My Industries of Restaurant and Religion

So I picked up this book the other day and oh my goodness, this guy is whacko! All I did was read the preface and I was laughing so seriously out loud on the city bus. Five pages and one commute home later, the author had managed to validate a whole section of my life. That would be the section of my life spent in "the restaurant industry." And he unleashed way more self-psycho analysis than I ever thought imaginable.

You might want to save yourself and log outta here right now. Or you could follow me into the walk in cooler and I'll tell you how "the restaurant industry" got me a gig in "the religion industry."

It started in high school when I gave up cheerleading for chicken. It's true. I was a cheerleader, and to be honest I kind of enjoyed it. But I turned in my pom poms when I realized that to be a cheerleader also meant that I could no longer dash off after school to gut whole chickens, cut them into 9 parts -- 2 thighs, 2 wings, 2 ribs, 2 legs, and 1 breast -- and bread and broast them. Why even seek to be cute in a letter sweater when I could opt for late night cleanings of stale vats of french fry grease? When I could enhance my teenage angst with self inflicted acne? And why even think about studying for college scholarships when there are heads and heads of cabbage to be hand chopped in order to make buckets of cole slaw? Friends, I have just given you a fairly comprehensive summary of my high school years, where my career in "the restaurant industry" started.

Why? Why would I give up potential popularity for poultry? Why? I just don't know. But I think it is linked to the reason that I actually enjoyed it when a former boss (who will remain nameless but you know who you are) would leave two feet of paperwork in my inbox on the eve of his departures for, say, Azerbaijan or Burkina Faso. Twenty four inches of fixing, faxing, filing and pure paper-pushing. And I loved it. What better thing to do in New York City? But I digress.

There were times when I thought it was my destiny to waitress; cook short order; wash dishes; serve up cocktails; or at least work the counter at Hardees fast food joint, which pretty much describes my college years. While others were landing cool internships; applying for grad school in, say, London; entering the Peace Corps; having an affair with some professor; or learning their third language; I would return to my roommates in late night stinky brown polyester that made the whole apartment smell like cheeseburgers. I would try to quit my Hardees job. But then would go back and ask for my job back. And they always gave it to me. Come to think about it, I still dream that I am asking for my Hardees job back. "Oh no!" My room mates would say in despair. "Not that uniform again!"

In hindsight I really should have just jumped right into waitressing, because that's where the money is. I still have my black waitress apron because it remains my plan B to this day. I can put up with demanding customers, arrogant cooks, and incompetent owners as good as anyone. Anthony Bordain though, well, he writes the truth of it all with such hilarity, and so I can now also reconcile my time and space in "the restaurant industry."

When I decided that it might be fun to spend a summer working at a Bible camp, it was my experience in "the restaurant industry" that got me in. You see while I may look all Lutheran up and down right now -- I mean, for land sakes I'm about to become a pastor's wife and all. But deep down inside I'm a waitress and that's really it. I was so darn unqualified to work at a Bible camp it was ridiculous. And the good people at Lutherans Outdoors in South Dakota knew that and so they did not sign me as camp counselor, where I would actually influence little human beings. They put me in the kitchen, and only at the last minute when someone else backed out. I got the job as baker. Little did I know, my career in "the restaurant industry" would start it's transition to "the religion industry" in that summer.

What a glorious June, July, and August! Baking bread by the lake at Camp Ne So Dak. The Bible study theme, for the staff who were qualified to lead Bible studies, was "Good News." And all summer they would ask the campers, Have you heard the Good News? As an extroverted kitchen staffer I got into it too and would join in the singing and the skits. I too would enthusiastically ask, Have you heard the Good News?! Although inside my head I was wondering exactly what they meant by Good News. That's the cool part of experiential learning. You touch and taste Good News. You hear and feel Good News. No one ever told me, but somehow I figured it out in all the fun and the friendships.

