Life isn’t a support system for art. It’s the other way around.   ~Stephen King

Unlike dozens of previous posts over my many years of blogging in which I beg for forgiveness and berate myself for being a slack blogger, that’s not where I’m headed with this post. First of all, there’s only a handful of you who read anyway and I know your lives are so full that you probably aren’t losing sleep over my silence. And second, I’m learning to give myself a smidgen of grace. My life isn’t about blogging, but my blogging is about my life, which has been full to overflowing lately.

Have I mentioned that I have three kids? And no husband to co-parent? Spring gets crammed full of activities when you have kids. My oldest is three exams away from being a senior. In college!!! I gladly serve as her proofreader/editor/sounding board any time, but the end of the semester has been crunch time for her – and thus me. My other two have had spelling bees, math bees, character trait of the month award ceremonies, art shows, and (soon) concerts. They keep me a wee bit occupied.

Life with a church family is just as full. In addition to our “normal” church life, we’ve had more people with special life events that have required me to spend much more of my time as pastor, leaving less time to squeeze in the preparation for the preacher/teacher/administrator parts. I love all parts of my job, but when my scheduling gets out of whack – and the out of whack scheduling coincides with an out of whack family schedule – I become very ADD. Well, worse than my normal ADD anyway. On those days, about the best I can do is write a to do list, try to stick with it as best as possible, and hope for the best.

In the meantime, I have been writing, just not blogging. I’ve rediscovered the joy of journaling – like handwritten pen-on-paper writing. What a novelty! And I worked hard on a couple of applications for a summer writing seminar that I really wanted to attend, but is hard to get accepted into. And . . . drum roll, please . . . I got accepted! So happy! Shortly after that, I won a spot in an online writing class. I’m working with an amazing instructor who happens to be working on an amazing dream.

So that’s why I haven’t been blogging. And while anyone who knows me well knows that it is super-easy to make me feel guilty, I’m learning to let go of that guilt. My blog might not get written. My grass may grow longer than looks attractive before I get around to mowing it. Laundry might get done in one marathon laundry day instead of a little at a time during the week. My books in my to-read pile may stack up beside my bed (or on my Kindle) for awhile before I get around to them. I might not vacuum as often as I should. I might eat out too much and cook too little. But I am living one heck of a life and I’m loving it. No regrets – only joy and dreams . . . and more dreams!

Maybe I’ll blog about it later!

Sunset on Stony Point Farm

As anyone who is associated with ministry knows, the marathon known as Holy Week and Easter is an exhausting undertaking. It’s not just that there are extra services to plan. I love planning and leading worship, and while the season adds extra commitments to my calendar, I really do love it. I think it’s more about the expectations placed on those particular services. They are expected to be bigger, flashier, more dramatic, more . . . just, more. Seriously, you can’t make things any better than the story of Easter itself, yet still it feels like that expectation exists, even if (possibly) only in the minds of pastors and worship leaders.

As anyone who has children knows, the marathon known as the school year is an exhausting undertaking. Rousing sleepy children before they are ready to get up. Convincing them to stay in forward motion until they are ready to head out the door – on time, preferably – instead of staring blankly into space as their cereal grows soggy. Fighting the morning traffic which seems to grow worse every day. Juggling the after school pick up schedule with my work schedule. Homework. (All children believe that homework was created to torture students. All parents KNOW it was actually created to torture the adults responsible for seeing that it gets done.) Supper. (Again?? Didn’t I just feed you?) Bath time. (Yes, you DO really need a bath – even if you took one last night.) Bed time. (No, you can’t get up to look for that book. Yes, I’ll make sure all the doors are locked. I BETTER NOT HEAR ANOTHER SOUND FROM UP THERE!) And then, before it seems possible, the alarm goes off and it’s time to start again.

Because of these things, I am thankful that Berkeley County schools saw fit to schedule spring break for the week after Easter again this year. It gave me and the kids some space, some breathing room. We did a lot. We had a lot of fun. We spent quality time with our family. We laughed a lot. We heard and told a lot of stories. We made good memories. And none of these things would have been possible without space – the precious space of open air and open time.

Life seems less claustrophobic today as I get back into the routine. Even the number of meetings on the calendar for the week isn’t getting me down (yet). I will miss the space I enjoyed last week, but at least it gave me the energy I needed to get back to the work before me and the determination to find small bits of space to breathe even in the midst of my life’s marathons.

