Playing with Destiny

Sometimes joy comes unexpectedly. Sometimes it comes in ways you’ve never expected. Sometimes joy surprises you. Today joy surprised me. Today I played with Destiny.

Now that sounds dangerous, doesn’t it? It is the thing we search for. We all hope to have some destiny in life, so we search for our destiny. Sometimes destiny break-in when we least expect it. For some, all of a sudden they find themselves in places they don’t expect and have an epiphany catapulting them into their destiny.

We take destiny very seriously. We feel our lives will be a failure if we don’t reach our destiny. Something so serious should not be played with.

Today started out as one of those days. My husband’s brother and another brother’s daughter, a niece are visiting. They are nice people, but clashes of culture and my lack of understanding their language always make these visits difficult for me. Add to that cooking food I can’t eat and sometimes, my mood and attitude is lacking. I try really hard to practice hospitality. It isn’t that I don’t like them. It is just difficult for me. Usually when they leave, I feel bad that my attitude took the better of me.

This morning my routine was disrupted. I cooked an omelet with enough red peppers and chilies to kill someone.  I made a strong bold tea that stained my stainless steel. I ate two slices of blueberry bread toasted while they feasted. Custom dictates loud chewing so I retreat to the other room praying for grace.

Nothing went well today. Everything was off, timing, meals, a cold shower, etc. You get the picture, it was NOT a good day. That was until Destiny came along.

My husband is trying to do some good. So he takes his brother, his niece and I on an odd trip to Fort Thompson reservation. We meet with a dear sister in the Lord who is native, who was preparing a Seder supper. We meet with her friends. What an odd group, including some colleagues of my husband, we were now ten people in the small apartment. Four were Native Americans, three were from Pakistan, and three of us, were plain vanilla folk.

After a delightful chat with our hostess, I started stressing about our long trip. I dreaded the trip in the car of four more hours with people who chose not to speak in English. I was getting tired. Then I started to play with Destiny.

Destiny is this absolutely delightful four year old child who was trying to watch Pocahontas among all these strange people. She had a book in her hand and I offered to read it. I read the book once, then twice, then another book, and then back to the first book. I coaxed her on my lap.

Before long, I was a little girl giggling and playing with Destiny. She charmed her way into my heart and will never leave. She brought me such joy. As I heard myself laugh, I thought, I haven’t laughed with such joy in a long time. There is nothing like little arms around your neck to remind you that life is worth living.

I forgot about the adults. They could have their conversations. I forgot about the long morning and the long drive ahead of me. I forgot about school. I forgot about all the things that stress me. As I hugged beautiful little Destiny good bye she kept saying “squeezes!” Playing with Destiny was the best thing I’ve done in a long, long time.

Doin' the Crawl

I’ve lived in college towns before. I’ve learned that unless you are a student or a faculty member, the campus is like another world, even if you are only a mile away. I never know what is happen on the campus. Sometimes I wish I did because then we might actually find something to do here in Brookings.

My husband is an administrative faculty person on this campus. I am sure he gets all sorts of notices across his desk about all sort of interesting things, he never pays attention to them, or shares the. My husband’s ability to filter out things he is not interested in is amazing. Me on the other hand, I have radar that won’t quit. It is always bleeping at me with all sorts of information. None of which I filter. Most of which, I remember.

For a very small campus town, Brookings has a pleasant looking downtown. It has signs of life. You do see people walking on the streets. I’ve been one or two of the eating establishments on Main. I’ve never been to their famous burger place though, Nick’s Hamburger Shop or George’s Pizza. Both are supposed to be city landmarks. A friend convinced me to poke around a couple of shops on Main. Neither did a whole lot for me; I haven’t been back.

Today I went downtown. As I left, I thought, I haven’t written about South Dakota much lately, maybe I’ll get some inspiration when I go downtown. I did.

I was to meet a friend at a restaurant I’d been to before, Sun Dried Tomatoes. Last time I was there I had a Panini. It was okay. I’ve had better. Compared to the Panini’s I made at Joyce’s Pegram Deli and Coffee Shop in lovely little Pegram TN, they were small, overpriced and not that good. Nonetheless, it was a nice place to visit with someone and the food certainly wasn’t bad. The pizza I had today was good.

