When the last note was sung there would be this moment, just a moment, where we all stood in silence. Wonder and waiting came together in that moment. We would step out into the night quietly and with no benediction. No one ever said we were supposed to do this, it just happened.

The closest I’ve ever come to that feeling since was on a ship with 1,000 other people that was sitting almost a mile away from a glacier. It was cold and rainy and magnificent. We’d been instructed to listen for the sound of something akin to a shotgun blast and then wait. No one told us we had to be quiet, we just were. Over a thousand people simply stopped talking and waited in anticipation of what we might hear and see on that cold, rainy Alaskan morning — it was wonder and waiting in action.

Last night, my family and I went for a drive to drop off our first round of Christmas goodies to friends and to look at Christmas lights — it’s one of our annual traditions. Sometimes we sing along to the Christmas music on the radio and sometimes we just talk. Last night was a talking night — Rylee asked us what our favorite part of Christmas was. I told her the truth when I said she was my favorite part of Christmas — but she wanted more than than that. She wanted a real answer not just a truthful one.

The real answer for me is I want that one moment — the one when I’m standing in church after the last note has been sung and I know, without a doubt, I am part of something bigger than myself. In that moment, I’m not thinking about petty differences I may have with others around the room, or about the frustrations of the day, or the work that still remains before Christmas morning. I’m not really thinking about anything at all — I am a being of light and love embraced by wonder and anticipation.

My wish for this coming year is to find more of those moments — maybe not in crowds of people (because, ew! Covid), but in quiet moments of reflection, and in boisterous moments of laughter, and in spontaneous dance parties in the kitchen, and in my daughter’s smile, and my wife’s kisses. There is joy in wonder and anticipation — may we all find those moments less elusive in the coming year.

I remember when I was a little girl (and as a not so little girl) I would leave piles of clothes on my bedroom floor because they were the spots where I would be safe from whatever monster was living under my bed.

I didn’t share this detail with my parents until I was well into adulthood. They just thought I was an extraordinarily messy child. My mother was stunned when we moved to a new house my senior year in high school and I became what she called a “neat freak.” We both thought it was just because it was such a tiny bedroom. Thinking back on it, maybe I no longer needed piles of clothes as “safety zones” because my mattress and box springs were on the floor. It’s also possible I had simply outgrown my fears.

When I was little, I didn’t like to go to sleep by myself. I suspect this is why my mother read to me every night. She read to me until I was old enough to read to her and then we took turns reading to each other. I don’t remember the last night we read together or even what the last book we read was. I just remember at some point I was old enough that we stopped.

I also don’t remember how old I was when my parents stopped coming into my room to “tuck me in” and kiss me on my forehead. Was it a gradual transition to just one or the other of them leaning against my door frame to say goodnight as they would click off my light?

When did they stop leaving the hall light on in our unspoken agreement that while I wasn’t “technically” afraid of the dark, the hall light helped me sleep better?

When did it change to me saying “Goodnight, I love you” to them as they went to bed before me — And if they didn’t respond, I would stand there until they did. It was sort of a joke, but not really since it was based in an irrational fear that something might happen to them in the middle of the night. I wanted them to know I loved them and needed to know they loved me.

I have no distinct memory of these things beginning or ending. I have no recollection of whether my parents struggled to adapt to my anxieties and fears; only that they seemed to take them in stride. Maybe having eight kids prepared them for anything I threw at them.

It’s only in looking back on these things through the lens of a diagnosis and counseling that I can see the distinct patterns and forms my anxiety took when I was younger. I found ways to cope. My parents found ways to cope.

Sometimes, looking back, I wonder if we had understood it better, or talked about it more, maybe somethings would have been easier. Yet, at the time, none of it felt extraordinary or abnormal — which in itself is a gift.

I have different language now, and different strategies for dealing with my more irrational fears. I also recognize that my garden-variety anxiety is nothing like what others have to endure.

We talk about anxiety a lot in our house. Our daughter will have different memories of how we helped or hindered her in her own struggles with anxiety.

What I hope she’ll remember most is the same kind of safety and love I felt. I hope she feels it when we read to her, and when we say goodnight and kiss her on the forehead. And when we turn on her salt lamp and say “we love you.” Every night. Maybe she’ll remember that I always wait for a response (some fears never let us go) and maybe she won’t.

