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Celebrating My Parents

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To borrow a 90’s phrase, my parents are totally rad. I don’t write about them much, mostly because they loom so large in my life that it’s hard to do them justice on paper. Tonight I’m thinking about them because this is the big week when they celebrate their anniversary and their birthdays. I already did the good daughter thing and sent them a little something in the mail, but I think a blog post might be a better gift. (And I bet mom will cry when she reads this.)

You may not know them, but here are some of the reasons why my parents are so great…

  1. Mom is playful and funny. This woman’s got wit and a well-developed sense of humor — and a great cackle to go along with them. She kept us laughing when we were kids with what I can only call antics. My mom is a dignified woman but she’s not afraid to be goofy. More than anyone else, she can make me laugh so hard that I cry and gasp for breath. As I was growing up, she was a favorite with my friends. “Momma G” was often requested as a chaperone for school trips and I didn’t mind when she came along. That says a lot.
  2. My parents are generous. They probably won’t like me telling you this, but when our family had more money than we needed, they gave away the extra. They have always supported great charities and non-profits, not only with money but with their time. They’ve served on more boards and committees, and volunteered at more events, than anyone I know. Every Christmas Eve they hosted our pastors and their families for a bountiful dinner. Whenever there was a spare bedroom in our home, it was filled with missionaries on furlough, poor college students, or people in transition.
  3. Dad is a great confidante. He has always been someone I could tell anything to without fearing quick judgment or dismissal. Even when Dad and I disagree on a point or a decision, we can share our opinions and have a safe and helpful conversation. The way my father listens makes me feel valuable.
  4. Kim and Pam define encouragement. I don’t have childhood issues to work through due to unrealistic parental expectations. When I got a low grade on a test or assignment, they’d ask if I was prepared, if I gave it my best effort, and then they’d tell me that they believed in me and move on. They never made me feel guilty or indicated that I’d disappointed them. In fact, my parents often gently urged me to loosen my perfectionist tendencies and have more fun. The only time they ever gave me an ultimatum was when I was giving all of my time to extracurriculars and was neglecting my spiritual life. They told me that changes had to be made because nothing was more important than my relationship with God. Their own lives have proved that point.
  5. Mom models faithfulness to commitments. Pam has taught pre-school Sunday school classes almost my entire life. Of course there were challenging kids, flaky helpers, and days when she just wanted to skip church and sleep in, but my mother never backed out of a commitment just because her feelings changed. She knew people were counting on her — both the kids, other teachers, and the pastor — so she showed up. Every time. How many people do you know like that anymore?
  6. My parents gave me an awesome musical education. Music was always playing in our home and in our cars. My parents’ musical taste is so eclectic that I can sing along to Cat Stevens; The Beach Boys; Luciano Pavarotti; Joni Mitchell; Simon and Garfunkel; Etta James; James Taylor; any of the Jackson clan; Crosby, Stills and Nash; Frank Sinatra; The Four Tops and many more. I know Broadway musicals and can tell the difference between Brahms, Bach, and Beethoven. Like many parents, Kim and Pam forced me to learn piano. That torture is one of the greatest gifts they ever gave me. The ability to read music is a dying art, but since I learned how to read music, I’ve had some of the most exhilarating moments of my life making music with other singers.
  7. My dad is a storyteller. The grandkids always ask for Papa to tuck them in so he can tell them a story. He’s been weaving intricate stories about Chief Red Cloud for decades. (It’s probably the Ojibwe blood in him.) Dad’s gift lives on in my brother Brandon who spins great stories and makes up these spontaneous, rhyming songs for his daughters. I think dad’s love for story is probably why I love reading, acting, and public speaking of all kinds. There are few simple pleasures like telling a good story well.
  8. They’re still together. My parents don’t have a dazzling love story. (In fact, they way mom tells it, dad proposed in the middle of a casual conversation with something like, “So, do you think we should get married?”) But they do have stable love story, which might just be the best kind. If their marriage were a book, these would be some of the chapters:
    • Loyalty to one’s spouse is like being a Buckeyes fan
    • Parenting is cheerleading without the uniforms
    • The life-long friendship of doubles tennis and euchre table-talk
    • Adventure: sell insurance, travel far, drink wine, and find your husband conducting a band
    • Forgiveness: a kiss after another home project gone sour
    • Embrace your in-laws — Don’t bring up politics
    • Faith is obeying the call of God even when it leads to a desert and loss
    • Aging Well: Let her read. Let him play golf. Hold hands during the movie.

