These are the papers of my life

I am a senior Master of Divinity student this year, which also means that I am in the last steps of candidacy. Next week I have my approval interview with the Minneapolis Area Synod, but even before I know whether or not I have been approved for ordination I have to finish filling out this stack of forms called Mobility Papers. At the moment, every senior who is planning on participating in the February Assignment/First Call process is doing the exact same thing. They are due December 1st, so like a good little procrastinator, I'm still not done with them yet (though I did start on them quite awhile ago).

I know it sounds incredibly nerdy, but I actually LOVE filling out forms. I find great satisfaction filling in those little boxes on tax forms, or registration forms, etc. Whenever Kevin has something that needs to be filled out, he usually hands it to me because he knows that I like doing it. I'm not sure why I find it so satisfying, but I do. So I was really excited to begin filling out my Mobility Papers. They start out easy enough: Name, Address, Phone Number, College Major etc. FUN! But after awhile I noticed that there were still a lot of pages left and the questions started to get a little bit more difficult. There are these little boxes that ask me to discuss my personal stewardship, and my sense of call, and my core convictions, etc. It was then that I realized that these papers are a lot more than just regular old forms, they are a way for me to really communicate with my future congregation about what I've learned in seminary, who I am as a person, and what kind of pastor I hope to be. They are a lot of work and can cause some real stress, no one is denying that, and at times some of the questions feel impossible to answer, but they seem to be coming together as far as I can tell. But please pray for all of us seniors in these final hours of frantic form filling, that we would remember that there is a congregation on the other end waiting to read them and welcome us as their pastor!

Thanksgiving is a good idea

OK, despite my earlier complaints about all of the over-eating that I typically feel forced to do over the Thanksgiving holiday, I am really thankful for Thanksgiving. Kevin and I got to spend all of last week in our hometown, Rapid City, SD, with family and friends. We actually first met in high school and as it turns out pretty much all of both of our families are still living in Rapid City, so we always have a lot of people to see.

There are so many wonderful things happening in both of our families. Our new niece Hayley was born last Saturday. We even got to go and see her and hold her a few hours after she was born. (That is niece number 8 for the two of us!) We also celebrated the recent homecoming of our brother-in-law Mark from his first tour in Iraq. He had been home for leave earlier in the summer, but we weren't able to make it out to see him, so it has been over a year since the last time we spent any time with him. He brought us back this crazy, embossed Koran which might be one of the most beautiful books I have ever seen. (I want to learn Arabic now more than ever!) My sister just bought her first house and my brother has a great new job. Our best friend Dave is getting married. Everyone is happy and healthy! Being home made me realize just how thankful I am for all of these blessings in my family's and subsequently my own life. It is at times like this that I want to thank God for the gift of life and the blessing of family. And as it turns out, that's what Thanksgiving is for!

Thankful for another 10 years

Today could easily have been the 10th anniversary of my death. Instead, I had reason today to extend my celebration of Thanksgiving: I have lived another 10 years — and counting — beyond nearly suffocating amid an allergic reaction. It’s thanks to my mom, a bunch of doctors and nurses, a couple of Good Samaritans and, no doubt, to God.

And no thanks to nuts.

The walnut has been my arch-enemy since I was in diapers. My parents learned I was allergic to nuts when, as a toddler, I touched an unopened bag of walnuts and broke out in hives. As I grew up, any accidental ingestion of peanuts or tree nuts (that includes pretty much every nut that is not a peanut) caused me to throw up. In later years, my throat would swell up from any bit of nuts or peanut butter that snuck into my mouth. But it was always just a matter of discomfort or inconvenience.

Until November 27, 1996.

I was 15, a high school sophomore. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and my home-room class was having a little pre-Thanksgiving party that morning. While perusing the snacks that my classmates had brought in for the occasion, I came upon a homemade chocolate chip cookie that looked, smelled and even tasted harmless. By this time I knew the taste of nuts — it was the taste of doom. But in this case, it wasn’t until after I had eaten the cookie that I had any indication that something was wrong. My throat was swelling up and, after learning that the cookies contained finely-ground walnuts, I called for my mom to bring me home, at least for a couple of hours.

At home, what I had anticipated to be my usual upchucking expedition proved to be something worse. My throat continued to close up until it became difficult for me to breathe. Doubling as an asthmatic, I wasn’t entirely scared about this at first. But it was bad enough that I convinced my mom to jab me with my emergency epinephrine pen, and doing so meant we had to go to the hospital. My dad was going to meet us there. I fumbled to find some shoes that matched, threw on my Buffalo Bills jacket and got in my mom’s Saturn, not knowing I belonged inside an ambulance. The last thing I remember was my mom telling me that she was turning on her emergency blinkers as she drove down the street where we lived.

