Dream works

Grace is “a powerful force originating outside of human consciousness which nurtures the spiritual growth of human beings,” writes M. Scott Peck in “The Road Less Traveled: A New Psychology of Love, Traditional Values and Spiritual Growth.”

Among other methods, Peck argues, grace speaks in our dreams, so I have been paying better attention to my dreams since I read his book. Coincidentally, my horoscope this morning said, “Your intuition will be very strong at the moment, and you could even end up having some very powerful dreams.”

Early this morning, I dreamt I was standing at the edge of a swimming pool. The pool was crowded with swimmers and flowing over its concrete borders. It was so full, the water was contained only by the surrounding landscape — piles of snow. Standing there looking down at the water teeming with swimmers, I imagined the water to be icy cold.

A few definitions, according to SmartGirls’ Dream Dictionary:

• To see a swimming pool full of water in your dream is lucky, symbolizing that you will find much happiness and pleasure in friendship, love and marriage.
• Dreams about swimming are related to the need to trust your instincts and look to past situations for answers to problems. They can also signify the need for nurturing or mothering in one’s life (Mom, call me.)
• To dream that you are cold suggests that you are experiencing a breakthrough in some area in your life.
• To dream that you are part of a crowd suggests that you need to start thinking more for yourself instead of following others.

As I ponder these messages of grace, I’m thinking this dream speaks of my career aspirations and my wishes to self-publish my manuscript.

What do you think? How is grace speaking to you?

Shooting stunning holes in Holy Saturday … with a ray gun

Science fiction helps explain away a lot of perplexing theological questions.

Familiar with “Star Trek: Deep Space Nine”? For those of you for whom this is an arcane reference, let me explain. In the episode “The Emissary,” Capt. Benjamin Sisko uses baseball as a metaphor to explain linear time to an alien species known at the Prophets. The Prophets exist in a wormhole, a timeless plain where there are no beginnings, no endings, no befores, no afters.

Sisko: In the end, it comes down to throwing one pitch after another, and seeing what happens. With each new consequence, the game begins to take shape.

Alien Batter: And you have no idea what that shape is until it is completed?

Sisko: That’s right. In fact, the game wouldn’t be worth playing if we knew what was going to happen.

Jake Prophet: You value your ignorance of what is to come?

Sisko: That may be the most important thing to understand about humans. It is the unknown that defines our existence. We are constantly searching, not just for answers to our questions, but for new questions. We are explorers. We explore our lives day by day, and we explore the galaxy, trying to expand the boundaries of our knowledge. And that is why I am here. Not to conquer you with weapons, or with ideas. But to coexist… and learn.

I imagine God to be like those Prophets. He exists in a place without time — every event in all of history occurs at the same time, all the time. This is how He is omniscient — He knows what the future holds because it already occurred and it’s occurring right now and it’s about to occur, all at the same time. It is us humans who experience life in a linear manner, one pitch after another so to speak. God doesn’t intervene in mundane human events, like the Cubs baseball season, because it’s already over.

See? Science fiction solves this deep philosophical quandary.

In any case, I was amused by the story “What did Jesus do on Holy Saturday?” in today’s newspaper. Read it here.

Apparently, theologians for centuries have been arguing about where Jesus was on the Saturday between his crucifixion and resurrection.

Seriously. God is the great I Am (Exodus 3:14). The Truth and the Life (John 14:6). The Alpha and Omega (Revelation 21:6). And we, lowly humans with teeny tiny intellect, think we can explain Jesus’ daily planner on the day between dying for humanity’s sins and rising from the dead.

Sometimes, we can be so arrogant.

Apparently, some people believe that on Holy Saturday Jesus descended into hell (it’s a line in the Apostle’s Creed, recited frequently in the Catholic and Lutheran churches I’ve attended most of my life), and some Christians have found little Biblical evidence to this “hellish detour.”

I don’t know where the son of God was passing his time that Saturday (and frankly, it seems so trifling compared to what happened on Good Friday and Easter morning), but I’m content with my science fiction explanation: God is everywhere at once, all the time — in the grave, in hell, in heaven looking down, in my heart.