I hope she’ll remember that we always told her the truth when she asked her nightly coping question, “Is there anything I need to know about tomorrow?”

It’s taken us a long time to get here — to understand the undercurrents of anxiety that ripple inside our walls. We each handle our anxiety differently, and we each experience it to varying degrees. We can each tell you, however, that unchecked anxiety is a thief of joy. Which is why we have spent time learning how to navigate it.

We’ve been blessed with counselors and teachers who have helped us figure it out (not that you can ever really figure out anxiety — if you’re lucky, you can figure out your response to it).

One teacher was so selfless in her approach to our daughter’s anxiety that every other teacher (and there have been some good ones) simply can’t compare — that’s how high she set the bar.

One day in the first week of school our daughter accidentally got left behind when her class went in at the beginning of the school day. She was never alone, but she was uncertain and scared.

Anxiety is the monster that makes everything scarier and louder and bigger than it actually is or could be. It’s the voice in your head that convinces you the absolute worst thing you can imagine is going to happen. It doesn’t listen to reason. It can make you sweat and feel nauseous and (in my case at least) make you feel like you are having a heart attack.

After learning that our daughter was terrified of getting left outside again, her first grade teacher spent ever morning for five months patiently working through it with us. First, she greeted us at our car, then at the school yard gate, and finally by her classroom door until our daughter’s belief that she would never get locked out of her classroom again overcame the anxiety created by the one time she did.

To have a teacher that dedicated to one student was remarkable. She will always be our daughter’s favorite teacher — she is a lot of people’s favorite teacher. Going “above and beyond” is just part of her DNA — even now that she’s retired.

Anxiety may be the thief of joy — but joy, when it’s fostered and encouraged and flamed by love, can banish anxiety — like a candle flame banishes the darkness — even if only for a little while. (Sort of like leaving the hall light on until your daughter falls asleep.)

She made a decent meatloaf once you cut off the weird gelatinous crust that ketchup and Worcestershire sauce make when baked in the oven at 375 degrees for an hour.

She made great beef stroganoff and definitely knew her way around a crock pot. She labeled her style of cooking as “doctoring.” Meaning she would take whatever processed ingredients she had on hand and “doctor” them up a bit with whatever else she had on hand. Her au gratin potatoes (from a box) never tasted the same way twice, but they were always pretty darn tasty.

In their later years, mom would make the sides and dad would grill the meat (something we were all grateful for).

Dad cooked a fair bit as well — although his “recipes” were even more experimental than mom’s.

Sue talks about the incredible homemade bread her grandmother used to make, and the amazing cinnamon roles her mom made. My mom’s speciality at Christmas time was snickerdoodle cookies — she wasn’t a huge fan of baking, but she would make those every year.

Mom also made good grilled cheese sandwiches and paired them with…you guessed it…a can of Campbell’s soup.

One of my favorite things mom made though was her chipped ham and gravy. We’d toast mountains of bread (a necessity with eight kids) and then tear it into bits on our plates while Dad scooped heaps of white gravy and cheap chipped ham over the top of the toast.

On one of my first trips home after I went to college, mom asked what I wanted for dinner. I replied honestly that the thing I missed most was her ham gravy. She stared at me for a long minute and then said something along the lines of “your kidding?” No. I wasn’t kidding. Her ham gravy was the thing she always made when my stomach was wonky, or when we were all tired and just wanted something simple for dinner.

I followed her into the kitchen and chatted with her while she got out the flour and the milk and the butter. She asked why I didn’t just make it for myself in the dorm kitchen if I wanted it. I told her I didn’t know how to make it. She gave me another “you’re kidding” look and then said, “well it’s about time I teach you then.”

She told me how making a white sauce was one of the first things her mom ever taught her and she couldn’t believe I’d gone away to college without knowing such a simple thing. She was sure she had taught me and that I probably just hadn’t been paying attention. (Which, to be fair, could have absolutely been the case.)

But I paid attention that day. And soon, I was embellishing her recipe. It needed more onion, or garlic, or…YES! Sausage! instead of that cheap old chipped ham. I made it thicker and creamier. I figured out it wasn’t actually called white sauce but Rue and it could be used in loads of recipes.

