Tag Archives | my family

The annual Christmas letter

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Dear family and friends,

I just googled “annual Christmas letter” for some good ideas about what to write this year and – I am not making this up – two of my most recent Christmas letters appeared on the first page of search results. Continue Reading →

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I still think Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday

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In this country, unfortunately, today is a work day like any other.

I live in a small village near Zürich, Switzerland, with my wife and dog, and on Thursday morning I will be getting on the train, as I do every morning, and will be heading to my office. Continue Reading →

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My annual Christmas letter

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Dear family and friends,

Life in Switzerland isn’t much different from life anywhere else. I get up in the morning, walk the dog, shower, dress, and leave for work. At the end of the day I come home again.

I used to do all of that in the U.S.

What’s different here, clearly, is that everything is new. New and exciting, mostly, but also new and exhausting, new and puzzling, new and … sometimes I just want to turn on the TV and watch a little Downton Abbey. Well, no, sorry, not that.

After the first year of living here, I realized that I was tired – not because my work is so demanding, but because expat life is by its very nature stressful, especially at the beginning. Do I leave a tip in restaurants? (No, or maybe a little, not always clear.) Why do I need to change from summer to winter tires? (Because driving on narrow mountain roads in winter is a lot different from driving on the flatlands of Illinois, Florida, and Michigan where I have spent much of my life. And also there may be a fine for not having the right tires on the car.) How come even a trip to the grocery store requires careful planning? (Well, first of all, you need to remember a two franc coin to unlock a grocery cart, and then you need to remember your own – reusable – grocery bags. Otherwise, you have to turn around, go home, and start over.) Is there anything at all that is the same? (No, but the trains do run on time, and there is something comforting in that. I look forward to my train rides each day to and from the church office.)

I am learning a new language too, of course, and my work permit requires me to reach a fairly high level of proficiency in a relatively short amount of time. But it’s not the language learning that I find tiring, although maybe I will give a different answer tonight after I get home at 10:00 from my language class. (My kind and patient teacher, Frau Zopfi, teaches the entire hour and 15 minutes in German, so there is no opportunity to check email or browse the Internet.)

I am no longer the class clown I once was, but am still the slow learner I always was.

What’s really and truly tiring is navigating each day in an unfamiliar culture.  Here’s a tiny example: I smile a toothy smile and say a cheery “Guten Morgen!” to my neighbors as I walk the dog in the early dawn, and from the smile and the awful accent and the high German, they size me up pretty quickly as an American, a foreigner, an “Ausländer.”  I learned quickly that addressing people I don’t know requires a certain amount of formality. It’s not that the Swiss are an unfriendly people, it’s that Americans tend to be gregarious by nature. And that, I’m afraid, usually comes off as insincere and superficial.

Last spring I took a break from my blog to give myself some time to get acclimated to this new culture. I even wrote a book about the experience in order to sort out my feelings and reactions, especially as I experience all of this in a multi-cultural church. (Watch the Eerdmans fall list for 2016!) I wouldn’t say Susan and I are now fully integrated into Swiss culture, but we are moving as fast as a couple of old, gray-haired  people from the U.S. can. And most days we enjoy living here, though Susan I’m sure would give her own, slightly nuanced answer. After 38 years of marriage, we still do not think alike on very much. It’s funny how that works.

Susan spends Thursday afternoons painting with an artist-friend at a studio in Zürich. She meets most Fridays with a group of women from our church. She cooked five turkeys in our tiny Swiss oven and fed a bunch of lonely Americans (and others) at our church’s Thanksgiving dinner last month. She has traveled (without me) to London and Provence and Berlin. And together we spent a week in Amsterdam back in July (where I made considerable progress on that book I mentioned) and then last week in Paris for a couple of nights around her birthday. She is getting around – not only on the trains, but in our car as well. We both joined the local gym last fall and now find ourselves exercising with other seniors, something I was sure I would never do.

When Susan goes out, she speaks English with a German accent, thinking that this will help others to understand her. I speak German with a pronounced American accent, and people sometimes burst into laughter when they hear me. Her approach always seems to work better than mine.

