Sweet friendships

The greatest sweetener of human life is friendship. – Joseph Addison

I first read this quote on a note sent to me by a wonderful woman, Hazel. Hazel was about the same age as my mother and I met her through a mutual friend who, like me, is a transplant to the Twin Cities.

Although I am not a native Minnesotan, the Twin Cities continue to feel like home because of the rich friendships I share. My immediate family members are miles away but I am blessed with friends who are like mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers.

The opportunity to spend time with friends was the highlight of this weekend. Friday I had a chance to catch up with my friend Stef. We met at work and although I have known her for only a year, our conversation is similar to that between old friends. Over dinner we talked about public policy, family, neighborhood politics, clutter-busting, world music and so much more.

Saturday morning I walked four miles or so with my friend Mae. We met about eight years ago when we were in an investment club together. Over the summer we walked early in the morning three times a week. With classes resuming we have cut our weekday walks and I have truly missed our wide-ranging conversation. Sometimes Mae and I were so carried away with our speedy walking, talking and laughing that we would not hear the bike riders barreling toward us on the shared path through Wirth Parkway.

The weekends are premium study time but I try to set aside time to stay connected to my friends and family. And to the extent that they are interested, I want to share this seminary experience with friends and family.

How Favre we've come

I'm sure that all of you, particularly you Vikings fans out there, have already heard plenty about this matter. But being that at least three of the four bloggers on this page are Green Bay Packers fans, I wanted to take a quick moment to note my thankfulness to God for Brett Favre.

Sure, it's a bit ridiculous. But I'm from Green Bay (I can't say I'm a Green Bay native, although my birthplace of Burlington, Wis., happens to be the hometown of Dallas Cowboys quarterback Tony Romo). Favre joined the Packers when I was 11 years old. He has been a part of my life ever since.

Although I've never met Brett Favre (he did respond to my question on NFL.com once), I have grown up with him. Over the course of 261 consecutive games as starting quarterback, Favre in himself has been an unmistakable chapter in the Packers' already remarkable history. What he accomplished today — breaking Dan Marino's record with his 421st touchdown pass, and doing it here in the Twin Cities, against the Vikings, to boot — cements his place among the greatest figures in sports history. He has brought greatness back to Green Bay, and it's largely on his account that a very raw Packers team is 4-0 right now. (Tracy and I got to celebrate today's victory over the Vikes at a seminary buddy's apartment. I wore my old-school Favre jersey, and Tracy wore my old Don Majkowski jersey — now there's a reminder of how far we've come.)

But that's only part of what I'm thankful for. More than what Favre has been able to accomplish on the football field, it's how he has accomplished it. You can see his love for the game of football in his eyes each week. With almost every touchdown pass has come a burst of childlike excitement. And, although you can't ignore the amount of money the guy is making, you know that the biggest reason he comes back year after year is his love for what he does. If, as a pastor, I can be as passionate about what I do every Sunday for 16 years straight, I'll be in good shape.

And it's the circumstances in which Favre has made his accomplishments. Through this great streak of games, he has faced an addiction to painkillers; the deaths of several family members, most notably his father; Hurricane Katrina's devastating effects on his hometown; and the breast-cancer battle of his wife, Deanna (make sure you check out her recent article for Guideposts magazine). We've seen how he has changed in the process. A couple years ago, as a reporter for the Green Bay Press-Gazette, I wrote about Favre's off-the-field challenges in a package we had prepared for his retirement. But the stories never got published because, as in every offseason that had the newspaper buzzing with speculation, Favre came back for more.

As dangerous as it is to consider any sports figure a role model, you can't help but look up to the guy. A few weeks ago, when my Grandpa Don's hospitalization left my dad contemplating whether to go through with leading church the next day, my dad admitted to thinking about Favre and his decision to play on the day after his own father's death because it was what his father would have wanted him to do. (As an interesting side note, as my grandpa has recovered, he has regularly had difficulty remembering my mom's name and yet correctly identified Favre in the newspaper immediately.)

Yes, ridiculous as it may be, I'm thankful to God for Brett Favre because I, like so many other Packers fans (and even countless Vikings fans who respect him to no end), have gotten to witness a great story as it has unfolded. I have had the pleasure of cheering on an especially durable and likable football hero as he has grown up right along with me.

And for the record, uh, yeah — I definitely am more thankful to God for Jesus.

How (Not) To Teach 8th Grade Confirmation

Maybe earning points during quiz bowls for your small group contradicts our Lutheran theology, but it keeps them awake and engaged. Maybe I shouldn't be throwing chocolate as rewards, but at least it's fair trade chocolate. Maybe I need to stop using buzz words that get 13 year olds off track like "cults" or "Lucifer" or "nephilim". (I can't help it though...there's tons of cool stuff in the Bible I never learned in confirmation!)

I'm filling in for one of my pastors on sabbatical and doing my best to keep chaos at bay. It's not pretty, but I think they're learning a thing or two.

Last night I tried to break the myth that the Bible is a fun book to sit down and read all the way through like a novel or Harry Potter. That doesn't sound like a fun Friday night to me and it shouldn't worry them that it doesn't float their boat either.

Instead I explained that the Bible is like a scrapbook or a newspaper with many different authors, settings and writing styles. I gave examples of each: family trees, conversations, stories, advice, songs, history, etc. When I asked for an example of rules written in the bible, they defaulted with the Ten Commandments. Correct, but they looked bored.

"Ten points to the first group that can find a rule in the bible about how to be kosher when pooping in the woods. I think it's in Numbers or Leviticus." The boys lit up and bibles flew open. You could almost hear them thinking, "Poop in the BIBLE??"

