Missed connection in India

I had to call India today and I dreaded it.

Actually, I had to call Dell Computers because I need a new CD-ROM drive, but, like many (most?) technology-based companies, Dell has moved its customer service offices to India. Whenever I talk to someone there, it’s a struggle for a variety of reasons. The progressive, inclusive part of my brain wants to be open to discussing my computer issues with them. S/he obviously needs the work, one hopes s/he’s getting paid well (I don’t have time today to go into the fact that jobs are being lost in the U.S. because of this exportation of labor), and every customer service rep is very sincere as s/he tries to help me. But it’s all very forced. They’ve probably been coached on how to respond to customers, been given some instruction on how to make small talk, and attempts are made at humor or empathy, but it’s kind of a hollow conversation and I hang up feeling frustrated.

I suppose I feel that way whenever I don’t make a connection with someone in a conversation, especially if he or she is a person of faith. We both call ourselves “Christian,” strive to follow Jesus in our daily walk and claim him as Lord, but our vocabulary and our viewpoints are a little (sometimes a lot) different. That can be frustrating, too, because we’re both probably thinking, why can’t that person just believe the same things I do? Does s/he know s/he’s wrong? The woman from India probably thought the same thing about me today as she heard my sighs of frustration and less-than-friendly tone over the phone. Building relationships, even superficial ones, can be hard.

There Goes the Neighborhood

Throughout my life, there has always been a house in whatever neighborhood I was living in that drew scorn from the neighbors. It might have been because the owners or tenants didn't keep their house very clean or because they were poor and "not like us." Whatever the reason, it was a good lesson for me on what exactly Jesus might have meant when he told us to actually love our neighbor, even those neighbors who don't cut their grass or have old appliances in their yard.

Our current home had the same issue, though not any more. There was a house in the neighborhood in desperate need of an extreme makeover: the yard was out of countrol, they had Christmas ornaments up year-round, and they had at least a dozen cats running around, too. Living on the North Shore as we do, this house stuck out even more. I kind of liked it, though, (well, except for the cats) because it passed for some diversity in the neighborhood. A few weeks ago, however, the family moved out and it was only a matter of time before the house was torn down and a behemoth of a house took its place, especially since it was on a corner lot. Sure enough, yesterday the destruction started. There's a "sold" sign in front with a rendering of what the new house will look like. I heard it went for around $1.5 million, which isn't outrageous in this area since new houses usually start at $750K-$1 million. It's big and perfect with a putting-green lawn. I'm sure the new family will be pleasant enough. They'll have no cats. They'll probably have a lawn service. All of these things mean property values go up and that is how it should be, isn't it?

I guess I'm not in that camp. I'll miss the house, eyesore that it was. It's hard enough living in this area and being out of touch with a significant segment of society that doesn't have what we have. In a few weeks, a new house will make it even harder.

Thanksgiving pies

I have no way of knowing how my wife feels today. I know people mean well (I confess to doing this, too) whenever they say, "I know how you feel," even when it seems like they're going through a similar situation, but nobody can ever really, really know how another person feels. Those unique pains and joys, though, are gifts.

It's been a little more than two months since Anne's mom died and Thanksgiving is tomorrow and her mom should be baking pies right about now. That was her task and it was her gift. Pies for Thanksgiving. Pies that she would take down to Ft. Wayne, Indiana, where her children and her children's families would spend time with her sister and her sister's children and their families. Over 48 hours, they would spend time out at the bonfire and talk and drink wine and listen to a ghost story and laugh and eat pies. But Anne is making pies this year, along with her sister. She's following her mother's recipe, which I saw on our counter over lunchtime. Her mom sent it to Anne and Anne's siblings a couple years ago via e-mail and there were the specific instructions from what kind of apples to choose (Jonathans) to how long to let it cool. Her sign-off was, "I love you all."

Anne has been peeling green apples all day to get ready. Green apples, the tart kind, the bittersweet kind. You see where I'm going with this. Tomorrow may be more bitter than sweet as her mother's memory will be everywhere. There will be laughter I'm sure and sniffly noses, too, as we share stories and compare notes on memorable thanksgiving with mom/Aunt Gail. The meal may taste different without her there. Tears and turkey probably make an odd mix. But there will be pie.

