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I Thought About You Today

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I’m sitting at my discount store pseudo country table positioned in front of two windows right off of the tiny kitchen in my Manhattan apartment. In my eyes this table had the old farmhouse feel I had wanted at the price I could afford for I was no longer at the jewelry magazine serving as editor in chief. I was now freelancing and preparing to enter into seminary to begin…what? I really didn’t have a clue yet what I was preparing for.

Why did I put the table in front of the windows? The view is of the backside of the other apartment building next to mine. I strain my neck to look up at the patch of blue sky. I guess the bits of sun and snippets of life beyond brick walls are worth having the table there.

I’m sitting at my discount store pseudo country table in my Manhattan apartment sipping coffee on what is a deceitful January morning in which the cooing of pigeons makes it sound as if it is warmer outside than it really is.

I’m sitting there…right now, this very moment.

That’s the beauty of memories.

Quiet yourself long enough and allow your heart to revisit that which might bring a tear to your eyes and you can be anywhere at anytime once again.

I’m risking the unbearable ache of the heart by rewinding many years back so that I can remember a colleague and friend, Cindy, who died suddenly and died way too soon.

I am rewinding the memory tape so that I can remember—and hopefully finally learn—a lesson she taught me on one deceitful January morning that was not as warm out as it seemed. The lesson of love and healing that was in one simple phrase she spoke to me:

“I thought of you today.”

That’s what she said on the other end of the phone when I picked it up. I was surprised to hear from her. I had been out of the jewelry industry for a year and it was clear to me as well as to others that I was slipping away, not planning on making writing about jewelry a way of life but rather as a means to get me to whatever my what next was going to be.

Was Cindy thinking about me today for a writing project?

As a freelancer I always felt like I was a squirrel scurrying about trying to gather enough nuts to get me through a desolate winter. And so one more writing assignment was one more nut stored away for the day I would be immersed in theological readings with little or no time to write about the world of jewelry.

“It’s good to hear from you, too, Cindy,” I said, waiting to hear what the “assignment” was. “So why did I come to your mind today?”

What came next surprised me.

“Well, this is not business related. It’s more personal,” Cindy said.

“Oh,” I said not quite sure what I was bracing myself for, but bracing I was.

“I’m not sure if you’re dating anyone or even if you’re opened to dating anyone right now, but I have someone in mind for you,” she said.

“Oh,” I said slowly processing what I was hearing.

Cindy was just one of hundreds in the jewelry industry who knew of my tragic loss. I reflected on the death of my boyfriend in an editorial, writing about the power there is in jewelry and the stories of life—lived and lost—that is in each piece of precious gems and metals.

I wrote about all the coins from the various countries he was traveling to that he had left behind on my pseudo country table before heading off to what would be his final trip to Africa. In a second, in a freak jeep accident, his life was gone.

I wrote to my jewelry family in that editorial that while my boyfriend never bought me jewelry—how could he, I was in the jewelry industry and so I knew jewelry better than he did—I would one day take those coins and make a charm bracelet out them. And that bracelet would be the most precious piece of jewelry ever for it told our story.

Yes it had been a year and no I wasn’t dating anyone yet. Was I really ready to? Not quite.

That’s what I told Cindy. She understood and we talked a bit more, caught up on jewelry gossip and shared a laugh before saying good-bye.

I hung up the phone and sat at my table sipping my coffee feeling as if I just received a huge, warm hug.

Cindy called not seeking anything for herself. The call wasn’t business related. Cindy simply picked up the phone to call me because she was thinking about me—a year later—in my time of singleness and still-heavy grief.

“I thought about you today.”

The memory tape has stopped playing. I’m sitting at a real country table made out of hearty Maine pine. It is yet another deceitful January morning in which the birds chirping can make you believe it is warmer outside than it really is. It’s been years since I was that jewelry editor and gone are those “side of a brick building” views. They have been replaced with beautiful Vermont country views.

Yet I can still feel that warm and loving hug from a woman who in her busy life thought about a colleague who would soon be no longer active in the industry she loved and an industry who loved her back.

I’m sipping coffee on the day in which Cindy will be laid to rest. Thousands of tears will fall from others who I am sure heard those same words I heard that day so long ago.

I sip and gaze, remember and cry, and whisper to the memory of a selfless, loving woman, “I thought about you today.”

And always will.

 

 

Living Water

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There’s a marshy piece of land behind our little red house that is overgrown with tall grass, burdocks and goldenrod. On occasion a wildflower—or two—will peek its pretty head out from the overgrown tundra that has become its unexpected home, thanks to a bird dropping a seed en route in its flight south for the winter. Mostly, though, this marshy piece of land is made up of tall grass and weeds.

When my husband and I first moved in, we tried mowing this area so it would blend into the surrounding landscape. It was not to be. Even in the driest of dry spells the mower would sink down into the still wet and muddy earth beneath.

“It’s just useless,” my husband would say, noting the look of disappointment on my face.

“Really? Perhaps I can try?” I offered.

A look of fear washed over his face. I knew what he was thinking. He would come home one evening from work to find his wife and his beloved riding mower sinking quickly into the marsh. I tried my best to assure him I wouldn’t do anything stupid, at least, not attempt anything stupid when he wasn’t home to help rescue me—and his mower.

Still I was not ready to give up on my vision of an unmarred rural New England landscape, one that would rival those pictured in a Country Curtains catalog.

