It’s been a while

I renewed this domain name today and I’m not sure why — it actually expired 6 days ago and it’s been since October 2014 since my last post.  I admire my friends who can keep up with their blogs (looking at you Jaime Kight  I unfortunately, am not able to do that.  But something about paying Go Daddy $25 for 2 more years of keeping this domain was easier than telling my past-and-future-selves inside of me that I’ve given up on their thoughts, feelings.

I sometimes wonder how many people have found my little spot in internet land — people who know me and people who don’t.  Sure, I could get the analytics — but I’m not talking about that — I’m talking about the random story of the stranger who saw something differently or a friend who knows me differently.  What’s even more amazing is that I have heard from some of them … especially through my other pod-cast project Modern Day Flappers.

Yet, this blog was never about them.  It’s about me — nothing but fancy — fancy is my nickname, sometimes it’s fancy pants.  I’m not going to apologize for that or for the self-aggrandizing part or the vulnerable part or any of the past, current, or future selves that have or will write on here.  I guess I renewed this domain because I want/need/desire a little space dedicated to me in internet land and who knows, maybe I’ll actually visit and spend some time before 2 years goes by…

Longing and Belonging

A dear friend and mentor allowed for me to borrow her cabin in Monteagle, TN.  About 1.5 hours from Nashville, it is home to some of the most beautiful hiking trails in the US — including Fiery Gizzard Trail.  I went for recreation — but mostly to spend time with myself.  I arrived mid afternoon and walked along the Sewanee Perimeter Trail.  I noticed that most of the leaves on the trees were still green — but the ones on the ground had accepted their fall colors.

IMG_2802The leaves reminded me of a prayer I stumbled upon looking for help writing my own pastoral prayer for next Sunday:

“O God of all the changing world,
we pray on this October morning for your guidance.

The leaves have begun to clatter on their branches,
clinging to their summer hold
yet gazing earthward,
amorous of the ground below
and its quiet embrace.”

I thought of my own clinging to summer — afraid of the winter’s cold — yet knowing that “times they are a changin’.”  I also watched the sunset:

Sunset SelfieOn Saturday morning I took a book by John O’Donohue called Eternal Echos and I read it listening to Foster Falls under the trees that seemed to turn red and yellow overnight.

Foster FallsI read this on page 7: “Every human heart is full of longing.  You long to be happy, to live a meaningful and honest life, to find love, and to be able to open your heart to someone; you long to discover who you are and to learn how to heal your own suffering and become free and compassionate.  To be alive is to be suffused with longing.  The voices of longing keep your life alert and urgent.  If you cannot discover the shelter of belonging within your life, you could become a victim and target of your longing, pulled hither and thither without any anchorage anywhere.  It is consoling that each of us lives and moves within the great embrace of the earth.  You can never fall out of the shelter of this belonging.  Part of the reason that we are so lonesome in our modern world is that we have lost the sense of belonging on the earth.”

When I read this — I thought of a song that has been a touchstone for me since I learned it in a voice lesson circa 2001.  “I Wish It So” from the musical Juno — I sang it to the falls — “I’ve an unrest in side me, oh it’s long I have had such an unrest in side me, and it’s gettin’ real bad… for I wish it so…”  My voice pouring from inside me over the edge of the cannon matching the falls’ intensity.  I get O’Donohue’s longing.

Tonight, I hung out with a dear friend.  When I’m with him I recognize the way I want to feel when I’m with my future partner.  He’s not my future partner — Yet he gives me the gift of belonging and inspires my longing.

O’Donohue goes on:  “One of the deepest longings in the human heart is the desire to be loved for yourself alone.  This longing awakens you completely.  When you are touched by love, it reaches down into your deepest fiber.  It is difficult to realize actually how desperately we do need love… If our hearts were our outside bodies, we would see crippled bodies transform into ballet dancers under the gaze and in the embrace of love.”