I am willing to immerse myself in Capt. Sisko’s humanity. It is the unknown that defines our existence. I have faith the answers will all be revealed in due time.

Bonus arcane reference: Part of the title for today’s post comes from “Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home”:

Chekov: [picks up his phaser from the table, aiming at the FBI agents] Don’t move!

FBI agent interrogating Chekov: OK, make nice, give us the ray gun.

Chekov: I warn you, if you don’t lie on the floor… I will have to stun you.

Memories as clear as smudge

Music is a powerful catalyst to evoking a memory.

Someday, when I’m 102 and sitting around the social hall at the nursing home, some old fogey who’s retired and out volunteering but not yet old enough for my chair will come in with an antique electric guitar and start playing “Beth” by Kiss, and I’ll start chattering on and on about some short boy named Chris and how I slow-danced with him while he stood on a chair in the junior high cafeteria during a Friday night dance in seventh grade. “Where’s Chris? I don’t want to dance with a short boy. And why are the lights on? Turn off the lights!” And then I’ll start singing along: “Beth, I hear you calling but I can’t come home right now. …”

And the nurse’s aides, who are 20something and standing around eldersitting us, will roll their genetically engineered eyes and text to each other, “God, I hate it when we play the oldies around here and the old ladies just won’t shut up.”

Something like that anyway.

While I was sitting in Ash Wednesday service tonight, we sang “Just As I Am, Without One Plea” and I was suddenly struck with thoughts of my sister. Not sure why that hymn reminds me of my sister who I would describe as a God-loving Christian who is, at best, lukewarm about going to church.

I think she had to learn that hymn as a child for some public event having to do with church or school, and she wandered around the house for weeks singing those lyrics. I called her to get the 411 (“Good for you for going to church,” she said), and she can’t remember either, but she immediately started reciting the lyrics.

Music is like that. I can remember all 50 U.S. states because of a song. I know the words to 1 John 4: 7-8 because I learned the verses set to music at Lutheran Island Camp when I was 12. And I think of a freakishly short kid named Chris when I hear Kiss.

At least I think his name was Chris.

Just as I am, without one plea,
but that thy blood was shed for me,
and that thou bidst me come to thee,
O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

~ Charlotte Eliot

O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree

How often you give us delight
In brightly shining Christmas light.

The Christmas tree is up!

I didn’t put up any Christmas decorations last year because … well, I was probably being Scroogy. Bah, humbug.

This year, however, we’re entertaining my Beloved’s family for Christmas, and seasonal decor is required. Fortunately, I’m a lot less Ebenezer-like this year. God bless us, everyone!

After much deliberation, we sprung for a pre-lighted artificial tree (no sawing, no watering, no stray needles). I dug four plastic bins out of storage, and pretty much every last ornament my Beloved and I have collected since our divorces (plus a few treasures from my mother-in-law) is on the tree.

It’s lovely.

But I think its loveliness comes from neither the tree nor the ornaments. I think it’s the lights.

A friend of mine the other day explained why she went to the trouble of decorating her house for the holidays. She had a lot of lighted decorations and centerpieces in her collection. One of her reasons made a lot of sense:

“At night, the lights light up so pretty. It just makes me happy.”

“The light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness has not overcome it.”

~ John 1:5

Funeral or FUN-eral?

Funerals can be such unhappy events.  Someone has died and we miss him. Or her. We are sad.

But nothing is certain but death and taxes, so we’ll all have funerals at some point. At book club tonight, someone said she wanted her funeral to be a celebration of her life, emphasis on “celebration” and “life” rather than sorrow and death. Christians believe we’re off to a better place, so a certain amount of celebration is certainly in order. Those of us left behind, however, are permitted some sorrow, I think, because we’ll miss our loved one.

I want my funeral to lift the hearts of my loved ones remembering my fabulousness while holding their hands to soothe their grief. (I hope no one says, “Thank God she’s outta here. Uff-da!” so if there’s a celebration of my death, I’ve done something seriously wrong.)