My parents are not perfect people, nor were they perfect parents, but they are easy to compliment. They know how much I love them and now you might too.

Happy anniversary and happy birthday Mom and Dad! May you have many more years together.

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Resisting Rest

In May I had these plans for a quiet summer. I was going to enjoy the sunny patio at work, make tons of coffee appointments to get to know people better, and spend the rest of my time studying and writing at a leisurely pace. Um…reality check. The summers around here are certainly different, but no less full than the other seasons. My ministries might be on hiatus, but someone forgot to tell that to my calendar.

It’s downright miraculous how fast life can fill up. On Sunday afternoons when I sit down to coordinate my week, it takes about two nanoseconds to cement every hour. My days are filled with mentoring meetings, staff meetings, intern classes, guest teaching at various groups, pastoral search team meetings, interviews, and meetings to plan future meetings. There were two wonderful trips in June — a work trip to Canada and a personal trip to my brother’s wedding — both of which were refreshing, but when I got back I realized that June was gone. It was just gone and my stomach got that petrified feeling. I hadn’t accomplished nearly half of what I’d hoped.

I’ve got serious work to do. I’m writing a curriculum for a 5 month Bible study on the Holy Spirit and I’m really excited about where it might lead our groups. I’m preaching two Sundays in August and preaching is a Joy, but there’s a lot of spiritual percolation that needs to happen to shape a good sermon. All these meetings are important too, but as I sit through them, under the din of conversation, I hear this whisper like the voice of Voldemort speaking Parseltongue. The creeper is saying — You have so much to do — and while others talk and make decisions around me, I respond (internally) with the drone of the hypnotized — Yes. Yes Master, I do!

Friday and Saturday are my days off. I like to use one for necessary tedium like errands and home pedicures, and one for Sabbath. I’m usually equal parts gleeful and languid by Thursday night, but this summer has tossed in a liberal squeeze of anxiety. The anxiety comes from knowing that there is much left to do and feeling like my time is out of my control.

My head is full of the enemy’s whispers that I don’t really have time to rest. That work is more important than me. He reminds me that people will be watching me and won’t my sermon be that much better if I put in a few hours on Saturday? That certainly 12 hours of daylight are enough to hit the ATM, meal plan and buy groceries, read a mystery, work out, grab coffee with a friend, do 3 loads of laundry, clean the bathroom, watch a movie, and find my missing sandal.

Summer has become a battlefield for not just my time, but my heart. It’s being versus doing, and most days doing has the bigger arsenal. Victory hangs on this question — will I surrender to my call to pastor and prioritize God and others, or will I enslave myself to work?

How I use my time is really a litmus test for idolatry. Every day my calendar forces me to ask, do I bow to God alone, or to God and ____?

Thursday night is almost here and I’m again tempted to resist the rest that I so desperately need. I need it because I am human. I have limits. I’m also worth more than my work could ever measure. Good rest will help me rediscover the joy of simply being a child of God, and the knowledge that that is enough. In fact, it’s everything.

Photo by Jake Givens

Photo by Jake Givens

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35 Things for my 35th Year

Maybe it’s a severe case of Youngest Child Syndrome, but I’ve always seen 35 as a significant coming-of-age. I feel like I’ve been leaning toward 35 the way children giddily peer into a pillowcase full of trick-or-treat loot. My birthday came and went this year with moderate fanfare – just the way I like it. My birthday week daydreams were full of wishes, hopes, and prayers (and a few silly wants) for myself and for others. So many things were zooming through my brain that I decided to write them down. Now there’s a record of them and I get to wait and see what happens. Hopefully some really good things.

