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23 de Julio 2009
sing into my mouth
the old link for this was taken down, but someone else, crazy for it like i am put another one here
ha!
or you can watch Larsandtherealgirl... apparently i am not the only one who likes to dance to it...
Home is where I want to be
Pick me up and turn me round
I feel numb - born with a weak heart
I guess I must be having fun
The less we say about it the better
Make it up as we go along
Feet on the ground
Head in the sky
It's ok I know nothing's wrong . . nothing
Hi yo I got plenty of time
Hi yo you got light in your eyes
And you're standing here beside me
I love the passing of time
Never for money
Always for love
Cover up and say goodnight . . . say goodnight
Home - is where I want to be
But I guess I'm already there
I come home - she lifted up her wings
Guess that this must be the place
I can't tell one from another
Did I find you, or you find me?
There was a time Before we were born
If someone asks, this is where I'll be . . . where I'll be
Hi yo We drift in and out
Hi yo sing into my mouth
Out of all those kinds of people
You got a face with a view
I'm just an animal looking for a home
Share the same space for a minute or two
And you love me till my heart stops
Love me till I'm dead
Eyes that light up, eyes look through you
Cover up the blank spots
Hit me on the head Ah ooh
Posted by crymytinyflood at 11:58 AM | Comments (0)
13 de Julio 2009
!
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Dear friends and family,
As some of you know I will be the next intern at our church. I have been employed there since 2007 as the Children and Family Minister and will continue in that position as I take on additional responsibilities as the Vicar.
This internship will satisfy the Field Education requirements for my Masters in Divinity at Mars Hill Graduate School. After the 2009/2010 school year, I will have only two more trimesters of a sort of supervised Master's Thesis process and then will graduate at a commencement ceremony in June of 2011 (if things go according to plan). After that, Martin and I hope to stay here, in Seattle, in our little house, and I will stay on as Children and Family Minister. We like it here; we are putting down roots and bearing good fruit.
On September 13th 2009 I will take my place in the Chancel, wearing an alb and clerical collar among my fellow ministers and looking especially official. This is another in a series of important firsts along my journey toward ordination as a Minister of Word and Sacrament in the Presbyterian Church (USA). Rites of passage, like this, whether in the form of liturgy, ceremony, a common meal or simple prayer are important to me and to the larger Church, of which we are all members. This journey is meant for traveling with companions and so it will mean a whole lot more if those I love most are invited to participate fully.
The preparation for professional ministry, for ordination, calls everyone who loves me into the process. I have unwittingly dragged all of you my beloved family and friends into the deep waters of discernment so that we might hear God calling.
I realize now: what I have supposed all along
to be,
what I assumed was
my calling,
is not my own at all
it is your call, my call, our call,
and we will only hear clearly
when we listen together.
If you would like to join us on the 13th of September, there is no need to rsvp--we will be welcoming all God's children that day and you will find yourself among a church family that has welcomed Martin and I warmly from our very first Sunday in the fall of 2006. Our church family will be so very glad to embrace you.
Please pray that these last weeks of preparation for my internship will be restful, warm and hopeful. Pray with me that family and friends will come together in a way that honors our different beliefs about women in professional ministry as well as our myriad hopes and fears about what it means to be the Body of Christ.
yours,
Abigail
Posted by crymytinyflood at 9:40 PM | Comments (0)
2 de Julio 2009
shared custody and other reasons to keep writing
I saw her today. The little girl strapped in by a seat belt. You really don't see it anymore; they discovered a couple years ago that the lap belts in the backseat wouldn't save her, they would only rip her in half. Funny the ripping wasn't a concern back then. But I saw the old footage of her, thick brown braids laying down over her bare shoulders, larger than life, brown eyed and squinting out the half-rolled window. She was staring blankly out on trees and fields, blurry, and becoming bridges, sidewalks and boat docks. I felt again the spinning and dizziness, nausea thickening, after even the 60th mile when the road straightened out and flattened. The rise and fall of sick building in her stomach and also hope, that somehow this would all end (that maybe this time mommy would simply say, "I don't want you to bring them back on Sunday. It would be better if they just stay in one place for a while.") This her most shameful hope, that the gone away beloved would simply go away for good and stay away forever, climbed its way up and tightened in her throat.
For the first time today I showed the images to you who noticed first how alone she was, noticed no one heard her when she cried out for relief. Her tantrum and vomit were not despicable, they were not signs of her own failure to bear the confusion. And the light of acceptance shocked and flooded the empty rooms of her hidden hoping love would disappear and the work of rupture and reconciliation would finally be done.
Her bravery was suddenly solid and admirable to you.
And I began to hope for her: that disappearing love might return, because I began to see her burden would be shared. That her body and bile were not a waste, her feelings and fears would be parceled out and precious to all who would receive her. Finally, she is loved, as she wanted to be: not because she behaved bravely but because she couldn't. Not because she asked for help, but because she couldn't. Not because she told the truth, but because she was too scared to. And in spite of the blurring and ripping, the whole thing was clear and solid and real: real sad, real shame, real attempts to hide and speak and cry out. It was real enough to be part of the story and there is hope only because we are taking it seriously enough to keep
writing.
::
When a saint arrives, or even an angel, they call it visitation. Ironically, that is what they call it when parents share a child over long distances. But what do they call it when the holy heart of someone, more like a prophet than a parent, comes close and then stays? What do they call it when a friend refuses to leave? What do they call it when the prophet leaves, only to return?
How like is an angel to a father when he is more like a rubber band, stretching and snapping back and a mother is more like a boomerang spinning out almost out of control and then miraculously dangerously close enough to catch and it means that a father is less like a rock or a mother less like a hard place even though the latter is what you needed them to be. and everything shifts and though we were always caught in the middle, we realize now that we felt like we moved around so much, as though we weren't actually caught in the middle muddle of all this transitioning, when really
they were moving, changing and we held tightly to the covenant they gave up on. we don't wear the rings on our fingers, the way they used to, the way tradition would symbolize their eternal promises. the rings, they are, rather inside of us, beneath the bark of the trees we have become because we put down roots when they refused. and the knots in our stomachs, weak spots evince the places where branches were trimmed away, hopes and habits were pruned.
and how do you share custody of a tree? even a small tree, that has yet to bear fruit? If you love the tree you see how it hurts and perhaps you go on hurting it anyway because there simply isn't another way.
well, well. We are grown now. and the fruit we bear falls on both sides of the fence and rubber bands, boomerangs, rocks and hard places are only able to scratch the bark, they are caught in our highest branches and tucked between our heartiest roots, perhaps for safe keeping and we hold on, stand tall, support one another.
a friend, or sister, a brother or a fellow tree, we finally learn, in the end, to stay put.
to let the seasons come and go, to soak in the place we have finally come to call home and the growing up slows and the growing into begins.
as for those of you with rocks and hard places, those of you with parents who kept those rings on their fingers, who never shuttled you from house to home and back again, I am not sure I am writing about that--I don't know about that, but I have a feeling you will know exactly what I mean anyway.
Posted by crymytinyflood at 10:52 AM | Comments (0)