In the situation of my imperfect and untimely death, I would like my funeral to be held in a church, and I’ll pass on the cake and balloons of a FUN-eral. In a perfect world (hey, this is my dream funeral, I can have anything I want at this point since I am not yet dead),  I would have three officiants who say lovely and meaningful things about me and my faith:

• The Rev. Terry Finnern, who confirmed me. He also buried my brother and married me (the first time).
• The Rev. Steve Binsfeld, who welcomed me into the Catholic Church and understands completely why I am no longer a member.
• The Rev. Howard Gleason, my current pastor, who married me (the second time).

If we’re planning this funeral for me, the one who died, which I’m not sure is entirely appropriate but hey, I’m calling the shots right now, then the fun will come in the music. We would sing “On Eagle’s Wings,” which was sung at my brother’s funeral and I think of him every time I sing it. Though it makes me sad, it is optimistic: “He will raise you up … make you shine like the sun.” And an enormous rockin’ choir (dream funeral, remember?) will sing “I Know That My Redeemer Lives,” which was sung at the funeral of my pastor who died when I was about 12. It is an Easter hymn, but it is the perfect reminder of why Jesus walked this earth, why he died and where he is now: “He lives my mansion to prepare; He lives to bring me safely there.”

After the service, I would like a feast to be served. No ham sandwiches and potato salad, please, though I suppose it would be a waste of money to have it catered and beggars can’t be choosers. Still, a more appropriate menu would include couscous and cheesecake, and possibly mini Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups at every place.

I believe it’s important for people to see the dead person’s body in order to really know and understand that the person is gone, so an open casket is acceptable unless I die a fiery death. If it’s not too inappropriate, there might be a sign that says, “Please do not tell the funeral director how good she looks. She looked much better when she was alive and we all know it. And if she didn’t, now’s not the time to point it out.”

It would be lovely if people write things they’ll miss about me and tuck them into the casket, to be disposed of with my body. Small children shall not be reprimanded for pulling the notes out to read them like little secrets.

Please display my body in the cheapest casket possible — I’m even up for a used one. Then cremate my remains and divide them among those who want them. My loved ones can disperse my ashes wherever they might think of me: A pretty garden, a jaunty little running path, the ashtray at a bar and grill (extra points for humor). Don’t leave me in a cemetery, which is a rather dull place.

That’s all, I think. It’s my vision for a celebration that acknowledges sorrow. Still, I think funerals are for the living, not the dead, so if my loved ones have something else in mind, I won’t come back to haunt them.

I hope I have better things to do at that point (wink, wink!).

Of senses and seasons and summer

From the highest of heights to the depths of the sea
Creation’s revealing Your majesty
From the colors of fall to the fragrance of spring
Every creature unique in the song that it sings
All exclaiming

Indescribable, uncontainable
You placed the stars in the sky
And You know them by name
You are amazing, God.

~ songwriter Laura Story

If the seasons evoke senses, what sense does summer best serve?

Without quibbling with the songwriter about using the word “indescribable” to describe God in a praise song, I got to wondering about that third line when I heard “Indescribable” at church yesterday: “From the colors of fall to the fragrance of spring.”

If autumn’s palate of orange pumpkins, red leaves and golden waves of grain under a harvest moon are a treat to our sense of sight, and spring’s lilacs and freshly cut grass and rain-drenched landscapes cater to our sense of smell, what senses are served by summer and winter?

As a native Minnesotan, I would choose the sense of touch for winter. It’s a wake-up call to our skin when the cold air freezes one’s nose hairs and numbs one’s fingertips. Never does a hot drink feel so good to one’s hands and mouth as it does on a cold winter evening. Snuggling under Grandma’s quilts is a luxury when the thermometer reads sub-zero.

I struggle with assigning a sense to summer. Does summer best minister to our sense of taste when we enjoy sweet and creamy ice cream cones and juicy fresh tomatoes and buttery sweet corn? Or is it our sense of hearing that summer amplifies? Is it a coo of a mourning dove, the wind rustling the leaves or the laughter of children wafting through the neighborhood that say “summer” to you?