As a teen I would bypass all those teen-cult magazines talking about how to zap a pimple or get a cute guy to notice you. My reading pleasure was a Country Curtains catalog. I would stare longingly at the pastoral views that were pictured beyond the multi-paned windows draped with material hanging on rods. I wondered what it would be like to live with views like that? (I now wonder now how many curtains did I buy from that catalog all due to my intoxication with the view and not the curtains per se?)

I no longer had to wonder. Each window from our little red house looked out upon rolling hills, cornfields and the green mountains of Vermont. And everyday, no matter how the day was going, whenever I looked out the windows, I smiled and thought, “Wow. I have my very own Country Curtain views.”

All except for that darn piece of marshy land right in back of our house. It was an eyesore to me.

My husband suggested we could turn it into a pond. Perhaps. But until then, every time I sat on the back porch there it was right before me—tall grass and weeds blowing in the wind with only the occasional pretty wildflower—or two if I was lucky—peeking out to cheer me up. I soon began to wonder why was that little piece of land always so wet?

One day as I took our bumbling Bernese mountain dog, Sofie, for a walk on our sprawling five acres, I got my answer. There up a ways from the marshy piece of land was a tiny steady stream of water flowing and feeding down into the weeds and tall grass. I walked along the stream of flowing water trying to find its source. Was there a larger stream? A pond somewhere I didn’t know about? A brook? I kept walking…and walking…and walking. I found no such bodies of water that were feeding this steady stream that nurtured my marshy piece of land. Perhaps there was an underground spring of sorts.

It was time to turn back to the house as the sun was beginning to set. And so we walked, me with my feet on dry ground and Sofie, of course, with her paws happily prancing in the tiny stream of flowing water.

As we got closer to the little red house, I saw something I had never seen before. There in front of me was the most beautiful tall grass blowing in the wind. There in front of me were these goldenrods made ever more golden by the sun’s setting rays. There before me was not a marshy eyesore I so badly wanted to get rid of. There before me was something beautiful created by living water coming from an unknown source feeding the grass, the burdocks, the weeds, and yes, even the occasional wildflower—or two.

Jesus talked many times about offering us living water—water that quenches what is dry and parched and brings life and hope back. Living water was a metaphor those in Jesus’ day would understand for out in the wilderness, after the much needed rains would come, water would be “alive” flowing on its own power bringing the relief those who were thirsty needed. The flowing water was viewed as powerful, mystical, sacred…and beautiful.

We all need living water. Water that not only quenches are deepest physical thirst, but living water that flows in our lives with a mighty God power, carrying us and leading us to all that is lush and all that is truly beautiful.

I looked down at Sofie still with her paws in the living water we had just discovered on our property, when all of sudden she assumed a hunting position with nose pointed forward, one front paw extended with one of her hind legs reaching back the other direction. I held more tightly onto her leash so she couldn’t lunge forward to get the beautiful red winged blackbird that swooped in and landed on top of the tallest pieces of grass swaying in the marshy piece of land that I had once thought was an eyesore. It was no longer that. I now saw it for what it really was. It was a sanctuary for God’s creatures—a sanctuary created by living water.

Life can’t be an unmarred pastoral landscape. We try to create such, but it just can’t be. Life needs a marshy piece of land with weeds and tall grass and burdocks and goldenrod and that occasional wildflower or two. A place touched by the power of living water which then becomes a blessing to those all around.

And so the marshy land still stands behind our little red house looking prettier than any Country Curtains view I could have ever hoped for.

It stands as a testimony not only to the power of living water on our property. It stands as a testimony of the living water I know that flows in my life, the only thing I need when my soul is parched.

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The marshy piece of land, fed by the living water on our property, sits to the left beyond our old stonewall. It’s no longer an eyesore, but a beautiful sanctuary for tall grass, burdocks, goldenrod, the occasional wildflower or two, and yes, even weeds. And the birds love sitting on top of the high grass.

And the Nominees for Best Picture Are…

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The convention center fell silent, a noteworthy occurrence as just minutes before the room reverberated with the deafening sound of thousands of youth laughing and chattering away.

Now?

Silence. Complete silence as the speaker on stage of the Christian youth rally shouted out questions he knew he could not answer.

“I don’t know why your parents had to divorce?”

“I don’t know why your grandmother died?”

“I don’t know why your best friend killed himself?”

“I just don’t know why?” he shouted with a sound of defeat in his voice as if he was letting these thousands of teens down. Soon, though, the defeat turned to hope as he gave the answer I was waiting to hear, for how many times have I preached such a sermon on trying to understand why tough things happen in our lives?

“This I do know. God takes what is ugly in our lives and God makes something beautiful out of it,” the speaker announced with many an “amen, amen, amen” coming not only from his lips but from those like me in the audience who knew how true that statement was.

God knows the answer to our whys. God turns the ugly in our lives into something beautiful. God is doing His best work in our darkest times, the theme of the very first sermon I ever preached. What a great message, I thought, for these kids to hear.

What a great message for we adults to be reminded of as well for how many times today have you asked God, “Why…” insert the problem or the conflict or the failure or whatever.

But this I know, with God there is always hope. There is always redemption. There is always resurrection—life springing forth from what seems to have died.

The silence in the convention center broke with thundering applause. I wiped the tears from my eyes as the lights went on and soon our coats were on and the kids from the church and I were heading out for an afternoon of laser tag followed by lunch before the afternoon session of the youth rally began again.