I couldn’t drive home after our time together — so I walked around the park some more.  I had a nice little chat with God — trying to put words to my experience — Why? What? When? I recognized that my love for this person is really only the tip of the iceberg of my deep, robust, vast longing.  “This fracture is always open; it is the secret well from which all longing flows.  All prayer, love, creativity, and joy come from this source; our fear and hurt often convert them into their more sinister shadows.”  Could I learn to embrace my longing?  Could I learn to trust it as a source for the wild and vibrant parts of myself?  As I walked to the top of the hill I could see the sun beginning to set.  The low hanging clouds caught on fire from the suns distant glow. It looked like this:

Sunset OneAnd then this:

IMG_2847I stood there amazed.  Then I took photos.  Then I sang a refrain “For the Beauty of the Earth.”  Then I snapped out of my honor, “Wait just a minute God!  You can’t just show me something shiny to distract me from the very intense conversation we were having about longing and why my longing for, well, everything, is so intense!” And the minute I stopped my little rant — God spoke to my heart — This isn’t about distraction! I’m reaching out to say, “Me too.”  I get your longing… I understand and I’m with you in it.  I have it too.

And in that moment I belonged.

A poem about names and fear…

It’s funny that I’m not great with names — (just in case you didn’t know, pastors are supposed to be good at names).  I used to be better at names while I worked as a camp counselor because I would always ask every camper where their name came from or I would give them a nickname and when I gave it or had a story I was better able to remember it.  This morning as I taught Sunday school I asked everyone in the class where their name came from.  One husband from a couple who had been married for over 30 years shared the origin of his name from a French novel and his wife exclaimed, “I NEVER KNEW THAT!” It was precious.Michael shared a poem with me today that connects with my love for knowing where people’s names come from.  It also connects with the fact that I’ve been very afraid recently.  Last night I got to a parking garage in downtown Nashville.  I went by myself to see TN Rep Theatre’s production of Sweeny Todd.  (This is kindof a secret garage connected to McKendree UMC downtown, in which I have special privileges to park — it’s in the middle of downtown but it’s quite desolate.) When I arrived at the garage I was scared to get out of my car.  I quickly opened the door and got out of my car. The smell of congested air and piss wafted and I just as quickly jumped back in the drivers seat.  Then I thought of last week — walking back to my car from the symphony — parked on a side street downtown — and saw the passenger side door bashed in and my purse gone.  I thought how thankful I was that my property was damaged and not my body.  Then was nervous to walk downtown — through the cold, misty, darkness and cat calls.  Then I thought about the fact that the show is about murder — hilarious as it might be — I had no idea how I would get back to my car later that night.

So I turned the ignition and drove home — Sweeny Todd is playing until Nov. 2nd — so I will have another opportunity to see it with friends.  A friend reminded me when I called her on the way home that sometimes it’s okay to be scared.  Next week in church we are discussing Jesus’ question, “Why are you Afraid?”  Jesus obviously knows how scary this world can be — but Jesus asks this question because even though it’s okay to be afraid Jesus doesn’t want me to live a life debilitated by fear.  “And remember I am with you always, to the end of the age,” Jesus reminds me at the end of Matthew (28:20b).

Also this poem is a good reminder for me and I think you will love it: “Fear Of” by Devin Kelly

The Plunge

Last Friday I skipped from Scales Chapel into Shelley Kuhlmeyer’s office elated and talking a mile a minute that I just might be able to take “The Plunge” and preach on Sunday morning without sermon notes.  I spent most of the day with my iPhone in Scales Chapel recording my attempts to weave together a sermon from the brief outline I had gathering in my mind over the past few weeks.

“You have to talk it out to yourself,” Michael said as he gave me advice on my sermon.  The metaphor he gives for preaching without a manuscript is a cloths line blowing in the wind — You have a pair of pants, a shirt, underwear, a few socks, another skirt and you have a sermon!  “What happens when one of them blows away?!” I questioned.  “That happens,” he replied, “sometimes you loose a sock or get them out of order.”

This Sunday — the plunge — was a huge moment for me vocationally.  I finally feel like I released my voice and some kind of freedom that I can’t explain.  I don’t think I lacked the Holy Spirit prior to Sunday in my preaching — but I felt a greater use, reliance, and energy from her in a very profound way.  Most preachers spend a good deal of time prior to preaching praying that the Holy Spirit will work though them.  Both of my homeletics classes at Vanderbilt taught us to pray with fear and trembling and this week those prayers were even more real.  It was the perfect sermon to preach for the first time without a manuscript because it was an outward sign for me that I would not let shame — not being good enough — rule my life.  I would trust in the grace of God.