Around this point, as my mom has recounted to me, I stopped breathing. My eyes rolled back. I got pale and slumped over. And my mom turned into Supermom. Scared out of her mind, she raced down the icy roads from our suburban home into Green Bay while running stoplights and sounding the car horn. Finally, at a busy intersection a half-mile from the hospital, my mom could dodge traffic no more. She got out of the car and cried for help. A man and a woman got out of a nearby truck. The man, whom we would later learn was a former cop, pushed me upright and prompted me to gasp for what may have been my only bit of oxygen in the course of almost 10 minutes. He and his girlfriend waved off traffic and followed us to the hospital. He carried me inside, parked my mom’s car and brought in her purse. The hospital cut me out of my Bills jacket and began working to save my life.

When I regained consciousness, I was in the emergency room at St. Mary’s Hospital. There was a tube down my throat. My dad was holding my hand. Nurses and doctors were all over the place. There were flashes of pain because an excess of pumped-in oxygen had collapsed my right lung, and a tube had to be inserted through my chest. Eventually, my Grandma Gladys and Uncle Mark, who was in town for Thanksgiving, joined my parents. I had the benefit of three ministers in the room — my dad, my uncle and a Catholic priest who was in the hospital. I remember at one point hearing a doctor say, “He’s not going to remember any of this.”

Despite concerns that I would have suffered at least some brain damage, my dad picked up on some signs that I was OK. At one point when the tube was out of my throat, I correctly answered his questions of who and where I was and even identified the Miami Dolphins as my second-favorite football team (The Bills were actually my fourth-favorite). Once the tube was back in, I characteristically rolled my eyes when my grandma kept calling me Mark, as she has famously mixed up my name with that of her youngest son.

But the persisting danger of my condition prompted the hospital staff to call for a helicopter from Children’s Hospital of Wisconsin in Milwaukee. Luckily, I began to improve shortly after. My dad made sure that the flight team would be taking me over Lambeau Field, and my mom, while starting to cry, sent me off while reminding me that she “loved me to pieces” and that I was her “favorite little face.” All I remember from the helicopter is a woman changing my IV. Suddenly I was in Milwaukee and was quickly comforted when my Uncle Tim, who himself had been hospitalized about two years earlier after a severe heart attack, arrived from nearby Waukesha to sit with me until my parents came. My folks spent the evening arranging for our church’s Thanksgiving Eve service to go on without my dad, and they watched “A Christmas Story” with me on the small TV, although I slept through most of it.

The staff at Children’s Hospital treated me like royalty. The nurses brought me a steady supply of Shasta Twist lemon-lime soda and, in the middle of the night when I was suddenly wide awake, discussed the surprise of Sherry Stringfield’s departure from “ER” (the first time). On Thanksgiving morning, they brought me pancakes shaped like turkeys. Later that morning, as my parents and I prepared to head home, I got my picture taken with the Flight for Life helicopter that had flown me there. Needless to say, once I returned to Green Bay and had dinner at my grandparents’ house that night, there couldn’t have been a more thanks-filled Thanksgiving.

As my fellow blogger, Aaron, explained today in light of his more recent brush with disaster, times like these make you really grateful for your fellow human beings. Ten years later, I am still so thankful to the folks at St. Mary’s and Children’s Hospital. To the members of my family who showed up to support me. To many others who kicked into prayer chains. To the teachers and staff at Bay Port High School who quickly responded with a new policy on students suffering from allergic reactions. To the couple that may well have saved my life — I finally got to meet the two at my high school graduation party. And most importantly to my mom, who has loved and supported me with all her heart and soul for so many years and on that day 10 years ago fought so bravely to keep me in the world she had brought me into. Since then, she has tirelessly devoted herself to making people aware of the dangers of nut allergies. I’m forever proud of her, and I’ll never be able to thank her enough.

And of course, God, thanks be to you.

That brush with death in November 1996 had a certain impact on me spiritually. At the least, it showed me a humility that comes with having your life in other people’s hands and ultimately in God’s hands. I don’t know that I would have come to Luther Seminary were it not for my against-the-odds survival. It seemed like God kept me alive for a reason, and I had a long time to think that over. On Thanksgiving Eve 1997, I took up an offer from my dad to pinch hit for him with a sermon of my own about my experience the year before. That sermon (which, believe it or not, was even longer than this blog entry) prompted many suggestions toward the ministry from fellow parishioners that stuck with me until I finally faced my call a year ago.

This Thanksgiving was probably the happiest I’ve had in 10 years. It was my first time back in Green Bay in four months. I got to see more family and friends in four days than I thought possible. And there was the realization that I now had a whole 10 more years of my life to be thankful for. There were so many things I would have missed: seeing the Packers win the Super Bowl … playing in an improvisational comedy troupe … speaking at my high school graduation … working for my hometown newspaper … meeting my wife. (I haven’t missed the nuts — I have successfully avoided them ever since.) I can’t put a price on those 10 years. It makes serving others as a pastor seem like the least I can do.

