Paralysis. Or, “Oh my God, did you really just say what I think you just said?!”

I wrote this last week after overhearing a most disturbing conversation at my local neighborhood pub.  I debated whether or not to post it, but ultimately decided to do it.  Who knows?  I may decide to take it down again tomorrow . . .

Okay, so tonight I head over to the local pub around the corner to work on my words to share for World AIDS Day tomorrow morning. It’s one of my most productive places to get work done–just enough background noise that it’s not distracting and while everyone is friendly no one talks to me for very long. The servers know me and usually will even run interference if necessary.

And then there was tonight. I sit down at the edge of the bar, leave a seat between me and the closest person–a curious looking fellow and his buddy–and start writing.

Now those who know me, know that while I am more than comfortable talking with old men at bars (even if creepy), I tend to avoid anyone near my age like the plague. And while I’m sure part of that has to do with my inability to be attracted to available men, I’m convinced that mostly it has to do with the fact that most individuals I meet near my age at establishments such as these are creeps.

Creeps, I tell you.

So, tonight I’m writing away and this guy next to me starts to hit on me–somewhat subtly at first, then more aggressively (when I don’t really respond or give him much to go on). If there was any doubt that he was hitting on me, that was dissolved when he yelled (and I mean yelled) at his friend for interrupting his grand plan for talking to the girl next to him (“man, I was just noticing her hotness [insert comment: Damn, you really are drunk, aren't you?] and trying to start a conversation” [insert comment: which I was clearly trying to avoid].) His friend then starts to talk about this man’s kids. And his wife. If I was grossed out before, I surely am now.

The two compatriots then proceed to exchange more gender-based insults and comments in one sitting than I have heard in a long time (douche-bag is my personal favorite. Sir, I [don't] hate to inform you that you are not going to be successful tonight).

Okay, so this is not entirely unusual (if still not agreeable–or acceptable–) conversation that I will do my best to avoid. But then they step it up a notch. Dude buys some beverage to take home and dude’s friend’s comment is “someone’s getting lucky tonight!”

Lindsay’s ears perk up: “seriously?!”

Dude then proceeds to share how he tried that with his wife last night–he “loaded her up” with red wine, Ambien, and marijuana and still “no luck.”

Lindsay’s outraged internal dialogue: “seriously? Am I really hearing this? You’re talking about how you tried to rape your wife last night?!?! And you’re upset it didn’t work?!”

Oh my god, get me out of here.

I look around frantically for another place to sit–all the tables are full.

At this point dude reflects (oh how gracious of him!) that he’d prefer another way anyway–one where she was more involved. At which point he proceeds to engage in a game of verbal charades–he physically acts out how he’d like the sex act to occur while expressing what he’d like to hear as well: “f*** me! f*** me!”

Oh my god. Get me out of here.

So here’s where it gets frustrating (or sad?)–really. A male staff member happens to see something going on (the bartender is female, too, and also avoiding this dude like the plague) and comes over and stands next to me. Apparently, the look on my face is revealing: he asks me if I’m okay? Is there anything he can do? I say, “No, I’m fine.”

I say, “no, I’m fine.”

I am clearly not fine. Why did I say otherwise? Why didn’t I interject into their crazy conversation that I think they are crazy and yucky for glorifying and encouraging rape culture? Why didn’t I tell the staff member when he asked, that I was not okay?

Short answer? I was scared. This conversation hit a little too close to home for me. I didn’t want to make a fuss. I didn’t want to draw attention. I didn’t want to be “overly sensitive.” I didn’t want to be outed. I didn’t want to be the angry feminist.

What?!?

But that’s the reality of it. Even with people standing beside me (bartender and other staff member) I felt powerless. Powerless against these two moronoic, stupid, clearly idiotic and drunk men. As a bright, smart, accomplished, protected woman, I felt powerless–paralyzed even. And that there is the power of gender-based and sexual violence, my friends. It turns the world upside down. Otherwise “strong” women are rendered terrified in the face of moronic men at the local neighborhood hang out spot.

