Being Liturgist

I do not know the actual statistics but I know that more people would rather observe their own funeral than stand up somewhere and speak. In the top ten list of fears, public speaking always comes out as number one.

It's not my number one fear, but it's up there. So that's why I can confess to a little nervousness about beginning my month-long stint as liturgist in my church.

I rotate with Jay, Joe, John, and Matt. They all do an awesome job and regardless of which one I follow, I have that deep fear that the congregation is going to be disappointed.

When my minister asked me to join the rotation, I (for a moment) thought he might be confusing me with someone else, then I thought he might be kidding. I have finally figured out that he is amazing with figuring out what the church needs and also helping with individual growth.

When I say, "I am not worthy." He says, "No, you're not. Do it anyway."

In less than 24 hours, I will be liturgist. I will do it this month and several others next year. I have written my prayers, read my bible passages and certainly prayed for guidance.

Hypocrisy? Sometimes. Always. I know I sin. I suspect you do too. I suspect the clergy I adore and respect (current & former) do too. I love the story about the man wagging his finger at a church-going man with "Why would I go to church? It's filled with hypocrites!" And the answer is, "Isn't that the best place for us?"


What gets me through it is this. I am not public speaking. I am doing a public service for my Lord.

(This sounds so holier than thou and I don't know how to fix it!) Please muddle through and see the bigger message: Be involved! Join a house of worship!

And Where Does the Apple Fall?

For those of you without a sense of humor or a sense of irony, I strongly advise you to come back another time. This story is not politically correct. But, it is true and it embodies the connectivity of parent and child -- even with a wicked sense of humor.

You've been warned.



The Humane Society of Indianapolis sent out a plea last weekend. It was on twitter and facebook and sent to those of us on the email list. The food pantry was bare. Like food pantries that many people rely on to feed their families, this pantry helps families keep beloved pets fed.

I knew what I could do. And I knew my parents would help. So, on Sunday morning, my dad and I are loading my trunk with pet food before services. As we walked into church, he said, "Your mom and I can't stand the thought of an animal in need." We started talking about how the commercials with lonely/lost/hungry/abused animals make us crazy. And he said, "We just turn the channel. Can't stand it." I agreed. I'm johhny fast on the remote myself.

As we walked through the parking lot that led us to worship, my dad said, "Those commercials with the starving children don't bother me nearly as much."

At that moment, I knew the apple had not fallen far from the tree.

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Note from author: I beg of you friends. My father would put his life on the line for any child, any dog, any person. Please see the humor and know that I am not showcasing him in any other way.

Sunday School

With a nod and a thank you to my friend Jay Flora, I will tell you something he said in Sunday School this morning.

"I used to get up a little early to attend Sunday School, but I was really there for the worship service. Now, I get up early to go to Sunday School and I hang around for the worship service."

My apologies to Jay for the paraphrasing.
My parents dragged me, kicking and screaming, to Sunday School. Really? Don't I do enough? Don't I volunteer for every event? Don't I show up for most of the big stuff?
I went to my parents' Sunday School class and it was wonderful for a while. Then I sought out my own. My own age group, a different agenda, a different conversation.
I love my minister and I love worship. But like Jay, I embrace the intimacies of Sunday School. I think we really helped Karen and Terry last week (thanks to Lori) and I think we collectively hold each others hands and hearts.
Sunday School means I came for worship but right now, in this group, I'm here for you.

Just Beneath the Surface

Some people are stoic. Or good actors. Or totally in control of their emotions. I am not a member of any of these clubs.

Regardless of the emotion, I have no control. I have broken into hysterical giggling at church and even had a couple of Mary Tyler Moore moments at funerals. During the children's portion of worship last Sunday, one of our boys developed an amazing fascination with his genitals.

And I can cry for no reason or every reason. The best thing about showers is the ability to cry and no one can hear you. I cry at touching commercials or songs that remind me of fun times, bad times, people I miss, etc. That commercial with the dogs in shelters sends me running for the Puffs.

Today is my 47th birthday. As much as all my Facebook friends think I'm hung up on the age, I'm not. In a weird way, I like my age. I'm certainly proud of my accomplishments and old enough to know I've lived (so far) an extremely blessed life.

