 This morning at the gym, I started with my usual warm-up on the treadmill. My favorite one by the front windows was occupied, but the rest were empty. I sighed, then took my place on a treadmill–being sure to leave one in between me and the treadmill in use.
On my way home from the gym, I thought about what an odd practice this was. Why did I feel the need for distance between me and a complete stranger? At the time, I reasoned it would be “weird” to see a row of unoccupied treadmills and to start using the one right next to the only machine that was occupied…but WHY? WHY is proximity considered “weird” and distance considered to be the “okay” or “safer” option? The question has bugged me ever since. I suppose we could blame COVID-19 for making us all a little more concerned with maintaining a “safe distance” from one another. However, I think if we’re being completely honest, we’d admit that our desire to distance ourselves from others was already a practice for many of us long before it was ever a policy. For whatever reason, proximity makes us uncomfortable, and because we human beings don’t like to be uncomfortable, we avoid it like the plague. And yet, in our desire for distance that makes us feel safe and secure (a false sense of security, I think, most of the time), something is lost. And what is lost is relationality. We don’t actually have to relate to anyone we don’t want to. We can exist in our own “lifetime bubbles” and keep the stranger in our immediate vicinity, well, strange. Which only serves to perpetuate the stories we so readily tell ourselves about those around us–that “they” are judging us. That “they” are mooching off the government. That “they” are looking down their noses at us. That “they” think they’re better than we are. That “they” have ill intentions or that “they” don’t want to work for a living. And in the process, our neighbors–those we know and those we don’t know yet–become a nameless, faceless “they”–the people we suspect, not the people we understand. In his book, “I Take My Coffee Black: Reflections on Tupac, Musical Theater, Faith, and Being Black in America,” author Tyler Merritt writes, “Distance breeds suspicion. But proximity breeds empathy.” This is certainly supported in our sacred text. The religious elite never got close enough to those marginalized by their very narrow interpretations of the law to be anything but suspicious of them. They never got close enough to Jesus to really be anything but suspicious of him either. And yet, Jesus always chose proximity–even to the religious elite. He would call out their poor behavior–sure–but he never distanced himself from them. I can’t help but wonder if this was because he believed that real change would only ever happen up close and personal–not through suspicion, but through empathy? On Sunday afternoon I was watching the women’s NCAA basketball match-up between LSU and UCLA. My spouse watched with me for a little bit, and of course, Hank and June (our dogs) were there as well. In our house, we are firmly “pets on the furniture” kinds of people. I mean, we even bought furniture with pet guard fabric when we decided to make a living room furniture purchase a few years ago. So there we were–one odd little family group–all on the same couch–watching a basketball game. My spouse was doing their latest cross stitch project. My dogs–well–the picture says it all. Hank was on my lap (yes, that is nearly as uncomfortable as it sounds–he’s like 75 pounds), and June was right there next to him…leaning in…making it a little weird. As if “next to” wasn’t nearly close enough for our June when it came to her big brother. More and more I think this is how we people of faith are called to move through the world. Not by seeking more distance between ourselves and the world around us, but by leaning in–being as close as possible to the communities we serve AND to the communities whose minds we are hoping to change. Because the best shot we have for building a stronger, more equitable community, I think, is through empathy–by empathizing with the other’s plight, and by experiencing what it is for others to empathize with ours. And we can’t empathize with treadmill-sized spaces existing between us. We must be proximal to each other’s suffering AND to each other’s triumphs if we have a shot at building a community that is not-so-easily divided. So this week, dear reader, take a chance. Lean in. Right where you are, just as you are. Get to know your neighbors–both in the houses next to you, and in line at the supermarket, or slide next to someone new in the pew on Sunday morning. Go ahead. Make it a little weird. Distance won’t serve us now–it will only keep the stranger strange. But proximity breeds empathy, and empathy has never known a stranger–only a friend. Making it "weird" through proximity with you, Pr. Melissa  or the past several years, my spouse and I have planted garlic cloves in the fall, and harvested some pretty amazing garlic bulbs (if I do say so myself) in the summer. Though my family of origin grew many things, we never grew garlic, so the process has been full of wonder and intrigue since we started growing it here.