Order from the Chaos

I would like to introduce you to three of my heroes.

Charles, the Clark County, Wisconsin deputy sheriff.

Al, the tow truck driver.

Julia, the tow truck driver's wife.

They are all doing God's work.

When this world's vicissitudes send a deer into your right headlight going 65 mph at 9:30 on a rainy night in the middle of Wisconsin, God sends you some lovin' in the form of Charles, Al, and Julia, the folks who helped me after a deer decided to end it all head-butting my fender on US-29 yesterday. (Perhaps, the tension of hunting season was just too much to bear. But, I digress.) The good and gracious will of God is done when God defeats and hinders every evil, even those accidental mishaps. God send Charles, Al, and Julia to help clean up the mess and get me back on my feet.

The friendly people at Geico were there too, sent straight from God's car insurance people. They're doing Godly work, restoring order when a little chaos was injected into my life. Furthermore, politeness and genuine kindness is alive and well at some call center in the middle of Texas. (Every person with whom I spoke has had a Southern accent.)

I am thankful that I was not hurt. I am very grateful too for seeing all these people building up order, restoring things, cleaning up the mess, helping me out. I was a little scared before, ignorant of what happens when accidents happen. Not that it's over, but I have seen all those wonderful people God has called to help restore order when some chaos creeps into one's life. It's rather like ice-skating or downhill skiing for the first time. One can never really perform confidently until one has wiped out at least once. This first fall teaches us two lessons: 1) Minor accidents hurt a little, but you'll live through them. Use them as a learning opportunity. 2) Mishaps hurt you. Work to prevent them.

Thank you God for Charles, Al, Julia, the folks at Geico, and my good friends, Amy, Amber, and Julie, for coming to the middle of Wisconsin to pick me up late Sunday night.

If you are helping people put order back into chaotic situations, you are doing God's work. Thank you for getting life back on track. It's a holy occupation.

Baseball, hot dogs, metaphors and Hall of Famers

Speaking of legends wearing No. 4 for Wisconsin professional sports teams ... my wife and I got to meet Paul Molitor tonight.

Molitor was my childhood baseball hero. I followed him through his run as a Milwaukee Brewer, a World Series MVP Toronto Blue Jay and finally a Minnesota Twin. But my wife is an even bigger fan than I am. Tracy is a baseball fanatic (really a Brewers fanatic), and Molitor is her all-time favorite player, too.

Some time after Tracy and I started going out, she shared with me that she always promised herself that she would make it to Cooperstown, N.Y., when Molitor was inducted into the National Baseball Hall of Fame. So when that rolled around in 2004, while we were engaged, I made sure she got there. That was a pretty awesome experience (if you're a baseball fan, I strongly recommend Cooperstown for your next vacation). But we didn't actually get to meet "The Ignitor" himself at that time.

So there was a real sense of awe two weeks ago when Tracy's museum in Farmington, Minn., got an invitation to attend the preview opening of the Hall of Fame's touring Baseball as America exhibit at the Minnesota History Center in St. Paul. Molitor, a St. Paul native, was scheduled to greet fans, along with fellow Hall of Famers Harmon Killebrew of the Twins and Ryne Sandberg of the Chicago Cubs. And this was taking place during my break week at Luther Seminary. What could be more perfect? I'll tell you what: free hot dogs. (There was a price involved to attend, but I'll tell you, those hot dogs were really too good to be free.)

Meeting Molitor, Killebrew and Sandberg was cool enough. All really nice guys. But the exhibit, which opens on Friday and runs through March 4, was a grand slam in itself. There was a ton of stuff on display that I hadn't seen at the Cooperstown museum. The focus here is on baseball as a metaphor for the larger American experience.

Progress in racial desegregation: A jersey worn by Jackie Robinson in his last season and a supportive letter sent to him by then-Senator John F. Kennedy; the jersey worn by Hank Aaron when he broke Babe Ruth's all-time home-run record and a letter from an angry baseball fan who wished Aaron, as an African-American, nothing but bad luck as he neared that milestone.

The developing American lust for money: A copy of Willie Mays' 1951 rookie contract for $5,000, and near it, a thick prospectus from 2000 touting then free-agent Alex Rodriguez as he sought what proved to be a 10-year, $252 million contract.

And the unifying, national thrill of the game: The bats used by Babe Ruth, Roger Maris and Mark McGwire when they each set their single-season home-run records; Harry Caray's enormous glasses; the original manuscript for the lyrics to "Take Me Out to the Ballgame"; Curt Schilling's cap decorated in memory of those killed in the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks.

