Goodbye to a Classroom

I can be overly-sentimental...but I try to keep my emotions in check and not react too much when I'm facing an emotionally-volatile situation.

I felt a weight today as I cleaned out a classroom at church. The preschool who rents our building is growing and needing more space (good for them). They are adding this room at the end of July (not good for me). 

Oh, I'm sure we'll survive and I can "simply" adjust classrooms, volunteers, pencil boxes, classroom bins, toys, supplies, routines and schedules. The church will benefit a bit monetarily and the preschool can expand, but it sure feels like a loss to me.

I took posters of scriptures down from the walls, cleared North Fresno Church kids' faces from bulletin boards, removed a kid-friendly world-map and peeled labels off the inside of cabinets.

I may "rent" this room again on a Sunday morning but the atmosphere will be one of of a preschool not a classroom dedicated to teaching children about Jesus.

I warned you I'm in a melancholy mood.

I'm sure I'll get over it soon enough, but today...

    ...I'm frustrated,

    ...I'm angry,

    ...I'm defeated,

    ...I'm sad.

Goodbye Room 203 with your south-facing windows, sink, and built-in cabinets. I will miss the sunshine pouring in on a Sunday morning and a sink to wash my hands with my own lavender soap. Simple, insignificant things indeed.

Goodbye. 

Redemptive Hospitality

 

Tonight I stepped into a church that I had not entered in 35 years. 

Our cities of Fresno and Clovis are in the middle of a season of prayer - 21 Days of Prayer in fact. One  tradition that has become a January staple during this season of prayer is the chance to visit different churches every night to pray for our cities together. 

Tonight's service was at Crosspoint Church.

I was a bit distracted heading to the service. I rattled off the cross-streets of the church to Bret and we drove and chatted all the way there. It took me until we were turning off Cedar to realize we were about to pull into the driveway of (what used to be) Harvard Terrace Baptist Church.

My family moved to Fresno in 1983 when my dad became the pastor at Harvard Terrace. My brother, sister and I (pictured above) were sad to leave our family in LA, but were quickly adopted into the warm Southern Baptist community. Many people in the congregation became our adopted grandparents. 

This picture was taken in 1985 to celebrate the day I was baptized. The following year, 1986, life would change and I would receive my first reality check on the health of the Church at the young age of nine.

I don't know all the details because I was so young (I'm in the blue dress), but piecing together conversations, all  my brother, sister and I could figure out was that our Dad was going through a spiritual awakening and the church didn't like it. He began dabbling with topics like prayer, spiritual gifts, healing and worship (with a guitar, not the grand piano or organ no less!). He began encouraging the singing of chorus not just hymns. My dad had been to a Signs & Wonders Conference with John Wimber and was learning to pray for people and learning chords to Vineyard music. I remember hearing him sing and play when I went to bed and again when I woke up. Something was alive in him and the three of us could see it.

From a 9-year-old's perspective, my understanding of the messiness of church was limited (thankfully so). I'm sure there was even more to the story than worship and the Holy Spirit (maybe not!), but what transpired between my dad and the leadership of the church/denomination ended in his termination - or as he explains it, he was led out the backdoor, but when he turned around the door was shut and locked.

As children, we lost grandparents that day. We lost our community. We lost our friends. Why? Because the board - the denomination - did not agree with the vision of their young pastor. My sister, brother and I refused to believe that our dad (our family!) had been fired. We walked our familiar path to church Sunday morning by ourselves, certain we would not be disappointed. 

Instead of warm hugs and a welcomed embrace, we were turned away. The three of us sat on the curb and cried.

I've never stepped foot in that church again, until today.

Our Prayer Night was at Crosspoint and, like I said, I hadn't put the church together with Harvard Terrace until we arrived. I was excited to go in to see how much the church had changed. Walking in we were greeted by friendly people from a variety of ages and ethnicities (that was different than the last time we were here). Inside, the pews were gone (no surprise) but the set-up was the same. Same center stage. Same lower ceilings on the two sides. Same door frames and windows (actually the glass was more clear, it used to be gold), same baptistry (where I was baptized!). Structurally the church was the same...but the people, the paint, the energy, the atmosphere - wow - much different.

What I loved most was that the congregation beautifully reflected it's neighborhood. 

