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Lefse, fist bumps, and Doctor Who.

25 Nov

That was my weekend – lefse and fist bumps and Doctor Who.  Sounds pretty high on the awesome scale, right?  It was.

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On Saturday, I packed up my lefse griddle and pastry board and drove to Owatonna for a midday lefse adventure.  My gnome friends invited me over to cook rounds of potato goodness.  It was a great way to spend a Saturday.  Laughter and potatoes.  Sabrina wrote about it on her blog and gives a better summary of the day than I could ever muster – check it out here.

On Sunday, there were fist bumps.  So I’m sick.  My cold keeps progressing through different stages and yesterday was the tickle-in-my-throat stage.  Ugh.  Because of my sickness, I try and model germ-free ways to greet each other and share the peace during worship; thus, I did not shake hands.  [I think it’s silly to suspend the passing of the peace in the winter.  Let’s share peace in other ways: wave, elbows, fist bumps, peace sign.  Endless possibilities.]  For the sharing of the peace, I waved.  Then, at the close of service, as I greeted people in the back, I fist bumped everyone.  It was hilarious.  One of the ushers, a twenty-something, said afterwards, That was the funniest thing I’ll see all day.  Old people learning to fist bump.  To their credit, they were all very receptive and fist bumped like pros.  [And, let’s face it, I added to their list.  #49 on their list of Why My Pastor is Crazy and Weird.]

Lastly, Doctor Who.  I get it.  I finally get it.  Doctor Who gets lots of hype these days, especially this past weekend with an anniversary special and all.  I’ve tried for a long time to watch the show.  I want to be in the know; I want to follow the crowd and love the thing that everyone else loves.  [Wait a second …]  Months ago, friends recommended that I start at the beginning.  Okay.  I did … but I didn’t get it.  Turns out that was because they didn’t mean start at the 1960s beginning but the Christopher Eccleston beginning.  That made a difference.  I just made it through his tenure at Doctor and have begun David Tennant’s … and I get it.  I like it.  I’m going to keep watching while I quilt my British flag hexagon quilt.  It feels fitting that most of it be constructed while watching the BBC.

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Retreat success.

8 Sep

There are a few words I could use to describe how I’m currently feeling:

sleepy, exhausted, delirious, dog-tired, worn out, tuckered, and happily fulfilled.

It was a crazy weekend.  It was overnight-confirmation-retreat weekend.  Seven youth from ROG went along with me to Good Earth Village camp to meet up with six of jD’s youth from his two churches.  Together we were 13 which, wouldn’t you know, is the perfect number with which to reenact the famous Last Supper painting:

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The topic of the retreat revolved around the two Lutheran sacraments – baptism and communion – along with some intentional conversation about grace.  We communed together, baptized a gnome [ … for real.  Kind of.  His parents named him Norman James.], team-built, played life size Jenga, did skits [the creativity of the skits blew me away – the awesomeness of these kids continually exceeds my expectations], and had boatloads of fun.  jD’s kids had fun.  My kids had fun.  We all had fun.  Our churches will have to plan to do more things together throughout the year; it worked out so well.

We shared highs and lows with each other before we left camp.  Every single high from every single confirmation kid was along these lines: My high is making new friends and being here.  At the same time, every single low from every single confirmation kid was along these lines: My low is that we can’t stay another night and we have to go home.

I’ll call that retreat success.  In addition to having fun, we also hope they left with a definition of grace seared in their brains.  Something like … the unconditional love of God that is free, forever, and for all.  That would be good.

With what I’m about to say next, I want you to listen really super closely because I never say things like this.  Ready?  I love confirmation. [Okay.  That was a joke.  I actually say it all the flippin’ time.]   I love my confirmation youth.  I love middle schoolers.  Weekends like this – kids like this – that’s why I love this job.

Pastor Evan officiates a gnome baptism.
“I baptize you …”
Milk and cookies snack.
life size Jenga
marble track teambuilder

Iced coffee shame.

9 Jun

For me, one of the sure signs of summer is iced coffee.  Granted, in this cool, rainy season we’ve been having, the term summer is pushing it.  But I still have iced coffee in my fridge.