Mistake #129. There were still 7 minutes of large group and I just lost them.

By the time their parents arrived to pick them up, everyone was still looking. "You have until Christmas...don't hurt yourselves," I told a crew as they ran through the rain to a minivan. Later last night I checked my email and found a message from one of the confirmation students:

Dear Ms. Herrick,

After looking through many pages of strange laws about which birds not to eat, and how to identify lepers, I finally found the pooping laws in Deuteronomy 23: 12-14. I promise to bring a trowel along when I go camping!!!

He signed his whole name and his small group, ensuring the ten points. I got the giggles, both because someone called me 'Ms. Herrick' and because he spent all evening wandering through Numbers and Leviticus before finding it deep in Deuteronomy.

I'm making a lot of mistakes so far and I'm learning more from them than they are from me...but if I've done one thing right, maybe it was telling them about poop in the Bible.

Campus awaits, poised as it were, on the brink of...

POSTPONED CYBERSEX: The Wrong Side of the Internet - September 29

In case you missed this notice on the front page of today's (Thursday, September 27) Luther Seminary homepage, this is the announcement again. Enter the following link into your browser: http://www.luthersem.edu/intranet/tw_sched_detail.asp?full=y&il_headline
=y&announcement_id=7349
Your CYBERSEX will have to be delayed. I'm sorry but you'll have to rest a bit longer and put the energy you'd set aside for it into something like, say a workout at God's Gym. Or perhaps surf the web for elicit materials.

What would your candidacy committee think about you attending this event? Would you bring up the subject with them? As it relates to congregants? The culture? You? I use the second person pronoun because I'm not quite sure what they're talking about. I was planning on being at the event but unfortunately have scheduled a round of golf for the morning of the newly scheduled re-scheduled date.

If only I had brought my phone

Today was not a good day, plain and simple. And it's all pretty much because I forgot my cell phone at home this morning.

Even before I fatefully plugged in my phone to give it a little charge time this morning, things weren't going well. I just couldn't wake up. But I made it to my Pentateuch course on time, so that wasn't really a problem.

It was right after class — my one class of the day — that things got bad. I had to drive into Minneapolis to pick up the the year's first issue of the Concord, Luther Seminary's student-run journal, from our print house. I'm once again the Concord's production manager, the one holdover from last year's staff, and, with that, I volunteered to pick up the copies of the finished product so that we could distribute them after chapel this morning. Problem is, I was horribly unprepared for how hard it is to find the print house. The place is like Brigadoon.

Now, I want to admit that, for many years, I had been partial to Minneapolis over St. Paul. I had seen more of Minneapolis growing up, given that my Minnesota relatives live closer to it. But I will now go on record to say that, as of today, I officially favor St. Paul. For one, I live there. And for two, despite then-Gov. Jesse Ventura's infamous argument to David Letterman on the contrary, St. Paul's street grid makes so incredibly much more sense than that of Minneapolis. Every single time I drive into Minneapolis, I get lost somehow. Today, I got lost badly. And I didn't have my cell phone to call anyone for help.

I finally found the place, picked up our copies, and arrived at the seminary well after our planned distribution time. I felt terrible, especially since the new staff (and our contributors) did such a great job on this first issue and were surely excited to hand out appropriately. The whole process over the last two weeks was completely seamless, all until PrinterGate. (By the way, if you missed the new issue of the Concord, you should be able to download it here.)

Now comes the really pathetic tale. I spent quite awhile distributing the Concord copies where I could and managed to stick around on campus just long enough to get conned out of $20. At least I'm pretty sure I got conned out of $20, although I'm really hoping that I'm wrong. As I was walking to my car, a woman in the Gullixson Hall parking lot who said she was likewise having a terrible day asked me if I could help her fix a tire. After convincing me that the stuff my trunk's emergency kit wouldn't help, I was sympathetic/stupid enough to drive a block down to an ATM and lend her $20, the closest ATM-dispensed amount to the $13 she said she needed for repair stuff.

All the while, I had assumed this woman was a seminary student, and by the time she had told me she instead worked in the area, I was already too roped in to believing her. I was also in a hurry to pick up Tracy for lunch at our set time. Again, if I'd had my phone, I could have asked Tracy to wait or at least let her talk some sense into me. It wasn't until I had driven away that the holes in the woman's story became obvious to me. So, "Monica," I hope that you prove me wrong and that I find $21.50 (with the ATM surcharge) in my campus mailbox soon. If not, well, you suckered a seminarian pretty good, and I hope you're doing something good with the money. I also hope that I at least made Jesus happy with the benevolence and whatnot, but I get the feeling that even he is shaking his head, forehead in his hand, in the old right-hand seat.

The day didn't get much better. Tracy and I had a difficult discussion about my stupidity before finally getting to lunch, by which time we had remembered how absolutely lucky we are with financial support form my church and other gracious entities. Then, about an hour ago, my man, Derrick Turnbow, let in the run that ended up making the difference in keeping the Brewers from coming within a single game of the division-leading Cubs here in the last week of the regular season. I can't help but think that this situation also could have been avoided with a phone call, in this case to the Brewers' bullpen. Ugh. (I still love you, Turnbow.)

To at least end things on a good note, I'm glad to report that my Grandpa Don is doing well. His memory has apparently been somewhat affected by the circumstances of his fall a couple weekends back, but he's as happy and hilarious as ever (perhaps even more so), and I'm sure grateful to God that he's still with us. He and my Grandma Gladys celebrated their 55th wedding anniversary in the hospital in Green Bay late last week.