Generous with change

I like to think I'm a generous person. I/we tithe to the church. I/we support other non-profits like our alma maters, NPR, various cancer organizations, Bread for the World, among others. But when it comes to the small stuff, I'm sometimes a little cheap. I probably too often ignore tip jars and consider it a hassle to tip some in the service industry (like the person who carries my suitcase 5 feet or the person who retrieves my umbrella in the coat check room). That may make me a cheapskate or, worse, insensitive, but maybe after today I will change.

Today was a kind of unofficial kick-off to the whole holiday season for me. The last three years or so, I've participated in the Potbelly's food drive, which means if a person brings in three non-perishable food items for Second Harvest, you get a free sandwich (I'm partial to the "Wreck"). I was buying three cans of soup (the good stuff) to take in and a wave of generosity came over me and I decided to buy a box of mac and cheese, as well. My "generosity" was rewarded. Not only did I get my sandwich, but the guy gave me a free drink, too, because I brought in four things, not just three.

I can't always expect to be rewarded like that for any small altruism I may exhibit, but, for some reason, it convicted me a bit to be a little more giving in my daily life. Not just with change for the coffee shop server, but in other ways, too. Maybe a smile for the Walgreen's cashier who doesn't get to have a tip jar or a "good morning" to people I come across while running (most people have heads down with earphones on). All of these things won't do anything about making sure Congress doesn't cut programs to those in need or housing earthquake victims in Pakistan. Those take a different kind of courage and effort. But while hopefully doing those things, I can't ignore that grace can be amazing in simple ways.

Blowin' in the wind

Each season has its own sounds and the crunch of leaves is perhaps the pinnacle sound of fall. It's getting hard to hear the crunch these days, however, over the sound of the loud hum of leaf blowers.

I can be anti-technology when it's convenient for me and leaf blowers seemed to be taking away a nice tradition of leaf raking. However, I came home on Saturday and Anne eagerly asked me to look out in the backyard. It looked like someone had been doing some raking and that's when she told me that our neighbor had loaned us his leaf blower--Anne appeared to be a quick convert (It's a lot of fun!). I was leery, but agreed to try it on Monday. My reaction was mixed. I will confess that the blower makes gutter cleaning much, much easier. I don't have much of a soft spot for cleaning the cold black muck out of my gutters and the blower got rid of that in no time.

I wasn't overly impressed, though, with the blower on the actual lawn. When I tried blowing the leaves out from behind bushes, it just seemed to blow them to a different spot behind the bushes and I would have to do it again. Blowing the leaves in the open lawn saved a little time, I guess, but it lacks the satisfaction of a rake. With a rake, you feel like you're accomplishing something. With a blower, you're really just making noise, blowing the leaves into the street, maybe blowing them into another neighbor's lawn so he or she has to deal with it. Your neighbor, in turn, gets his/her blower out and blows the leaves right back. Really, then, a blower comes close to breaking the love thy neighbor commandment because how neighborly is it to blow leaves in his or her yard? Consider me, then, a blower agnostic. I'm not sure if I really believe in it or not.

Of course, as much as I wax on about the joy of raking, perhaps my favorite verse in relation to this activity is tied to the parable that Jesus tells about an "enemy" who comes and plants weeds in a field in the middle of the night. The slaves of this household want to pull the weeds. But the owner of the field essentially says, "Let them be." You can argue, of course, that this parable is about the kingdom of heaven. I say it's also about letting leaves stay on the ground.

Learning from our Jewish friends

We had a unique and Spirit-filled worship last Sunday (one hopes, of course, that our service is always Spirit-filled) as we welcomed 60 or so people from Lakeside Congregation, a local Reform synagogue, to our service. Their rabbi, Isaac Serotta, gave the message. Ike and I have established a neat relationship over the last couple of years and this exchange is a fruit of that relationship. I (and others from my church) will be going to Lakeside on Jan. 20 to for the second part of this exchange.

