​On Monday I installed a rear view mirror on the left handlebar of my bicycle. I have been wanting to do it for awhile, as I have had more than a few instances of vehicles coming up behind me and either scaring me to death or creating an unsafe riding situation on the road. And, since it rained us out of the garden for a spell, doing the installation on a bonus day off just made sense.

The instructions and the installation itself were fairly straightforward. The adjustment? Well, that’s where things got a little hinky. The instructions said that to adjust the mirror and then lock it down in the proper position, I should take an easy neighborhood ride and adjust for optimal viewing as needed. So that’s exactly what I did. I took a bike ride in my neighborhood. As I rode, I did precisely as instructed. I checked the view in my new mirror, concentrating on getting the angle just right so that I could see what was coming up on my left at any given moment. 

I kept riding and kept fiddling–constantly looking behind me. Which was precisely the problem, I think. Because the more I looked back, the less I looked at what was coming up in front of me. And the less I looked at what was coming up in front of me, the more opportunities arose for a mishap or a complete disaster. While I managed to avoid disaster, the mishaps ensued. In all of my fiddling I narrowly missed the side mirror of a parked car on a nearby street, and I ended up riding over a series of potholes in the road that were simply too late to maneuver around.

As I have thought about the mishaps, I am mindful of how often I do something similar in my own life. I focus on some mistake I made in the past, or how something terrible happened in the past, and before I know it, my eyes are so fixated on what happened before, that I miss what is happening now. Right in front of me. I am so worried about a mistake I made that I’m still kicking myself for that I miss the adjustments that could be made right here and now to avoid repeating the mistake again. Or I spend so much time looking back at how wonderful things used to be before a heartbreaking event happened that I miss all the wonderful happening here and now. Maybe you can relate?

I heard once that God’s name is not “I WAS,” so we needn’t look back with longing or regret. And God’s name is not “I WILL BE,” so we needn’t look forward with fear or anxious energy. God’s name is “I AM,” so our task–every day–is always the same:  To look where we are right now and be as present and open to it as we can be, trusting that God IS here with us. That’s sewn up a little too neatly for me, but it makes sense and has always stuck with me. At any given moment I AM is right in front of us, not in the rear view. Whether we notice that Presence is largely dependent on where we’re looking.

It’s important to glance back from time to time, I think. To see how far we’ve come. To look at all of the days we thought we wouldn’t make it through and did. To remember someone who was there with us but isn’t here with us now. To orient ourselves to our surroundings. But remember, it’s the glances that are beneficial, not so much the gazes. 

There is a great big world unfolding right in front of us, friends, and we get SUCH a better view of that world and all of the creatures in it in each moment…not in some small rear view mirror looking back over our shoulder. Join me in taking it in this week, won’t you?

On the journey with you,
Pr. Melissa

This morning I helped a young man who had accidentally locked himself out of his apartment. He was leaving the house in order to head to work and, as I’m sure many of us have done before (I know I have!), locked the door behind him without giving it a second thought. 

It’s not like he didn’t have a backup key–he did–but the friends who had it were out of town and, despite our best efforts, we were never able to locate it at their house. His landlord is located out of town, and the local maintenance person for the building had a key, but it didn’t open his apartment. So, on to calling locksmiths…who weren’t open yet. When we got a hold of the first locksmith, they wanted $140 to open this young man’s apartment for him. This was a little rich for his (and my!) blood. FINALLY, a local locksmith was able to help him out for a very reasonable rate.

Suffice it to say, my morning was not at all like I had planned. But then again, life rarely is. The alarm you thought you set doesn’t go off. The “shortcut” you thought you were taking to work ends up taking longer than the usual way. You get sick. You get lost. You get double-booked. Whatever it is, in some way or in some form, the apple cart will eventually get upended. And when it does, a lot of times we shut down. Or lash out. Or start connecting random dots that are completely unrelated but since we’re looking for someone to blame for things getting twist-turned upside down it all makes sense (i.e. “if I hadn’t sent that text message this morning to my friend, I wouldn’t have been late to that one corner, and if I hadn’t been late to that one corner, I wouldn’t have tried the shortcut that ended up being a longer route”).

