Call and remembrance (next week is it…the big vote)

“Before you tell your life what you intend to do with it, listen for what it intends to do with you.”  -Parker Palmer

Somehow, the above quote seemed rather appropriate, no?

I’ve been wanting to post an update to my plea for ‘why Erin should be ordained’ responses earlier this summer, but I’ve also been waiting until I had something to say other than “we’re still meeting…”  We did meet. Multiple times. (How did you spend your summer vacation?) There is only one step left…

But here’s the amazing thing—the product of all that meeting is a ‘call’ that is solid in all the ways that it needs to be for Presbyterian stuff, and yet is also vibrant and creative and willing to engage in the unknown of trying something new. I’m so thankful for the partnership of churches within the Los Ranchos Presbytery that has come together to make this ‘legitimate’ but that is also willing to take a risk to (hopefully) ordain me to be more of a minister to the world, rather than a minister to one particular congregation.

There is still one step remaining in the process—next week, September 17, I will be going before the entire presbytery (pastors and elders from the 50+ churches) to be ‘examined’ for ordination. This is a time when they can ask me pretty much any question and then vote whether or not to ordain me to what is technically called a Minister of Word and Sacrament. Supposedly no one, if they have gotten this far, has ever been voted down at that point. People keep telling me that, I think as an encouragement. I remind them there’s always a first time for everything.

Anyway, for those of you who are in the area (the meeting will be in Fullerton) and who would like to come to the presbytery meeting you are more than invited and I can give you the details. However, the bigger event, provided my ordination is approved, is a “Service for Ordination to Word and Sacrament.” Since I won’t know for sure until next week that this will happen, don’t book a plane ticket yet, but if you are able to keep the afternoon October 18 available, it is looking like that will be the date of the service. I would LOVE for you to come—some of you have been along for the ride on this journey since it began 9 years ago, others of you I’ve roped in along the way, and I am so thankful for all of you and appreciate the part that you’ve played in helping me ‘listen for what life intends to do with me.’

Today is also the 5th anniversary of my dad’s death. In some ways it seems like a very long time ago, and in some ways I wonder how five years could have already passed. My dad had hoped to live to see me ordained. This process clearly was not on that time schedule, nor on the one I would have chosen, had it been up to me—who wants to ‘languish’ in the process for so long? But at the same time, the call to ordination that will be voted on next week could never have happened in this way, five years ago—I just didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle then. Though the waiting was often frustrating, and felt as though there was no end in sight (I remember writing an email about Shasta Daisies taking two years to flower and thinking that was WAY to long to wait for something), I am amazed at how, out of that waiting and the not knowing, this has come to be.

Another quote from the book by Parker Palmer: “Vocation does not come from willfulness. It comes from listening.” Thank you for listening along with me, even in the midst of my sometimes willful journey.

throw it out

I’m not sure if this was the first time I remembered witnessing it, or if it is just the one that has stuck in my memory. I was in the Dominican Republic for the summer, working for an organization that hosted US high school and college students to work in the local communities for two-week increments.  Having had experience with similar work in Guatemala, I was there for the summer to help them get started in the work.

I worked on the staff with a Puerto Rican woman, men and women from the Dominican Republic, and a man from Guatemala. One night we decided it would be fun to watch a video (we had a TV and vcr) but the only videotape we had (this was back in the dark ages of video tapes, before the instant gratification of immediately downloadable movie possibilities) jammed when we put it into the VCR.

I assumed we were through. So much for the ‘watching a movie’ idea. I also assumed that it was time to throw out the video tape in question—it was broken, why keep it?

I was wrong.

Edie, the man from Guatemala, took the tape out of the VCR and opened it up.

I didn’t realize you could do that.

He then proceeded to splice the jammed part, and to re-roll the entire spool of tape. It wasn’t a quick process, but a few hours later, we were happily watching the only tape we had, ‘A Bug’s Life.’

…..

