Ways Grace is cute

April 27, 2017

Dear Grace,

Big smile, bright eyes, snotty face:
this is Grace

When Uncle Luke and I were kids, grandma and grandpa kept a "cute book," in which they wrote down the cute things we said and did - you know, all those things you are sure you will remember, and then you totally don't. I don't have a cute book for our impossibly cute kiddos, but I wanted to write down a few of the things about you at 20 months that I find especially cute. 

You wave:

·      to books when we finish them (“The end!” *wave*).

·      to airplanes.

·      to every car that drives down the street.

·      When you say goodnight or go upstairs for nap.

You call blankets “lady.” (Think “blankie” then take out the starting B and turn the “nk” into a D… see, it isn’t so farfetched.) So then, when we read Goodnight Moon, when we point to the lady who is whispering ‘hush’” you point to your blankie.

Grace and one of her "Ladies"

look for the “old

Speaking of Goodnight Moon, you think the picture of the cow jumping over the moon is hilarious. You laugh every time.

You call me “Maba,” because due your constant stuffiness (dust mite allergy, yuck!), you can’t manage to get two Ms out so close together.

When you take things out of the kitchen drawers, and I ask to you to put it back in the kitchen, you bring it to your play kitchen, then grin back at me for successfully following directions.

You help:

·      You love picking up laundry that missed the basket, and little pieces of trash, and putting them where they belong.

·      You can find a tissue, wipe your nose (even blow it!), and put the tissue in the trash (which is one step further than Dada!).

·      You can put away groceries if I tell you where they go.

·      You can match socks.

·      You wipe your own highchair tray, and try to clean up other things you spill. In fact, you

Tongue out, sheer determination!

insist upon it.

You “help”:

·      When Isaac cries, you rock him (sometimes too vigorously), you feed him (with old bottles he shouldn’t be eating from), you shove a pacifier in his mouth (even if he is sleeping), or you cover him with a blanket (even his face).

·      You mimic me cleaning – dusting, cleaning the floor, even cleaning the carpet after Klaus has an accident.

·      You mimic everything.

You think you help:

·      You have been helping with your diapers… by putting them in the toilet. You see us clean out your cloth diapers in there, and think that is where they belong. Thankfully you haven’t yet figured out how to flush the toilet. Lord, help us (and our plumbing) when you do…

·      You try to put diapers together – using a cover and either a cloth prefold, or a disposable, or a liner, or a wipe… you want desperately to help with the diapers.

Coolest Rehbaum, totally

·      You try to dress yourself, and practice whenever you get the chance. And you’re getting pretty darn good at pants, if I may say – when you don’t have a diaper on, you can get them up everywhere except over your butt, so then you run around proudly with your adorable baby bum hanging out.

You walk like a boss, especially to daycare.

"Buh?" (Notice: clinging to Doll.)

You try to put your hair in piggies or ponies by pressing the rubber band against your head.

You have discovered that while it is fun to play in the dirt, it is not fun to have dirty hands.

You love personal hygiene. You are always asking to take a bath (“Ba--?”), to brush your teeth (“Deeth?”), and to wash hands (“Ha--?”).

You love to read. You bring us book after book (“Buh?”), first listening to us read it, then taking it from us and reading it back. You cannot get enough books.

You love your brother! “Izy?” Whenever he cries, you ask about him. First thing in the morning, you ask for your dad (or whichever parents isn’t getting you up), and then you ask for your brother.

Siblings playing together

You care for Isaac – patting his head or his belly, making sure he has what he needs, trying to play with him. For you, there is very little sense of sibling rivalry. Except about laps. You don’t much like sharing laps.

You look through the church directory, and find all the pictures of “Mama.” Then you find “Dada,” and “Klau.” (You haven’t yet figured out that the picture of the baby is you! You think it is Isaac.)

You love your doll (“Dah? Baby?”), holding her close, rocking her and singing to her tenderly, and then holding her by the hair and dragging her wherever you go.

These and so many other things, my dear Grace, make us smile with joy over your budding personality. We think you are phenomenally smart, observant, kind, sweet, thoughtful, helpful, caring, funny, and fun.