The Good News is that you can not earn your way to heaven. It is a free gift. It's the Grace of God that comes to us regardless of who we are, or where came from. I guess you could say that summer changed my life because that was a pretty amazing message to touch, taste, see, smell, and hear while I was kneading dough and shaping buns. And telling bad jokes in the walk in cooler.

And that's probably why I can seem a bit irreverent to the classically trained in the religion industry. I'm all for that and stuff. I mean my husband is classically trained in the religion industry and he thinks I'm irreverent. But I also think that it just doesn't have to be that complicated. Most things don't have to be.

To be honest, I miss "the restaurant industry." I think it would be great to just waitress and write. And even learn how to cook myself. My brother-in-law really is a chef, and he's not even arrogant. Oh my goodness, can he ever cook. If he ever throws in his CEO gig and opens a restaurant, I'll apply for a waitress position.

Anywho, as I said, the preface to this book on my commute home just unleashed a whole lot of thinking. So this got long. I am offering apologies for any of you who might actually still be with me on this one. And if it's any consolation, I'm actually holding back.

Read that book and laugh! Thank you, Mr. Anthony Bordain.

With love, T

Rolling Down the Road

If you have a Mother-in-Law who has lived all of her 80 years in New York City; and you take her in a little drive just one hour outside of Minneapolis, you should be sure that she's sitting on the right side so that she can look out the window as the countryside rolls by. Then she can unlock the mysteries of the scenery that she totally absorbs, as though she's Agatha Christie on a long luxurious train ride.

You might hear a mother and son conversation like this.

Mom Speirs: "Look at the way some of the land is flat. It's so interesting."

Bob: Mom, that's a hayfield.

Mom Speirs: "Now, what would you call those things?"

Bob: Bales of hay.

Mom Speirs: "Do you notice how some of the grass has frayed edges?"

Bob: Those are weeds, Mom.

Mom Speirs: "Ooooooh! Look at all those cows!!"

Bob: Mom, you're giving yourself away.

You might hear your Mother-in-Law reminisce about the trip she took through the mountains years ago. And about the car ride through rural Illinois to visit relatives. Then she'll compute the time change to Egypt as she plans when best to call her daughters, who visit their in-laws. Later, she'll set her alarm for 5:00 a.m.

And you feel once again the brunt of how isolated you have been this whole past year. You realize that your mother-in-law has been with you for so many months and you've barely taken her out of the apartment. Today, everyone is well. Everyone can go out. Got two available drivers. No need to go to any hospital or clinic. And it is wonderful to see God's green earth, the blue of the sky, and to be all squished together in a car. To feel the freedom of movement and exploration. Shoulder to shoulder with Aidan and his little figurine-guys in the back seat. Bob driving. Not me. Amanda in the front seat, tall enough for the air bag. Avoiding the endless car fighting when brother and sis sit next to eachother.

Mom Speirs looks out the window as though peace prevails around the world. As though she's about to be served a grand meal in the dinner coach of the Orient Express. As though her son is about to be ordained.

"I wonder what Des Moines looks like," she says.

Rolling, rolling, rolling. . .moving forward.

Thanks for coming over to the liver blog, friends.

With love, T

Sprinkle Sunshine on Each Other

A house with a swimming pool and a diving board.

That was Aidan's only criteria for what kind of house we should get. I assured him that we will never, Ever, NEVER get a swimming pool with a diving board. Liability. Lawsuits. Insurance. Drowning. Cost. Chemicals. Cancer. Climate change. Crocodiles. Wrinkles. Upkeep. Hassle. Mama panda's phobia that her babies will die in water. Let me count the reasons we will never get a house with a swimming pool and a diving board.

Unless it happens to be connected to Mama Panda's perfect country kitchen. And Papa Panda's green acre. Then we'll get the pool, diving board, and a water slide. Yes, friends, it's true. I'm now ready to tell you that it looks like we're getting a house with a big 'ol in ground pool. The deal is still in the works, so it ain't over 'til it's over. But so far, so good.