It's a remarkable exhibit, and it makes you realize how far even a game can go to bring people together. Indeed, one of the reasons Tracy first asked me out almost five years ago was because she noticed me wearing a Paul Molitor jersey. I got to thank Paul for that tonight.

Pack mentality

It's been more than four months since I was last in Green Bay. For the most part, I've been so busy at seminary that I haven't had much of a chance to miss my hometown. But I simply can't wait to go back for Thanksgiving.

As detached as I've felt from Green Bay lately, there's one thing that keeps me connected: The Green Bay Packers. (Well, there's also the fact that the tables in Luther Seminary's Northwestern Hall auditorium were made by Green Bay-area furniture manufacturer KI, but let's focus on the Packers.) Take for example, 20 minutes ago, when Hall of Fame-shoo-in quarterback Brett Favre left the field with an apparent elbow injury. My heart was beating to the same nervous rhythm as all those back home. Nevermind his performance today, as the Packers were losing 21-0 to New England; Favre has, by my math, 231 consecutive starts (251 including playoffs) on the line. Nobody wants that to end.

I was a Packers fan before I had teeth (and yes, Vikings fans, most Packers fans do have teeth). My first toy, just after I was born, was a little, yellow, plastic Packers football. My best birthday present in fourth grade was a Don Majkowski jersey. I was thrilled in 1992 when the Packers acquired a certain quarterback named Brett Favre, whose football card I had recently sought to complete a set (at that time, I thought his name was pronounced "FAHV-ray.")

And imagine my excitement when, in October 1996, my question was selected in an NFL.com chat (I just dug it up from my hard drive):

PackMan (that's me) from netnet.net at 9:38pm ET
Brett,
I heard once that (then-Packers center) Frank Winters got the nickname "Frankie Bag-o-Doughnuts." Where'd the name come from?

Brett Favre at 9:39pm ET
Me and several guys gave him that because he has a real rich, East Coast, New York accent. And there was a comedian who imitated these Italian guys with all these nicknames, like Frankie Bag o' Doughnuts, and so Frank with his accent fit the mold perfect and that's how we gave it to him.

That, of course, came during the season that the Packers won the Super Bowl. I guess nothing really beat that Super Bowl Sunday. Although there was that Sunday in Dec. 2003 when the Arizona Cardinals made an impossible comeback in the regular-season closer to knock the Minnesota Vikings out of the playoffs and give the Packers the division championship. That moment came close (I had been monitoring that game on the Internet in disbelief from my desk at the Green Bay Press-Gazette, and I was mighty proud to be the fill-in local-news editor that day).

Getting to meet legendary quarterback and world-class gentleman Bart Starr last year (and later getting an e-mail from him in appreciation of a story I wrote) was another mighty proud moment. My wife, Tracy, also had a cool series of brushes with celebrity when she got to interview a bunch of first-year Packers in her sports-writing internship at the Press-Gazette (she's pretty sure she caught a former back-up quarterback checking her out in the locker room). And I got to meet the late, great Ray Nitschke at his Green Bay-area home on one Super Bowl Sunday when I was in grade school, when my dad returned his Super Bowl ring. Ray, who attended my home church in the 1960s, let my dad borrow the ring for a children's sermon. Ray told us that it only occurred to him later that my dad could have been scamming him.

I have to say, though, after all that reverent name-dropping, that last Sunday was pretty awesome. Let me tell you, having the Packers beat the Vikings (at the Metrodome, no less) is never as exciting as when you live in Minnesota. I was so excited that I couldn't help but wear my Donald Driver jersey (Driver, in case you Vikings fans forgot, had the 82-yard touchdown) to my contextual-leadership-site church that night and to seminary the next day. Ah, good times.

The thing is, Packers fans are a community unlike any other in the world. Although Green Bay is the nation's smallest city to host a professional sports team, the appeal stretches the world over. The multitude of Packer-backers at Luther Seminary allowed me to share a number of high-fives and thumbs up last week. And even those who aren't fans are respectful. A classmate told me last week that once, on a mission trip, he got off the plane in Taiwan only to be greeted with "Go, Packers!" by his hosts, who knew he was a Minnesotan. We concluded that Christian missionaries could learn a lot by studying the social practices of Cheeseheads.

I don't think I could ever turn my back on the Packers. It's a little upsetting that my dad (who is pictured with me at Lambeau Field in August 2002) actually sort of jumped ship this year; he became a Houston Texans fan after the Packers fired head coach Mike Sherman, whom my dad really respected. I'm willing to bet my dad will come back around if and when the current Packers regime gets ousted.

That might not take very long. All this time that I was reminiscing about the better days, the Packers just suffered their second shutout at Lambeau Field this year. Yeah, 35-0, Patriots. I could take solace in the fact that the Vikings lost, too, but that was only by four points. Hmm. Maybe I should have written about the furniture in Northwestern Hall instead.

