Far from Ordinary

Today is the last day of the Church year: Saturday of the 34th Week in Ordinary Time. After six months of green, liturgists are breaking out the purple and pink.  At sundown tonight, it’s Advent.

Advent is a time of preparation, as John the Baptist cries: Prepare ye the way of the Lord!  Step outside church, however, and it’s already secular Christmas: Prepare ye the cards and the gifts! Prepare ye the tree and the lights! Prepare ye the cookies and pies!

Even as I rail against it, I have to acknowledge that I enjoy many of the trappings of secular Christmas, because I’m pretty good at cards, gifts, trees, lights, cookies and pies. (Well maybe not so much with the pies.) Do I have to stop enjoying all these things in order to “do” Advent properly?

Of course not.

But I do have to think about the how and the why of the things I undertake in the next few weeks. Am I doing them compulsively, from a sense of ought? Or am I doing them lovingly, in a spirit of hospitality?

One thing the Advent and Christmas seasons have in common is that they are all about hospitality. We prepare to welcome Christ into our hearts as we prepare to welcome people into our homes. The sweet spot is when we can do both: welcome people into our hearts as well as our homes. That is the essence of hospitality.

When I was in the volunteer community at Freedom House in Richmond some thirty years ago, we used Henri Nouwen’s definition of hospitality to explain what we were trying to do for people experiencing homelessness. Hospitality, Nouwen suggested, is the creation of a free space where the stranger can enter and become a friend instead of an enemy.

Hospitality is the creation of a free space where the stranger can enter and become a friend instead of an enemy.

I have been thinking a lot about hospitality lately. Who or what requires free space to enter my heart this year? Who or what feels like a “stranger” to me, needing to be befriended?

I have an inkling about some of the answers to these questions, but I want to sit with them a while, pondering them in my rocking chair through the dark mornings of Advent. One thing I do know is that it has to do with change.

Everywhere I go these days, I seem to find myself in conversations about letting go. Letting go of cherished people and places. Letting go of faith communities that no longer feel like family. Letting go of agility and ability through illness and aging. Letting go of titles and roles that once defined identity. 

In all these scenarios, it’s easier to see what’s going than what’s coming. Tempting to cling to what was with nostalgia, and to regard what will be with suspicion.

What would it look like to be hospitable instead? To create a free space in our hearts where a strange and even frightening new aspect of life could enter and become a friend? To allow room for a new relationship or reality to grow within us—intentionally, gradually, peaceably?

In St. Vincent’s choir, my new favorite Christmas song is Friends in Christ, Rejoice. The refrain is simple but powerful: Like no god we had imagined is the baby in the straw. And that’s the point, really. As Christians we believe that God chose to enter our world in a way no one had imagined: the most vulnerable way possible. And it is still into the vulnerable parts of our lives—and our world—that this God is born, again and again.

Like no god we had imagined is the baby in the straw.

And so my prayer for you, this Advent season, is this:

May you create the space you need to be hospitable to yourself.
May you to take time to pause, to ponder, to pray, to notice.
May your hospitality overflow in gracious welcome
  to whoever and whatever will be part of your life in the year to come.
May the God of surprises come to you like no God you had imagined.

And may your far-from-ordinary days be extraordinarily blessed.

Christine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Stroll in the Orchard

On October 27, I had the great privilege of giving the keynote address at the 5th Annual Friends of the Newman Center dinner at West Chester University, where I served as Associate Director from 1993 – 2004.  Although I spoke from notes, here is (mostly) what I said . . . asides excepted.  Enjoy!

Tonight’s liturgical readings call us to gratitude, which is fitting, because whenever I think about my eleven years here at the Newman Center, gratitude is the first and last and primary thing that I feel. (Also amazement at how I ever managed to work past 10:00 five nights a week for ten academic years, when all my life I have wanted to be in my PJ’s at 9:00—and now often am!)

There are so many memories in this building, but for the sake of time I promised myself that I would stick to things that happened right here in this room. Liturgical things, certainly, like celebrating the Easter Triduum with so many exceptionally well-trained liturgical ministers, and recording our choir CD, Go Make a Difference. I also remember great service events, like schlepping heavy grocery bags filled with donations for our Thanksgiving outreach. And of course there were fundraisers, like the Great Newman Center Garage Sale, and the BINGO nights when Sara Marks and I worked this room on ROLLER BLADES. (That was before this lovely new floor, obviously.)

