"Even Mine"

Many Methodists know that John Wesley had an experience in which his "heart was strangely warmed." It was a conversion of sorts, a moment of awareness of the divine.

Not as many Methodists realize that the moment happened in 1738, when he was 35 years old and had been ordained in the Anglican Church already for 13 years. That means his "conversion" happened after he was called into the ministry.

And I suspect that even fewer Methodists know the journal sentence that follows the "strangely warmed" observation. He wrote, "I felt I did trust in Christ, Christ alone for salvation; and an assurance was given me that He had taken away my sins, even mine, and saved me from the law of sin and death."

"Even mine," he says. "Even mine." Those two words. It is as if he has only just now realized that all the stuff he had been saying for all those years ... applied to him as well. How is it possible for a preacher, ordained by the church, not to realize that all the stuff they are saying also applies to them?

Even mine.

I have been a preacher for nineteen years. I was a full-time music director at a church for five years prior to that, a part-time choir director for two years before that. Twenty-six years working for a church. I grew up in church, my family is saturated in church.

How is it that while all of that was happening I have never really been aware of the presence and power of the Holy Spirit?

I mean, I have preached about it. I have pointed it out in other peoples' lives.

But ... even mine?

I feel like I have become more aware of the presence and power of the Holy Spirit in the past two or three months than I ever have before. No let me rephrase that: I feel like I have never been truly aware of the power and presence of the Holy Spirit prior to the past two months, and now I am. In really amazing and wonderful and sometimes confusing ways.

I have seen the Spirit moving in the ministry of the church, in fresh expressions of Christian Community being born, true koinonia as it is meant to be lived. The ways I have seen this are numerous, and abundant. I have seen people returning to church for the first time in years, with hesitancy born from ongoing pain, and being able to spiritually breathe again. I have heard stories from the Shared Streets community, stories of transformation and hopefulness. I have seen the Spirit move in the simple gift of a new pair of shoes, a refurbished bicycle, and a new pillowcase. In the church, I have seen the Spirit move.

One of the ways most obvious to me is the way I feel about my wife and children. My love for them has been renewed in these past few months in a powerful and tangible way. My wife Erin said to me recently, "You are happier than you've been in years." And she is right. I've loved her fiercely for almost thirty years, and in these past few months that love has deepened even more. How is that possible if not for the work of the Spirit? And my heart aches with pride for each of my uniquely gifted children, for each of whom I would gladly lay down my own life. In my family, I have seen the Spirit move.

John Wesley had a group of Moravians show up in his life in the season of his conversion. Their unwavering faith in the midst of storm and struggle inspired him and was an impetus to his own time of soul searching. In a way, I have my own "Moravians" all around me. In this season, I have met and become friends with people whose connection with the Holy Spirit is so deep, so intimate, and so profound. I long to be as connected with the Spirit as they are, and I feel a unique grace in their companionship. In my new friends, I have seen the Spirit move.

And finally, within myself ... I cannot even begin to describe the change I have felt within my own spirit. Yeah, even mine. And please understand, the way I feel does not invalidate any prior experiences I've had. This present moment is emerging from all that has been. It's just that in the past, I have been quick to affirm those "God moments" that others would tell me about in their own lives, and just as quick to minimize them in my own, to chalk them up to coincidence or just ignore them altogether.

But now, I don't know ... my spiritual senses are awake in a way they haven't been before. I smile more. I walk more lightly. I breathe easier. I see people and am overwhelmed immediately with love for them. I notice beauty. I cry a lot. I laugh a lot. I don't really know this person I'm becoming, but I kinda like him. He's familiar to me, like a version of myself that I may have been once in a different time. In my self, I have seen the Spirit move.

So yeah, I feel like I do see God present everywhere in the world, and sense the Spirit is at work in my life, even mine, saving me from my own spiritual lethargy, connecting me deeply to other people, inspiring me with a renewed sense of vocation, and beckoning from a hope-filled future.


(And yes, I realize this post is utterly self-centered, and I'm sorry for that. I process things by writing, so this is really me processing some of the stuff happening to me right now. Thanks for reading.)

Is Diversity Still a Strength?

In the past month, I have heard both from a family who is leaving the congregation because it is too conservative for them and also from a family who is leaving because it is too progressive for them.

Now obviously, as I spoke with each one they shared more; their reasons are more nuanced and complex than that. There is always more to the story. But that’s the nutshell version: for one it is “too conservative” and for the other it is “too progressive.”

For nine and a half years, I have been preaching a consistent message: Love can overcome different perspectives. Diversity is a strength. The conversation matters. “Though we do not think alike, may we not love alike?” as John Wesley said.

I believed that the church was made up of people who see the world differently, people whose politics and theology are labelled either “conservative” or “progressive” or some other such label, and yet who could embrace our variety of perspectives together as we focused on the mission and ministry of the church, and could do so with abiding love for one another.

But the two conversations I mentioned above have given me pause to wonder if that is true anymore, and to ask myself some existential questions. Here are a few…

Question 1 - Has something fundamentally shifted in our world that makes it simply impossible to be in relationship with (much less have a conversation with) someone who sees the world very differently from one’s self? We all know the cliché about knowing what people with whom to avoid discussing politics. It has become a meme, but it really isn’t funny. Why can we not even talk with each other anymore?

Question 2 - Does the “malevolent spirit” currently unleashed upon us have more power over us than the power of God’s love? I do not believe that in my heart of hearts, but from the way we are acting these days, it seems that it may. Or rather, it seems that we have allowed it to.

Question 3 - Is it time for a season of being intentionally apart from one another? Should we just seek out like-minded people and commiserate for a little while, take comfort in similarity, breathe deeply without fear of conflict or attack, without the anxiety of defensiveness, and simply renew our souls? And plan for some point in the future in which the atmosphere might be sufficiently healed that we can come together again?

I am very progressive – theologically, socially, and politically. And yet I have made every effort to temper my own bias, knowing that I am preacher in a diverse congregation. Obviously my bias is revealed every so often; how could it not be? It is who I am. It’s just that I take very seriously the Biblical admonition to avoid being a stumbling block for others who are seeking God. And if my progressive perspective is a stumbling block for anyone’s relationship with God, it breaks my heart. Every time. But that begs another existential question…

Question 4 - Has my tempering of my bias become in and of itself a stumbling block for others? Here I am thinking of the family who told me the congregation is “too conservative” for them. And moreover, here I am thinking of the many, many people who have rejected church as an option in their spiritual lives because they assume that being socially, theologically, and politically conservative is the only choice for a follower of Jesus. This is of course an incorrect assumption, but am I exacerbating it by trying to moderate my progressiveness?

