Learning the wisdom...

Today was one of those days I had a ringside seat in seeing someone's life turn upside down. One of my pastors went to his dr. "for some Tami-Flu", was taken straight to the hospital in an ambulance, tested up one side and down the other only to learn he needed heart surgery. Talk about life turning around.

The surgery he will have in the morning will almost certainly save his life. Had he not had the congestion, had the doctor not been so observant and thorough, this undetected, untreated valve dysfunction could have had catastrophic results. When heart surgery is the easy option --- well, you get the picture.

As soon as I got the news, I got in the car and went to the hospital. The privileges of pastoral life flooded me in that room. Even small talk among family members is different when it takes place in a hospital room right before surgery. The sweet presence of Christ was so evident to me I felt like I could reach out and, literally, touch Jesus. Instead, we touched each others hands around a family circle for prayer and we felt the Holy Spirit.

As a pastor, I had holy experiences like this over and over. Such communion! Such joy in the expressions of love, appreciation and peace! This is presence that matters. Memory-making for a lifetime. Just a few months ago, someone came up, introduced herself as a member from years ago. "I will never forget that you came to the hospital when my daughter had surgery," she said. "I told you not to come. But your presence made a difference that morning and ever since." That's the kind of sweet comment that makes everything worthwhile.

And, as I was praying in that hospital room tonight, I felt the urge to bolt out of the room, go straight to the bishop and say, "Please, please, please put me back in a church!" --an assignment where hospital visitation is part of the regular, if not daily, routine. In actuality, I had a different experience. When I did leave the room, I burst out in tears -- overcome by the sweetness of our time together and the privilege of the pastoral life.

As I have lived with this pastoral situation in my heart (which is where all good pastors carry their prayerful concerns) and its impact on me, I also realized that, in spite of my great love for the pastoral ministry setting, I have already received something that is good for me right now -- ministry that is a step removed from this pastoral work that I love. I felt the emotions of having life turn upside down so deeply because I'm so close to that experience myself. I've been there. Twice in the last two years, I have been diagnosed with a life-threatening disease/condition that had no warning symptoms. My mind -- and my heart--still reels from the spillover. Then it occurred to me: maybe this is not the best time for me to be in that more direct role of pastoral work walking with people daily in life's unexpected traumas.

The fragility of life is something that no one can miss -- no matter what their vocation. But pastoral ministry -- like many other helping professions--is the front line for lives turned upside down, often at a moment's notice.

I hope I always carry an ache in my heart for pastoral ministry. I pray that everyone serving in a connectional setting honors the local church setting is the primary place that discipleship is lived out and that God's gift of love is received shared and taught. But as I had a glimpse this week of longing for that ministry I love so deeply, I realized that God had already answered a prayer I wasn't wise enough to pray for myself at this time. Healing takes place over time. And I am still needing time for God's unfolding healing work in me.

The view from the cemetery

December 6 was one of those marathon Sundays--a big Centennial Celebration for Broad Street UMC then off to 3 Charge Conferences. My administrative assistant thoughtfully scheduled churches that were not far away and the last stop on the circuit was a church just down the road from my home. Arriving in my neighborhood at 6: 15 p.m., I had about 20 minutes before I needed to head for my last stop. So I turned down the road to my house to catch my breath.

Instead, I experienced something that took my breath away.

I should back up and say that I live in the neighborhood of one of my churches -- New Salem UMC. My grandsons and I love to walk the short block to the playground there. Connor has been to Bible School and Trunk Or Treat at my neighbor church. Last year, the boys and I went to their "Walk to Bethlehem" -- a very impressive live experience of the Christmas story.

This year, I was doing Charge Conferences the night of the Walk to Bethlehem and my little boys were in a Live Nativity of their own in their new church.

New Salem's "Walk to Bethlem" involves a lot of setting up of flares and candlelight so that people can see how to go from one station to the next. When I turned onto New Salem Road, I knew there would be a lot of activity in the field on the left.

And I was right about that. There was a big crowd.

But, what stunned me was what I saw on the right hand side of the road.

The right hand side of the road is the New Salem Cemetery. I pass it every day. After my friends' Jan Brittain and Cecil Donahue's son was killed and buried in that cemebery in September of last year, I have walked in or through that cemetery praying for them. What I saw that night in the cemetery took my breath away.

Every grave had a burning candle, softly shedding light and illuminating the stones. There it was -- light shining from a place that represents our deepest darkness. And the words from the gospel of John flew all over me: "In Him was life and that life was the light for all. And the light shone in the darkness and the darkness has never overcome it." (John 1: 4,5)

I came home --not to catch my breath, but to get my camera.

I parked my car, walked in the darkness and tried to get a picture of the amazing sight I was experiencing. I found myself weeping--overcome by the vision of light breaking through the darkness. Light in penetrating darkness.

I love John 1:5. But, in reality, I feel so many times that the darkness in the world smothers the light of God. Meanness, selfishness, greed, arrogance, prejudice, hate , disease, brokenness, death. Sometimes, it feels like the darkness is winning. As I stood looking at hundreds of candles burning at each marker, I was experiencing the testimony of John's words. The darkness -- however dark-- does not win. The light of Christ will prevail and shine in life's deepest darkness.

Yes! I know that to be true for the deepest darknesses of my own life. But in that tired moment, seeing the light at every grave glowing in the shadow of the lighted steeple -- well, it took my breath away.

Later, I learned that the lighting of the cemetery is a project the New Salem youth began last year after Wade was buried there. New Salem's "Walk to Bethlehem" is certainly worth coming to and I enjoyed it last year. But this year, I also got the message of Christ's coming into the world. This year, I got it by walking in a candlelit cemetery.

Later, I learned that this cemetery lighting is a project that the youth of New Salem UMC began last year after Wade died.

The gift of a day

What a great gift today is!
Snow-blanketed world, Christmas music, a clear schedule (except for watching Duke basketball!), baking Mother's favorite holiday recipes...
How I have needed a day like this!

Today is also richly blessed for me because my daughter, Christi, is preaching her first funeral. Knowing her like I do, I know she is going to be a great blessing to a family in need. She personifies the grace of Christ, the kindness of God's great heart and extraordinary compassion.
Although she is very eloquent in words, she will be a blessing just being herself. What a great joy for me to know she is making a difference to a family and her church today.

Sometimes, when people hear that Christi was commissioned last June or know that she is a United Methodist minister, they will say, "So, she's following her mother's footsteps." Actually, she is not. Anyone who has grown up as a preacher's kid knows better. If anything, growing up with a preacher parent is an impediment to accepting the call to ministry. Preachers kids think twice -- three-four times before going into the ministry themselves.

The greatest thing is that Christi is following Jesus. I am very content with my day at home. She is a blessing to me each day. Today, I am thrilled to know that her life is being a special blessing to someone else. A day overflowing with blessings indeed.

Watching Dreams Come True

Today, we had an amazing opportunity to share an experience that, in Mary Allen's words, gave us a chance to "watch dreams come true." I had my first on site visit to Mary and Mary Allen's new house at Lake Junaluska. And she is right, it was a chance to see a dream become a reality.

This is the view from one of Mark and Mary Allen's decks...

And it is a dream come true.

They have long hoped and saved and dreamed for a house at Junaluska. And now, right before their eyes, their dream is taking shape. They have started a house blog with the name of the house: Dream Come True.

Our trip was everything Mary Allen said it would be: a great thrill watching a dream become reality. I am so happy for them. So proud of them.