I made potato soup in the crockpot today and finished it off my mom’s white sauce to help thicken it. As I poured in the milk, I could almost hear her telling me to pour it in more slowly if I didn’t want to have to waste time smashing down all the clumps of flour. Clearly, I didn’t listen.

The time I “wasted” smashing the clumps against the side of the pan wasn’t wasted at all, since it was time I got to spend in my memories with mom.

She may not have been the best cook, but she kept us fed. And hey, when my family complains that we’re eating something from the freezer, or from a box in the pantry, or from a can again, at least I can tell them that’s how my mom taught me.

Umbrella trees never die — at least not the one in my care. Seven years ago, I posted a note on Facebook asking if anyone wanted a bushy, overgrown umbrella tree my dad had given me when I went to college — it was a start from one of his plants, so I have no idea how old it actually is.

Unlike most of the plants I’ve managed to murder over the years, this plant refused to die. It thrived on neglect. I could water it once a month or every other day and it just kept getting bigger.

When we moved from New Mexico to Washington state, this very large tree (bush!) was one of the reasons we had to rent a car to make the drive. The moving company packed the garbage under our sink, but they wouldn’t be responsible for my mini jungle.

In a recent sermon, my friend Kiran, quoted a line about trees that has stuck with me: “wood hath hope.”

Back when I offered my tree up to anyone who wanted it, two friends commented on my post imploring me not to throw it away. One friend advised to “cut it back hard.” Another simply wrote, “plants are people too.”

Since I had no takers, I chose to give it a reprieve. I spent several hours that winter researching the best ways to separate and root my tree — hoping to make it more manageable once springtime came.

Spring came and went, and another summer and winter times two. Then my brother died and my parents died, and I no longer cared about my plants — except this one.

Finally, the year after death and grief and life left me alone for two minutes and I found a way to breathe again, I decided to finally pull my tree apart.

I carefully separated the roots — coated them in rootgrow, and feeling a bit like Professor Sprout repotting mandrakes, I plunged the separted limbs into their own pots. I did my best to care for them. But, one by one, I emptied the dried up remnants into the garbage. After thirty years in the same pot, perhaps they couldn’t bear to be apart.

Eventually, there was just one small start left along with the twisted center stalk of the original plant. I kept hoping the center stalk would come back — after all, it had survived years of my neglect. It never did.

I let it sit lifeless in my office for several months before I finally took it and dumped it in the trash. An hour later, I retrieved it.

I had a vision for turning the twisted remains into some sort of strange, yarn wrapped memorial art. A few months passed and the twisted piece of wood took up creative space in my head as I imagined it as a light fixture, then as a sculptural piece. I knew I wanted to use rainbow-colored yarn or embroidery thread to represent Pride and the fact that I am finally — somehow — living into the promise of God’s love in my life.

With my penchant for procrastination, however, it became just one more thing collecting dust in my office.

Then George Floyd was murdered and I needed something to occupy my hands, my mind, and my heart. I spent hours wrapping this random (yet not random at all when I think about it) piece of wood. I choose to wrap the center branch in black and white thread — an act of prayer for the people we should be rather than the people we are.

My art (can I call it that?) spent a little bit of time as a light fixture — which didn’t fit what I needed it to be. Now, it’s within reach — sometimes it sits on a shelf, sometimes it’s on my desk, and yes, sometimes it’s just in the way.

It’s a tactile reminder of my dad — I can still see him putting my plant on the dresser nearest the window in my college dorm room — because it had the best light. He was a natural caretaker and helper — his plants benefitted from that inclination as much as the rest of us who lived in his world.

My “stick art” (yep, I can call it that) and the last remaining remnant of the original plant are reminders not to take my “plans” too seriously. Things always seem to work out — usually in ways I couldn’t have imagined. That’s the way grace works.

They are also reminders of how hard it is to continue to grow — change is tough, but even when we disappoint ourselves and those we love, there is still hope that we can become something different. Like trees, we aren’t stagnant.

The remaining plant has grown and is starting to both reach out its limbs and twist in on itself. It may soon need to be “cut back hard.” Which feels like a really twisted metaphor for what I’ve gone through this past year — my professional life was severed and cut back in ways I never saw coming, yet, miraculously, I somehow managed to thrive. Did I mention this is how grace works?

“Wood hath hope.” And so do we.