Ultimately they left, but I am left with the reality that I didn’t say a damn thing . Didn’t say one word to those men to let them know that what they said was not just uncouth (as his friend said), but violent. And hurtful.

I know that ulitmatley this responsibility can’t lie with me. That we need allies in this fight–that the relegation of gender-based violence to a “women’s issue” (when perpetrators are overwhelmingly men, and therefore is, in reality, a men’s issue) just further ensures its marginalization. But that doesn’t change the fact that I was scared when I didn’t want to be. That I was so scared, in fact, that I couldn’t even articulate what I needed when asked in that space to feel safe. And I’m not disappointed in myself for that–I’ve come a LONG way, but I am sad that my voice was buried. And the voices of so many women. And that nothing was said to those men. But the unfortunate reality is that I am confident I will encounter many more circumstances such as these, and as such I will have more opportunities to stand up to that articulated violence. And who knows? Maybe next time I’ll find my voice. And watch out when I do.

Some Thanksgiving Poems

A dear friend emailed this morning and asked if I could recommend some good quotes of wisdom to give to her sister for her 30th birthday.  As I do, I immediately turned to Mary Oliver (who’s “When the Roses Speak I Pay Attention” was given to me on my 30th by dear Paula).  In my search for something appropriate I continued to come across poems that felt particularly relevant for this day of Thanksgiving, and I couldn’t help but share.

Enjoy.

Praying

It doesn’t have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones: just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try

to make them elaborate, this isn’t

a contest but the doorway

Into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

Messenger

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird–

      equal seekers of sweetness.

Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.

Here the clam deep in speckled sand.

Are my boots old?  Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still not half perfect?  let me

     keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work,

Which is mostly standing still and learning to be

     astonished.

The phoebe, the delphinium.

The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

Which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

     and these body-clothes,

a mouth with which to give shouts of joy

     to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,

telling them all, over and over, how it is

     that we live forever.

Red Bird

Red bird came all winter

firing up the landscape

as nothing else could.

Of course I love the sparrows,

those dun-colored darlings,

so hungry and so many.

I am a God-fearing feeder of birds.

I know He has many children,

not all of them bold in spirit.

Still, for whatever reason–

perhaps because the winter is so long

and the sky so black-blue,

or perhaps because the heart narrows

as often as it opens–

I am grateful

that red bird comes all winter

firing up the landscape

as nothing else can do.

Wrestling with Brokenness (and claiming hope) doesn’t mean pretending the brokenness isn’t there . . .

In spite of several glorious moments of beauty throughout the course of the day, I’m feeling heavy with the brokenness of the world tonight.  In addition to walking through some discouragement and sorrow in my own personal life, these past few days at the center have been full of hard stuff–today in particular.  Before we’d been open even an hour we’d received a visit from the fire inspector indicating that we need to install a new oven hood–at a cost of approximately $10k (our program doesn’t have that kind of money)–I’d spent a hefty chunk of time on the phone with Adult Protective Services advocating for a client who had been taken advantage of by another drug-affected client (who had been making so much progress until now!), and a client returned for the first time since we had to call Project Respond in several weeks ago because this client was so lost in their delusions of our being a target for HIV specific terrorism we were concerned they were a danger to themselves or others in the community–and today the sideways delusions continued.  Client after client, it seemed, occupied a state of utter chaos and escalation, so much so that we found ourselves triaging the most severe cases first and hoping the others didn’t further escalate and explode in the meantime.

At one point a member of the community who lost both his estranged father and brother at this time last year came to me with yet more grief.  A gentle, pensive, trusting fellow who gives of himself to others without hardly a thought for himself, he came into our office to tell me of his broken heart.  He thought he’d finally found a partner, and had invested much time in pursuing this individual and giving of his heart, only to find that this person had other, more strategic (read: financial) intentions.  Not only was he experiencing the broken heartedness of losing this particular individual, he was also grieving what he understands as his perpetual aloneness.  He believes he will always be without a partner to walk through life with and this distresses his heart and mind greatly.  Oddly enough this was quite akin to my own distress through which I was walking–and I found myself thinking that we find solidarity in the most unlikely places  . . . that we all fundamentally desire to love and be loved and our world really just sucks at it.  It is, after all, broken, and in spite of our most ardent attempts at restoration, it continues in brokenness.