But my deepest gratitude, when I think of the Newman Center, is for the opportunity to walk with so many students as they grew in their relationship with God. If there’s a better job description, I don’t know what it is.

In the first chapter of my book, I use the analogy of a complicated sunrise. Not the sunrise of a perfectly clear day, when the sun simply pops over the horizon, nor a completely overcast day, when you can’t even tell when it’s up. Complicated sunrises are those days when you can see the sun’s progress only by its dramatic effects on the clouds. Here’s what I wrote:

I love a complicated sunrise for the same reason I love my job in college campus ministry. Just as the sun is rendered more beautiful by its effect on the clouds, God’s glory shines most clearly when it touches the shadowed parts of people’s lives.

A timid student begins to glow in the warmth of a faith community. Foggy lack of direction gives way to the illuminated path of a discovered call. God’s healing power touches broken places—disappointments, abuses, failures, betrayals—and renders hearts stronger than they were before. People in pain discover that the darkness in their lives does not have to stay dark, and when God’s light reaches those troubled crevices, they are transformed from sources of shame into radiant signs of the divine.

Morning arrives in its own way for each one, as clouds give way to light. I am grateful each time I am awake to see it.

One of the things I am most grateful for–and miss the most about this place–is the hunger that Newman students have:  to know about the faith and to grow in friendship with God.  This seems to be true of Newman ministry nationwide. I am 53 years old, and I’ve spent 44 of those years in some kind of educational setting, but West Chester is the only secular school I’ve ever been affiliated with. I went to Catholic school from kindergarten through grad school, and since leaving here I’ve been at Gwynedd Mercy University. Obviously I’m very happy with my own Catholic education (clearly it got me to a good place) and I love where I am now—I so admire the charism of the Sisters of Mercy, their commitment to critical concerns, and the integration of all that into the curriculum and the life of the University. But Newman ministry is special because students at a place like West Chester often find themselves between a rock and a hard place. You go to class and encounter an atheist professor who thinks you’re stupid for being Catholic, and then you head back to your residence hall to deal with the fundamentalist Christian roommate who thinks you’re going to hell for being Catholic!

That’s why it’s so important for there to be a place like this: a safe space where you can be part of community that helps you learn and practice an adult Catholic faith. Not the faith you had when you made your first Communion at age seven or when you were Confirmed at age 12, and not the faith of your parents, but your own, owned, adult Catholic faith. And that is why it is so important that we do this ministry very well.

When I left here and went to Gwynedd Mercy, I knew that the ministry settings were different, but I had no idea how much they would be two totally different jobs . . . that I would go from being, essentially, an associate pastor, to being a college administrator. One of the challenges of being a college administrator was learning to do assessment—a huge task in higher ed. Over and over again I was asked, “How do you know that you’re being effective?” I came kicking and screaming to the world of assessment, once even telling my boss, “Do you know how I’ll know that I did a good job? When I get to heaven and look around and see who else is there!” That’s a joke, of course. But the truth at the center of it is the wisdom contained in that prayer often attributed to St. Oscar Romero but actually written by Bishop Ken Untener: We plant the seeds that will one day grow. We water seeds that have been planted, knowing they hold future promise.

Campus ministry is about planting and watering and weeding and cultivating and fertilizing; it is not about harvesting. The harvest comes later. Much later. Because how holy you feel on the morning after a retreat–or even how well you can articulate your faith on the night before graduation–is not nearly as important as the way you live your life after you leave this place. The difference that we want to make in students’ lives is for the long haul. So how do we know if we’re doing a good job?

Well, one of the answers is, stick around. I’ve been doing this for 25 years, which means that some of my original students are bona fide middle-aged people now.  I find that one of the blessings of Facebook (though we know its evils as well) is how it has enabled me to stay connected to alumni. When I see the careers you have chosen—how many of you are in ministry, or social work, or counseling, or some other helping profession—and I see the kind of people you are choosing as your life partners, and the remarkable children you are raising, and how profoundly you are navigating life’s challenges—I know that this work has borne fruit. And we’re not talking raspberries and strawberries, here, but whole orchards of long-lasting fruit!

Many of the stories in my book were set during my time here, but there’s one in particular that I want to share with you tonight, because it describes an encounter that continues to bear such fruit.   This took place during Project Mexico X, in January of 2005.  (At that point I was already working at Gwynedd Mercy, by the way, but Fr. Sam hadn’t found a successor for me yet, so I got to go to Mexico one last time.)