Please forgive my processing these questions “out loud,” so to speak. This is a highly narcissistic post, I know. I’ve been pretty transparent here about some real internal struggles I’m feeling right now, and I understand the risk that entails. But I know that I am surrounded by gracious, loving people who are a continual source of encouragement and support for me, and I’ll just throw myself on your grace and understanding at this point.

And at the same time, I get the feeling I’m not the only pastor struggling with these kinds of questions. There are enough of us, in fact, that the Missouri Conference of the United Methodist Church put together an excellent webinar series on the topic, called “Pastoring in Partisan Times.” (You can watch the recordings here.)

One of the most helpful ideas that came out of that webinar series for me came from Dr. Leah Gunning-Francis, who said, “I know that we are looking for ways to try to appease and make people feel comfortable, but the truth of the matter is it is impossible to do that in light of the gospel.” I get that. In fact that really pokes at the dead center of my existential struggle. How do I hold “making people comfortable” and “not being a stumbling block” in tension and still be an effective preacher of the Gospel of Jesus Christ?

So that’s where I am at the moment. I’ve been here nine and half years, preaching the same message (diverse perspectives are a strength), and now have had two very faithful families from opposite ends of the spectrum tell me they are not going to be a part of the congregation anymore, because it is not closely enough aligned with their own perspective. It has shaken me, and left me wondering if diversity actually is a strength anymore.

And now I’m just trying to figure out what to do with that.


UPDATE (1/4): I would like to add that the people who left are people whom I love dearly and whom I consider to be very good friends. Which makes the whole thing all the more befuddling and heartbreaking.

Graduating Girl

There’s a young woman graduating from High School tonight.

There are many young women graduating, actually, and many young men as well. But there’s this one that I’m particularly fond of.

Tonight she’ll be just one more of hundreds of capped and gowned seniors starting a new chapter of life. She’ll be just one face in the crowd, for most of the crowd.

For me, she will be it. The only one. The singular high school graduate.

I was one of the very first people to see her face, to gaze into her eyes.

I held her in one arm with no trouble at all.

I saw the very first smile she ever smiled.

I wiped her chin, changed her diaper, put band-aids on her knees.

I carried her on my shoulders. I can still feel her weight there, her chin resting on my head.

I saw her crawl, then walk, then dance.

I took her to the art museum on “d” days. We got in trouble once because I was carrying her on my shoulders and that made the guard nervous, like I was going to drop her into a work of art.

I read chapter books to her at bedtime.

I ran beside her bicycle as she figured out how to balance, watched her pedal off on her own.

I heard her say, “If there are kids who need help … and we can help them … then we probably should,” and it changed my life.

I saw her step onto a stage and become someone else. Golde, Leisl, Cinderella, Patsy. Scrub. Miss. She sparkles on stage, pure brilliance.

I tried to teach her how to play piano, with moderate success.

I accompanied her as she sang.

I told her, every morning, “Be a peacemaker today!”

I asked her, every night, “Who’s my girl?”

I have seen her angry and I have yelled at her, too.

I have told her the most hilarious jokes in history.

I watched her sing, in her high school choir, and saw an artist at work.

I have watched her try to keep things calm, no drama, relaxed. And I know how it hurts her when that doesn’t work.

I know that she gets really anxious about trying new things, but she tries them anyway because she is so incredibly brave. And strong. And smart.

And after tonight, she’s going to be trying a really, really big new thing. It’s newer and bigger than anything she’s tried so far. And she is going to be amazing.

Life happens in seasons. Old seasons fade; new seasons emerge. “Wind’s in the east, there’s a mist coming in, like something is brewin, about to begin.” We do well to notice the transition times, to mark them, to absorb every moment.

So there’s a young woman graduating from High School tonight. She’s my girl. She is Corneille Marie Bryan, and she is ready for what’s next.

Twila

My siblings and I have had three grandmothers: Nanny, Nana, and Twila. Nanny was our mom’s mom; she died in 2012. Nana was our dad’s mom; she died in 1989. Twila was neither our dad’s mom nor our mom’s mom. She was our grandfather’s second wife. And she was amazing.

Actually, she was my "grandmother" longer than Nana was my grandmother. Nana was amazing, too. And so was Nanny. Three amazing women that I am so happy to have had in my life.

In 1992, three years after Nana died, my Grandfather, “Daddy Monk” Bryan married Twila Stowe, who has been my grandmother since then. 18 years with one grandmother; 22 years with another. I’m a pretty lucky guy.

Twila died this morning.

I called her daughter and she said, “Mom adored you and your family. You brought her so much joy. She was proud of you.”

Daddy Monk and Twila used to love it when I would sit down at the piano and play hymns. I would jazz them up and ad lib here and there and they would be in the kitchen cleaning up after supper or something, listening, singing along. It brought me joy to bring them joy.

But then, ever so sneakily, I would start up with the verse of “Victory in Jesus.” Before I could even get to the chorus, here Twila would come storming out of the kitchen wielding a wooden spoon or some such utensil, an expression of utter disgust on her face, often accompanied by an inarticulate growl of rage. If I had given her time, I’m not sure but she would have thumped me on the head.

However, I would just give her a grin and shift quickly to “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling” or some other Charles Wesley hymn.

Oo, did she ever hate “Victory in Jesus.”

Daddy Monk and Nana used to hang out with Twila and her husband, Mac. The two couples were dear friends. Monk and Mac (that would be Alonzo Monk and William McFerrin) were both bishops in the United Methodist Church. Mac died in 1988, and my grandparents (of course) stayed friends with Twila.

So when my grandmother died one year later, Monk and Twila stayed in touch. Over time their friendship deepened. When he was visiting our family he would go into the bedroom to call her and tell her goodnight. I used to do that in high school with the girls I was dating!

And then there were a few months there during which Monk and Twila AND Erin and I were engaged to be married at the same time! (Yep, both Jim’s dad and son were engaged at the same time. That must have been weird.) It was fun to share that time with them, both of us planning for weddings.

Twila was gracious. Classy. Gentle. Strong. Beautiful. Passionate. She had to be some special kind of woman, to be married to not just one but TWO United Methodist bishops in her life!

She was amazing.

We were hoping to stop in Dallas to see her tomorrow on our way to Austin for Thanksgiving. But she was ready to go. She said so. Her body was failing, and she was in pain. She let God know that she was pretty much done living this part of life, and God said, “Well okay then, come on.” And she left.

I just hope someone warns the angel choir not to sing “Victory in Jesus” any time soon, or maybe ever again!

My New Year's Resolution is Boring - Literally

This year I resolve to get bored intentionally at least once a day.

Yep. You read that right. I’m going to get bored.

