At the funeral, I choke a bit on the words we sing:

Children of the heavenly Father…

From all evil things He spares them, 

In His mighty arms He bears them…

Isn’t this evil? Luther, taken so suddenly, and his wife, so sick, left behind? Trauma upon trauma, shocking, sudden grief on top of cancer? Is this not evil, and why wasn’t this family spared?

The choir loved him so deeply, and I am amazed that they can sing so well, even wounded as they are. If their voices are shaking, I can’t hear it. Perhaps they take turns, one shakes, and another upholds in strong song; the shared music stabilizes heart and voice once again.

The choir is a family within our church family. Lorraine tells me, when she came back from college for the first time, Luther’s words to her were “So? Have you found the young man that your parents will approve of?” followed by a booming laugh. The choir will insist on meeting (vetting) her boyfriend, and I love that.  We have a large, large family.

And our sister has been sick for a long time. She has been absent from our gatherings, weighed down by chemo and travel and endless uncertainty, and he has borne the weight with her.

I wonder, how often did Luther sing with a tremble? How often was the very act of singing, belting out words of faith, done in defiance of the darkness, the fear in his own heart?

When he sang the Lord’s prayer at the last funeral, , “Thy Kingdom come'' resonated strong in the sanctuary, and his song boldly declared the plea of all our hearts.

But when he sang “Thy Will be Done,” there was a catch, a voice crack.  It almost made me come undone as I thought of his wife and her creeping cancer. How hard it must be to sing and say and live those words.  

How hard it is. 

But we do not turn our eyes away from the hard, sharp edge of life. We bring his casket right into the sanctuary, and we gather around it together with our questions and our shattered hearts. And the white pall over it reminds us of our Baptisms, and of God who is making all things new.  This is true even when we do not understand His ways. 

God IS our refuge and strength. 

And the choir sings

And Dave’s trumpet blares out clear loud notes of stubborn joy.

So what if we need a minute to catch our breath?
We will not stop singing.

Quempas echo

Christmas eve, and the lights in church are low. The saints hold candles and sing of Jesus, they circle the church, singing from all corners, echoing praise back and forth as if from every corner of the world.

I snuggle a sleepy little saint while they walk by with the candles and their Quempas Carol.

The song itself is light in our darkness, but it’s not so bright that it wakes the sleeper. Not yet.

God’s own Son is born a child, is born a child;

God the Father is reconciled, is reconciled.

Each saint who goes by, each familiar face made even more lovely by soft candlelight, inspires affection, gratitude, prayer in me. I join their song, grateful that the average pew sitter is invited in as part of the echo. I envisage God’s great gathering of us all; how our lights will shine then; how my own voice will be more lovely, more confident.

But when he walks by there is more affection, more hope, more aching prayer.

For he’s mine, my husband, him whom I have loved in this life.  

It is with a mix of deep affection and selfish possessiveness that I use the word “mine:” God isn’t finished with me yet.  He is pastor, he is daddy, he is many things to many people, but at the end of this day, he is mine.

He walks by in his robe with the candle, singing with the saints as we are all  being gathered

The sheep are safe, He will indeed take care of them.

Safe. The sheep are safe. How his shepherd heart must ache for that day when all God’s sheep are finally safe and gathered in. I ache for it with him.

I try to imagine it:

He’s part of the heavenly choir, and I see him walk by singing sanctified praise, but with the voice I know, the smile that I have loved. There is more joy in his smile.

He will not be mine, then, not exclusively to possess as husband.

With others I will love him, see him, and rejoice in what God has done.

Will I still be allowed to speak of him with the “mine” of affection?

Will there be an amused “I told you so” in his glance, or in mine?

Will there be a silent mutual apology for not loving better? If there is, surely there will be mutual grace to consume all regret or pain, to swallow it all up in forgiveness.

Will we share a glance that nobody else could possibly understand, rich with memories and tearful nights and joys and fears we shared in this life, amazed to see how God has redeemed every bit of it all?

“Confirm for us the work of our hands:” we have prayed  this many times.  Will we someday see God’s answer?  It will all be done by His hand, we will see clearly then.

And yet He has used our hands to “help,”

Used pastor’s words to convict, comfort, heal, uphold

And mine too, in my own way, though all of the grace and the beauty were borrowed.

Will we get to trace the paths of His Words on our lips, see how God took our imperfect efforts and (miraculously!) watered and grew and reaped a rich harvest?

I have shared his burdens in this life; will I get to be with him to see those burdens made beautiful?

These saints we walk with and their griefs, will we see the finished artwork when they are finally healed?

We cannot picture, cannot fathom what is to come. So for now, light candles together, we join in song, and we receive glimpses of hope from our God. And we wait until the new day dawns.

The sleeping saint in the pew stirs under his coat-blanket.  I try to coax him into holding a candle and joining the song but he is too weary. It’s ok, son, we will sing for you, for now.

Rejoice in his goodwill; The Savior came in meekness

For you, for you, to bear your flesh in weakness.

God’s own Son is born a child, is born a child;

God the Father is reconciled, is reconciled.

12/17

Beautiful are the hands

“From dust you are and to dust you shall return.”

He says this to each man, woman, and child in the congregation.
I bring him my children. Our children. He says it again.

“From dust you are and to dust you shall return.”

Does it prick his heart at all as he says these things to our baby?
Does any part of him object, rebel, when it looks on the dark mark on his own son or daughter?