Here they are in no particular order — 35 things for my 35th year:

1. I want at least 3 memorable cups of coffee — one by the beach, one on a mountain, and one at a cafe while making a new friend.
2. I pray for physical healing for my friend Joni so she can return to the mission field.
3. I want to be surprised by something new God has for me.
4. I wish my feet weren’t two different sizes, or, I hope to find dress shoes that won’t cause apocalyptic blisters.
5. I hope my niece Kennedy stays her spunky, uninhibited self as she grows up. That girl can dance!
6. I pray for my brother Brock’s first year of marriage. For honesty, fun, and affection to be the foundation for their next 50 years.
7. I want to take 5 spontaneous road trips. One of them must be to Yosemite.
8. I hope I get to go to the Olympics in Rio. Who cares if it’s as a volunteer? Pick me, IOC!
9. I pray that this curriculum on the Holy Spirit would take us to deep places in our Bible studies this year.
10. I want to befriend some of my neighbors.
11. I hope that at trip to India is in my future.
12. I wish for rain for California and all the places in the world affected by drought.
13. I want to see C encounter and choose Jesus.
14. I pray I remember to close the garage door when I leave for work.
15. I pray for my brother Brandon’s family as they adjust to their new life in Massachusetts.
16. I want to take an art class, something that uses lots of color.
17. I hope for job security, good health, and a flourishing marriage for my parents.
18. I anticipate many more healthy years for my aunt Caye. That’s one premium kidney my dad gave her!
19. I pray for children in foster care — for the protection of their bodies, hearts and minds — and for the social workers who are searching for their forever families. I pray for generosity in state budgets so the children and social workers have the resources they need.
20. I want to discover four new authors for some good reads.
21. I hope my teaching and preaching will be full of wisdom, helpful illustrations, and a dash of wit. No dull sermons around here!
22. I pray for the single men and women who secretly wonder what is “wrong” with them. By God’s grace, and through caring friendships, I hope they grow in confidence and self-love.
23. I wish I looked my age instead of looking 23. When I’m 50, I better appreciate looking 35, as everyone predicts I will.
24. I want to discover a love for cooking. But since that isn’t likely to happen, I at least hope to hate it less.
25. I pray for all my friends who are new parents — may God bless you with sleep, moments of wonder with your child, a hastily snatched date night, and some good alone time.
26. I want to hold lots of babies this year (and every year), so anyone who wants that alone time, call me!
27. I pray that the church will be a change agent in the injustices of our age, especially in regard to racism, human trafficking, and the exploitation of women and children.
28. I wish that ‘evangelical’ wasn’t such a dirty word in our culture.
29. I hope for dirt cheap airline tickets to Harrisburg, PA. Or better yet, that my besties would move closer to me!
30. I want to be flooded with energy and ideas for writing so this blog will be a meaningful and fruitful place.
31. I pray for the renewed health of the SLW family. May these years of difficulty become an incredible redemption story.
31. I pray I will have a strong sense of family as I develop relationships in my new home.
32. I can’t wait to see what my nieces and nephews do with their lives. I pray that they will know, love, and serve God with joy.
33. I want to laugh a lot. At least once a day. But I would settle for a deep belly laugh once a week.
34. I hope for stable, long-term housing so I can use it as a place of hospitality for the lonely.
35. I pray God would make a way for me to adopt when the time and circumstances are right. That I will be a healthy, wise, and compassionate parent.

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A Heart the Size of 12,000 Miles

For the first 18 years of my life I lived in Columbus, Ohio. For 17 of those years I lived in the same house. I attended two churches and three schools in all that time, surrounded by the same people. My parents had a solid and affectionate marriage (unless they attempted a home improvement project together), and I knew very few families affected by divorce or death. My childhood was a picture of stability. 29c4a78abd3f1b0c3e24c1d8b84e94d4 Ohio is a great place. The people are friendly. The housing and groceries are affordable. The weather isn’t unduly harsh in any season; and if you’re a college sports fan, Columbus is Mecca. Ohio is generally so well liked by its inhabitants, that people who grow up there tend to stick around for college. Then they start careers and nurture families there. As a middle schooler, I noticed that no one ever left. Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration – some went to Carolina beaches for summer vacation, and in extreme cases a Ohioan might go to Indiana or Illinois for college – but everyone seemed destined to boomerang back.

