Monthly Archives: October 2013

I Have Regrets

Posted on by
11

1971-06-25-life-ad-baby-oil-ali-macgrawThat first perm comes to mind,
followed by twenty years of scrunch and fuzz
and photographs I’d like
to bury in the backyard.

And all those summers
at the beach, my pink,
immortal skin glazed
with baby oil. That was
a mistake for sure.

Also I should have listened
to my father when he said
beware of credit cards
and check the engine oil
now and then.

There are of course darker offenses:
affirmations undeclared
encouragements withheld
anger unleashed.

Yes, I have regrets.

But not among them
is that brilliant afternoon by the bay
when the preacher said Do you,
and we said Of course, though

we could not have known then
all that our vows
would supply and demand.
Even so, years later

as I consider this life we have made,
my prevailing regret
is that this blasted thesaurus
doesn’t contain a word

coming anywhere close
to the relief I feel
in knowing you and I
belong to each other.

Chuck It/Love It: #1

Posted on by
9

IMG_1206As anyone knows who’s been around Church for more than twelve minutes, the whole thing is a seriously mixed bag. I’ve been a pastor for twenty-seven years and every week I have two alternating thoughts:

This is the best life imaginable!
and
Could I make it as a barista?

This I know for sure: Every church on the planet includes some of the pettiest, crabbiest, gossipiest people who ever drew a breath. And every church on the planet includes people whose faith and generosity and down-to-the-bone kindness make God, I’m sure, want to go galloping Gangnam style up and down the golden streets.

So in honor of this crazy duality and in acknowledgment of my ongoing, simultaneous desire to chuck the church off the top of Sears Tower and plant a big, sloppy kiss on its beautiful, pimply forehead—I offer today the first installment in the Chuck It/Love It series.

Entries are from my journal and span twenty years and three churches in California, Texas and Georgia. Names and identifying details have been tweaked.

CHUCK CHURCH
Today somebody slipped a copy of Sunday’s worship guide under my office door, covered in notes made with a red pen:
You need to tell the teenagers not to talk during the offertory.
Too many announcements today. 
The chandeliers need dusting.
The benediction was four minutes late.

No signature. Just, “A concerned church member.” 

The next sound you hear will be me banging my head against the nearest tree.

On the other hand . . .

LOVE CHURCH
Last night a woman in our congregation, Lydia, graduated from Hope House after completing her residential treatment program for alcohol addiction. I was thrilled and honored to be invited to the celebration, which basically consisted of an A. A. meeting followed by cake and punch.

There were maybe twenty people there. No one was smoking but there was a thick smell of smoke in the air. The woman in front of me clutched a package of Pall Malls as if it were a life preserver. She’s been at Hope House two weeks.

As the honored graduate, Lydia got to lead the meeting.
Hi, I’m Lydia and I’m an addict.
Hi, Lydia!

So this is an A. A. meeting, she said. But mostly I want it to be a gratitude meeting. Would anyone like to share some things they’re grateful for?

A young woman named Moira described what a calming presence Lydia’s been in her life. I told Lydia how grateful I am that she’s part of our church and that she’s a gift to all of us. D’Shauna, who has a gazillion piercings, including a pencil-size spike through her chin, announced that Lydia’s pep talks have pulled her back from the brink more than once.

Then Kari stood up, who’s also at our church and one of my favorite people on earth.
Hi, I’m Kari and I’m an addict.
Hi, Kari!

She said how much she loves Lydia’s courage and kindness and amazing hugs. Then Kari, an avid runner, said:  “I was jogging over the freeway overpass this morning. And as I did I thought of how, not that long ago, I used to want to jump off that overpass. And now, thanks to my Higher Power and my church family, that’s the farthest thing from my mind.”

I love Church.

And here in dust and dirt, O here
The lilies of His love appear.
~ Henry Vaughan

I Am From Unhurried Talkers

Posted on by
15

Julie and her brother, 1964.I am from unhurried talkers and folktale weavers, from Sunday school-goers and jailhouse dwellers. I’m from Southern indirectness and civil religion, from Bless your heart and God’s on our side.

I am from wooden clothespins
and sheets smelling of sunshine.
I am from coal dust, home brew
and the company store.
From “be a sweet little girl”
and “that’s not ladylike.”

I am from Big Penn, Bahbra-Ann
and darling Brother.
From Grandpas that burned in the mine
and Grandma-That-Goes-To-Work.

I’m from the Air Force vagabond life,
the seven-schools-in-ten-years life.
From commissary groceries
and “Oh, say can you see” before the movie begins.

I’m from Little Golden Books and Green Eggs and Ham,
from the Itsy Bitsy Spider and Zacchaeus was a wee little man,
from Laura Ingalls Wilder and Trixie Belden by flashlight.

I’m from giving my life to Jesus during Mission Impossible.
I am from Mom’s sweet piety and Dad’s pack of smokes,
from John Three Sixteen and nickel slots at Tahoe.
I’m from hold-em-under baptisms and grape juice thimbles,
from lowbrow hymns and Evangelism Explosion.

I am from anxious and butterflies and nail-bitten hands.
From straight-A’s and can’t do pull-ups,
from “mentally gifted” and chubby thighs.

I’m from Goo Goos and Yoo Hoos and ice-cream-headaches.
From Vitameatavegamin and the Three Hour Tour.
From hot rollers and halter tops and green shag carpet.

And oh mama, I am from vinyl. From 33’s and 45’s
and a dime on the needle so it doesn’t skip. From Abby Road
and American Pie, from Doobies and Eagles and Carlos Santana.

I’m from the warm-bath ocean and the not-even-in-a-wetsuit ocean.
From Redneck Riviera and Giant Sequoias,
from orange blossoms and oleanders and Steinbeck’s vineyards.
From Louisiana lush and San Joaquin baked.

I am from open arms and waiting laps, from sugar baby,
sweetie pie and Love you before hanging up.

I’m from Give all of yourself you can to all of the Christ you know.
From Grace abounds 
and from God’s got your back.
From Death, where is your victory?
and The greatest of these is Love.

I am from all of this and acres more.
But today, as leaves come down and memories rise up
and the bulldog sighs under the table . . .
what I’m mostly from is Gratitude.

This is part of the SheLoves synchroblog “I Am From”.  
Jump in with your own story!

You Wore Hotpants

Posted on by
Reply

il_570xN.156101663Hip-huggers as I recall
with a peace sign
belt buckle riding low.
So altogether different
from the other sixth grade teachers
in their cardigans and tweed.

You were radiant in paisley,
colossal hoops swinging
from your earlobes,
calves planted like tanned
warriors in white vinyl boots.

Even your name signaled
change in the air.

Call me Ms. Petker
you announced to the class.
Mizzz Petker.
Not Mrs, not Miss.

Dear, splendid Ms. Petker:
for all I know the principal,
cowed by your greatness,
showed you the door come June.

For all I know Mister Petker
was a dictatorial oaf in his boxers
demanding another beer.

No matter.

You were a herald,
a seer, a torchbearer.
You taught us the active voice,
the topography of California
and R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

I waited my turn,
polite like I’d been taught,
then raised my hand.

You held my trembling fingers
and curled them
in the shape of a fist.

Sock it to me, Ms. Petker.
Sock it to me.
Sock it to me forever.

© Julie Pennington-Russell