I saw a Facebook post not too long ago asking people to state one thing their father taught them. I didn’t participate because there was no way I could narrow the list down to one. The one that kept coming to mind was, “always take the burnt piece of toast.” I also thought about “always compliment the cook.” Or, to use the phrase, “six of one, a half dozen to the other” (something I say now only because I delight in torturing my wife just a little bit…but I digress.) I thought about “in all things give thanks.” And, “everyone should know how to change a tire and their own oil.” And, and, and…

What all of these things come down to, however, is that you taught me how to love. Selflessly (still working on that), without judgement (and that), tirelessly (ditto), and with a smile so wide it could crack the sky (I got your chin and smile, so…maybe I’ve got this one down?)

And it wasn’t just me…the ripples of your life extend so far and deep and wide, I can’t even fathom their depths. From your sons and daughters, to their children, to the people in the churches you pastored, to the people you helped without ever knowing their names (although that was rare, because you never met a stranger).

Thank you for giving the world your love. Thank you for sharing God’s love. The ripples never end.

Miss you. Love you.

Ever grateful for your example,

Beck

My dad would have been 91 last week. And today is the day a lot of us think about our mothers. It’s more than that though — as I watch the news from India and talk to friends there I can’t help but think about the magnitude of grief the entire world is dealing with right now.

The people we’ve known who’ve gotten Covid have all been okay. It’s taken a toll, for sure, but they’ve survived. Others, hundreds of thousands of others, have not.

I find myself wondering what my parents would have made of all of this. Before my mom died there was rarely a day when we didn’t talk on the phone. Beyond being my mother, she was one of my closest friends.

I know she would commiserate with me about my ongoing job search. I suspect I would whine about the sorry state of our furniture after months and months and months of constant breakfasts, lunches, and dinners spent in front of the tv since we’ve been cooped up. I would have told her how excited we were last weekend to FINALLY have friends over for a cook out (which, of course, is what prompted my most recent spate of dark thoughts about every single piece of furniture in our house — isn’t it amazing how things you once loved suddenly annoy the crap out of you? And no, I’m not talking about my spouse and my kid. Okay, maybe I’m not only talking about them.)

Last weekend we cleaned the house so it would be reasonably presentable for our company (literally the first company we’ve had in almost a year).

On Monday morning, I walked into the living room and wondered why we’d even bothered — my shoes, the kid’s shoes, dishes on the coffee table — all right back where they’ve been for the past year. (Okay, not really, but it sure feels like it sometimes.) For some reason, as I stood shaking my head, I remembered this plaque my parents always had hanging near their front door when I was growing up. It said:

“Although you’ll find our house a mess, come in, sit down, converse. It doesn’t always look like this, some days it’s even worse.”

I’ve thought about that plaque a few times over the years, wondering what happened to it. It probably got discarded or donated sometime during one of their many moves.

I know my mother probably would have related to my state of mind that morning. I’m sure she would have had encouraging words that afternoon when I found out I didn’t get yet another job I was starting to get excited about.

When I stopped by one of my favorite thrift stores the next day to reap the benefits of a little retail therapy (the only retail therapy I can afford right now), I picked up a small wood piece thinking maybe my niece could use it for a pyrography project.

And this, right here folks, is either a sign from my mother — she always could read my mind — or a sure sign that the universe has a sense of humor.

Yes. It did come home with me. This may be the best $5 I’ve ever spent.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom

One of the things my mother always used to say to me was, “you’ll never know how much I love you.” Somehow seeing “you are loved” scrawled on that bathroom stall seemed like a message meant just for me.

Flash forward nearly five years and seeing “you are loved” can still bring me to tears.

A few nights ago as I was flipping through Pinterest, some painted rocks came up on my feed. I remember thinking, not for the first time, how cool it would be to find a painted rock. I have friends who paint them and their kiddos leave them in parks and playgrounds for others to find.

Today was the day! I took Xena to the dog park and there sitting on “my” normal table, where I sit and watch her play, was a red rock with a peace sign painted on it. I thought about leaving it for someone else to find but then decided it was mine. After all, it’s red — my favorite color. AND, the sentiment resonated with me — what better place to find peace than at the dog park? Besides, the universe works that way for me sometimes — I’ll think about something and a few days later whatever it was I was thinking about happens. Call it coincidence if you will, but I prefer to just gratefully accept these gifts and whisper a prayer of thanks.