Then worship began. The congregation began singing, people raised their hands and I began to cry. Part of me felt like I was seeing my dad's prayers from 35 years ago - worship and prayer were happening under the same roof that shut it down.

Nothing monumental happened, it was simply a beautiful night of worship and prayer with men, women, youth, and children at Crosspoint Church where we prayed for our cities and worshipped God. But for me, I received the greeting and welcome I wanted as a child. My little self was welcomed and I felt the healing balm of the people of God soothe a wound from so long ago. Singing Vineyard worship songs with arms lifted in the building where my dad was fired for singing Vineyard songs and praying was absolutely incredible. 

I'm grateful for this community of believers who are loving their neighbors and welcoming the broken into their church family. 

Crosspoint Church, thanks for offering your beautiful worship, for leading us in prayer, and especially for your warm hospitality. 

May the Spirit continue to be at work within the Churches of Fresno/Clovis so we can better be God's representatives outside of our church walls.

Sometimes I Wish I had Never Learned to Fly

The ostrich is known to be the largest flightless bird. 

I've often wondered if ostriches wish they could fly. 

If they experienced flight, would they still be content walking along the ground?

Years ago I had the opportunity to learn to fly. I learned to steady the plane and watch for distress. I learned to watch for potential turbulence, adjust speed and elevation during a storm, and even gain flight time on exceptionally windy days. I learned the meaning of the colors on the control panel and learned to distinguish the planes variety of sounds, whistles, and warnings. I learned to communicate with other pilots mid-air and I learned the importance of constant contact with the control tower. I learned to seek out the jet stream and let the pneuma guide my flight. I learned to identify my longitude and latitude position in flight, as well learned to plot my destinations, my duration of flight, and my approximate estimated time of arrival. I learned to make adjustments of weather, temperature, and seasons. I learned to schedule take-offs and landings to ease passenger's comfort, safety, and/or maturity. 

Oh, how I loved to fly. 

I'm beginning to learn, however, that flying has become a curse more than a blessing. Just like the ostrich, perhaps if I had never experienced flight, I would not know what I was missing. I could have been perfectly content with two-feet-on-the-ground. But now? After flying? 

I use to think that giving people experiences was a good thing. My second-half of life realism tells me, however, that some experiences only set me up for prolonged disappointment. Perhaps disappointment turns into memories of the past. But can a person who has flown be content to be ever-grounded? Can flying simply become a good dream?

I have an entire shelf of books on "flight." Perhaps it is time to pack away the books so I won't be reminded of my time in the sky.

Sometimes I wish I had never learned to fly.

I am ruined.

Discontent.

Frustrated.

To be grounded is to eat crumbs off the table while others feast on fresh bread. 

God, help me be content. Keep my eyes from looking into the sky. Let the crumbs fill me and my two walking feet satisfy. If I'm not to fly again, please replace my desire to fly with something attainable - a new goal, new idea, new vision. Open my eyes to joy around me so I can be happy on the ground.  

I wish I had never learned to fly.

Overwhelmingly Sad

**Written originally on February 6, 2018 at 10:16 pm, but never published**

  

I am just two days away from my last day at Loma Vista. It's been home for me and my family for over 13 years - now it will suddenly be over.

My journey of departure has been long. Little parts of me have been dying for years now. Only recently had I discovered so little of me remained alive. Authentic Connie has ever-so-slowly been slipping away. So subtle, only people closest to me have noticed.

The two things that most stirred this decision:
1. To be in a place where I can be authentically me.
2. To be able to follow God in a way that is true to myself and what I believe.

To feel such total freedom and total loss simultaneously is strange.
To drink wine for my mourning heart and also for my joyous deliverance is oddly paradoxical.

My heart is confused and torn.
I want to get off this roller-coaster of emotions.

I know You are with me...but I am afraid.

Seeking Your face is not easy. Seeking Your face is not comfortable. Seeking Your face is not logical.

When does faith transcend logic? If we only choose that which is logical, are we living by faith?

Not a Token

 A few weeks ago I was interviewed by a panel of men. The panel was made up of the National Director of my denomination as well as two other District Ministers from the Central and Northern United States. 

In some way I was honored that my name came up as a potential member for a board which studies the theological background for policy, faith, and belief in my denomination. But in another way the interview left me feeling ill.