At times like these, our identity as people of faith usually goes out the window. Sure, we might call upon the name of the Lord to make a traffic light turn green more quickly, or to somehow make our bosses later to work than we are, but we don’t often think our faith can be of any service to us in times like these. But what if we’re wrong? What if our faith is exactly what we need when life goes sideways?

Fr. Richard Rohr says, “Faith is not for overcoming obstacles; it is for experiencing them—all the way through!” In other words, the purpose of faith has never been to make our problems or our obstacles disappear. It’s not magic and it was never meant to be. Our faith helps us experience the obstacles without explaining them away or connecting dots that aren’t connected, or finding someone or something that is to blame for our plans going sideways.

The truth, Jacqui Lewis reminds us, is that there is something for us right where we are no matter where we are–IF we let it all play through. She writes, “Right where you are, in the hurt and sorrow, that’s right where the insight is, that’s where the answer is, that’s where the wisdom is. The transformation is there, the rebirth is there. And you’re not alone.” That’s wisdom I hadn’t planned on receiving today, but there it is. Wisdom is here–no matter where “here” is. Faith helps us stay “here” long enough to realize it. 

So, friends, if your day started out like mine–a little sideways, a little off script, or came at you a little out of left field, HAVE FAITH. Not abracadabra faith that will make it all go away, but the kind of faith that lets you experience your obstacle all the way through, trusting that wherever you are is right where God is.

On the sideways journey with you,
Pr. Melissa

I would like to say that the untimely death of my nephew on May 1st found me standing firmly in my faith. I would like to say that, but I won’t because that would be a lie. If I’m being honest, my faith has been a little wobbly.

Because my nephew’s visitation was anticipated to be so large (and it was–well over 350 people lined up to grieve with our family), the funeral home decided the larger, more open church would be the better place for both the visitation and the funeral. So, for 5 or 6 hours last Tuesday, and for 3-3.5 hours last Wednesday, I sat, paced, cried, laughed, and hugged others in a house of faith. This was the same house of faith, mind you, in which I had witnessed my nephew be baptized, have his first communion, and get confirmed. So many happy memories there and, now, this horribly sad one–all commingled in one space.

As I sat and paced and cried and laughed and hugged others, I wondered about faith–my faith, your faith, my nephew’s faith. I wondered if my faith was any good for such a time as this–if it was any good for anything anymore at all. I marveled at how horribly inadequate the answers I thought my faith provided seemed to be at a time like this, and contemplated if those answers had really been answers at all or just things I told myself were solid and true because life was going smoothly. To say that I had questions was an understatement and–even though I preach that God is in the questions–I was beginning to wonder if I actually thought that was true now?

In her book “Plan B:  Further Thoughts on Faith,” author Anne Lamott writes, “I have a lot of faith. But I am also afraid a lot, and have no real certainty about anything. I remembered something Father Tom had told me--that the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. Certainty is missing the point entirely. Faith includes noticing the mess, the emptiness and discomfort, and letting it be there until some light returns.” 

It seems that my uncertainty and my questions have not been faithless, they have been faith-FULL. Filled with pain and questions and doubt and black holes and the physical and emotional messiness of tears. Filled with times when I was so tired that I didn’t even know what day it was. Filled with only the goings on of life in the “grief bubble” that made it seem like no outside world existed. Filled with almost nothing that I could control or bend to my will, and yet letting it all be there without trying to stuff it down or suck it up or soldier on or put some positive spin on it–hoping, believing, waiting for even the tiniest shred of light to find its way through the darkness once more.

One thing I know for sure is that this, unfortunately, will not be the last time I feel shaken to my core. Nor will you, dear reader, somehow escape such moments while on this side of heaven. Faith is not some insurance policy for a “good vibes only” kind of existence. It is not a set of biblical absolutes that feel cold and empty in the face of tragedy, or that offer answers that somehow ring hollow when rung in the face of the inexplicable. It is not always smiling and always looking on the bright side of everything. 

Faith is the holy wafer of comfort that we are offered again and again in the midst of all the spirit-shaking situations of our lives. It is what feeds our will to keep moving forward when every step feels like it is being taken in cement shoes. It is the sustenance that offers us our daily bread–exactly what we need to keep breathing for the next minute, the next hour, the next day. Faith understands what we sometimes do not:  That everything doesn’t happen for a reason, but everything does happen. AND even the longest streaks of rainy days eventually come to an end. Even the most uncomfortable moments do not last forever. Even the darkest of the darkness is eventually met with light.