But I think the thing I would want Mary Allen to know is that I have the joy of watching dreams come true,too. I'm not building a house. My dreams are bigger. My dreams are about building a life. And every time I see Mary Allen, I am seeing my dreams come true. Every time I see the creative, loving, joyful, dedicated, wonderful Christian, wife and mother that she is, I am seeing my dreams come true. Every time I see the way she supports her husband and organizes life for her household, I am seeing my dreams come true. Every time I see the pasty Chrismon creations, little Christmas trees made of ice cream cones, green icing and sprinkles (beloved by the little boys), and personalized church bags for each boy, I see the dream of my heart come true. Every time I see the joyful playfulness, pictures and blogs, homemade gifts and overflowing love of her heart, I am seeing my dreams come true.

Mark and Mary Allen are building a house that their family will enjoy for years... and I celebrate that with them and for them. They are seeing their dreams become a reality.

When I see their lives, I also have the chance to see dreams come true...dreams of my heart...dreams for my daughter. They are not dreams of a building, but dreams of a life. She is more accomplished, creative, dedicated, extraordinary than I could ever have dreamed. I have the privilege of seeing dreams come true every time I see her.

Sadness at Christmas

I heard a very sad story this week that has made me wonder if some people in church have any idea what it means for Christ to be born in the world. The story has caused me to grieve over how far away we, apparently, have let church people get from the meaning of Jesus.

Once upon a time, in 2009, a church decided to give a Christmas party for a needy family. Several weeks before the party, some church members realized they didn't have enough money for the party. So they cancelled it.

Before long, the pastor heard of plans for a Christmas party.

Not a party for a needy family.

But a party for church members.

Apparently there was enough money for that.

I wish I could say this story of two parties is a fairy-tale or an embellished illustration for sermon material. But I am sad to say it is the true story -- a tragic story--of a church this Christmas season. A church that has missed the heart of the Christmas story.

This gets my nomination for saddest story of the year. And, if I were the Christian I should be, I would say, "Lord, have mercy." But what I really want to say is, "Lord, shake them up! Get their attention! Draw them outside themselves!" Maybe the best middle place is my fervent, daily prayer that somehow the Christmas story would be heard anew in that church this year...the true message of God's sacrifice for our abundant and eternal life...and God's call to us to live out the gift of life to others. No matter what happens at their party, this is going to be a sad story until they understand that the heart of Jesus is always reaching out to others. Be born in them, O Christ -- and be born in all of us--anew this year.

Celebrating in Special Ways

I have always felt a sense of wonder about the sweet verse closing out the second chapter of Luke: "And Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart."

Sometimes, life's events are too rich, too powerful, too amazing to grasp all in the moment they take place. That's how the Shepherd Thanksgiving weekend has been for me.

Christi (newly commissioned UM minister in the NC Conference); Daddy (celebrating 66 years of ministry in the Kentucky Conference) and me. November 27, 2009. This picture was taken in my home church, First United Methodist Church Frankfort.

Our family moved to Frankfort in 1961 and this is where all of us joined the church. Daddy served here for 10 years and then became Superintendent of the Frankfort District. So, all in all, we lived in Frankfort for 16 of our family growing up years -- an unusual gift for a Methodist preacher's family. Now, Daddy serves on staff at Frankfort First as their Minister in Residence.

This is me, Daddy and my brother, Mark

(who is pastor at Jeffersontown UMC just outside of Louisville, KY).

The church honored Daddy for his 88th birthday (November 28) and his 66 years of ministry.

Between the 3 of us, we account for 127 years of ministry to the Methodist Church.

Daddy's immediate family service to full time Methodist ministry is 261 years.

When we moved to Frankfort, of course, there was no way to realize how profoundly this church would influence our lives. The 4 little Shepherds were 2 1/2 (Mark), 1st grade (Phillip) 4th grade (Ruth Ann) and I was going into 6th grade. Through the years, this church continued to be an ongoing source of welcome, support and encouragement.

I wish there was a way to convey to congregations what a difference they make in the lives of their parsonage families!
And now, nearly 50 years later, the church is still making a difference in our family life -- welcoming Daddy on their staff as Minister in Residence and celebrating his ministry. How could we possibly find words eloquent enough to convey the thanks of our heart?

A sweet sign...

I am home for the whirlwind holidays of Thanksgiving. A whirlwind because it includes my nephew's birthday (today he is 17), my father's birthday (on Saturday, he will be 88), Thanksgiving and a special worship service on Sunday where my home church is honoring Daddy for his birthday and 66 years of UM ministry...
But, tonight, we did what our family does: we went to church.
Tonight was the community Thanksgiving service here in Frankfort.
The sanctuary at South Frankfort Presbyterian Church was filled. The participating clergy filled up the front two rows. The music was great. The sermon, in call and response black style, was rousing. And then the pastor from the Church of God got up to give the benediction. He looked out across the congregation of Baptists, Methodists, Presbyterians, Pentecostals, white and black, young and old. Then he said, "Look around you. We are all races and all denominations and we are all people Jesus died to save. This is what heaven is going to look like. And, if you don't like it, you'd better learn to get used to it."
I'm still struggling with laryngitis (residual from an unusally demanding weekend) and the only way to get my voice back is to rest it. (Now THAT is hard!) But, as fragile as my voice is, I really wanted to say AMEN. Amen! Amen!
Tonight was only a glimpse. I am so grateful for God's great heart. May we live into God's gift with grateful hearts.

Buckle up!

What an amazing week!
We have spent a week of cabinet training/evaluation/meeting. And I can say this -- I've never seen anything like this. I know that people outside the cabinet don't have the chance to see this dynamic as closely right now. But it's a new day.
The challenge isn't new. The church has been declining for decades. That's an old challenge. While people love to pick their favorite issue and connect that issue to the decline of the church, the overwhelming evidence is the reality that the culture has changed and the church has unproductively and defiantly stood still. And the heartbreak of it is that sitting still has not only been harmful to the church. Sitting still is completely contrary to John Wesley's practice of discipleship.
The challenge is not new. But, gratefully, the response is new. Our bishop is leading us in a wonderfully holy impatience. His approach is predictable and consistent and focused. And it's all summed up in his one frequently repeated phrase: "It's all about the mission."
And I can tell you first hand, those words are not just a catch phrase. Those words illuminate all the changes that are on the table. And there are many changes. As the changes unfold, people need to know that everything falls under the same scrutiny: is it all about the mission? And, quite simply, anything that is NOT about the mission of the church stands subservient and disposable to what IS the mission of the church. And that is one, incredible, amazing and, of course, completely-credible change.
We have talked the priority of mission before. But what is new is that we are seriously and persistently being led to LIVE and APPLY the priority on following Jesus, making disciples and transforming the world. It is thrilling. It is encouraging. It is invigorating. But it is also going to be hard.
Any pastor or church that likes to rock along with the way things have always been is going to be unhappy. Any church or pastor who is perfectly content with the same handful of familiar faces in worship is going to be challenged. Any pastor or church that wants to keep things the way they are (even if that means the church is dying) is going to be uncomfortable. Any pastor or church that wants to do whatever they want without any challenge or accountability is going to be in for an adjustment. Any UM pastor or church who wants to be left alone to do their on thing is going to have a very hard time as we become the truly connectional church that we are designed to be. Any pastor or church that wants to sit around on their blessed assurance in the same old unproductive path is going to experience some frustration. Because we are going to be looking past preferences and comfort zones to putting the mission first in all things.
"It's all about the mission" is a mighty big statement. It's going to challenge us to a lot of change and help get us serious about moving on toward perfection.