I also knew I could trust in the grace of West End staff and members.  I am so thankful for the many brilliant individuals that gave me so much grace and encouragement before and after the sermon and not just my preaching but allowing me to be fully myself in all my work at West End — I feel so grateful.

I am excited to go on this journey of continuing to become who God created me to be.  I can not say Thank You enough to all those who are part of that process encouraging, guiding, and loving.  I am honored and awed to be a pastor.

If you want to watch the sermon, you can watch it here on YouTube.

Modern Day Flappers

A few weeks ago I shared late night nachos at Sunset Grill in Hillsboro Village with two of my dearest friends, Ben and Elizabeth.  We had just watched the movie Boyhood across the street at the Belcourt.  Boyhood is the kind of movie that would show at the Belcourt –a non-profit movie theatre specializing in documentaries, artstic, and innovative films.  The director, Richard Linklater, filmed the same cast over twelve years and, like the title suggests, it’s about childhood and growing up.  Literally the boy actor grows into a man before your eyes.  So, we were discussing the movie over nachos and Ben says, “I can’t help but think about what the movie would have been like if it were about girlhood.”

I laughingly said, “You would say that!”  (Ben might be more of a feminist than I am because of his deep appreciation for Marylynne Robinson’s poetry, fiction, and prose…) and replied, “What would the movie womanhood look like?”  I rambled on, “What if I filmed my best friends over the next ten years and see what happens?”

“I think I’d watch that,” Ben responded, “What would you call it?”

And without really thinking I replied, “Modern Day Flappers.”

We kept eating nachos and discussing various parts of the movie that we liked — but the idea didn’t leave my mind and the next day I typed in the domain name:  It was available.  Then I Googled “Modern Day Flappers” and found two interesting articles: Five Signs Your a Modern Day Flapper in the Huff Post and Modern-Day Flappers: Lena Dunham and Girls from Biographile.  Both reference the same book published in January of this year Flappers: Six Women of a Dangerous Generation by Judith Mackrell.  I immediately searched for the book at Nashville public library and sent it to the branch near my house.

I love the parallel between Lena Dunham and Girls and flappers.  I have seen every episode of Girls and I am intoxicated by the woman’s locker room conversation put on national television from a realistic perspective in an authentic and unapologetic tone.  Yet, there is more than one conversation going on in a women’s locker room!  Many of my friends have talked about how we resonate with Dunham’s characters, yet they do not allow for their spiritual domains to influence their life choices and their context of NYC is very different than Nashville!

A few days later, I picked up the book from our branch and read in the introduction, “The young women of this era weren’t the first generation in history to seek a life beyond marriage and motherhood; they were, however, the first significant group to claim it as a right (pg. 5).”  “Yes. This.” The voice in my gut said when I read those words…

A few pages later Mackrell’s words resonated again with this statement about the six women whom she presents to represent flappers, “Often they feel closest to us when they were struggling and uncertain.  None of them had role models to follow as they grappled with the implications of their independence.  Their mothers and grandmothers could not advise them how to combine sexual freedom with love, or how to combine their public image with personal happiness (pg. 10).”

I feel a lot of uncertainty when I try to articulate how to be a woman, in the south, in public and private settings, seeking my right to an identity outside of wife or mother, navigating singleness, love, sex, and independence, while also discovering and being found by God, and desperately trying to “be human in the most inhumane of ages (Thomas Merton).”  All of this coupled with the fact that I am clergy and “should” know these things!

I, for sure, do not have all the answers — but I do have a ton of questions.  Therefore, over the next year of my life — “30, flirty, and thriving” — I am going to ask as many questions as possible and ask them of those who are on the journey with me — my modern day flappers — my late 20something and 30something friends who are also seeking their identities, wholeness, and love.  I hope to discover parts of myself in the stories I unearth in them.

I will record my interviews in a podcast called — you guessed it — Modern Day Flappers!

