14 Nov
Do you remember DEAR time from elementary school?  [Drop Everything And Read]  I loved DEAR time.  I was that kid with her nose in a book all the time.  All the time.  
I hereby reinstate DEAR time in my life.
When I was at the fall theological conference, it seemed people were constantly suggesting I read this book or that.  They would tell me that this one book sounded a lot like what I was going through or talking about or they found that one other book really helpful in their first year of call.  Forget the pile of books that are already on my shelves, waiting to be read or reread post-seminary [now with a context to which apply them].
I hereby promise to make the best attempt I can to read for 30 minutes during each work day.  Thirty minutes of theological, devotional, or educational reading.  Maybe more.
I always felt guilty sitting in my office and reading.  I felt like I should be doing something.  Fall theological helped me realize that reading is doing something and it is part of my job.  It belongs in the office and deserves at least 30 minutes of my day.  jD and I are holding each other accountable … or at least trying.
First up: Sabbath, by Wayne Muller.
Perfect in many ways for my life right now.  Perfect because I often feel like this:

A ‘successful’ life has become a violent enterprise.  We make war on our own bodies, pushing them beyond their limits; war on our children, because we cannot find enough time to be with them when they are hurt and afraid, and need our company; war on our spirit, because we are too preoccupied to listen to the quiet voices that seek to nourish and refresh us; war on our communities, because we are fearfully protecting what we have, and do not feel safe enough to be kind and generous; war on the earth, because we cannot take the time to place our feet on the ground and allow it to feed us, to taste its blessings and give thanks. [p. 2]

And want the ability to feel like this:

Sabbath implies a willingness to be surprised when creation renews itself, when what is finished inevitably recedes, and the sacred forces of healing astonish us with the unending promise of love and life. [p. 37]  

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