My heart rebels, argues. Why death?
But I already know why, and the hard truth of it squeezes my heart.

How many of these, on whom he places ashes, will he bury?
How many will hear these words again at a graveside? How soon?
Our time is short.

The hand that holds mine as husband now touches my forehead as pastor. I receive what I’d rather ignore, and from such a hand.

Is there a part of him that trembles at the thought of my body’s death, even as I do at his?
Or has the faithful confidence of office soaked through his vestments and saturated his inner man?

Bodies file forward, receiving outwardly this mark of mortality. It fits, a little, with the aching joints, the graying hair, the weariness. It does not seem to fit on the children, and yet I remember. Tiny limbs can turn to dust, too.

I remember our hospital-fresh babies, resting in their father's gentle hands.
I see tiny limbs in pastor’s hands, 
dressed in white for Baptism. 
I see pastor’s hands touching the soft foreheads, 
saying with the authority of God Himself:

“ Receive the sign of the holy cross † 

on your forehead and † your heart 

to mark you as one redeemed 

by Christ the crucified”

I marvel at his steady hands, delivering Law and Gospel to weak-kneed saints.

His words, his hands tell us again that we are needy, crumbling.
His words, his hands make the sign of the cross in blessing, passing on solid peace to needy souls.

His hands.  His words, passing on His Words.

Reminding dust that-- in Jesus-- dust lives.

originally posted 4/12

My dear pastor-husband...

You stood in the pulpit today, tears streaming down your face, and implored us all to be church, to hope in God, to lean on Christ as we walk with Kristie through the valley of the shadow of death. Afterwards, I wanted to hug you, to tell you how proud I am of you, the way your heart and your tears and your grief hang out in public, and you make no apology, only point the rest of us with hearts and tears and grief to Jesus. But I couldn’t hug you because I’d never let go; my knees would grow weak with tears and you’d have to coddle me like you do at home. The church sanctuary is not the place for that, so I snuck out the side door, saying quiet prayers of thanksgiving for you, and for God’s continued mercy on us all.

This weekend- two funerals, a wedding, and sad news from every corner- how are you still standing?

You stand because our God lives and upholds you. I see no other explanation.

Reluctant pastor's wife

(I read this post and this post today on being a pastor's wife, and I was inspired to finish my own. This has been sitting in the drafts for some time!)

A Reluctant Pastor's Wife
The plans he had when we started dating were quite different. He was going into politics. He was going to be the president of the USA. (As are most who attend our Alma Mater!)

 I met this guy in college. He stole me from that other guy, and then we drank and smoked together on the weekends. So, I call myself a "reluctant" pastor's wife only because this vocation is not something I would have asked for, nor foreseen, when I was younger.


This is partly true because most of my experience was in the Catholic church, where there are no pretty side-kicks working alongside of the priests, playing the piano and tending his children.  That just seems weird to a Catholic kid.  I also was reluctant to be a pastor's wife because I am, after all, a sinner.  Aren't pastor's wives supposed to be perfect all the time?

And also, I didn't know how to play the piano. (gasp!)
(I still don't... even though my older three children do!)

I have found my calling to be much more pleasing than I ever would have expected it to be, and nothing like the stereotype I once had.  Partly because our church family is healthy and filled with the love of Christ, and partly because God has changed my heart, and taught it to want what He has to give me.

Now, I like being married to the man that works at the church all the time.  I enjoy helping him brainstorm about sermons, and giving him my feedback after church on sundays (if the kids were good enough for me to hear any of the sermon.)  I was the nerd who took the theology classes with him in college! We "courted" over coffee and Luther! John Calvin and Thomas Aquinas joined us on the beach!

Sure there are trials mixed in with my calling.  I sometimes feel like we are being watched by everyone, and that is a little unsettling, especially when I am out of patience and the kids are overly wiggly.

From an actual card received when we moved to this church:

Look at that poor little stick figure, how small he is compared to those enormous eyes! Life in the parsonage does feel like that at times. (However, those of you who know my story of being Weak and Loved know that an observing church can also be a very caring church!)

For me, the hardest times are the times when he is stooped over with the weight of his job.

Often, my heart breaks for my husband as I watch him bear an invisible burden. He rarely has the freedom to tell me what is happening at church, but I know when his heart is heavy with counseling sessions and broken people and the weight of sin. I can see it in his face, hear it in his silence.  And I am powerless to help him through that. So I make him strawberry shortcake, and I might even try to keep the kids quiet(er.)

And that is hard.
It's hard when he's stooped over with his vocation and I'm flattened by mine and we are powerless to help each other.  And yet, somehow, always, God helps, and we are again upheld another day, another week.

In general, I have found that Christians are actually forgiving and kind, even to a pastor's wife with a flock of children always on her heels.  And I am learning the joys of being Lutheran.  For one thing, we say out loud that we are sinners- every Sunday- and not just the congregation, but also the pastor, and the pastor's wife.

We are NOT some super-holy people leading holy wannabes down the road of righteousness.

We are beggars, standing with beggars, receiving gifts from a gracious God.
God has chosen a my husband to give those gifts to His beloved beggars.
And me to be his helpmate.
Wow.

Makes me almost happy to iron his robes for him.

Almost.

2008 just ordained

For all pastors, their wives, and their families,

let us pray to the Lord.

Lord, have mercy.