very few maundy thursdays or youth retreats have passed without the uneasy descent into vulnerability that occurs when one clumsily liberates the feet from their hiding places of leather, canvas, buckles, and laces, and offers them, in all of their clammy smelliness, to a fellow community member possessed of a rag and water bowl.

it’s too much raw humanity, yet we do it anyway. except for those times when, in the interest of time and the preservation of dignity, we wash hands instead. i have always chuckled at this modification of ritual and this attempt to clean up something that is intentionally messy. until i encountered these:

until i had boys, i did not know it was possible for the putrid smell of a post-game NFL locker room to be contained so neatly in a children’s size nine keen sandal. and i never dreamed that the still-sweet-smelling curly head of an 18-month-old could be part of the same body held upright by tar-bottomed peds. i wash two sets of powerfully smelly feet (almost) every night now. and i am here to tell you: it is not an exercise for the faint of heart.

the level of fith and sacremental beauty present during my kids’ bathtimes far outweighs anything i have ever experienced in all of my 33 years of church membership and six years of ordained ministry.  some rituals happen in gothic stone churches, and others happen in standard issue tubs. but both are grand entrances into deep spiritual intimacy — chances to make and mark meaning as we put one foot in front of the other.