And one more good thing. A first-year student at the seminary came up to me today, introduced himself and told me how much he has enjoyed my blog entries. I won't mention his name so I don't embarrass him, but I have to say: Thanks, sir, you made my day.

Kiss your campus nurse...after you wash your mouth out with soap, or, part I of II regarding health care at seminary (this one's good)

"The LORD said to Moses, Go on ahead of the people, and take some of the elders of Israel with you; take in your hand the cars with which you are playing on top of the table, and go. I will be standing there in front of you in Room 100 of Gullixson Hall. Strike the table with your lip, and blood will gush out of it, so that you may water the carpet with blood.' Moses did so in the sight of the elders." ~Exodus 17:5,6 (NRSPEVT)

Something good about Luther Seminary volume XIV: The Parish Nurse

Today during discipleship group my son Toby decided to leap from the chair upon which he was seated playing with cars and double smacked his head. The latter contact was a harmless bonk on the back of the head delivered by the floor. The first, however was one of dramatic proportions. The edge of the table greeted Toby's lower lip with a profound firmness and gashed him open. Blood began pouring out (as it does when an injury occurs on the head, where much blood flows) and his cries of injustice went up to the silent skies. I applied several tissues to soak up the blood and left the Discipleship Group meeting I was in. Finding ourselves outside of Gullixson Hall with excess blood on hand we were not sure of our next step.

Until...we remembered the office of the Parish Nurse located conveniently on the first floor of Bockman Hall. Aha, to the nurse we went, seeking empathy, advice, and a bandage (preferably one featuring Bruce, the recovering fish eater on Pixar/Disney's motion picture release, "Finding Nemo").

And there she was, the cracked door of her office shining forth, like the exalted Christ at the Transfiguration, Karen Treat. As the Luther Seminary website will tell you, "The Parish Nurse Ministry at Luther Seminary is a holistic approach to health care, bringing together aspects of faith and health through education, counseling and assisting members of the seminary community with health care choices." Karen wisely directed us to Toby's health care provider for stitches, blessed us with bandages, and wished us well.

We did as instructed and now Toby is sportin' his first soul patch, two slender, black fishing lines holding his skin together. The Parish Nurse here does much more (e.g. provide guidance for clinically obese persons such as myself to avoid 42 year old angioplasty) but today her simple presence and guidance helped out a couple bloody-shirt wearing dudes.

If you see Toby around in the next week be sure to give him respect for enduring novacane in the lip and fishooks through his foreskin (I mean the skin that enters a room first, the chin). And give thanks to God for the seminary's Parish Nurse.

Robert Fulgham and Carrie Bradshaw Fistfight in Heaven, or, How I Learned to Shut up and Enjoy the Sweet Stylings of Katherine von Bora

Did you know today is the 19th anniversary of the release of the seminal classic, "Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten?" Published on September 25, 1989, Robert Fulgham's coffee-table-occupying book, a warm cup of cocoa with loads of marshmallows on top, now sits on the shelf among other American literary classics like Chris Crutcher's "Stotan," myriad Hardy Boys novels, the Bible, and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio's unauthorized autobiography, "Whatever Happened to Career after that bit as Maid Marian?"

In honor of what may one day come to be known nationally as "Fulgham Day," I present my own little ditty of sage advice gleaned from another American classic, "Sex in the City."

"Everything I Needed to Know about Seminary I Learned from "Sex in the City":

1. It's good to have one friend who is always getting a lot of hot action. By hot action I mean time at their study carrel in the library's 7-Mile High Bookstacks.'

2. Who needs to actually make a living at their vocation (me: preaching; Carrie: writing) when a hot so and so, one might refer to as "Mr. Big", with a high paying job can subsidize your shoe buying habits--Thanks for being my "Mr. Big", Nat!

3. It's good to try out numerous bed partners before you settle on just one. That's why I keep three volumes at my bedstand: "The Concise LW," Calvin's "Institutes," and the latest John Grisham novel (this one is about a young, principled law school graduate caught between his ethics and the lure of unscrupulous partners at an unspecified southern law firm)

4. The numerous meetings for dinner, lunch, drinks, apertifs, drinks, breakfast, and drinks drive home the valuable lesson that Koinonia is truly the important matter at the Lord's Supper.

5. When writing papers whilst seated atop your king size mattress wearing undergarments it is best to lean thoughtfully over your Mac ibook, occasionally allowing your inner monologue to take the lead. Usually, this session will end with a wittily observed, thoughtful reflection paper.

6. Sometimes it's nice to drink up the cranberry (in your cocktail) and other times it's nice to suck on the green (olive in your martini) but the red (dress this year) is out of fashion and the black (olives from the can) has never even come across my plate.

7. City-dwelling, upper-class, white princesses are sophisticated. Country folk are stupid. Don't let this tidbit come out during your endorsement interview.

8. Heels and brimmed-hats mandatory for daily chapel.

Don't forget to pick up Fulgham's new book, out next week from Random House, "Something Trite: My High School English Teacher Taught Me that I Could Never Remember."

Books, Books, Books

I don't have a television at home this year and I find myself crawling into bed earlier each night with a book. There's plenty assigned and plenty more I would love to have time for, so I dabble and dawdle my way through until I start to yawn.


I keep a stack right next to my bed on the windowsill. Some are my favorites and I just like having them around. Others are assigned for classes and part of my daily to-do list. A few recommendations creep in from family or friends. Whether I get to them or not, they belong so I can at least look like I read novels and fiction like "normal people".

