3 Decades...

On Dec. 16, 1979, I knelt on the steps of First Baptist Church, Garland, Texas, and felt hands being laid on me--the hands of pastors, deacons, teachers and the small hands of children. Roger McDonald and John Kramp had spoken words and I was commissioned to TEACH, and this was my ordination. From there, I spent time with my family, and then went and stood in a classroom at Southwestern to teach a class, "Introducation to Children's Ministry."
And that's where I've been for the past 30 years--in the classroom. I have taught--and been taught at Southwestern, Biola, Golden Gate, Occidental, Simpson, Univ. of Inner Mongolia, Fresno Pacific and CSU-Fresno. My life and career has been spent between the university and the church. This life of professor/minister. The 2 roles, for me, are the same. You listen. You teach. You listen again. You assign. You review. You listen. You lead.
Tonight, I will go to Bakersfield, and I will teach. Again.
I do not know how much longer I will be able to teach, but, I want to do this for as long as I can, as best I can. I am grateful, and I am blessed.

Potluck with the Neighbors...getting over myself

Tonight I hosted a neighborhood potluck. Apparently, this potluck has been happening several times each month for 15 years, but, this was the first one that I have hosted--or attended. I like the people, alot, some of these people are good friends, but, most of them I only know by name and by sight--and I recognize that we live in the same Downtown neighborhood--but, I'm not sure that I really know them.
But, here they were, about 25 neighbors, sitting in my living room, dining room and hanging out in the kitchen. It was good--and, because we share a common faith in Christ, we prayed for our neighbors and our neighborhood. We prayed for families, for kids, for decisions, for houses, for projects--but, we sat together and voiced prayers for people who are NOT far away, not on another continent, but, right next door-literally. It was good, and it was right.
No, I am not a fan of the "relocator" moniker--I think it doesn't adequately describe who we are, or what we do. It's too much about real estate and location, imho, but it is the term that brought this group of neighbors to bring salad, rice, brownies and chocolates to my table--and, it's the phrase that INITIALLY helped us voice our prayers together.
I'm not crazy about it, but, I think this will not be my last neighborhood potluck.

the screams...

I live in an amazing place-I love living here, I love the house, the landscape, the proximity to things that are happening, the short commutes to work, the lack of traffic like that in LA and SF-the variety of ethnic food that is available, and the sounds of "living" close to other people who are different in background from me..
BUT, the screaming.
Living between a battered women's shelter, a daycare, a community center, a law office and a large extended family--I hear screaming almost every day. Sometimes, I can tell that the screams are happy-a game of chase, some kids playing monsters or ninjas, balloons, joy; but, more often, the screams sound terrifying. I do not fault the kids at the shelter for screaming. I assume that is what they have always known, that they have heard so much screaming that it's the only way that they know to get attention and to communicate-I hear that. I can usually tell when a new woman has come to the shelter by the unfamiliar screams of her kids. The boys seem to scream as much as the girls. I hear the crying and the screaming from the mothers themselves, too. The 6am cell phone conversations from the playground, which are supposed to be private, but, I hear the cussing, and yelling, and the pain of relationships that have lost hope. My heart breaks for both parties on the line, and I have come to even pity the abuser-and the abused. But, the kids hear the voices and the tone of voices, and they repeat the screaming. I watched a 5 year old boy use a plastic bat to beat a plastic snowman today--as he screamed vulgarities as loud as he could: and I knew that this is all that he could do, all that he had to voice, all that he had to offer--for now.
I hear the screams from the daycare-typical screams of 2,3,4 year olds-and some of the same terror in some of their voices--I know when a mother is leaving usually, because the calls for "momma" or "nooooooo" are as loud as if they were in my own house.
Maybe I hear the screams because my own home is so quiet. The cats barely utter a word. The music is quiet, the rooms are filled with art and books and quiet conversation. Sometimes I want the kids next door to come and experience the quiet--to understand that there are ways to communicate without volume.
Does my life scream anything?