In the fall, before it freezes, we till up some space in our garden, then place garlic cloves, root side down, into the soil. While we bought the first year’s garlic from an heirloom seed company, we have saved some of our best cloves every year since so that we can plant them again the next fall. Then we take a bunch of the leaves that fall in our yard that I have mulched up and bagged in the lawn mower, and dump them over top of the planted garlic to protect them from harsh winter weather. Then, we wait. What we don’t see–that is pretty awesome to think about–is that right away the garlic gets to work growing. Not above ground, but below it. The garlic roots must get established in the soil before the ground freezes entirely, otherwise, despite our best, above-ground efforts, come spring the garlic will be D.O.A.–Dead On Arrival. Just the other day, we were working in the backyard, and I looked over and saw beautiful, green shoots of garlic poking up from the thick layer of mulched leaves spread on top of it. The green was stark against the still very brown and dark landscape, so it caught my attention immediately. It was a beautiful sight and, as it is so often with nature and me, a beautiful reminder. Perhaps most poignantly, it was a reminder of the importance of establishing roots so that, when the harsh winds, rains, snows, and freezes of life happen–and they will–we are grounded enough to sustain them. For this grounding–this rootedness–to be effective in sustaining us, it must happen BEFORE the freeze. BEFORE the grief settles in. BEFORE the winds of change blow so hard that it feels like it’s blowing straight through us. BEFORE the next bad news story, and BEFORE the heartbreak, the diagnosis, the legislation. BEFORE whatever threatens to freeze us in our tracks happens, our roots must be well-established. Which means that whatever we’re doing today to get rooted in our hearts, minds, and spirits, is what will determine how we withstand tomorrow’s weather. So, my dear readers, I wonder, what is it that you are doing to get rooted today? Personally, I’m concentrating on getting enough sleep to feel rested. I’m studying scripture and I’m reading and I’m showing up to groups to discuss with others what I’m studying and reading. I’m getting regular exercise, and am trying to be more conscious about what I’m putting into my body to fuel it. I’m learning to hand off what I can, to put down what no longer serves me, and to carry the rest, although, admittedly, this remains an ultimate challenge to me. I’m working on balance at home and balance at work, and balancing my need to know what’s happening in the world with what my heart can handle listening to on any given day. I’m checking in with my spouse and my dogs, my family and my friends. And I’m spending time in nature–whether in my backyard, or in Mother Nature’s backyard. And I’m letting it all be prayer. I’m letting it all ground me in the truth of who I am and who I am not. I’m letting it all still my soul and stir me toward action all together and all at once. Our faith offers us such beautiful practices to help us get and stay rooted: Prayer, song, community, connection, rituals, sacraments, and silence. In our community of faith, we have opportunities to serve and learn and discuss and grow. It’s all just built in here for us–if we so choose. But we have to choose it, and choose it over and over and over again. Rooting is not a one and done exercise. For garlic, it happens every day, under the surface of the earth, little by little, pushing down deep before the deep freezes and growth is paused. For us, it happens much the same way. Day by day, doing the inner work that often no one sees, but, little by little, pushes our roots ever deeper into a more constant communion with one another, our truest selves, and the One in whom we live, and move, and have our being. Being able to withstand the harshness of life’s storms begins with being firmly rooted. What is it that you are doing to get rooted today? On the journey with you, Pr. Melissa  Over the past several weeks, I have been getting up earlier than usual and–on three mornings during the week–going to the gym to workout. My workouts begin with 20 minutes on the treadmill at varied speeds and inclines, followed by a full body weightlifting session. I’m not trying to get “ripped” or “buff” or “shredded” or “diced,” I’m simply trying to set my body up to better weather the storms of aging. Plus, my mental health is much better when I move heavy things and sweat.
The other morning I was on the treadmill–my favorite one right by the front windows of the gym–and in one moment, I was huffing and puffing along as I stared out into a dark and grey morning. By the time I looked up again, the sun had emerged over both the horizon and the layer of clouds that was just above it. In an instant I was squinting and smiling as I struggled to take a picture of the scene without falling off the treadmill. Later, when I got home, I wondered about why on earth I felt it so necessary to snap a photo of the sunrise. According to ChatGPT, I have seen 16,660 sunrises since the day I was born (gotta love AI). So why, as I was sweating in my gym socks, did I feel the need to risk life and limb–or, at the very least, my pride–all so that I could get a picture of something I had seen SO MANY TIMES before? The answer I landed on was AWE. In his book, “Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder,” author Dacher Keltner says that “Awe is the feeling of being in the presence of something vast that transcends your current understanding of the world.” If I’m being perfectly transparent, my current understanding of the world has been pretty dark. It has been filled with feelings of overwhelm and fatigue, and just a generalized kind of doom that seems to have taken up residence on my chest, making it hard to get in those deep, centering breaths. And that morning on the treadmill, somehow, something that I had seen 16,660 times before found me in all of that darkness and heaviness, and it was able to transcend it all. That statistically unremarkable sunrise did something remarkable for me: It reminded me that there is SO MUCH MORE. There is more than the little worlds we so often create for ourselves. There is more than our work, there is more than the current fire we are putting out, there is more than the doom scrolling on our phones lets us believe that there is. There is more than our grief, and more than our uncertainty. There is more than our illnesses, and more than our worries and anxieties. There is a presence SO VAST and filled with SO MUCH beauty, that we cannot help but feel different just from witnessing it–even if nothing around us is different. Even if we aren’t different either. 16,659–that’s how many times I’ve likely missed the opportunity to get out of my own little world. 