Bob scored a couple more cool points with Amanda when he told her that he personally knows "Agape" the local hip hop hero, who evidently performed at Camp WAPO last week. It was a rainy week, so instead of canoeing and hiking, they did Christian hip hop with Agape. Bob knows him from working with kids on the North side of Minneapolis. You know, all those kids with BMW rib cages. Smooth and steady and amazing; INCREDIBLE abilities to move parts of their body that normal human beings cannot move.

So there's an Agape song called "Sprinkle Sunshine" that is kind of a mover. Amanda likes it. I do too. A year ago I would have thought it way too sugary sweet. Not today. Today I'm all for sprinkling sunshine on each other and then singing about it. Plus, Agape's back up singers are darn good. Come to think of it, my Becky-at-work likes hip hop. I'll have to get her an Agape CD.

Speaking of sprinkling sunshine, try this one on. Today is Patrick's ordination. Amanda and I took Mom Speirs to the salon to prepare. She's as excited as anyone. While the Patterson family has moved out. Pastor Sekenwa's family have moved in; all the way from Nigeria. As many internationals do, Sekenwa has studied here alone for 2 years or so. He has a child that he hadn't even met yet until this past week. He's been preparing for months as his family maneuvered all that complicated visa paperwork to get here. And they are HERE! Sekenwa is smiling ear to ear. I know it will make the Patterson's so happy to hear about the family who moved into their apartment. (pronounced: Sa KEN wa) The ghosts of all of us kind of stick around.

And in a month we'll move out of our apartment. And into the house with a pool, diving board, water slide, and the perfect kitchen. And another family will move in.

Go ahead, it's OK. Sprinkle sunshine on each other.

With love, T

Time to go home

Last night Amanda called out for her mama. I thought I heard her, anyway. Woke me up. It must be time to go home. It's my last night in Baltimore. Her last night at camp WAPO. I'm so tired. But things are so great here. And I just realized that I can introduce you to some of my colleagues with this new LWR teaser. The complete video will be done by the end of the year. What you don't see are the amazing colleagues who also happen to be video producers.

Enjoy! Goodnight! With love, T

I'm healed.

Hello friends and thank you for coming over to the liver blog. I'm pleased to inform you that today is the first day in a month that I have not taken a nap. And my appetite has turned from oatmeal to carnivore, topping off a day at the LWR HQ with a big 'ol cheeseburger. That's right, a day at the office healed me. Thanks everyone. Seriously.

Over my cheeseburger, I was thinking about this house deal that Bob and I are working through. The crazy perfect house. Our two tickets to paradise. The homestead in Iowa. Little house on the prairie. Where the ultimate city boy found the big sky. If this deal actually goes through I'm going to have a sign made and put it up on the front door. It will say something like this:

WELCOME TO THE LIVER HOUSE
~ a retreat for the lost and found ~

Kind of like the transplant house that we never had to go to; rather a place for both original and new organs and outlooks; and their owners alike. Room for long and short term vital signs and the bodies they inhabit.

In the meantime, I've been planning a long lost Sweet 16 Party for my niece and God daughter, Danielle. And you know what, tonight she called and said she just wanted to spend a day with good 'ol Auntie Terri for her Sweet 16. Are you sure, I asked? I'm sure, she said. See what I mean? Can't get through even one single day without getting all teary eyed.

I would also like to invite you to join me in continued prayer vigil for our dear neighbors, Kristy and Steve Broers. Please pray for conversion, wisdom, and positive action for the people who block their transition into a call to parish ministry. Please pray that an advocate would come forward and speak up on their behalf. Please pray that they would have some kind of a hearing. Please pray that this whole tragic mishandling could get cleared up.