I am going to find time to sit or lie down and do absolutely nothing for a few minutes, up to 30, each and every day of this year. I may drift off to sleep. I may fidget uncomfortably. I may have to fight the urge for constant input and find myself unconsciously reaching for my smartphone.

But I believe that boredom is fertile ground in which the mind can truly flourish. Deep thinking is good for you on a whole lot of levels, and I have come to realize that I do not allow myself the time to think deeply very much.

I fear boredom. I crave mental stimulation. I am anxious that I will miss something, some life-changing bit of information that is “out there” somewhere, urging me to surf, scan, watch, and click. I have caught myself thinking that I need to go check facebook while I was checking facebook. That’s bad.

So I’m going to get bored. On purpose. I’m going to daydream, collect my thoughts, gather wool, sit with my head in the clouds, space out, unplug, disconnect. I am resolved to make this a part of my day, each and every day.

I have no idea what will happen. There are no preconceived notions. I am making this resolution for no greater purpose than that which is self-evident within it. Maybe nothing will happen beyond a few minutes of rest each day. There’s nothing wrong with that!

But maybe I will think a few thoughts that are truly worth thinking! Maybe my mind, freed from the burden of continual input, will deepen a bit. Maybe I’ll get to know myself a little better.

Who knows? But that’s my resolution. I’m going to get bored.

The Bishop of Digne

Let me tell you why I’m so excited, honored, and humbled to be portraying the Bishop of Digne in the current production of Les Miserables at Springfield Little Theater.

Firstly, it’s because I’m playing the Bishop of Digne in the current production of Les Miserables at Springfield Little Theater!!! I mean, come on - how cool is that? It’s flippin’ LES MIZ!!!

More specifically, though, and in no particular order…

It is a privilege to play a character who embodies unconditional love and is guided so deeply by the grace of God that he allows grace to dictate every word, every act, even every thought. The acts of welcoming Valjean, sharing a meal with him, and giving him a place to sleep are amazing in and of themselves. But when Valjean breaks that trust and steals the Bishop’s silver, and in response the Bishop not only allows him to keep it, but gives him the costly candlesticks as well, the abject selflessness and audacious grace of the act penetrate to the very heart of holiness.

It is a challenge of musical, physical, and artistic skill to funnel ninety-plus pages of description into two minutes on stage. In the novel, the Bishop of Digne is intimately described in the first section of the book, with overwhelming clarity and detail that reveals a complex and nuanced character. The burden of the actor playing the Bishop is to convey all of that in just a few simple phrases and gestures on stage. It has been quite a humbling process.

It is an honor to be on stage with Lloyd Holt for the powerful “candlesticks” moment. He is not just portraying Jean Valjean; while he is on stage he IS Jean Valjean. The energy that Lloyd radiates elevates the cast around him, myself included, and inspires us to a level of excellence that is rare in community theater settings. As our eyes lock while I am placing the silver candlesticks in his bag, his focus compels me to fully enter into that moment with a passion and depth that I would be unable to access were it happening with a different actor. There is so much that is unspoken underneath that brief moment, and you have to know that the Bishop’s love for Valjean is very much parallel to Andy Bryan’s love for Lloyd Holt.

It is exciting to be portraying a “religious” person who is not a vapid caricature of the faith. Almost every time an explicitly religious person is portrayed on stage or in film, they are shallow, judgmental, hypocritical, or in some other way characterized as “the bad guy.” Not so for the Bishop of Digne. Of him Victor Hugo wrote, “It will be perceived that he had a peculiar manner of his own of judging things: I suspect that he obtained it from the Gospel.” (Hugo, Victor (2010-12-16). Les Misérables (p. 25). Public Domain Books. Kindle Edition.)

I portray other characters throughout the show, including a poor beggar, a factory worker, a waiter, and … a pimp. (Yep.) I am having a great time with each, and to be a part of such an overwhelmingly talented cast and crew is undoubtedly a life highlight.

But I am captivated by this Bishop. I am hopeful that I can present him with the profound simplicity and powerful humility that he embodies. I hope that in my offering of the Bishop of Digne to the audiences at the Lander’s Theater, I can offer Christ in the fullest possible expression of what that truly means.

Daddy Monk

My relationship with my grandfather as a member of his family is nearly indistinguishable from my relationship with him as a pastor in the United Methodist Church. That says more about him than it does about me.

Nobody loved the church more than Daddy Monk, and nobody since the Wesley brothers has been more Methodist than he was. John Wesley’s “The Character of a Methodist” reads like a biography of Monk Bryan.

+ “He is therefore happy in God, yea, always happy … He cannot but rejoice.”

Daddy Monk could get so tickled that he could hardly speak. It happened, for example, when he was recounting a crazy story about our old dog Runzel. He would begin the story, and pause to allow his deep chuckle time to rumble, offer a few more words, chuckle some more, pause and collect his thoughts, a wistful smile on his face. You couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

But he could also deliver a punch line with a weighty episcopal presence as he stood before a room full of people hanging on his every word, sending the crowd into gales of laughter as he stood at the lectern, the only hint that he had been joking a tilt of his head or a tiny twinkle in his eye.

And then of course, he could sit still in the midst of his family, as the frenetic activity of our post-lunch playtime took place, a happy smile on his face, humming a tuneless hymn tune somewhere deep in his chest. Always happy, but maybe never more so than when his family was gathered together.

+ “…his heart is ever lifted up to God, at all times and in all places. In this he is never hindered, much less interrupted, by any person or thing. In retirement or company, in leisure, business, or conversation, his heart is ever with the Lord. Whether he lie down or rise up, God is in all his thoughts; he walks with God continually, having the loving eye of his mind still fixed upon him, and everywhere ‘seeing Him that is invisible.’”

I used to be painfully embarrassed when Daddy Monk would insist on praying before a meal out at a restaurant. He was not subtle about it, either. We had to join hands and he made a great show of bowing his head and closing his eyes just to embarrass me further, or so I thought. And then he couldn’t just say a little grace and be done, it was always a lengthy exposition that utilized all four points of the quadrilateral and contained quotations from the prophets, gospels, and an epistle, ending with a psalm. Okay, so I exaggerate a bit.

Every morning, Daddy Monk did the Upper Room devotion with my Nana, then with Twila, and always including anyone who was a guest and joined them for breakfast. Reading the devotion’s title, the scripture passage, the devotion itself, and then the prayer was only half of the morning devotion time, though. After the Upper Room was done, he got out his hymnal and found the bookmark he had left in it the previous morning. Opening to the hymn, he would read (or invite someone else to) the hymn title and author, tune name and composer, along with the dates of both. And then we would read the hymn aloud.

