Looking Back Over the Years

Today has been quite productive. When Claudia asked me tonight via FaceTime how I was doing, my word was, "Spectacular," which for my sardonic self is not a typical response. With the exceptional help of sons John and Ben this afternoon, I was able to sort through eight boxes of Christmas paraphernalia accumulated over the past twenty years, reducing the "kept" items to two boxes. Our local thrift store is the recipient of numerous strands of lights, artificial greenery and a couple of archaic, but still useful, tree stands. I'm not sure why one family needs four separate tree stands, but now we have just one. None of the items we gifted has any sentimental value, and our other items are now safely stored with like items for a future Christmas.

I have been sorting through numerous other boxes (unopened since our last move in 2012), deciding what to keep and what to gift to others or to recycle. It is such a feeling of accomplishment to have a tidy, organized group of boxes that will neatly fit into our Pod.

I made dinner tonight (meatballs, mashed potatoes with gravy and green beans) for those of us in the house, and we were joined by daughter Mercedes and her boyfriend Matt. After dinner I announced that I was working on a cookbook during my current vacation/moving time, and solicited their favorite meals to include. At first the responses were slow in coming, and then as we remembered and discussed favorite food items I've made over the years, I was overwhelmed by how many items they remembered with fondness. I was reminded that in the past twenty years I have cooked thousands of meals, many hundreds of different options and have the joy of knowing how much this has meant to my children. To know how much this matters to my now-adult children makes the hours and hours of grocery shopping, planning, cooking, serving and cleaning over the years worthwhile. I can't begin to calculate the money and time that have been invested in feeding our twelve children over nearly twenty years.

Looking back over the years, I realize once again how very blessed I have been to add to my children's lives in normal, ordinary ways. That Claudia and I made mealtimes together as a family a daily event of significance has tremendous paybacks. I am grateful to have been such an intricate part of that weave of our family's life.

Journeying On By Stages

As Claudia and I were discerning whether to remain in Minnesota or to embark upon an adventure in Virginia, one of the images I was drawn to time and again was the Hebrew Scriptures patriarch of faith, Abram/Abraham. He was settled and contented when God's call came for him to uproot himself, his spouse Sarai/Sarah, his servants and all that he possessed. It was for Abraham and then Sarah an act of faith to leave behind all they knew in order to step through an open door of unknowing.

The verse from Genesis 12 that has captivated me since last October has been this description of Abram's process of moving forward in faith: "He journeyed on in stages" (verse 9). Now that I am freed of my pastoral responsibilities for a short period of time, I remind myself on a regular basis that each task I accomplish (as mundane as it is) is part of the process of my journeying on in stages.

Yesterday in my office this is what journeying on in stages looks like. My sons Rand, John and Ben kindly moved 30 boxes of books (each weighing about 60 pounds) from my office yesterday to our garage, where eventually they will be packed in our Pod for moving in three weeks. I estimate I am a little more than half finished with my office packing.

Clearing my church office is a tedious process of packing books, sorting through documents to shred and documents to pass on to my successor, and cleaning up the computer hard drive. It's more than tedium, of course, because each of the documents I sort through has a person's (or more than one person's) name on it, people who have been part of my staff or my Leadership Team or the congregation.  So there's the emotional piece of saying goodbye in a thousand ways again and again.  I'm trying to develop a spiritual practice of quietly holding in prayer each person whose name I encounter, releasing them to God's good care and keeping.

Today I have been working from home, cleaning drawers, packing boxes, sorting and disposing. In many ways it's quite therapeutic and probably the least intense move I've ever made, largely because our kids are all nearly grown up and mostly out of the house. I can remember all too well what it was like to pack and move when our children were under the age of 11. Yet, we journeyed on by stages then, and I'm doing the same thing now. Fortunately, over the years I have developed more patience and endurance for this prolonged kind of process.

A Lighted Farewell

This is the day.  The next phase in our family's move to Virginia has begun.

Earlier than she expected Claudia awakened this morning, showered and dressed and made final preparations for her road trip.  Shortly after her arising I, too, was up assisting with last-minute things: checking the dryer for a final few clothes to be packed, medicating the more anxious of our two dogs in anticipation of a day's travel, communicating with a very stressed and crabby nineteen-year-old with mental health needs.

