there's no place like gnome.

– a 5k and five mile run/walk.  (I’ll do the math for you – 1.8 miles.)

There is a run/walk at an apple orchard in White Bear Lake and every year, Luther promotes it and encourages students to sign up for the event.  This year the promo was a free tshirt and $10 off the registration fee.  Okay.  I was convinced, especially since I began back on the 10k training last week as one of my goals for fall.  A 5k run/walk – 3.2 miles.  I can definitely handle that.

A friend and I signed up.  And then Nathan caught that the five was followed not by a ‘k’ but by the word ‘mile.’  We signed up for a five MILE run/walk.  Not a 5k.  Opps.  (Who does that?  Miles instead of kilometers?  Americans, I suppose …)

The good news is that it is a run/walk.  We can run as much of it as we want and walk the rest.  I have no qualms about finishing at all; I just don’t know how timely we will be.  Until then, for the next four weeks, I’m back at it.  October 23rd is the day.  Here we go.

The first reason for my weekend trip home was to return my mother’s vehicle and regain mine.  I was happy to do the exchange.  While my mother’s SUV aided well in the initial moving stage, I’m not such a fan of driving the vehicle in the city traffic.  I’m quite content with my small Corolla, thankyouverymuch.

So we did the vehicle exchange.  Check.  Then I kinda shrugged my shoulders.  What else was I to do?  I brought homework home with me, the 300 or so pages I’m assigned to have read for tomorrow.  I could do homework … or … I could find other ways to procrastinate.  This is what I came up with —

Five out of the seven Dancing Bananas (the high school crew) were reunited as Allison visited from Texas for one night only.  We pride ourselves in staying in touch and getting connected whenever we are home, eight and a half years after we graduated from high school and went our separate ways.

Sister Emma, cousin Molly, and I took a shopping trip.  Crazy to think, but Edgerton homecoming is this week already so my sister was in need of proper clothing (from an animal print jacket that, according to cousin Connor, probably has mice living in it, to the perfect jewelry to complete the homecoming dance dress).  We drank coffee, shopped, and ate lunch with Jimmy John.  And Molly picked out her Halloween costume.

I love fall.  But don’t tell spring.  I feel that every season has its own value and unique character but fall and spring are my babies.  When I’m in the midst of fall, I say I love fall the most.  In the middle of the muddy, rainy spring, I’ll say spring is my favorite.  I guess you could say I’m a fair-weather fan.  (har har)  I’ve been loving the weather recently.  The chance to wear my long-sleeved cardigans.  To sleep with heavy quilts weighing down upon me.  The crispness of the air.

I spent my Sunday morning with three seminary friends, sitting in the car and worshipping.  We attended Trinity in Stillwater’s drive-in worship service.  Trinity, the church where I used to work in children’s ministry, has held drive-in services at an abandoned drive-in movie theater across the St.Croix in Houlton, WI for many years.  Recently, Trinity acquired the property which means even more Sundays at the drive-in.  You arrive, find a place to park, tune in your radio, and worship in your car.  And I love it.

My seminary friends were skeptical.  Other people I’ve talked to are skeptical.  How can this type of church service build community?  You sit in your car?  Weird.  Truth is, I see more community at this service than many others I’ve attended.  This is how it works – we sit in our car.  Sometimes we sing.  Sometimes it’s just awkward to sing.  So we don’t.  My favorite drive-in song?  If you’re happy and you know it, honk your horn.  (Seriously.)  After the sermon, after the prayers, after the offering, the words of institution are given and the mass exodus from vehicles begins.  Everyone leaves their cars and finds one of the stations to receive communion.  And here the service basically ends.  Because after sitting in your car for the prior part of the service, you begin talking, greeting, and connecting with the other worship attendees you haven’t yet seen that morning.  Here is the community.  There have been many Sundays where I’ve been one of the last cars to exit because the conversations, the hugs, and the community that continues long after the service as ended.

After the service, we parked the car in Stillwater and went antiquing before grabbing lunch at Nacho Mama’s.  As a child, I hated antique stores.  I hated the way in which my parents built antique store detours into our family vacations.  My brothers and I waited in the car or followed our parents around the mazes of antiques, thinking about how old this weird stuff was.  My view has changed.  I love antique stores.  The old stuff.  The possibilities.  I came away with nothing, aware that I have no employment and will be moving again in eight months.  Cassie however bought some peacock feathers.  Why not.