As I noted in my last post, I took a month-long hiatus from my blog. It felt good to write again last night. I use Windows Live Writer to compose my blog posts. (Why, I’m not exactly sure. Habit?) After scheduling the post to go live this morning, my obsessive compulsive self felt the need to check my WordPress dashboard to make sure everything was properly set up.

Remember, it had been over a month since I last signed in to WordPress. I went to the sign in page, typed in my Username, tabbed down to the spot for Password . . . and went blank. Totally blank! Nothing worked. I tried everything I could think of, with no luck.

No sweat, right? If you click the help link and enter minimal correct information, they can email you a link to reset your password. There was just one little catch. I set up a separate email account for use with this blog alone. And . . . I forgot the password for that as well.

Back in my Blackberry days, I was faithful about storing passwords in a special app on the phone. When I changed to the Droid, I never got around to transferring the passwords over to the new app. My only hope was that the now dead-as-a-doornail battery on my old Blackberry could be revived enough in the morning to see if my passwords were safely stored there.

I have to tell you, I had a hard time going to sleep last night. What if the Blackberry couldn’t be revived? What if the passwords weren’t on it? What if I was locked out of my own blog for good? I literally dreamed about passwords all night long.

All’s well that ends well. The Blackberry finally charged enough to boot. The passwords for both the blog and the email were there. They are now both written in ink and safely stored in my security app.

I think life was easier back in the days of the old-fashioned diary. At least back then, scissors were an option if the key went missing!

In the past, whenever I’ve been absent from my blog for any length of time, I return with sheepish apologies and promises to do better. Once again, I have been gone awhile. (I hope somebody noticed!) I didn’t post a single entry for the entire month of February. This time, however, I’m not going to apologize. I’ve been busy. Very busy.

In February, I wrote five sermons, two memorial services, a newsletter article, and more emails and notes than I can begin to count. I wrote three pieces that I submitted for possible acceptance/publication by others. (That is HUGE for me. I figured it was time for me to start collecting my rejection letters. I hear you have to get a whole big pile of them before you start getting acceptance letters.) I wrote well over 13,000 “official” words in February.

I also faithfully journaled for my clergy/vocational coaching, along with personal journal writing, reflection, and notetaking for developing projects.

I read two books. Or was it three?

I walked/ran (a little) more regularly than I have in awhile, making my RunKeeper log look a little more hopeful.

I made one trip back to the Upstate for the funeral of a dear man.

I edited a TON of college papers for my oldest daughter and helped my youngest daughter with her big science project.

Oh, and I loved on, cared for, fed, and had fun with my precious children. And I enjoyed time with friends. And my took care of my furry zoo.

About a week ago I was frustrated because I had so many unfinished projects, my house needed a good cleaning, and my pantry was bare. I sent a text message to a friend and used the word “lazy” in it to describe myself. I mean, why else would there be so much that needed to be done that was still undone? Her emphatic response got my attention as she reminded me that instead of looking at all I hadn’t accomplished, I needed to look at all I had. (Okay, so the way she said it made me shake in my boots a little, but I think that’s what she meant!)

It worked. Guess what? I accomplished whole heck of a lot last month and I’m proud of it. So while I’ve missed being in this space, I offer no apologies. Just a “Glad to be back!” and a “Hope to be around a little more this month.”

After I get some sleep.

I curled up in a ball on my side and drew the covers up to my chin. The cold air wasn’t here yet, but I could sense its imminent arrival on the coattails of the wind that whistled through the screens and rattled the siding of my house. So much for the unseasonably warm weather we’d been having. 

My 8-year-old daughter opened my bedroom door and tiptoed to my side. “I’m scared of the storm,” she whispered. 

“It’s ok, sweetie. It’s no storm – just wind. See?” I tapped the WeatherBug app on the phone at my bedside and summoned the radar screen. My children are the grandchildren of farmers. They know how to read a weather map. Satisfied that a storm wasn’t coming and armed with the advice to turn her radio on low to combat the noise of the wind, she returned to her bed. 

A cold front was coming, no doubt. I felt the coolness through the cracked window. A person always needs a little fresh air when they sleep, regardless of the season. I learned that from my farming grandfather. The wind outside howled, and now even the dog showed signs of nervousness at the sound. He shifted restlessly at the foot of the bed, snuggling closer to my legs for warmth or reassurance – or both. Little did he know that I needed it too. 