This is Chapter 18:  Finding God in Forgiveness

Tim was so sick. We were in Mexico City for our annual service-immersion experience—eight college students and two campus ministers—and on the final day, Tim went down hard. Perhaps it was the water, but more likely it was the way he had hurdled the language barrier with the men in our host family by eating every food they dared him to, no matter how spicy or unidentifiable. Twenty-four hours before we were due to fly home, our host grandmother, Inocencia, took Tim to the doctor, who gave him a shot of something and instructions to continue the injections every six hours.

At 2:00 a.m., twelve hours before flight time, Inocencia got up to give Tim his next shot. But we couldn’t find the syringes! We searched frantically, and even woke up Tim’s roommate, Mark, to ask if he had seen them, to no avail. Since Tim was so sick and flight time so close, Inocencia asked her son-in-law Luis to drive her to get more syringes at a twenty-four-hour pharmacy some distance away.

Luis’s car had barely disappeared around the corner when Mark stumbled sleepily into the kitchen. “Is this what you were looking for?” he asked, holding up the missing box. Apparently, he had decided to be helpful and pack the communal suitcase a few hours earlier, and had thrown in everything he thought was ours—including the syringes.

Now the wait began. This was before cell phones. We had no way of contacting Ino and Luis, and they were gone for a very long time. Mark sat at the kitchen table looking just as miserable as Tim. Our students adored this host family, and the realization that his careless mistake had sent these dear people out into the city in the middle of the night weighed on Mark terribly. Finally, the door opened, and as they walked in, Mark guiltily held out the box, braced for their reaction.

I was watching their faces, and what I saw was amazing. There was not even a fleeting trace of annoyance. There was nothing that suggested they were glad we were leaving in eleven hours. There was only laughter, and giving Tim his shot.

By breakfast, Tim was much better, but Mark was still a mess. “I can’t believe I did that,” he said. “They were so good about it. How can I ever repay them?” I told him what I knew to be true: he couldn’t. “Mark, you have just experienced the kind of utter forgiveness that most of us only get from God. All you can do is be grateful, and remember this feeling the next time someone offends you.” Mark is a police officer now, and recently told me he frequently recalls that lesson.

So much human forgiveness is partial, grudging, or conditional. No wonder we have a hard time imagining the fullness of God’s mercy. Isn’t it ironic that the only way to catch a glimpse is to stand in need of it?

This is how our God works. Mark made an innocent mistake—as we all do from time to time. He could have blown it off, and forgotten it entirely. Or it could have lingered as an embarrassing or even shameful memory. But instead—because he was in a place, in a community of faith, where someone could help frame that moment in a spiritual context—it became an enduring lesson.

And not just for himself. As of this morning, according to Amazon’s report, Mark’s story has reached 27 states, including Florida, Texas, California, and Washington.

The Lord has done great things for us. We are filled with joy!

We may never know the impact that our ministry has in people’s lives. But every once in a while, if we’re lucky, we get to take a stroll in the orchard.

Thank you, and God bless this Newman Center community!

It’s Out There

Finding God in Ordinary Time has been out for almost three weeks now.  It truly is a dream come true.  When I sat down in the cafeteria of St. Monica in Berwyn to sign books after my first event, I opened the cover, picked up my blue ballpoint pen, and thought, “This is my life now!”  I have wanted to have a book in the world since before I could spell, and now it’s out there.

Where will it go?  I’ve been delighted to see the Facebook posts of friends and former students around the country receiving their books in the mail.  And my (modest) book tour will soon be bringing me to Arlington, VA, Wernersville PA, and even Morgantown WV, where I will have the pleasure of placing signed copies in the hands of people I meet out there.

But it’s “out there” in another way as well.  Thanks in large part to the creative hustle of Ben Tanzer, (whom I’ve been calling my Marketing Guy but who might be more accurately be called my Champion), news of the book has reached niches I didn’t even know existed–places that are not part of the “Catholic world.”

It has always been my hope that Finding God would connect with people who didn’t already speak the language of faith.  And that’s what I’m hearing from people like my friend George Allen, who had this to say:

Marketed astutely at least in part towards those “skeptical or weary of religion”–which is to say, right at devout agnostics just like yours truly!–the book is a brief-but-powerful series of essays about how the presence of the “divine” (including however those of us often compelled to put that word in quotes might define it) can be located and appreciated in everyday moments and challenges.