Anyone who knows and cares about persons with mental illness knows that anxiety and new situations exacerbate innate conditions.  Claudia and I were subjected to a barrage of curses, foot stomping and plastic-cup throwing this morning as the vehicle was packed with final items.  Initially refusing to take his medication, our son finally acceded to our request, but not without considerable emotional intensity.  We bade one another our farewells.  I petted the dogs for a final time in Minnesota, hugged Claudia and called out to our chortling son that I loved him.

And then I went downstairs to the laundry room to continue the never-ending task of keeping our laundry clean and organized.  I realized once again just how hard it is to be the one who is left, and I didn't want to watch the Equinox's headlights drive away in the darkness of a cold January morning.

As I was filling the washer I glanced, out of habit, through the window's direct view of the parking area behind our house.  As I looked up Claudia was just backing up into the alley.

And then an interesting thing happened.  To understand why it's interesting, you have to understand the motion-sensing security lights on our garage.  After initially working quite well two or three years ago, they have in recent months become more sporadic.  We never know exactly when they will turn on and when they won't.  Most times as we walk by in the darkness it remains dark, and occasionally with no motion at all they will be limning the night.  So we have had little confidence in their consistency.

But this morning, just as Claudia was backing up and then moving forward to leave our Robbinsdale home a final time, the security lights flicked on, a bright beacon in the bitterly cold morning darkness.  I'm sure it's my overly active imagination, but for just that moment it was a calming sign to me, a lighted farewell from the One who is the Light of the World.  And a reminder that God's light shines as brightly in the south-eastern part of the country as it does here in the upper midwest.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like ... Virginia

In October of this year both Claudia and I were settled in for years to come.  We were both contentedly employed, all twelve of our children were within two hour's drive, and our grandchildren were readily accessible.  We were living in a first-ring suburb of Minneapolis, enjoying the changing diversity of our neighborhood.  Our house was a little small for all of the inhabitants, but we looked forward to the day when our young adult children would gain greater independence and move from the nest, leaving us with just enough space to anticipate retirement in another ten to fifteen years.

But then our plans were interrupted.  Out of the blue Claudia received an invitation to consider a new opportunity as Chief Program Officer for a family services agency doing precisely what she has loved doing for years, without the drain of necessary, but tedious, responsibilities that were not her personal passions.  At first the opportunity seemed unlikely, especially since it would require a move from Minnesota, where we have lived for almost more than twenty years as a couple, to the Commonwealth of Virginia.

From the very beginning she solicited my input, of course, and step by step we have discerned that this would be an opportunity too good to pass up.  We have prayerfully discerned, gradually shared the news with those most likely to be affected by our move, and concluded that these open doors are ones we should walk through.

Thursday was Claudia's last work day.  On Saturday she cleaned out her office and said goodbye for a final time to one of her former employees.  Today was my last Sunday at the church I have served for the past three-and-a-half years.  This afternoon she and I have worked together with several of our children to pack her most important belongings for the trip she will take early in the morning.

She and our second-youngest son (plus our two dogs) will leave snow-covered, fifteen-degree Minneapolis, headed toward central Virginia, where she anticipates arrival on Tuesday with temperatures in the 70s.  In four weeks' time our youngest son and I will close the doors for the final time on our home in Robbinsdale, and we will join our much reduced-in-size family in Virginia.

It's not like this is the first time we've moved.  As an itinerant preacher in the United Methodist "connection," I have moved our family in faithful response to the invitation of our Bishops over the past twenty years.  Each move has been a new adventure, filled with challenges as well as opportunities.  We have met lovely people in each of our pastoral appointments, and each time we travel on we leave behind gracious and loving people who have helped to form that stage of our lives.

Now the reality of our move is hitting me in a  very real way.  Tonight is the last time that Claudia and I will share our bed in Minneapolis.  Tomorrow we will be living apart for several weeks until we are reunited in a completely new place, very much different from the Minnesota we have known for years.

We will miss the immediate contact we have with our family members and friends.  We will face the disorientation of new communities ensconced in layers of culture unique from what we have known.  We will find ourselves in new homes (more on that later), with new faces and names to learn and enjoy.

It's beginning to look a lot like Virginia.  And, with God's grace, it's beginning to look like another new place to love.