A short time later, somewhere in that no-man’s land between sleep and wakefulness, my mind conjured up memories that were spurred by sound of the wind. 

I remembered all the times that I fled the mobile home I shared many years ago with my husband and newborn baby girl. I hated that house. Seeking protection from elements like tornadoes and high winds (that in the South have the locations of such homes programmed into their internal Garmins) felt like carrying a clover leaf for an umbrella. It just wasn’t up to the task. My he-man husband always refused to leave the house for trifles such as tornado warnings, meaning that I was forced out into the storm alone, carrying a diaper bag and a crying baby through the wind and rain.

I later ended up fleeing that house for good, not because of tornado warnings, but because of a stormy marriage that threatened me even more than an F5 tornado. My daughter and I landed in a tiny duplex apartment in a nearby town. The neighbors on the other side of the duplex were a married couple whom I found friendly in the light of day, but who drank heavily and argued loudly at night. I used to lie in bed at night, praying that if one of them pulled a gun, it wouldn’t be fired through my bedroom wall. Strange things happened in that house. Sometimes, particularly on stormy nights, I would feel the mattress of my bed move, as though someone was leaning or sitting on it. I would roll over, expecting to see my preschool daughter ready to tell me about a bad dream or that she needed a drink of water. No one was ever there. One night filled with heavy rain and gusty winds, I walked out of my bedroom to go to the bathroom, only to discover that the front door of my house was standing wide open. I never knew what would blow in on the wind around that little duplex.

Fear of the wind haunted me even after I moved on. I woke one night in my sturdy 1950′s-built brick manse in Landrum with my heart pounding. I felt threatened. Was someone in the house? I became aware of my ornery calico cat sleeping peacefully beside me. No, no one was in the house. She was the first to slink off to a hiding place when a strange person (anyone except me or my daughter) stepped into the house. I lay there with a pounding heart when I heard again the sound that had wakened me: a strong gust of wind and the rumble of distant thunder. A storm was coming. Years of living in that flimsy mobile home followed by two years in a wind-haunted duplex conditioned me to fear storms.

And now on this night, the wind continued its loud symphony of sounds outside my window. I rolled over and the barrage of wind memories continued. This time it was the memory of a dream. In the dream I was living again in that horrible mobile home. (It seems that many of my bad dreams put me back in that house.) A terrible windstorm blew in so fast and so furious that I didn’t have time to flee to safety. There was no inner room or safe place to hide in that single-wide tin can, so I huddled on the couch with my baby girl in my lap and prayed and cried as the winds rocked the house. Finally it stopped. A few moments later, my mother and my sister-in-law knocked on my front door. I was a wreck, a fact they couldn’t help but notice yet failed to understand. “Didn’t you hear that storm?” I responded to their questioning looks. “Didn’t you feel those wind gusts? I thought the house would blow over! Can’t you see all the limbs down in the yard? Look – the old oak tree was literally split in two!” They were happily oblivious to any storm that had passed through. I could not understand how they had missed such a horrible storm or how they failed to see the debris it left behind.

As always, dreams are truth-tellers. Wind has always been a symbol of upheaval and vulnerability for me. I was afraid of being harmed in that flimsy mobile home and the man I had believed would protect me and my child failed me. The two years in the tiny wind-haunted duplex were years of personal storms: a stormy job, stormy divorce proceedings, the stormy end to a relationship I cherished, stormy communications with my parents. I felt so alone during those storms. Even years later when the storms were behind me, just the sound of wind and thunder could wake me in fear or brew a truth-telling wind dream. 

Then there was the wind on this night. It blew in memories that had been secured in storage for years. But that’s not all it blew in. There were also snippets of an old song – words that sounded to my ears so secular, yet so holy. I realized later that it was probably the voice of Garth Brooks crooning on my daughter’s radio, but my mind felt like the words were sent to me from the One who loves me most:

The storms are raging on a rolling sea,
Down the highway of regret.
The winds of change are blowing wild and free,
But you ain’t seen nothing like me yet.

There ain’t nothing that I wouldn’t do;
Go to the ends of the earth for you.
Make you happy, make your dreams come true,
To make you feel my love.

And with those words echoing in my mind I finally slept in peace, even as outside my window the wind blew on.