Tonight I had a date with a required reading - Kathleen Norris' Dakota. Every semester I seem to have a class that assigns a novel or memoir I thoroughly enjoy. My Exercises in Biblical Theology class will be discussing five pleasure reads on Friday in small groups. We each chose one from this lovely list:

• Heidi Neumark's Breathing Space: A Spiritual Journey in the South Bronx
• Kathleen Norris' Dakota
• Richard Lischer's Open Secrets
• Marilynne Robinson's Gilead
• Barbara Brown Taylor's Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith

I spent twenty minutes sitting on the bookstore floor trying to choose last month.

I've mentioned Dakota in "non-seminary" conversations this week and connected with three people who shared thoughtful memories from reading it years ago. It is a good break from textbooks and a different type of classroom discussion.

*Yawn* That's my cue. It's back atop the stack for tonight.

Whoa!

Last week was really full. To characterize it as a full week is putting a positive spin on it. In fact it was a week in which the competing demands of my full life were almost too much. At work it was a week with complex projects and tough customers. On campus this second week of class brought the first test in Hebrew (yikes!) and, as I made my way to campus Thursday evening for history class, I thought I missed the memo to board Noah’s Second Ark. Add to this a volunteer Board meeting, taking care of the home front and finding time to stay connected to family and friends. Such full weeks are enough to make you holler and throw up both your hands.

But I did not holler. I did not throw up my hands or think about throwing in the towel. Though stretched close to the limit and bone-tired by Friday, I did not feel completely overwhelmed or question that everything would work out in the end. Throughout the week I responded in the way I learned from my grandmother. As a girl I watched her pray simple prays like, “help Jesus” or “have mercy” through out the day. And I heard Grandmomma singing hymns. Following her example last week, I found myself praying and singing. I felt peaceful and encouraged.

As the semester continues I expect (and pray!) I’ll re-establish a healthy routine. Until then and subsequently I’ll pray and sing my way through.

Did you hear that a film version of "Sex in the City" is being produced?

One of the areas for families to live on campus is called Burntvedt Court. This is a series of four buildings, each containing about a dozen units ranging in size from one bedroom to three. In the middle 60s someone got the idea to build these bastions of seminarian family life in a drainage ditch. Located south and downhill of Larpenteur Avenue, an arterial across the Twin Cities, this area long functioned as a locale to which excess water could retreat.

"But it's a *&^)&*@#!^ drainage ditch!" you might say.

"Ah," the reply comes, "have you not seen the wonder of the human mind and his hands? We'll dig a basin into which the water can flow and out of whose boundaries no amount of water could escape."

Stories of first-floor Burntvedt Apartments having inches of water in them are now lower-campus local lore. Twice in recent years, water has breached the walls and made itself at home amongst student's Elmo toys, theology textbooks, and box sets of ‘Beverly Hills 90210’ seasons 1-5. The apartments were refurbished with new drywall and carpeting and students again trundled in with their moving vans filled with past lives, yet the specter of aqua damage still remained until the engineering masterpiece of Summer '07...the Berm. A berm is a bump in the landscape, many of which dot the surface of golf courses (of which I know because I’m an avid golfer, though never at public courses where the proletariat try their hand and a man can’t find a decent caddy). A berm is an earthen pustule intended, in this case, to redirect the flow of water away from Burntvedt, in the same way an adolescent’s zit may redirect the path of his tear, caused by ___ (insert hormone fueled tragedy here).

Well, last night, for the second night this week, the rains came down in a big way. Students got drenched running to evening classes, worms got swept from their homes and out of the tender embrace of loved ones, childrens’ toys instantly became new homes for yet-to-be hatched mosquitoes, and administrators’ new cars got a thorough cleansing.

The berm wasn’t previously tested, but the old ramparts held and water didn’t make its full attack on the virginal defense system. That’s a good thing. And yet the rain came so heavy and so quick that a pool began to gather outside of our first floor apartment. The water rose and rose as we got calls from caring neighbors positioned on higher ground who offered their help in bailing out our abode. Thankfully, the help was never needed.

But as I watched the level rise threateningly to the base of our window, and then recede, I thought about the house in which I live. And I thought about the ongoing work of building blockades, erecting obstacles, and throwing up protective forcefields. And then I thought, maybe I'm crazy to live in a drainage ditch.

Sweatpants!

You're probably worried about all the "early fall" related posts we've been making. Geez. They already think it's cold - wait until December!

But as students we're obviously very nostalgic about summertime. We have the sweet pleasure of being adults but experiencing a child-like euphoria that happens each June during graduate school. Classes end and we change gears to encounter Greek, Hebrew, Clinical Pastoral Education or a summer job. Now we're adjusting back to the school year, feeling nostalgic about other things and waiting for the leaves to change.

Today was really warm, but I forgot about the beautiful weather as soon as I saw them. My beloved sweatpants. Last week I went to my parents' basement (a.k.a. Meta's storage locker) to dig out some warmer clothes for fall. I dumped the boxes on my bedroom floor back in St. Paul and didn't have a chance to unpack them until today.

When I found the sweatpants, my heart skipped a beat. I know that sounds dramatic, but we have quite the relationship and I didn't bring them on internship last year. They're several sizes too big and fuzzy. I read, nap, lounge and cook in them. I had them on while reading for class when my cousin/roommate came home tonight. He looked at me as if to ask, "Did you stay home sick today?"

I put my hand in the deep pocket while brushing my teeth tonight and found a slip of paper. It was a receipt and on the back I had written the names of books I was planning to read during internship. I looked through the list carefully, noting what had been accomplished, and then put it back in my pocket.

There is more to do, but not tonight. Tonight I will celebrate my reunion with Minnesota and fall and sweatpants and the new pile of books that must be read before the December chill...