Fast-forward almost ten years, to yesterday.  The location is Mexico, Baja California, to be exact. The context was a conversation with my friend Edgar who is Mexican and lives in the community here.

We were talking about cars, specifically mine, a 12 year old SUV with 155,000 miles on it that is beginning to have ‘issues.’ Friends from Southern California have been suggesting that it is more than time for the trusty Isuzu Rodeo (which I had never intended to be such a long-term investment) to be replaced with something new—something that will be reliable, won’t break down, with not so many miles on it.

It’s true—I have begun to have various issues with the Rodeo, and am wondering if it might be time to retire it. Those thoughts, combined with the government’s recent ‘cash for clunkers’ program that promises to offer me $4500 for a car that would be lucky to fetch half that price, have caused me to ponder if it is time for something new.

Edgar knew that I’ve had some problems with the Rodeo, and even had recommended a mechanic who came to my house and fixed some sort of loud noise in the engine (my understanding of car engines ends is limited to the knowledge that they are found under the hood) for a lot cheaper than the same work could be done in the US (and did I mention that the mechanic made a house call?!)

“Men don’t mind their cars to have problems, but women like to just turn the key and be able to go,” teased Edgar. I thought about it. I definitely don’t want to be stranded on the side of the road, and since I haven’t a clue how to fix something that might go wrong, I reluctantly admitted that, at least in my case, he was right.

“How many miles do you have on it?” he asked me, as we discussed whether or not it was time for me to think of replacing it. “155,000,” I answered (listing each number separately, as my Spanish is good but not when it comes to big numbers).

“That’s a lot!” he laughed. “But in Mexico, that’s like new!”

With that one comment I was taken instantly back to Edie and the videotape, and brought to the heart of what had been nagging at me.

My 12-year old car is paid for. I don’t have a car payment. As someone who does freelance work and who lives without a steady paycheck, I’d rather not incur a new monthly expense if I don’t have to.  Aside from the less than stellar gas mileage, I really like my car. It works for me. If it weren’t for the pushing 200,000 miles, and the few ‘issues’ I’ve begun to have, I probably wouldn’t even be thinking about getting rid of it.

But, as an American, and more so as a Southern Californian from “the OC,” I live in the midst of a culture that seems to say “if it is old, throw it out.”

This is not entirely unreasonable. I need a car I can depend on, right? I need one that will be reliable. I do a lot of driving—I don’t want to be stranded along the side of the road, do I? I want to be able to drive up to Northern California to visit friends, or to continue driving back and forth to Mexico, without having to wonder, “Am I going to make it this time?” Plus, if I were to buy a new car I could get one with better gas mileage (which wasn’t even on my radar 12 years ago when purchasing the Rodeo), which would save me money and save the planet at the same time, right?

The truth is, the power window on the passenger side doesn’t work from the driver’s seat, so I have to lean over if I want to open it. My at the time very high-tech 10 cd-changer in the trunk, with a tape deck in the dash, has a tape stuck in it so that I cannot use it for an mp3 player. A few years back my wheels were chipping so I decided to spray paint them and though it worked at the time, it is beginning to chip. Plus, there is this ongoing noise that seems to be something transmission-related and all signs are pointing toward repair work that will not be cheap, even if it is done in Mexico by my house-calling mechanic.

So it’s not like I’m throwing out something that is perfect. There are, I think, sufficient reasons to justify replacing it.

But the problem is, do I want to be one of those Americans who throws something out, when I know that much of the world, including my friends Edie and Edgar, live in a world where they don’t have that option? Edgar would love to replace his 1994 Pathfinder with a cracked windshield. But he doesn’t have a government willing to give him $4500 for it or a life that would allow him to pay it off over a 6-year loan—but more importantly, he doesn’t live in a world that would make that decision seem reasonable.

Even as I write this, I’m fairly certain that if my Rodeo can, in fact, qualify for the $4500 cash for clunkers, and if I can find something I like that is within a price I can afford, it will be “Hasta luego Rodeo” and  “Bienvenidos new car.”