My work at the International Protestant Church of Zürich continues to be an extraordinary experience, one I will savor for the rest of my life. I sat in the congregation yesterday and witnessed the most culturally diverse children’s Christmas pageant that I could ever have imagined. English was spoken throughout, true, but in such a wonderful variety of accents. One of the magi was unquestionably from the U.K. Another was from Africa, but a former British colony. The third dropped his microphone on the floor and was hard to hear.

But they all traveled a long distance to get to the manger, as we all have.

Cultural diversity at the church shows up each day in countless other ways and has been a wonderful – and sometimes maddening – experience. I learn and grow and do my best to understand, and in it all I marvel that Christ’s church could have so many, vastly different expressions. In church life people work hard to understand each other, to be patient, and to figure out what it means to be the church at this time and in this place. It’s not easy, but it never was.

Susan and I look back across the ocean with longing, because of course our two daughters and their husbands and one very beautiful granddaughter live there, but we also look back with incredulity. People sometimes ask us if Donald Trump really has a chance. At first we laughed at the question and said, “Nein.” But now the truth is, we don’t know what to say. “It’s a mess,” we say, and it is. And speaking of a mess, we read about the gun violence, and from a country – an entire continent! – with very little, almost none, it is shocking and deeply troubling.

We pray for our country, we pray for our family, and we pray for you. Two thousand years ago a hope was born into the world, and it is to that hope that I cling today – not to politicians or to political parties, but to a baby who was called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

Love,

Doug and Susan (and of course Sammi, who doesn’t know what a good life she has here)

(Photos: That’s from a nice little coffee shop in Paris, and (bottom) the Eiffel Tower was visible from our apartment at the American Church in Paris where we stayed.)

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Will this be on the test?

Grünewald-Crucifixion

Forty years ago I took a class in art history.

To be honest, it was more a survey of European art than anything else, and only five or six centuries’ worth of that, so in hindsight it was a pretty small slice of art history.

Even so, art history was not required for my degree.

And the class was certainly well outside my area of concentration, which – don’t laugh – was philosophy. And taking the class might have been risky, if I had been concerned about my grade point average or what a graduate school admissions committee might think about my academic record.

What’s next, basket weaving?

At the time, though, I wasn’t thinking about any of that. I was thinking, believe it or not, about art.

My dad was an artist, so I grew up with art and visited my share of exhibits and museums over the years. I still don’t know how to change the oil on my car, but I can make my way through an art gallery like a pro. (Tell me, who is better prepared for life?)

One of my best memories from childhood, in fact, was going to Europe with my parents and younger sister and visiting the great museums of art there. We dashed from one to another, with a cathedral or two in between, and that was my early impression of Europe – a lot of beautiful things to look at.

Once, in Florence, my dad realized that Michelangelo’s David was not on the tour itinerary, so we hopped in a taxi at lunch hour and flew – or rather crawled through heavy traffic – to the Accademia di Belle Arti di Firenze to see it, not knowing if our tour group would be waiting for us when we returned. We didn’t care.

This weekend, without a sermon to prepare for Sunday, thanks to the annual children’s pageant, I took a page from the family playbook and dashed over to Colmar, France, to see the Isenheim Altarpiece by Matthias Grünewald. Yes, there was a famous Christmas market taking place nearby, but it was the painting by Grünewald that interested me.

And it did not disappoint. Forty years later I can still hear Edgar Boevé, the professor, describe the way the eye moves across the canvass. They did, just like he said!

And then, standing to the right of Jesus, I could see John the Baptist – tell me again why is he attending Jesus’ crucifixion? – pointing what may be the most famous forefinger in the whole history of Western art.

I felt a sudden rush of tears as I walked toward the painting. There it was at last. And there was John the Baptist’s finger. There was Mary, mother of Jesus, supported by John, the disciple, with that impossibly long, utterly unrealistic arm. And there was Mary Magdalene, the closest one of all to the cross, distraught.

I am grateful for that class – all these years later – because it cultivated in me a wonder and an awe that, over time, have not diminished.

Will this be on the test? Yes, it will.

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My annual Christmas letter

index (1)Dear family and friends,

I first started writing these things about 30 years ago. They were smart, funny, and irreverent. Just like me, or the person I imagined myself to be.