I loved my childhood in the heart-shaped state, but when I pictured my future, I hoped for a bit more variety than the Midwestern suburbs I called home. Even if just for a while, I wanted to fly far away to something new. To experience new smells and flavors, and people with stories different from my own. I wanted my life to be big and vibrant, or at least for a little while, broader and more colorful than the corn and soybean fields that are Ohio’s backyard. So at 18, I chose an adventure.

In a graduating class of 500, I was one of two to choose California for college. I attended a small, private school in a quaint, coastal city. There I met people who used words like stoked and dude in everyday sentences the way I used the words happy and Ben. Girls went to class with bikinis under brand name cutoffs and tank tops; guys wore board shorts, t-shirts, and flip-flops stained with salt and sweat. Everyone looked beach-ready, but in a glossy magazine photo way. I’d never owned a pair of overalls in my life, but next to all the tanned, sleek bodies with their casual sophistication, it was as if every outfit I owned screamed farm girl!

Those four years at the beach were difficult but good for me. Despite my Midwestern-girl-next-door vibe, people were generally friendly and accepting. In California I discovered a love for learning and for the avocado. I learned that seafood is edible and delicious when fresh, that cyn is the abbreviation for canyon (that’s an embarrassing story), and that God wanted me to be a pastor. Even though I felt constantly oafish, that feeling got me to a moment every young woman needs – the moment when you look in the mirror and see yourself for exactly who you are, with all your strange beauty and glorious awkwardness, and you lift your chin and say, “This is who I am. And this is good.” And then you step into the sunshine and live.

Those early years in California helped me realize that life is too short and too important to let comparison or insecurity bridle me. I will probably never be thin. I will probably always laugh a little too loudly. I will continue to be more interested in maintaining my friendships than I am my appearance. I’ll bore people at parties with stories about my nieces and nephews. I’ll occasionally cry at work. I won’t stop myself from being goofy near babies. These are just a few of the things that make me, me. Sticking out in California helped me see myself. Because I felt the love of God shining on me even when I felt awkward, I was able to love myself in all my oafish glory.

That profound movement from insecurity to acceptance made me confident and courageous. It turned me into an adventurer who chooses newness and change, and who embraces discomfort and awkwardness, because those things are markers on a treasure map for the soul.

Though I think of it fondly, I never moved back to Ohio. Since my leap to the left coast, I’ve moved a total of 12,377 miles. I’ve lived at 11 different addresses across 5 states and Canada. I’ve lived in neighborhoods where being white and speaking English made me a minority. I’ve joined churches where standard potluck fare was spam and sushi rather than the chicken casseroles and apple pie of my childhood. I’ve also been able to travel to 18 countries on three continents.

This adventure has enriched me, but not without cost. I now have the eyes to see things like white privilege, poverty, racism, and systemic injustices – domestically and around the world. These are things you can’t unsee. They come with some nasty emotions like anger due to a sense of powerlessness, and a grief so thick it stains like mud. As painful as this descaling of my eyes has been, the good news is that these 12,000+ miles have enlarged my heart. My ability to listen well and be compassionate has expanded along with my worldview. Now I don’t want to only meet and hang out with people like me; that’s comfortable but boring. I’d rather seek out people who are different from me. I want to hear their stories, to laugh with them, to discover what makes them tick, and to have their friendship increase my vision for God’s handiwork.

Each new place, people and culture, has marked me in some way, but none have changed me fundamentally. I’m still Corrie – a friendly, somewhat clumsy, unsophisticated, indoorsy, Midwestern girl – but now I’m layered with other landscapes, stories, and experiences. When I look in a mirror now, I see the same person I was at 18, but there’s a shimmer. Like the moment when colors burst and blend as you slowly turn the barrel of a kaleidoscope, there’s a richness to me that wasn’t there at 18. If you look and listen carefully, you can see it in my gaze and hear it in my laugh.