Modern Day Flappers


Online Dating

A few months ago I decided to join my friends in the online dating world.  No, I didn’t sign up for Tinder–even though many of my smart, talented, beautiful, friends were on it… I just couldn’t stomach denying and more likely, being denied.

I signed up for OKCupid.  Yes, I know they are involved in a scandal where they set up people with bad compatibility as an experiment.  But it’s free — I am a gal who will park miles from her destination because, well, it’s free.

I think there are a few ways to go about the online dating — I’m really less interested in having long conversations over message and more interested in discovering if you are: a.) remotely compatible with me and b.) decently attractive based on your photos.  You would be surprised how many people do not check out with these two criteria.

When these two criteria do not happen, I usually do not respond.  This fact alone makes me want to run from the evils of online dating — because it forces me to treat real human beings like they are not valuable.  Every human is valuable and for the most part deserves a response.  They sent me a message, so I should at least respond or knowledge their humanity — and in my own way this would be subversive in a completely digital mediated reality.  However, I don’t have time to respond to every “hello” or “Your hot!” — (to which I want to respond with a grammar lesson and a I’m hot and smart, but I digress).

I basically want to meet you in person as soon as possible — I have to experience the energy of a man before I know if I am attracted to him.  I went on a series of dates that were “nice.”  There was no one who scared or disrespected me in any way.  I actually wanted to say to them — I know you are somebody’s person, you are just not my person and I usually did in one way or another.  (Actually — and this is hilarious to me — I was lamenting online dating with a married friend of mine and we were talking about this guy who really loved his debate team and discovered that she went on a date with the same guy three years before!)

When was the last time you went on a date and got back into your car and were smiling?  That happened to me a week ago.  He started off the date with this completely ridiculous story about a care package and a costume that had me laughing and showed me he would never make apologies for who he is.  He had a wonderful imagination, quick wit, and sense of adventure.

So we went on another date and another — I left both of those smiling too.  Since that date I’ve texted twice and called once — no response.  Maybe 3 dates in a week was too much, maybe I said or did something that he hated, maybe I don’t fit whatever criteria he needs to respond.

But it leaves me sad and feeling less than human.

A package in the mail

A few weeks ago I got a package in the mail. My mom mentioned sending me a few books from my Nanny’s house that she thought I would like to have. Nanny, my mom’s mom and my namesake, died in September of 2007 the same year I graduated college and moved to Nashville — gosh, that was 7 years ago. I took the package home and tore into it. The packages my mom sends are always wrapped really well — anything I pack is always precariously stuffed or protruding from the box seams. I’m momentarily distracted by the yard of bubble wrap but the smell of old books brings me back to the task at hand.

What is it about old books?  Specifically these old books held in the hands of my grandmother.  Her eyes on every page — the same eyes that looked at me with love and understanding.  Could they tell me more about her?  Would they spill her stories?

The largest and heaviest — “Aeschylus to Hebbel” written on the front with an image of the dramatic faces and “A Treasury of the Theatre” on the binding. Aeschylus to HebbelLikely from a college humanities class, I opened the front cover and find her hand written maiden name, “Nancy Davis” and “217 Virginia.”  I know she went to Mary Washington College, which was University of Virginia’s Women’s college.  I’m not sure what 217 means.  Stuffed in the pages are the summaries of every play in my Nanny’s handwriting.  The squashed, thin cursive looks familiar because Nanny wrote me letters weekly when I was in college.  I smile thinking that I am vicariously visiting her through these notes in her college days.

I start to read them, but the characters have names I cannot pronounce and it’s a summary of a complicated story I have never heard of or read.

Nanny's NotesI smile again thinking about my own notes — fraught with incomplete or incoherent thoughts.  Although most of my undergrad notes were written on paper, I have thrown most of it out.  Will my granddaughter find my digital files of my most recent graduate courses?  This is a thought that brings me great joy and yet the pain of wondering if this blog will even be available.  Then the sadness of questioning if children let alone grandchildren will be a reality…

I flip through the book and let the smell rise from the pages that haven’t been awakened for decades.  I find doodles in the margins:

Nanny's MarginsI feel as if I’ve won the lottery — “I love that man — I wan to see him again Boo Hoo!” and “I love this class — only 8 more minutes” and down the binding, “I wonder if anyone is listening to her”  — it’s obviously a conversation between friends in the margins.  There is something so human about daydreaming in class and about the fact that in the 1940s my Nanny was privileged to get an education on ancient plays — yet she’s still thinking about boys, using sarcasm, and living through those never-ending 8 minutes of class.