Lastly, I've decided to continue in my string of Dave Matthews pieces, tonight's being a short one of skatting. Why skatting? It's either wierd or brilliant, I'm not sure. But I can you this -- it reminds me of how my son, Aidan, communicates. In his own little non-language of expressive something. Body twicks, facial mannerisms, short hair preference and all. This is not quite two minutes excerpted from a song called Jimmy Thing. Enjoy! Enjoy? Well, whatever you want to call it. I like it! ;-)



With love, T

All Over the Map Tonight

Hello everyone and thank you for coming over to the liver blog. A thousand thanks for your words of well wishes for Bob's call. I can't tell you how joyful it has been already to be with the people of St. Johns in Des Moines.

When Bob returned from Des Moines last night Mom Speirs said, "You have returned home transformed into a pastor." That's right. He's been called by a parish, he's officially a pastor. The ordination is all the hoopla that stamps it official. But it's the work of the people that makes someone a pastor. The people of St. Johns in Des Moines have transformed Bob into a pastor. Well, actually, a lot of you had a lot to do with that too. Many, many, many of you. And I personally think it's a beautiful thing, how so many people from so many places and congregations can work together for good. It honestly took of all you to make this transformation happen.

So now we are living in fast speed. Accept call. Crunch numbers. Buy house. Breath after signing mortgage papers. Enroll the kids in school. Pack it all up. Move. New jobs. New everything. Got a couple of Sweet 16's to take care of too, almost a year late, but dog gone it's gonna happen. And oh yes, an ordination.

The long and short of the ordination -- I would say to think early October, Trinity Lutheran Church, Brooklyn, New York. There are still many things to coordinate in terms of even determining an exact date, but that's coming soon hopefully. Because of course we want you all to come. Pastor Bob Nervig, Bob's mentor, is already thinking through the art. Don't you love that!

Today I start my check in week at LWR HQ in Baltimore. Got here in time to hear first hand about responding to the earthquake in Peru, growing better onions in West Africa, and safely maneuvering check points in Sri Lanka. Also chatted with colleague #3 who is dealing with mysterious all-consuming illness of spouse, and how LWR has backed us up all the way, from a personnel standpoint. I tell you, you just can't believe the group of people here and the work they do. Doesn't do much for my quest to make it through just one day without choking up.

Anywho, when I get melancholy, I turn to my poet laureate, Dave Matthews, so here's another terrific tune; kind of a jazzy little number all full of angst, with a touch of the African howly thingie that he can do with his voice. It's simply called #41. I have no idea of the lyrics. Just like the moodiness of it. And the joyful face of an artist at work. It's long, so you can do the dishes or yoga or something while you enjoy.




With love, T

P.S. I think it's also time to turn to Captain Underpants because I am getting way too serious and pensive. A review of the new book coming soon.

All You Need is Love Everyday

Love this song. Love this band. Love this video. Made me smile.



Enjoy! About 4-5 minutes or so. C'mon, stop and smell the roses.

With love, T

The Congregational Vote

To be real honest, I'm nervous about all of this stuff about Bob being someone's associate pastor. I mean, he's been home for years. Years. Home as a stay-at-home dad while I worked. Home as a seminary student who preferred to study at home. Home as in a coma in the living room. And during the time he was sick, well, this is the weird thing, the part that was so special about that is that we were together, almost 24-7. Home together.

And that is about to all change.

I will miss Bob at home. I mean, it's not like we didn't have our times when we wish we had never met each other. Our marital tension can get as good as it gets, yet. . .

So, be careful what you wish for, right?

OK, alright, my office will be in the same building as his, but you know what I mean.

That's probably it, change. Like when you have a baby, and it's so glorious, yet everything around you has changed and so you grieve your life as you knew it. You might even not want your baby at first. Some women never get over that. Postpartum depression is nothing to poo poo. It's the seismic shift in dynamics that brings the grief.