The best way to learn a new neighborhood is to go out and get lost. Leave the GPS at home and go wander. Walk down a quiet side street or get in the car and take five random turns, just to see where they lead. It’s a little scary to do this, especially in a foreign country, but when you do the feelings of being lost and out-of-place fade quickly. Habitual wandering makes unknown landscapes familiar. And one day you will realize that those unassuming side streets are your best route home.

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Sustaining Women Clergy: A Call to Action

Moving to a new state and starting a new job usually drains most of my creative energy. I’ve been butting up against some writer’s block the past few months, but thankfully I was able to get some coherent thoughts on paper last week.

Every once and a while I guest blog elsewhere. Follow this link to my latest contribution to the Biblical Gender Equality blog sponsored my denomination, The Evangelical Covenant Church.

Clergy Types: The Silly and Strange
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Clergy Types: The Silly and Strange

Several of my Facebook friends have been sharing a graphic called the beards of ministry. Take a look. It’s pretty funny and full of caricatures that are often true in the church.

I remember looking forward to seminary and to ministering in a church. I had such high hopes for learning, for being challenged intellectually and spiritually. I really wanted to see new fruit in the church and in my life. I never expected to witness the birth of the hipster movement.

(Skinny jeans weren't in yet, but I could have gone to seminary with this guy!)

(Skinny jeans weren’t trendy in the early 2000s, but I could have gone to seminary with this guy!)

At seminary, I was surprised to find men (so many men) wearing corduroy pants, flannel button-downs over graphic t-shirts, and wool hats. Granted, I went to grad school in the pacific northwest, but the weather is not so cold that you must wear this outfit ten months of the year.

At my seminary, the professors often used the verb grapple to describe the Christian life. We were grappling with this arduous spiritual and intellectual journey of following Jesus and being a part of his church. Seminary certainly challenged and stretched me, but the only thing I grappled with was the sight of my fellow students toting sleek Mac laptops in trendy shoulder cases while wearing faded Converse sneakers with holes in the toe.

I knew there would be a plethora of men at seminary, but I didn’t expect to have so much trouble remembering their names. I kid you not — in every class there would be at least five guys named David or Daniel; two guys named after the patriarchs (though Abraham was rare); a Paul and a John or Jonathan; and at least one guy named for a minor prophet. Other than a Jewish synagogue, a Christian seminary is just about the only place you’ll hear a guy introduce himself saying, “Hi, I’m Ezra” and then hear the other guy say, “So am I.”

And yes, the facial hair phenomenon was as real for seminarians as it is for pastors. There were so many strange, but clearly intentional, patches of facial hair. My theory is that creative facial grooming draws the eye away from an exposed scalp. Here is the question I will ask the Lord when I meet him in heaven — why are so many seminarians prematurely balding?

Really, this scalpular creativity is nothing new. My brothers in Christ are carrying on a long-standing tradition among religious men. Soul-patches are just the modern day tonsure.tonsure_statu

Clearly, that graphic about pastoral beards got me laughing about all of the stereotypes I’ve seen in the flesh. But it also got me thinking about the things that I experience as a female pastor in a faith tradition where pastors are mostly men.

For instance, take the robe.

I’m not from a tradition where pastors preach in robes, but Clergy-Roberecently I was asked to wear one for a wedding I’ll be officiating. The only robes I’ve ever worn were rentals definitely made for the male body, though advertised as unisex. There was no room for hips.

The sleeves on these robes are poofy and voluminous – you could fit a small child through their opening. So I had a pastoral dilemma of needing a robe, but as a woman I also had a style dilemma; I did not want to drape myself in a manish, gospel choir inspired robe.

Thank goodness I found this flattering and feminine robe courtesy of the staff at Women Spirit.