16,659–that’s how many times I’ve settled for nothing more than what was on my phone, or on the news, or waiting in my inbox at work, or even where my calendar told me I had to be. 16,659–that’s how many times my current understanding of the world could have been changed, blown up, or reformed if only I had looked up. If only I had let that presence–the presence I call God–wash over me in whatever moment it found me. If only I had let myself be dwarfed–even if just for a moment–by its vastness. But it only took one time–ONE TIME–to show me the myriad ways I have allowed my world to grow too small. And one time–ONE TIME–to remind me that God’s invitation to more is always available to us. No matter what is happening in the world. No matter how our hearts are hardened. No matter how heavy our chests may be feeling. The presence of God is constantly beckoning us toward lives that are bigger and deeper and wider than those that exist in the little worlds we have created for ourselves. So this week, friends, I pray you pay attention and let the vastness of God find you right where you are, but not leave you there. May you soften into the awe of some moment–any moment–a dog’s sigh, a child’s laugh, the sweetness of silence in a world that seems like it can’t quit talking–something–anything. And then, let it expand your world. Blowing up our little worlds with you, Pr. Melissa  At night I wear a mouthguard. I also wear a CPAP mask, wax ear plugs, and an eye mask to block out any light that might try to break through. It’s like I’m going for total sensory deprivation which, in some ways, I might very well be. Either way, I’m sure this is a very special sight for my spouse. 😉
The mouthguard has nothing to do with my sensory deprivation. In fact, it’s pretty new in my nighttime getup. It all started when I woke up one night in the middle of the night with excruciating jaw pain on my left side. I tried to take care of the pain on my own. I made an appointment with my dentist, but in the meantime was able to get in to see my primary care doctor. After describing the pain to her as an electric shock moving along my jaw on the right side of my face, and her doing a thorough exam, she diagnosed me with Trigeminal neuralgia, a nerve disorder causing chronic pain. She prescribed a drug to use as needed, and encouraged me to keep the appointment with my dentist. Soon, I was able to get in to see my dentist. At that appointment, my dentist was not at all surprised that I was dealing with the nerve disorder. She reminded me that when I first established care with her, she had noted (aloud to me and in my chart) that it appears that I might be a person who grinds her teeth. Teeth grinding, I have learned, is usually caused by stress, and can lead to broken teeth (I had cracked one), and can exacerbate the trigeminal nerve. To stop my teeth from grinding, my dentist fitted me for a custom mouthguard, instructed me to wear it every night, and to continue with the as needed pain medicine my doctor had described. I’ve thought a lot about the ways in which my jaw being clenched and my teeth grinding have caused me great pain, and I’m mindful of all of the ways my heart, mind, and spirit have felt clamped down recently–each clenched and grinding in their own ways. And how, even when it feels like my heart is opening ever so slightly, something will happen that clamps it right back down again. Over and over. At every pass, the entirety of who I am clenches–from stress, from fear, from fatigue and worry. There are countless causes for each of us, I suppose, but the result is always the same. From the closed-off place, it’s easy to “dress rehearse tragedy” or “borrow trouble.” It’s easy to leap to the worst case scenario on everything. That person who cut you off in traffic? Surely they were out to get you. The boss praising your co-worker? Certainly that means they think you're a terrible employee. The news story about some new terrible thing happening in politics? It’s the end of the world as we know it. There’s nothing good. There’s nothing positive. Not. One. Thing. Psychologist Albert Ellis points to this as one of the three errors to human thinking: “When something negative happens, we ignore all the positive that surrounds it.” Everything is “awful” and “terrible,” and there’s not one good thing happening at all. Clench and grind. Now, I don’t think Ellis is suggesting that we all just need to realize the power of positive thinking to get through difficult times. I think he’s saying that the negative parts of life are true, but that is not ALL that is true. The only problem is that we are so closed down due to pain or worry or grief or fatigue, we close ourselves off to anything else–anything positive– reaching our heavy hearts. A Sufi master once wrote, “God breaks the heart again and again and again…until it stays open.” It is this broken, wide-open heart,” Fr. Boyle writes, “that is able to fall into the immensity of the God of love.” In other words, instead of us grinding our teeth, or grinding at work, or grinding ourselves into the ground with worry, fear, stress, or something else, we find our true ground in God who is love. From this place, our hearts learn to open again beyond all that has clamped it shut, and we are mindful of what goodness or positivity remains around us. It’s not an easy thing to do–to get grounded and stay grounded. In fact, over and over again, we must be grounded again. Refreshed in God’s presence and the presence of God in us and the world around us–even when there’s a whole lot of awful begging us to clench and clamp our hearts, minds, and spirits to anything but more pain. There’s so much ugliness and uncertainty in our world right now, but do not be fooled, friends, that is not ALL there is. If you’re willing, God’s at work to break open your heart to the beauty and the goodness that’s here too–it’s always here too. Every moment is begging us to ground ourselves in the God of love in hopes that when we do, we will remember that it is from this love that we came, to this love that we ultimately return, and by this love that we are called to live. And when we clench our jaws, or our hearts, so tightly, we lose this ground and find that all that’s ground up in the process is us. No amount of clenching our jaws or grinding our teeth will get us through these difficult days. Only a supple heart–regularly broken open by God for the love of God will see us through. This week, may you be opened. May you be grounded. Pr. Melissa  I have always seen these photographs in magazines or online of people wearing swimsuits and stocking hats as they get into an outdoor hot tub, under the stars, surrounded by snow. My summer-loving heart has had at least some curiosity surrounding this notion of being warm-ish in the wintertime while enjoying the great outdoors. So I was excited this past week when I could create this winter magic on my own outside, in the snow, under the stars, in my little inflatable hot tub.