On this Sunday morning, I would like to ask for your prayers for another family who is waiting, waiting, waiting for the call. Please pray for Steve and Kristi Broers. Pray for the conversion of those who tightly hold the keys to the lives of this whole family, including small children. Pray for understanding and wisdom and positive action. What is happening to them is an abuse of power and there seems to be no recourse. Where is their advocate?

Bob and I just talked on the phone. It's official. The congregation of St. Johns Lutheran Church in Des Moines has voted almost unanimously to call him as their associate pastor.

With love, T

The kitchen that came to me in a dream

You know how when someone gets pregnant, how they're not supposed to tell anyone for three months just in case they lose the baby. Because after the first trimester then everything should be good to go. Well, Bob and I did not know that. When I first got pregnant, the doctor said we were having twins and we were SO EXCITED. We told absolutely everyone. We told the whole world. Church. Work. Family. Friends. Neighbors. Strangers. We're having twins! We're having twins!

As you may know, we do not have twins. They miscarried at seven weeks. That's when we found out that it's not that uncommon. And that's when we learned about the three month rule. We really dreaded having to retrace our tracks in order to inform everyone about something that was so personal. In the end, it was healing because you would not believe how many people quietly came up to us and said the same thing happened to them. I had no idea. A year later Amanda came around.

It is in that spirit -- that I really should not be telling anyone this, but I'm actually telling everyone -- that I think we found our dream house! Bob spent the afternoon with the realtor today. I spent most of the day in bed, but when Bob came upon THE house, our Realtor started taking pictures with his camera and e-mailing them to me right on the spot. And, well, what would you think if a kitchen like this showed up in your e-mail account?

Pinch me. This is too nice! Matching appliances. Wood floors. A place to cook, eat, and to do homework! And to host guests. I am dreaming. Am I delirious? I am hallucinating. I am going back to sleep.

With love, T

The Last Supper

Are you hungry? Mom Speirs will cook something for you. Just let her know what you want. Here's a scene from last week. Seriously.

Before bed snack previous night: meatloaf and mashed potatos for Aaron
Course 1: scrambled eggs and toast for Aidan and Aaron
Course 2: mashed potatos with corn for Aaron
Course 3: scrambled eggs, mashed potatoes and toast for Patrick
Course 4: ravioli and meatballs for all

As you all know, things get a little hairy when you're moving and packing and starting a new job. Patrick is now Pastor Patrick, Pastrick for short he says, living part time here and in his new town. When Patrick came over dead tired after his first four days on the job, Mom Speirs decided he needed to eat. That was course 3 and the rest is history.

Pull up a chair, any chair you can find, even the one held together by a pajama pant string. We're going to all eat together before detangling from yet another family here at Sandgren.

Yesterday while I was in isolation, the moving truck came and took all the Pattersons away. Dog gone but we're going to miss these impromptu meals together, boxed wine and all.

The following night, Bob treated Mom Speirs to her favorite Old Country Buffet. I stayed home to nap. While mustering the energy to pour myself a bowl of cereal, I was saved by the door knock. Wala. . .Chan's mom came through again with a surprise delivery of a home cooked meal. Lightly spiced and batterfried Asian vegetables with some kind of dipping sauce. Delicious! Who will be my personal Asian chef in Des Moines?

Ho hum, just another pastor. Isn't he cute!!! Bob did some supply preaching and other pastorly things at a local church last week.

And finally, the picture you've all been waiting for. . .the 6 staples in Amanda's head which have by now been long and successfully removed.

Here's our daughter who loves long hair, but hates to wash and comb it. She's been wanting to highlight it all summer because ALL the other 10 year olds have highlights. Let's make a deal. You get your hair cut and combed. And then our new neighbor, Sarah-o-California, will highlight it. Turned out cute!

That's all folks from the land of official isolation. Yesterday I took a little trip into cancer-land as I had a touch of radiation sickness. Holy cow, all I can say is you poor chemo people, I don't know how you do it. I thought I was dying, back and forth between radioactive vomiting and the fetal position. Throbbing head ache. Sweats, shivers, and shakes. By now, it's mostly gone. Now, to get rid of this isolation too.