I am so grateful for George’s affirmation.  But this latest round of publicity is reaching the eyeballs (and eardrums) of people who do not already know and love me.  How will they respond?  I may never know–though presumably book sales will tell.

Here are some of the intriguing places that word of my book has gone:

The Rumpus.  This online magazine describes itself as ” a place where people come to be themselves through their writing, to tell their stories or speak their minds in the most artful and authentic way they know how.”  They invited me to contribute an article to their weekly “What to Read When” feature, and on 10/5 published my “What to Read When You’ve Lost Your Spiritual Flashlight,” a curated list of books they call “a go-to list for refreshing, down-to-earth, spot-on spiritual reading.”  This was so much fun to write, and it may give you some ideas for what to read next!

Hypertext Magazine.  This “social justice teaching and publishing non-profit” invited me to contribute to their “One Question” feature, whereby an author gets to answer one question of his or her own choosing.  Check out my answer to this question:  Your stories are all from real life; which one are you most anxious about having “out there?”

This Podcast Will Change Your Life.  Recorded live via Skype, my one-hour, unedited conversation with Ben Tanzer ranges all over the place, from how I organized my chapters to the current state of immigration in our country, all under the umbrella of “The Power of Stories.”

Spiritual Directors International.  This vibrant association of more than six thousand individuals on six continents representing more than fifty spiritual traditions graciously accepted one of my chapters as a guest blog post.  It’s the chapter where I get most explicit about the Ignatian grounding of my book:  Finding God on the Oncology Floor.

Lancaster County Woman.  Freelance writer Susan Beam interviewed me for a feature in the Health and Wellness section of this magazine, in anticipation of the weekend retreat that I am giving later this month, called Healing Encounters:  A Retreat for Everyone in the Company of Contemporary and Biblical Women.

Speaking of which, it is not too late to sign up for that retreat, held October 19-21 at the Jesuit Center for Spiritual Growth in beautiful Wernersville, PA.  We’ll be praying with all sorts of stories and leaning in to our own healing encounters.  You can find out more and register here!

Thank you to everyone who has helped spread the word, within communities of faith and well beyond them.  I appreciate all forwards, comments, and shares–anything that gets the algorithms of search engine optimization whirring!

Oh wait, speaking of computer algorithms, this cracks me up . . . in mid-September, Amazon named Finding God in Ordinary Time its “#1 New Release in Religious Humor.”  I’m sorry; what?!?  While I do describe the writing as “surprisingly funny,” this is no book of Jesus knock-knock jokes, people.  Let’s hope it’s true what they say:  there’s no such thing as bad publicity.

May your ordinary days be extraordinarily blessed . . . and touched with a bit of divine humor!

Christine

 

 

 

 

Before Sunrise

“What is saving your life right now?”  That question, routinely asked by Jen Hatmaker at the end each of her podcast interviews, comes from Barbara Brown Taylor’s Leaving Church: a Memoir of Faith.  If I were to answer it today, I’d have to say “5:00 a.m.”

Five and I have been friends for a long time.  Left to its own devices, my circadian rhythm always has me up at five o’clock–no matter what time zone I went to sleep in.  When I was in my mid=20’s, working as an executive secretary at US Healthcare, I spent six weeks writing my master’s thesis from five to seven each morning, watching the sky lighten outside the big picture window that was our high-rise apartment’s only redeeming feature.

Now 5 a.m. is saving my life again, for the first time since those thesis-writing days.

The last few months have been my “summer of self-promotion,” as I searched for ways to get Finding God in Ordinary Time in front of the eyeballs of people who would read it, recommend it, and otherwise help me market it.  Now the school year has started, and I’m just a few days away from book launch, and there are SO MANY THINGS I could be doing on any given day, both to promote Finding God and to prepare for the many speaking engagements on my horizon.  And so, most days, 5 a.m. finds me in my rocking chair with coffee and laptop, doing whatever I can to move this work forward.  (At 7:00–at the urging of my doctor–I strap on my Keens and go for a walk before heading to work.  This backfired recently, as my beloved old Keens had worn down so unevenly that they actually threw my back out.  But that’s a blog post for another day.)