Three teenage girls were in my car and as they chattered away about this and that—more that than this it sounded to my ears—the “co-pilot” as I nicknamed the teen who got to sit upfront with me, tried hard to find a rap station on the radio.

I know they were excited for laser tag and lunch, but I was quiet, still thinking about the sermon we had just heard.

Since no rap station was successfully found, I seized my opportunity to share with the three teens in my car.

“So, what did you think of the sermon you just heard?” I asked.

“It was really good,” girl 1 said, with girl 2 agreeing.

“It wasn’t just good, it was powerful,” said girl 3.

“What did you think about the fact that God can basically make all things new in your lives?” I delved a bit further.

“Awesome” and “cool” were the typical teen comments.

“Hey, did you try this station…there should be some good songs there?” girl 3 instructed girl 1, better known as my co-pilot.

My window of opportunity was closing quickly and so I jumped in before Jay Z or Rihanna or Taylor Swift or whatever music sensation of the day could steal my thunder.

“Some of you don’t know my story of how God made something ugly into something beautiful. Let me tell you…”

Silence fell over the car as I shared with the girls my story of going from Manhattan magazine editor to pastor and how the strength to leave my on the surface glamorous career for what looked to be a far from glamorous job of pastor came about when my boyfriend was killed in a freak jeep accident in Africa.

As I spoke I told them how it was God who gave me the strength and courage to venture into the unknown—leaving the security of a job and a paycheck, going back to school, moving to a rural area where my cute heels were definitely goners during mud season—and how it was God who wiped away my tears of loss and heartache not just once, not just twice, but hundreds of times. Yet all those tears shed did indeed water the ground to some pretty beautiful things in my life, among them, meeting my husband during mud season in the rural area I served as pastor.

Girl 1, my co-pilot, stopped her search for music on the radio and just stared at me as she listened. Girl 3 I couldn’t really see as she sat right behind the driver’s seat. Girl 2, though, I noticed in the rear view mirror was listening intently.

I pulled into the parking lot of the laser tag place and the excited chatter about who will be on whose team began. Intense listening moment had ended.

Oh well, I thought. As I held the door open for the girls, girl 2, who was new to our youth group, stopped before racing in to join the others.

“You know, Pastor Donna, your story would make an incredible movie,” she said with a look on her face that expressed thanks for me sharing with her.

I smiled and told her if that happened she could play me in the movie, but she would have to wear a blond wig to cover her dark brown hair. She laughed and soon she was with the others getting ready for laser tag.

I sat and thought about her comment. I have heard it before, many times from young and old. There was even a moment when I met someone who knew of someone who was a producer for a TV network and remarked I should get in touch with said person. I never did. For with God, don’t we all have amazing stories to share?

“Your story would make a great movie.”

It would for God is one awesome writer of all of our scripts. God is one incredible producer, casting director, sound person, you name it, God turns all of our lives into one of the best motion pictures ever. That is, the movie of hope realized and faith rewarded. The movie that has the same ending for us all: redemption and resurrection.

Pastor Donna, your life would make a great movie.

And so would your life.

And the nominees for best picture are…

 

 

 

 

Where’s the ‘Happy’?

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A new year always brings with it great expectations. Expectations of a new you, a new outlook, a new start, a new…insert here whatever “new” you might be hoping for. And so when the hopeful infant days of 2016 are plagued so soon with what I basically call “life”—bills to pay, deadlines to meet, meetings to attend, etc., you wonder, “Where’s the ‘happy’ in the Happy New Year?”

As I sat here this morning wondering where the happy was in this the new year, a cartoon crossed my desk. It was a sketch of a Christian martyr standing in the middle of a Roman stadium, eyes fixed on heaven above, a calm look upon his face, and arms stretched out in prayer. In the foreground was the lion making its way out from its den, eager to “introduce” itself to this Christian. My friend’s commentary on the cartoon read, “Being a Christian doesn’t take away your problems.”

I laughed a knowing laugh and remembered then that the “happy” in a new year is found in the knowledge of whom it is that we belong to. We belong to God and as God’s beloveds there is nothing to fear nor is there anything to get down about, for God is there.

The psalmist proclaimed it the best when the question, “Where does my help come from?” was asked at the beginning of Psalm 121. The reply: My help comes from the Lord, maker of Heaven and Earth.

The “happy” in a new year comes from knowing deep in our hearts that there is a helper, a guide, a comforter and a friend in our lives.

So why fear? Why fret? Why cry or worry when we can smile and be set free to enjoy all that God has for us? And when trying times do hit (as they will), why lament?

The “lions” in life might be waiting to pounce but eyes focused upward and hands stretched out in praise, helps us all to stand tall.

And so, where’s the happy in the new year? It’s right there in the knowledge of knowing that no matter what, there is nothing to fear, for we belong to God.

May we realize this day and always that there is a divine message shining in our lives as well that whispers to us, “Be not afraid.”

Taking Down the Christmas Tree

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I can’t believe I’m admitting this, but I’m actually thinking about taking my Christmas tree down. It’s only December 31.

Now I know many folks take their tree down before New Year’s Eve, while still others do the dreaded packing up of the ornaments on New Year’s Day. I understand the thinking behind it. It’s a new year, a fresh start, and a clean slate—out with the old and in with the new, and that means out with the Christmas tree that has become a fire hazard and in with the newly reclaimed living room space. But for me to be thinking about taking down my tree…well, I have to ask, “What has happened to me?”