                                                                                              ~ Your adoring “Maba”

Sermon: Peace in our wounds (April 23, 2017)

Easter 2A

April 23, 2017

John 20:19-31

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

            On Good Friday, we heard the story of Jesus’ death: his pain, his wounds, his disciples’ betrayal, denial, and desertion. We heard about the brokenness of the story of Jesus. Then on Easter we heard the story of his resurrection! Jesus rises from the dead, and we gave thanks that God has defeated the power of death. Then always, on this second Sunday of Easter, we return to wounds: when Thomas misses Jesus’ appearance to the disciples, he insists that he wants to touch Jesus’ wounds, before he can really be sure that Jesus is, indeed, alive.

            From brokenness to new life and back to brokenness: It’s a resurrection sandwich on wound bread.

            Though this particular sandwich is not one available at the Wegmans deli, it is one that we often encounter in our lives. Always, the meat of life (or perhaps the grilled veggies, if you are not meat-inclined) is God’s promise of resurrection and new life, but it so often comes to us when pain and woundedness are close beside.

            That’s not meant to be dismal – after all, what’s the point of the resurrection promise if it is not spoken into a world of pain? Why would we need it if

Hand of Christ/Palm of Peace
http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=55740

everything was roses and rainbows all the time? Still, perhaps we’d rather hear a different gospel today – one that erases Christ’s wounds and, while we’re at it, the wounds of the world, rather than one in which Christ’s wounds remain as a stark reminder that ours remain as well. But, it is not so: wounds and scars and brokenness are all still very much a part of our reality.

            What I love about having this story today, and this particular reminder of Christ’s lasting wounds, is that it draws attention to the lastingness of our own wounds – that is, those things we can’t seem to shake or let go of, the things that hang onto our hearts, whether or not we are consciously aware of them. In a word: our baggage. Even in the face of new life, this story draws our attention here, giving us an opportunity to face those things that would hold us back from living into that new life.

            One of the ways baggage and past woundedness can hold us back from fully embracing new life is the way it can taint how we proceed through the world, viewing others with skepticism and lack of trust, assuming the worst of people, and perhaps most painful of all, taking things personally. Our wounds cause us to view the world with a furrowed brow, and always on the defensive. While it may seem like a safer approach to life – always on guard for someone to attack or let you down – this is also perhaps the best way to avoid living into the new life Christ promises.

            In her recent book, Brene Brown recalls an encounter with a woman who has no regard for rules, and indeed laughs at those who do. Brene is so infuriated by the encounter, she talks to her therapist about it, who suggests that really, people, even this woman, are doing the best they can. This infuriates Brene even more! How ridiculous, she thinks! She storms off to the bank, where she watches the woman in front of her in line yelling at the bank teller, a young African American man, saying, “I didn’t make these withdrawals! I want to see a manager!” When he points to his manager, another black man, the woman says, “No! I want a different manager!” Brene immediately chalks the woman’s behavior up to racism. So when it is her turn to talk to the teller, she asks him, point blank, “Do you think people are doing the best they can?” He smiles and asks if she saw what just happened. Brene says yes, and that it was obviously racism. The man shrugs and says, “She’s scared about her money.” He goes on to say he does think people do the best they can, but the best they can might not be very good at any

given moment. He says, “The thing is, you never know about people. That lady could have a kid on drugs stealing money from her account, or a husband with Alzheimer’s who’s taking money and not even remembering. You just never know. People aren’t themselves when they’re scared. It might be all they can do.”

            Hm. It makes me think about those disciples on that Easter night, when they were locked in the upper room for fear of the Jews. It makes me think of Thomas, who didn’t have the benefit of seeing Jesus and receiving his breath of peace, who is perhaps still very scared. It makes me think of all the disciples who, just a few days earlier, had deserted their friend because they were scared of what was happening to him, what might happen to them. “People aren’t themselves when they’re scared. It might be all the can do.”

            We’ve all been there! And don’t those mistakes – those times when “all we can do” ended up hurting someone or getting ourselves hurt – don’t they just hang onto our hearts? Don’t they just get packed tightly away into our emotional baggage, threatening always to make an appearance when we least expect or desire it? “People aren’t themselves when they’re scared” – and oh, how that reality can come back to bite us again and again!

            And yet, even though we’ve been there, how quick we are to label the disciples as doubters, deniers, betrayers, deserters. How quick we are to label one another as liars, careless, thoughtless, incompetent, mean. Even though we know: people aren’t themselves when they’re scared, and they are probably just doing the best they can.