+ “And he accordingly loves his neighbour as himself; he loves every man as his own soul. His heart is full of love to all mankind, to every child of ‘the Father of the spirits of all flesh.’ That a man is not personally known to him, is no bar to his love…”

Daddy Monk called us every Sunday night. Late. It was usually after kids were in bed, and just about when the grown-ups were, too! Sometimes he had a topic to discuss (worship styles, sermon preparation, getting young people to church) or some happening to report (a good concert, a book study, a sermon) or maybe a question to ask (are the kids ready for school, how was your vacation, what’s the latest with your foster kids) - but no matter what we said to each other, the main thing was just to connect.

He maintained connections with an astonishing number of people. I cannot begin to tell you how many people he sent notes, cards, emails on a regular basis. People in Maryville, in Nebraska, in Columbia, in Junaluska, in Dallas - the love in his heart for people could not be contained. He loved deeply, and he loved broadly. And there were no strangers in his world, only potential friends that he had yet to talk with.

+ “…he is a Christian, not in name only, but in heart and in life. He is inwardly and outwardly conformed to the will of God, as revealed in the written word. He thinks, speaks, and lives, according to the method laid down in the revelation of Jesus Christ. His soul is renewed after the image of God, in righteousness and in all true holiness. And having the mind that was in Christ, he so walks as Christ also walked.”

See, the way Daddy Monk was when he was “being a pastor” or “being a bishop” is the same way he was when he was “being a grandfather.” I can’t separate “Bishop Bryan” from “Grandfather Bryan” because he didn’t; he was just Daddy Monk. Well, only a few really called him that, but those who didn’t only refrained from doing so out of deference to his title. He would have loved for everyone to call him Daddy Monk, I suspect.

I suppose love the church so much because I love him so much. And is the converse true as well? Do I love him because I love the church? I wonder. How much of what I do and who I am is because of his influence in my life? Would I be here, an itinerant preacher in the Missouri Conference of the United Methodist Church currently appointed to serve as pastor of Campbell United Methodist Church in Springfield Missouri, if not for Monk Bryan? If he wasn’t my grandfather?

Daddy Monk taught me that a job is not done until the tools are cleaned and put away in their proper place.
He taught me about fresh peaches sliced on vanilla ice cream.
Daddy Monk taught me that generosity and frugality are not mutually exclusive propositions.
He taught me to enjoy Dr. Pepper.
He taught me to pat horses’ faces and say “ho there” so they won’t be startled by your approach.
Daddy Monk taught me that telling a story always makes a point better than just making a point.
He taught me to care that our highways are being destroyed by semis and our world is being destroyed by wars.
He taught me that a great hymn always says more than a systematic theology.
Daddy Monk taught me that church is family and family is church and you don’t have to be a different person in the pulpit than you are anywhere else.

He taught me more than I can write, more than I can remember, more than I ever could be. There is no one in the world I wanted to please more, no one I more wanted to be proud of me.

Yes, I will miss him. Even though it has been in the back of my mind for years and year that “this might be the last …” I wasn’t really ready for him to be gone. No, I knew he wasn’t going to live forever, but then again, I was kind of thinking that he was going to live forever.

My company before is gone, and I am left alone with thee …

What Is This Feeling? - Reflecting on "Chidren of Eden"

What is this feeling?

An exhausted exhilaration has settled within and around me today. I guess that’s the way to describe it. It feels like significance. As though something of consequence has happened (is happening?), and I was (am?) a part of it.

From Tuesday, April 5, 2011 until now has been one of the most hectic, amazing, frustrating, wonderful, tiring, energizing … the list could go on … periods of time in my life. I peg it to April 5 because that was when I got up on stage at the Lander’s Theatre and auditioned for “Children of Eden” with a song that nobody knew but me and probably wasn’t the best choice and left me feeling like I should have chosen a different one. But I got called back, then learned that I was cast as “Noah” in the show, and began rehearsing.

What was it about this particular show, this particular production of this particular show, that was so miraculous? Script, music, message, director’s vision, cast talent, amazing set, gorgeous costumes, brilliant lighting, spectacular projections … ? These things added together? Just the magic of theater?

Or was there something else happening?

It was something that the cast sensed early on, forming deep and intense connections among one-time strangers. It was something that the audience sensed every single show, many times standing and cheering even before the final blackout. It was something that “theater people” who had been a part of live theater for umpteen years even had trouble describing. When you hear a theater veteran say, "I've never been a part of anything like this," it points to something beyond the ordinary.

The show was religious. Whatever your faith, this show elicited reflection on God. That was true for the audiences as well as the crew and cast. And when you are with a show that compels theological reflection for three months, there’s a lot of opportunity for divine activity. It pulls out of you a response that for lack of a better word we call “emotional.” But this experience obviously affected more than just emotions.

When you are kneeling on stage among a phenomenal cast who have become dear friends, heads bowed during the final song, and you hear not just sniffs and sighs but actual sobs as we all weep together before joining together for one final refrain … “Children of Eden, seek for your garden, you and your children to come, someday to come home…”

Added into the mix for me personally were a whole slew of moments of significance: our kids finishing their school year, welcoming a newborn baby into our home for foster care, being elected a delegate to the United Methodist Jurisdictional Conference from Missouri, participating in this year’s amazing Vacation Bible School, helping two gifted young men begin their process toward ordination, plus the everyday significance of worship, pastoral care, staff transitions, and all that other ordinary stuff that makes pastoral ministry so extraordinary.

Which goes to say, my experience with “Children of Eden” would have been flat-out impossible for me without my incredibly amazing and infinitely supportive wife Erin, the absolute love of my life and my best of best friends in the whole world. Not to mention our two exceptional children who just so happen to love the fact that their Daddy got to be on stage for this show. And the unbelievably gifted and talented staff of Campbell UMC who covered for me during weeks of rehearsals and encouraged me during weekends of performances. Plus the wonderful people of Campbell who bought tickets by the dozens and dozens and cheered me on and were so gracious in understanding why their sort of off-the-wall pastor wanted to do this weird, wonderful thing in the first place. Thank you, every single one of you!

+++

I stood, hand stretched upward, head up, energy given, practically hovering in the air, surrounded by 50 of my best friends doing exactly the same thing, in the forever instant of time after our final cut off and before the blackout.

I had never before so desperately wanted a moment to last forever; I had never before been so grateful for a moment to pass.

“The time has come for us to begin our journeys.
We have no map - only the ways we most wish for ourselves.”

“Funny now how Eden doesn’t seem so far.”

“I cannot bear to feel this pain … but I would not go back again.”

“If no outer force will show you your course, you’ll have to look inside.”