I’ve always been the poster child for celebrating the 12 days of Christmas, advocating keeping trees up and the holiday cheer going till the wise men come the first week in January to present Jesus with the gifts in which we should observe on that often unobserved day on the liturgical calendar known as Epiphany.

I say “often unobserved” day, for the circles I travel in do not do as good a job as my Catholic or Latino or more liturgically literate friends do in celebrating Epiphany.

I’m trying to bring Epiphany back, but those darn wise men bearing gifts of frankincense, myrrh and gold keep crashing church nativity pageants at Christmastime, reinforcing the belief there was one big party going on in the stable the night Jesus was born.

The thing is the wise men probably didn’t show up until about three years after Jesus’ birth. First, scripture tells us the wise men asked King Herod where they could find the “child” not the “baby” whose star they saw in the sky. Second, King Herod, fearing his power would be usurped by a child, issued the horrible edict to slaughter all male children three years of age and under. And lastly, when the wise men did find Mary and Joseph we are told they entered into the “house” and not a “stable.” And so we have the celebration of Epiphany that comes after Christmas.

But I digress.

It’s only December 31 and I—the self-proclaimed advocate for not cutting short the Christmas season—want to do just that. Cut short Christmas by taking down my tree.

What has happened to me?

I’ve been asking that question all week as I struggled through these days to find some holiday cheer or Christmas magic that those sappy TV Christmas shows tell me I should be experiencing. I searched and searched, but nothing. I even tried to recreate some Christmases past by pouring a glass of eggnog to enjoy with some of my mother-in-law’s cookies that I couldn’t wait to get this year. The eggnog and cookies were delicious, but the holiday cheer I had wanted to fill my heart did not happen.

If anything, the ultra sweet and fattening combo made me more nostalgic for Christmases gone by—and more guilty that I haven’t gone to the gym yet.

I then called my mom and dad to see what they were up to. Perhaps we could plan an impromptu visit. But they were feeling like me—no real energy to do much of anything.

Was it the unseasonably warm weather making everyone blue? I know for my bumbling Bernese mountain dog it was, for her wish for snow—and lots of it—did not come true this Christmas. She did, however, get to enjoy some of the mother-in-law’s cookies. (I pray my vet is reading this for she did have more than one Christmas cookie.)

Or was this bah-humbug epidemic hitting all those I loved really the side effect of yet another infectious bug going around for the hundredth time, creating not so silent nights of nose blowing and coughing?

Could be a combination of both. Or so I tried to convince myself when really I knew the desire to pack away Christmas sooner than I would usually do was something beyond unseasonably warm weather, sad dogs and sinus infections.

Sometimes in life the heart struggles. It is as simple as that. For whatever reason there are some seasons where you have to just feel what the heart is feeling and stop trying to figure “it” out whatever the “it” might be. And definitely make no apologies for where your heart is.

There are times to rejoice that a newborn has come into the world to be our Savior. There are times for the angels to sing with joy and for shepherds to fall on their knees in awe and adoration for what God has done.

Then there are times when there is no star to guide you, no angels’ song to cheer you and no joy in the world to keep you going. There are times when the cross looms in front of you and its burden seems too much for you to carry and you fear it will crush you. But it won’t.

Then there are those times when you just need to pack away Christmas and take down the tree earlier than you usually do.

And that’s okay.

For however your heart might be feeling, this I know for sure. God is right by your side, hearing you ask, “What has happened to me?” and in return whispering His comforting answer, “You’re okay. I’ve got you. Always.”

I heard that whisper on Christmas morning. As I sat high on top of the hill behind our little red house, I saw one of the most beautiful sunrises ever and I could hear God’s whisper mingle with the remnants of the angel’s song of praise “Glory to God in the highest.” It was then I realized even if my heart wasn’t “right”—whatever that means—my soul definitely was in the right place.

There on the hill surrounded by nature’s holiday decorations of dazzling sun rays, glistening frost, heavenly clouds hanging low in the valley and evergreen branches swaying as birds danced on each one, I embraced once again God’s gift of grace and hope and light. The heart will have its ups and downs, its questions and doubts, but God’s heart isn’t fickle. It remains consistent—always loving us through all our days.

It’s December 31 and I will be taking down my Christmas tree earlier than I usually do. What has happened to me? I’m still not completely sure, but I do know this.

I’m more than okay. For while the Christmas lights are coming off the tree the light that matters the most in my life still burns brightly. That is, the light of Christ.

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Christmas morning 2015 on top of “Sofie’s Hill” in Vermont. The gift of God’s reassuring presence that I carry with me into a New Year. 

Day 24/25—Let the Christ Light Shine

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A Little White Church Christmas

As we approach Christmas Eve, hear the stories of God incarnate working in and among the people of the little white church nestled in a village in Upstate New York. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during Donna Frischknecht’s time serving as minister of a historic white clapboard church right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 24/25

We had just finished singing “Silent Night.” The Christmas Eve service was soon to be over and I felt like a child who had just opened the last of her Christmas presents. I was still overjoyed and excited, but I didn’t want the magic of the night to end.

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I wanted more of this holy night. I wanted more of the beautiful circle of light embracing the sanctuary of the little white church. (For more on the circle of light, read Day 21 of a “Little White Church Advent”.) I wanted more of the beaming faces I saw illuminated by the candles they held.

We were done singing and the echo of the last note slowly vanished into heaven. I was not ready to put this gift away and give the benediction. And so I stood there.