As I got downtown, late as usual, I thought OMG, what don’t I know? There was little place to park. You don’t expect this in a small town like Brookings. Finally I found a place two blocks away across from a beautiful old building that says City Hall on it but isn’t anymore. City Hall is now found in a very ugly newer building several blocks away.

I still had no idea what was going on in Brookings.  There was a buzz in the air. There was a sense of life and vitality that I don’t expect to find in South Dakota except in Sioux Falls or Rapid City. Certainly there couldn’t be anything that great in downtown Brookings on a Saturday in March. As I had walked to the restaurant, someone was standing on another street corner tapping on a make-shift drum while his friend played the accordion. I met my friend, a native South Dakotan. She wondered aloud about the busyness of downtown.

Then I found out what was going on. It was Pub Crawl. Now the name alone tells you this is a college binging activity. This is not part of why parents send their kids to college.  There is even a mention of it in Wikipedia. It is also known as spring “Hobo Day.” The idea is that college student roam from bar (pub) to bar throughout the downtown. After drinking their way through the city, they eventually have to crawl from pub to pub.

As we left, I thought now this is a strange event to be having the day before we start Holy Week. Maybe it is some sort of South Dakota version of Mardi Gras.  Here they were, at noon already filling the bars with their beads on.

I suppose it is a rite of passage. It is like spring break in Florida. None of this stuff is new or unique to South Dakota. Yet, it strikes me as ill timed. At a time when we are going into the most sacred week of the Christian calendar, crawling drunk through downtown isn’t exactly a good way to reflect on our Savior’s sacrifice.

How are you preparing for Holy Week?

South Dakota - The Tornado's Vortex

In a strange moment of conversation yesterday, I told someone that I was beginning to wonder what the big deal was about South Dakota. I’ve made a very big deal about having to be here. I almost said live here, but not sure I want to “confess” that yet.

The sun is shining today. Yesterday was warm today isn’t warm yet. I heard on the news mention of getting shorts and sandals out. Bear in mind that I have seen people in shorts in 40 degree weather here, so talk of shorts may be premature.  I even hear a few birds today.

I know the answer to what is the “big deal” about South Dakota. Certainly, the weather is a factor but every place has weather to complain about, it’s all relative. When it is beastly hot and humid in Tennessee I complained. I probably wouldn’t complain as much now as I used to, but hot and humid is pretty bad too.

A woman in class yesterday who had read my blog said to me, Man, you really don’t like South Dakota! I replied:  my blog is toned down. It used to be worse. She had moved from somewhere else. I think she came from Minneapolis.  Okay, Minneapolis is a city and Brookings SD is not.  I think she failed to consider the culture. Upper Midwest culture includes Minneapolis. Just listen to Garrison Keillor if you are in doubt.

I tried to explain my situation to her. I mentioned family. She seemed quite happy not to have family close. I couldn’t mention to her the real reasons. The feelings, experiences and emotions, so personal, that are wrapped up in my difficulty with the move to SD. It isn’t the weather, it isn’t just family, it is me.

It is the move to SD, not the living here that is my problem. Moving here is wrapped up with emotions and things I cannot share. I look like just a crabby person who doesn’t want to live in South Dakota.

What people can’t realize is that this move snuffed out so much of my life, my inner core. Like the tornadoes that plague the plains, I feel I have been in its vortex threatening to suck me into a hole so deep I would never recover.

I realized yesterday that I had some sort of emotional connection to the seminary. A professor tried to tell me several months ago that I was part of the seminary family. I didn’t believe him. I thought he was just being nice. He is a very nice man.

Yesterday, while students still look at me like who is she and why is she here? Some still don’t talk to me. It can be lonely even in class. Nonetheless, I thought I am going to miss being here. It has been a bit of an oasis of sanity for me.

South Dakota is getting to me. It is alluring me in ways I was unwilling to accept. I accept it as part of my journey through life. It will teach me. Whenever I leave here, I will hold parts of it as something dear in my life. 

We may yet have a spring blizzard. It often happens here in the Dakotas. I think I can survive. Part of my inner core is coming back alive again.