At the beginning my Christmas letters were the opposite of most Christmas letters you receive, the ones describing incredible promotions and fabulous vacations and over-achieving children. My Christmas letters had an ironic tone, a slightly amused look at the year just ended.

My favorite Christmas letter, now apparently lost from the historical record, described Susan’s courtroom theatrics in New Jersey when we and all of our neighbors were cited by an over-zealous police officer for failure to shovel the snow from our sidewalks within 24 hours after a particularly bad snowstorm. The charges were dropped because the police officer couldn’t say for sure if there was, in fact, a sidewalk under all of that snow. Susan got him to admit, under oath, that he didn’t actually get out of his car to check.

After reading that particular letter, my mother said, “You don’t send that to church members, do you?”

So, over the years, as the mailing list expanded, my annual Christmas letter became less smart, less funny, and more reverent. Just like me, middle-aged Doug.

The lowest blow of all came from Susan a few years ago when she said, “You’re getting to be just like Woody Allen, not nearly as funny anymore.”

Now, my Christmas letter is even available on-line, and whatever was exciting about this annual event is gone. A dear friend once wrote that he saved my letter for Christmas afternoon, after all of the parties were over. He sat in his leather recliner, he told me, with a glass of eggnog and bourbon, so that he could enjoy it.

It’s been a long time since anyone has said such a sweet thing. So, let’s get this over with. For this you can skip the eggnog.

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Early last year Susan and I moved to Switzerland.

Take a few seconds, as I did, to absorb that sentence. We sold our house and car and most of my Tommy Bahama shirts, which I never really liked anyway, and we loaded a few of our remaining possessions into a shipping container for the trans-Atlantic voyage. The rest of what we own, including the other car, went into storage, somewhere near Holland, Michigan.

I moved to a country that is almost unimaginably beautiful. Not just on postcards, but everywhere, all the time. Sometimes the beauty is overwhelming. I’ll drive over a mountain ridge and see my village below, with Lake Zurich and snow-covered mountains in the distance, and I’ll be at a loss for words, mouth gaping.

I bought a camera last summer, partly so that I could observe the beauty more closely, so that I could capture a small part of it, as though beauty is something that can be recorded and catalogued.

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I serve a church that is unlike any I have ever served before. It has elders and youth group and Sunday School and children’s choir, so it’s a little like other churches I have served before. Not surprisingly I lead worship pretty much the way I always have. And my sermons sound similar too. But in many ways this church is very different, delightfully different, and occasionally maddeningly different.

One time – it was my first Sunday at the church, and I didn’t have anything to do that day but sit in the congregation – we had just finished communion, and Susan leaned over and said, “That was awesome.” And I had to agree. It was. It had been a long time since she and I both felt that way.

I now stand behind the communion table on Sunday mornings, saying, “People will come from east and west, from north and south, and sit at table in the kingdom that is coming.” And after saying it, I now think, “It’s already here.”

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Here, but not yet here.

We have our problems too. Finding a way to get along with so many different cultural (and spiritual) expectations is a challenge. Extra grace is often required, and grace, like gold, always seems to be in short supply.

I am learning a new language . After ten months I know a lot of German grammar and vocabulary. I can even make sense of the little tabloid – 20 Minuten – which commuters read on the train. But I am lost in most conversations with German-speaking people, and I have a hard time telling my barber how to cut my hair (not that barbers ever listen).

I live on the top floor of an apartment building with views of Lake Zurich and the mountains, a 12-minute train ride from Zurich. I can see the traffic on the Seestrasse below, and I can hear the church bells at all hours, every fifteen minutes. I walk the dog through the village every morning, in the dark, whispering “grüezi” to other dog walkers. I try not to smile, because Americans do that too much, I’m told, and it feels insincere to the indigenous population.

It is a good life. I am content (most days). I write blog posts. I have an idea for a book about multicultural congregations which my editor and publisher seem to find interesting. I hike the mountain ridge behind my village. I take pictures. I love my new congregation.

The downside, of course, is that I miss my children. They live (and work) a half a world away. They are married to good men. They have good jobs. And I am proud of them, more than I can adequately express. But I miss them. Occasional FaceTime chats are not enough. I watch their faces on the tiny screen. They are not the little girls I remember. And that’s good. But I miss those days. Those were good days too.