“Ruth” robe

Clothing and hair are also an issue for the female pastor, especially when preaching. Most churches either supply mics that clip on your shirt like this…

clip-to-shirt
or on a tie, like this…

lapel mic
or one that hooks around your ear like this…

wireless-microphone-5
As a woman, I have issues with all of these options. First, when preaching, I do not wear button down shirts as a rule. This eliminates the risk of unfortunate gapage during Spirit-filled hand gestures.

Second, I’m not in the habit of wearing a tie or a stole to which I can conveniently clip a mic. I won’t be wearing a tie. Ever.

Third, those over-the-ear mics can be a problem for those of us with small ears or long hair. Every time I preach, our sound technician bends the earpiece like Gumby’s legs, desperately trying to fit it to my ear. He always ends up taping the thing to my cheek and the cord to my neck. When I wear my hair down, he instructs me to avoid moving my head so my hair won’t brush the mic and cause crackling.

You try preaching two half-hour sermons without moving your head. Especially when there is tape on your face.

Also, I’d like you to try preaching from a pulpit designed for the average man. I’m four inches taller than the average woman so this is less of a problem for me, but many of my female counterparts are preaching at pulpits much too tall for them. The flat surface for notes is closer to their necks than their waists. Natural hand gestures get lost behind the pulpit and the preacher sometimes looks like a disembodied head.

I don’t spend much time thinking about leaving a legacy in ministry. I hope to be known as a pastor who clearly and joyfully preached the good news of the kingdom of God. But I have this funny feeling I’ll be remembered for something insignificant, like being the pastor who invented the first height-adjustable pulpit. I guess there are worse things to be known for…

soulpatch

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Like Peter: Following Jesus on Good Friday

I’m working with our worship pastor to shape our Good Friday service. We are using a series of dramatic readings, shaped from the Gospel of John, to tell the story of Christ’s last days. I was looking for a responsive reading that would work well after Peter’s denial of Jesus in John 18:15-27. Despite many online resources, I couldn’t seem to find what I was looking for. So I created something new, borrowing from something old.

This responsive reading is simply built; it’s snippets of conversation between Jesus and Peter, taken from all four gospels. It’s designed so that the congregation walks in Peter’s sandals as he follows Jesus. In one minute, the reading reflects three years of discipleship. I want the congregation to connect with the idea that we are all like Peter. Our lives are full of moments of passionate belief followed by doubt, fear, confusion, and passionate denial. You are welcome to use this as you will.

St. Peter in Penitence, El Greco, 1580s

St. Peter in Penitence, El Greco, 1580s

Leader:     Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.

People:    I will follow you.

Leader:     Who do you say that I am?

People:    You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God!

Leader:     No one can come to me unless it is granted by the Father. Will you go away like the others?

People:    Lord, to whom would we go? You have the words of eternal life.

Leader:     I must wash your feet.

People:    Lord, you shall never wash my feet.

Leader:     If I do not wash you, you have no share with me.

People:    Lord, not just my feet – wash my hands and head too!

Leader:     I must go to Jerusalem, suffer many things, be killed and raised on the third day.

People:    No, Lord! This will never happen to you!

Leader:     If anyone wants to come with me, you must deny yourself, take up your cross, and follow me.

People:    I will follow you. I will lay down my life for you.

Leader:     Tonight all of you will run away because of me.

People:    Even if everyone runs away because of you, I will never run away!

Leader:     Before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times.

People:    Even if I have to die with you, I will never deny you!

[pause]

Leader:     Weren’t you with Jesus the Galilean?

People:    I don’t know what you mean.

Leader:     Yes, you are with Jesus of Nazareth!

People:    I don’t know the man.

Leader:     I am sure you are one of his disciples.

People:    I am not!

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Spit It Out: Thoughts on Writing

blank docI’ve been working on a single blog post for two weeks. It’s on a topic that’s very important to me, something central to my understanding of God, the church and the world. It’s also a pretty vulnerable piece, so I’ve been working and reworking my words, trying to articulate myself well. I’m growing more frustrated by the day because I have something important to say, but I can’t seem to spit it out.