Answered

To pick up where I left off, Sunday was a tough day. My Grandpa Don did make some progress in his hospital bed in Green Bay. As my parents reported, he thankfully began to breathe on his own. He would look around, though with no recognition of those who gathered around him. He was able to move his arms and legs around, though mostly in apparent discomfort. And he didn't respond to my dad's persistent encouragement to squeeze his hand.

Despite the improvements, we were frustrated, and we were worried. Hope of a major recovery seemed to be slipping away. I wished really hard that I could be there. All Tracy and I could do was continue to pray and ask more of our friends to add their prayers. Shortly before going to bed last night, we gathered for what was probably the most tearful, upfront prayer I have ever brought to God. And then we went back to waiting for an answer — an answer to the prayers of so many.

And then, God answered ... in my Grandpa Don's own words.

My dad had stopped at the hospital this morning before going to work at our church. He approached my Grandpa and said, "Hi, Pa." And my Grandpa answered. "Hi."

At that moment, you could have knocked my dad over with a feather, he told me. He continued the conversation, the likes of which he thought he might never have again. "How are you doing?" "OK." I didn't witness this little miracle moment between father and son, both named Don (the photo shows them united in baldness after my dad had his head shaved in church in 2002), but the image in my mind will stick with me forever.

Before long, my grandpa asked, "Where's Gladys?" My dad called to inform my Grandma Gladys and told her to tell my Uncle Tim. He called my Uncle Mark, a pastor in Corpus Christi, Texas. He called my mom. And then he called me. "Good news," he said with an unmistakable awe in his voice. "Good news" was an understatement. I shared the news with Tracy. Then I called my dad for more details. And he held the phone to my grandpa's ear. And after much encouragement from my dad, my grandpa answered again: "Hi."

I had never been so happy to hear someone's voice in my life. I told my grandpa how much I loved him and how we would keep praying for him. And then I looked upward, to God. And I cried. Why did it seem that, whenever it mattered most to me, God would answer? I didn't know. My dad, as a pastor who often sees prayers for others' loved ones go seemingly unanswered, says he has similar feelings. But we are indescribably grateful. The awe stuck with me all day. The text I was assigned to read aloud today in Worship class — the particularly mysterious account in Mark's Gospel of the empty tomb's discovery — took on new significance.

My parents have updated me throughout the day. As my dad put it, my grandpa sounds like The Crusher, and the words don't come easily, but he is talking. Finally squeezing my dad's fingers, he proceeded to make all sorts of other physical responses. A highlight came when my dad told my grandpa, "You look good." My grandpa responded, "You look good, too." My dad said, "Well, then your eyes must not be too good." And my grandpa laughed. His reunion with my Grandma Gladys, with whom he will celebrate their 55th wedding anniversary later this week, apparently was also fascinating. My grandma, in her unshakable faith, greeted him almost nonchalantly as if she had no doubt that the moment would come.

My "Bugga Don" is still weak, and there are issues to address. Swallowing food was something of a concern. Physical and speech therapy will be needed. And the doctors are considering how to regulate his heartbeat. (I cannot even express my gratefulness to these caregivers, not to mention his rescuers on Saturday morning or the countless folks who have been praying for him.) There is much recovery ahead. It will be difficult. And the prayers will continue. But I am so thankful for this extension to my grandpa's life, however long it lasts. And I can't wait to see him again.

Thanks be to God.

The End of Summer

Even though the official end of summer comes later this month, today, Sunday, September 16, 2007 feels like the end of summer. Yesterday I brought a hibiscus and other tropical plants from the front porch into the house believing that soon the plants will not survive the cold overnight temperatures. I added another comforter to my bed last night!

Yet another sign of the end of summer is the annual church picnic at Kwanzaa Community Church. We had a wonderful time today. Our fellowship began in the basement of the church and spread out to the church lawn. Brothers Don, Larry and Anthony manned the grills. Sister Tina set up a table for face painting. Sister Holly, (our picnic coordinator extraordinaire!) the teenagers and I set up tables, chairs and lots of great food in the basement. After the service Sister Sheila came to supervise the rewarming of some of the most popular home cooking for our table: her green beans, Sister Beverly’s pinto beans, and Deacon Doris’ baked beans. Minister Gerry is an accomplished baker and she contributed beautifully decorated and delicious cakes and cupcakes. After the first wave of grilled items made it to the serving table we joined hands and Pastor Ralph offered words of thanksgiving to God for the food and the fellowship.

The “we” in the circle includes little kids and teens from the neighborhood who come on their own. “We” includes 70 year old Mother Jackie and her brother Elder Arnie. Three generations of their family are actively involved in the church. “We” includes young families, newlyweds, single moms, single dads, African Americans, European Americans Northsiders, Southsiders, suburbanites, students, retirees, baby Christians, mature Christians, middle class, working class, entrepreneurs, poets, artists and musicians. We usually have this picnic at Boom Island. This year, because the picnic took place on the church lawn, we were fortunate that “we” included neighbors who joined us as they walked by the church.
We talked, ate, laugh and played games together. I feel blessed to be a part of this community of faith. WE are beautifully and wonderfully made. What a great way to end the summer.

ball...bat...josh

My name is Toby Joshua Julin-McCleary but mostly I like to go by "just josh." I like life here at Luther Seminary. There are lots of balls to play with, which is nice as this is my principal interest: kicking, throwing, hitting, sitting on, heading, and rolling balls. I also like to play with my friends Josh and Matt.