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I miss my grand-daughter. I had the thrill of seeing her take her first steps last August. She waited, I like to think, just so that I could be a witness. Or maybe her parents held her back a few days. Whatever it was, I was moved, as I was with my own daughters, about the powerful life force within us that wants to get up and get moving. She did and she is. She walks with ease now. There’s no stopping her. But last August those first tentative steps were – how do I describe it? – like grace. What can you do but savor it?

I can’t wait for Christmas this year. Partly because Christmas is so beautiful here, of course, and partly because I always look forward to Christmas Eve and the service of lessons and carols in a darkened sanctuary, filling up once again on that wonderful message of hope and joy. But mostly because, after a long flight on Christmas Day, I will be with family, my family.

I hope you have a good Christmas too. Fröhliche Weihnachten.

Love,

Doug

(Photos: except for the family photo, taken last summer by Brooke Collier, the rest are mine, taken very early on a Saturday morning, along the Pfannenstiel behind our village.)

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Growing up in a pastor’s home

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(During my 13 years as a pastor in Wheaton, Illinois, eight of our members, including one of my daughters, heard God’s call in their lives, went to seminary, and pursued ordination so that they could serve the church of Jesus Christ as pastors. It was an extraordinary season of ministry, one that still astonishes me.  One of those eight, Ericka Parkinson Kilbourne, is now a Presbyterian pastor in Michigan City, Indiana. She did her theological studies at Princeton Seminary, where she won the Jagow prize in homiletics and speech. Today, she is a mother of three, and like me she is a blogger. Recently she asked me to reflect in a guest blog on the dual vocations of pastor and father. Here’s what I wrote.)

If we had listened to every horror story about the difficulties of raising children in a pastor’s home,
we would have made the decision to remain childless – and felt pretty good about it.

Everyone who talked to us seemed to know of at least one situation in which a child, raised in the
wretched fish bowl of a pastor’s home, reacted in extreme and scary ways – including drug abuse,
petty crime, mental illness, and juvenile detention.

And now that I think about it, that’s odd because every person I know who grew up in a pastor’s
home has been a remarkably good and loving person.

My best friend during my teenage years was the son of a pastor, and life at his house always seemed
pretty normal to me. They didn’t sing hymns together around the piano every night, which I half
expected and which I definitely would have rebelled against. Instead, his dad occasionally enjoyed a
cold beer in the evenings.

Nothing in that household ever seemed alarming to me, but I might have missed something.

Anyway, I became a father while serving my first church after seminary, and the church responded
generously and thoughtfully to the birth. I was regularly overwhelmed by it. And because the
biological grandparents lived hundreds of miles away, dozens more at the church were more than
willing to take their place. Plus, a pool of reliable babysitters could always be found in the church’s
youth group. If anything, raising children in the church always seemed like an enormous advantage
we enjoyed – a perk of the career, you might say.

Our children, now well into adulthood, have talked occasionally about their experiences of growing
up in a pastor’s home, though it’s not something we dwell on, and mostly their memories of the
church seem to have been positive. To explain my work to her friends, my younger daughter used to
say I talked on the phone a lot – in a distinctively ministerial tone – which she thought was
hilariously funny. And that seems to be the strongest memory of my work from that period of their
lives – me talking on the phone.

My children don’t appear to have been harmed by their experience. One of them, the older one, is an
ordained Presbyterian pastor, which doesn’t seem to me like evidence of deep emotional scarring.

The younger one joined a church recently, soon after moving to a new city, and her only comment
was that she liked the old days when she was a child and people would regularly invite us over for
dinner. Now she says that she has to work harder at the relationships within the church.

So, our experience was good, and I am more grateful than I can say for it. We were blessed, of course, with some strong churches during their childhoods, churches with excellent Sunday Schools, large youth groups, and loving people. My children were witnesses to faith being lived out in some wonderful and obvious and very mundane ways. I suppose things could have been different.

Maybe what most needs to be said is that people should resist the temptation to tell about-to-be parents about all the horrible things that might happen. Instead we should probably say, ‘Do your best and you’ll be fine.’