So when the day was over all I wanted to do was run around the corner to the local pub, have a beer and decompress.  I took along a book I’ve assigned to one of our interns (but haven’t actually finished reading), and was so touched (grounded, centered, inspired, what have you) by what I read I felt I had to share part of it.  It is a collection of reflections by a priest who used to minister to the folks on Portland’s streets and low-income housing.   It’s a pretty hefty chunk, and I’m probably violating numerous copyright laws, but the story so needs to be shared . . .

From Radical Compassion by Gary Smith (emphasis added is my own):

I had not seen Melinda in a long time, although our friendship reached back over the years, here and in other places.  She showed up at my door one night, cut loose after completeing a six-week drug rehab program.  Again.  She needed a ride to Seattle; could I help her with a ticket?  Yes, I could.

At thirty-two, she was tall and had an extraordinarily beautiful face–an exterior beauty that belied the near total self-disgust that occupied her like an invading army of parasites.  At some point during the painful early years of growing up in bitter poverty and with the racist abuse of the ghetto, she had crossed over into the murky and predatory life of sex for drugs and drugs for sex.  It was madness.  She had a wonderful personal side, one that emerged in her honesty about her confusion and self-hate and in her longing to be happy and healthy.  She had burned most of the bridges to her family and friends.  But she hadn’t burned the one to me.

I love this woman.  True, to love her requires a certain courage and an acceptance of my tendency to make mistakes, to be excessively generous, and to be taken for a fool.  Anyone who has seen addiction in operation knows this.  To love her, though, does not mean I must always be prudent or that I must calculate all the pros and cons.  I think love does not always look for success, nor is it blind to danger.  But it does believe in the intrinsic beauty and possibility of the beloved.  In the end, I believed in that sacred quality of Melinda–the presence of God–that longs for her wholeness, for the unique and living forces of her real self to develop.  

There is in the world of nature constant renewal; as Gerard Manley Hopkins puts it in his poem “God’s Grandeur,” “There lives the dearest freshness deep down things.”  This renewal also takes place in our own hearts.  In this renewal and in her hope for herself, Melinda will realize her own feelings and thoughts, her wishes, interests, resources, and movements of love.  This constant pull toward life is what gives her dignity. I saw this dignity in her, a dignity given to her by her Creator, independent of all the failures and bad decisions and ugly stuff that society frequently holds up as reasons for her condemnation.  If I am called to anything as a priest and as a Christian, I am called to stride into–not run from–the untidiness and fear and brokenness and shame that is around me, that country of humanness in which we all live and share.

We waited briefly in the ticket line of the Greyhound station, that inner city launching pad, where people like Melinda are constantly departing toward sanity and the possibility of a new life, a life where maybe they will be able to be happy, eat with friends, and be with those who love them, a life where they may be able to freely take their children into their arms as they saunter through a city park.

One-way ticket to Seattle purchased, we had coffee and a sandwich and a cigarette together.  We stood there, thinking of other streets in another place; we had been in this moment before.  As her bus number was announced, she reached for me and held me close to her, weeping gently in my arms, whispering that she loved me for never giving up on her.

No, I never have.  Never will.

When I think of Melinda, one movement in me is the raw gut reaction to her oppression.  I hate that women like Melinda are used up sexually by pimps, made into beasts of burden by drug dealers, taunted and raped by indifferent men, beaten up by their poverty.  I have known women, fearful of shelters, who spent their nights standing in storefronts, waiting until dawn, when they were safe to sleep on park benches and at bus stops; I have known women who were deliberately infected with HIV in an act of retaliation; I have known women of the streets who have been shot, stabbed, strangled and murdered.  They didn’t have a chance against the power that was being used against them.  You want to know about indignity inflicted on another human being?  Talk to a woman of the streets.

