"Trust isn't something that's spoken . . ."

No one understands how important trust is until it isn't there. And getting it back? I don't know that there's anything harder in this world to do.

The neighbor has a new puppy and he likes to escape his fence. When he does so, agitating my dogs is first on his agenda. Well, one day as he scampered around doing his usual mischief, I tried to fuss him back into his yard. I walked toward him, pointing to the yard, and with a loud voice I told him to get back in there.

Most dogs I know would have either seen it as a game or would have turned tail and done what they were told to do. Not this little fella.

He backed into the corner of the gate and the house and proceeded to give ME a good talking to. The sound of his voice was disturbing - half agressive, half scared out of his mind. He barked and cried all at the same time, and raised such a ruckus that I turned around and walked away, fully aware that I had done more harm than good.

This morning he and his owner were in their garage and he came out to greet me - or scare me off - he wasn't quite sure which he wanted to do. He wagged his tail even as his hackles were up, he inched forward but back-peddled every third step or so. He was relieved (as was I) when his owner whistled for him to come back in, but he gave me a very suspicious bark over his shoulder as he ran back up the driveway.

In other words, he doesn't trust me. And I'm not sure he ever will. First impressions can be lasting impressions, and he's pretty sure I'm a big meany.

We get into such dangerous territory when we assume that others trust us. We make a huge miscalculation when we assume they always will. Trust can be broken. Trust can be broken badly.

Remorse, forgiveness, reconciliation - those are all important steps toward rebuilding trust, but they're not guarantees. Trust is fragile - far more fragile than any of us care to believe. It is like a delicate crystal vase. If dropped, it shatters. It shatters into a million pieces.

Sure, it can be put back together . . . mostly. No matter how meticulous the sweeping, there are bound to be a few fragments that get overlooked, so that even the most careful repiecing will not reproduce the original vase. That vase is gone, and nothing will bring it back.

But something similar can be achieved - maybe something even stronger.

But it'll take time. Lots of time. Far more time than anyone can fathom . . .

tyd

Have you Met?

In October my friend Jeanie Miley is coming to my church. She's wonderful. She's an author, a columnist, and a retreat leader. But most of all, she is a woman who is gifted at saying the truth and saying it in a way that we understand.

Follow this link to learn more about Jeanie. Read her books. Believe me, you'll be so very blessed when you do.

tyd

It Had to Happen . . .

Sooner or later, it had to happen: living in an agricultural community had to rub off on us eventually.

Last fall one of our farmer's gave us some pumpkins from his field.









And this summer . . . well . . .









What? Doesn't everyone have a pumpkin vine in their front flower bed?

tyd

Learning to say NO

Today I declined a speaking engagement. It was an honor to be asked, and I hated to say NO, but I find my priorities are going through a seismic shift.

Maybe it's my age, or maybe it's the reality of my family and my life, but I'm finally finding the strength to say NO more often.

There was certainly a time when I didn't say NO. I liked every offer that came along. I felt important to be asked. I wanted to be included and highly regarded. I saw the ladder that was out there, and I was going to climb every rung that was opened up for me.

Something has shifted.

Maybe it's because time is flying by so fast. I look at my kids and realize that the summer will be just a few weeks . . . just a few weeks of time for me to talk with them, laugh with them, encourage them, enjoy them. And then school will be back in session. And then another year will be gone . . . and then another . . . and . . .

Maybe it's because I'm a little bit wiser with age. I recognize that some of these invitations that come along come because the first two invitees (or three, or five) said NO. Inconveniencing my life and my family (not to mention my finances) so I can be the third string fill-in doesn't feel all that flattering anymore.

Maybe it's simply that I no longer feel a desperate need to prove myself. The circle is growing smaller by the day. I want to do a good job in my eyes and in my family's. I want my congregation to be glad that I'm their pastor.

Beyond that?

If it's a hoop you need me to jump through so that you'll be impressed, there's a good chance I'll say NO,

thank you, but NO.

tyd

Another Face I Wear

In a few minutes I will put on one of the faces I wear in this community: Alzheimer's Support Group Facilitator.