Or as a farmer in my first church said to me, ‘Babies are like newborn calves. Keep them dry and well fed, and they’ll thrive.’

That was the best advice about parenting I ever received.

(Photo: That’s me a few months ago holding my new grand-daughter who – good for her! – is going to grow up in a pastor’s home.)

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Welcoming the stranger

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(I have always enjoyed being an uncle, and I am especially proud that both a niece and a nephew have become Christian pastors. They didn’t follow me into ministry. They grew up in Christian families and then in adulthood embraced the faith of their parents. My niece, Kate Van Noord Kooyman, is a graduate of Calvin College and Western Theological Seminary. She is a Reformed Church in America pastor who is passionate about immigration reform. I saw her interviewed by a cable news network not long ago and realized just how articulate she is on the subject, and so I asked if she would write a few words for Doug’s Blog on the subject. Below are those words, together with hyperlinks that support and illustrate her statements. Thanks, Kate.)

Shortly after the birth of my second son, Sam, I went back to work. After months of being home all the time, I was once again immersed in one of the unspoken trials of modern parenthood: daycare drop-off. Crying, whining, begging, clutching, bribing, peeling-toddler-legs-from-mom’s-waist … there must be mommy support groups for this kind of daily trauma.

I got in the habit of reciting a little mantra on the way to daycare, while hyper-extending my elbow so that I could hold hands with my toddler in the back seat: “Sometimes Mommy goes away. But she will always come back. Can you say that with me? She will always come back.”

There’s a new documentary detailing a Christian perspective on undocumented immigrants in the United States, and it made me remember this ritual. In the film, there is a mom who is living life “in the shadows.” She’s working, paying taxes, and raising four kids on her own. At one point she tells us that her youngest daughter has been reporting having dreams that her mom is taken from her. With tears, the mom tell us her response to her child, “I’ll never leave you.” She will always come back. Maria loves her kids as much as I love mine. But her promise isn’t in her hands to fulfill. It’s in the hands of Immigration and Customs Enforcement.

It’s estimated that there are 11 million undocumented immigrants in the US today. The media has told us that these are “freeloaders,” people looking to game the system. The truth is, the majority of the undocumented pay taxes – even income tax and Social Security contributions they will never benefit from, and they cannot access social services like welfare or food stamps. The media has told us that these are criminals. The truth is, immigrants are markedly less likely than native-born Americans to commit crimes. For many, the only law-breaking that occurred was overstaying an expired visa, or crossing a border illegally. The public wisdom is that these immigrants should just “get in line” and “come the legal way” just like “my grandparents did.” The truth is, they would love to get in line. There is no line.

There are lots of ways to think and talk about this issue. We could talk about it as an economic issue (spoiler: immigrants are a huge boon to the economy). We could talk about it as a public safety issue (hint: our current system is a dream scenario for slave traders, drug traffickers, abusive spouses, and anyone looking to prey on vulnerable people). Or, we could talk about it like Christians.

But we don’t talk about it like Christians. Pew Research has told us that only 12 percent of American Christians admit they think about immigration primarily from the perspective of their faith. And that’s not surprising when we learn that only 20 percent of them have ever heard immigration mentioned by their pastor. But while the church might be silent on this issue, the Bible is not. The Hebrew word ger (translated immigrant, stranger, sojourner, foreigner) is mentioned in the Old Testament 92 times – reminding Israel to take special care of the ger, to welcome the ger, to treat the ger equally to the native-born. In the New Testament, the Greek word that we translate as “hospitality” is philoxenia. Biblical hospitality isn’t having your friends over for dinner – it is “love of the stranger.” While our culture encourages xenophobia (that strangers are to be feared), thinking like a Christian about immigration means that we actually approach immigrants as God’s means of giving a blessing.

I believe that immigrants do bring a blessing. I believe that they are the hope for the vibrancy of American Christianity. I believe they are the hope for US economic vitality. But mostly I believe they are the way that the native-born remember that we, too, were once strangers in a strange land. That in welcoming the stranger we are immersing ourselves in that foundational story of our faith in which God heard our cries, God freed us from oppression, God was revealed to be bigger than our nationalism, our power structures, our suffering, our sin. Welcoming the stranger is how we remember who God is.