The interview was going along fine. We all four shared background information, laughed a bit and then I shared on my understanding of the difference between inerrancy and infallibility. They asked me my opinion on other topics like racism and women as Lead Pastors. I was being completely honest (though it may not have been the perspective they necessarily agreed with) and then one of the District Ministers paused the interview to explain to me that I am not just a token woman on the board of ten people. "Your participation, insight, and opinion is just as important as everyone else's," he assured me. I really do think he meant well and was trying to be encouraging, but I sure felt like the conversation went side-ways.

First - I am not an idiot. 

The board consists of ten people total: one person is the National Director (a man), then each of the five districts have a District Minister present (also men), followed by four "members-at-large," with one lady presiding. The set-up alone dictates that a woman feel like a token. Even IF the other four members were women, there would never be an equal representation, especially given the difference in titles and authority.

Second - Oppression Leaves Wounds

I was surprised to discover something about myself I did not previously realize. The District Minister followed his 'token' statement with a question asking, "Will you be able to speak up and share your insight and opinions?" I sat quiet for a few long seconds. I have no doubt these three gentlemen are kind people. I have no doubt they love Jesus and love the Church. I also have no doubt they have no idea what kind of oppression I have been through as a woman, especially a woman in ministry. My seconds turned into a minute as I tried to determine how to respond.

45 years of being told to... 

"be silent," 

"submit to your husband's authority," 

"don't teach a man"

...and now I was asked if would be able to talk freely in this group of the National Director and five District Ministers? My answer surprised me as much as it silenced them.

I told the District Minister thank you for encouraging me to share and for giving me permission to speak. Then I decided to get (just a little!) more vulnerable...

"I have been in ministry for 25 years. As a female church leader I have had it engrained deep in my soul that my opinion, insight, perspective are not as valuable as my male counter-parts. I have been publicly shamed, publicly silenced, and publicly reminded about my inferiority. Thank you for your permission to speak, but I need you to know that though I have a lot of good insight I also have 45-years negative conditioning in which I was taught not to share freely and not to speak up. While I would like to answer your question in the affirmative, I have to be honest and admit that the message of silence and subjugation that has been taught to me in church has left me oftentimes unable to speak. I am trying to find my voice, but until I do, I will need to be reminded and invited quite regularly to share my thoughts and opinions." (I said something along those lines, though probably not as articulate!)

Until the direct question of, "Will you be able to talk?" was addressed to me, I hadn't realized how guarded and silent I have become. Perhaps I should have asked if what I have to say is worth his time? Do my words have the same weight as the other nine people? Does he have the patience and empathy to continue asking my opinion and encouraging me to share? 

My intelligent, but voiceless self is the unfortunate fruit of church. 

There are insights I see and strategies I understand that could be of much use for the Kingdom of God - but instead I stay quiet, doing just as I was instructed. The question remains as to if I can find the courage to share. Do I speak only if I know I am heard or is my job simply to speak? Perhaps I am not accountable to the listener but I am accountable to myself for oftentimes choosing not to speak.

Hmmm...lots to process and consider. Hopefully one day I'll read this experience and laugh at how far I've come. For now, I am grateful to be more self-aware and pray God gives me courage to talk more even if no one is listening. 

Until We Meet Again

On Tuesday night, July 6th, my Grandpa passed away.

Like watching and waiting for a laboring mother to deliver, we watched and waited by his bedside - providing comfort, speaking our love into his ears, and holding his hand until his laboring ceased and he was delivered to his Savior. His wife of 69-years sat by his side holding his hand. 

"He was 91, what did you expect?" many critics say. You don't know my grandpa. He has been in and out of hospitals for the last 20-years. We were used to the many, many calls of, "he might not make it." Miraculously, over and over again he continued to recover. 

This time it was different. 

My Grandma chose a teal snoopy t-shirt for my Grandpa to wear when he came home from the hospital on Monday. Snoopy was dancing happily over the words, "Just Keep Smiling." Through his labor pains his simple Snoopy t-shirt bore witness to his enduring gratefulness for God's presence and grace. When his spirit had departed and body was still, Snoopy was still dancing. His picture (above) from his 90th birthday party captures his smile and comforts my heart like he is whispering a reminder to "Just Keep Smiling."