Thanks for coming over. All my best to you!

With love, T

I Am Radioactive.

Or I'm just plain 'ol nuclear waste, whichever way you want to look at it. Today I got my custom concocted pill dosed at 100 millicuries. The idea is that it will kill whatever lingering thyroid cancer cells I may still have. I am now in official isolation at an undisclosed location. I can tell you that Dick Cheney is not with me, although I wish he were because we could have such a nice milli-terri tribunal together, just him and me all alone chatting up mushroom clouds and other things of his sole authority.

"You can turn anything into a international political scandal," Bob said to me yesterday.

I was giving him (Bob) my views on the conspiracy of processed food companies to remove fiber from the American diet, creating a generation of constipasted children with low immune systems. Making parents nervous of the potential short term outcome as the start of school draws near, if you know what I mean. When the back up breaks through. We are doing our darndest to get our kids to eat fiber, but it's almost impossible. You can't even buy a granola bar these days that contains fiber. A granola bar for land sakes! How can you call something granola if it doesn't have fiber in it?

Right here, right now, it's time for me and my ex-thyroid to take our 100th nap of the past 2 weeks.

Thanks for coming by the liver blog. And in case you were wondering, today I brought back my liver look, including goofy bangs barretted back and sticking out all over the place. However I did change out of pajamas before entering the public realm. Still, be thankful I can't upload pictures. Be very thankful.

Take care everyone!

With love, T xoxoxoxo

Happy Birthday Paramedic Extraodinaire!

Why am I thinking about the marketing plan of Alice Cooper when yesterday was my brother Tom's birthday???!!! You know, the brother (left) who saved the life of Bob (right). In honor of Tom I am reposting the care page dispatch of said event. Actually, there were several times Tom came to the rescue. This is just one of them. . .

*December 26, 2006 at 06:48 PM CST*
Take Deep Breaths.

Isn't that what you do to avoid panic attacks? To get oxygen to your brain when you simply must remain clear thinking. Like when your kids are in the back seat of the car and you're driving your husband to the emergency room at 11:30 p.m. An hour and half on the road in the rain. The best thing to do if you feel panic coming on is to pull off the next exit, open the window, and take deep breaths. If you have a brother who is a paramedic, that can be helpful because he can actually drive your husband so you can focus on the kids and yourself and not getting into a car accident. Plus, your paramedic brother can take vital signs before you go and personally greet the ER staff upon arrival. You should arrange a midnight meeting with your parents at the ER front door to transfer sleeping kids from your back seat to theirs. Then take more deep breaths, park the car and walk into St. Mary's ER in Rochester, MN, your home town. As for your husband, he should just try not to think about the itching from the inside as everyone makes decisions for him.

This is how we entered the Mayo Clinic system for the first time. Already, Bob had been sick for almost two months. Already been hospitalized. Already been seen by many doctors. Already had received tons of all different kinds of advice from family, friends, and strangers.

This night started quiet. The kids at a dinner with friends. Bob in his casket position. I was actually trying to do some LWR work. Then the phone calls started. Paramedic and MD in unwitting collusion. My brother Tom and Dr. R (not sure he wants me to use his name publicly), who is the father of my dear friend, Martha. I started working the phones. Calling them, calling me, calling back, calling the local doctor on call, swearing at the local doctor on call who was useless.

They didn't know each other, but separately Tom and Dr. R started to ask me the same questions.

• What is the biliruben count? How long has it been this high?
• Does he get dizzy? Is he clear thinking?
• Does he have a fever? Can he walk?
• He sounds dehydrated.
• Have you thought about taking him to the Mayo Clinic emergency room?
• I'll drive to St. Paul to pick him up myself.
• I'll call the emergency room and tell them to expect you.