“The hardest part of love … the rarest part of love … and the truest part of love …
… is the letting go.”

What is this feeling?

I think it might be love.

New Year Resolutions

In 2011, I have a few things that I am going to resolve to do.


1) When it comes to the health of my mind/body/spirit, I am going to adhere to the advice my 93 year old grandmother gave me this week. “Always remember to pray. Work hard. And take good care of your kids.” She told me this as we visited her in the nursing home, Erin and I sitting on her bed and Nanny in her chair, facing us. There were tears in her eyes (and ours), and we held each other’s hands as her simple, profound wisdom was spoken.

That advice kind of epitomizes the way Nanny lives her life, too. And her approach to living has served her well for nine decades, so I suppose we might do well to adopt it. “After all I’ve been through,” she told us, “I don’t really know how I’m still here.” And she paused. “I guess it would be better to say I don’t really know why. Why me?” And she paused again, and kind of looked off into space for a few seconds. “But,” she shrugged and smiled, “here I am, anyway.”


2) When it comes to church, I am going to enjoy the experiencables, recount the describables, and avoid obsessing over the measurables.

- There are measurables, like how many people attend worship every week or how many participate in a faith development class or how many go on a mission trip or how many professions of faith are made, and so forth.
- There are describables, like the layout of a building or the flow of a worship service or the goal of a mission project or a Bible study lesson plan, and so forth.
- And there are experiencables, aspects of a congregation that you cannot hope to measure or adequately describe, but must be felt first hand.

All are important, but they are not equivalent, and furthermore I have consistently placed a higher value on the measurables than the other two. That ends in 2011. I do not think it is even worth trying to rank them in any way; each has a distinct and inherent value. And so I resolve to simply enjoy the moments that can only be experienced to be appreciated, talk and write extensively about those moments that can and should be described, and allow the things that can be measured to be just one among several ways to describe the health of the congregation.


3) In my personal life, getting specific, I am going to
a) Take a hike in the woods once a week.
b) Audition for (at least) two shows at Springfield Little Theater.
c) Sit down at the piano to compose for (at least) three hours a week.
d) Read good books instead of watching junky television shows.


These three resolutions seem to me to be a pretty good start for the new calendar year. Flipping the calendar is kind of arbitrary, just another number on just another page of just another calendar. And so many “New Year Resolutions” tend toward the selfish end of things, intended to impact no further than our own selves.

But this date does offer a chance to reflect and renew, and resolve to become better people, and that’s not a bad thing. I hope that our resolutions this year will be more than just a financial boon for fitness clubs, programs to help you quit smoking, and the latest greatest weight loss diet plan. I hope that they will really be geared toward living better lives in community with one another, and becoming the people God wants us to become.

Getaway

Isn't it amazing how you sometimes don't realize how much you need a rest until you are actually resting?

Erin and I dropped the kids off at my mom and dad's house Sunday afternoon and then headed up to Rocheport for two nights at Yates House B & B. It was wonderful. We did nothing for two days. It was like a Seinfeld episode. Two days about nothing.

We did stuff, of course. But it was stuff that we did because we wanted to and we could, not because we had to or it was expected of us. Which is what makes all the difference. We walked on the Katy Trail and shopped in a used book store and stood under the interstate and watched Revolutionary Road and Shakespeare in Love and sat in comfortable chairs to read our books.

There was a goose who thought he was an eagle and a squirrel that risked it all for the last nut on the branch and a host who always kept his shirt tucked in. There was creme brulet french toast and a sweet pepper stuffed with goat cheese and freshly baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. There was a wonderful bottle of wine made out of grapes grown just a few miles away.

Erin and I talked about our kids and our jobs and our dreams and our vacation plans and the mud and the sunshine and how small towns were really nice to visit but we would never want to live there. I'm not sure, but I think I may have fallen in love with her again.

But mostly we just rested. I think they call it sabbath. I encourage all of you reading this to take every opportunity that comes your way to rest. Not "vacation" - rest. It was truly wonderful, and I didn't realize just how much I needed it until we were there.

Stuff Swirling

The only things I have written in the past ten days have been emails and newsletter articles. Even my sermon last Sunday was unwritten; I had the outline in my mind, a few key transition phrases, and that was about it. It has been a very active couple of weeks. Here's the things, in no particular order:

A major staff transition is underway. I had to call the child abuse/neglect hotline after speaking with a friend about a very upsetting situation. I was in charge of setting up and facilitating an online meeting held Thursday morning for a group of ministers across the state. An inspiration struck me and I started writing a Christmas musical for children. Our niece and nephews were in town for a few days’ visit and we went to Silver Dollar City during the day Friday. I had my 20th High School Reunion on Friday evening and Saturday. And then I went to a wedding Saturday late afternoon.

It was an unbelievable week.

So I didn't write anything. But if I had, it was going to be about the responses I got to two questions I posed on my Facebook status last week. Tuesday I asked, "Does the fact that different Gospels tell the story of Jesus differently bug you?" Wednesday I asked, "Does the fact that today, different Christians interpret the story of Jesus differently bug you?"

(Thursday, Clayton asked, "Does the fact that today, Andy Bryan did not pose a new "bug you" question, bug you?" Which I thought was very helpful, thank you Clayton.)


The responses were fascinating. It definitely elicited some thoughts, and some people wrote at length. My initial impetus for asking the questions was preparing for a sermon about Holy Communion using the Gospel According to John as the text, which is a bit odd because John doesn't mention the "Last Supper" in the way that the synoptics do.

But that moment passed and I don't really have anything interesting to say about that.

Now I have a lot of other stuff swirling in my brain and way too much to say about any of it.

I could write about what happens when you tell people with whom you graduated 20 years ago that you are a pastor. I could write about re-envisioning children's ministry in a time of transition. I could write about the relief of hearing that a child I thought may be in danger is in a safe place. I could write about the impulse to create something, how it hits you and what you have to do to scratch the itch when it comes because it simply will not be ignored.

Or I could just write about all the things I might possible write about and actually say nothing. Which is what I have done. And that's all there is to that.

My Brush with the Law

Saturday’s mail had a letter from the City of Springfield, addressed to me using my full name, which caught my attention right away. When I opened it, it had a couple of green pieces of paper, one of which said

IMPORTANT INFORMATION.
THE SPRINGFIELD MUNICIPAL COURT HAS ISSUED A WARRANT FOR YOUR ARREST. A COPY OF THE WARRANT IS ENCLOSED WITH THIS NOTICE. THE WARRANT WILL BE ENTERED INTO A COMPUTER SYSTEM AND YOU MAY BE ARRESTED ANYWHERE IN THE STATE. IN ORDER TO HAVE THE WARRANT CANCELLED, YOU MUST APPEAR, IN PERSON, AT THE MUNICIPAL COURT …

The copy of the warrant enclosed with the notice indicated that my charge was “Failure to appear in Municipal Court to answer the following charge: 18/52(A) - Dog not displaying rabies tag. FTA arraignment 04/17/09 @ 9:00 a.m.”