Dodging the big question

I've been laughing all week.
Connor is very close to being ready for the great life talk. I almost got into it with him this past weekend.
Halloween night, I had 4 year old Spiderman in my backseat. We were heading to a Trunk Or Treat sponsored by one of my churches (the first of 3 we would try to go to that night). Since it was raining, I wasn't sure that the Trunk or Treat would still be held so I was trying to introduce the possibility that the rain might require things to be called off.
"Well, Grammy," Connor said very seriously, "God is going to disappoint a lot of children tonight if he doesn't stop this rain." And, after a short pause, he said, "Because, after all, He IS in charge of everything."
I wondered if I should try to explain the unexplainable...that here, in this fallen world, God isn't directly responsible for everything that happens. How does one explain that to a four year old? While I was searching for just the right words, we arrived at Chapel Hill UMC and Trunk or Treat was open for business. Whew.
As we were driving home, Connor was counting his haul of candy and remembering the fun detail by detail. Then he paused again and said, "Wasn't it great that God decided to stop the rain?".
I know that sometime we will have to have the conversation about life's more complicated realities. But, for our drive home, I agreed that God had been mighty good and, for however little he grasps about God's omnipotence, he was absolutely right in understanding God's heart. God wouldn't want the children to be disappointed.

A very happy anniversary...

Exactly one year ago today was my thyroid surgery.
Although I slept through it all, the surgery went much longer than expected. My family was getting worried and only more concerned when the surgeon came out and tried to tell them what had taken so long. The cancer was more extensive than they had realized and, in the course of getting as much as possible, the surgeon had damaged the nerve that leads to the vocal chords. We had chosen to go to Dr. Olson -- chief of Endoctrine Surgery at Duke--because he monitored the vocal chords during thyroidectomies. The thyroid I was sure I could live without. My voice -- now THAT was a different scenario. So it was worrisome that Dr. Olson said that his monitors had lost contact with the vocal chords during the surgery. Only time would tell whether or not I would be able to talk after the surgery-- or not.
No wonder my sister looked so happy in the recovery room when I started complaining that there was no TV. I woke up (understandably) wanting to know the results of the presidential election. And the extent of worry was even clearer on my surgeon's face when he lit up like a Christmas tree when I spoke to him when he came to check on me. There was plenty of reason to worry about the thyroid cancer. But God also gave me back the gift of my speaking voice...a gift I cherish for both my life and my work.
Today, I drove back to Duke for followup and got more confirmation of good news and healing grace. I am newly overwhelmed with the gift of voice and life...and hope that my voice and life will -- in new ways --bring healing and grace to others.

Re-living and old truth

It's true: you never really leave a place you love. Part of that place goes with you.
I think we should pay more attention to that life reality.
Today, I went back to preach at Jackson Park UMC in Kannapolis--my first time back since I left there 10 years ago. Wow. Ten years feels like 3 lifetimes. At least. Returning brought a flood of memories, the rich familiarity of long-time friendships, the surprises of seeing how much the children had grown and teenagers -- now young adults--had babies of their own. There were those I cherished who are now physically unable to come, those who have moved out of Kannapolis to be close to their families for care-taking as well as those who are missing from this Homecoming because they have died.
The facility has been improved in a number of places and I was also very, very happy to see so many faces of people I did not know. How sad it would be to return to a church after 10 years and know everybody! As I suspected, the passion of the Carolina fans is just as fervent -- and obnoxious--as it always was. When I write my book about trying to keep the faith while serving churches full of Carolina fans, many of the stories are going to be about the Men's Bible Class at Jackson Park!
It was a great joy to me to hear how DISCIPLE Bible study -- something started while I was there--has both continued and multiplied through the years. The memory of the DISCIPLE classes during my years assured me that these students had become extraordinary teachers and their faithfulness reminds me of the phrase that, thankfully, characterizes United Methodist ministry: the MINISTRY is always bigger than the MINISTER. The altar flowers for worship were given by a prayer partner in honor of a 14 year old's birthday. And I gave thanks for the prayer partner program that began here and that idea which I carried to other settings.
And the gift of friendships--loved ones indelibly stamped on my heart --made this a very rich and emotional day. I never fail to be inspired by the faithfulness that people give to the church--and the people who guide and befriend and support the pastor go with us everywhere we serve. For all its failures (and there are many), the church still has so many people who hang in there with faithfulness and good sense and kindness and good humor. The company of the committed has its frustrations, but it is a rich fellowship, indeed.
And today, being in a place where I have personal history, I feel the ongoing blessing of being a pastor. Thank you, Jackson Park.

Tiredness that hurts

Tonight, I am not tired from the pace of this work.
The pace is grueling. But sometimes, after a series of back-to-back commitments, I am elated. I recognize what it means to be tired in a healthy way.
But tonight, the tiredness isn't healthy. The tiredness is from discouragement. Deep, profound discouragement. And the overlay of discouragement to weariness is not a prelude to peaceful sleep.
Why the tiredness...discouragement?
I'm tired of the petty squabbling in churches.
I'm tired of constant negative energy born of entitlement, personal preferences and ego.
I'm tired of Christians acting worse than pagans in attitudes and actions.
I'm tired of people who feel that their hurt feelings give them license for any kind of mean-spirited comment or action.
And I'm really tired of people who are thoughtless and unkind to their pastor and then think I should do something based on their prejudices.
I'm tired of people who think that they are entitled to have their way no matter how selfish or unchristlike that way is.
I'm tired of the contentiousness of the culture shaping the church instead of the other way around.
I'm tired of people who try to wear their rudeness or crudeness or attacks as badges of honor and try to inflame others to the same kind of patently unchristian attitude.
I'm tired of church people who won't stand up for what is right; who -- out of weariness--give in to the loudest complainer, who side with the falsehood, the exaggeration, the rumor.
This is the kind of tiredness that cuts to the soul.
It's the kind of tiredness that is going to kill the church if we don't change our ways.
It's the kind of tiredness that causes casualties in the ranks of our more dedicated pastors and laity. It's a tiredness that is abominably self-absorbed in light of the great challenges before us -- the suffering around us and across the world, rampant injustice, abiding prejudices, the grip of poverty, the trauma of accidents and disease and sorrow.
And I'm tired of the repetition of selfish, self-absorbed, wounded egos.
Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. And teach me to have mercy, too.

Pretty remarkable...

My father will be 88 in November. I am the long-distance one in the family so I keep in touch by calling him every night. I am always inspired by his interest in politics, current church events and the personal connections he is always making as Minister in Residence at my "home" church in Frankfort.
With the pace of superintendency, my schedule is always stretched to the limit. But today, Daddy takes the cake. My schedule pales in comparison. This morning, he was meeting with the Coffee Club at 10:00 a.m. (Frankfort's long-standing solve-the-problems-of-the-world group), the swearing in of a family friend to a judgeship at 11:00; Rotary at noon; 1:00 he has a part in a funeral and tonight, he has Methodist Men. That's quite a whirlwind for someone of any age. But isn't it wonderful that all those things describe the schedule of someone born in 1921! It is a great joy to me that Daddy not only is living--especially since longevity is not a trait in his family--but that he has such a high quality of life.
So today, I am celebrating that his busy schedule leaves mine in the dust. A blessing indeed!