As a multi-decade devotee of 5:00 a.m., I would have thought I knew everything there was to know about the hour.  But last month, down the shore (as we say in Philly), I discovered something remarkable.

I have long been a fan of the complicated sunrise, especially over the ocean.  I love watching the sky go through all its vibrant color changes as the sun lights the clouds from below before easing over the horizon; in my book I use it as a metaphor for college campus ministry–witnessing the effects of students’ dawning spiritual adulthood, being grateful each time I am awake to see it.

But in Wildwood, in early August, sunrise is just after six o’clock Do you know what it is at five?  Dark.  Can’t-see-the-ocean dark.  Why-am-I-sitting-on-the-deck-with-coffee dark.

You know what else it is?  Fascinating.

It turns out that–and I am so sorry to know this–the sky is compellingly beautiful a whole hour before sunrise.  The colors keep shifting, but instead of the red-orange-yellow end of the Crayola box, we get a black-navy-purple crayon sky.  I couldn’t get enough of it this year.  I didn’t want to look down–which was okay, because it was too dark to read or write.  I didn’t even want to go inside to refill my coffee, because the sky changed so much from minute to minute.

Wildwood 500

View from the deck at 5:00 a.m., early August, Wildwood NJ

This is how God works, I used to say about the sunrise.  And I still do.  But this is also how God works, I now say about the well-pre-dawn sky.

So many people I know are waiting right now.  Waiting for an employer to call with a job offer.  Waiting for a safe time to break away from a bad relationship.  Waiting for a child to go into recovery, this time for good.  Waiting for discernment to become clear enough for action.  Waiting for healing in body, mind, or spirit.  It’s dark.  Really dark.  Can’t-see-the-ocean dark.  And yet things are happening, well out of sight.  God is at work in each of those situations, I do believe.  The predawn sky has become for me a metaphor for all the spiritual movement that is happening within and around each of us, all the stars slowly aligning, all the things we cannot see that are nevertheless working together for our good.

I’m aware of this happening in my book-launch life.  Much of it is through the behind-the-scenes efforts of Ben Tanzer, whom I’ve never met in person, but who from Chicago is connecting me to all sorts of creative outlets.  (Check out this audio series where you can now hear me read a chapter of my book, or Spiritual Directors International, which featured another chapter as a guest blog post.)  Ben’s going to interview me for his podcast next Friday; that should be a hoot.

And here’s a thing:  I just found out that Amazon has named Finding God in Ordinary Time as their #1 New Release in Religious Humor.  This absolutely cracks me up.  I have no idea how Amazon knows the book is funny, given how many serious topics it includes.  (Four chapters about mothers with cancer.  Four!)  I can’t imagine how it got to be #1 in that super-specific category, but I’m willing to bet that some people will pick it up on the strength of that odd accolade–people who wouldn’t have glanced at it otherwise.  And maybe it will be just what they needed to read.

Herculean human efforts and baffling computer algorithms aside, my hours staring at the black-navy-purple sky in Wildwood reminded me that God is at work in me right now in ways I cannot yet see.  This coming Monday, September 17, the sun is going to rise on Finding God in Ordinary Time.  I will go from being a person who has a book coming out to being an author on book tour (or as much tour as a busy campus minister can muster).  Instead of writing, writing, writing, I’m going to be speaking, speaking, speaking.

Just yesterday, while mentally rehearsing my talk for my first book event (at St. Monica in Berwyn), I felt God say, “So, are you going to talk about you, or are you going to talk about me?”  (Whoops!  YOU, Lord.  Thanks for the reminder.)  And that’s why the  5:00 hours will remain essential.  No matter how busy this season gets, I have to stay grounded in prayer, to allow the message people most need to hear to flow through me, without making it about me.

The days ahead will be anything but ordinary.  If you find yourself awake before sunrise, please pray that they will be extraordinarily blessed!

Christine

 

Eat the Peaches

It’s peach season here at the Jersey shore.  The farm stand on the way into Cape May Point has a big display right out front, better advertising than any roadside sign.  So of course we bought a half-bushel, noting that the peaches were still a bit firm, and thinking we’d have fruit to enjoy for the week.

They ripened overnight, which is how we found ourselves standing over the kitchen sink the other day, eating the most delicious, juicy, warm, perfect peach.  And eyeing the rest of the basket with alarm.  Now what?

