“We are so afraid of a maladjusted view of sanctification that we beg off [teaching] it all together. A number of PCA churches teach the ‘doctines of grace’, but never give an expectation as to how grace should be operative in us, what it should do to us. We teach regeneration of the heart, but not the doctrine of the ‘new man’. We assume it will follow, and I think it is a bad assumption. I heard a Presbytery examiner ask a candidate for ordination, ‘Define justification, and touch on sanctification’. I thought to myself, ‘Well, there’s our problem.’” - Rich Lambert, New St. Peter’s Presbyterian Church

….in places that are not America.

(Me and Chrissy. Edinburgh. 2004. I think.)

I know.

I didn’t do a week of blogging.

A friend of mine asked about my blog over the weekend. I realized that part of why I blogged was because I felt like there was all this stuff I needed to get “out there”, mostly while I was in Scotland, and terribly lonely, with all these things happening to me, with no one to tell besides the big internet. Now, I feel like I have less to say - not that I *think* less, or process less, but just that I have less to put “out there”. Maybe it’s because things have settled down. Maybe it’s because I’m married, and at the end of the day I feel like I’ve gotten my of that stuff out of my system (I have a husband who is a great listener). I don’t know.

And I’ve been a bit out of sorts lately. For a variety of reasons - some of which I am aware of, but I think some of it I’m still figuring out.

A few weeks back, somehow, I started reading Anne Jackson’s blog, Flowerdust.net. I don’t read a lot of blogs anymore, because I’ve gotten out of the habit, and I don’t follow link-to-link like I used to, back in college. Anne’s is one that I come back to. She wrote a book that just got released, called Mad Church Disease, about burnout in ministry. I felt like it was something I should read.

I mentioned this to Danny last week. Danny is our staff chaplain…I’m so grateful to be employed by a workplace that even has a staff chaplain - especially someone as great as Danny. I told Danny I hadn’t read it yet because it wasn’t at the library yet. He got all kinda-fake mad at me and said that was silly, because he would love to buy it for me. (I…didn’t really think about that, to be honest. But it didn’t shock me.) The next morning I got a call from Danny. “God is thinking of you today, my friend,” he started. He went on to say that that morning, he walked into his senior pastor’s office (of the church where he’s on full-time staff) and saw the book laying on his desk. “Where did you get that?” he asked his pastor. The pastor shrugged and said someone gave it to him. Danny asked if he was going to read it. He said not soon. Danny asked if I could borrow it. His pastor said sure.

Danny came in with it the following day, so I could have it over the weekend. Last night, Ben and I spent the night in a cabin - not so much for a romantic Valentines weekend, but more for just a night’s break for me. I needed….SOMETHING. My mother has called every day this week to tell me about her vacation in South Padre. I cried the third time. Not because I really like South Padre Island (it doesn’t do much for me), but because I felt like I was going to break.

(She called me on Friday to tell me about the horrible sunburn she got that day, and how much pain she was in. I said she deserved it. Thankfully, she laughed.)

So Ben agreed to a cabin in Brown County. It’s beautiful down there. I got to read. I stuck to Mad Church Disease and the Bible. Ben and I watched a movie. I woke up to the sound of a single bird - and that was all. It was otherwise silent. I usually wake up to sirens from Methodist Hospital and the Fire Dept, both of which are three blocks away, and busy traffic. I’m used to it now - I love living in the city, honestly - but the sound of a single bird was so out of the ordinary, it was stunning.

It was a start.

…I know, I didn’t post for two days. I’m already behind. Sorry. And I haven’t finished the story. I will.

I’m headed to the library.

I love - LOVE - our downtown library. And we only live a few blocks away. Only two things keep me from there:

1) Because the homeless need a place to go that is warm, there are usually clients of mine from work (I’m a homeless youth case manager) there, especially during the winter. Which is fine, I love my clients, but it’s like mixing work with pleasure. (Most of the time they are on the computers anyway, so I just stick to the books.)

2) I owe something like $80. This is because I have had three books since last May or so. To be fair, that was right before I got engaged, and then I had wedding stuff and moved and….well then I was too embarrassed to turn them in. (Though, once I actually get them back, they shouldn’t be $80 anymore, since that includes the cost of my keeping the books.)

However, we’re in a recession. This is no time for shenanigans. I like free stuff, even if I need to pay my debt to society before I can get more free stuff. And I like the library, and I don’t like feeling like there are library snipers every time I go in, talking on their walkie-talkies to each other about how that’s the one that owes $80. Because I’m so certain that happens.

So today is the day. I’m taking the books back.

Also, I’m rooting for the Steelers, only because they are Jonathan’s team and he’s my friend. I really hate Pittsburgh, though. I mean, as a city.

I’ve never been good with the dead.

I’m not often uncomfortable in social situations, and even when I am, I have learned how to handle myself in most of them. But I’ve never done well with funerals and wakes. I think this is because it seems everything anyone says near a dead body seems trite and pithy. No matter how deep you get, you cannot overcome the severe weight of death in the very room you are in.

Also, I like to make jokes when faced with uncomfortable situations, and funerals aren’t a good place for jokes.

Ben and I went to see Grandpa Flack in his casket. I also don’t like open casket viewings, but I see them as a neccessary evil. The closed casket funerals I’ve been to left me without the closure open caskets have. Thing is, no one ever looks like they did when they were alive. And they shouldn’t. My grandmother had a very bizarre jowl thing happening at her viewing, one that was even more unpleasant that it was in real life. And she was buried in her wedding dress - which was a miniskirted dress from the 60s. It added to the bizarre.

Grandpa’s nose was too thin. Flacks do not have thin noses, like the Forbes do (not that mine is thin, but that is because I have my mother’s nose, rather than my father’s and my brother’s), so it looked odd. But otherwise, he looked…..honorable. He was buried in Uncle Bob (his son’s) Marine dress blues, because his were too worn - given that they were issued to him when Grandpa was 16. It was filled with medals and ribbons. His retired police badge was in there, along with a hat from a group of “four” old Marine buddies, of which he was the last to go - and they were all buried with the hat. He wore his Purple Heart.

Occassionally, as these things go, we would go up there with people who came in. I always want to touch the person in the casket, but I’m always fearful. I didn’t that night.

Grandma saw us and waved us over. I gave her a hug.

“How you doin?”

“Eh.” She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

I thought for a second, and realized Grandma is a pretty straight talker, and doesn’t mind directness.

“Don’t you hate people asking that? Because of course you aren’t really very good.”

“Yeah….you’re right!”

“You should just start telling people you’re really crappy!”

This brought a smile, and a little chuckle.

“I should!”

We mingled with more family, waited for the line to die down at the TV and the table. Ben started flipping through a photo album, which ended up being an album of old clippings and photos from Grandpa’s police days.

“DUDE,” says Ben.

“….Yeeesss?”

“Dead bodies!”

Of course Grandpa had photos of homicide victims from the 60’s in his photo album. And it was only proper to show them at his funeral.

….Or something.

(To be continued.)