I never did finish that LWR project. Just closed my lap top and entered into the panic zone. It was clear we needed to take Bob to Rochester. Tom would come to pick him up, a four-hour round trip for him. I started packing. My neighbor, Maren, prepared the kids. This was before the Speirs delegation from NYC came to be with us. My panic was telling me that Bob would die before Tom could get here . . . By 3:00 a.m. Bob and I settled into a room on the GI (gastro-intestinal) Unit at Mayo. Me, on the first of my series of little cots, thinking about the comments I would have for the morning round of dressed-to-the-nines team of doctors; thinking how I would assert my authority in my groggy, wrinkled yoga suit and without badly needed make-up. The first thing I did when I woke up a few hours later is sob.

Some people say that God works through coincidences. I have no idea. But I think a lot about that night, when out of the blue, in separate phone calls both my brother Tom and Dr. R contacted me about Bob's condition and worked their respective know-how to get Bob into a very competitive health care system. It was surreal. Surely, I made it through in some part due to deep breaths. With sighs too deep for words to express.

*

Today Tom is making his way back from the biker rally in Sturgis, South Dakota. I'll post pictures if he has any.

With love, T

So, what is Alice Cooper's marketing scheme?

I can't believe that I forgot to tell you that! Because that was the main point of my supervisorly discussion with Phil about Alice Cooper.

Alice Cooper's marketing scheme: Do whatever will most offend parents of teenagers. Because that's exactly what teenagers will want to buy into. At least that was true in the 70's.

Alice Cooper's branding tool: Alice Cooper, the character. I know, I know, I too used to think Alice Cooper just popped out of the womb as, well, Alice Cooper. Surprise, it's all fake. He carefully created the character from head to toe, including the name, which he intentionally wanted to sound as pretty and nice as possible. What really gave it all oomph was the fact that he was able to pull off a succession of hit songs. And really, even now, you could say the music isn't half bad. He said that his concerts never had security issues because everyone was so focused on the stage show. (How to keep order 101.) Add on top of all that, he's a very charming guy with a gift of negotiation. He has a head for business and a heart for relationships. He did get into a bit of trouble with drugs, but says that golf and his Christian faith miraculously healed his addiction.

He says that he has a good relationships with his copy cats: KISS and Rocky Horror Picture show people; he used to be friends with Marilyn Manson, but now Marilyn Manson doesn't want anything to do with Alice because of his devotion to the Christian faith. By the way, my aunt once served on a jury for a trial accusing Marilyn Manson of something. I can't remember which way the verdict went.

Well, anyway, I was just thinking that you were probably wondering about Alice Cooper's marketing and branding scheme.

With love, T

Welcome to my Intern

He's really nice and will bake cookies for you.

I'm talking about Alice Cooper (photo right), according to Phil (photo left).

Let me back up. Phil was my intern this past year and Friday was his last day. Well, OK, he wasn't *my* intern, but I fully claim him because he did such an awesome job and saved *my* you-know-what because I took so much of last year off, courtesy of Bob's liver sabbatical.

Phil came courtesy of Lutheran Volunteer Corps, a kind of Lutheran peace corps if you will. LVC volunteers are placed in various agencies and churches across the country for one year of service. People like me are supposed to provide meaningful projects, supervise, support, etc. Actually what I did is not show up. And my LVC intern flat out took over the LWR Virtual University.

When I tepidly started back to work it was Phil who advised me that it was time to step back into the moderator role with the Virtual U. "People will be happy to hear from you," he encouraged me. Little did either of us know that the guest presenter that month would be announced as our new LWR president a few months later. For that class, Phil had rigged up a way for the presentation to be called in from Zambia. That's right, from a country in central Africa. He has explained it to me numerous times but I still don't get exactly how he pulled that off. And he made so many overall improvements that I am honestly quite nervous as to how I will carry on without Phil.