Tomorrow is the first day of summer and the perfect opportunity to ponder how you will best experience it. As any good Minnesotan knows, summer is fleeting and we must appreciate every moment. What will you savor?

Favorite Bible verses that really are in the Bible

Satan didn’t tempt Eve in the Garden of Eden and there is no record of how many wise men paid a visit to the baby Jesus.

Those facts aren’t in the Bible. It was a serpent, not Satan, and the astronomers who visited Jesus gave him three gifts, but we don’t know how many men there were. I learned this in an interesting story on CNN today: “Actually, that’s not in the Bible.” A number of common phrases that sound scriptural are in fact not. One of the reasons people might think they are? Because they don’t read the Bible so like a bad game of telephone, things get confused.

Even people who are not very religious may appreciate the Bible for its description of a moral code that has stood the  test of time and its amazing literary value. But let’s be honest: Even book lovers haven’t read all of the classics.

I have a wise friend who is very good at quoting Bible verses with their location; I admire her excellent memory. This morning’s CNN story got me thinking: What is my favorite Bible verse? And is it really in the Bible?

Here are a few of my favorites:

“God said to Moses, ‘I Am who I Am.’ … this is my name forever, and thus I am to be remembered throughout all generations.” — Exodus 3: 14a, 15b RSV

I love this passage for its use of language. It illustrates how to describe an indescribable God. God is described as the Alpha and Omega several times in Revelation, but that description seems to say God has a beginning and an end, whereas “I Am” with its simple presence tense verb illustrates God’s timelessness. It’s so simple and so perfect.

“Ask, and it will be given you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.”  – Matthew 7:7 RSV

This was my confirmation verse, and it, like the Exodus verse, helps describe God for me — it shows Him to be so powerful and have dominion over all creation and that if we just ask, he has the power to give it. But this verse also speaks to faith; first, you must take action — you must ask, and by asking you must trust the being you are asking would have the power to give.

There’s another verse that describes the nature of God and also prescribes a way of living, and I love it. I know this verse set to music so it’s another one of these poetic verses that is as beautiful as its sentiment.

“Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God and everyone that loveth is born of God and knoweth God. He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love.” — 1 John 4:7-8 KJV

What is your favorite Bible verse and why?

On midnight, politics and faith

Today is a midnight day.

I avoid the confusion of 12 a.m. and 12 p.m. whenever possible and aim to say noon and midnight instead. But midnight remains problematic. When it’s midnight, it is still today? Or is it tomorrow?

The book and movie “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” alludes to this dilemma of straddling two places or neither one, in this case, the place of good and the place of evil.

So today is like that. It’s a hinge, a place in the middle, a changing room … it’s midnight.

Has summer started yet? Did it begin on Friday of Memorial Day weekend? On Memorial Day? Tomorrow on June 1? On the day after the last day of school? On the equinox on June 21?

For political types, the presidential campaign season is beginning. Trump’s out but Newt Gingrich is in (God help us; can we really take a man named for a brilliantly color salamander seriously?). I think Romney is in. Is Palin campaigning or not? Sunday’s Chicago paper printed an entire story on Michele Bachmann, a Minnesota congresswoman expected to enter the presidential campaign fray (again, God help us); Bachmann is at midnight — not yet in and not yet out.

Maybe it’s more personal. My stepdaughter graduated from college two weeks ago (congratulations, Morgan!); she’s in the doorway between college and working. My brother-in-law celebrated his birthday yesterday (happy birthday, Chuck!); he’s in the doorway of a new year. One of my friends started a new job today (good luck, Jill!); she’s in the doorway of a career change.

I always ponder this midnight dilemma at the end of the month. My work piles up on the last day of the month and the first day of the month when sales and incentives change. With the first draft of my book done, I am in the midnight of a second draft; the book finally has form and substance, but it is not yet finished either.

Midnight days call for faith. I am reminded of the scene in “Indiana Jones & the Last Crusade” where Indy steps off the cliff into nothingness. He lands on a walkway that was there the whole time, he just couldn’t see it.