Of course we could put them into the refrigerator, or blend them into smoothies (ooh, or daiquiris!) or bake them into muffins, and they’d be good in all those forms.  But they would not be as good as they are this very minute, dripping warm juice down our chins into the sink.

Maybe it’s vacation brain, but the peach dilemma–admittedly minor–has me thinking about my conservative approach to so many things (politics not included).  I am a firm believer in delayed gratification.  As a child, I was always the kid who still had chocolate Easter eggs left in her basket around Memorial Day.  As an adult, I’ll save novels I’m excited about for months so that I can read them in the perfect setting.  (Example from this very week:  I brought Bill Clegg’s amazing Did You Ever Have a Family, which I’d been saving since last year, and downed it in four days at the beach.)

Sometimes this approach is grounded in wisdom (this vacation really was the perfect time to read that book, and nine year-old me really should have done her homework before watching Batman).  But other times it’s rooted in just plain foolishness, or even fear–as though somehow there would be no chocolate left in the world when the Easter basket ran out.

This reminds me of Jan Richardson’s quoting of W. Paul Jones:  Hope is the simple trust that God has not forgotten the recipe for manna.  It’s okay to eat it all, God promised the Israelites in Exodus 16.  In fact, it’s necessary to eat it all.  Hoard it on any day but the Sabbath, and it turns into a smelly mess.  (The same may be true of peaches.)

Fear reared its head at the shore in a different way this week, as I stood at the edge of the surf on Sunday afternoon, navigating my usual tension between longing to be in the water and dreading the waves.  It is my vacation tradition to vacillate in the shallows all week and finally brave it with cousins on the last day, regretting all the times I didn’t take the plunge.  But this year we were with Jeff and Deb, one of my oldest friends and his lovely wife, and Jeff took me by the hand on day one and brought me past the alarming breakers to the sublime rollers beyond.  It was the longest I’ve ever been in the ocean without being able to touch the bottom, and it was pure bliss!  The next day I bravely followed Jeff and Deb into the surf, and for the rest of the week I’ve been going in all by myself, hesitation giving way ever more quickly to delight.

The ocean is right there, beckoning like a basket of ripe peaches.  Delayed gratification, it turns out, is sometimes no gratification at all.

This is also on my mind because Jeff has been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s.  This brilliant and funny man is still both those things, but the creeping fog is visible.  He’s handling it remarkably; the Philadelphia Inquirer even did a story about his “coming out” to his students before he retired as a Temple University professor last spring.  He’s in a clinical trial, which may slow the progression and buy him time.  But time is not infinite.  We have had 31 years of friendship, but in my busy, busy life (insert dramatic velcro-ing of back of wrist to forehead), I often take it for granted that Jeff’s there.  But the Alzheimer’s is making it clear: to postpone enjoying time together is to waste the gift.  Like yesterday’s ocean or an overripe peach, it’s not coming back.

Of course this is true for all our loves and friendships, always.  We are all running out of time.  We just don’t acknowledge it most days, because we need to go to work, and do the wash, and cut the grass, and pay the bills.

But work, wash, grass, and bills notwithstanding, I want to take home from vacation The Lesson of the Peaches.  When life hands me something precious, I want to let myself enjoy it in the measure it deserves.

May your ordinary days be extraordinarily blessed!

Christine

Just Keep Singing

“Calm down,” I told myself yesterday.  “How many times have we been over this?  You know it’s going to be there when you need it.  You blogged about it, for Pete’s sake.  Just keep singing!”

I was cantoring at St. Vincent’s, and the “it” was the Gospel acclamation (i.e. solo verse) to an alleluia that I’ve sung at least a hundred times.  But here was the problem: earlier in the week I’d cantored three Masses on retreat with the Ignatian Volunteer Corps, doing an alleluia that I’ve sung at least a thousand times, with a very similar acclamation.  As I sang the opening refrain (once myself, twice with the choir), I realized that I couldn’t anticipate the verse.  I had no idea what I was supposed to sing next.

I tried to hang onto the wisdom I shared last September in a blog post called Holding it Lightly:

It reminds me of lesson I’ve learned from cantoring at St. Vincent’s over the last nine years. I can’t tell you how often I used to get a wash of anxiety during a ridiculously familiar song—seriously, like the Our Father or the Gloria or the Holy Holy—when I realized that I couldn’t think how the next section began. But of course the reason I couldn’t hear that bit in my head is because I was busy singing the current bit. By the time I got to the worrisome part, the piano would be playing it and my brain would have caught up to the music. Sometimes it was touch-and-go; I’d take a deep breath and open my mouth still not certain what was supposed to come out next, but sure enough, out it came, right on time.