So blessed....

Most preachers kids don't have a hometown. With Methodist ministers committed to go where they are sent, most of us have moved around all our lives.

I am one of the lucky ones.
I have a hometown.



Frankfort, Kentucky.


Daddy moved to Frankfort 1st UMC in 1962 and served at that church for 10 years. Then, our family just moved across town to the District parsonage (very close to his present retirement home) where he was the DS of the Frankfort District for 6 years.





So our family grew up in this scenic, historic town. Although Daddy served two Central Kentucky appointments after his time on the District, after 16 years in the capital city, we have always felt like Frankfort was home.

Since Daddy retired here--as well as both my sister and brother living here--Frankfort is, truly my home town. And coming here is always renewing, uplifting and restoring for me.


I am feeling a loss of roots in this new position I am in. Serving churches across a three county area is very different from being grounded as a pastor in a church. Being in one (or more) different churches every Sunday is a different type of experience. Being back in my hometown reminds me of the roots I carry with me from place to place.

Most preachers kids don't have a hometown.
I am grateful that I do.

A new face in heaven...

My dear colleague and friend like-a-brother, Mark Walz got to go home tonight. Home to the Savior that he had given his life to. Home to a healing that is complete and permanent after nearly 5 years of a valiant fight with cancer.
Mark was the associate pastor when my father served at Park UMC in Lexington. Mark was young and single and bursting with creative energy. There was no such thing as a routine children's sermon with Mark Walz around. He was funny, entertaining, gifted and deeply committed to winning others to Christ. He had a charm that was contagious and a humility that kept him grounded.
He was very effective in ministry and became very close to both my parents. Mark and my mother shared a gift of hospitality. They were always swapping recipes and ideas. And Mark had enough creative ideas to always keep things moving. He had a very vital youth and young adult ministry at Park and, in these years of shared ministry, became part of our family. Later, he became the chaplain at Pikeville Methodist Hospital where my sister was a neonatologist. Two summers ago, Mark came to Charlotte for surgery and, although I was recovering from major surgery myself, I didn't think twice about saying that, of course, he could recuperate in my home until he was strong enough to travel back to Kentucky. We were family.
We were pitiful together. I was just recovering from surgery for a pancreatic tumor when he came for his surgery. While neither one of us had much strength, because our hearts are anchored in God, we had a profound awareness of how precious life is -- both life on this earth and for all eternity. The wealth of shared history, family connections, common experiences in ministry and commitment to Christ was good medicine. We trusted completely God's healing hand, no matter what was coming.
Although Mark died tonight, nothing changed--for either of us--about that complete trust that our lives, in God's hands are safe. Mark lived and died completely trusting his life to Jesus. God does not let us down when death comes. God is providing a healing more extensive than anything this world can offer.
For someone as creative as Mark, I can't help but smile afresh about the idea of heaven. He'll be having a ball and only God knows what he will be instigating and enjoying in perfect wholeness. Having endured incessaat indignaties that are inherent in surgeries and cancer treatments, he will feel like a bird out of a cage. My heart is more celebrative than sorrowful. And I am so grateful for companions on the Christian journey. One more familiar face in heaven...so much to live for!

My flowers talked back...

When I got home tonight--full heart, tired body, I discovered that my flowers looked as tired as I felt. When I went out to water, my tiredness set in and I could feel myself scolding all the pots that needed watering.

"We have had lots of rain..."I was thinking...and, almost as if the flowers could talk back came the thought, "Yes, we have had lots of rain...last week, two weeks ago, three weeks ago....but not recently. In fact, not a drop in the past week. What makes you think that a good rain two weeks ago can nourish us now?"

Ouch.

Our spiritual lives are the same way. Devotions or prayer time that we had a month ago--even rich moments with the Lord--can't keep us flourishing spiritually indefinitely. The meal that we ate a week ago doesn't stop us from being hungry today. Churches that flourished decades ago and then refused to change seem surprised that they are drooping today.

Our United Methodist emphasis on Christian perfection is just the nourishing theological foundation to keep us alive spiritually. We know -- we emphasize--we remind ourselves that continuous spiritual growth is essential. And when we fail to let God's Spirit water our souls, we droop...we really droop.

My flowers have been gorgeous this summer. When they droop, I can see the difference.

Lives are no different.

Living things need care...

Flowers from my back yard....

When it's dry, I need to do the watering.

When God provides the rain, I need to do the weeding.

Every living thing needs care and tending to be beautiful.

What we learn about the news....

Our reactions to the news teach us more about ourselves than the public figures who are making the news.
I, for example, learned this week that I am thoroughly, hopelessly old-fashioned.

I applaud President Obama for hosting a conversation between the Harvard professor Gates and the Cambridge law enforcement officer Crowley. The world would be a better place, I am convinced, if more people sat down together for face-to-face conversation after a volatile exchange. That's a great model. People make mistakes and we need to learn from mistakes and move on. I am very happy about the model of the meeting.
But did they have to drink BEER?

I've got to tell you -- and I'm not embarrassed about it--I wish the President had chosen something else. Am I hopelessly naive? Maybe so. But I just don't think it is a good model to sit down over a beer.
I recognize the roots of my reaction. God bless my mother--a saint on earth if ever there was one! A moral dilemma for my mother took place when someone threw a beer can in her yard. She didn't want to pick up the beer can and put it in HER garbage. (The garbage man might get the idea that someone in OUR home had been drinking. That was unthinkable.) But, if she left it in her yard, it violated her impeccable standards of cleanliness and was a constant reminder that SOMEONE was drinking beer. A true moral dilemma.
But back to the president. I don't think he should be meeting over a beer.
I know that millions of people do it. But I just wish he'd choose something else.
Meet over pie. Meet over coffee. Meet over dinner. Whatever. But beer became the focus of this conversation for reconciliation. And that's too bad.

We live in a world where people desperately need to learn the art of reconciliation, learning from mistakes and moving on. God knows we don't do much moving on in our lives, our families, our churches or our culture. We are terrible offenders to the gospel. We don't reconcile with those who have hurt us, we complain about them. We don't learn from our mistakes -- we just turn to sympathetic friends to replay how badly we have been done wrong. We don't move on. We go over and over and over and over the sound bite mistakes of others. We rally support. We keep things stirred up. We ignore the gospel mandate to love others as Christ loved us. We defy Christ's command to love our enemies. We desperately need to get back to our theological roots here!

But, please, let's don't do it over a beer.
I hope that I can live into my beliefs and be a model for reconciliation. But you aren't going to read about me meeting with opposing parties in a church over a beer.
I'm not trying to be part of the vulture, find-something-to-criticize culture.
Like I say, we learn more about ourselves in our reaction to the news than we learn about the news makers. I'm all for reconciliation, new learning and creating open doors for forgiveness. But leave the beer out of the mix.

How confusing can this be?

I am trying to be patient.
Granted, patience is not my natural inclination.
But I am trying to be patient.
Maybe patience isn't such a virtue.
What--pray tell--is so confusing about the idea that United Methodists are part of a connectional system not Southern Baptists in a congregational system?