My bond had been set at $500.00.

Okay, see, here’s what happened -

Six weeks ago, our little old dog Amos got out of the yard. It remains a mystery as to exactly how the gate got left open, and interestingly enough no witnesses have yet come forward to offer testimony to this event. Regardless, Amos was picked up by a thoughtful neighbor some five to six blocks away from our house, and turned in to the animal shelter.

Amos did not have his tags on.

You see, we had removed the tags from Amos’s collar earlier because he has a skin condition that causes him to itch so that he chews on himself until he bleeds. (I know that is probably too much information, but nevertheless, it is the case.) In the middle of the night, this chewing on various parts of his body would cause his collar tags to jingle very annoyingly, waking us up even out of our deepest, most restful slumber.

So we took them off.

And then he got out of the yard.

And then someone picked him up and took him to the Springfield animal shelter.

We discovered him in the shelter by perusing the pictures of the various dogs they have there. These little canine mug shots are posted along with a description of the dog and the location and time they are picked up, so that families can come and get them. Click here to see what I'm talking about.

At this point I might note that we live on the southeast corner of Springfield. The Springfield Animal Shelter is on the northwest corner of Springfield.

It takes seven hours to get there from here.

Seeing Amos’s canine mug shot on the website, our daughter Cori and I jumped into the car and rushed off to rescue him. Eleven days later, when we arrived at the shelter, we discovered that it had closed five minutes prior to our arrival. Nonplussed, we journeyed the three week trek back home, resolving to spring Amos in the morning.

Arriving in what I thought was good time the next morning, I went into the shelter and verified that it was, indeed, Amos who was incarcerated there. We figured out how many nights he had been there, which determined the amount of the fine. Pulling out my checkbook to pay the agent, I was informed that he could not accept a check, the bail had to be posted in cash. “No problem,” I said through clenching teeth. “I’ll run to an ATM and be right back.”

“We close in ten minutes,” I was informed.

Apparently, the Springfield Animal Shelter is open for intermittently random hours at a time. Just kind of whenever they have enough income to pay their workers, perhaps.

Anyway, I sped to the nearest ATM, at a convenience store exactly four and a half minutes away from the shelter, got my cash, agreeing to pay the $1.50 fee for doing so, and sped the four and half minutes back to the shelter, arriving exactly one minute before they were scheduled to close.

At the counter, ready to pay the guy, get the dog, and go home, I was informed, “Oh, and then I’ll have to write you a ticket because he didn’t have rabies tags.”

There was a moment there, in the terse silence that followed, that I thought to myself, “Why not just leave him? You know, I could tell the kids that the trauma had just been too much for old Amos. His heart just couldn’t take it, and now he was playing up in doggie heaven.”

(They would never know!)

“A ticket?” I asked.

“Yep, we’ll just set you a court date here and you can just go in and pay the fine ... or you could plead not guilty and see what happens,” he said, oh so very helpfully.

So he wrote out the ticket, handing it to me with the receipt for Amos’s bail, and we went to the back to get the dog. Now, I don’t know if you have ever been to a dog pound before, but it is the most disgusting place I’ve ever been. The stench is palpable; my eyes were watering and I was struggling not to gag. A worker had Amos in his arms, so I clipped on his leash and took him to the car, loaded him in the back and drove the six month pilgrimage from the shelter back to our house.

(I should pause at this point to explain that it really isn’t all that far to the shelter, but driving in Springfield, Missouri is like entering into a rip in the space/time continuum and so everything seeems loonggerr thaaan iiit reeaaalllyyy iiiisssss.)

Well, here's where it gets a bit tricky. Amos was rescued, the gates were closed, the tags were reattached to the collar, and life moved on. In fact, life moved on so rapidly over the next few weeks that the hearing date for Amos’s rabies tags began to fade into the mist. I think I was always vaguely aware in the back of my mind that I had some nebulous obligation I needed to fill, but other thoughts so quickly crowded that one out that it really never had a chance to take hold.

The date of the hearing came and went without fanfare; in fact, we didn’t even notice at all. It was just another day of chasing toddlers, shuttling kids to school and other various and assorted activities, maintaining a household, working (Holy Week and Easter happened in there somewhere), and just generally living the busy-ness that is our life. To tell you the truth, the notice of my impending arrest was the first time I had thought about it at all in weeks!

So, from that fateful Saturday when I got notice of my arrest warrant until Monday morning, I was a wanted man.

I had visions of one of the police officers who are a part of the congregation walking down the aisle as I was preaching on Sunday morning ready to take me it. “Excuse me, Mr. Bryan. You’ll have to come with me. I’m placing you under arrest for failure to appear in court. You have the right to remain silent,…” And so forth. There would be gasps of surprise all around the room, and murmured conversations as people asked one another what, if anything, they knew of the drama unfolding before their eyes. Then someone would make a pithy quip like they always do on Law and Order. (*dun dun*)

It felt strangely exciting. I was dangerous. On the lam. An outlaw. I watched the world go by through desperado eyes, squinting suspiciously at anyone I came across. I trusted no one.

I made it through Saturday and Sunday without incident. The first thing Monday morning – actually the first thing right after I got the kids ready for the day and dropped the bigs off at elementary school and the smalls off at their day care – I headed to the City Court building. I entered the building, then had to be directed back out so that I could come in through the metal detector since I had entered through the exit side. (Outlaws do that kind of thing.)

Boldly I strode up to the counter where a clerk waited behind a plexiglass barrier, a suspiciously pleasant expression on his face. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

Taking my notification pages out of my pocket, I put them on the counter and said, “I’d like to take care of this, please.”

He very anticlimactically asked me for my name, went to the back room and came back with a file folder, which he opened and glanced over. “Do you want to just plead guilty?” he asked, “Because I can go ahead and recall this warrant right now if you do.”

“Yes please,” I replied, suddenly not feeling very desperado like.

“Okay,” said the clerk, “and do you have the $99.50 today?”

He said “Ninety-nine fifty” and so I thought he was talking about a form or some kind of official document. “I don’t know what that is,” I said.

“It’s the amount of the fine and your costs,” he said, with a rather puzzled look.

“Oh. Yes, I have it.” I wrote the check.

