My husband Colin has a memory like a steel trap. When he was a little boy, his mom would tell him her grocery list and then take him to the store. He could remember everything.
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The dogs and I stopped on our morning walk the other day to watch a newly hatched cicada nymph shed its shell. This nymph from the Brood X invasion had of course burrowed underground for 17 years, sucking on tree root sap.
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I fell in love with reading and writing stories in the first grade when my teacher offered a giant Lisa Frank sticker for writing a certain number of tales. I was hooked, and my mother still has some of my first masterpieces
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When I was ordained thirteen years ago, I knelt on the IU Auditorium stage surrounded by clergy mentors, in particular three female clergy who had nurtured and paved the way for me. With the weight of their hands upon my head and shoulders, I knew I didn’t walk this road alone.
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For the past year, I’ve been having trouble with my bicycle. Every time I coast down a hill or come to a complete stop, the chain falls out of gear. When I go to pedal again, nothing happens. I pedal into the air and don’t move at all. I have to shift the gears around in order to engage the bike again. Not only is this frustrating, but it’s also quite dangerous.
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On April 29, 1992, I was eating lunch in my middle school cafeteria when I heard a roar from the corner where the black students sat. I saw teachers and administrators rush over to console. The Rodney King verdicts had just been announced.
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There is little more satisfying in our earthly lives than pulling up a thistle or dandelion by the roots. That’s exactly what I was doing when I heard our 5-year-old’s voice cry, “Aaah! You’re digging up my beautiful dandelions!” I looked over to see an altar of dandelions she had harvested in the center of our small garden, in addition to the bouquet in her hands. How is one person’s weed another person’s beautiful flower?
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I still remember moments on youth trips and college retreats where we heard the crucifixion story in a darkened room. We sang music about Christ’s blood shed for us, whose personal sins had nailed Jesus to the cross. We were asked where we hoped to spend eternity.
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“Salt of the earth” has become a cliché, says Jewish New Testament scholar Amy-Jill Levine in The Sermon on the Mount: A Beginner’s Guide to the Kingdom of Heaven. Yet when Jesus tells this to his disciples, it isn’t a command, it’s a fact: “You are the salt of the earth.” The “you” is plural, as in “y’all.” Jesus specifically tells the disciples they are the salt of the earth. They exist not for themselves alone but for the world. Just like salt is needed for preserving, seasoning, and giving life, disciples are to season, color, and make the world more alive. They represent what is good in the world.
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The IU men’s basketball news had our household in a tizzy on Monday. My husband obsessed over the details of the buyout, the possible new head coaches, and the best outcome for the team. I could not let go of the potential $10.5 million given to fire the coach. I tweeted about the many ways that money could have benefited Bloomington and the university in terms of education, poverty, health care, the environment, children, youth, and students, and yet we spent a vast earthly treasure on sports. Our priorities seemed so contrary to what Jesus advocates in the Sermon on the Mount.
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In the dark and freezing cold temperatures last week, we made an ice globe. We took a balloon, filled it with water, and then let it freeze outdoors for a few days. When we cut off the balloon, we dumped excess water out of the hollow ice globe. Then we lit a tealight candle, placed it inside the globe, and admired the beauty on our porch. “Let your light shine before others,” Jesus told his disciples in the Sermon on the Mount, “so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”
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When I was around 5, I tumbled off my Ms. Pac-Man Big Wheel and skinned my knee deeply enough that I still have the scar. I had removed the back seat from the Big Wheel and was riding on my knees down a small driveway hill. The pain of the injury taught me not to ride the Big Wheel improperly again.
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