For the second time in two years, I've gotten a call from a longtime United Methodist in JULY saying that the preacher had to move. Both times, the preacher has not done anything wrong. Both times it was from churches where the Pastor Parish Committee had not requested a move. Sometimes, when I am listening to these phone calls, I pinch myself. Surely I am asleep and having a DS nightmare.
What United Methodist doesn't know that we have a METHOD for moving preachers? Even strangers to our church know that we our METHOD (as in the name METHODist) has a regular, annual schedule. Except for emergencies, we do not deviate from the schedule. Having someone mad at the preacher is not an emergency. (Trust me on this one: being mad at your preacher is not an emergency.)
The annual schedule is this: early in the calendar year (usually January), every church has a chance to request consideration for a change of pastor. This is called an appointment advisory. It is called an advisory because it is just that: advisory to the cabinet. Every spring, the cabinet considers all the requests of pastors and churches...along with the needs of churches and pastors across the conference. The cabinet makes a set of appointments, consults with pastors and churches and, at the close of Annual Conference, the bishop FIXES the appointments. United Methodists everywhere: there is a reason we use that word "fix". It means that, except for emergencies that come up, appointments are set for the next conference year. One more time: getting mad at your preacher will not constitute an emergency for the cabinet.
Who could be a longtime United Methodist and, in the absence of an emergency (remember, hurt feelings do not constitute an emergency!) call for a change of pastor less than 30 days after the moving day of the Annual Conference? How does that happen? Have we failed so miserably in educating our laity about the METHOD of METHODist life that they think they can fire a preacher anytime they get mad?
And this is the tragedy: our orderly system is designed to help everyone in the church move toward spiritual maturity. If you like your preacher, great. Enjoy, appreciate, honor that person. Glean the most you can from your time together. If you don't particularly like your preacher, great. You belong to a church that moves preachers. No need to kick up a fuss and show your less-than-flattering, mad-as-a-wet-hen self. Use this time to grow in your spiritual maturity. Relax. In just a few months, every church will have a chance to give an opinion about the pastor's appointment. There's an open system in place for constructive concerns and a discernment process for unfair criticism. Church members -- whether they like the pastor or don't--can grow in Christ and stay focused on what really matters: making disciples for Jesus Christ.

United Methodists have the gift of a METHOD. And the method has a blessing and a challenge and a purpose for everyone. And when you have joined a United METHODist Church--a thoroughly connectional church-- stop complaining like you are from a congregation-based denomination. Hopefully, someday soon, our new and long-time members will appreciate the call to maturity that our METHODist way of life offers.

Unbounded joy

I am reading a wonderful book, Leading on Empty by Wayne Cordeiro which I highly recommend. As helpful as the book is -- with many insights to benefit veteran preachers --but the title i s wrong in describing my life. I'm not so much leading on empty. It's more like I'm leading on full. Too full. Overwhelm is still overwhelm.

This week, I had the great joy of hearing that there is no sign of the thyroid cancer I've been fighting all year. That would be joy a-plenty. But last Sunday, I also had the chance to worship as my daughter served her first Sunday as a United Methodist pastor. That was overwhelming joy of its own.

Christ UMC in Chapel Hill, NC where Christi is an associate. July 12, 2009

There are so many ways that both my daughters have made me proud and filled my heart with joy. On Christi's first Sunday, I was so completely proud of her. But I was also struck at how the world has changed since my first Sunday as a pastor 27 years ago. The changes I have witnessed in my life takes my breath away.

We have not arrived -- but we are so much farther down the path to godliness than the years of my growing up and early service. The hardships -- and there were many--have been worth the sacrifices and persistence. And not only gifted women like Christi -- but the church--will move on toward perfection in dimensions of holiness that earlier times prohibited.

I pray for Christi and for all the ministers -- male and female--who are beginning their ministry. The church needs all the excitement and exuberance and gifts and goals that they are bringing to us in these challenging times. Christ UMC has modeled the best kind of welcome and I have been blessed to be able to see it firsthand.

The most important healing grace...

Nobody has better doctors than I do--a very gifted internal medicine doctor who has detected two life-threatening conditions in the last two years; two extraordinary endoctrinologists (one in Statesville, one at Duke) and brilliant surgeons in Charlotte and at Duke. It's the best medical training and practice anyone could ever hope for. And in addition, my physician sister reads, evaluates and advises me every step of the way. I have absolutely the most abundant blessings imaginable when it comes to medical care.
I have seen first hand the best of medical technology/equipment/facilities both in Charlotte and at Duke. From a simple marvel to swallowing a camera to take a movie of my damaged vocal chords to innovative surgery techniques to high-tech scans. I have had the best.
I am grateful. I am SO grateful.
Don't think for one minute that I lack gratitude when I say that these exceptional blessings are gifts I cherish -- but not where I base my hope.
I have trusted my medical doctors. I have followed their advice to the letter.
As grateful as I am, the healing that grounds my life goes beyond the best doctors and medical technology. Yes, my life has, literally, been saved these last two years. And I plan to make the most of this gift.
But the save is temporary. All the best technology, the best team of doctors and all the prayers in the world cannot save me from the temporary nature of life. And that's why the ground of my grateful life isn't resting in even my most extraordinary doctors. The strength of the healing I've experienced reminds me of the vulnerability of life. God has been an integral part of the remarkable healing experiences of my life. And, when medical science comes to its inevitable limits--whenever that it-- God is going to continue to heal my life beyond this world in greater ways.
The ground of my hope, the foundation of my life, the sure and certain anchor of my soul is the Great Physician. And, from that great ground of love, I say thanks for the physicians, medical technology and prayers that have extended my life.

Talent and torment

Noting the connection between talent and torment didn't start for me with the death of Michael Jackson. I have long noted that the people who are the most talented are often people who are most tormented. Michael Jackson just gives an example of extreme talent and extreme torment.
That dynamic is backwards from what we would tend to think. The talented people -- the people who seem to have everything going for them--would seem to be the people who would be the happiest. People with fame, fortune and gifts would, logically, be on top of the world. More often than not, those are the very people who have profound unhappiness and deep inner anguish. It's often the talented people who self-destruct and disappoint. And that's not just a show biz problem.
How sobering and sad that it is often the most gifted Christian lay person or pastor who destroys their own lives and the lives of those who care about them. In the church, we don't just lose the people who are "losers" (by some cultural definition). We watch those who are most successful forfeit their respect, betray their families, and squander their gifts. Those who have gained the most and have the most to lose are often the ones who throw their lives away.
We spend too much energy in envy.
When others are especially gifted, that should be our signal to pray for them more fervently. The struggles they are facing often don't surface until they are tragedies. But when people are gifted, you can be sure the struggles are there. Success -- in any terms: financial, professional, relational, spiritual, educational-- is dangerous to balance and humility. Be careful who you put on your pedestal. The more talented people are, the more tormented they often are.

God's gracious gifts

Each day this week, I have walked in the Duke Gardens...a reminder of beauty in the midst of an emotionally turbulent week.

While it is hard for anything to be more of a favorite for me than the 23rd Psalm, this week, I have been living the psalm of my life: Psalm 116:

Especially with the good news of a clean body scan today. No detectable residual cancer!

Through many delivery systems of healing grace, God has saved my life yet again.

I love the Lord because

he has heard my voice and my supplication;

because he inclined his ear to me,

therefore I will call on him

as long as I live.

The snares of death encompassed me.

I suffered distress and anguish

Then I called on the name of the Lord,

"O Lord, I pray, save my life!"

Gracious is the Lord, and righteous

Our God is merciful.

The Lord protects the simple;

When I was brought low, he saved me.

What shall I return to the Lord

for all his bounty to me?