Taking it from me, he printed off a page and handed it to me, saying, “You should probably keep this with you for 60 to 90 days, in case you get pulled over or something like that. The warrant should be recalled in the computer, but just in case. And that’s it.” I sensed that I was being dismissed.

So I said, “Thank you, sir,” and left.

The paper says, “WARRANT RECALL NOTICE.” It has the ticket number on it, the date of the recall, and the signature of the Honorable Todd M. Thornhill, Municipal Court Judge.

So that’s my story. Having stood toe-to-toe with the Thirty First Circuit Court of Missouri, Springfield Municipal Division, and then humbly paying my debt to society, I have come out on the other side a better person for the experience. And now, after living life on the edge, a fugitive of the law, I may be a bit harder, a bit more flinty, but at least I can say with confidence that I am a free man.

Papa Larry

It’s funny how life can realign one’s priorities, isn’t it? I haven’t written anything for my blog in over a week, which feels like an eternity. Somehow it just hasn’t been a top priority for me just lately.

See, my stepfather-in-law died last Saturday night. Just like that. Saturday during the day he was happily visiting with his family at a get-together celebrating his granddaughter’s first communion. Saturday night he was rushed to the ER. Sunday evening he was gone. Bam.

And so it goes.

“Stepfather-in-law” sounds pretty distant. But that is definitely not the case. Larry was a profoundly important part of my life and my family’s lives. He was a great guy and we were very close.

I want you to know Larry, at least a little bit. When I think about Larry, I wonder ...

How many books did he read to our kids?
How many pens did he carry around in his shirt pocket?
How many puzzles did he work - crossword, sudoku, word problems, pencil puzzles, etc?
How many horrible puns did he crack?
How many baseball games did he watch?
How many old rock and roll songs did he know?
How many "Oh bloody hells" did he mutter under his breath?
How many pictures are there of him with his hand up in front of his face?How many walks through how many different neighborhoods did he take?
How many quick trips out to the store to pick up this or that?

Larry was so good. He loved our kids unconditionally, and took such joy in playing with them, reading to them, teasing them. Our foster kids were accepted and loved without question as his own grandkids. He would do anything for anyone. We are going to miss him so much.

His grandkids called him “Papa Larry.” Cori says that she will remember the walks, just walking nowhere and talking about nothing. Wes says that he will remember the jokes, which Wes thought were funny, and that made two people (counting Larry).

I cannot adequately convey what a unique personality Larry had. He redefined the word eccentric. He was a wonderful person, with the rare combination of such deep compassion and an unbelievably bizarre sense of humor. I loved being with him, talking with him, exchanging jokes with him, talking baseball trivia or rock and roll history with him. I loved how he said some words with a bit of a British accent, but not all words. When he laughed sometimes it was completely silent but hid shoulders would shake up and down exaggeratedly.

What a tragedy. He was 57 years old and his heart was so badly damaged by the attack that the only glimmer of hope was a transplant, but there just was no way they could have gotten him stable enough to do it.

Just like that. Bam. Here – Gone.

So with all the stuff I could be blogging about – H1N1, the amendments to the United Methodist constitution, the economy, upcoming sermon topics, other churchy things, the first place Kansas City Royals, and so forth – I just can’t seem to muster the energy to focus on them long enough to come up with anything significant to say about them. They’re just not that important at the moment.

We miss you, Papa Larry.

Oh bloody hell…

40

Rarely have I been so grateful for the presence in my life of my wife Erin than in this past week. She has sung counterpoint to my anger and frustration, working untiringly to lighten the collective mood of our household during a pretty rough time for our extended family. I am so lucky that she is in my life. I love you so much, E.

Rarely have I been more cognizant of my love for the church than this past week. My work has been a firm foundation for me when some other stuff has felt pretty shaky. I am surrounded by incredible people who love God with such dedication and give of themselves so selflessly, it lifts me up just to witness them, to be in ministry among them, to work together on Christ's behalf with them.

When something happens in your life that challenges the fundamental assumptions of what you thought to be true, you become immediately aware of your sources of strength. Like jumping into a lake and trying to find a foothold without being able to see the bottom, you try to step on a rock that won't shift with your weight, or that is too slippery and you slide off, or that may be sharp and cut you.

What has happened has made me angry, more angry than I have ever felt before. The anger has seeped into just about every part of my life, affecting my words and thoughts and actions. I find myself unable to think rationally about "the situation," let alone offer any grace or understanding. The truth is, I don't feel gracious and I don't understand. I'm just angry.

"Clarity emerges over time," said one of my wisest friends. I know that well. Water that has been muddied will clear as the sediment settles again. And in the meantime, all you can do is try to stand on firm footing, waiting for the current to move.

And I have found my firm footing, the metaphorical rocks that I can trust not to shift or slip or cut me. And I thank God.

I waited patiently for the Lord;
he inclined to me and heard my cry.
He drew me up from the desolate pit,
out of the miry bog,
and set my feet upon a rock,
making my steps secure.
He put a new song in my mouth,
a song of praise to our God.
Many will see and fear,
and put their trust in the Lord.

Two Books Diverged in a Yellow Wood

I am currently reading “The Shack” and “Valis” at the same time. As a result, my mind is kind of splitting in two.

I’m not very far along in The Shack yet, but I’ve heard enough about it that I kind of see where it’s going. And I’m about halfway through Valis. So both books are incomplete, though it is interesting to anticipate how each is presenting the theme of God communicating with people, albeit in dramatically different ways.

In The Shack, God initiates an encounter by putting a note in a guy’s mailbox. In Valis, God initiates an encounter by sending a beam of pink light that is comprised of pure information directly into a guy’s mind. The Shack refers to God as “Papa;” Valis names God “Zebra.” The crisis in The Shack is the murder of a daughter; the crises in Valis involve drugs and cancer and mental illness, to name a few. So they are actually pretty good books to read together.

But the reason my mind is splitting in two has to do with the level of mental energy each book absorbs. So, if for some reason I am not fully engaged with Valis, and a sentence slips by without me, I’m lost. There is naught to do but go back and re-read it, because the writing is so thick and every word important. It is the kind of book that I have to set down every now and then in order to process the paragraph I have just read.

On the other hand, The Shack is very easy to read, since it is pulled along by the plot (at least so far). I mean, sometimes I may even doze off for a page and when I wake up I find that I’m able to just continue on, filling in the gaps as I go. I’m waiting for the juicy, “controversial” stuff to happen, which might be a bit more engaging, but so far I’m not seeing what all the buzz is about. It is a good mystery novel up to this point, to be sure, so we’ll see what happens with it.

Both of the books are great; I enjoy both ways to read. The complex, heady stuff in Valis charges me up in a very powerful way. And the catchy, surface level storyline of The Shack is fun to read, and makes me want to see what’s next. So I decide which book to take up and read based on what mood I’m in!

