Wrestling with God

Often I have heard pastors say that they wrote this or that sermon because the point of the message was one they needed to hear themselves, maybe more than their intended audiences. And I do know the feeling with my own preaching, both with my weekly children’s messages and my periodic sermons for the congregation. For example, a few weeks ago I preached on the Parable of the Dishonest Manager, a real doozy in which Jesus seems to praise a man who cheated his boss. As far as I can tell, Jesus means that if this guy could use all of his smarts and wiles to win over the people who owed the master money, so much more should we use our brains and hearts for good. Or something like that. It’s a notoriously difficult text, interpretable in many different ways. My core comment? I truly don’t understand it, but I will keep thinking about it, to try and discern the meaning of this tricky Scripture passage. That morning I needed to remind myself that, in fact, I do not have the mind of the Almighty (news flash, right?)

My children’s messages are much simpler, most of them just stressing that there’s nothing the kids can ever do that would make God stop loving and forgiving them. And every single Sunday, I find myself wishing and hoping that what I’m saying is true, even as I am privately exempting myself from worthiness. God’s grace is all well and good, but how can God keep loving and forgiving ME? Again, I am parceling out (and withholding) that love and forgiveness as if they were mine to give.

With my Vacation Bible School kids

“For my ways are not your ways, nor my thoughts your thoughts,” says the Lord. Boy, the Lord can say that again! Last week I led a study group at church, and I asked everyone to write down a question they would ask if God walked into the room. Once more, the subject I chose was one I am particularly struggling with these days. Indeed, I have so many questions for God that God would grow quite hoarse answering them all. My primary queries? Why in the heck is the world the way it is, and people the way they are? Why have so many forgotten Christ’s mandate (and a central mandate of all faith traditions) to care for each other—the poor, the sick, the refugee, our planet—because it is inconvenient to do so, and so much easier to criticize and demonize one another? Why does a loving God seem to step back and let us go on destroying each other?

Been there twice on mission trips. The Lakota people continue to suffer...

In the Old Testament story, Jacob wrestles with a stranger (God) through the night, finally saying “I won’t let you go until you bless me.” I, too, am wrestling with God right now, and will undoubtedly keep doing so. And I will hold on for dear life, until God blesses me, blesses all of us, with some clarity and some peace.

I Heart NY

Growing up in Manhattan, the closest I ever got to Brooklyn was looking at it from the other side of the East River. The part of Brooklyn I could see was Greenpoint (or as my Pop Cunningham would pronounce it in his old New York-ese, “Greenpernt.”) Never set foot in any of the other boroughs either. Of course, my traveling options were somewhat limited since we moved away when I was eight (why COULDN’T I take the subway alone? I remember whining. Being a kid was such a bummer!)

I am delighted that both of my daughters are residents of Bedford-Stuyvesant in Brooklyn (and Sheridan lived for a time in Astoria, Queens). They have given me opportunities and reasons to explore other parts of the city I love. Bed-Stuy in particular is an amazing neighborhood, with many blocks of beautiful brownstones, most of which have been carved up into small apartments. Rose’s place boasts a fenced in backyard (a rarity there); Julie has an incredible view of lower Manhattan from her bedroom window. It is a rapidly changing area, with modest bodegas next door to swanky wine bars, and I’m not sure how I feel about that—the rents are steadily climbing, forcing many working class families out. Still, NYC remains a beautiful melting pot of cultures, 9 million New Yorkers, all co-existing in a mere 305 square miles.

I recently spent a weekend with my girls, and as always was struck by how at home I felt among the throngs of people and fearless pigeons. I am no longer the child who wore white gloves to go shopping at Best’s department store and have lunch at Schrafft’s. But I feel the same thrill I did back then (including the thrill of crossing the street against the light, a very popular New York sport. The taxis actually speed up and aim at you!)

This visit we spent a lot of time on the “A” and “C” trains, going to an exhibit at the Whitney Museum, enjoying a fabulous pasta dinner at San Marzano in the East Village. A highlight was a Broadway matinee (Julie’s first). We saw Waitress, a wonderful musical. Every performer in the show was scary-talented, and I was reminded that I would never (ever) have made it big on the Great White Way in my acting days.  

Rose and Jules live apart, but they see each other very often, and are the closest of friends. That, of course, does my heart a world of good. I marvel at their casual competence, navigating such a daunting metropolitan area, and know that this experience will be invaluable, wherever they end up living.

Me and my girls on the town!

The little girl looking across the East River is gone forever. In her place is a suburban woman who takes trees and grass for granted, who will most likely never be a city dweller again. But my heart will always belong to loud, messy, exciting New York City, and I’m so grateful it was my first home. 

My Mug Runneth Over

I have a tendency to break things. I have broken countless glasses over the years, and more than a few plates. This is because I am a clumsy and totally disinterested dish washer. I also break necklaces and lose earrings regularly, because I am a slapdash and indifferent jewelry wearer. In short, you should not trust me with any delicate item you own (I know I certainly don’t!)

And what I don’t break, I lose. I’m sure my sister regrets that I ended up with our Nana’s china statues of figures from The Mikado (Nana taught music and often staged operettas with her New York city students. These were a retirement gift from them). As of today, I have one little statue left, and one of the hands has broken off.

THE Mug

So why do I still have the coffee mug I received from Steve on my first Mother’s Day, 32 years ago? Not only do I still have it, but it has nary a chip, and the design on the mug is as colorful as it was on Day One. It has never gone missing. It is my mug of choice for my daily four huge doses of caffeine. Whenever I was pregnant and off the java, my “mom” mug was filled with hot cocoa (and I always thought I had broken the coffee habit at last—until right after each delivery. I’d ask for coffee almost before I’d ask to hold the baby!)

When our Aiden came along, he was enthralled by my mug. The motif (the word MOM spelled out in many different sizes and colors) is an eye-catcher, and a great way to practice an early word. Aiden used to have breakfast sitting on my lap, and would point gleefully to each MOM, vocalizing every one (“Momomomomomomom!”). So now, when I sip my hot beverages, I savor happy memories of my grandson too.

I know it’s just a thing, and someday it is bound to break or get lost. But after 32 years it holds the record for longest-used item in the house, and I hate to think of the day when it will be no more. Oh, I have a cabinet filled with other mugs, souvenirs of trips to Jamaica and Guatemala, a gift from PJ’s time in Germany. A mug from Think Coffee, where Julie is a barista. And I would be sorry to wave goodbye to any of them. But the Mom mug is special. It has survived over three decades with me, and that is no small feat. Protecting it requires me to handle it with care, and that is good for me.

At a Paris cafe--nice cup, but no comparison!

My mug is at my side as I write this. The cheery red and blue and green lettering reminds me that I AM a “mom”, five times over, a fact which still amazes me. And while I know I define myself in other ways too, my favorite role in life is right there. Printed on an ordinary, extraordinary coffee mug.