I don’t know about you, but for me, that’s a faith that matters. That is a faith that is relevant to the messiness of my everyday life–that is useful to what I really deal with–not what some cleaned up version of myself deals with. It is a faith that may not hold many answers, but one that makes space for all of my questions and doubts and musings all the same.

So I guess I’ll let others “stand firm” and be certain. I choose to keep cultivating the kind of faith that’s big enough for my questions--that's wide enough for all that I cannot explain. I choose the kind of faith that leaves enough room for me to wobble a bit.

Growing in a wobbly faith with you,
Pr. Melissa

​This past Saturday morning I was desperate to get as much done as I possibly could before the storms began to roll. I got up early, walked the dogs, had coffee on the porch, and then took off on my bike for a ride. I still had errands to run out of town, but at least, I thought, I would have gotten in my ride and I wouldn’t sit inside during the storm thinking of the opportunity I had missed to get in a ride. 

The morning was fantastic. The sun was shining and the air was sticky and warm from early spring. The wind, at that point, was just a breeze, and at various points of my ride the scent of lilacs in full bloom was wafting. 

The trail was damp in some places, but nothing too terrible, and I met a few other people along the way who were also seizing the mild morning to get in some recreation and exercise. One woman rode her bike in the opposite direction as I was headed. A man on a bicycle did the same–both of the smiling and saying, “Good morning!” as they passed. A younger woman walked the trail with her unleashed dog. The dog was some kind of “doodle”--something I was certain was mixed with a poodle–and was happy to be out and free and smelling all the smells.

At one part of the trail I was all alone in a more wooded area. As I coasted down a small incline, I looked ahead and saw a BIG, beautiful doe walking across the trail before me. I nearly stopped in my tracks. She was magnificent, and I swear that she paused as she crossed to look me square in the eyes. And, just like that, as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone. 

I distinctly remember having a sense of remorse that I hadn’t stopped, taken my phone off of my arm band, and snapped a picture. As I continued to ride, I wondered about that feeling–that impulse–to record this special moment. Why did I want the picture? Was it so that I could share it to social media? I think so. I think, if I’m being honest, there’s a part of me who feels like something didn’t really happen if other people don’t know about it. Maybe you understand where I’m coming from?

Where my thoughts eventually led me was to an understanding that had I stopped to take my phone off my arm band, I would have missed that doe looking me in the eye. I would have been distracted from her magnificence and the special bond that only she and I shared in that moment. I would have missed a sense of feeling like I was really a part of something so much larger than myself, and how that moment with that deer on the trail was the most seen I had felt in a while. In my desire to capture the moment forever, I would have missed it entirely–missing ALL the awe and wonder that one bike trail could hold. 

In his book “Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How It Can Transform Your Life,” Dacher Keltner writes, “Awe is the feeling of being in the presence of something vast that transcends your current understanding of the world. Tears, then, arise when we perceive vast things that unite us into community. Awe is about our relation to the vast mysteries of life.” 

I can’t help but wonder as I look back on that moment, how many times I have missed out on awe and all the connection and relationship that it brings for a picture that will probably just sit in my phone or in the cloud (wherever that is) forever? How many times have the vast mysteries of life and my relation to them literally been right in front of me and I’m so busy playing something over again in my mind for the 500th time, or planning for how I’m going to get the next thing on my to-do list done that I just miss it? How often is God standing just down the path from me–in a doe’s eyes, in a bird’s call, in a stranger’s greeting, in the excited wiggles of some kind of doodle, in the scent of lilacs in full bloom? How often do I miss the transformational power of unexpected, unplanned, everyday awe because I’m staring down at my phone?

Sadly, I think more times than I care to count. But I want desperately to have more moments in my life filled with awe. And I don’t think I–or you–have to go on some big soul-searching trip to some exotic place to find them. I think they’re here–right in our path. And if we just look up, and give our phones our rest, maybe we can give our minds a rest too, so that we can rest in the Presence of something far wilder and more expansive than our current understanding.

No image available this week because my heart, mind, and soul were so available to the moment. I pray we all find more moments like that. 

Pr. Melissa