Eventually I accepted that if I could stay focused on what I was singing in the moment, the next one would be given to me. As in Luke 12:12: “For the holy Spirit will teach you in that moment what you should say.” Or, come to think of it, as in the Our Father itself, with its request for daily bread (not Costco-sized multi-loaf packages).

And then came the moment of truth.  The refrain ended.  Valerie, our choir director / piano player, nodded at me.  And the verse was nowhere to be found.  Blank slate.  Crickets. (Or–worse–crickets chirping the Celtic Alleluia instead of the Mass of Hope.)

So much for my wisdom, right?

But then a wonderful thing happened.  I gave Val the “I don’t know the verse” face (and yes, that’s a face:  panic-stricken eyes open wide; slight shake of the head) and she started to sing.  At which point, of course, the whole verse came flooding back into my brain and I was fine.

And so my wisdom from last September gets an addendum.   Sometimes God gives us what we need by having someone else hand it to us.

I experienced that reality in my book-life yesterday as well.  As my publication date is just shy of three months away, there is so much work I should be doing:  contacting bookstores, book bloggers, libraries and parishes; developing marketing materials, and strategizing creative ways to get the word out.  The unappealing task of self-promotion could be a full-time job.  Since I have a full-time job, however, I’m just doing what I can in the bits of time around the edges of my days.

But yesterday, out of the blue, I received a surprising email.  One of the lovely women I met on the IVC retreat (where I was also the speaker) went home to Northern Virginia and told a friend about me.  That woman pre-ordered Finding God in Ordinary Time on the strength of her friend’s recommendation, then invited me to exhibit at the Arlington Diocese’s “Future with Hope” Women’s Conference in October.  Suddenly, I have a chance to bring my book to a part of the country I hadn’t even dreamed of reaching.

Indeed, sometimes God gives us what we need by having someone else hand it to us.

And so I will continue to practice holding things lightly, stay open to the messengers of grace God sends my way, and pray that I can share that message with someone who needs it today.

How about you?  What do you need right now?  And who might need something you could easily give?

May this ordinary day be extraordinarily blessed!

Christine

 

 

It’s Time for Ordinary Time

What’s that I see peeking out of the sacristy closet?  Green vestments?  After six weeks of Lent and seven weeks of Easter, it’s time for Ordinary Time at last.

Although I’m always a fan, this year I have a special reason to be excited about Summer Ordinary Time: we have finally entered the season in which Finding God in Ordinary Time will be published!  Seventeen weeks from now, on the 17th of September, my book will be out in the world.

Now all I have to do is get people to notice.  Can you help?

If you’d like to generate some buzz for the book, here are some practical things you can do:

  • If you have a GoodReads account, add Finding God to your “Want to Read” shelf.
  • Consider pre-ordering a copy (or two).  I’m encouraging people to go through my local indie, the Open Book Bookstore in Elkins Park, to get a personalized, signed copy.  You can indicate whether you would like to pick it up at the store, get it from me, or have it shipped ($3).
  • Check out my listing at Midpoint Book Sales & Distribution, where you can see other pre-ordering options like Barnes & Noble or (even better) your local indie, and also share on just about any form of social media.
  • Follow me on Amazon (check out my author page)!
  • Write a review for posting on GoodReads and/or Amazon, or anyplace else you can think of (your own blog, a newsletter to which you contribute, etc.).  Advance Reader Copies are almost available, so if this is something you can do, let me know and I’ll get you one.
  • Share with abandon!  Scroll down to the bottom of this page and see which social media options work for you.
  • And be sure you are following this blog so you don’t miss an update.  You don’t have to create a WordPress account; one of the options below is just joining the e-mail list, which is a great way for me to stay in touch.

Thank you to everyone who has encouraged this adventure.

This summer, and always, may your ordinary days be extraordinarily blessed!

Christine

 

 

 

 

Happy Independent Bookstore Day!