Thanksgiving Overload

Today Dining Services offered their pre-Thanksgiving feast which boasted:

• Assorted Salads
  
• Roast Turkey
  
• Mashed Potatoes & Gravy
  
• Herb Bread Dressing
  
• Vegetable
  
• Sweet Potatoes
  
• Dinner Rolls
  
• Pumpkin Pie Squares
  
• Fountain Beverage

It looks good, to be sure, and it was only $6! A lot of people around campus were very excited about the pre-Thanksgiving feast, understandably. But as I looked over the menu I realized that over the course of the next week I was going to partake in so many Thanksgiving feasts, that I decided to say "No Thanks" to Thanksgiving.

Every year my husband and I have the same dilemma when it comes to Thanksgiving. Our families all live in the same town, and with the parents and the siblings and step-siblings and grandparents and the like it usually ends up that we eat Thanksgiving dinners several times a day for several days in a row. Don't get me wrong, I love cranberry sauce and turkey as much as the next person, but last year we had 5 Thanksgiving dinners to attend! After awhile, it's not fun anymore, it just hurts.

I know what you all are thinking--why not do like they taught us in elementary school and just say no? But have you ever tried to turn down your Norwegian grandmother's "at-least-have-some-of-the-potatoes-that-I-made-special-for-you"? Or your German mother-in-law's "why-don't-you-want-any-of-my-pumpkin-pie-you-aren't- on-a-diet-are-you"? It doesn't work. People's feelings seem to get hurt every time. So the best solution I can come up with is to stock up on the antacids and strap myself in for the Thanksgiving ride. That and plan on spending a lot of time on the treadmill when I get back.

How about a little chocolate?

Movies have been made about it, people crave it (especially women), and it is one of the most versatile and desired ingredients in confectionary cooking. What is this magical ingredient I am talking about? Well ,chocolate of course! This last weekend, I attended the Twin Cities Chocolate Extravaganza with a good friend. She originally heard of this event through the Healthy Leader’s Initiative team at Luther. It was highlighted as a way to take care of our emotional health and lower our stress. The cost of admission was $20, kind of a steep price for the entertainment of a seminarian, however, the entire event was a fundraiser for the Make-a-wish foundation. That made it a little easier to accept the fact that I was paying $20 to sample some chocolate.

The event was hosted at the International Marketplace in Minneapolis. This is a multi-level luxurious building which houses offices and outlets for the private sales of textiles, décor, and services. The entire building encased a beautifully decorated atrium with a restaurant and a lounge. It was a very nice change from the seminary atmosphere. But what truly made this a feast for the eyes were the tables, and booths of chocolate confectioners and extraordinaires that lined the first three floors. There were samples of gelato, chocolate wontons by a Chinese restaurant, chocolate martinis, Belgian chocolate, chocolate Yule log, sipping chocolate, dark chocolate, white chocolate, and milk chocolate, chocolate fudge, a chocolate fountain, chocolate coffee, spiced chocolate, healthy chocolate, chocolate truffles and to compliment the chocolate they had wineries who came to give out samples of their choicest wine.

During the two days that this event was taking place, they had a couple of events that were put on for people to attend. I caught a glimpse of the chocolate inspired fashion show and tasted a confection which was lovingly called nirvana by its creator. One of my favorite samples was a treat called, Mayan sipping chocolate, it was a cross between rich hot chocolate and a melted Hershey’s bar. The table host agreed with me, when I described it as chocolate espresso. One of my goals this year was to experience more of what the Cities have to offer and boy o boy, this was definitely one hell of an offering from the Cities. This is a great event for a bunch of friends to get together. Walking through the lines and waiting for the delectable samples fosters conversation. The feeling of euphoria from the wine and the chocolate is just and added bonus.

The Good Old Days

Over the weekend I ran into not one, but two old friends from high school. The first was my old study buddy from Calculus class and the other was an acquaintance from music. I hadn't seen either of these two people for between 6 and 7 years, which is kind of crazy to think about. First of all, it's crazy for me to realize that I've been out of high school and away from my hometown for that long already--the time went very quickly! Second of all, it's crazy to see someone after such a long time and to have had so much happen in both of our lives and yet we are still able to connect and remember "the good old days."

It kind of reminds me of something that we are discussing in one of my classes though. Often in churches today people also seem to talk a lot about "the good old days," as in "Remember the good old days when all of the pews were full and our debts were paid and our church ran perfectly and we didn't have to worry about change?" However, it's probably very unlikely that the good old days were as good as we remember them, either in life or in the church. What's that old saying..."Hindsight is 20/20"? But maybe that statement is not always true. Aren't there times when we sugarcoat our past experiences, or dim the difficulties that we faced? Sure, there are times in which things seem to be going better and times in which things seem to get worse. (To everything there is a season: Ecclesiastes 3!) But when does remembering the past get in the way of being fully present in the present?