Another movement in me is a more hushed one.  It has to do with the interior beauty of women, a beauty that enables me to claim my own sensitivity and tenderness.  They have taught me that the function of my chosen celibacy is not to be loveless but to contribute to the great treasure of love and sacrifice needed by humankind.  The women who I call friends–and in their midst stands dear Melinda–have uncovered me as no man could ever do and have led me into the world of loyalty and fruitfulness; they have helped me to love the mystery of myself.   If a man wants to understand the heart of God, he must surely begin by standing next to the heart of a woman.

I don’t have any illusions about Melinda’s chances.  The recidivism rate of addicts is statistically very high, as is the rate of premature deaths of addicts.  So I am not kidding myself.  But stats don’t drive one’s life of service down here. The heart does.  I am not sure how God’s heart connects to ours, but as I walked away from the bus depot, that connection was there, and I felt encircled by peace and joy.

And there you (and I) have it.  Amen and Amen.

A little Mary Oliver prayer to enter the day . . .

Magnolia Rocks, Massachusetts

Prayer

May I never not be frisky,

May I never not be risque.

May my ashes, when you have them, friend,

and give them to the ocean,

leap in the froth of the waves,

still loving movement,

still ready, beyond all else,

to dance for the world.

Day One of the Hunt Family Cruise, in which Lindsay learns some lessons

And so ends Day One of the Hunt family cruise.  And so begins ya’all’s opportunity to read all of my ridiculous ramblings and reflections on the crazy world of cruising.  It’s no secret that I have some serious misgivings about participating in a cruise, but I have decided to make the most of it—and part of that involves including you in processing what I observe.  I hope you don’t mind.

A few snapshots from the day:  a lounge singer with the all-too-stereotypical long, slicked back black hair covering ACDC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” on his acoustic guitar (followed immediately after by Cat Stevens’ “Father and Son”), three crew members and a Lumberjack (who shows up later in our story) performing choreographed dances as we board the ship, this same lumberjack (who is British, incidentally) dancing around the pool, handing out beers to other dancers and identifying to the rest of the ship (yelling into his handheld mic) all of the dancers he perceives to be drunk (it might just be his favorite word), and my cousin competing in a dance-off for a free facial and shave—which he lost, by the way.

If that hasn’t sold you already on the idea of a cruise, I really don’t know what could.  I mean, seriously, can you get more entertaining than that?  The fact that what I find entertaining has nothing to do with any of the actual scheduled entertainment is irrelevant.

I have learned some important things about cruising on my first day.  While there have been a number of lesser lessons, most of them really fall under the same umbrella:  going on a cruise is like going to summer camp.  I mean, where else do staff herd their eager participants in through long check in lines and room assignments with over-the-top enthusiasm, ear to ear grins and dancing?  If you’ve ever worked a summer as a camp counselor, you know exactly what I’m talking about.  Even the staff:participant ratio is similar—I swear there must be a crew member for every 4 cruisers.  I’m sure the American Camping Association would approve.  They have song leaders who teach otherwise normal individuals how to perform hand (and hip!) motions to songs immediately regressing them to the days of summer camp lore (and quite possibly sending some secret code to extra terrestrials in the process).  In fact, today there were two song leaders—british lumberjack included—who’s only responsibility was to get people dancing—and they even had several individuals who’s only responsibility was to dance in the crowd!  Summer camp.  I secretly found myself envious of their jobs.  Okay, let’s be honest: it wasn’t so secret at all.  I want their job.  I’m pretty sure it may be my calling.  If only I wasn’t so stinking anxious in front of large groups of strangers.  Hmmm . . .