In the Twilight Zone

The last two days I have been reminiscing about Brooklyn. I was born in Brooklyn NY. It was a wonderful experience growing up in the borough of trees and churches. I’ll bet most of you didn’t know that Brooklyn was known as the Borough of Churches, but it is. Every year on Brooklyn Day in June, all around the borough there would be parades. The parades were very unique, they were Sunday School parades. I came across this picture of one of those parades on facebook:

I am the one on the second row on the far left. My mother was our Sunday School teacher. I think that year we studied the Kings I & II from the Old Testament. My mother made crown shaped books for us to write something about the kings. One week we’d write that this king was a good king and loved God, next week he was a bad king and disobeyed God. Such is the state of humanity to this day.  My mind and heart were roaming around Brooklyn and Salem Gospel Tabernacle yesterday when I realized it was time to change my clothes. I had a Cattlemen’s Association banquet to go to in Ward SD.

I changed my clothes no less than four times yesterday. I couldn’t seem to settle on what to wear. Finally I chose one of two dress pants I own and jazzed it up with a tank, jacket and a scarf. We headed for Ward.

Ward has a population of 49 – yes, only 49 people. I’d been there before to the restaurant that was holding the banquet. It had been an interesting experience. Food was good but we were starred at quite a bit. 

Flooding dotted the sides of the road as we left the interstate for the 15 miles to Ward. Passing a semi with a flat tire, we pulled into Ward and parked in front of the Wisconsin Synod Lutheran Church.

Cars were everywhere.  This banquet brought cattle folk from two counties and swelled the town to quadruple its size. We entered the Feather’s Nest ready for the evening. Like something out of the Twilight Zone, I began to realize that I had entered another dimension. My mind was still back in Brooklyn, my body in Ward.

My husband greeted a few people; we paid our money and found a seat. I recognized the two men we were seated with and exchanged greetings. Another couple came and sat across from us. They lived near the booming metropolis of Bruce SD, population 260.

The conversation around me centered on cows. What else would you talk about at a Cattlemen’s Banquet? The woman from Bruce was talking to the young man sitting next to me. He appeared to be about 13 years old. She was asking him about his showmanship at the Fair. Something I have never understood is showing livestock. But it is a big deal here in SD. Evidently the young chap had done well. She encouraged him in his endeavors telling him about a workshop in Sioux Falls where he could develop his showmanship skills.

My brain wandered off and returned in time to hear another conversation between the woman and the young man. She was telling him about the high tech equipment they have on their farm. She glowingly shared that they have an antenna on the top of their silo. This antenna is connected to a computer in their barn. All of this is to record information about their cows. It seems that attached somewhere to each cow is a transmitter. Pretty high tech stuff, wouldn’t you say?

She went on to explain the purpose of all of this technology. The transmitter recorded when the cow was in heat. Yes, when the cow was in heat! They now knew the moment the cow went into heat and for how long. I sat there thinking... how did a nice little Norwegian girl from Brooklyn ended up at this table listening to this conversation. It went on. She told him that this transmitter records when and how many times the cow was rode while in heat. I nearly spit out my water on that one…

Now I understand-if you raise beef you need to know this stuff. I like steak. I like hamburger. I know where it comes from and how it gets to my plate. Nonetheless, it was hard for this Brooklyn girl to appreciate this as a dinner conversation.  Sort of reminded me of a scene from a movie where the city girl goes to the country.

I looked around. There was this 7-foot man with Wrangler work jeans with the crotch nearly to his knees, plaid western shirt and no teeth talking to the man in Dickies work jeans with the bright green John Deere suspenders.  I thought yep, I’m definitely not in Brooklyn; this is not like any place else I’ve ever been.

We got our salad but I passed on the pickled herring. I may be Norwegian and we always had a jar of Vita Pickled Herring in the fridge, but I never acquired the taste for it. Sitting down, we noticed a table had been added to our string of tables. Someone exclaimed: we aren’t last anymore, we must not be good Lutherans. I know there is a private joke there somewhere.

As the meal concluded the man across from me stuff chew in his mouth for dessert. The program started. We returned to the theme of showing cattle at the Fairs and achievement days. One of the big winners was also the young woman who was the first runner up for Miss SDSU. It seems that you can be a beauty pageant contestant and champion cattle show-person. Who knew? Not me.

Okay, so some of you are laughing and some of you are mad at me. I admit I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all.