I’m still a little cranky, so things that would normally flow right by me make me grumble. Perfectly reasonable, diplomatically worded suggestions make me ill. Seeing that tomorrow’s temperatures are supposed to be near 80 makes me ill. (It’s still January, people – we need a little winter here! And besides, I have to work.) Then again, the fact that it is supposed to be in the mid-50’s on Thursday also makes me ill. I mean, probably not just grumpy ill, but ill ill. These unseasonably warm days followed by 30 degree dips in temperature play havoc on this already congested head of mine. Why I’m just the head chimp in a barrel full of monkeys, aren’t I?

If I was a better pastor-type, a properly spiritual person, then this is the point where I would find the nugget of wisdom hidden in the wastebasket of overflowing tissues. But no, I’m too busy sitting here wondering who is going to empty that wastebasket and why they haven’t already done it. (Wait. That’s me, isn’t is?)

So there you have it, folks. Simply Jan at her whiny, stuffy, low energy, starving, cranky ~ cough, cough, cough ~ real self. Thanks for sticking around!

I remember the first time I was aware of being really, really glad that I was a girl. I was a senior in high school. One by one, members of my class were turning 18. As the boys of my class turned 18, there was talk about how they now either “had to” or “got to” sign up for Selective Service. I was so glad that my gender excluded me from that particular rite of passage. I did not want to serve in the military, voluntarily or otherwise. I did not want to fight in a war. If I had been a boy, I would have been terrified that the draft would be enacted and I would be forced to do that which I so feared. March 14, 1983 rolled around, and I thanked God for making me a girl.

Here we are, 30 years later. I still do not want to serve in the military. I still do not want to fight in a war. So you would think that when U.S. Defense Secretary Leon Panetta announced last week that the ban is being lifted on women serving in front-line combat roles, I would have been distressed. Strangely enough, I was not.

Obviously part of my reason has to do with my belief in gender equality. If an individual who wants to do a particular job is physically and emotionally capable, and if that individual has received the proper training, then gender should not play a role in whether that person is allowed to serve or have opportunities for advancement in that position. I believe that to be true of any job, from pastor to President to front-line infantry.

“Wait a minute, Jan,” you might say. “How would you feel if it was one of your daughters serving in combat on that front line?”

How would I feel? I imagine I would feel positively sick and scared because my daughter was in a place of mortal danger, seeing and experiencing the horrors of war, wondering if she would come home alive. It would be a horrible thing to face as a parent.

But guess what? I would feel the same way if it was my son. I felt the same way when it was my male cousin. I would feel the same way for anyone I knew in that position, whether that person was male or female.

You see, the problem I have with front-line combat is not who is serving there. My problem isn’t with men and women going to war. It is with war itself. Yes, sometimes war is necessary – the lesser of the evils we face. It is also, however, always hell.

So why am I not more upset that women are no longer necessarily exempt from front-line battles? Because some of them are called to serve and protect their country. If they are called and equipped, then I wholeheartedly support their right to follow that call in whatever way their gifts and skills can best be used.

But that isn’t my only reason. I also believe that women can make a difference. Yes, a difference in war. The New York Times ran an op-ed column written by Nicholas D. Kristoff yesterday entitled, She’s (Rarely) the Boss. In it, Kristoff explores the large gender gap in places of leadership in global businesses and politics. Near the end of his column, he stresses that businesses need to address this gender gap, and not just for the sake of equality itself. He says, “But we need more women in leadership positions for another reason: considerable evidence suggests that more diverse groups reach better decisions. Corporations should promote women not just out of fairness, but also because it helps them perform better.”

I would say that the same holds true for the military as well. If women are allowed equal opportunity in service and leadership in our military, then one day when the powers that be sit down around a table to decide the best way to address a national or international crisis, there will be more women around that table as well. These women will bring to the table a diversity in perspective, opinion, and knowledge.

(Disclaimer: I realize that I’m doing some wide generalizations  in these next two paragraphs, but I don’t think I’m too far off, so bear with me.)

I believe that men, as a whole, are conditioned to be more accepting of war as an option to settling disputes. There is something about the military and guns and fighting that seems to appeal to them, beginning at a young age. Watch little boys playing together on the playground.  You will see that they are not only more likely than the girls to play war, they are much more likely to settle their differences physically in a scuffle. There is a phrase that I abhor, yet I see a nugget of truth in it: boys will be boys.