Another element of Summer Camp-dom emulated by cruise ships: competition.  We all get these little “activity cards” where we get points for participating in competitive events on ship like pub quiz or shuffleboard (yes, that’s right, people do actually play shuffleboard on the deck of the ship).  At the end of the cruise we can qualify for “exciting souvenirs” depending on how many points we’ve accumulated.  Sound like summer camp cabin competitions where cabins compete with each other over the course of the week to earn points from things like cabin clean up?  Yup.  I thought so, too (except I’d really rather win the Golden Dustpan than a pack of Norwegian Cruise Lines playing cards).  One other such competition involved my cousin in a dance-off this afternoon with 3 other men competing for a free facial and shave.  Nick made it to the dance-off finals, the elimination round if you will, and while he didn’t win the facial, the guy who did win bought Nick a beer.

Interruption:  the lounge singer just switched from a Beatles tribute to “What a Wonderful World” and a handful of ladies in the 80s dance party in the next room over just started yelling.  It’s after 10pm.  This is such a strange place.

Another thing like summer camp:  the staff all really seem like they’re having a good time.  Maybe they’re not, but if so, they are damn good actors.  I imagine the staff of our ship like the staff from Dirty Dancing: making the new girl carry watermelons through random dance parties and other such nonsense—just hopefully no Penny-like “incidents.”

The lounge singer has his mandolin out now and is covering Bruce Springsteen.

Seriously though, we got to see an amazing sunset over the San Juan Islands tonight, and while we can’t see the beautiful Sunshine Coast we’re passing now in the night, tomorrow is the Inside Passage.  And for as much as I might find to tease about this surreal cruising subculture, perhaps it is an invitation for me to not take myself so seriously.  To embrace my inner song-leader, as it were.  We shall see.

And because it had to happen (and I will leave you with this): the lounge singer is now singing “If You Like Pina Coladas.”

Sweetgrass and The Solace of Open Spaces

I stink at titles.  Always have.  Blech.

An emotional day.  Intense conversations.  Big life changes.  Hard stuff.

I tried hard to listen to myself and what I needed after taking part in those conversations: I furiously vacuumed and mopped the upstairs of our house, cleaned the bathroom, took a bath, played my guitar, watched the women’s world cup final . . . Late in the afternoon I decided that I wanted to watch a movie–preferably one where I could cry a lot, but possessed a great deal of beauty and hope.  I landed on A River Runs Through It–one of my favorite short stories and movies ever.  Just watching the beauty of the Blackfoot river (which is actually the Madison River, I believe) is enough to bring me back to center.  The added bonus of a beautiful story and ample opportunities for crying is just icing on the cake.  There was only one problem.

I can’t find my copy of the movie.  Anywhere.

I have this lovely habit of loaning out movies and books that are super special to me because I want to share that which is special to me with others.  But I also forget who I loan them to.  And, that I’ve loaned them out in the first place.  Hence my dilemma this evening.

So, instead I decide to watch this PBS documentary I’ve been wanting to see for a while called Sweetgrass.  The description reads,

An unsentimental elegy to the American West, “Sweetgrass” follows the last modern-day cowboys to lead their flocks of sheep up into Montana’s breathtaking and often dangerous Absaroka-Beartooth mountains for summer pasture. This astonishingly beautiful yet unsparing film reveals a world in which nature and culture, animals and humans, vulnerability and violence are all intimately meshed.

So, not exactly “River,” but it will do.  And let me tell you folks, this is one beautiful film.  There’s no dialogue (unless you count sheep) until about 15 minutes in–which is still a guy talking to a sheep.  Set in SW Montana, the movie is more landscape than anything else.  While the story may center around the cowboys, the landscape tells the story, not the people.  And if you’ve ever been to SW Montana, you know what a story that can be . . .

Unfortunately, there were no opportunities for crying per se in Sweetgrass (I’ll have to figure something out for tomorrow), but it was still a welcome opportunity to do some knitting in the presence of some intense beauty.  It also reminded me of one of my favorite books ever: The Solace of Open Spaces.  The back of the book reads:

Writing of hermits, cowboys, changing seasons, and the wind, Ehrlich draws us into her personal relationship with this “planet of Wyoming” she has come to call home. She captures the incredible beauty and the demanding harshness of natural forces in these remote reaches of the West, and the depth, tenderness and humor of the quirky souls who live there.

