Reminders.

Yesterday Christa and I were preparing the seminary's chapel for the Ash Wednesday service. We replaced the white and gold paraments from Transfiguration to the rich purple paraments for Lent (and also Advent, for any liturgical fans out there). Christa and I decided on the sole purple parament for the main altar, which is purple with a circle of thorns. We decided not to place paraments on the high altar and the ambo, as we were hoping to be as minimal as we could in using paraments for chapel during Lent.

Christa and I were finding kneelers for the service. The odd yet cool thing about PLTS's chapel is that the "pews" are actually wicker seats. The space is open, so there are multiple ways to set up the chapel for worship. It's a wonderfully flexible space. Anyway, we were searching for kneelers to place with every seat when Christa gasped. She found a dead bird in the chapel. We heard from a couple of students that a bird may have nested itself in one of the pipes of the chapel's organ. Christa and I were trying to figure out how to evacuate the bird without hurting it. But in looking for kneelers for a service that reminds each of us, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return," we saw firsthand of the mortality of the day. Yes, while we may have joked about the dead bird in the back of the chapel, it was also a stark reminder that we will return to dust. But the ashes will clear away, looking forward to a new creation. Little bird, I'm sorry you met your demise in PLTS's chapel. But you have returned home.

Ashes to ashes

I attended my first Ash Wednesday service in 2006. My husband and I started attending a Lutheran church a few blocks from our apartment, and since I never attended an Ash Wednesday service, I expressed to my husband that I wanted to go. We walked to the church, and on that walk, I remember asking him what happens at an Ash Wednesday service. He stated it was similar to a regular Sunday service, except the pastor made a cross of ashes on peoples foreheads.

It was not like a regular Sundays service. It was quiet and somber. I remember when I approached the altar, the pastor lightly touched my forehead. I could feel the cross being made on my forehead. And I remember the words, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." I remember returning to the pew, thinking of the gravity of the words "... to dust you shall return."

To dust you shall return. I remember walking home after the service. I immediately went to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." I continued to stare at the cross of ashes on my forehead, thinking of my life and the finality of it on this earth. The finality struck me, particularly since at the time, I was a Hindu attending a Lutheran church. What did such a finality mean?

Fast forward to 2008. I was the lector at the Ash Wednesday service at my home congregation. The same congregation where I went to my very first Ash Wednesday service. I was assisting the pastor with the imposition of the ashes, telling my brothers and sisters in Christ, "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." I was struck making the cross on peoples foreheads. I broke down during the imposition of the ashes, realizing that all of us are living a life in anticipation of the resurrection. It was with the imposition of the ashes that we will return to dust, but we are not forsaken by God. We are loved and cherished children of God. The juxtaposition of ashes and God's grace and love were startling to me that Ash Wednesday.

There is sad news for tomorrow's Ash Wednesday service. One of the church matriarchs of my teaching parish passed away this morning. And in light of tomorrow's service, I couldn't help but return to the words "... and to dust you shall return."

Trying to answer "Why?"

Something that stayed with me during Clinical Pastoral Education was Jesus' words during the Eucharist. "This is my body, broken for you..." These words spoken in the Eucharist took on an entirely different meaning in the halls of Stanford Hospitals and Clinics. I visited incredibly sick patients. Some patients had an incredibly strong connection to their faith tradition. They would speak of the Divine coming into their lives, particularly at times of great need. I would meet with other patients that would ask, "Why is God doing this to me?" It was that last question, of "Why God, why?" that I had the hardest time addressing.

I was asked "Why is this happening?" by one of my mentors this week. "Why is this happening? How could this happen?" A professor that challenged me during my time at Clemson became extremely ill. She entered the hospital at the beginning of January. She was removed from her respirator and passed away today.

This professor challenged me, at times tested me, but genuinely cared about her students and served as a mentor. While this professor and I didn't have an easy relationship, she genuinely cared about my work and my progress. When I left the Professional Communication program in 2006, I told this professor that I needed to reanalyze my priorities, and that my graduate education needed to be postponed. She sent me an understanding yet encouraging message, acknowledging that life happens and my master's thesis could no longer be the priority. She also encouraged me to keep my options open. She also said, "Keep in touch."

I kept my options open. I kept them so open, I found myself attending seminary. But I failed at the last part. I did not keep in touch. I told myself that part of my life was over and I needed to start over. Part of starting over was to let go, and sadly, cut contact with friends and mentors from my Professional Communication program. But for some odd reason, I kept that last email that continued to encourage me, no matter what my path.

This professor, who encouraged me in spite of myself, was a mentor to so many. And I come back to the words I struggled with during my chaplaincy internship. "Why did this happen?" I don't know why. Why did this professor pass away at such a young age? Why did she leave behind a loving husband, a young daughter, so many students, a brilliant career...? Part of me can theologize some weak explanation, but ultimately, I don't know the answer to the question. But I continue to return to "This is my body, broken for you..." God's son, broken on a cross. But not broken without reason. God's son was broken on a cross so that we may live life eternal.

Every moment is precious. Every relationship is precious. These are gifts from God which we are to treasure.