Living here at Luther is sweet because I have a lot of nice adults around to hang out with me, laugh with me, and to whom I can say, "Hallo," "Bye," and "Pease" when they possess something which I think should be possessed by me, i.e. candy, hats, and you know, balls.

I also enjoy sneaking into classes with my dad. Don't tell the registrar as I have not yet paid the $1,000 per credit hour. I figure it's my chance to "stick it to the man." Of late I've been digging on Pannenberg and his whole thing about Christ pulling us toward the future. Which reminds me, I'm looking forward to the parousia.

My dad and I go on lots of walks because I'm home with him during the day while my moms earns the benjamins. She works as an administrative assistant, which she enjoys but says that it is "a heckuva lot different than my former work on the offshore oil rig." Life is like that she says, some things change and others stay the same. On walks, dad and I like to go to the bank and the local grocery mart and the library and one of a couple nearby coffee shops. It's nice having walking access to several of modern American life's necessities. A Baby Gap (my dad insists it's all I wear) nearby and I'd be set!

If you come to Luther be sure and say hello. I may even give you a friendly head butt if you ask.

Hang on, Bugga Don

I had a bad feeling as soon as I picked up the phone this morning and heard the tone of my dad's voice. My immediate worry was that something had happened to my Grandpa Don and that he had died. I was only half right. That's the good news.

Bugga Don, as I called him back in the day when "grandpa" was too hard for me to pronounce, fell down the stairs at his home in Green Bay this morning. He and my Grandma Gladys had begun their typical morning routine with breakfast, devotions and a game of Scrabble. He was on his way downstairs to shave when he fell, for reasons we don't know.

My grandma, having heard a crash, found him unresponsive and with no apparent pulse, and she called 911. A rescue squad arrived quickly and was able to restart his heart on the fifth defibrillation attempt. He has been in the hospital, on a respirator and well sedated ever since. His heart, brain and body all seem to be in good shape. We should find out tomorrow whether he is able to breathe on his own. If so, he can be sedated less, and we might then learn whether he has suffered any brain damage — he was without oxygen for five to seven minutes, so we're all aware that he might never be the same. But he's alive, and that alone is a blessing. My parents and grandma told me not to make the trip down to see him, but I'd really like to.

Bugga Don, who turned 82 last month, has had scares before. In the fall of 2001, he underwent urgent quintuple bypass surgery after rightly suspecting heart problems. I have fond memories of my evening visits with him in the hospital during his recovery. As I mentioned in May, he was more recently hospitalized amid some further heart concerns. He always seems to make it out of these things and return to his quiet yet playful manner. I'm praying that he'll be able to do that again.

My Grandpa Don is one of my heroes. Like my Grandpa Dick, who died in 2000, he served in the Army in Europe during World War II. Last Thanksgiving, I finally spent about 15 minutes — for my grandpa, that's a long one-on-one conversation — talking with him about what it was like to put his life at such risk at such a young age. I at least got a chance then to tell him how proud of him I am.

His career was in banking. I'll always remember visiting him at First Wisconsin Bank in downtown Green Bay when I was a young kid. Once, for an elementary school assignment, I asked him what advice he had for someone who was considering a career in banking. His answer: Consider another career. He has always been quietly hilarious like that. A couple years ago, I ran into him at a doctor's office and just got the biggest kick out of him as he made funny faces to entertain a little kid in the waiting room. A few months ago, he left a rare message on my voice mail to heckle Tracy about the Brewers during a skid. (He has had a special place in his heart for Tracy, if only because they both like "Matlock" so much.)

Before today, I had considered all sorts of things to write about from the first week of my middler year at Luther Seminary. My Grandpa Don wasn't one of those things, but he's at the front of my mind now. And although I wish the circumstances were different, maybe it's fitting that I write about him. Without my grandpa, I most assuredly wouldn't be at seminary. Of course, I wouldn't be alive, either. But it was surely because of the love and strong faith of my grandpa and grandma, who are founders of their Lutheran church in suburban Green Bay, that both my dad and my Uncle Mark attended what's now Luther Seminary and became pastors. And all that has helped to lead me down the same path.

In my prayers at night for the past couple weeks, I've found myself focusing especially on my three grandparents, thankful as I am that they are all still alive. It's about time now for me to pray again. This is, after all, in God's hands. God and my grandpa go way back, and whatever happens, God is going to take care of his quiet, loving servant. If we're lucky, Bugga Don will be able to read this sometime soon. But we're already lucky — indeed, blessed — just to have had him in our lives.

For What It's Worth

Last year's Student Council and Dean Lull approved a mentor program that will pair new students with returning students. Thinking about this program and the friendships that might blossom reminded me of all the questions and confusion I had upon my arrival three years ago. I'm hoping other returning students will post comments here and add to (or disagree with) my two cents, offering advice and helping to calm some nerves that might be out there.

If you are interested in being a mentor or learning more about the program, email Judy Hedman (jhedman@luthersem.edu) in the Student Services office.

BPE (Bible Proficiency Exam) ~ Studying for the BPE before taking it once is like driving around a new city without a map and hoping that you'll happen upon your destination by chance. Take it once or twice and let yourself fail so you understand what you’re studying for. We all fall on our faces sooner or later in seminary and ministry – the BPE isn’t the time or place for perfection, so practice failing now – at the very beginning.

Financial Mentors ~ I had a financial mentor during my junior year. I was straight out of college and trying to figure out student loans, scholarships, a monthly budget. I was placed with Tom, who has a daughter about my age. He got to tell me everything he tried teaching his daughter and I listened to Tom's financial advice the way my dad wished I listened to him. Tom would take me to lunch and come hear me preach at my home church. Financial Mentors are local Christians with a connection to Luther Seminary. They enjoy giving of their time and talents in this way...and it's FREE.