If I’m kind of tired and want a good story to occupy my mind, I read The Shack. If I’m clicking on all cylinders and want some intellectual stimulation, I pick up Valis.

Anyway, this post is pretty narcissistic, isn’t it? Let’s see, how to redeem it?

Oh, I know…

So how many books do you have going at the moment? Do you like to read just to occupy your mind, or do you like to read to stimulate your thinking? Or both?

What’s the best “just occupy your mind” book you’ve read? What’s the best “stimulate your thinking” book you’ve read?

There, now this post isn’t all about me!

Cursillo Weekend / Foster Kids

Tomorrow I'll be helping with a Cursillo weekend in Kansas City. It's always a wonderful experience, and I love how each weekend I've attended has been a little bit different. I would love to have your prayers for the weekend, especially since we just got two new foster kids this afternoon, and now I'm skipping town for three days leaving Erin to handle it.

So I'm hopeful that I'll be able to be fully present at the Cursillo, but I'm sure I'll be worried about what's going on at home the whole time. One thing that I definitely celebrate is that I do not have to worry about church, because the staff of Campbell is awesome and everything there is going to go perfectly well. And if it doesn't, they can handle it!

Thanks for all your prayers and good vibes sent our way!

Vacations are Fun

Two week vacations are good things! I highly recommend them. Here was ours:

Chapter one: Springfield, Mo.
- Springfield Cardinals game, Silver Dollar City, Discovery Center, Dickerson Park Zoo









Chapter two: Osage Beach, Mo.- Swimming in the lake, Swimming in the pool, Hiking at Ha-Ha Tonka State Park, more swimming in both lake and pool, mini-golf at Pirate's Cove, general hanging out and being lazy, watching the opening ceremony of the Olympics, and did I mention there was swimming?













Interlude: Columbia, Mo.
- Getting together with Bryan family, worship together at Missouri United Methodist Church, singing with my wife and kids, baptism of nephew Braeden, hearing my brother Brad preach.









Chapter three: Trout Lodge (YMCA of the Ozarks)
- Three-plus days of family reunion with Bryans from Dallas, TX; Valencia, Spain; Frankfurt, Germany; Stoughton, WI; Milwaukee, WI; Vancouver, British Columbia; Columbia, MO; Kansas City, MO; St. Joseph, MO; and Springfield, MO. (Did I forget anyone?)
- More swimming, paddle boats, canoes, rope swing, water slide, mini-golf, hiking, horses, hay ride, barn dance, camp fire, zip line, frisbee, washers, ladder golf, Elephant Rocks State Park, and general hanging out and relaxing - it was truly wonderful!



And now we are back in Springfield, ready to get rolling again. The kids have a week until school starts, and so that's on our minds. We're getting our house ready to receive foster kids, maybe in a month or so. We're enjoying the last few days of summer with sunny skies and delightful, air-conditioner-free temperatures. And we're starting a series on the book of Exodus at church, plus getting things set to go for fall programming.

Oh, yeah, one more thing - we are completely addicted to the Olympics, as a lot of people are. Go world!

Life Moves, Baby

Hi!

To say that the last two weeks have been busy would not even begin to convey the level of activity, the amount of stress, the roller coaster of emotion, and the sheer physical / spiritual / mental / emotional exertion we have experienced.

Here's a little synopsis:
- Our foster daughter transitioned back to her mother's house.
- Erin and I helped lead, and Cori and Wes participated in Vacation Bible School in North Kansas City.
- Erin filled in at the Day Care at First UMC, North KC for two weeks.
- Cori and Wes were in summer school every day.- I had an all day meeting of the Board of Managers' of Missouri Ministers' School in Columbia Tuesday before last.
- We packed.
- We had our last weekend at the church in Northtown, with all of the love and "good-byes" that entailed.
- We watched three guys load all our stuff onto a big orange truck.
- We drove to Springfield, Missouri.
- We spent the night with some great friends.
- Two of the three guys met us at our new house and proceeded to unload all the stuff they had previously loaded.
- We began opening boxes, unpacking stuff, arranging furniture, opening more boxes, looking for the pots and pans, and so forth.
- Cori articulated our feeling that "Stuff is evil."
- A wonderful woman, a member of Campbell, died on Tuesday and I'll have the privilege of leading her memorial service along with the Visitation Pastor, Rev. Joe Lightner this Saturday.
- I started getting my church office all set up and the first thing I did was steal the office furniture of the Associate Pastor, Rev. Melissa Dodd. (Not really, she actually very graciously offered it to me!)
- We began meeting some wonderful, friendly, warm and welcoming people who go to Campbell UMC, where I start as the pastor this coming Sunday morning.

Whew - I'm tired just writing about it! Although there's more that has been happening, that pretty much hits the highlights. We've managed to have some fun, too. We went to the neighborhood swimming pool; we chased fireflies; Dad came down to help and we had a good visit. And the staff here at Campbell is so wonderful and helpful and just generally cool people to be around.

So, when I "officially" begin here as the pastor next week, and things begin to get into a groove again, I'll be back blogging with more regularity. I've got a lot on my mind, building up over this little "moving" hiatus. Who knows what may come spewing forth when I finally sit down next week to do a real post?

Personal Update

I don’t think I have ever been so sick. Last week I did not come in to the church at all; I turned over the Saturday night worship service to Adam; I spent most of the time in my recliner under a blanket drinking apple juice and blowing my nose.

(By the way, thanks be to God on high for Puffs Plus.)

The nurse at the doctor’s office said that she probably could just photocopy my symptoms and change the name for the few hundred people they had seen with fever, cough, runny nose, and congestion. The worst thing was that my energy level was zero; I just couldn’t do anything. It was a major undertaking to walk across the living room. The doctor said that it probably started out as the flu and then became an upper respiratory infection. The good news is that my lungs were clear – no pneumonia.

Anyway, I’m back at it now. I’m feeling more energy than I have in two weeks, and have been able to come in to the office and get some catching up done. It’s amazing how much work piles up after just a few days out. I have a prescription of antibiotics to take care of the infection, and I’m almost through those, then a follow-up appointment at my doctor on Friday.

Here’s a funny thing: when my doctor was asking me questions to try to figure out how I had gotten sick he said, “So have you spent any time around sick people?” I just kind of smiled at him and said, “I’m a pastor. It’s kind of a part of my job.” And I was very diligent in all my hospital visits to wash my hands in every room, keep my distance from people, all that stuff. So I don’t think I got sick in the hospital; it was just a thing.

But it feels good to be back – I’ll do a “real” post later this week, most likely.