I took a creative writing course in graduate school. Each week we had to submit a 500 word piece and share it with a small group of classmates for critique. My peers often said that they liked what I wrote. They complimented my sentence structure and my use of imagery and metaphor, but they always seemed to withhold something in their feedback. I didn’t know what it was then, but I do now.

I was missing substance.

I wrote a piece about a fly for that creative writing class. I wrote long and eloquently about an ordinary fly that flylanded on my desk during an afternoon lecture. The fly was uncommonly still, so I studied it closely. This was somehow fascinating to me, and noteworthy enough, I felt, to share with others. I described the fly’s antenna, the translucent beauty of its wings, its large onyx eyes, and its knees. Its knees! I’d noticed for the first time that flies have “legs” that seem to bend in the middle, and I wrote an entire page about this phenomena. (That’s so embarrassing.) I think the fly would have been satisfied with my attentiveness and awe-inspired descriptions, but my professor certainly wasn’t. She too complimented my writing ability and then gave me a B. That whole semester, she only ever gave me a B.

My professor clearly wanted more from me. She wanted me to move beyond my ability to use words to shape images. She wanted to know me through my words. She wanted to hear my voice slash across the page, impassioned. She wanted me to stop playing in the verbal sandbox, to gather up all of my words and my creativity with my soul, and build something solid and true.

She was right to want that from me, I just wasn’t ready.

When I started seminary, I was 22 and the youngest student at the school. I was competent, I loved learning, and I was engaged in the classroom, but I also held back. I didn’t speak up too often in class. I had big questions and well-formed opinions, but I didn’t share them in public, only in small groups of trusted friends. I had a voice, but I wasn’t ready to use it. I had substance, but I didn’t feel safe sharing it.

Over the years people kept telling me that I had a gift for writing. They encouraged me to write more and to share it with them. In the fall of 2009, I started this blog, which I called “The Purse” because of a funny, teenage anecdote involving my mother. It was an experiment in using my gift to use my voice. I thought if I told a few friends and family about the blog, that would keep me accountable. A familiar and caring audience would be the gentle pressure I needed to spit myself out on paper. I hoped to be clear and honest. To write well and to grow as a writer. To talk about things that mattered and ask important questions. But most of all, I wanted to take up my voice and have the courage to share it with the world.

Five and a half years later, I know I’ve accomplished all of that (though my use of punctuation still needs improvement). My little experiment in voice development is now a vital place of personal reflection. I’m a verbal processor, but I hate journaling. This blog is my forum. It’s where I talk out my thoughts and questions until they line up into something life-giving. Gradually, it’s become a place safe enough for me to share my pain, doubts, and struggles.

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I’ve put my soul in these posts, and it’s out there for the world to see. I now have over 700 subscribers, most of whom are strangers. That’s a modest number in the world of blogging, but I’m not hoping to quit my day-job. I’m just astounded that 700 people want to hear what I have to say on whatever topic I choose.

Despite my expanded audience, this blog continues to be something profound for me. I’m shaping, sharpening and sharing my thoughts, beliefs, and my faith with every word I write. Some posts are better than others, but I think my voice is coming through, confident and clear.

I know myself better than I did in 2009. The name change from “The Purse” to “Pastor with a Purse” is evidence of my growing self-awareness and a clarity of purpose. I know who I am. I’m using my voice. And I’m offering substance from my soul to the world. Now I have a new problem. I have important things to share and in my head I know what I want to say, but I can’t seem to harness my words.

That’s all I wanted to say, really. I just needed to set aside my angst over the post that I can’t seem to get out, and just write. Now, I also want to say how grateful I am to God for this blog. What an incredible adventure this has been, to open myself up to more than just a few trusted friends and share my soul with anyone who wants to listen.

Thanks too, to my original twenty readers, those friends who encouraged me to write in the first place. You’ve helped me grow up and keep growing.

And I guess, while I’m at it, I should also thank my creative writing professor for all of the B’s she gave me. She showed me that I wasn’t using my greatest tool in writing — myself. I think if she could see how far I’ve come from that fly piece, she would be proud. She may even give me an A for all this substance.