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I’ve probably told you before my process; I’m all too eager to share and talk about it.  I follow the Pioneer Woman’s recipe for cold press coffee.  A half pound of grounds to a gallon of water.  I let it soak overnight and strain it into a large liquid dispenser that lives on the middle shelf of my fridge.  It’s my coffee concentrate in my 20 oz. insulated kleen kanteen to which I add a bit of water, ice, and a generous dose of vanilla almond milk.  Shake it up, add a straw, and that is my perfect morning.

Every day, you will see it in my hand at church.  I never gave much thought to it; I simply am in the habit of always bringing my own coffee.  Sunday morning, Thursday morning, it doesn’t matter.  Me and my kleen kanteen of icy goodness.

I never thought it might look snobby.

I was at WELCA last Wednesday morning.  Before their meeting, they have goodies in the basement.  I sat down next to dear old Verna who asked if I would like coffee.  No thanks.  I have my own.

That’s right, she said.  You don’t like ours.

Oh, snap.  I think I stumbled over some words about how it is just my habit to always bring my own.  It’s part of my morning routine.  Nothing against their coffee.  [Though, if we’re honest, church coffee? Lacks a little something-something.]  And then I said that in the summer, I preferred to drink cold and not hot coffee.

Cold coffee?  Oh, the horror.

I proceeded to tell her that I cold brewed it.  You mean it never gets hot? she asked.

Nope.  I think she lost interest after that, especially since the ladies across the table had picked up on our coffee thread to reminisce about egg coffee.  And, I think, she just wasn’t quite sure what to think.  Cold coffee.  I hear her saying that in my head like I hear Lorraine McFly telling Marty: Calling boys.  Sitting in parked cars with boys.  I never did that when I was your age.  I never called a boy or sat .. in a parked car .. with a boy.  That’s all in my head.  She wasn’t actually shaming me for cold coffee.  I think it was just something new in her world and for her, why change the life guarantee that coffee will always be hot?  Anything else just doesn’t make sense.

a-punch-to-my-introvert’s-stomach.

5 Jun

“Pastor Lindsay seemed quite shy and had difficulty engaging in conversation with others.”

There it is again.

This isn’t the first appearance of such observations.  When I was going through candidacy [the process through which the ELCA approves pastors for ordination], I was required to take a psych eval and meet with a psychologist to go over the results.

I remember driving to this strange office building in Madison and sitting in a sterile room with this doctor.  He drew a line on his white board.  On the left side of the line, he wrote Introvert.  On the right, he wrote Extrovert.  Then he put an X where I had come out on the exam I had taken.  It looked something like this –

  _x________________________________________________
Introvert                                                                        Extrovert

He told me engaging in the world as a pastor and such an extreme introvert would be difficult.  In a candidacy meeting that followed, the committee told me I should “work on my introvert nature,” which I took to mean as change.  Being an introvert wasn’t acceptable for a pastor.  I had to talk more and be more extroverted is what I heard them telling me.  Introvert became a dirty word.

The first line of this post comes from an evaluation I just received.  It came from people whom I only met once; that was their first impression of me.  Quite shy with difficulty engaging in conversation.  You know, maybe I was.  But that certainly wasn’t my goal.  I tried so hard not to be.

And the truth of it is, I met with this group of people one night for a couple hours and I was exhausted for the rest of the week afterwards.  Literally – the rest of the week.  I spent so much energy to be – what I thought was – talkative and out-going for those couple hours.  [Because that’s what an introvert does – becomes exhausted from being with people and doing their best to play an extrovert.]  And still, my version of talkative and out-going was their shy and disengaged.  *sigh*

I am an introvert and sure, I suppose that sometimes might come across as shy or disengaged.  That’s not intentional  Sitting in silence doesn’t bother me one tiny bit, neither does listening more than talking.  Sure, I will avoid small talk when I can [Susan Cain, author of Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking, calls small talk a horror for many introverts.  In certain situations, I could agree.]; if I see someone I know in the grocery store, I just might go down a different aisle  to avoid a hello and how are you.  [That’s sad but true.  But, of course, I’ve never avoided you.  Promise.]

Punch to the gut or not, I’m owning it.  This is who I am.  Hello, my name is Lindsay and I’m an introvert.  Let’s have an in-depth one-on-one conversation and then have quiet time by ourselves.

End of the year celebrations.