Grocery shopping.

There are pros and there are cons to both the Dawson-style of grocery shopping and the St.Paul version of grocery shopping.

Tonight, I was very annoyed by the St.Paul version.

It’s impossible to run out and grab anything.  First, drive through approximately ten stop-and-go lights.  Ten minutes if you’re lucky and they’re green; fifteen if they’re red.  Second, wait to check out in lines at least four customers deep.  Third, it just takes too long.  I had a list of ten, maybe fifteen things to grab and it took me an hour.  Gross.

And I kept looking up at people as they passed.  Do I know that person?  No.  Of course not.  If someone cut me off suddenly with their cart, no acknowledgment or apology.  Just a continued run to where they were headed.

I’m disenfranchised with city grocery shopping.  Months ago, I would have told you that I disliked shopping in Dawson because of the lack of options.  And the fact that you couldn’t go in and out without finding someone you know and have a five minute conversation with the traditional Minnesotan goodbye would sometimes get to my introverted self.  But a run to Tim’s now sounds very favorable.  (Even better if they would carry hummus.  Because I bought good hummus tonight.)  After my hour outing for Craisins, coffee necessities, and a few other things that ended up taking an hour of my night, I think I prefer the Dawson version at the moment.

I agree with each and every one of these which were posted on a blog I regularly follow —

Ten Important Things I’ve Learned About Blogging

In style with #10, I love you.  Thanks for reading my blog.
(insert high five or hug depending upon our real-world relationship)

I’m sorry. I was wrong about you. I made a quick judgement call and I now realize I was wrong.

It’s not always easy to admit that you’re wrong. You know this from your spat with Pork Chops. Sometimes we make decisions irrationally and too instantly – without doing further research or realizing that one bad experience shouldn’t make one never want to try something again (except with sky diving).

I met you, Ham Balls, on an off day. You were slimy and swimming in a mysterious pineapple sauce; I was not impressed. But last night I learned that you’re different than I thought. That my first impression was wrong. That you actually can be quite tasty, firm, and pleasing to the stomach. For not realizing that sooner, I’m sorry.

I enjoy you. Really, I do. I hope to have further encounters; perhaps I could even share you with others who have not yet had the pleasure of pig in ball form. I only regret we didn’t begin our relationship sooner.

Drooling,

Lindsay S.

[A shout-out and thank you to Mary O. & Co. (including husband, Sam, who likes to keep Snickers in his fanny pack) who saw an intern pastor in need – in need of a positive ham ball experience. This intern pastor had a grand night of ham balls, peach pie, and great company in her last week in ham ball country. Perfect.]

I’ve been at the care center/assisted living facility in Dawson a fair bit in the past week. I led communion services at both places last Friday and then again had a service at the care center on Sunday morning after regular worship at Grace. It’s always humorous to overhear certain comments from the residents. They either have no idea who you are and thus say these things, or they may think you’re out of earshot when really, you’ve only taken five steps away.

Instance A: We’re preparing for the Friday afternoon communion service at the care center. I’m setting up, getting organized, when I hear a man behind me ask, “Where’s the minister?” Another man answers him, “She’s right there.” First man pauses and then says, “Oh. I was expecting a man.” Of course you were. And probably someone who doesn’t look 16, the age many people tell me they think I am.

Instance B: I have the service at the care center and then I walk the fifty feet to the assisted living facility for the same service once again. After that service, I typically stay for a short lunch before needing to return to the care center to visit/give communion to those who did not attend the earlier service. I stayed for lunch – coffee and bars – and then had to take my leave. I said goodbye to the ladies and began to walk away to gather my things. I was not five steps away when they started to talk about me. I just smirk to myself, thinking, really, ladies? Do you think I can’t hear you? They were all good things so this is not at all a complaint but rather just a humorous episode in my book. (“She’s a good pastor,” “A church will be lucky to have her,” “She’s a sweetheart.” Aww. Ego boost! [which I really don’t need – my head is large enough] I love the assisted living ladies.)

Instance C: This is not an instance of overhearing exactly, but rather something told directly to me. On Sunday, as I mentioned, I was at the care center again to lead the Sunday service. I’ll often announce the hymns we are singing and then walk around the room, helping residents turn pages and find the hymn in their spiral-bound hymnals. I helped one resident over and again, and one of the last times I turned pages for her, she said, in her raspy voice, “Thank you. You’re special.” That’s what my mom always told me. For cute.