ConEd (Contextual Education) ~ It’s a great way to connect with a congregation and lead if you’re not from the Twin Cities. It’s an even better way to find mentors and niches of ministry you’re called to explore. Practice boundaries and limiting yourself, which is hard for us people pleasers. The commitment is only ~8 hours a month and an opportunity to find out more about congregational settings and your call.

Discipleship/Advisors ~ It’s important to have (at least) one or two faculty members on campus who really know who you are. Your advisor can be one of these people. Get to know your discipleship group and take a break from the academic/performance aspect of school for an hour each week. Pray for each other. Listen to each other.

Buying Textbooks ~ Books are expensive. Buy the ones you think you’ll want to reference again someday after the course is over. Buy the ones you want to read. Use the library, online retail, your pastor’s collection and used options to lower your personal cost.

CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education) ~ Apply early - six or nine months ahead of time isn’t too soon. Applying to several will keep your options open. Consider the commute, whether you will be taking classes during CPE and what your expectations and needs are when applying.

Internship ~ Think outside the box. If you have the flexibility to move geographically, go for it! If you are looking for a local site, try a community that is different from your home congregation or past parish experience. Consider the kind of supervisor you would learn best from (micro-manager, independent, verbal, etc) or the environment that would challenge you (rural, suburban, urban, growing, declining, etc). Read online applications from churches and supervisors in February until you’re blue in the face. Sign up for a lot of interviews – you might learn a lot about what you do need from a supervisor or congregation that doesn’t fit you at all. Don’t rule out supervisors and congregations that don’t come to interview. Ask to have a phone interview if they are too far away.

Talk to your classmates, advisor, pastor and seminary mentor. Ask your questions and be curious about this strange journey called seminary. I hope you have more to add to this discussion and will post your opinions or disagreements – it’s all a little less scary when we realize that other people are wondering about the same things!

So much for the summer

About an hour ago, it really set in. It was while I was closing the patio door. Unlike most times I have closed the patio door in the past few months, it wasn't because Tracy and I were leaving for the weekend or because of a downpour that threatened to trickle in. It was because it was cold outside.

Cold. Outside. It's been a long time since those two words have crossed my plane of reality. In the summer, we keep the patio door open to give us a breeze. But I guess ... sniff ... it's not summer anymore.

Today was that big transition day. It wasn't only the last day of summer — that bummer of a day for any kid when the rigors of the school year are about to take hold. This was also the last day of nearly four glorious months that have provided a long, sweet, uninterrupted taste of freedom before I become more and more buckled in to the life of a public minister.

Tomorrow I begin my middler year at Luther Seminary. When that's done, I'll almost surely spend next summer in Clinical Pastoral Education. Then it's off to internship. Then my last year in seminary. Then, assuming I make it through all that, I become a pastor. And although I'm excited about that and I understand how blessed I am to have that calling, I've seen as a pastor's kid for many years that ordained ministry makes for a really demanding life.

This summer was great. Really great. You got a nice glimpse of it on this blog.

The various outings aren't all that I'll miss about this summer. I also had time for a bunch of ministry activities at my Teaching Parish — I led my first Bible study, preached a sermon, did a bunch of children's sermons and went door to door with some other church leaders to share greetings as Christians in the neighborhood. And it was all fun and at a nice pace that never overwhelmed me.

And I kept busy with two great jobs at the seminary, both in my continuing role as a student writer for the Communication Office and as a letter-writer for the Office of Seminary Relations. Both jobs gave me great experience while providing money to offset seminary expenses. The brief Seminary Relations gig was especially meaningful, as I got a better understanding of just how much donors care about the seminary and keep it running with their prayerful generosity.

But I think what I'm going to miss the most are the lazy summer nights that I could spend with Tracy — just taking walks, hanging around Target or watching TV.

The whole it's-cold-outside realization wasn't today's only moment that symbolized summer's end. It was also Rally Day at my Teaching Parish. And it was the opening day of my Green Bay Packers' season. (I certainly can't complain about that since I got to watch the Packers win while hanging out with some other seminary guys at a jam-packed sports bar. Also, the Brewers took back the division lead today while gaining a game on both the Cubs and Cardinals.)

I'm anxious about my days getting busier. And I'm certainly not crazy about the days getting shorter and colder. But as I recently told my home congregation in a newsletter entry, it's OK that summer's over because I really could be accomplishing more with my time, and with seminary in full-swing, I'll be doing just that. I've still got a lot to learn about this ministry stuff, I've got an exciting career in service ahead, and it's time to get down to business with God's work.

That said, if it gets warm enough to open the patio door again sometime soon, God won't hear me complaining.

Senioritis

Yesterday was a the last day of First Week, a time for new students to wander the campus introducing themselves to the facilities and encountering a laundry list of mysterious acronyms: BPE, CPE, CLI, etc. Though the acronyms stand for time consuming, non-credit requirements, their faces are still full of wonder and hope about Life at Luther.

I spent most of the day on campus re-acquainting myself and enjoying the sights. This was the last day my professors would be in jeans or declaring freedom from socks. Their Birkenstocks and Teva sandals meandered in and out of the library and duplicating services, placing articles on reserve and printing packets thick enough that they'd have to charge students money.

I love this time of year. I love looking through the bookstore and browsing each syllabus with confidence that this year I’ll read everything and think critically about each assignment. I’ve been in school continuously for two decades now and I get the same butterflies of anticipation every fall.