I will lift up the cup of salvation

And call on the name of the Lord.

I will pay my vows to the Lord in the presence of all his people.

I am so grateful for the good report...and, with the culmination of these tests comes a tumult of emotions: I feel both stronger and more vulnerable; jubilant and exhausted, excited and apprehensive, humbled and blessed. Being free from the very restrictive preparation diet and the good news that there is no sign of cancer feels like being let out of prison. Now, what will I do with this freedom? How do I make the most of the life that God has saved for me?

As I was leaving the hospital, the title of a book caught my eye: The Bumps Are What We Climb On. This cancer has been a big bump. But it has given me a chance to climb into God's healing grace in a new way...not only healing me, but giving me a new gift of hope to share with others.

Upstaging the old woman who swallowed a fly

Nursery rhymes have a sweet, sentimental sing-song rhymes, but they don't usually have great endings. Humpty Dumpty, Jack and Jill, Little Miss Muffet, just to name a few. I was always particularly horrified by the tale of the old woman who swallowed a fly..."I don't know WHY she swallowed a fly, I guess she'll die..."

Well, today, I upstaged the old woman who swallowed a fly.
I swallowed a camera. Intentionally. No kidding.
And now I have a 3 minute movie of my vocal chords. (How did I ever live without THAT?)

Don't let anyone ever tell you that there's a "good" cancer to have. Thyroid cancer is not nearly as damaging as other cancers. The treatment is not nearly as hard as treatment for other cancers. But there is no easy cancer.
Today, I was swallowing a camera to determine the extent of the damage to my vocal chords from last November's life-saving thyroid surgery. It is, as I have often said, a miracle that my voice was saved. When Dr. Olson came to talk to my family, he prepared them that, in the course of the surgery, he had lost connection with the nerves to the vocal chords. In order to get the cancer -- which had spread widely--he had to cut through and, apparently, take out muscle surrounding the vocal chords. He was thrilled that I had a voice at all. I am certain that my voice is an answer to prayer.
And don't think I am not grateful to be able to talk! I was thrilled to report to him and the ortholaryngetic specialist that 2 weeks ago, I had preached 8 times in less than 48 hours (the UMW marathon) and had no trouble with weakness of my speaking voice. Yippee!
But, since the surgery, I have lost my singing voice. And, although I knew I loved music, I didn't realize how much I missed my singing voice until it has no longer been available to me. I find myself crying through the hymns at worship -- not because I am so spiritual--but because it breaks my heart for my voice to disappear on me for hymns I have sung all my life. People have come up and said, "I noticed you were deeply moved during that hymn". (I guess tears running down my cheeks has been a dead give-away). And it's been easier to not go into detail that once I could sing but that, with the cancer surgery, my singing voice has been lost. TMI for their concerned observation.
Swallowing the camera gave me some informed hope. The specialist thinks that therapy can make a difference. So that is encouraging. But the overwhelming feeling I had today was a very rich sense of blessing and peace and privilege. No, I am not minimizing what's involved with fighting cancer. But I have spent today seeing healing miracles and possibilities up close and personal. God's delivery systems for healing are mind-boggling and awesome. And, today, I felt a deep sense of humility and gratitude for participating in some of these amazing diagnostic and treatment options.
My throat is a little sore. But my heart is encouraged. Yes, I am fighting cancer. But people take so much for granted. I am blessed.

Moving was fun for me this year

Things are a lot quieter at my house this weekend.

Since Mark and Mary Allen moved this week, I hardly know what to do with myself.

I wake up on my own and miss the little voices at dark-thirty in the morning saying "Grammy, time to get up." Connor, at the wise age of 4, knows that it's best to be gentle in breaking the news of morning. Tyler, almost 2, is not so suave: "Grammy! Grammy! Grammy!" And then, the energizer bunnies are up and running and I'm lucky if I can keep up.

I had such helpers!

My backyard is such a great place to play

and we always look forward to bath time...with one or two bath toys!

Connor likes to go to my office and, truly, the Stateville District Office is never as much fun

as when the boys are there!

Michael Jackson - Big Deal Indeed

I know there are some people who are tired of the news coverage of Michael Jackson's death. "What's the big deal?" posted a 13 year old acquaintenance of mine on Facebook.
Here's where age has advantages. One of my most prized possessions is a Michael Jackson pin. It was given to me as a gift from a beautiful 5 year old in my first congregation in Indianola, Mississippi. The gift was breathtaking. Her Michael Jackson pin was, truly, her most prized possession.
I know it's hard for some people to grasp his impact after the strange--sometimes bizarre-- twists that Michael Jackson's life took. But, back in 1984, Michael Jackson had a remarkable impact on the black young people I loved and pastored in Indianola. He lifted their spirits and put a pride and energy into those young lives like nothing else. "Thriller" was big. His extraordinary dance moves set everyone's feet to tapping and hands to clapping... Every kid I knew could moonwalk or was trying to learn. There was no denying the powerful impact he had on their lives--an impact that was energizing and positive.
I'm no expert. But I put his lifting impact alongside Michael Jordan in sports and Barak Obama in politics. He was a singing, swirling hero at a time when breaking barriers was life-impacting, especially for black young people. That's what I remember. That's what I value. Although twists and torments developed in Michael Jackson's life through the years, I marveled at the way he made a difference to young lives that I loved. And, in that historical context, Michael Jackson's giftenedness was an invaluable contribution to them and to us all.
Life is intense, complicated and fragile. Some of the most gifted people are also the most tormented. We never know what will be next. His death is a chance to celebrate the good and learn lessons. That will take some time.

Things DO change--Thank God!

What a thrill it was to see my daughter, Christi, commissioned this Wednesday night in the North Carolina Conference! It was a thrill because she is (in my unbiased and correct opinion) such a beautiful, extraordinary, remarkable young woman. What rich gifts she brings to Christ and the church. Yes, it is a twist of irony that after all these years of being such a passionate Duke fan, my Christi would be appointed to a church in Chapel Hill for her first appointment. But every place needs missionaries...

Christi DeSha Dye on her commissioning day June 10, 2007 with her grandfather, Dr. James

A. Shepherd who, in 2009, celebrates 66 years of service as a United Methodist pastor.

The joy of Christi's commissioning was enough to thrill me from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. But I have two other thoroughly joyful dimensions to complement the day. One is the rich sense of family heritage that met us in North Carolina. Christi was commissioned by Bishop Al Gwinn...who grew up in a church in the Kentucky Conference which was built by my grandfather. My 87 year old father was able to be present for Christi's commissioning -- witnessing the 4th generation preacher legacy from the Shepherd side of the family.

And I couldn't help but revel in the way things have changed in the church. When I was taking the equivalent step in my own journey of ministry -- in 1975--the attitude and practice in the church was very different. My bishop in Mississippi, Bishop Mack Stokes, spent the night before my deacon ordination with the head of the Board of Ordained Ministry asking how to get out of ordaining me as a deacon (which was, back then, the equivalent step to today's commissioning). My dear friend and mentor, Dr. Prentiss Gordon, told the bishop that he would have to go through with it. And he did. But everything about the atmosphere for women was so adversarial. When people were just uneasy about women preachers, we considered that to be a blessing! North Mississippi had two second career, very devoted clergywomen who had come through the Course of Study track. And what a blessing and inspiration and encouragement they were to me! Being a young woman coming through the seminary track was not a welcome prospect. Formal and informal discouragement and opposition met me at every turn.