My purpose though is not to laugh at these good people who provide me with the best hamburgers and steaks you can find anywhere. If you want to laugh, laugh at me. Laugh at the irony of God taking someone who walked the streets of Brooklyn. Someone who knows the NYC subway system well and can find her way around Manhattan to this day. Then picture them in Ward SD on a Monday night for a Cattleman’s Banquet.

Is this what they mean when you say God is stretching you?

Has-Beens

Last night I was an invited guest for a Scholarship Banquet at the Seminary. I know I was invited because I have the invitation. I turned in the RSVP card, on time, to the receptionist at the seminary. Assured that it would be given to the proper person, I didn't give it another thought. When I got to the door there was no sticker with my name nor one for my husband.

Since that was my second trip to Sioux Falls, I was tired. My husband had a stressful day at work. I stood there wondering why I came. I was embarrassed and frustrated. I mumbled to the equally stressed and embarrassed woman in charge, that I really had turned in my RSVP.

She asked us to handwrite our name tags and go sit at table 13. I thought 13! That's not a lucky number. My husband wanted to know if table 13 would be outside. It wasn't. We hung our coats and found the table.

To my delight I recognized the other student sitting at my table. She has listened to my lament on living in South Dakota. She has said she'd pray for me. She has been kind sharing her struggles living in this state.

Also sitting at the table was a former dean of the seminary, a former administrator in fund raising and their wives. The fund raiser with typical friendliness of his profession greeted us with an engaging welcome and smile. His name was Ben. He said he knew almost all the donors who had funded our scholarships.

The former dean was less friendly. Nevertheless it was a nice table to sit at even if it was table 13. As we chatted across the table, that awkward chat of strangers pushed together at a social event, I asked Ben what he had taught before he became an administrator. He said "Oh I'm not that smart. I just raised money."

I said something about being fortunate to sit at this table with illustrious contributors to the seminary. He said "oh, no, it isn't such an honor, you are sitting with the 'has-beens.'"  Of course I said that wasn't true.

It's odd how we creep toward the final chapters of our lives that we see ourselves as has-beens. I am watching Crazy Heart, a movie about another so-called 'has-been.' I am fast approaching the age of has-been. Often as I sit in class, I see other students looking at me wondering what this old woman is doing sitting in their classes.

Ben should not consider himself a has-been. He was a contributor to all of us who came behind him at the seminary. Some of us couldn't go to school without scholarship money. What a great contribution he has made. As long as his contribution continues, he will never be a has-been.

I've been interviewing for another chapter of my life, a chapter of more education. In this interviews I have said several time, I'm not done. I still have something to contribute. I do!

Spring comes late in South Dakota, very late. While daffodils are blooming elsewhere they are not here. I haven't reached full bloom either. I may be old enough to be a has-been but I'm not. I have not been in full bloom yet. I'm still pushing through the hard ground. I'll get there. With God's help and grace, I will get there.

It's Enough

I am in Florida. The sun is shining. The water is nearby. I can see palm trees and green. I get on a plane today and go back to South Dakota. I don’t want to go.

I am working very hard to accept the place where God has planted me but the truth is I’d rather stay here. I know my life isn’t in Florida. I actually know my life is not in Nashville full time for now. I believe I will return to Nashville and I look forward to that day, but for now, my life is in South Dakota.

There is a chance of snow in the forecast tomorrow for Brookings. I will leave this sun and beauty for flooding and cold. I will drive twice tomorrow to Sioux Falls because the things I need to do aren’t in Brookings.

I am not sure what South Dakota has for me or what I have to give to South Dakota. I just have to believe, as I return, that this is where God wants me. A dear friend talking about his own living situations said to me that he looks at as if he is a soldier and God has him stationed at a particular place.

I am not crazy about the military metaphors but I guess it fits. I enlisted in the service of my King a long time ago. That means I don’t always get to choose everything about my life. When God opened the doors for my husband to South Dakota, He knew that we were a package deal. This may feel like part of the “worse” in the “for better or worse,” nevertheless that’s what I promised.  I suppose it isn’t the worse. I can think of many things we’ve been through that were a lot worse.

I’ve said a few times that the problem with South Dakota is not the weather. However, today it is. I don’t really want to go back to the cold. I don’t want to go back to loneliness and isolation. But God has a plan, and I have a husband I love. I’ll get on the plane today to the land of snow.