I pocketed the rock and enjoyed the weight of it in my coat pocket as I walked around the path at the dog park. Xena loves going there on a day like today when there are twenty or more other dogs there — some are “friends” she’s seen (and smelled) frequently since we’ve been going almost daily. I love it too — especially when the sun is shining like it was today. It’s just a great place to be: people bonding over their dogs, laughing at their antics — sometimes there are PUPPIES — what’s not to like?!

Usually we stay until Xena gives me the “sign.” She’ll come over and lay her head on my lap, tongue hanging out the side and give me this look. I ask her if she’s ready to go home and she perks up her ears and starts walking towards the gate. Sometimes we’re there for an hour before she’s ready to leave and sometimes only twenty minutes. I suspect it has to do with which of her friends are there on any given day.

It wasn’t until we got in the car and I took the rock out of my pocket that I looked at the other side of it.

That bird house always grounds me — especially this time of year. It was an odd solace five years ago when my brother died on Christmas Day. I remember walking out into our backyard while my family was inside taking over for me in the kitchen. My mother had just called to let me know my brother had passed. We knew it was coming but thought we had more time. I was supposed to see him the next day — December 26th.

That red bird house was the only spot of color that day too. A bright reminder somehow that Spring was on it’s way — we’d survived the longest night of the year and the birds would soon be back.

Since then I’ve learned that 80% of the birds in our area are not migratory — sort of like all of us this past year; vacations cancelled, sheltering in place, the same four walls day after day. We haven’t had much room to wander. Some people have mastered new skills, read books they’ve always wanted to read, learned to play instruments, or done other productive things.

Me? Well, my productivity has come in waves. I left my job in September; leaving safety, security, and a soul-crushing, confidence-busting, ego-bruising work situation that had become untenable. It’s been a scary and, oddly restful, few months. I cleaned the gutters, did yard work, cleaned and organized the garage, completely reorganized my office, and all of our closets. I planned and cooked a lot of our meals, I took the dog to the dog park on most warm days. I also slept until noon some days, huddled under a blanket pretending I didn’t hear my family up and moving around. I started and didn’t finish ten or so books. I shopped a lot — which is completely counterintuitive given that my severance package doesn’t last all that long. I’ve applied for every possible job I’m even remotely qualified for. I’ve had a lot of interviews but no offers yet. I’ve tried not to let myself spiral into depression that has, at times in the past, threatened to overtake me. My family has made sure that doesn’t happen — in ways they probably aren’t even aware of.

During one of those bursts of productivity, I apparently donated my mother’s red sparkly Christmas sweater.

One of the benefits (and risks) of losing almost 70 pounds is that a lot of clothes no longer fit. I don’t remember specifically deciding to get rid of that sweater though and had in the back of my mind that I would wear it this Christmas. I looked everywhere for it yesterday morning — and it’s simply not here. I wanted to wear it so I could feel a tangible connection to my parents for the holiday. I hope someone else is enjoying it and it’s keeping them warm.

Christmas was my mother’s favorite holiday. I doubt it still would have been after my brother died, but we didn’t get the chance to find out.

My brother’s eldest daughter put up a small tree this year, the first one in five years. With time, grief moves from being the main guest at the table to being a shadow in the corner — still there but a much more polite house guest these days.

A few months ago, I lost my mother’s wedding ring. Not the one she no longer wore for fear the diamond would fall out, but the silver band she and my dad bought one time from a street vendor in Mexico. I’ve looked everywhere for it (more than a few times) since I lost it. I’ve looked in my luggage from the last work trip I took before the pandemic. I’ve looked in my backpack and in all my coat pockets and purses thinking I must have taken it off because as my fingers got thinner it kept slipping off.

I had resigned myself to the loss — another in a string of them. I still have Dad’s ring and Mom’s original diamond ring — I don’t wear those, but from time to time I “check” on them — trailing my fingers over them briefly when I reach into my jewelry box for something else.

Yesterday, since I was sweaterless (at least without the sweater I had planned to wear), I decided to wear the small diamond studs I bought after my parents died. I got them out of my jewelry box and checked in with mom and dad — running my fingers over their rings and wishing them a Merry Christmas. Before I knew what I was doing or why, I opened the middle drawer and reached for my Dad’s watch thinking I might wear it instead since I no longer had mom’s sweater. And there it was, mom’s silver ring.