We stood there. Together. Light shining brightly not from candles quickly burning down and dripping wax onto the carpeted floor, but the light of Christ shining brightly from our hearts.

There we stood. Finally I spoke.

“This is a beautiful sight. Christ’s light shining from you all. Take a moment to notice this gift before you,” I said, “For this moment is a gift.”

And it was.

The gifts of silence and candlelight were being given to us, allowing the depth of meaning of this night to enter into our hearts.

I just didn’t want to rush Christmas Eve for I knew after the candles were blown out and the sanctuary lights went back on, the flurry of holiday excitement would kick back into high speed.

I knew for some gathered in the sanctuary there were more relatives to visit after the church service. For others there were late suppers to feast on. For still others there were overly excited children to wrangle into their pajamas, get the plate of cookies and glass of cold milk ready for Santa, before finally getting them to bed. For me there was a glass of eggnog and pickled herring waiting at home, a combination that my husband still does not understand or partakes of.

Yes, soon the candles would be blown out and for me my treasured Christmas Eve tradition at the white church would begin.

The last person would say good night and “Merry Christmas” to me. I would then walk back into an empty sanctuary to my office to get take off my clergy robe and get my boots and coat on.

As I walked down the aisle I would notice how the sanctuary looked like a Christmas hangover—bulletins strewn onto the floor, candy cane wrappers left on the cushions and the stray glove or mitten homeless till next Sunday when its owners would claim them.

With my coat and boots finally on, I would take one last look around the sanctuary and kitchen and bathrooms and fellowship hall to make sure all lights were off, all candles extinguished and all doors locked.

Once outside, I would notice the last light flickering from the candles in the luminaries on the steps of the old church. I would then stand there in the silence of the night and look up at the stars and wonder.

Who on this holy night left this little white church with the gift of Christ born again in his or her heart?

For all too quickly after a silent night the frenzy of the world kicks into high speed and we forget each moment is a gift from God. It is a gift not to waste by worrying or rushing, but a gift to slow down and notice God’s light is always shining in the darkness.

I would stand on the old church steps in the silence of the night, breathe in the night air and allow the light from the stars to lead me in the true celebration of Christmas.

The candles burned brightly in the sanctuary, but the light of Christ shone even brighter. The Christmas Eve service was just about over.

It was time to give the benediction I came upon the first year I was a pastor. It was one I have always loved. I lifted my candle and I said to all gathered:

May the joy of the angels,

The eagerness of the shepherds,

The perseverance of the wise men,

The obedience of Joseph and Mary,

And the peace of the Christ Child be yours this Christmas;

And the blessing of God almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be among you and remain with your always.

Amen.

The candles went out in the sanctuary, but the light of Christ went back out into the village, out to the farms, and all throughout the fields and rolling hills and mountain views in which the little white church has stood for many a Christmas as a beacon of hope and a witness of a faith—and which will stand for many more Christmases to come.

Merry Christmas!

 

From the Accidental Country Pastor:

 Thank you for joining me on this “A Little White Church Advent and Christmas” journey. May you have a blessed Christmas and may your remember you are the light of Christ our world needs. Let the light shine where you are now and forevermore.

Accidental Country Pastor will return with more stories of faith and more beautiful God moments January 1, 2016.

 Blessings, Pastor Donna

 

 

 

Day 23—Be Near Me Lord Jesus

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A Little White Church Christmas

As we approach Christmas Eve, hear the stories of God incarnate working in and among the people of the little white church nestled in a village in Upstate New York. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during Donna Frischknecht’s time serving as minister of a historic white clapboard church right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 23

It was my worst nightmare come true as a pastor. I woke up the Sunday morning before Christmas Eve with a queasy stomach and a pounding headache. I tried convincing myself it was probably the Chinese food I had the night before—darn my love of greasy egg rolls and fried wontons—but I knew I was only fooling myself. The 24-hour bug that was making its way through all the kids at the little white church had finally reached me.

“You don’t look so hot,” was my husband’s loving observation when I came down the stairs for breakfast.

“I don’t feel so hot,” was my meager reply.

I just had to get through the morning worship. So had a piece of toast and took a swig of some Pepto Bismal and off to church we drove.

“Please, Lord, let me just get through this morning,” was my prayer as my husband drove and I sat in the passenger seat trying my best to not let each curve he took upset my stomach more.

Luckily, the service for the morning was a new tradition for the little church. It was a variation on the traditional Lessons and Carols. I called it our “Lessons and Carols and Witnessing to the Light” as children would read the scripture lessons and several adults from the congregation would share their stories of God at work in their lives based on the scripture just read. And so I was off the hook for preaching.

“I can do this,” I kept telling myself. “Just greet people, say the opening prayer and wrap it up with a benediction.”

In addition to the lessons and the stories of faith, there was the reenactment of the nativity complete with children dressed as shepherds, sheep and angels. Oh, and the special treat that year would be a real baby Jesus! I had never been in a church where, come the month of December, there was an actual baby to play the starring role.

Holden was born that August and his sister, Ida, would be playing Mary and so chances were the baby “Jesus” wouldn’t cry with familiar arms holding him. Twenty-four hour bug or not, I wasn’t going to miss this. And so it began.

I said my opening prayer and took a seat in the pew so I could watch the nativity unfold. Unfortunately, the bug started to act up and I couldn’t really pay attention to anything that was going in that hour worship. All I knew is that I wanted to get home as quickly as I could.