When my stepson (I HATE calling him that!) was little, we would say our prayers. When we would get to the "God bless so and so and so and so" he would be so exhausted just trying to get through the list. I cherish that memory and I hope he does too. I also hope he still says his own version of that prayer. His statement to me, "I have so many people that love me" resonates with me today. Cards, Facebook notes and more have made my day.

Vanity is supposed to be wrong and I guess it is. Where do we draw the line? Am I not supposed to notice that I've aged 10 years in the last year and 1/2?

I've laughed today. I've cried in the shower -- mainly because of one email that reminded me of what was. Every emotion has reared its beautiful and ugly head.

It's my birthday and I'm embracing the emotions.

Joys and Concerns

I am starting a new book, Secrets of Eden by Chris Bohjalian. He wrote Midwives, one of the few Oprah book selections I enjoyed.

And it starts with this:

As a minister I rarely found the entirety of a Sunday service depressing. But some mornings disease and despair seemed to permeate the congregation like floodwaters in sandbags, and the only people who stood during the moment when we shared our joys and concerns were those souls who were intimately acquainted with nursing homes, ICUs, and the nearby hospice. Concerns invariably outnumbered joys, but there were some Sundays that were absolute routs, and it would seem that the only people rising up in their pews to speak needed Prozac considerably more than they needed prayer.

I practically had to break my fingers to stop myself from calling my minister. Look at this! Read this!

We do joys and concerns in my church every week. Some people love the microphone and some people share very intimate, gory details. I embrace learning about people who need prayers but I am mindful of those who never raise their voice. I rarely take the microphone but I'm not above planting myself in our minister's office and bawling my eyes out.

Joys and concerns is a weekly audio newsletter. Sometimes it's messy; many times it's too much information. Often I don't make eye contact with anyone because my eyes are rolling out of my head. More often than not, it makes me put silly issues in perspective.

And here's the next part of the book:

On those sorts of Sundays, whenever someone would stand and ask for prayers for something relatively minor -- a promotion, traveling mercies, a broken leg that surely would mend -- I would find myself thinking as I stood in the pulpit, Get a spine, you bloody ingrate! Buck up! That lady behind you is about to lose her husband to pancreatic cancer and you're whining about your difficult boss? Oh, please!

As my minister pointed out on Sunday, we are blessed that we can't read each other's minds.

That doesn't mean we don't carry each other's joys and concerns all week long.

Looking Back; Looking Forward

There's nothing wrong with walking along memory lane. It adds perspective and let's face it -- it's fun. But lately, I am trapped on that street. Time may not heal things but it's supposed to add perspective. I'm not sure about that either. With me, it's much easier to get wrapped up in the good times, the easier times, the days that I thought all was right with the world.

This is why we have girlfriends.

And parents. And dogs.

Did I mention I had a date last night with the love of my life? The man I have shared most of my adult life with and the man who is capable of evoking every emotion and feeling with a glance or a touch...

Scary stuff for the faint of heart.

I recently plopped myself in my minister's office. I pretended to talk about committee stuff for a while until I gathered the courage to ask him (again!) for guidance about my marriage and impending divorce. Like all talented and well-schooled counselors, he was useless. I believe he said, "You're looking for me to tell you what to do and I can't do that." (He's not useless -- that was a joke!)

What he said, and it resonated, was this:
"You've already made your decision. You just need to act on it."

Yes, I do know it's time to look to the future. I may never love another man the way I loved this one.

But who knows? Maybe some really good stuff is out there once I choose to look forward.

Grab a Shovel

Growing up, I was used to my parents saying "no." Now I live with them again and we play the fun game of saying "no" to each other. I try to be the Food Nazi; occasionally I get to be the teenager (at 46!) in this home. I recently spent the night with a girlfriend -- dog in tow, not a danger in sight -- but my dad told me the next day that we need to revisit the curfew discussion. We will decide if I am allowed to have overnight camps when I am 50.

There are times when God says "no." Frankly, we all should know that but we continue to bargain in prayer.

Please, God, make it right.

And of course, we mean right to us, at that moment, not necessarily right for our lives or His plan.