I’ve always believed in magic. Not the kind that can make a missing ring appear out of nowhere, but the kind of gentle nudge the universe sends to remind us we are loved, that life goes on, that everything happens for a reason even though we may never know what that reason might be (at least in this life). Sometimes that kind of magic takes the shape of a bright red birdhouse, or a found ring.

And sometimes, sometimes, the reminder comes when I simply glance down at my own hands or when I look in the mirror. The magic is there in the shape of my chin and the set of my cheekbones that are so like my Dad’s. And it’s there in the wrinkles and whorls on the back of my hands that are so like my mother’s.

It’s in the brilliance of a Christmas morning sunrise and in the reflection of Christmas tree lights in the window at night. It’s in the taste of the snickerdoodle cookies my wife makes just for me because I once told her a story of how much I loved making them with my mom. It’s in the music our daughter played for her grandma over FaceTime yesterday. It was our first Christmas without her at our house and it wasn’t the same — it will likely never be the same again. But even in that, reminders of the love we all share will be in the photos we look at and the stories we tell year after year.

I don’t know what the new year will bring. None of us do. I know I will try to hold onto what I’m feeling today — which is joy and optimism for whatever comes next for us. I also know that I will enter it with love in my heart — which is the best magic of all.

“I hear you have a sweetheart. I want you to bring her home with you the next time you come home.” My dad the next morning after mom told him Sue and I were together.

“You don’t know what I think,” my oldest brother, who was a preacher, said to me one day while we sat for hours at an airport that was snowed in. “I’ve studied this ever since I found out you were gay. I don’t agree with what a lot of Christians teach on this issue. God loves you. I love you. The Bible wasn’t talking about you.”

“I don’t think of you as my daughter-in-law — I think of you as my daughter.” Sue’s mom to me.

Sue’s dad never said anything so overtly sentimental to me (he was a military guy after-all), but I felt it in the somewhat embarrassed hugs he would return from me — these one armed tucked into the corner of his chest pat/pat on the shoulder kind of things. I felt it in the way he shook his head at some of the strange outfits I frequently chose to wear when Sue and I first started dating (I wore a lot of plaids and stripes and paisley — all at the same time). I felt it in the way he laughed at me as I tried to chase a squirrel from their house when he was sick. I felt it in the hummingbird I know he sent one year after he died when I was pregnant and away from home.

“How are all my girls?” Sue’s Granny would always ask in letters she wrote to the three of us. I miss her hugs and her stories.

Gramps enjoyed my sense of humor and would return my hugs in the same embarrassed way his son had.

This is what love and acceptance looks like.

We watched our wedding video last night. It was the first time Rylee had seen it. In typical 13-year old fashion there was a lot of mockery and a little eye rolling. There was also a lot of smiling.

A friend who was at that wedding sent me a letter yesterday — an actual, handwritten letter! It was such a gift — full of her humor and love.

This morning, I enjoyed the cup of “Lady Grey” tea from the tea bag she’d tucked inside. I drank it from a mug our friend Wendy, who sang at our wedding, gave us for Christmas one year.

I wish everyone could have family and friends as lovely as the ones we have been blessed with.

Every year in February, I would start to feel like the walls were closing in on me. The short, dark, cold days perfectly matched my emotional state. When I was in high school, my parents would put up with my whining and moping around until mid-March or so when Mom would announce that we weren’t going to have Sunday dinner — we were going to take a drive instead. I’d help her make sandwiches, we’d throw the cooler and an old quilt in the car and take off as soon as we could when church was over. Church was never over fast enough on those days.

Sometimes we would drive to Ashton, or down to Swan Valley, or maybe even to the top of Teton pass if the roads were clear. We’d stop somewhere along the way and have a snowy picnic on the side of the road. Mom would throw her “picnic” quilt over the hood of the car and she and I would sit on the hood and eat our ham sandwiches. She would shake her head at me when I ripped the top off my sandwich and layered potato chips on top of the ham before smooshing it all back together spilling crumbs all over the quilt.