The congregation knew their pastor looked a little green and they were all so understanding as I said a quick good-bye right after the benediction. But before leaving the sanctuary, my parents, who had driven up from New Jersey, said their quick good byes and put into my hands a bag with a gift that pushed my queasy stomach to its limits. In the bag was huge jar of pickled herring.

“Get me home now,” was all I could say to my husband after I graciously thanked my parents, and put the pickled herring in the back of the car.

We finally got home and I was down for the count. The bug had defeated me.

It was a grueling afternoon and early evening, but by the time the stars came out in the night sky, I was feeling a bit better physically; but not emotionally.

I was bummed out as I thought that morning’s worship service was a total flop. Yes, I was being hard on myself, but I continued to ask my husband the same questions over and over again.

“Did everything go well during worship?”

“Are you sure?”

“You’re not lying to me, are you?”

“Why are you asking me this? Everything went perfectly,” he said.

The fact was I really didn’t know how anything went because I was so out of it. I still doubted his reassurances and continued to feel glum.

I climbed back into bed now praying for strength to get through the two Christmas Eve services that were, yikes, in less than 24 hours.

Just as I fluffed my pillows to settle in for some more rest with a glass of flat ginger ale—I wasn’t ready for the pickled herring yet—the message alert on my phone went off. I leaned over to discover it was from one of the mothers at the little white church who was really enjoying her newfound passion for photography.

She had hoped I was feeling better and wanted to share all the pictures she took of that morning’s worship service.

I opened the file of pictures and began seeing my husband was not lying to me. Picture after picture told the story of a beautiful service that actually took place even though I was too sick to notice.

There were smiles from adults at the lectern sharing their stories of faith and smiles from those listening in the pews. There were the girls dressed as angels standing in the front of the church and there was the parade of shepherds with their sheep—and a cow thrown in there as well. There was even a bright gold star dancing around trying to show the shepherds the way to stable.

All of a sudden I began to realize God was at work that morning even though I was out of commission. It was then I understood what pastors told me when I became ordained.

“It’s never about you. It’s always about God working through you and the congregation. God always shows up and is fully present even during those times in life when you struggle to show up and be fully present to God.”

My finger kept sliding through the pictures of a Sunday before Christmas Eve worship service where God was fully present and working through all the faithful gathered that morning—fully present to Him.

Worship continued to God even though there was a picture of the pastor sitting in the pew looking a bit green.

My mood went from glum to happy and then happy to feeling completely blessed for the last picture I opened was the one that captured the Spirit at work the best.

There before my eyes was baby Jesus reaching up with his little hand to lovingly grab hold of Mary’s hair.

I didn’t notice that was happening at all that morning. But the smiles of the other children gathered around Mary and Jesus told me they noticed something special taking place.

And Mary’s face, played by big sister, Ida, said so much without saying a word. With her eyes closed behind the glasses she got that year (yes, Mary had glasses!) she bowed her head in prayer and smiled sweetly as the rest of the shepherds and angels and sheep and one cow and a dancing gold star began to sing, “Away in the Manger.”

All the while as the children sang baby Jesus held onto Mary who continued to be deep in prayer.

I stared at that picture. And stared some more.

How many times, I wondered, was Jesus reaching out his hand to me, gently tugging at either my heart or grabbing at my soul, to let me know in my time of prayer that he was indeed with me?

How many times has Jesus lovingly tugged at my hair to reassure me, “I got you and I will never let you go.”

That Sunday before Christmas Eve a pesky 24-hour bug taught me a beautiful lesson.

I learned God always shows up and is fully present to us, even when we ourselves are not fully present to God—no matter what the reason might be.

May this day before Christmas Eve you find your head bowed in prayer. And may you feel a gentle tug of God incarnate reaching out and holding on to you.

Be near me, Lord Jesus,

I ask Thee to stay,

close by me forever,

and love me,I pray. 

Ida

 

 

 

Day 22—Truly He Taught Us

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A Little White Church Christmas

As we approach Christmas Eve, hear the stories of God incarnate working in and among the people of the little white church nestled in a village in Upstate New York. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during Donna Frischknecht’s time serving as minister of a historic white clapboard church right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 22

We love because God first loved us.  1 John 4:19

 The lights had just been dimmed a bit more in the sanctuary of the little white church. With my sermon now over, we were making our way through the order of worship, getting ever so closer to the candlelight singing of “Silent Night.” Before that moment, though, there was the soloist who would sing “O Holy Night.”images

I had asked our pianist’s son to be present with us on Christmas Eve to sing this beloved song. I was so happy when he agreed for while he was just out of high school he had a voice that I would place in the same category of Pavarotti. Yes, his voice was that good.

In a way his singing would be a gift to me as it provided what I would call more breathing room in the order of worship for the Holy Spirit to move among us. It was a space for grace in which I as a pastor could sit back and reflect on the words I had just preached. And, hopefully, it would be a space for grace for those in the pews to also reflect on God’s word proclaimed.

And so the last word of my sermon was spoken and I sat back down in the official looking “pastor’s chair” with its ornately carved wooden legs and armrests complete with a regal velvet seat.

The anticipation of the night heightened. Our pianist struck the first ivory key and her son hit the first perfect note.

O holy night, the stars are brightly shining.