Open BookOpen Book Bookstore owners Lynn Rosen and Evan Schwartz

I am delighted to announce that soon and very soon you will be able to pre-order a signed copy of Finding God in Ordinary Time at the Open Book Bookstore in Elkins Park, where I celebrated Independent Bookstore Day today with owners, neighbors and friends Lynn and Evan.  You may be able to get an unsigned copy from a bigger-name bookseller for less, but you’ll never get it from friendlier people or do more good for a great local business.  Stay tuned!

Grief and Grace

Friends, I have made it through 25 years working in higher education without teaching a class, but that may be about to end.

Let me back up.

It’s not that I’ve never been in front of a classroom; I love it when faculty friends invite me to speak on a topic, or do one of my dramatic interpretations of women in Scripture, or even cover a class. It’s a great way to connect with students who might never have stepped across the threshold of our campus ministry center.

And it’s not that I’ve never been asked to teach. I have a master’s degree in pastoral ministry, and there are always sections of religious studies classes to be covered. But when asked, I’ve always told the truth: having been raised by two teachers, I respect the discipline too much to think I can just “pick up a class.” That usually leaves no room for rebuttal.

Yet while it’s the truth, it’s not the whole truth. The whole truth includes the fact that, as a person in a pastoral relationship with students, I’ve had no wish to be in an evaluative relationship with them. It also includes the “do-you-have-any-idea-how-full-my-plate-is-already” rant (which I only deliver in my head, or to select friends). But the bottom line, I realized recently, is this: if I’m going to carve out time to work on something that’s not part of my job description, it has to be something I’m excited about. And right now that’s this blog, and my upcoming book launch, and the many wonderful speaking- and retreat-giving opportunities that are opening up for me as a result.  

In the last few weeks, however, a teaching possibility has appeared which actually fits the excitement requirement. As part of our redesigned General Education curriculum, Gwynedd Mercy University is offering something called “Signature Seminars.” Designed by faculty according to their discipline, these courses are “writing intensive” and focused on one of the five Critical Concerns of the Sisters of Mercy of the Americas. People have been telling me I should teach one, and I have been demurring. But during our recent Inauguration Week festivities I attended a symposium on the Signature Seminars, and I found myself sketching out a reading list and playing around with titles. And the next thing I knew, I was filling out the paperwork to start the process of developing a five-week online course for adult learners. Here’s the quick description:

Grief and Grace: Contemporary Women’s Spiritual Writing
How do we make sense of life’s tragedies?  How do we keep going when we are bent by loss?  This course will explore the unique contributions of women reflecting on their experiences of grief in the light of grace.  Students will use the writing assignments to examine their own life stories through the lens of spirituality, uncovering and articulating the deep truths that sustain them. 

Much remains to be done, of course: creating a syllabus, learning how to design an online course (which means taking an online course in online course designing), and familiarizing myself with all the ins and outs and rules and regs of teaching and grading. But the thing I am really excited about right now is building that reading list.

Here are the writers and works I’m considering using (in whole or in part; it’s only a five-week course, after all). Which of these do you affirm? What am I missing? I welcome—invite—your suggestions and comments!

Clearly, I’ve just put together a list that could be hummed to the tune of “These are a few of my favorite things.” I’m intrigued to discover what connections and conversations will emerge in the months to come, and I look forward to seeing what fruit this new venture will bear in my heart, in the cyber-classroom, in my public speaking, and right here in this blog.

Thanks for walking with me.

Christine

 

Author Photo Dilemma

Friends, I have a decision to make.

When Finding God in Ordinary Time is out in the world, people who DO NOT ALREADY KNOW ME are going to be thinking about buying it.  Maybe they will pick up a copy in a bookstore and flip through it.  Maybe they will check out my author page in Goodreads (after I create it, of course).  Either way, one of the things they are going to look at is my author photo.  Which means I need to hurry up and decide which one to use!

Here are my two choices.  I like them both, but they definitely give off two different vibes.  I don’t want to predispose you by saying what I think those vibes are (though I have my opinions), so for simplicity’s sake I am just going to refer to them as “Glasses” and “No Glasses.”  (Don’t worry about the varying image quality; Green Writers Press has a good version of each.)

So, which should it be?

Which is more likely to encourage a stranger to flip or click through?

Please weigh in by commenting “Glasses” or “No Glasses,” and feel free to explain why.  

If you like, you can even insert the rant of your choice:  about the judging of books by covers, about contemporary standards of beauty, etc.  It’s your rant; have at it.  (Goodness knows I’m doing it in my head.)

Thanks for your help!

~ Christine