19 May

Confirmation and Sunday School are over until fall.  They have ended and Lindsay is sad.  We concluded the school year of confirmation a week and a half ago with ice cream sundaes and sardines.  [One of those is something we ate.  The other is something we played.  You decide.]  Today we honored our Sunday School kiddos in church and coffee hour.  They all got a mini box of cereal that read you’re CEREAL-sly awesome.  I can’t wait to hang out with all of them at day camp this summer because they are so CEREAL-sly awesome.

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Confirmation youth, post ice cream and sardines, in our bright awesome youth room.

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This is Matthew and Gracie at the table of honor during coffee hour for the Sunday school kids. Matthew decided it would be a great idea to dump his box of cereal on top of his piece of cake. He’s awesome. [See all that red? It’s Pentecost, baby. We were a sea of red today.]

Dear Lindsay of middle school,

24 Apr

As a pastor who loves working with confirmation-aged kids, I catch glimpses of my own past middle school experience as the confirmation kids share their own experiences.  I slightly remember* what it was like to be awkward and a seventh grader.  It wasn’t easy.

I was so incredibly lucky to have awesome friends.  More or less the same awesome friends I still have now.  [Dancing Banana shout-out!]  But there was still drama.  There was judging.  There is terrible shit that goes on in middle schools.  And I can’t imagine it if one doesn’t have awesome friends.

There are a couple gals in my confirmation class that often only have lows to share in the rounds of highs & lows.  A lot of time, those lows are there’s just lots of drama at school.

Ugh.  Drama.

What I want to say to them is much like what I would say to my own middle-school self –

Dear Lindsay of middle school,

Being popular doesn’t matter for shit.  Forget those queen bees.  They suck.  You should just be nice to everyone.  [And probably not say people suck.  That wasn’t nice, future Lindsay.]

Be friends with the people who make you happy and people with whom you can be yourself and silly.  Form a gang.  Call it Oatmeal.  Make cardboard necklaces for everyone in the gang with raw oats glued to them.  Your name as gang leader shall be Raisin. **

The boys are pretty cute, aren’t they?  But don’t worry about them.  Just because they’re eye candy doesn’t mean they’re worth crying over.

School work is important but trying to get straight A’s isn’t worth sick stomachs and sleepless nights.  And hey – good job on that newspaper writing competition.

Please, quit wearing the over-sized flannel shirts and carpenter jeans sooner than later.

That one day, after school, when marching band rehearsal gets out late and everyone sprints back to the band room – hold onto your flute a little tighter.  Trust me.

The drama will end.  It will be okay.

Signed,

Future Lindsay

I started to write this post before confirmation met tonight.  I finish it after confirmation.  After the one confirmand who-never-has-a-high-and-her-low-is-always-drama had a high that the drama has ended.  Hallelujah.  Confirmation was awesome tonight.  Not only did every seventh and eighth grader have a high – if not many – we threw out our lesson for the night because all they wanted to do was ask questions.  About God.  About the Bible.  About doubts.  We tackled a few tonight the best we could and they made a list for next week.  Here’s to the freedom to ask questions and doubt in church.  Important stuff.

* I quite literally remember NOTHING about my seventh grade year.  It’s a blur to me.  I remember some of sixth grade and some of eight but seventh?  Nada.

** True story.

I give thanks.

17 Feb

[I give thanks.] A post written in the rhythm of @UnvirtuousAbbey without the awesome humor and retweets. Read mine and then add your own. What do you give thanks for this day?

For a mandoline to quickly and uniformly slice sweet potatoes for the week, I give thanks. It’s like the guillotine. For yams.

For members who one day are seemingly against anything I say and the next day are the ones volunteering to pray and bringing bars of soap for our LWR care kits, I give thanks.

For completely sincere, supportive, and loving emails from a sincere, supportive, and loving friend, I give thanks. [That’s all you, broken mothership.]

For dark chocolate sea salt popcorn, I give thanks. For the P90x cardio dvd to offset the dark chocolate sea salt popcorn, I also give thanks.

For internet that finally works without powering down the router at church every six to eight hours, I give immense thanks.

For a double dose of The Bachelor this week, I will give thanks. [No judging. Sometimes the prospect of trashy tv gets me through my day.]