I invite you to pray for reform of our broken immigration system. I invite you to watch and share The Stranger film. And – if you’re a voter in the US – to advocate for Congress to do something to address this crisis. Call 1-866-877-5552 and tell your member of Congress it’s time to decide on a more humane, logical, and hopeful immigration system.

my neice Kate Kooyman
(Photo: Yes, that’s Kate.)
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My dad passed away last week

Jack Brouwer watercolor

My dad passed away last week, and I can’t quite believe I’m typing those words.

It’s not that I thought my dad would live forever, any more than I think I’ll live forever; it’s just that his death seemed like an abstraction, much like my own death. It’s out there in the distant future, you’re vaguely aware of its possibility, but you don’t think that it will ever, really, finally happen, until last week when it did.

My dad was 88 years old when he died, a good, long life by any standard. He had been married to my mom for more than 66 years. I thought they would easily make it to 70 and beyond. He worked for the same company for more than 40 years. In fact, he worked there so long that eventually he owned the place. He was chairman of the board when he retired, having done every conceivable job along the way.

Everything my dad did – and this was true, I realize, for many men of his generation – he did it with the idea that it was the right thing to do and that he would keep doing it no matter what, until he couldn’t do it anymore.

In fact, that’s the earliest memory I have of my dad – namely, that he was strong. He would give me piggy-back rides around the house, crawling on his hands and knees, and somehow I knew even then that he would be the strongest man I would ever know.

I was surprised one day when I suddenly found myself a couple of inches taller than he was, but that sudden growth never gave me much of a competitive advantage. He still regularly beat me at racquetball, pool, cards, golf, pretty much anything that we did together.

I sometimes wondered where he learned to shoot pool so well, but thought it better not to ask him. “In the service” would have been his reply. He apparently learned a great deal “in the service.”

Not only was my dad strong, he was also something of a perfectionist.

Some of that perfectionism, I realize, has rubbed off on me, so I know it’s not always a good thing, but it can often produce some outstanding work. My dad was a painter, for example, but not just any old, toss-off-a-few-canvasses-in-retirement sort of painter. He took on the most formidable kind of painting there is – watercolor – and in relatively short order he managed to achieve signature membership in the American Watercolor Society, the best of the best.

And he didn’t choose just any style of watercolor painting, but the kind that forbids the use of white paint, a technique that is sometimes called “transparent watercolor.” He painted with a dry brush and razor blade too, and so his paintings – and he produced a few hundred of them in the last 25-30 years of his life – are ultra-realistic.

Not many people can produce a painting so realistic that you’d swear it was a photograph, but try doing it sometime using watercolor. I wish you the best.

I thought of this – and more – on Monday afternoon when I was driving behind the funeral director on the way to the cemetery. In Michigan winters, the words of committal – “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” – are often spoken at the church or the funeral home, rather than at the cemetery, and so the burial itself is typically private.

I went anyway, following closely behind the hearse with my car, mostly so that I could reassure my mom that everything had happened properly and with dignity, and so I stood alone in the cold and snow as the cemetery workers lowered my dad’s casket into the ground.

If I had been seeking finality, I would certainly have found it in that moment. But I found something else, something better. In standing there by myself, as tall and straight as I could, shoulders back and head high, I gave my dad what he had always demonstrated for me – strength and always doing my best, no matter what the circumstances.

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Inspired to take action!

reasons to be optimistic

My daughters have heard more of my sermons over the years than just about anyone else.  That’s because when they were children I dragged them to church every Sunday.  Actually, their mother did most of the “dragging” because I was usually at church long before either one was awake.

Over the years, whether they were interested or not, whether they wanted to be in church or not, they heard lots of talk from me about Jesus – the claims he made, the things he did, the company he kept, that sort of thing.

I wasn’t always sure what the effect of all that talk would be 20-30 years later.

And so, I’ve asked each of them several times over the last couple of years to guest blog for me – not about what it was like to grow up in a pastor’s home, but about their faith, how they think about it now, how it affects their lives.  Or doesn’t.