Women, on the other hand, are less enamored of war. We are more likely to seek solutions to problems that don’t involve violence. Watch the girls from that same class on the playground. They get in disagreements too, but they are more likely to talk out their differences, sending delegations from one side to the other. Yes, there may be yelling. Yes, there may occasionally be a fight. But the fight will be their last resort. Grown women are the same way. Our need to protect those we love is fierce and we are willing to fight to protect if we have to – especially if we are protecting our children. (The world knows that you don’t want to mess with a Mama Bear!) Still, we don’t want our fathers, our mothers, our spouses, our brothers, our sisters, or our children fighting in a war. We don’t want to have to fight in a war either. We want to find other options, if it is at all possible. And if it is possible, a woman will find a way.

When men and women, their voices equal, sit around the table to decide how to proceed in the face of a crisis, I believe that better decisions will be made. Men and women have different gifts and different perspectives – different, and equally valid. When all of these gifts and all of these perspectives are given voice and consideration, then perhaps the very women who have fought and persevered for so many years to have the right to serve on the front lines of combat will find that the need for those front lines would come less often.

Give women voice. Give them opportunity. Give them equal power. Then stand back and see what a difference we can make – for the good of us all.

As the kids searched for shells in the tidal pool, Cathy and I sat on beach towels and watched, soaking in the peacefulness of the surf sounds. I noticed a seagull on the sand inching closer and closer to us. I watched him with interest, noting the crook in his beak and the pattern of his feathers. I saw that he didn’t have a black tail with spots like most of the other seagulls around us did and wondered what kind of gull he might be. I realized that he was about as close as a seagull will get (except for when you feed them), so I reached for my phone to snap a picture of it. This is what I got:

I missed my chance. It’s not that I wasn’t interested. I was. It’s not that I didn’t think about it. I did. It’s not that I didn’t have the tools to capture a picture. I did. I just didn’t act quickly enough.

I spend a lot of time inside my head – mulling over ideas for stories and sermons, blog posts and writing group essays, newsletter articles and workshop applications. Sometimes, when I’m lucky, I can work themes around in my brain until all that’s left to do is sit at the keyboard to record what is there. Notice, I said “sometimes.” That is not the norm.

Most of the time it works more like this: An idea breaks into my consciousness. I notice it. I wonder if it’s workable or not. I think about how I might use it, and where. Suddenly I realize that maybe I should take the time to capture that idea. But how? Is this a note card idea or a journal idea? If it’s a journal idea, which journal? That’s an even harder question now, because I received two beautiful new journals for Christmas. Surely only the best and brightest words and ideas should earn a spot in them, right? Wait – where’s a pen? With all these journals and note cards lying around, you’d think I could find just one pen somewhere. Where did all the pens go? Is there a keyboard nearby? If so, should I use Evernote or Dropbox? It goes on and on.

By the time I’ve worked through all of this, the idea has gotten bored and wandered away. Or maybe it’s insulted because I took so long to act and it flies off in a huff. Or maybe it spots someone down the way a little who looks more receptive and prepared. All I’m left with is a glimpse of the tail feathers as it takes flight.

I get so close! It’s not that I’m not interested. I am. It’s not that I don’t think about it. I do. It’s not that I don’t have the tools. I do. I just don’t act quickly enough. Really, I must do better. Ideas, like seagulls, won’t wait around on me forever.

Flexible schedule. All my chicks in the nest. Games, movies, books, laughter, and relaxation. Later mornings that made later nights possible.

That’s what the time between Christmas and beginning of school in January felt like here this year. It’s true that a good portion of the time we all felt snorty, sneezy, and puny. While our puniness rearranged our Christmas plans with extended family in unexpected ways, it also allowed us to enjoy home and one another in a way that we’re normally too busy and too active to do. It was nice – snorts, sneezes, and all.

The little ones are back in school. The big one moved back to her apartment downtown tonight and will start a new semester tomorrow. I’m back in the office and the January schedule is quickly filling up with meetings and projects.

I have some exciting training opportunities coming up this first quarter of 2013. There are a couple of deadlines for project submissions that are pushing me to dream big and work hard. I spent a good part of the afternoon marking dates and events on the big calendar at church, all the while making notes of ideas and possibilities to share with church leaders. So many possibilities . . .

Yes, it had to end.But the ending is opening the door for some exciting new beginnings.