We weren't ready.

You would think we would have been ready for Grandpa's departure. Instead death came quickly, like a thief in the night. After hours of watchful care, we decided to read Psalm 27, pray together and sing some hymns - three of Grandpa's favorite activities. At every space in the house was a Bible, plus the Bible's on the bookshelf - by his bedside, at the table, by his chair, on his desk. I picked up the Bible by his chair. Inside his Bible was his mask and the bulletin from my church from the Sunday I preached a few weeks ago. My heart felt that deep pain knowing I wouldn't get to see him in church, smiling from ear to ear. Once we finished singing, we began preparing for bed. 

While we weren't looking he slipped away.

I know I have much to be thankful for and have many memories to bring me comfort, but for now my heart is grieving as I remember and ache in his absence.

Thank you, Grandpa, for your gift of music, your model of service, your timeless sense of humor, and your love for Jesus. I love you and already miss you so, so much. Until we meet again...

   

Broken Identity

I 

After scrolling through my many drafts of 'unpublished thoughts', this one called to me to let it loose. I have changed a lot from this post written over two years ago, but still have a long journey ahead. Written originally on 2/14/19 at 11:23 p.m. Enjoy.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Last night a friend was with her daughter in the emergency room.

My heart broke to read her text to please pray.
Everything in me wanted to jump in my car and hurry to the hospital just to be present with her, give her a hug and pray with her. But between a Wednesday afternoon class and my Wednesday night program my hands were tied until late that evening.

Finally, my chance came. Kids had been picked up, classrooms cleaned, offices locked, car loaded -  now I was off to the hospital at 9:30 at night. A quick zoom down the freeway toward Fresno Community Hospital and my heart was pounding to give my friend a hug and reassure her of God's presence with her.

Quickly, I found a parking spot and began walking toward the emergency room doors when suddenly I froze. My feet literally stopped moving and my heart sunk within me.

My anxiousness to approach the door wasn't because of the armed guard in front of the door so much as the question that always proceed hospital visits.

Being in my fifth year as a pastor I should be calloused to the question - but I'm not. Even worse, the question itself drives a knife already lodged within my spirit even deeper causing me greater pain. I wondered if I could handle the pain today. Do I have the courage and the strength of identity to walk to the guard and ask to go in.

The person who was moved in her spirit just a few hours ago by the grief-filled text of a friend, responded and rushed to the hospital. But in the approach of the door that same woman froze. She couldn't respond to the Spirit's movement because of the limitations (even though just implied) put upon her.

Has your identity ever been so striped that you can no longer even speak it aloud? Or has the constant questioning of your identity gone on for so long that it forces you to begin questioning your true-self too?

The simple scenario that made me so anxious goes something like this:
"Good evening. Can I help you?"
"Yes, I'm here to visit a friend. I'm her pastor and would like to pray with her."
"You're her pastor?"

You know that smirk people get when they don't believe what you're saying? That smirk and accusative question is the one that hurts the most. Sometimes my skin is tough enough I endure the smirk and go on in to pray. But other times I simply am not strong enough.

This particular evening I just didn't have it in me.

Perhaps my energy level was just too low to be able to handle the pain that comes when my identity, value, and honesty are questioned. Perhaps the wound in my heart from this topic is too raw for me to have the ability to endure another twist of the knife. Or perhaps I just didn't want to be reminded, once again, that I'm operating in a role in which I'm not respected or appreciated.

Whatever the case may be, my friend who was just behind the emergency walls, didn't get a hug and prayer from me on this night (at least not physically).

I drove home pondering the scenario. I had just driven twenty minutes to be with a friend at a time of crisis in her life. But I couldn't get past the questioning guard at the door. Even worse, I didn't even ask because I couldn't stomach the potential rejection. The guard may have even willingly let me in with a smile without the accusatory questioning--I'll never know.

Driving home I was reminded of Galatians 5:1, "It was for freedom that Christ set us free, therefore keep standing firm and do not be subject again to the yoke of slavery."

When I'm operating in Christ, I am allowed to live in full freedom as a fellow image bearer who loves Jesus in all that she is and all that she does. But when I operate under human leadership I have limits put upon me - I am once again enslaved.