            Brene Brown continues to grapple with the question or whether or not people are doing the best they can, until she finally asks her husband. He doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, he says, “I don’t know if they do or not, I really don’t. All I know is that my life is better when I assume people are doing their best. It keeps me out of judgment and lets me focus on what is, and not what should or could be.”

            Ah, to me, this possibility – that simply assuming people are doing the best can actually make our lives better (shout out to the 8^th commandment!) – this feels like Jesus’ breath of peace. Did you notice, Jesus says, “Peace be with you,” not once, not twice, but three times in this text? Peace be with you – peace be with you in your fear, in your disappointment, in your anxiety, in your uncertainty. Peace be with you when you are just about to judge someone else for their failure or shortcoming. Peace be with you when your wounds or scars try to thwart or taint Christ’s invitation to you to join him in new, resurrected life, into a life where death and fear do not have the final word, but rather, God’s own love and grace do. Peace be with you.

            And to prove the point, Christ invites Thomas – and so also us – to touch his own wounds. It becomes a reminder that wounds can exist, whether still open and aching or long ago scarred over, at the same time as peace. Our wounds and our scars and our pain and brokenness do not have to have power over us, because even into those wounds, Christ breathes his peace.

            Maybe, especially into these wounds, Christ breathes his peace. “Peace be with you” is not a word of grace to those who are already whole. It is grace to those who still seek healing, who still experience brokenness, who still have pain. It is grace to those who long for new life. It is grace to all who carry with them the baggage of past mistakes – either our own or those others have made that have hurt us.

            It is grace and gift… and it is also a call – to bring that peace to the world and its brokenness. It is a call to seek forgiveness and healing in relationships, to search for and embrace that which will bring peace to all the places in our life and the world that need that peace of Christ which surpasses all understanding.  It is a call to bring into a wounded world in need of healing the promise of the resurrected Christ.

            Peace be with you, sisters and brothers in Christ.

Let us pray… God of peace, when we are scared and wounded and unable to be the people we’d like to be, you breathe your peace into our hearts. Be in our every breath, O God, as we go about the work of seeking healing and wholeness in this hurting world, so that all might know the joy of your resurrected life. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Easter Sermon: Seeing the Lord in the your darkest place

Easter Sunday A

April 16, 2017

John 20

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia! Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

            No one can show raw emotion quite like a toddler who wants her blankie.

            So I learned this week while I was walking with my 19-month-old daughter, Grace, to daycare. We walk the quarter mile together each day, and Grace gets to explore a little, check out all the sticks and the tree roots and the grass. Grace has also learned that enjoying the outdoors also means a tumble now and then… which is what happened on Wednesday. Usually when she falls, she cries a little, I wipe off her knees, give her a kiss, and we’re on our way. Not this time. This particular fall, Grace decided she could only be consoled by her blankie, which she calls “lady.” As I picked up my crying daughter, her cries turned to screams and pleading, as she reached toward our house, now half a block away, crying, “Lady!!” Tears mixed with snot streamed down her dear little face, and gut-wrenching sobs echoed through the neighborhood, as she plopped down on the sidewalk, unwilling to go one step further. No amount of soothing talk, or promises that there were blankets and baby dolls galore just around the corner at daycare, would calm her down. She wanted her “lady.” She whimpered as I carried her the rest of the way, mumbling “lady” the whole time.

            After I dropped her off, leaving her safely in the lap of one of the caretakers with a couple of her favorite daycare blankies, I couldn’t help but think of Mary Magdalene at the tomb on that Easter morning. I think over the years of hearing this story, we have tamed her response somewhat. When it says she “stood weeping outside the tomb,” I have imagined her quietly sobbing, a sniff here and there. (Don’t we adults usually try to tame and filter our emotion?) But after watching the raw emotion of my toddler, who desperately wanted comfort from something she could not have, I started to wonder if Mary’s weeping was more raw than I have previously imagined.