What a wonderful change has taken place in the church! Women are carefully screened -- along with male colleagues--but gender is no longer an intractable barrier. Christi sailed through the ordination track credentialing with not even a word of hesitation based on gender. That's a thrill for me that she and other young women have no way to measure. Of course I am proud that she is so theologically astute, wise and articulate. But I also rejoiced in the change of circumstance -- that she could come to ministry on her own merits--that she could step forward into God's calling without the resentment and resistance of the generations before her.

I've prayed and worked for this change for decades. Through the years, I didn't know that working for open doors for women would be a direct benefit to my own daughter. But what an exquisite dimension of joy to see her process unfold in that way--to see her welcomed into the conference and respected and valued. So many times, breaking new ground was discouraging, depleting, disillusioning. So many wonderful women were wounded along the way. To see Christi--and other young women in the commissioning and ordination process--be welcomed and blessed fills my heart to overflowing with a joy that can't be comprehended for those who haven't lived through the hard times. What a sign of hope for me! Persistent, persevering faithful action does make a difference! Things DO change. Thank God! What an extraordinary experience of joy and rejoicing have been able to experience this week!

I remember how many years the

United Methodism's crossroads of conscience

From the beginning, Methodists have been an opinionated people. John Wesley had passionate opinions which he spread with fervor. Spirited debate has characterized our denominational history and, as long as debate is conducted respectfully within the priority of grace and Christian love, the differences of opinion enrich and bless us.
And, to tell the truth, some of our most passionate opinions don't matter much in the grand scheme of things. The exact wording of a name of a group in the connection is not going to have eternal consequences. But there are some subjects that go straight to the heart of faith and whether or not our practices are aligned with Jesus.
We are at a crossroads of conscience place now with proposed constitutional amendment 1. While other amendments deal with the organization of our denomination, amendment 1 deals with the integrity of Christian practice. The amendment doesn't state a new position. The United Methodist Church has always had evangelical fervor that Christ died for the sins of the whole world and calls ALL to repentance, faith and Christian practice. We are -- and always have been--a John 3:16 denomination. Traditionally, we not only welcome all -- we have a burning passion to reach out to all. The open altar is one of the strongest distinguishing Christlike characteristics of our faith.
The clarity of amendment 1 is, in my opinion, a no-brainer. Anyone who professes faith in Christ and takes vows to support the church is welcome. Our history, our theology and our commitment to Scripture makes this, in my opinion, makes amendment 1 a simple restatement of a profound and central teaching of Methodism.
But, as I said, Methodists are an opinionated group. And, while I thought that this amendment couldn't possibly be controversial, U-Tube and media has reminded me that people can argue anything. The opposition/hesitancy about the amendment does not openly oppose inclusivity. But the appeal is being made to the perogative of the local pastor to determine readiness for membership.
I take clergy leadership seriously. But I unequivocally, unapologetically say that there is no pastoral perogative for a pastor to turn away anyone who Christ would welcome. Pastors NEVER have the perogative to do the opposite of what Jesus would have done. And John 3:16 is clear -- God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son that WHOSOEVER believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. Now, friends, that familiar verse won't do much good if we can repeat it but not live it. What part of "whosoever" do we not understand?
How could anyone defend the perogative of a pastor to say "sorry, you can't join a United Methodist church" to someone for whom Christ died and gave eternal life?
Does that mean that pastors are to ignore the sins of anyone coming forward? Absolutely not! That's where pastoral leadership has perogative and responsibility. But no pastor requires perfection from anyone who comes forward -- never has. Watching over one another in love and accountability has been another hallmark of Methodism. If the model of Christ means anything, pastors have no authority to lead in moving on to perfection if they withhold the accepting grace of Christ and refuse to allow people to make a commitment of faith to Christ and the church.
We must never compromise the inclusive invitation of Jesus Christ. We must never fail to embody God's invitation to all. Anything less than full welcome distorts the church into a club and tempts pastors to the Pharisees. A Christ-centered church and Christ-centered pastors have arms and hearts open to whoever professes Christ and seeks to serve Him through the church.
Spirited debate is fine as long as it doesn't cloud our thinking or redefine gospel priorities. There is no more basic affirmation than Christ's welcome to all.

Some days you don't forget

There are some things you never forget.


Two years ago today, by this time (6:30 a.m.), I already been at the hospital for an hour and a half. The first ever surgery of my life was one of the most extensive surgeries a person can have. As my daughter said to my surgeon after hearing what was about to take place, "Well, Mom never does anything halfway!"


Four hours later, the surgeon's report that the operation had gone well was welcome news to my family. But the outcome for my life was still hanging in the pathology report from the pancreatic tumor that had been removed. News from the pathology report would take another week.



The thing I remember is not the time in the hospital. The overwhelming weakness, pain and that barely dulled it--those days are all a blur. My physician sister -- who was my guardian-angel-guide/with-me-every-step-of-the way helper--says the blur is a blessing. The surgeon was right. This was very extensive surgery. But it's not the pain I remember. What I remember most was the peace--a deep, pervasive, profound peace.
You can go to a superb hospital, have a brilliant surgeon, the blessing of medications and the most attentive care in and after the hospital -- I am grateful that I had all those things. But that's not the source of peace. The peace I had went beyond that. And the peace wasn't based on an optimistic outcome. I had a mucinous pancreatic tumor -- the type of tumor that causes pancreatic cancer. The tumor was the size of a grapefruit and we had no idea how long I had had it. Nothing about the prospective prognosis pointed toward peace.

But the peace I felt was, truly, the peace that the world can't give or take away. And as I faced this enormous health challenge, I could honestly tell my children and my congregation and my family that I was fine. Long before the discovery of the tumor, I had placed my life in God's hands. And nothing I was facing changed the peace that comes through faith. That's the part I will never forget.

In all the recovery and the many changes since then, the gift of that peace has remained as continual, constant anchor as well as primary blessed memory...something so extraordinary that you never forget.

Good news...

The news about my physical condition was good. The ultrasound showed no sign of "stray" cancerous thyroid tissue. Lymph nodes look good. No roadblocks, new challenges before the July 6 - 10 week of intensive followup tests. Good news on the physical healing front. But I wasn't so pleased with what I learned about my impatient spirit.

Four hours of waiting for four minutes with my surgeon today...
The wait should have been no surprise.
Last fall, when I learned I had a malignancy, Dr. Olson worked me in. I was upset and anxious about the news that my tumor was malignant and I would need to have another surgery as soon as possible. Twice in two years has been a lot. Since Dr. Olson is one of the best endoctrine surgeons in the country--and one of the few who monitors the vocal chords during thyroid surgery-- I waited with gratitude last October. Supremely skilled surgeons spend most of their time in the operating room--not in the office-- and only have clinic one day a week. So of course I had a long wait. We all did. And while we waited, my confidence in this doctor swelled. I waited with people who had, literally, come from across the nation to see him. The next appointment, three weeks after surgery, was another long wait. But, at that time, I felt so relieved that I could talk and the incision was healing that the time didn't seem to matter.

Today, I am feeling great and, apparently, that restored sense of well being hasn't done much for my outlook. I realized that I'm back to my old take-things-for-granted self. Because when I had to wait 4 hours AGAIN today, my patience didn't hold out.