Faith is walking up to the edge of a cliff and stepping off knowing that one of two things will happen: A bridge will form beneath our feet, or we will learn to fly.

Paying attention

Pay attention.

That’s the challenge today from A Daily Challenge blogger who I have been following this year in light of my blog publisher WordPress’ Post A Day challenge.

It’s an excellent challenge and good advice. One of the things I like about blogging is that is forces me to pay attention. I am much more apt to actually see or hear or feel what’s going on in a given day knowing I may write about it later. (Yes, more evidence this blog is all about me.)

Too, my email address is MindfulMinnesotaTransplant@.com. It’s a constant reminder to me every day to be mindful of the present moment, even the unpleasant ones.

Thich Nhat Hanh’s description of mindfully washing dishes in his book,”Peace Is Every Step” sticks with me when I just want to avoid an unpleasant moment:

I enjoy taking my time with each dish, being fully aware of the dish, the water and each movement of my hands. I know that if I hurry in order to eat dessert sooner, the time of washing dishes will be unpleasant and not worth living. That would be a pity, for each minute, each second of life is a miracle. …

If I am incapable of washing dishes joyfully, if I want to finish them quickly so I can go and have dessert, I will be equally incapable of enjoying my dessert.”

“Pay attention” is especially good advice for parents. In those moments I would prefer to wish away, my nephew’s very scary, life-threatening fight with leukemia 10 years ago comes to mind. After he got better, he went back every month, then every three months, then every six months and now every year for a check-up. My sister, who admits to being a bit of a worrywart, confesses to fretting at every single check-up that the cancer will return.

Why worry? I ask. Unless the leukemia actually returns in the future, she’s wasting his good health and the joy of his presence now. You can always worry later if that becomes necessary.

Well, that’s good in theory, but then I became a stepmother, and I understand now how hard it is sometimes not to worry about your children. I worry that my 16-year-old stepson will drive too fast and get into a car accident, and I worry that my 21-year-old stepdaughter is carousing with a man of dubious character.

Of course, these are things I cannot control and if I was only paying attention, I could be content and appreciate that they are safe and alive today, in this moment.

So, whether or not you are parent, pay attention today. Pay attention to the sunshine and the rain, the dirty dishes and the dessert, the calm and the crucible for an appreciation of each will help you enjoy both.

Lasting supper

It’s Maundy Thursday, the day in the Christian calendar when believers worldwide remember the last important ritual Jesus celebrated before he was taken prisoner and crucified:

Dinner. With his buddies.

"The Last Supper" by Leonardo da Vinci

More formally, it’s called “The Last Supper.” Author Laurie Beth Jones addressed this final ritual in “Jesus CEO: Using Ancient Wisdom for Visionary Leadership”:

“From a material aspect, Jesus left his people with little more than memories. The only possession he had at his death was his robe, which ended up being bartered for by the Roman soldiers.

“Yet Jesus did give his people something tangible to remember him by: the Last Supper. … Human nature encourages us to have bonding rituals that help us feel closer to other and like part of a team.”

It’s not all that surprising. How would you spend your last night on earth if you knew tomorrow you would die? Having dinner with the people you love probably would be pretty high on that “bucket list.”

Just as Jesus celebrated some of his last precious hours with his friends, many people express their love and affection for each other over meals. Thankfully, most of our meals aren’t our last ones.

We have taken this to heart in our own home. My Beloved and I dine together almost every night. When my stepson was living with us, we ate supper together five nights a week. When we were traveling with my mother-in-law earlier this year, dinner was an event every night, preceded by a blessing and followed by clean-up. My 21-year-old stepdaughter has been staying with us this week, and we have laughed and cried and discussed subjects meaningless and weighty, all over simple salads and pasta and bread. I know that with this simple act we are speaking her love language of quality time spent together.

“Maundy” means mandate as in this commandment of Jesus: “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another; even as I have loved you, that you also love one another.” John 13:34

Tonight, I will celebrate Maundy Thursday by going to church with my book club friends and enjoying each other’s company over dinner afterwards. I pray you have the opportunity to celebrate this ritual in some form, too, this Easter weekend.