What I didn’t know from those photographs is that there is something that happens when you go from an air temperature of 19 degrees to a water temperature of 104 degrees: You lose your breath. Google tells me that this happens because a reflex has been triggered in the airways, causing a sudden dilation and sometimes a slight spasm. During this initial and sudden shift in temperature, the body tries to adjust to the sudden influx of warm air and, as it does, a person can experience something that feels like a momentary shortness of breath. I accentuate that it FEELS like a momentary shortness of breath because while this is, in fact, the sensation we experience when moving from cold to warm temperatures, we aren’t actually short of breath. Our breath hasn’t been lost and it hasn’t been taken away either (despite what the song from the original Top Gun soundtrack would have us believe). What’s actually happening is that our blood vessels are dilating–expanding and getting larger–as a way to help release some of the sudden heat and regulate the body from the inside out. Science did its job, and my body followed suit. After a few intentional, deep breaths, and a few more moments in the balmy hot tub water, my body’s breathing became normal once more. Allowing me to see that what had felt at first like a complete loss of breath was really just a portal into a new reality. I don’t know about you, but lately I have felt short of breath often. Not from the temperature extremes, mind you, but from the sudden shift in all kinds of climates of which I am a part. I am breathless over the shifting political climate and what it means for me and the people I love. I am breathless over the shift in health status many in our congregation have found themselves undergoing recently. I'm breathless over the shift in our capacity to genuinely care about one another without first asking if the other is worthy of such care and support. I am breathless from all of the shifts that cause worry, and breathless from all of the shifts that bring about uncertainty, and breathless from every shift that has brought me to countless sleepless nights. I wonder if you feel breathless too? What I try to remember in times like these is the lesson I learned at the hot tub the other night: My breath is not being taken from me. I have not lost my breath anywhere, it just feels that way. My body is trying to regulate my temperature. It’s trying to bridge the gap between this moment and the next, not by shutting down. Not by making my world smaller. Not by isolating or removing me from reality entirely. My body–and your body too–is trying to lead us from this moment to the next through dilation. Through the growth and expansion of our blood vessels. By the grace of our Creator, our bodies understand intuitively what our conscious selves often do not: Growth and expansion are the bridges we need to help us all move between these moments that take our breath away…even when it feels like we should all just hole up in our own little corners and batten down the hatches until the moment passes. But we don't need less…we need MORE. More compassion. More togetherness. More walking around our neighborhoods with eyes WIDE OPEN to what is needed right now. We need more self care, and more communal care. And more bowing heads in prayer instead of bowing our heads over our cell phones. We need more love and more justice and more tangible evidence that these moments that have left us feeling breathless have not actually stolen the breath of LIFE from us. So, my friends, in these breathless moments–no matter what they are for each of us–let me remind you to take a deep breath. And another. And another. Remember that, despite how it feels right now, the breath of our lungs has not been taken away, it's still here. At our disposal. Helping us expand and grow in ways we didn't even know were possible. Breathe deeply, my friends, and be encouraged. Pr. Melissa |
Pastor Melissa enjoying time on her hammock.
Rev. Melissa Sternhagen
Rev. Melissa Sternhagen was called as the pastor of St. Paul Congregational UCC in June of 2020. Prior to her call to St. Paul, Pr. Melissa worked as a hospice chaplain in the Ames, IA area, following pastorates at rural churches in Central Iowa and Southern Illinois. Pr. Melissa is a second-career pastor with a background in agribusiness and production & supply operations. She received her M.Div. from Eden Theological Seminary in St. Louis, MO, and holds a MA Ed. in Adult Education and Training, and a BA in Organizational Communications. Archives
May 2025
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