Maybe God doesn’t have anything for me in South Dakota. Certainly there are times I feel like that. But is that important? Is it just about what I do? Or is that I am learning more and more about myself? Is it that I am more in love with my husband than I have ever been? Is it that for the first time in 32 years we have lived alone together? All of those things are special gifts. 

It’s enough.

Three Skevts of Coffee

Occasionally something really nice happens in South Dakota. I’m on the “pulpit supply” list at the seminary. This means that if a church has a need of someone to fill their pulpit on a given Sunday, they notify the seminary. The seminary then sends it out to all of us on the “pulpit supply” list. This list includes not only students but also faculty.

When their request goes out like, it is sort of a lottery for the church. Or should I say more like biblical casting of lots. They might get a PhD who teaches at the seminary or they might get a student. If they get a student, they might get someone experienced or not.

Last fall I got one of those emails. It was for a church in Iowa. It said it was close to Sioux Falls. Sioux Falls is 50 plus miles from me but by South Dakota standards, that’s not far. To go to this part of Iowa requires 70 miles from my house, but still within a range, I thought I could handle.

I replied saying I’d like to do this. I got a response back; I won the lottery that day. I was the first to reply. My obsession with emails can sometimes be a good thing. Then I got nervous.

I had a prayer and praise report all in one. I was praising God for the opportunity to preach and praying desperately about my concerns. I didn’t know anything about this church. I didn’t know how they felt about women in the pulpit. I didn’t know how liturgical they were, if I had to preach from the lectionary. I knew nothing. I was told I’d hear from the contact person, in this case the pastor.

I did. It was a woman! Okay, I could cross that off my list of concerns. There was a pretty standard order of service. I still didn’t know how formal they were though. I don’t have a problem with formality. I am just not sure how good I am with it.

I asked the pastor about the prayer times. She said oh, just whatever the Holy Spirit leads … Whew! that I could do. Writing formal prayers was not my strong point. I rather like the freer flow when it comes to prayer. The last hurdle in my mind as I prepared was could I wear pants for preaching? I still struggle with that issue. Too many years of hearing about the evils of women looking like men.

Ok, I know you are laughing now but I heard that a lot when I was young.  For the good Christian female pants were never acceptable anywhere, let alone church. However, if you were going to grace the platform, you should have no make-up, elbows covered, panty hose, skirt to mid-calf, and good supporting garments – a handkerchief or something for your knees, just in case the skirt crept up.

So preaching in pants was something to be thought about seriously. However, I had no skirt to wear. With some fear and trepidation, I headed to preaching that morning.

We got their early, a rarity for us. The church sits in a cornfield. You drive along wondering where you are and then all of a sudden you see this gleaming white steeple. Two cars were parked and one of the occupants was sweeping the walk.

As my husband and I walked in, we were warmly greeted. I mentioned we were there for pulpit supply. Someone thought that was to be my husband. We laughed; it was an honest mistake. No one seemed to look at my pants.

Nervously I went with a church leader to the office for prayer. I think he was trying to figure out this woman they sent. I nervously studied the bulletin.

If anyone cared about my pants, I couldn’t tell. I left there so much richer. I told my husband that is one of the nicest experiences I’ve had in South Dakota.  Oh, well, it wasn’t South Dakota, it was Iowa.  Nevertheless, the upper Midwest has some possibilities.

Yesterday, I filled that pulpit for the third time. I still get excited every time I go there. In pants, I walked in greeted with a warm handshake, then a hug by someone saying Good Morning Pastor Joyce.

The church has begun to feel like home to me. The warmth of the people is exceptional. They are amused at this Norwegian Pentecostal from Brooklyn New York with the husband from Pakistan who fills their pulpit and worships with them.

I thought about the saying about the three cups of tea made know by Greg Mortensen in his book by the same name. When you share your third cup of tea in the remote areas of Pakistan where Greg has built schools, you have become family. This was my third time at this lovely church.

I think though it is more fitting to talk about three skevts of coffee. They are mostly Scandinavians drinking straight up black coffee.

The first time you drink a skevt of coffee, you are a stranger.
The second time you take a skevt of coffee, you are an honored guest.
The third time you share a skevt of coffee, you become family.