I first read this book at another time of significant loss in my life, and I was more than pleased to be reminded of it this evening.  It seemed fitting, and perhaps an invitation to return to these stories about Wyoming.  They are, in essence, stories of resurrected hope.   Ehrlich says in her introduction, “The lessons of impermanence taught me this: loss constitutes an odd kind of fullness; despair empties out into an unquenchable appetite for life” 

Amen.

Hanging out with Gramma

So, I actually wrote this post a few weeks ago and just forgot to post it.  Apparently I’m having a little difficulty with follow through these days . . .

(I intentionally misspelled “gramma” just in case anyone was overly concerned)

An unexpected, but lovely evening with Gram tonight.  We had been trying to find a time when we could go up to visit my brother Aaron’s gravesite (who passed away 25 years ago this month), but I have been just so damn busy (when did I get busy again???) that we hadn’t been able to find a time.  This afternoon I realized that I finally had an evening open so I called up Gram and made plans to head over after work.

She had dinner ready when I arrived–which is not so uncommon as feeding people is one of gramma’s ways of showing care, love and hospitality.  Mind you, it was a rather curious combination of food:  salad, fried ham, spanish rice and steamed zucchini (creative food pairings are alive and well in the Hunt household).  I realized that our pilgrimage was not likely to transpire at this point and pulled up a chair–and a beer.

We began to chat about family, community, conflict, peace-keeping, living the life you actually have, wanting the life you don’t, grief, loss, change, you name it.  I love this stuff.  Inevitably, these conversations make their way back to gram’s childhood in a Bohemian neighborhood in Chicago as the daughter of Polish and Croatian immigrants.  And, invariably, I find myself thinking, “damn!  I need to write this shit down.”  And just as invariably:  I don’t.

And that’s okay, because sitting with gram in these contexts is way more important that taking notes.  But it does make me ponder how much of our history impacts our own story and how much of that history we are completely unaware of.  And how we’re going to lose that history–how we’ve already lost so much of it.  How do we document our family’s story?  How do we document our own?  Does it matter?  I suppose the jury’s still out, but I think yes.

Several years ago, before my other grandma passed away, she put together a family scrapbook of memorabilia she had assembled.  Among the pages was a copy of a letter, written by a female relative on a ship crossing the Atlantic discussing the merits of the temperance movement in the states (see:  feminism is in my blood!).  It was a surreal moment for me to hold those words in my hands, picturing who the woman who wrote it might have been and how her passion so coalesced with my own, a hundred years removed.  Another item featured in the scrapbook was a sermon given by a Methodist preacher (there were many on my mom’s side of the family, apparently) in the 1860s for Memorial Day honoring the Abolition movement and calling on people to continue the fight.  Again. Surreal. Who was this preacher with the audacity to preach such a message in that day and age?  What motivated him?  How did his congregants respond?  Who was the last person in my family to actually know him?  Remember who he was?

I digress (I usually do).  The point is–do we know our story?  Have we bothered to take the time to hear that story from our elders–our community “history-bearers?”  Because if we don’t, we’ll soon miss the opportunity all together.  Consider this a charge to spend some more time with a “history-bearer” in your own life.  Lord knows it’ll be worth it.  We might just learn something . . .

Four (skipping one since Gram had all boys) generations of Hunt ladies . . .

Things you find when cleaning your room: sermons from 2 years ago

I have a tendency to save pieces of paper.  It’s usually because I need to do something with those pieces of paper, but just don’t have time to do whatever needs being done.  So what usually happens is I place the piece of paper on top of the other pieces of paper to be dealt with when I have the time (which never seems to materialize) resulting in “don’t forget me!” piles which I promptly forget about.

So in attempting to clean my room/closet this evening I came across one of these aforementioned piles of paper.  And what fun little unexpected treasure did I find in this pile, you ask?  Well, perhaps not exactly treasure, but most certainly needed and timely for me.  I found the words I’d spoken around communion one Sunday nearly 2 years ago (clearly I’d been avoiding that pile for a long time!), words which I really needed reminding of . . . (which is kind of strange, when you think about it–preaching to oneself in the future? Nutty).