Excited Baby Voice

I have come to a stunning realization over the weekend. I cannot do "excited baby voice." I was sitting with a colleague's eight month old child, and realized that I was speaking to this child like he was a little adult. One of my friends remarked, "Can't you do 'excited baby'?" I seriously had to sit and think, can I? I scoured my brain for any bit of information and came to the stunning realization that no, I cannot seem to do "excited baby." But I also came to the realization that I may have been conditioned to react this way by my own family. My parents didn't speak to me in child-speak; they spoke to me like I was a young adult, even though I was toddling around the house as a small mass of destruction.

Does the lack of "excited baby" worry me? Sometimes. I wonder how I will speak to my own children. I want to be a loving parent, but I also want to be who God created me to be. Not everyone can do "excited baby" and I am a member of that population. But you know what? That's okay. Because God created me to be who I am, and I am also willing to let God mold me and use me. Maybe I can't do "excited baby" at this point in my life... but that doesn't mean that the Spirit cannot move within me.

Amen.

This was my favorite devotional someone brought to my Old Testament class. This version is found in The Little Book of Prayer.

I want to be saved... and I want to save.
Amen.
I want to be set free... and I want to free.
Amen.
I want to be born... and I want to give birth.
Amen.
I want to hear... and I want to be heard.
Amen.
Sweetness dances. I want to pipe; all of you dance.
Amen.
I want to run away... and I want to stay.
Amen.
I want to make you beautiful... and I want to be beautiful.
Amen.
I want to join with you... and I want to be joined.
Amen.
I have no house... and I have houses.
Amen.
I have no ground... and I have ground.
Amen.
I have no temple... and I have temples.
Amen.
If you look at me... I will be a lamp.
Amen.
If you see me... I will be a mirror.
Amen.
If you knock on me... I will be a door.
Amen.
If you are a traveler... I will be a road.
Amen.
This is my dance. Answer me with dancing.

--The Acts of John

God, God, God

I shared this poem with my Old Testament class awhile back as a devotional. I now want to share it with the two readers of this blog.

From the depth of slumber,
As I ascend the spiral stairway of wakefulness,
I whisper
God, God, God!

Thou art the food and when I break my fast
Of nightly separation from Thee
I taste thee and mentally say
God, God, God!

No matter where I go, the spotlight of my mind
Ever keeps turning on Thee;
And in the battle dim of activity my silent war cry
Is ever;
God, God, God!

When boisterous storms of trials shriek
And worries howl at me,
I drown their noises, loudly chanting
God, God, God!

When my mind weaves dreams
With treads of memories,
Then on that magic cloth I do emboss;
God, God, God!

Ever night, in time of deepest sleep,
My peace dreams and calls; Joy! Joy! Joy!
And my Joy comes singing evermore;
God, God, God!

In waking, eating, working, dreaming, sleeping,
Serving, meditating, chanting, divinely loving,
My soul constantly hums, unheard by any;
God, God, God!

- Paramahansa Yogananda

Mindfulness and Meditation

I haven't been visiting this space lately since it's been quite an adjustment to being a full-time seminarian. Life at Fuller was a bit easier when I was only going part-time; I had time to read everything that was assigned (and I read almost everything, save 30 pages for my Prophets class that wasn't going to show up on the final exam). One of the benefits of being a part-time student was the ease of having leisure time. If I needed a break in the midst of my reading and paper-writing, I took breaks for quite liberal amounts of time.

Life is different at PLTS, especially as a full-timer. This is one of the first times in my life I have to be selective about what I'm going to read; there just aren't enough hours in a day. I love what I'm learning, but in order to complete all of the reading and assignments, I won't have time to spend with the husband, eat, sleep, etc. That's not a healthy way to go through seminary. I'm also more aware of self-care this time around. It was good to be a part-time student at Fuller, because I was able to take the time for self-care. At PLTS, I'm learning that I need to make time for self-care.

Part of my explorations in self-care involves meditation. I used to do yoga on a regular basis when I lived in Glendale (it was wonderful there was a yoga class taught at church!). While I've been slacking on my yoga time, I'm becoming more aware of the need to meditate and become more aware of the environment around me. This is definitely an exercise for me, as my mind is usually running a million miles a minute with the things I need to do and the tasks I need to accomplish. I'm discovering my mind needs a break and needs to focus on relaxing.

My new focus on relaxing comes from the practice of mindfulness, of being more aware of the environment around you. Sights, sounds, smells, textures, and thinking about the here and now are practicing mindfulness. The mind is not permitted to wander to task completion or other thoughts; the focus of the mind is to be in the present. So I leave you with an exercise in mindfulness called "The Raisin Meditation."

Take two raisins. With the first raisin, do what you would automatically do; eat it. Quickly pop it in your mouth, maybe bite it once and a speedy swallow. And then look for the next one. For the second raisin it will be different!!

Hold the second raisin by the thumb and index finger. Look at it carefully. Note the creases. Rotate it and continue to look at it. Press it a little and feel the texture and transfer it to the other hand. Repeat the process. Now slowly bring to the mouth and place it on the tongue. Roll it around in the mouth and keep your self in the sensation. Move the raisin to the left, right and under the tongue. Repeat this process. All in slow motion. Now slowly take a bite – very very slowly. Feel the juice slowly coming out and relish it. Now a second bite – in slow motion. Continue this until it has been completely chewed and almost dissolved. Now slowly swallow it. Feel the emptiness in your mouth. Just close your eyes and savor this experience.