Within seconds I felt as if I was being transported to that actual night when something so indescribable and so life changing happened. I could imagine the awe, the beauty, the joy…

Indescribable. Life changing. Wait. I didn’t have to imagine. That was happening right here, right now, I realized.

In the past year of ministry together I had many indescribable moments of lives being changed not by the latest church fads or prepackage programs on how to grow your church or lead a successful stewardship campaign. I could tell of many indescribable moments of lives being changed through times of more praying, times of more trusting and times of keeping our eyes on Jesus rather than the stormy waves all around us. No, I didn’t have to imagine something indescribable as God awakening His children. I could see it.

The young Pavarotti from rural America continued hitting perfect note after perfect note.

In all our trials, born to be our friend.

Ah, those pesky trials. There were those as well. Every church has them but just recently I had begun to see the blessings born out of trials. God does do His best work in dark times, I mused, as I thought about how God protected this little white church through showers, squalls and storms. And the storms were weathered due to the fact that deeper friendships were being forged with Jesus through coming together for more prayer, study and times of serving.

The singing continued to gift us all…

Truly He taught us to love one another.

Love. Just the other day a woman from the congregation gave me a Christmas card. It was an adorable bear dressed as an angel smiling and bringing good tidings of joy with the scripture message written beneath, “We love because God first loved us.”

I took notice of that card more than I usually would take notice because I found it interesting the scripture was from 1 John. I had never seen that before on a Christmas card. Usually Isaiah’s words of a “son has been given unto us…and his name shall be…” or the angels’ song of “glory to God in the highest” find their way onto a greeting card. Not this card. This was reminding us of why we love—because God first loved us.

Truly He taught us to love one another.

Love. That’s what it comes down to, I said to myself silently. Jesus had taught us how to love one another and while it seems hard at times or perhaps many times, love really is the glue that holds all things together.

I remember as I was moving up to serve this little village I was given words of advice. First, everyone was related in some way or another, so be careful about what you say about anyone.

I looked down at my engagement ring and wedding band and swirled the white gold and diamonds around my finger. I was now part of the being related to someone in the little village I served as pastor. It was just six months before on a beautiful June morning the “pastor from the city” married the “local boy.” It was a community-wide celebration of answered prayers—and 17 flower girls, all from the village, who were excited that Pastor Donna was finally getting married.

Secondly, I was told the good news about life in a little village was everyone knew you. The bad news was everyone knew you.

Good and bad, people knew what was going on in your life, which at times I had learned could get complicated, tricky or just plain contentious. And yet I had also learned that no matter what differences people had or what long-time grudges were held, when a person was in need, differences and grudges were put aside and love, no matter how difficult to show, was shown.

That was new to me. Growing up in a more congested area, people were quicker to forget you or less likely to help you. But in a little village, there was this overriding sense that no matter what, we were all in this life together.

Truly, the people of the little white church taught me what it meant to love one another. For it was these people I was brought to shepherd who instead shepherd me in the way of forgiveness and by doing so helped me to experience the healing grace it brings.

Churches, I realized, are like families. There will be squabbles and downright disagreements. Sides might be taken and the ties that bind might fray, but in a rural village and church, the frays very rarely snap completely apart.

That night, as the young Pavarotti sang, the lesson of love continued as the Spirit worked among all, opening hearts ever more wider to one another.

I looked out at the congregation and it seemed to me they, too, were being transported to their own indescribable life changing moments God has blessed them with.

It was indeed a holy night.

 

 

Day 21—A Circle of Light

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A Little White Church Christmas

As we approach Christmas Eve, hear the stories of God incarnate working in and among the people of the little white church nestled in a village in Upstate New York. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during Donna Frischknecht’s time serving as minister of a historic white clapboard church right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 21

I spoke the last word of my Christmas Eve sermon and as I did I secretly breathed a sigh of relief. No matter how long one has been at his or her craft—Christmas Eve worship always brings a bit of anxiety.There’s the anxiety of trying to tell the old familiar story in a fresh, new way. images

(Reminder to self: just let God’s Word speak, don’t get cute or fancy. Just be real.)

Then there is the anxiety of what if this would the night in which for the first time ever I blank out up there and forget everything. That’s an anxiety leftover from seminary days.

(Reminder to self: it has yet to happen and so it probably will never happen.)

Then there’s the anxiety of new faces staring back at you from the pews, many of whom probably have no interest in what the church offers beyond Christmas Eve. I have come to realize those who find themselves gathered in a church on that holy night are often gathered out of a sense of tradition, which is not bad at all.

(Reminder to self: the Holy Spirit can work—and does reach hearts—with those simply seeking tradition.)

My task is not to convert people on Christmas Eve. My task is to be as faithful as I can in the telling God’s story of salvation and let my own knowledge of that salvation and grace, speak through me.

Still I have a healthy awareness as to where the Christmas Eve sermon ranks in importance for those gathered to worship.

(Note to self: keep Christmas Eve sermon on the shorter side.)

I would say the sermon is probably at No. 3, right behind wanting to hear the old familiar songs of Christmases past sung once again.

What’s the No. 1 reason many come to church on Christmas Eve?

They come for that incredibly moving moment when the lights go out in the sanctuary. Then, with only the radiant beams shining from hundreds of individual candles, “Silent Night” is softly sung by young and old, believer and doubter, broken and whole, joyful and sorrowful, sinner and saint.

And nowhere more was this beloved tradition so beautifully executed than at the little white church.

It was there that I, a new pastor, was introduced to a new tradition I had never experienced before.