So here they are:

A few years back I was in a Masters program in Montana and loved it. I love school. I’m in my element there—I do well, I feel challenged, the environment is dynamic, the conversation vibrant. I was one of the top students in my program and my professors really encouraged me to think about continuing on for my PhD. I felt so comfortable there, in that environment that I quickly conceded. I traveled around, visited some schools, talked with faculty I’d want to work with and applied.

I didn’t get in anywhere. I was devastated. My professors were confused and chalked it up to it just being a really competitive year. In any case, I was about to finish grad school in just a few short months and had absolutely no idea what I was going to do next. I was directionless, discouraged and frankly, apathetic about things at that point.

A friend of mine, who is a doctor, was moving to New York City that summer and invited me to join her. She said she’d cover rent and utilities, I’d just have to worry about my personal expenses. It sounded pretty appealing to me—I mean, how many chances to you have to live in Manhattan rent free with a really dear friend? I hadn’t decided for sure, but was strongly leaning in that direction when my friends arrived in Missoula for my graduation that May.

Now, about 8 years before that I had been studying in Costa Rica and was bitten by the intentional community bug. I observed a community there, and my friends and I talked about it quite a bit. When I returned home, I continued to talk about it. In fact, for years I used to talk about (only half joking) about moving to Montana and starting a commune where we raised alpacas and knit all day. When all was said and done, however, I more or less gave up on that idea. The older I got, the less feasible it seemed, and I began to let the dream go.

So, needless to say, I was a little floored when my friends showed up for graduation and said, “hey, don’t move to New York. Come back home and let’s start that intentional community.”

It took 8 years from when that seed was planted until I saw any movement in its actualization. And it came when I least expected it, when I’d all but given up hope, and was utterly discouraged about other occurrences in my life. But God was working during that whole time.

And so the Israelites in the desert: they were discouraged, frustrated, irritated with each other and their leaders, feeling aimless and directionless wandering through the wilderness. Yet God provided for them each step of the way and ultimately led them to God’s promised land.

And we as a church are in what might seem like a discouraging place. We might be frustrated and irritated with each other and our leaders. We might feel aimless and directionless. But God is still working in this time.

We need to remember our story. The story of the Israelites and God’s provision is a part of our story. How God has provided for and led each of us individually, such as in that time during grad school for me, is a part of our story. How God has continually, over and over again provided for our church is a part of our story. We talk about our history a lot here at Vibrant because we believe it’s crucial to remember where we came from and who we are and why we are here. We need to remind each other . . .

Remembering is not a passive act. It’s a reclamation of who we are as children of God, it’s a call to action: to have faith, to trust, to hope—to keep walking forward. The prophets continually called on the Israelites to remember . . . and God gives us ample opportunity, both formal and otherwise to do the same. Let us continue to remind ourselves and each other . . .

On the night that Jesus was betrayed . . .

Good Friday Getaway

Good Friday.  A day to observe the death of our lord.  To sit with the pain, suffering and grief of the world knowing that death is a necessary part of resurrection.  A day where Christians around the world sit in quiet reflection and contemplation.

I, however, hopped in a convertible yellow mini with my friend Laura and headed West to the (unusually) sunny and (usually) windy Oregon coast.

This has been a hard week.  Not busy like my life tends to be so much as just walking through really hard stuff with my clients.  Some of the hardest stuff I’ve seen so far at the center.  And, mostly, there’s not a damn thing I can do about any of it.  So I sit, trying to practice what Henri Nouwen refers to as a “ministry of gentle presence.”  But mostly I just feel helpless.

So the idea of welcoming the empty tomb a little early instead of practicing more gentle presence with the cross was irresistible to me–I jumped at the opportunity (hopefully I’ll get around to some of my thoughts around Holy Week this year before too long, but who knows?).