Most of us wait for some big, huge, life-altering sign from prayer. The odds are pretty good that we won't be the chosen one who gets the burning bush or the parting of the sea. In the quiet moments, we might get the realization that we're praying really hard for something and the answer is no.

One of my dad's favorite sayings is, "If you pray for a garden, you'd better grab a shovel."

There's also the folklore tale of the olden country village, stricken with drought and holding a revival for a rain dance. (Every oldie in the world has told this story. Movies have been made about it.) The rain comes at the end.

Nobody brought an umbrella.

When Your Presence Is the Present

We all get in situations where we are asked to attend something we would rather not. Maybe we have something more fun to do. Maybe we just flat out, don't want to go. Maybe you're like me and your mother pokes and prods and reminds and uses guilt trips until you just do it so you don't have to hear about it anymore.

It can be anything: a wedding of a coworker, a business dinner for a spouse, a hospital or nursing home visit that feels uncomfortable, a committee meeting that you know will drag on forever...

I'm getting better at setting boundaries for myself. I say no more often than I used to. But I will always be the person who can usually slip into the other person's shoes and ask myself, "Is this important to do?"

Yesterday while I served as liturgist during our worship service, I saw two faces that don't normally attend our church. They were there simply to support me.

Their presence was a gift that I cherish and I thank them.

Oh, %#*#@!!!

The other day I received an email from my girlfriend and she told me about her rotten day. Later she forwarded an email she received from her company's email techies -- seems they frown on using expletives on the company email. It is such a part of my vernacular that I didn't even notice it in the email.

I know better. I was taught (by parents, teachers, adults I admire)that swearing was unladylike and a cross between laziness and ignorance. I failed that lesson and I fail it often. (Although I am extremely careful around children and in business situations.)

There's an article in this week's Time magazine that quotes a study in the journal NeuroReport. The study found that cussing does more than vent frustration; it can actually reduce physical pain. The example used is women giving birth are far more likely to blurt out a choice cuss word -- or a string of them -- when the same woman would never use such language on a regular basis.

In a moment of complete insanity, I volunteered to serve as liturgist in church this Sunday. My recurring nightmare is flubbing something and then dropping the F bomb.

I won't. But my peon brain is having a party making me think about the possibility. I'd really hate to have to find a new church.

Don't Look Ethel!

Appropriate is a lovely word. It rolls off the tongue easily. It sits nicely in the gut or the soul until someone or something nudges: "Made you look!"

Like the truth, appropriate is self defined. For all our sakes, I'll err with brevity.

I am truly bone tired of the following:

Doing a visual inspection of anyone's tattoos.

Diverting my eyes and struggling to understand a conversation because a tongue implement has now become a speech impediment.

Guessing the circumference of any upper thigh area that I should not have to see.

Wondering why anyone would be so disrespectful to wear that (fill in the blank) to church, a funeral, a job interview, a dinner party, or anywhere in public.

I am a great fan of, "To each his own." Do it, live it, celebrate it.


Everything has its place. You can have it. Please don't make me look at it.

Mothering

One of my favorite stories is when a girlfriend and her husband told their daughter the facts of life ... the details of how a baby comes into this world. Her response was an incredulous, "You did that for me?!"



This morning in church, the young children handed out carnations to the mothers in the congregation. I hesitated on whether or not to raise my hand.

I did not birth children. Whenever someone asks me if I have children, I always feel a bit like a fraud if I answer "yes." I do, but I share them. I did not go through the normal channels of:

First comes love,
Then comes marriage,
Then comes Sheri pushing a baby carriage.

My minor medical issues could've been overcome. But I also had enough brain cells clicking to ask myself, "Is this really the man you want your children to spend every other weekend with?"

Then I met and married the man I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. His two children became mine. Because I was given that gift. Because I grabbed it and craved it. Because I was taught by example that a mother's love comes from many who mother.

This afternoon I was still reflecting on mother's day, my goddaughters, the many women who have been a blessing to me. I was working myself into a pretty good funk about coulda, woulda, shoulda ...

My phone beeped and I read this text:

"Hi Mom. Happy Mother's Day. I'm at my cousin's graduation and I'll call you later."

Happy Mother's Day to me.

"Children love me. I'm the best mother they never had."
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