As I was planning my first Christmas Eve, I was told by the faithful and hardworking Worship Committee that while I basically had free reign to do whatever new thing I wanted to do that night, I was not to change how they did the candles during “Silent Night.”

“First we have communion,” said one woman in a way that told me she was used to being in charge. “We have two chalices, one for grape juice and one for wine.”

“We have to remember to put a red bow on the wine chalice so that people know which cup has the alcohol and which one doesn’t,” another committee member chimed in.

(Note to self: remember to announce that on Christmas Eve as well as print the red-bow chalice information in the worship bulletin.)

“Okay,” I said, agreeing with everything so far.

“And then we light our candles from the Christ candle and we begin making a circle all around the sanctuary,” the woman with the drill sergeant voice continued.

(Note to you the reader: This woman with the gruff voice turned out to be one of the most blessed angels in my ministry while at the little white church. I always smile whenever I think of her.)

“You don’t go back to your pews?” I asked, trying to envision the circle being made as folks come up for communion, while others took their lighted candles up the aisles of a church made out of timber some 200-plus years old. I was fond of that church and really didn’t want to see any fires on Christmas Eve.

“Yes,” she said in a way that told me I shouldn’t have questioned it.

“We’ve always done it this way, pastor,” yet another committee member added.

“But what about safety issues?” I asked ever so gently.

“You just have be careful with your candle,” was the reply.

“What about those who have trouble walking and have to remain seated in the pew? We can’t leave them out of the candle lighting?” I asked, thinking of my handicapped brother who would visiting that Christmas Eve and who definitely would be that person forgotten in this beautiful, beloved tradition.

“No problem. Whoever has to remain seated, will stay seated. An elder will light their candle and stay with them as sort of an extension of the circle,” was the reply back.

“Oh, okay. That’s a wonderful solution,” I said, still not certain as to how this was all going to play out on Christmas Eve.

And so I spoke the last word of my Christmas Eve sermon and as I did I secretly breathed a sigh of relief. That part was done. Now, though, there was the angst of the singing of “Silent Night” and the circle of light that would be made in the sanctuary.

Now more than ever I had to trust God.

(Note to self: I am just an instrument. Let God work on this holy night.)

And work He did.

Young and old, believer and doubter, broken and whole, joyful and sorrowful, sinner and saint, all came up to break the bread, then dip in either of the two chalices (the one with the red bow was quite popular), and then light their candle.

Back up the side aisles they began to go. I really couldn’t pay much attention to the formation of the circle, as I was busy administering the sacrament. By the time all were served the bread and the cup, it was time for me to light my candle and say a prayer before the singing of “Silent Night” began.

I looked up and out at the sanctuary for the first time. I couldn’t speak. My throat choked up with emotion and I had to fight the tears.

Before my eyes was an unbroken circle of pure light, with faces all beaming, especially the faces from those on the Worship Committee, who looked at me as if to say, “Isn’t this beautiful? See, you had nothing to worry about, pastor.”

All come for this Christmas Eve moment in which something more powerful than tradition happens—the light of Christ, if only throughout the four or five stanzas of “Silent Night”, is seen by eyes often blind to it.

The smile from a teen as God whispers blessed assurances that life will get better.

The tear coming from the elderly woman as God’s arms wrap around her when her husband’s arms can no longer hug her.

The child, who is fighting his mom to hold his own candle, is finally given the light. He quiets down and holds the light with reverence and awe, as God’s Spirit lights up the world before him.

My brother, seated in the pew, but not alone. The light of Christ shining forth on him in the way of the candle of a church member who chose to stand by him.

Each person, even if it is just for the four or five stanzas in which “Silent Night” is sung, can see the Christ light in their lives.

The little white church’s beloved tradition had become mine. And every year I couldn’t wait to see the circle of light in that historic sanctuary, a reminder of God’s never-ending love upon Christ’s church and its people.

 

 

Day 20—An Advent Prayer

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A Little White Church Advent

Come on an Advent journey and walk the rural roads and snow covered paths with Donna Frischknecht as she shares stories of God’s promises being fulfilled in the most amazing ways. These stories of “Emmanuel”—God with us—were gathered during her time serving as minister in a historic white clapboard church in upstate New York, right on the border of Vermont, from 2007-2013.

December 20

On this the fourth Sunday in Advent, I invite you to light the candle of love on the Advent wreath (or simply light one lone candle) and join with me in saying this prayer written by one of my favorite authors, Henri Nouwen.

 Lord Jesus,

Master of both the light and the darkness, 
send your Holy Spirit upon our preparations for Christmas.


We who have so much to do seek quiet spaces to hear your voice each day.

We who are anxious over many things look forward to your coming among us.

We who are blessed in so many ways long for the complete joy of your kingdom.


We whose hearts are heavy seek the joy of your presence.

We are your people, walking in darkness, yet seeking the light.


To you we say, “Come Lord Jesus!”

 Our advent journey has now become a holy walk to the stable. And so join in tomorrow for the countdown to Christmas Day with “A Little White Church Christmas.”

For now, many thanks for joining me this advent. It has been a blessing for me to share with you the heartfelt God moments that took place—and continue taking place—at the little white church.

And now  I have a candle to light and an Advent prayer to lift up. I hope you take time to do the same.

Till tomorrow.

Blessings and peace,

Pastor Donna (one very grateful “accidental country pastor”)IMG_1828