a long way to go

photo © 2009 taylorandayumi (via: Wylio)Yesterday as we were driving to her swimming lesson, My Girl suddenly asks why her daddy is a pastor.  My un-eloquent response: "Um, because he believes God wants him to be."

And her response to that: "I don't think I'll be a pastor.  That's mostly a men's thing." ARGH!!!

It wasn't very long ago that she was planning to go to seminary and be a children's pastor just like her daddy.  But not anymore, apparently.

Which is perfectly fine.  Heck, she's only 6.  I've only known one person who knew definitively what she was going to be at age 6 (a pediatrician, which she now is at age 36).  And I have no great desire for my daughter to be a pastor.  Not because she's a girl, but because I know how crazy hard this pastor's life can be, and really, I wouldn't wish it on anyone. 

But it bothers me that already she has picked up our cultural clues that being a pastor is "mostly" a male thing.  It's not that she thinks a woman can't be a pastor.  Just this past week our female music pastor preached at our church.  And we've visited with friends at a local church with a woman senior pastor.  But still, almost everyone she sees in a pulpit is a man.  I can say, "Women can be pastors; women can be pastors!" as much as I want, but until she sees that women really are pastors, including senior pastors, my words aren't going to mean much.  Not to this child who has reached the age where being alike is very important.

It just goes to show that churches may preach whatever they want, but if their actions don't match their words, it's the actions that are going to teach.

senior adult prom

Yes, though we are neither seniors nor adults (well, 2 of us), we went to our church's Senior Adult Prom last Friday night.  I was skeptical.  Though at the last minute some info went out that everyone at the church was welcome, it was still intended to be for senior adults, with youth "chaperones."  Which is totally cool, but not necessarily appropriate for my small but rambunctious family.  But My Man was DJ'ing the event and it was the kids' only chance to see him that day, so we went, with me thinking we wouldn't stay long.

As it turns out, we were the ONLY young family there.  Not surprising, but I had told the kiddoes I thought there'd be a couple other young ones around.  And when we got there, it was quite a bit like walking into a middle school dance.  Lots of standing around, staring at one another, afraid to touch the food until someone says OK, and definitely no dancing on the dance floor.  Goodness gracious, and we were expecting these lifelong Baptists to dance?!?  What were we thinking?

Even my usually out-going, no-holds-barred Girl was infected by the middle school mania.  She would not dance.  Not even her signature moves!  So instead she climbed on chairs.  And Daddy when he wasn't playing music.  And me.  And whatever else she could climb on.  Oh, and she ate, as did The Boy.  They ate and ate and ate.  Heck, they put the food tables right out where everyone could get to them!  I lost count of the times I wiped food off the floor or caught food coming out of mouths when it wasn't what they expected. 

So let me repeat - I was skeptical.

But then something happened.  Some of the senior couples started dancing among the tables.  Not on the dance floor, mind you, but among the tables.  And then so did my kids.  Even the Shy One!  And gradually people moved their way to the dance floor.  By the end of the evening, there was lots of dance floor dancing, and my kids were right in the middle of it.  The Girl spent whole songs in the middle of the spotlight, refusing to share it with anyone else!  And The Boy even joined the cha-cha slide line.  My Boy!  My Reserved-in-public One!  What happened??

What happened was a great and fun time.  And I am so very thankful we went.  We all had a blast, every last one of us.  And you know what - I'm even a little thankful that we were the only young family.  Because those seniors and those youth welcomed my kids with open arms in a way that probably wouldn't have happened if there'd been a posse of the little hellions.  And while I appreciate our church for a number of things, one of the things that I miss about our previous church is the greater inter-generational interaction there.  It was a smaller church with fewer young families, so it was just easier to know and interact with people of different ages.  I miss that.

But I am thankful for this one special night when I was reminded of how great a church for all ages can be.  And how blessed we can be when we cross those invisible barriers sometimes. 

home

photo © 2005 Jeffrey (via: Wylio)This week I went to Durham for a couple days to visit a friend, and it felt like coming home.  Coming home to a place, not just people, which I'm not sure I've ever felt before.  Ever. 

My family moved around a good bit when I was a kid, so I never associated home with a particular place.  Home was wherever my family was.  This lack of place-based home has been a blessing in some ways.  It means I'm always excited about new places and don't find leaving horribly heart-rending.  But it also means I feel a little disconnected from the idea of home.  My roots are shallow and scattered.  And though home is still mostly the people I love, as it should be, I could move with those people just about anywhere (in the country at least) and still call it home, even when I feel like an outsider in the community. 

So when I found myself struggling not to cry as I was leaving Durham, I was a bit taken aback.  Because as much as I would've loved to stay with my friend another day, it wasn't leaving her that was making me cry.  It was leaving Durham.  I could feel it physically in my chest. 

So maybe I do have a place-based home after all.  Which kind of makes me sad.  Because I may never live there again, and frankly, I don't want to yearn for a place I cannot have.

But I am hopeful.  Hopeful that eventually this new adopted place will become home.  Hopeful that eventually that trip back up into the mountains will inspire the same kind of yearning.  Hopeful that eventually living here will just feel right rather than novel.  It could happen.