That's what makes running into old friends kind of exciting. These are people that I have at least a little history with, but at the same time it's interesting to reflect on the unexpected paths that people can end up taking in life--myself included. I mean if I were the same person I was 7 years ago, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be in seminary right now! In short, it seems that change is good, at least in the case of my old friends and me.

Left to my own mnemonic devices

On Thursday, I reached a sort of milestone. In my Hebrew class that morning, I took my sixth and probably final vocabulary test. After going nearly a decade without one (I studied French in my sophomore year of high school), vocabulary tests suddenly became a big part of my life again this past July, when I began the summer Greek course at Luther Seminary. Since then, I've faced just shy of a dozen of these gauntlets between Greek and Hebrew. To celebrate this milestone, I figured I'd give the readers of this blog a peek at what it took me to learn the roughly 600 required words.

Memorization of this magnitude requires a good deal of mnemonic devices (the word "mnemonic," curiously enough, is akin to a Greek word for "memory"). I can't even imagine the multitude of these devices that Luther students have formulated over the years. I'm sure mine are not the best. In fact, I want to warn you: The revelations below will probably expose a very sick mind. I don't know how ridiculous these mnemonic devices are in comparison to those devised by other students. But based on the fact that Dr. Schifferdecker, my Hebrew instructor, took another faculty member's suggestion and offered my class a chance to perform any songs or other memorization tools in a format a la "The Gong Show," I'm guessing this sort of silliness isn't unique to me. Perhaps if you're a prospective student, the following will give you an idea of what you're in for.

Greek doesn't always demand a great deal of creativity, since many of its words are analogous to English words. It's not hard to remember that "kardia" means "heart" or that "baptiso" means "to baptize." Other words offer some coincidental clues. I apparently was not the only genius in my Greek class to remember that "pino" means "to drink" by thinking of the wine, pinot. I would doubt, however, that any of my classmates linked the word "palin" with "again" by imagining Baby Sinclair from the 1990s ABC series "Dinosaurs" yelling, "Palin!" in place of his recurring demand of "Again!" on the show. Wow. I am a dork.

Hebrew is a bit more difficult, not only because the alphabet letters don't look as similar to ours and because the words are read from right to left but also because very few words are recognizable to English-speakers. One odd one that I did recognize was "mayim," and I quickly realized that "Blossom" star Mayim Bialik's name means "water." I doubt that the devious video game character Baraka from "Mortal Kombat" was named after the Hebrew word "beracah" ("blessing") but that distinct similarity helped me remember that word. Again ... I am a dork.

My proudest mnemonic device works in two ways. I think of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration to remember both the words nasah, meaning "to test" or "to try," and nasa, meaning "to lift" or "to carry." NASA invokes thoughts of rocket tests and, of course, "lift off." Alas, this is still not as clever as one tremendous clue often recommended by Luther's Hebrew teachers: The word "melek," meaning "king," has as its root consonants MLK, the initials of Martin Luther King Jr. I mean, dang, that's good.

I seem to employ the use of obscure celebrities (like Mayim Bialik) often when memorizing Hebrew words. It helped to remember that "katan" means "small" by thinking of diminutive "Saturday Night Live" performer Chris Kattan. Also, and this one's a stretch, I learned that "davar" means "word" or "thing," by rhyming it with the first name of LeVar Burton, who hosted the PBS kids' show "Reading Rainbow," which was about books, which are filled with words and things. My favorite mnemonic device is tied to my Green Bay Packers: I learned the word "amad" ("to stand") shortly after a typically miserable performance against the Philadelphia Eagles by cornerback Ahmad Carroll. The Packers cut Carroll the day after that game, but I'll always remember him standing around while an opposing wide receiver made a big touchdown play.

There are always risks of psychological damage with mnemonic devices like these, and this process may have cost me the happy image of Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer. In a somewhat desperate moment, I connected "radaf" ("to pursue" or "to persecute") with Rudolph. I'm quite sure that at some point every Christmas for the rest of my life, I'll flash back to my image of a deranged Rudolph chasing and persecuting elves all over the North Pole.

Anybody out there have a vocabulary-memorization device weirder than mine? I dare you to reply. In fact, I beg you. I'd feel a lot better about myself.

An Honorable Name—That Indespensible Treasure

Luther begins his explanation of the Eighth Commandment— "You are not to bear false witness against your neighbor" —this way:

Besides our own body, our spouse, and our temporal property, we have one more treasure that is indispensable to us, namely, our honor and good reputation...God does not want our neighbors deprived of their reputation, honor, and character any more than of their money and possessions.

Large Catechism, Part 1, Marginal Number 255-6 in The Book of Concord: The Confessions of the Evangelical Lutheran Church. Edited by Robert Kolb and Timothy J. Wengert. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2000. p. 420.