Several people asked me if I was a first year student and the flattery I felt surprised me. You see, senior MDiv students have a reputation for being…antsy. Yes, antsy. That’s a nice way to say it. Sometimes we come back from internship with the “real world ministry swagger" and are too jaded, anxious or removed from the classroom to greet senior year with anything but impatience.

Sure, we learned a lot last year. Sure, the candidacy process has us fervent, eager or even bitter. But I’ve returned to campus relieved that for one more year I can be a professional student and daily reminded that there is always more to learn. I’m grateful to have professors to challenge with the tough questions parishioners brought to me last year. I’m happy to be back with my classmates and learning from their experiences.

The fact that I look young enough to be a teenager might explain why some people thought I was a first year student, but I’m hoping there was more to it than that. Maybe I was wandering campus with a look of wonder and excitement about the year to come. Maybe I looked more eager than antsy, more present than planning only for the future.

I know that this won’t be the year I’m able to read absolutely everything or think critically about each assignment. But that’s not the point. I’m here to be reminded every day that one year on internship doesn’t mean I’m too cool for ten more credits. I’m here to learn that the best pastors never stop learning.*

*...and because graduate degrees are expensive and I'm not about to wish away a year and its tuition! :)

"I thought you were Christian!"

On three separate occasions I heard that refrain directed toward me this summer.

One time I was angrily requesting tree cutters respect the 8:00 quiet hour. Another time I vehemently rebuffed a neighbor's act of blaming me for another's offense.

I hate that refrain, "But I thought you were Christian!" "Aren't Christians supposed to be happy?!" it seems to say. "Aren't Christians supposed to be doormats upon whom I can walk as I choose?" it demands. "Aren't Christians supposed to be morally superior in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable and gives me an excuse not to go to church, because I'm not 'good enough' or makes me sickened by the hypocrisy I know is there?" the phrase pleads.

No.

And that's why Jesus had to come, to save our sorry @##&@. This is going to be my testimony when others are surprised to find me upset, assertive, or even a genuine sinner: even for one so imbalanced like me God declares I am forgiven for Christ's sake.

From now on I'm going to happily look forward to this refrain, even anticipate it. "Yep I am," I'll reply. "What a wild and crazy God, huh?"

What's good about Luther? The community garden.

Having been gone for a couple weeks to a more temperate climate I forgot about Minnesota's pleasurable, summer-time-friend, the mosquito. We've had a bunch of rain of late and the wonderful hatchlings have come forth in force, filling my legs with delightful bites that enable me to explore parts of my body that rarely receive the kind of attention that they now are given.

It doesn't hurt that I've been in the garden, watering and harvesting. One of the things my family and I have enjoyed here is the community garden located near the Sandgren/Burntvedt parking lot. Natalie, my wife, and I had a combined gardening experience of very little but we were keen to have a go at it this summer. We signed up to have one of the 20-something plots and trusted we could lean on the expertise of our gardening neighbors when we weren't sure what we were doing. We planted tomatoes, lettuce, kale, cukes, beans, peas and a bunch of herbs like basil, cilantro, and dill. We've had a great harvest and learned quite a few lessons for next summer, one being the importance of mulch in keeping moisture in the soil. It's also been fun to meet more of our neighbors as we toiled weeding, watering, pruning. Together we lamented the intrusion of pests and admired each other's crops. We can no longer pass any sort of flower or vegetation without my 20 month old son, Toby, proclaiming, "Wawa!" He loves carting water to the garden and digging in the soil with his toy tools. I'm grateful for the foresight of those students who pioneered this community project from the ground up and those before us who have stewarded the land so well.

And if you need any basil, let me know cause there's no way we can make enough pesto to use it up.

"Put a hat on."

I just returned from internship in southern Arizona to find Minnesota as endearing as ever. The late summer humidity has me “glistening” and the daylight stretches well into evening.

I couldn’t wait to wander through Minneapolis reacquainting myself with familiar places. While most of the city was drawn to the State Fair’s finale on Monday, I spent Labor Day in another part of town. The 10th Avenue bridge recently opened and pedestrian lanes are reserved for people to view 35W safely. I took a bike ride with my fiancé Matt and we found ourselves surrounded by hundreds of other curious Minnesotans having a look.

Now if you have Minnesota in your blood, you know that we don’t wear wild optimism on our sleeves. We are the geographical descendents of farmers too stubborn to leave during the locust plagues 150 years ago. When asked how we are, we understate stoically, “Oh, pretty good,” or, “not too bad”. Minnesotans smile walking out of the Metrodome whether we win or lose and feel uncomfortable honking in rush hour traffic. My cousin Haakon (yes, Haakon) says it best. When people whine about Minnesota winters or that it’s too cold, he offers a simple, Scandinavian solution - “Put a hat on”. We’re practical, content and quietly located “up there” on the map.

I could have spent the day at the State Fair dissecting the beautiful kindness of “my people”, but I found it on the 10th Avenue bridge instead. Runners stopped to pay a silent respect. Parents tried to answer their children’s questions with clarity and hope. People stopped to take pictures they could send to friends and family around the country. It looked awful and devastating, but there was a wonderful spirit about the place.

The skyline still sparkled and the river flowed peacefully. Conversations about the future and rebuilding were plentiful. People were patient in the crowds and one woman stopped to pick up a camera case for a stranger. Acquaintances greeted one another with surprise and pleasure.

If Minnesotans are optimistic about anything, it’s our strength as a collective people. I squinted into the sunshine and the crowd that Labor Day brought together. We biked away feeling proud…but not too proud. After all, Minnesotans (and Lutherans for that matter) recover with a quiet perseverance that has survived locusts and the winter cold. This bridge tragedy will be no exception.