We had a typical service, at Ike's encouragement, including communion which we hope was a way to give our Jewish neighbors some idea of what we do on Sunday. The people from Lakeside seemed to be appreciative of our hospitality. As people were going through the "sermon line" (when people made their way by Ike and me, shaking hands, giving nice comments about the service, etc.), one older gentleman stopped and thanked me for the service. I gave him my token, "It was our pleasure, we're so glad you could come" response, but he held onto my hand, and was silent as if he tried to muster up words and just couldn't. In that brief exchange, I sensed a real appreciation of what we tried to do, but also at least a few untold pains and prejudices that he may have experienced in his long life.

As a white, married, Protestant male with children, I am pretty much always in the majority and, in a sense, always in a position of power. I have little idea of what prejudice is. I can read about it, watch movies, listen to stories and all of that is necessary and helpful. But I'll never know it at its core unless I experience it myself. The important thing is what I will do with my standing in this society. The exchanges like the one we had on Sunday are great, but it's only a beginning. I pray for the courage to do more and stand up to others who have power when prejudice and injustice is evident. Even these words that I type will be hollow if I simply live a life of nice intentions. Intentions must transform into expectations.

Catching leaves, dude

I was pushing my son in the stroller yesterday and we made our way through a large park near our house. As I looked ahead, I saw two teen-age boys running around, diving on the ground, laughing up a storm. Both had longish hair and seemed to be acting pretty juvenile (which, of course, makes sense since that's what they are). My first reaction when I saw them, though, was, "Hmmph, slackers." But then I got closer and when I did, I felt pretty stupid because they were engaging in an activity that has got to be centuries old. They were chasing leaves. They were looking up at leaves that were falling off trees and running around trying to catch them before they fell to the ground. True statement heard: "Got one, dude!"

They paid little attention to me as I walked by, as it should be. I don't know why, but this scene gave me a little hope for the future (I suppose it's every generation's responsibility to cast aspersions on younger generations and wonder about the future of our country/world/society). I figured these guys would be spending their time transfixed by video games and maybe later on that afternoon, they did. But on this particular day, at that moment, they were doing something so simple and so silly and they were having a ball doing it.

Why, oh why, do I make assumptions? Why do I label people upon a first impression? To make it easier on myself? You would think having spent some time in the Bible that I'd learn my lesson. God almost always chooses the least likely people to get his point across. But that fact is as difficult to grasp as chasing a leaf, falling from a tree, blown by the wind.

Mourning my mother-in-law (archives)

From the archives, Sept. 21, 2005

I’ve felt a little off since last Tuesday, Sept. 13. My mother-in-law died on that day, sooner than anyone anticipated. She battled cancer for a few years and the doctors told her in July that she had months to live, but we assumed it would be several months rather than less than two.
It still seems a little surreal that she’s gone and if I ponder it too much, the emotional weight is too much to bear. This is my first real experience of grief in losing a loved one. In my almost-eight years of ministry, I’ve never had a parishioner die a real tragic death. In my personal life, I’ve never had a close friend or family member die prematurely. Three of my grandparents are still alive, in fact, which, I guess, is the advantage of having young parents.
One thing that strikes me is the number of people who ask what they can do. That’s a natural reaction. It’s something that I say when I express my condolences and offer comfort. We want so much to help ease pain and if there’s something we can actually do, so much the better. But there really isn’t. Prayers are obviously welcome and needed. But what I usually tell people when I have my pastor hat on is to call the one who mourns a month or two later and invite them to lunch or a movie or whatever. Ask them then, after the deluge of sympathy has subsided, how they are doing. If they say, fine, ask them again. They may very well be fine, but they may also need some prodding. And then the only thing you can do, but it is such a profound thing, is just to sit with them and be. Listen to them. Try to stay away from pithy Hallmark quotations. Avoid talking about yourself for a time. Just listen, offer them a tissue, and tell them you will be there for them. That is how God’s comfort comes through in the world. Not necessarily in inspired words, but in the intimacy of human contact.