The lead article on the election day online issue of the Minneapolis Star Tribune was entitled, "Early voters express relief that negative ads are over". Those interviewed called that cloud of 30-second locusts plaguing our elections season every kind of evil, "shallow", "negative", "disgusting", "low", but leave out the one, sinful. This sin is akin to murder; "everyone's stabbing one another in the back," one person commented.

The wages of this sin is death, death to candidates, death to voters, and death to democracy. Candidates kill off each other. Voters, sick from ingesting all the political pestulance, turn off the TV and the radio and refuse to listen to even informative pieces. Democracy dies, the invective insects devouring our confidence in government. Sticks and stones will break our bones but words will kill our soul.

What would happen if a political candidate, or any politician, stood up at a press conference and stuck to the positive side of the Eighth Commandment when speaking of his opponents, "com[ing] to their defence, speak[ing] well of the them, and interpret[ing] everything they do in the best possible light."? [Small Catechism, 1:16, in BC 353.] I honestly believe that the public would be so relieved to hear someone building up his neighbor they would support that candidate mightily after seeing such a demonstration of character.

A good word builds up well-being. "The tongue that brings healing is a tree of life, but a deceitful tongue crushes the spirit," [Proverbs 15:4]. Politicians ought to take to heart that their constituants want healing and life. A politician's purpose is to form a more perfect union of the people, to promote the welfare of the people, and ensure the domestic tranquility. The Eighth Commandment declares that words, as well as deeds and policies, either hinder or aid this endeavor. May all of our leaders keep watch over the door of their lips so they may not destroy but edify with their words.

A Look Over the Busy Weekend

My weekend started at 3pm last Friday afternoon. After our senior preaching class got out, my husband and I jumped in the car to run some errands. First, I had to drop off a check at Theatre in the Round for the group of Luther students and faculty going to see Friday night's performance of Shadowlands-- a play about C.S. Lewis and his relationship with his wife Joy. Then I took a quick trip to the nearby knitting store to pick up some yarn for my latest project: a sweater for my niece Haley, who will be born any day now! After that Kevin and I picked up some dinner at Pizza Luce (some of the best pizza in the Twin Cities!). Then, we headed back to Theatre in the Round to see the play, this time on the bus to avoid trying to find a parking spot in the Seven Corner's neighborhood.

As you may recall in my post about our trip to see The Miser at Theatre de la Jeune Lune, there is some amazing theater available in the Twin Cities and this production of Shadowlands was definitely up to par. The acting was phenomenal, the set design was interesting, the costuming was delightful, and of course the story was beautiful and heartwrenching. Basically, I wept like a baby through the entire 2nd Act. Just go see it.

After the show Kevin and I walked over to Nomad Pub to meet a friend and to watch another friend's band play. It was their CD release party and the place was packed! My friend Kelly is an amazing musician and it is always fun to watch her on stage. After a failed attempt at catching a bus, we grabbed a cab and headed home.

Saturday was an absolutely beautiful day, so Kevin and I took advantage and walked around Lake Nokomis in Minneapolis. That afternoon we caught the matinee of Jesus Camp at the Riverview Theater. I won't go into detail about this movie; it is somewhat controversial and I was reluctant to see it at first. In the end, I am glad that I saw it since it is relevant to work in the church and life in America. After the movie, we hung out at a friend's house and made homemade caramel corn...or rather Tony made homemade caramel corn and I ate it!

Sunday was All Saint's Day and our home church, University Lutheran Church of Hope in Minneapolis, celebrated with a beautiful service remembering those saints who have touched our lives. After that, Kevin and I headed down to Red Wing, MN for a day trip. It was another beautiful day so we walked around and took in the sights of this sweet little town on the Mississippi River. After we got home, I did get around to doing some homework too! (Yes, I do actually homework on the weekends.) Then, all of the sudden it was Monday again! Where did the time go?

No need for alarm, Part 2: Wedding edition

"In the Christian church, we use many symbols," my dad told those assembled at the wedding yesterday. "One symbol is the siren."

With that, there came an eruption of laughter to rival the grating drone of the alarm siren that had already disrupted several minutes of the wedding. Deviating from the explanation of the wedding candle, my dad offered the bride, the groom, and everyone else a chance to find the humor in a wedding scenario that was hardly of the storybook variety. My dad, even in an unfamiliar church in another state and before a crowd of mostly unfamiliar people, was in top form.

The bride was my cousin, Erin. She had asked my dad, a pastor in my hometown of Green Bay, Wis., to perform the ceremony in a church west of Minneapolis, where my mom grew up and where most of her side of the family still resides. Erin was marrying a guy named Aaron. That should have been humor enough. But with only a few words to go in my dad's short sermon, the siren inexplicably sounded throughout the church.