My younger daughter, Elizabeth, is a global health researcher for the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation at the University of Washington in Seattle, and this is her most recent response:

I read Melinda Gates’ tweet today about a list of reasons to be optimistic about 2014 and was not surprised to learn that most of the reasons were global health-related. For decades some of the world’s smartest people have been working hard to overcome some of the world’s largest scourges – with a surprising amount of success.

I like to keep up with the Gates Foundation, partly because they fund my current work, but also because I identify with the Gates’ motivation. The myth around the foundation’s origin is that Bill Gates read a health economics report and was inspired. In 1993 the World Bank published the World Development Report, entitled “Investing in Health.” The report laid out an action plan to tackle global health issues. Basically, it said: these are the diseases that affect the most lives, this is how you treat/prevent them, and this is how much it would cost.

To completely over-generalize, Bill and Melinda Gates saw what was possible with their resources, they decided they could not ignore the situation, and they took action.

The foundation is not religiously affiliated, yet their mission resonates with the believer in me. My main take-away from a childhood of church-going and countless “something about Jesus” sermons is that Jesus wanted us to take action on behalf of the vulnerable. In other words, he wanted us to figure out what we are capable of doing for our neighbors, and do it. In fact, Jesus recommended doing some pretty radical things, including selling everything you own and giving it to the poor.

Is that hyperbole, or was he serious? I’ll let my dad weigh in on that one.

But that is why my faith has led me to global health economics; the field allows me to identify issues in poverty and contribute to creating an actionable plan.

Melinda Gates wants us to be optimistic about 2014, and I think we should be. There is no shortage of ways to heed Christ’s call to action.

“Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.” (Matthew 25:34-36)

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Christmas and learning to live on baby time

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My guest blogger today is my older daughter who recently made me a grandfather:

The mornings are my favorite time with our new baby girl.  She starts to stir before it’s light out, but politely lies awake cooing while I snooze just a few minutes longer.  The dog, on the other hand, is more demanding.  He wants his trip outside and two cups of food.  Stat.

When I finally go over to pick up Gwen she greets me with a wide-eyed grin.  I take her back to bed with me and feed her.  She always tricks me by falling asleep for a few minutes when she’s finished, but I relish those delicious little breaths on my neck as I burp her.

We head downstairs and I put her in her Snugabunny.  I never knew what that was until I became a mom.  I get the coffee pot going, grateful that I can indulge now in as much caffeine as I want (and I need it after some long nights).  I turn on the Christmas tree lights and we sit together while Gwen eventually slips into her first nap by 8 a.m.

It sounds idyllic, doesn’t it?  This slow kind of morning?  Truthfully, it’s been difficult for me to appreciate it.  I’m used to getting going in the morning.  Taking my shower, blow drying my hair, picking out my clothes.  Now it’s all about her.

Don’t get me wrong, I know how lucky I am to have this time at home with her.  But, the days are long and short at the same time.  The minutes tick on by and yet the sun seems to creep away far too early.  We go on walks, trekking around the neighborhood on a mission to breathe crisp air and feel – if only for a few moments – like we’re a part of the bustling world around us.

But we’re not busy.  We’re not running around.  I haven’t entered a store once to Christmas shop this year.  Instead we are hunkered down, slowed down, buckled down into this new “routine” with a baby.  A friend came over a few weeks after Gwen was born and asked what I “do all day.”  Soothe, shush, swaddle, smile… not much I guess except attend to her every need.

This Advent season has forced me into a spiritual rhythm I’ve never had before.  Pastors like me usually have a million things to do at this time of year.  But during this particular Advent season, as these last days of maternity leave trickle on by, I have had to force myself to be present to this child.  To the monotonous beauty of it.  To wait and watch and listen on baby time.

In the sometimes overwhelming simpleness of our days together there’s nothing else to do but allow the new love I have for my daughter to envelope me.  It’s a painful kind of love that makes my heart ache and causes my throat to choke up.  It reminds me that this is the kind of love God has for me, too.

I’ll always be grateful for these slow Advent days.  This time is a gift.  This baby is a gift.   And as I find myself hushed in quiet during nap time, soaking in the sight of my child, I also remember the child who has come, and is coming, and will come again.

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