I can’t help but feel like she’s with me and somehow by knowing her better, I know myself.

A poem to read on a vocational journey

This week in Current (West End UMC’s Wednesday night programing) we are talking about Vocation. I am interviewing two people I respect highly about their own vocational journey.

Last week I posted about my own musings on vocation. This week my mentor, Michael Williams, sent me this poem and in the email he wrote, “It came as a gift to me and I pass it along as a gift to you.” It is a gift to me a beautiful interpretation of the story of Jonah and the many ways I both miss and live into my calling.

by Carl Dennis

You’ll never be much of a prophet if, when the call comes
To preach to Nineveh, you flee on the ship for Tarshish
That Jonah fled on, afraid like him of the people’s outrage
Were they to hear the edict that in thirty days
Their city in all its glory will be overthrown.

The sea storm that harried Jonah won’t harry you.
No big fish will be waiting to swallow you whole
And keep you down in the dark till your mood
Shifts from fear to thankfulness and you want to serve.
No. You’ll land safe at Tarshish and learn the language
And get a job in a countinghouse by the harbor
And marry and raise a family you can be proud of
In a neighborhood not too rowdy for comfort.

If you’re going to be a prophet, you must listen the first time.
Setting off at sunrise, you can’t be disheartened
If you arrive at Nineveh long past midnight,
On foot, your donkey having run off with your baggage.
You’ll have to settle for a room in the cheapest hotel
And toss all night on the lice-ridden mattress

That Jonah is spared. In the space of three sentences
He jumps from his donkey, speaks out, and is heeded, while you,
Preaching next day in the rain on a noisy corner,
Are likely to be ignored, outshouted by old-clothes dealers
And fishwives, mocked by schoolboys for your accent.
And then it’s a week in jail for disturbing the peace.
There you’ll have time, as you sit in a dungeon
Darker than a whale’s belly, to ask if the trip
Is a big mistake, the heavenly voice mere mood,

The mission a fancy. Jonah’s biggest complaint
Is that God, when the people repent and ask forgiveness,
Is glad to forgive them and cancels the doomsday
Specified in the prophecy, leaving his prophet
To look like a fool. So God takes time to explain
How it’s wrong to want a city like this one to burn,
How a prophet’s supposed to redeem the future,
Not predict it. But you’ll be left with the question
Why your city’s been spared when nobody’s different,

Nobody in the soup kitchen you open,
Though one or two of the hungriest
May be grateful enough for the soup to listen
When you talk about turning their lives around.
It will be hard to believe these are the saving remnant
Kin to the ten just men that would have sufficed
To save Gomorrah if Abraham could have found them.
You’ll have to tell them frankly you can’t explain
Why Nineveh is still standing though you hope to learn
At the feet of a prophet who for all you know
May be turning his donkey toward Nineveh even now.

My favorite lines: “How a prophet’s supposed to redeem the future, Not predict it. But you’ll be left with the question Why your city’s been spared when nobody’s different,” How I love that this poem challenges my indifference as much as it does the indifference of my city!! I look forward to the conversation tonight and hope we will unearth some of the challenges of the journey as much as joys.

Guatemala and Camu

When I think of that smell of wood and plastic trash going up in flames, my heart fills with love and that love wells up as water in the corners of my eyes. These are tears of truth, not of sadness or joy.

As I write this, it takes everything not to pick up my backpack and breath in the smell of burning that still lingers on the cloth. Yet, last night when I got home from Guatemala I washed and showered and washed again and lathered to get the smell off my skin. This morning I put lots of mouse in my hair to cover up the smell that lingered.

My backpack had almost the same exact smell when I came home from Uganda.