My mom loved quilts — She had a whole collection of them. I’m not sure why she loved quilts so much, although I suspect it was because, as a writer, she loved the stories behind them. Mom could tell you the story behind every single one of her quilts. There are stories, and love, and effort, and beauty in quilts. Sadly, I don’t remember the story behind our picnic quilt — perhaps one of my siblings will. It wasn’t a particularly beautiful quilt — it could best be described as “utilitarian” which is likely why we used it for picnics.

When I left for college, Mom told me to pick a quilt to take with me. She told me I could take any quilt I wanted, which was astonishingly generous since some of her quilts held a lot of sentimental value for her. I went back and forth in my head between a few quilts for a few weeks before finally selecting the picnic quilt — it wasn’t the only quilt we ever used for picnics, but it was my favorite. It was torn in a few places and thread bare and mom told me I could just have it and told me to pick another one — I think she was surprised by my choice. I did choose another one which I left with her for safe-keeping (a gesture I know she appreciated since I had picked one of her favorites.)

All through college and in the thirty years since the picnic quilt has gotten a lot of use. When Sue and I moved to New Mexico it pretty much had permanent resident status in the back of my car.

When we moved into our current house eight years ago, I pulled the quilt out of a box and was annoyed with myself for allowing it to get into a serious state of disrepair. It was torn in several places and the binding had come undone. In a fit of exasperation, I threw it in the trash. That was the same day I threw a box marked “college stuff” away without even opening it. (I’ve wondered what was in that damn box for the last eight years!)

Later that night, I went out to the garage, dug around in the trash can and pulled the quilt back out. I washed it, folded it, and put it in a box with one of my prom dresses, a stuffed bear my grandmother made for me, and a horribly decrepit small stuffed horse that was a gift given to me when I was born.

I went up into the attic yesterday and pulled out the quilt. I’ve decided it’s time to try to patch it. I’m not sure why now — why THIS weekend — after all this time — or, maybe I do. It’s hard to know for sure.

I’ve always sucked at goodbyes. I think it may be a genetic thing. One of my brothers used to go and hide whenever someone we loved was leaving after a long visit — which sometimes led to the mistaken belief that he just didn’t care — when in reality he cared too much. Our mother was more stalwart than that, but she always hid behind her sunglasses in a feeble attempt to mask her tears — which is a trick I’ve used and failed at more times than I can count because when I cry my whole face sort of scrunches up and gets all blotchy and my mouth does this weird grimace thing.

We said goodbye to our pastor, Marci Auld Glass, yesterday. I wasn’t feeling well and ended up watching her last sermon online. Her sermon was insightful, and heartfelt, and funny like most of her sermons. And like many of her best sermons it was filled with tears and truth.

Our lives are a patchwork of “hellos” and “goodbyes”. A glance through my Facebook “friends” list and I see the names of people who knew me back when my mom’s picnic quilt was not in tatters, people who enjoyed picnics on that quilt with me in college, people who I worked with, learned with, and grew with long after that quilt went into a box.

As a pastor’s daughter, I had a lot of hellos and goodbyes over the years. The average tenure for a pastor is seven years. Our church was blessed to have Marci with us for twelve. I wasn’t there when she accepted the call, but I’ve been a part of the congregation for the last six years — really ever since I sent an email to Marci asking about Southminster’s stance on LGBTQ issues. Her response went something like, “the only sin associated with homosexuality lies in how LGBTQ people have been treated by the church.” I’m sure her actual response was much more elequent than that, but that email combined with the welcome I received when I attended a Maundy Thursday service, and then again when Rylee and I attended church on a Sunday a few weeks later convinced me I had found a church “home.”

I will personally miss Marci’s wit, humor, compassion, kindness, and her constant challenge for us to always, always err on the side of love. Most of all, I will miss her friendship.

I know we will find a new pastor — someone who will lead us and challenge us in different and likely new ways and I know Marci will be a blessing to her knew congregation doing the same for them. Neither of those things changes the fact I suck at goodbyes.

What any of this has to do with a tattered patchwork quilt is probably something best unpacked by a therapist, but since mine retired, I’m just going to be over here mending this torn up old quilt this week. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll go for a drive next weekend and we’ll find a place on the side of the road where we’ll stop to enjoy a sandwich. And when we say grace (if only in our heads), we’ll give thanks for the gift Marci has been in our lives.