This is a job I inherited when I became the pastor of this congregation 7+ years ago. Prior to that moment, I knew virtually nothing about Alzheimer's disease. Now it feels like I know way too much.

Alzheimer's is a mean disease - there's no other way to put it. It steals lives, histories, relationships. It robs people of the future they anticipated, when they would simply grow old together.

Wearing this face in the community has resulted in many incredible conversations, often in the oddest of places: the aisle at Wal-Mart or a busy restaurant. Just last night, someone I casually know sat down across from me and began to pour out the story of her mother. We talked about the things that haven't been lost yet, the things that will soon change. We spoke of how her father continued to care for his wife, and to cover up her "little slips", and to generally ignore that these things are happening to his beloved. Oh Denial . . . she is a deep, deep river indeed.

Alzheimer's is a mean disease.

In a few minutes we will share stories. We will share tears, and even some chuckles. We will come together - family members, care providers, group hostesses, and the facilitator. For an hour or so, we will have a real, authentic conversation.

And then we will leave. I'll return to my duties as pastor, the things I can pick up and set aside as I have time and energy.

They will return to their roles as loved ones - 24/7, never-ending, never-absent, never set aside. And they will wait, wait for the moment when one more faculty is gone, one more memory slips forever away, one more smile of recognition fades.

Alzheimer's is a mean, mean disease.

tyd

72 hours to go

Once or twice a year the family disappears and leaves me at home alone. It's not that they don't want me along, or that I don't want to be with them, but the school calendar naturally creates more vacation time than I am allotted.

I don't do well alone - that's a truth I have come to accept. I settled in early and well to having other people around, and when they're not here, I simply count the hours until they will return.

It is these days that make me wonder what life would have been like . . . if I hadn't married . . . if I hadn't become a mom . . . Where would I live? What would I do for a living? What would my life be like?

In some ways, it's impossible to imagine.

But on these days, I try.

Because when I do, it makes their return oh, so much sweeter.

tyd

Giving Up on Lent

The wind will blow again today. It's a little early for March to be roaring in like a lion, but apparently we like to do things early around here.

I used to like the wind. I used to think it was the Spirit of God blowing through our lives, stirring up the dust, whistling through our ears, mussing up our hair, enlivening us with a new awareness of all that is around us, both of our place and our powerlessness in this world.

I think I've lived with the wind too long.

Today the gusts will reach 20 - 30 mph. The wind will blow across my chimney making an ever-present, haunting sound. It will blow across the stove ventilation pipe making an ever-louder whistling sound in the kitchen.

But most of all, it will blow through the alley behind my house. And the configuration of houses and fences and alley and dumpster is somehow perfect for the worst of the wind's noises today: it will, throughout the day, suck the dumpster lids up for a moment, and then slam them down again. Over and over, in unpredictable rhythm, a loud crashing will happen outside.

It will sound like Armageddon today - just like it has every day this week.

Yesterday my friends announced what they were giving up for Lent. I suppose I'm proud of them - I'm sure they will gain some spiritual, personal insight from denying themselves a habitual pleasure.

I'm just glad they didn't ask me what I was giving up this year.

Because this is not my year to give up. This is my year to add on.

If Lent is anything, I think it is the time when we refocus. It is the time when we recenter on what is most important in our lives. For most of us, giving up something is an effective way to do that. It's a reminder: I want a coke. I can't have a coke. Why can't I have a coke? Oh yeah, because God is more important than a coke.

But sometimes we've given up all we can give up. Sometimes, to remember what is most important, we need to take something on.

So what am I taking on this year for Lent?

I'm still working on that list. Here's what I've got so far:

A Blanket. I find that sitting under a blanket makes the wind sound less menacing.
Tenderness. Toward myself and others.
Listening. I'm going to listen more.

Most of all, it comes down to this:

I'm not going to give up.

On me. On others. On life.

On God.

tyd