"Could someone turn off their cell phone?" my dad joked after finishing his message to the bride and groom. A couple people darted into the hallway to see what they could do, which turned out to be nothing much. The ceremony proceeded with the exchange of the vows and rings and then the kiss, all to the delightful soundtrack of the alarm. Finally, as the soloist was performing (in a key so accommodating that the siren could have been the pleasant bass tone of bagpipes), the alarm stopped. During all that time, my dad maintained focus and added some humor to keep the people from thinking that the big day was ruined. And Erin and Aaron were great sports and rolled with it.

I've come to realize that no wedding is complete without some little harmless disaster. As my dad says, something like that makes a wedding memorable. Indeed, of the six weddings I have attended in 2006, this was the highlight. I'd put it right up there with my own wedding last year.

When Tracy and I got married, my dad, in lieu of performing the ceremony (he didn't want to, and, lucky for him, he wasn't able to due to the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod rules at my wife's home church), agreed to perform the special music. He sang John Ylvisaker's "I Was There to Hear Your Borning Cry," which he had sung countless times at confirmation and high school graduation services. But apparently a bit emotional about his kid getting married, he forgot the words halfway into the first verse. After he stumbled a bit, the words suddenly popped into my head, and I fed him the missing lyrics while standing at the altar. He finished the song with no further problem and thanked me for the help. This became an unforgettable highlight of the ceremony.

As we were exiting the sanctuary from Erin and Aaron's wedding yesterday, the cops were exiting the basement. Apparently someone had pulled a fire alarm station elsewhere in the church while fumbling for a light switch. It was another false alarm (see the previous entry, "No need for alarm" from a month ago). The good news was that there wasn't a fire. That would have been a wedding-day disaster that would be a bit harder to brush off. I don't know how my dad would have handled that one.

I do know that I'm really proud of my dad. He does a great job, not only preaching and helping people in times of need but also putting people at ease even in circumstances like this. He's so good at what he does that it was a bit daunting for me to consider becoming a pastor. But now I'm on my way, and I know that if I'm able to do half the job my dad has done and helped half as many people, I'll have done alright. I was proud enough yesterday to be part of the wedding ceremony with him — I got to do the readings (before the siren). I can only imagine what sort of challenges await me at the weddings I'll officiate in the future (my dad said the first 200 weddings are the toughest). But I think I'll manage — as long as I don't have to sing at my kid's wedding.

How do you take your caffeine?

I'm beginning to understand the almost sacred relationship that Lutherans have with their coffee. So many people here depend on coffee to make it through that long day of classes, or that long meeting, or that long 15 minutes between Chapel and Discipleship on Wednesday mornings. When I joined the ELCA in 2003, I had a sense that coffee is an important part of the Lutheran heritage, but it wasn't until recently that I realized just how important it seems to be! One of my jobs in the student services office is to make sure that fresh coffee is always available. So when I come in in the mornings the first thing I do (if it hasn't already been done) is to brew a big pot of coffee. Then, over the next hour or so, at least three other offices in Northwestern Hall also come downstairs to use our industrial sized coffee brewer. Usually by then it is about time for me to brew another pot. And so the coffee dance begins.

Over the course of the day dozens of people stop in and say, "I hear there's free coffee in here." Yup, there certainly is. I've even become so familiar with the cycle of faculty and staff that regularly stream through the office for coffee that I can usually tell when the pot is nearing the bottom, just based on who's dropping by. "Oh, Rod's here again that means it must be time to brew another pot." When we hear the tell-tale empty gurgle coming from the pot, a look of panic appears on the face of the coffee seeker. "How long will it take you to brew some more?" they ask.

Here are the "truths" about coffee as far as I can tell:
1) Every office at Luther must have an endless supply of coffee available beginning at 8am and ending at 5pm every day.
2) Every meeting that is held on campus must also include coffee.
3) Every special event or lecture must also include a coffee reception afterwards.
4) The best way to show a Lutheran that you like them is to offer them some coffee.
5) Coffee is an incredibly effective tool for both hospitality and evangelism.
6) Coffee breath is impossible to eradicate, so just get used to it.
(Feel free to keep adding in the comments section.)

Since I am among friends, I feel the need to confess something:

I don't drink coffee.
I don't even like coffee.
I only ever drink coffee for the flavored cream and the sugar.
I like tea.
Can we still be friends?

I hope that my aversion to coffee won't be a problem for me in my first parish. I hope that my parishoners won't hold it against me that I probably won't be drinking the famous Lutheran church basement coffee that I've been hearing so much about. Either that or I might need to start drinking my tea out of an opaque mug so everyone just assumes that it's coffee, or I could just cover it with a paper bag and steal sips every now and then when I think no one is watching. Then again, we'll just have to see how long I hold out before I too may be converted into coffeedom.