But my fear in so doing, in embracing an option that my world makes not only possible but even commendable, is that I will continue to distance myself from the world in which most of our planet, and many of my friends actually live.

exit row

(“exit row” was initially published on culture-voice.com)

I used to travel a lot. I mean a lot. Three out of four weeks I’d be out of town due to my work. I thought of myself as quite the savvy traveler. I looked down my nose at the ‘vacation’ travelers that would clog up the security checkpoints and ticket counters come summer. They moved so slowly. Did they have to bring everything they owned on vacation with them? Didn’t they realize that some of us were working.

It was around this time when I became an exit row sitter. I knew the system, and somehow at that point it hadn’t occurred to the masses that they too could request an exit row. It also hadn’t occurred to the airlines that they could charge extra for an exit row. So I partook of the knowledge from my frequent traveler status and got an exit row aisle almost every flight. It was so nice not to be crowded. So nice not to have the person in front of you practically in your lap for the duration of the flight.

After enjoying and taking pride in my travel savvy ways for quite some time I had a troubling encounter. As I was walking smugly toward my exit row seat I happened to notice the man sitting in the row directly in front of it—you know, the row that has no leg room and also can’t lean back, due to the exit row behind? This man had to be pushing 7 feet tall. He was in aisle seat, but still, there was hardly room for him to bend his legs to wedge them in. My smug glee melted as I sat down in my roomy seat behind him. I’m 5 foot 2.

The exit row was mine, fair and square. I’d asked for it, I’d been given it. I hadn’t stolen it from anyone. I spent way too many hours on planes in my life during those days, so it seemed almost like I deserved some comfort, didn’t I?

Yet I couldn’t shake it. The nagging sense of guilt. Not the bad kind of guilt, but the good kind. The kind that tells you when something isn’t as it should be. When you might be playing a part in what’s not quite right in the world.

The thing is, though it’s of course nice, at 5 foot 2 I don’t need an exit row. Sure, it’s cramped when the person in front leans back and you can’t even move your legs. No, I don’t enjoy being crowded on an airplane any more than the next person. Yes, I avoid middle seats like the plague. No, I’m not some sort of martyrous glutton for punishment.

But in a world where so few of us use such a disproportionate amount of the planet’s resources, is there perhaps a place for not taking up all the space that we can procure for ourselves? Is there room for knowing one could get an exit row, but choosing instead to leave it to others? Or is that just nonsense? Someone’s going to get the benefit of that extra 5.3 inches of legroom—it might as well be me, right? If I don’t ask for it, who knows who might? Maybe someone even shorter than me, who deserves it less! Or maybe some arrogant jerk business traveler who thinks he’s better than the rest of us peons crowded in?

Or maybe, just maybe, there’s something to be said for relinquishing what I ‘deserve,’ regardless of the outcome?

7 days in the wilderness

I was about six years old at the time, I’m guessing. My parents were our for the evening so Trish was babysitting me. She was in high school at the time and part of a backpacking club at Newport Harbor High School. That night they happened to be having a meeting. Part of the meeting was a slideshow of photos from a recent trip to the Sierra (I’ve been told Sierra is already plural so no need for an ’s).

That evening inspired me toward a love of photography and a desire to experience the beauty of the mountains thru backpacking.

Though I’ve gone on two mini backpacking trips in the intervening 30+ years since that initial exposure at the backpacking club, (both were just a night or two) this will be my first multi-day (7) trip.

I’m going with friends who have planned the trip we will take in Sequoia National Park. They estimate we will hike about 8-10 miles per day, amongst peaks that are in the 10,000 to 12,000 foot range.

My pack is as light as possible, with only one short sleeved shirt, one long sleeved shirt, pants that zip to shorts, long underwear, windbreaker, down jacket, beanie, gloves, three pair of wool socks, sleeping bag, insulite mattress, and, of course, my camera.