            For Mary, you see, the empty tomb was not good news. Already, three days before, she had witnessed her dear friend and teacher killed. She had stood by watching this horrible thing occur. Saturday had been a dark day for her – a day with no Jesus. Jesus – who had already saved her in many ways, who had brought her out of the pain of her former life, who had loved her when no one else thought anything but the worst of her. And now, he was gone. All that could possibly touch and perhaps ease the grief in her heart was to go to the tomb that morning while it was still dark – darkness that would echo the darkness of her grief – and spend some time with her lord, dead though he may be. But upon arriving, the worst possible has happened: as if losing him on Friday was not enough, now it seemed someone had stolen his body. It was loss upon loss, grief upon grief.

            No, Mary’s first response to that empty tomb was not rejoicing, nor was it fear or amazement. It was not belief. Mary’s response to the empty tomb on that dark morning was weeping – the sort of weeping that kept her from noticing that the grave clothes had turned into angels, and that the “gardener” was actually her dear friend. Raw, unfiltered emotion, gut-wrenching sobs, snot mixed with tears streaming down her dear face.

            To me, this image is helpful, even on this Easter morning when we are supposed to be happy and joyful. Because I suspect that not all of us are happy and joyful this morning. You could be struggling with any number of personal problems – poor health, conflict in your family, lack of direction or focus in life, grief over the loss of a friend, family member, or life situation. Or you could be distressed over the state of the world, with its relentless bombings, shootings, attacks, and heartbreak. The bad news brings fear and sadness to our hearts – sometimes, even on Easter, we find we resonate more with Mary’s tears and grief than with the Alelluias that ring out in abundance on this day.

Mary in the Garden with Jesus
http://diglib.library.vanderbilt.edu/act-imagelink.pl?RC=54843

            And yet, as Mary sits in that cold, dark, empty tomb, weeping her unfiltered grief… Jesus comes to her. He does not judge her for feeling genuine emotion. He does not say, “There, there, stop crying.” He does not say, “It’s okay.” He does not say, “Hey, there’s no need to cry – look, I’m alive!” No, he comes and sits with her in her grief, asking her, “Why are you crying?” He sees that she is distressed, and he joins her there, reaching out with compassion, with empathy, to his friend in need.

And, he calls her by name: “Mary.” And in that moment, weeping Mary realizes that she is truly known, truly seen, that this man whom she thought was the gardener but now is revealed to her as Jesus Christ himself loves her and cares for her deeply. “Mary.” He knows her. He has come into her darkest, saddest place, and seen her truest heart, and he calls her by name. “Mary.”

The resurrection is good news, to be sure. But to those who still find themselves in that dark place, before the dawn, in a cold, lonely, empty tomb, this moment of compassion may be even better. That God would not only care about us in that place, but come to be with us in it! That God would reach out to our wounded hearts, recognize our pain, and call us by name, showing that we are truly seen, and truly known – that, in itself, is a way toward resurrection and new life!

This is the place where John starts the story of the resurrection – for how can we see and believe the hope of the resurrection, if we have not first felt the hopelessness of death? How can you appreciate Easter without Good Friday? Why do we need the resurrection if we are already living in wholeness and light? The resurrection is good news to those who seek to be known, loved, and healed. The resurrection is the final chapter of the story that began, as we heard on Christmas, with, “A light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.”

No, I take that back. It is not the final chapter. Mary takes that Christ-light that shown into her darkness, into her grief and sadness, and she goes, with her eyes still red and swollen from her weeping, to tell the others, “I have seen the Lord!” It is the first Easter sermon, and the beginning of the next chapter of Christ’s life with us. “I have seen the Lord!” she says. When I was in my darkest place, the Lord came to me. I have seen him!

And in her simple sermon, she invites us to preach the same – to look around whatever dark, empty tomb we find ourselves in, to notice how the grave clothes have turned to angels, to see how the gardener, the tiller of new life, reaches out to us with a knowing, loving hand, to hear the sound of his voice calling our name… and, to bring that story to the world. “I have seen the Lord!” becomes our own Easter sermon. By Christ’s love, by Christ’s compassion, we turn to the world, shining his light into the darkness of tombs, of weeping, of loss, and bringing into them the hope of new life.

Let us pray… Resurrected Christ, when we find ourselves in the dark, empty tombs of our lives, you come to us there, recognize our pain, reach out with compassion, and call us by name. By the light you bring, grant us the courage to proclaim, “I have seen the Lord” to all who need the promise of your life spoken into their own darkness. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.