For me, it is a smell of truth and one that connects me deeply to the entire world. Yet, last night on my plane flight home from Atlanta to Nashville I wanted to apologize to the person next to me for the way I smelled. “I promise I don’t always smell like this,” I wanted to say — while deep inside I wished it would never go away.

Smell has a way of bringing you back to a time and place, I know there is a lot of academic research about it — but I’m not as interested in quantitative studies about smell and memory, as I am about the stories. I was talking about smell with a friend recently and he spoke of walking past a woman and the simple fumes of her perfume brought him to the time when he was first falling in love. The smell of Irish Spring soap has a similar effect on me.

Do I quickly wash off the smell of open wood fires because I am afraid to go back to the times and places where I saw women suffering from poverty and patriarchy?

Today in a class — I am auditing a class at Vanderbilt Divinity School on Albert Camu from Prof. Victor Judge — we discussed “The Fall.” Spoiler alert — The story is about a man who is on a bridge and watches a woman about to jump to her death — he says nothing. She jumps — he does nothing. As she screams for help, he neither says or does anything. There is a lot more to the monologue — but the man forever avoids bridges.

I’ve seen the plight of women in poverty and heard about the effects of patriarchy. I know enough to say something. I know enough to do something. I know enough to use my words and actions to say something before, during, or after she jumps off the bridge.

Today in class Prof. Judge said, “Every moment is important and has consequence. Every waking moment has a promise of change.” With my recent experience in the foothills of the volcanoes in Guatemala in the forefront of my mind — my heart erupted and tears streamed down my face. During the intermission I explained to Prof. Judge they were tears of truth. He lovingly replied, “I hoped they were not tears of unhappiness.”

I wrote in my notes:
So what am I to do? There is so much… I am willing. I can continue to organize Sunday morning class spaces (ha ha not fair — I am currently working with imagination and creativity) But (or maybe I should say AND) I am called to be on the ground, smelling of fire, eyes not only welling with the waters of truth, but also the dust from the roads blown by trucks filled with travelers and produce, the sun bringing color to my face instead of using concealer, brushing my teeth with purified water — sometimes afraid, sometimes overjoyed, sometimes at peace, but always present.

Directly after I wrote that, Prof. Judge said, “Those who remain vigilant to combat the plague are the least likely to contract it.”

If I combat poverty and patriarchy, then I am less likely to participate with it.

Hiking a mountain in San Juan, Guatemala.

The Blessed Mother Mary photographed while hiking a mountain in San Juan, Guatemala.

Freedom Towards Myself

I have a new job. I am the interim director for Wesley/Canterbury Fellowship (W/CF) at Vanderbilt University. This is the Methodist/Episcopal campus ministry. This past Thursday night was our first worship service and I left feeling so much joy for students and ministry. But these past few weeks have been extremely overwhelming!

During these first three weeks of doing my best to build relationships and get the word out about our open and loving community… nothing could be more true than this is the quote from The Spirit of Life, Jorgen Moltmann pg 201-202:

But the people who throw themselves into practical life because they cannot come to terms with themselves simply become a burden for other people. Social praxis and political involvement are not a remedy for the weakness of our own personalities. Men and women who want to act on behalf of other people without having deepened their own understanding of themselves, without having built up their own capacity for sensitive loving, and without having found freedom towards themselves, will find nothing in themselves that they can give to anyone else. Even presupposing good will and the lack of evil intentions, all they will be able to pass on is the infection of their own egoism, the aggression generated by their own anxieties, and the prejudices of their own ideology. Anyone who wants to fill up her own hollowness by helping other people will simply spread the same hollowness. Why? Because people are far less influenced by what another person says and does than the activist would like to believe. They are much more influenced by what the other is, and his way of speaking and behaving. Only the person who has found his own self can give himself. What else can he give? It is only the person who knows that he is accepted who can accept others without dominating them. The person who has become free in herself can liberate others and share their suffering.

I hope I can grow to know myself so fully that I can open space for others to be fully themselves. This is why most of the books I am reading right now are not for school but to help me hold in faith my questions and my doubts. To care for myself and then care for others. Nothing could be harder in a time where there are so many demands on my time and my life!! But I must first free myself so I can free others.