Truth be told, I didn't have anything to complain about. Schedule-wise, I had the whole day blocked out for this 6 month post op checkup. Because of the previous waits, I had brought a bag full of things to do. I could easily have sat another four hours before I would have been out of something to read or write. (I did get to read two the Alban Institute's new publications: Can Our Church Live? Redeveloping Congregations in Decline by Alice Mann and Ending with Hope--A Resource for Closing Congregations by Beth Ann Gaede, editor. I HIGHLY recommend both.)

But, as the afternoon wore on, my patience wore out. And I found myself saying that this long wait was ridiculous. I had things to do (although I had brought them with me). I grumbled that, with all the brilliant minds at Duke, looks like someone could figure out how to schedule patients so they didn't have to wait half a day...

And, at least for awhile, I forgot. I forgot the most important things. I forgot what an extraordinary privilege it is to have a brilliant surgeon who saved my life and my voice. And, sitting in a crowded waiting room with people from all over the country who have traveled to see this surgeon, I forgot how grateful I am that this exceptional surgeon is just two hours from my home -- and just five minutes from where my daughter Christi lives. I lost sight of how grateful I am that the recovery has been smooth and even the followup radioactive treatment was painless and powerful. The long wait brought out my impatient, complaining self. And that's not something I am proud of.

Thinking this through as I drove home, I wondered if the constant stream of complaints in the superintendency has adversely affected me. Maybe it has. Just like with PPRCs, people think the superintendency is the complaint department, not the support department. And, believe me, they complain about anything and everything. But that was true in the local church pastorate, too. We all live in a complaining culture. And, just like I did this afternoon, complaining quickly becomes second nature. We lose sight of what is most important and we do so unnecessarily. I tend to think it is lazy habits combined with our fallen nature and the culture is so complaint-saturated that we don't even recognize what whiners we are.

If this afternoon is any sign, I'm not much of a model for keeping perspective. But, before the day was over, I realized how quickly I degenerated from gratitude to grumbling. I'm embarrassed that, just six months after this amazing surgery, I was already back into my take-health-for-granted mode. And I lost sight of the privilege I was experiencing because I had hoped to get home to get some work done for tomorrow's preachers' meeting. Lord, have mercy.

The loss of a sense of gratitude is the breeding ground for loss of perspective...for individuals and for congregations. I thank God for grace, new insights and new beginnings.

Blessings on every hand...

Mother's Day has been wonderful all my life.
When I was a child and before I became a mother, Mother's Day was the one (and sad-to-say, often only one) day that was dedicated to appreciating my extraordinary, kind, saintly mother. No one has ever had a more wonderful example of Christ's love than my mother. And anything good I have passed on to my children was because of her love for me. Mother's Day was the day that Mother got her due. And I loved it. From the time I was a child, I loved thinking up special things that we could do for her -- small mirrors of the constantly thoughtful things she did for us each day.
Five years ago this May was the last time I held her hand on Mother's Day. Although she wouldn't actually die until the following Sunday, we could feel time running out. Now, five years later, I can reflect with amazement the rich ways Mother has held my life since she died. Going through the section of Mother's Day cards always makes me miss her. But I don't need a holiday to miss her. I miss her every day. And I don't need a holiday to remind her that she is still with me. Every day, I realize that she is still with me. And the communion that we share is, literally, bigger than life. It is a communion of saints (a term that I'd repeated faithfully with the Apostle's Creed but never understood). Her patience, her kindness, her generosity continue to touch my life. Everyone who knew her will understand that she had a Christ-based witness that could not be confined to this life.
And how amazing it is to continually experience the wonder of my extraordinary daughters. They are so much more beautiful -- inside and out--than anything I could have shaped, formed or hoped for. The title "Mother" is a privilege and a continually unfolding joy. Christi will be taking her first pastoral appointment in July after finishing a demanding but rich year long clinical pastoral education experience. Mary Allen has grown into the most extraordinary mother for her two little boys. Their geographically isolated appointment this year has put unusual demands on her creativity and energy -- but she has loved and enjoyed and taught her boys so much more than they will ever be able to verbalize back to her in Mother's Days to come. What a joy to watch!
And, of course, I adore my little grandsons! What exuberant little bundles of unconditional love they are for my life! I understand -- but don't subscribe to that saying "If I had known grandchildren were so much fun, I would have had them first..." No other relationship -- not even the most adorable grandchildren--changes the miracle of your own children. And I couldn't have children who have brought more joy and love to me -- and to the world--than my girls. What great adventures in love God gives us with our families! What blessings!

Connections and Challenges

Although Connor was incredulous that Grammy would want to spend time at the beach reading ("But, Grammy, we're at the BEACH!), I did manage to read a remarkable book, Amish Grace: How Forgiveness Transcended Tragedy (by Donald B. Kraybill, Steven M. Nolt and David L. Weaver-Zercher. John Wiley & Sons, 2007). The book did more than re-tell the tragic killings of Amish school children in October, 2006. This was the story of the theological principles of the Amish which had steeped them in a tradition of forgiveness. The story of their forgiveness to the murderer of their children and his family was almost unbelievably inspiring. But Amish Grace explains how their beliefs had prepared them for the challenges of the tragedy they faced.
One of the effects of reading the story was to, again, come face to face with the reality that, when we are honest, there is no safe place from violence. If ten school girls in a remote, tight-knit community like Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania could be murdered, that should be a huge red flag to each of us that safety is a blessing when we experience it. But it is not something that we can count on even in our "safe" neighborhoods. Having been so grateful for my "safe" neighborhood in Statesville, reading this story really brought that home.
And then the news reports this week blared the sad news of a shooting at Wesleyan University in Middleton, Connecticut. Ouch. Another safe place--the kind of campus you would never expect a shooting to occur. But it did.
Nearly a century ago, my grandfather, Dr. W. W. Shepherd, was a student at Wesleyan University. I am still amazed at how a farm boy from Kentucky found his way to Wesleyan -- and worked his way through school. But he did. His father died when he was 17 and my grandfather worked on the farm until it was paid off and his mother's situation was secure. Then, he refused her offer to set him up on the farm (which would have been quite a blessing for someone his age) and he began his formal education at Union College Academy...where he served 9 (count them 9) churches on the Barbourville Circuit. The picture I have in my office of my grandfather on horseback is from those days.
When he finished at Union College Academy, my grandfather asked the bishop where the best theological school in the country was. The bishop told him "Wesleyan University in Middleton, Connecticut". So at age 27 with no money and nothing but a determination to get the very best education possible, that's where my grandfather went. While he was there, he had the occasion to be invited to pray for a gathering honoring President Woodrow Wilson. And while he was there, Wesleyan University took the bodacious step of going co-ed...which was not the eternal downfall of the school as some conservatives had predicted.
Since my grandfather made such a sacrifice to go to Wesleyan and since his education made such a formative impact on his life, I felt a personal connection to the news story this week. A shooting, a death and a killer who had hate in his heart. This time, the hatred that the killer expressed was directed toward the Jews.
Dear Lord, forgive us for anything we do that winks at hatred. Or, even worse, for what we do that nurtures or encourages hatred in any of its manifestations. There is no safe place because the human heart can be twisted and full of poison. The only safety we have is the eternal safety that comes from following Jesus' teaching -- amazing discipleship reflecting in the life of the Amish. We should work to prevent tragedy every way possible. But, in the end, safety will only come by living out the transcending teaching of Jesus. If the Amish can do it with the murder of their school children, we, too, can practice forgiveness and have tragedy transcended.