With no plan besides “coast,” Laura and I hopped in the car and headed West over the St. John’s Bridge and Germantown Road.  Before too long the welcome sight of Haystack rock appeared around the corner.  We grabbed some coffee at the Sleepy Monk (great coffee, by the way) and made our way out to the beach.

It was a glorious day. Not a cloud in the sky.  Aside from the wind (which was substantial), it was perfect.

After some good wrestling with the deeper questions of life, Laura and I opted to head North.  I am a creature of habit and my Oregon coast habit is Cannon Beach and Manzanita.  Not so today!  We turned our cute little yellow mini the opposite direction and made our way to Astoria (we figured it could be a Goonies themed excursion).  After a brief detour to Fort Stevens so we could see the shipwreck we arrived in Astoria–and the Ft. George Brewery.

I’m a sucker for yummy beer, so I was a happy camper at Ft. George–aside from the tarantula they had hanging out behind the bar!  Laura in her empathic brilliance started referring to it as a turtle so I wouldn’t get up and walk out of the restaurant–or start hyperventilating at the table.  ”It’s only a turtle” is  now standard code for anything that’s a really big deal but needs a substantial dose of downplaying.  I highly recommend it.

So speaking of downplaying, there is this matter of a bridge in Astoria that’s kind of a turtle for me.  When I was a child we used to go camping in Long Beach, and to get there you had to cross the Astoria Bridge–the Super-Terrifying-Looks-Like-You’re-Driving-Off-The-Edge-Of-The-Bridge-and-Into-The-Water-Which-Then-You-Drive-Right-On-Top-Of-Astoria-Bridge.

I have always hated that bridge.

Well, I mean at least I hated it when I was a kid.  I haven’t been to Astoria in at least 20 years.

Since we’d already thrown the traditional observance of Good Friday out the window, and then habitual tendencies in not going to Manzanita, we figured we might as well drive over that dang bridge.  You will not be the boss of me, silly bridge!

We crossed that bridge not once, but twice, and after watching the sun set over the longest beach in the US we headed back home.

I cannot imagine a more perfect day.

Portland and Reykjavik should be friends

There was a surreal familiarity about Reykjavik, as if I was not in fact so many miles from home, but rather just in a very pedestrian-friendly, fish-loving neighborhood of Portland with over priced clothing shops.  Okay, so maybe I just wanted it to be a little known Portland neighborhood (Portlandia sketch?), but legitimately, there were some significant similarities.

For one thing–the most reliable meteorological phenomenon in Iceland is not in fact snow, as it’s name might lead you to believe, but rather rain–just like Portland!  Grey, gloomy, windy rain is the order of the day in Reykjavik. Luckily for us, we were blessed with particularly strange weather and enjoyed mostly clear, partly cloudy skies each day we were there.

Secondly, there are hipsters EVERYWHERE.  In fact, hipsterism may have originated in Iceland.  No one has the cooler-than-though-aloofness perfected more than the Icelanders.  The critical difference (in my very limited experience) was that this aloofness was merely an initial impression.  Unlike with Portland hipsters whose coolness is directly correlated to their dismissiveness, Iceland hipsters quickly gave way to friendly, playful camaraderie (particularly if there was alcohol involved).

Thirdly, Icelanders, like Portlanders, are absolutely, utterly in every way, convinced that they live in the best place on earth.  They have the best water (true!  Though we’re a close second), best beer (not so true), mountains, bars, food, horses, you name it.  The intensity of this belief goes beyond simply loyalty.

And another thing–Iceland has a tremendous music scene.  A country of no more than 300,000 people (less than the size of Portland) holds annual music festivals, the winners of which are propelled through the European music scene, not to mention all of the music to be found in the cafes and pubs around town.  Icelandic music is nothing short of unique–and wonderful.  We Portlanders, too, are obsessive about our music and homegrown talent (even if much of that talent seems to be transplanted from elsewhere).

Just initial observations, certainly, but enough to make me want to return to spend some more time cultivating this very seemingly natural friendship . . .