For Hannah who made me a tissue paper flower and helped me set up for worship, I give thanks. [Hannah -6ish years old- made tissue paper flowers with her grandma. Her grandma asked, “Who do you want to give this to?” certain the answer would be her mother. Unprompted, her response was Pastor Lindsay. I melt.]

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Your turn.

A Banana Wedding.

20 Jan

[A Banana Wedding.]  Are you finding this blog okay?  Are you adjusting to the switch?  I dearly hope so because one of the fun reasons I switched is to write a post like this – a gallery of photos!  [Click on one photo to scroll through the rest.  How fun!]

These are photos from one of the most sincere, most laid back, most fun and non-traditional weddings I’ve been a part of to date.  Congrats to banana Kay and Peter who both seem so incredibly happy!  [For those interested in the inside details of the Dancing Banana bunch, the banana dance was also performed.  We stood surrounding Peter, sang, danced, mashed, and thereby inducted him into the Banana group as an H. Banana.  Husband/honorary Banana, that is.]

Rehearsal. Only Kay would be on crutches for her wedding day. She rode down the “aisle” on a bellhop cart and was carried back down the “aisle” by Peter at the end of the ceremony.
Bridal suite preparations. Note the brace on her left foot.
I promise this small child is not drinking beer. Well, root beer. A handful of Banana kids.
Meet Joe. Joe is an H. Banana. Joe had my camera during the ceremony. This was a “test” photo … I guess.
Pre-ceremony. Note the paper airplane in Lynn’s hand. It doubled as the program and the send-off for the couple as everyone flew them as they walked down the aisle.
The groom … waiting …
It’s blurry. But I still wanted to share. The couple smiled and laughed the whole way through. [Especially when I accidentally said “her” instead of “him” and Domanic couldn’t get the rings off the knot that somehow appeared.]
There were donut holes! The spiffed-up Banana kids loaded up!
Six Bananas + a space for our seventh, Allison, who lives in TX and couldn’t be with the bunch.
I realized last night how much I miss these classy ladies.
Post-Banana dance.

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coughing hysteria.

3 Dec
I’ve had a cold for the past week.  This isn’t new.  I’ve lived with it.  I’ve chugged cold medicine and gone through boxes of kleenexes.  I thought I was beginning to feel better.
Then Sunday morning happened.  I was fine.  Just fine.  [Or as Monica would say when she is sick, I’m find.  Chandler responds, When you say fine with a D, you’re not FIND.]  My voice was a little nasal but that’s it.  I wasn’t really coughing.  I was good.
Until the reading of the gospel, which, luckily, was an all-together reading for this particular Sunday.  The congregation continued reading while I got the most giant coughing fit ever.  I couldn’t stop.  They keep reading Psalm 96 while I ran into the sacristry where I remembered seeing mint candies.  Something to suck on would help calm the coughing, I thought.  
I thought wrong.  The children’s sermon time was horrible.  I finally, into the microphone, had to ask that someone get me some water.  A bottle of water came up the aisle, along with a partially opened cough drop from the depths of some old lady’s purse.  I ate it.  There was no time for Halloween candy ethics [if it’s open, throw it away]; that cough drop helped me survive the rest of the church service.
I still coughed a lot.  And made the congregation answer a question to one another at the beginning of the sermon just so I could blow my nose.  It was terrible miserable and I’m so embarrassed by it all.  But what else was I to do?  I had no associate to take over, and just wasn’t sure what my next move should be besides hacking up a lung into my elbow cough pocket while serving communion.  [Just kidding.  By communion time, I was mostly okay.]
I went out with a group of eight older church ladies later that afternoon.  We went to see the production of White Christmas at the local college and then out to Culver’s.  We addressed my coughing fit and they told me I handled it very well.  You’re human, one woman told me.  True story.

that’s so sad.

26 Aug
At the wedding reception last night, I was one of the first guests into the room where we would be dining and wanted to find a seat that was out of the way but also easily accessible to stand up and pray before the meal.  I chose a seat at a table that had no one else at it yet and sat down.  
A group of people approached and asked if they could join me.  Of course, I said.  It was two older women [sisters] and two teenagers [daughters of one of the women]; I didn’t know them at all.
One of the teenagers:  Are you here by yourself?
Me: Yes.
Teenager: (with pity)  Awww!  That’s so sad!

———————
Yes.  Thank you.
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