Even when I was back on the job, Phil put up with working long distance with me. Him being in Baltimore, me being in Minneapolis/St. Paul. Thanks to Phil, I learned the art of instant messenging. We IMed all the time. One way for a telecommuter to connect.

So one day I was IMing Phil about this interview I had heard on the Fresh Aire radio show. That NPR interview program I mentioned before. The interviewee was Alice Cooper -- you know that mascaraed rock singer of my generation who scared the begeebers out of concert-goers by decapitating himself on stage. I found out in that interview that Alice Cooper is a master marketer as he told how he created the character of "Alice Cooper." And how dog gone charming he is. And that he is a PK (pastor's kid) and a devout Christian. It was interesting to chat up the branding genious of a ghoul rocker with a philosophy major. That's how I supervise and guide.

Phil told me the story about his college friend who had home stayed with Alice Cooper during a choir tour. He said that Alice baked cookies for his homestay guests and was totally hospitable to young church choiristers far from home. The 6 degrees of separation theory lives on.

Last year Phil had a job helping former prison convicts to re-enter successfully into society.

So anyway, Phil said it was OK for me to blog about him. The ways that people came through for us during the liver vacation are too much to count. And I will miss Phil. Our new LVCers come in later this month and I will go to Baltimore to train them, or they will train me, or something like that.

Thanks for coming over to the liver blog everyone! Take care.

With love, T

The Call

Associate Pastor
St. Johns Lutheran Church (see all pics)
Des Moines, Iowa

*

The Call Committee and church council have unanimously approved to call Bob as their associate pastor. On August 19 the whole congregation votes and then the call is officially extended. Bob has already told them that he will accept. I said that even if the call was not extended, the Call Committee ran such a first-rate process that it was healing just to take part. The Call Committee offered to continue to act as a support group for our family after we arrive if we wanted them to. We do. I got the impression that the group kind of bonded in this very long process. Bob first interviewed with them, I don't know, last April or May. They started working on their congregational profile almost a year ago.

I'm really trying to temper my excitement until the official vote on August 19, when it's truly final. But as you all know, the church is not a building, it's the people. And so I have to tell you why it took about 6 hours or so for my preconceived notions about Des Moines to *poof* vanish. And why I do believe that this is a spirit led process and that it's really, really the right thing.

Italian wine bar for dinner. Duncan Hunter for president.

So when Ed, a member of the call committee, and his wife Mary, toured us all around Des Moines we happened across a Middle Easten Restaurant. "We love Middle Eastern food!" I say all excitedly. Then of course we tell them about our two brother-in-laws from Egypt and how they're all there for the month or so.

Then Ed drove us by the Egyptian restaurant. And he told us how he is an engineer and goes to Egypt and Saudi a lot for business. Mary is an artist. In fact, I can't believe how many times the word "art" turned up in so many conversations with various people. You should read the bio of the organist. They have a writing team with published writers and university English professors. I love music. I love art. I love writing.

For lunch Jim, the Call Committee Chair Extraordinaire, took us to the Drake Diner. I think he planned this. It's true what they say about the presidential candidates politiking in diners in Iowa. On this day all the Republican candidates were in town for a debate. After my BLT I left the booth to powder my nose. Upon return the would-be first lady of Duncan Hunter was chatting with Bob and Jim right there as they finished up their plates. Her husband's platform is something like Pro Life, Pro Death, Pro Walls, Pro Hate, Pro God. Bob was so happy I was in the bathroom.

My platform is simple too. Pro What Would Jesus do.

Anyway, when we got to the church to chat with the whole Call Committee there happened to be a moving truck parked on the street in front of the church. The Call Committee hadn't even met me yet and they started laughing and joking that Bob and I had come with all our stuff. They were so kind and interesting and full of life.

Well, I guess this isn't all about me, but those are just some of my impressions. And I'm in week four of sans-thyroid and am crawling to the finish line. Next week is my radioactive iodine treatment, and then can start back up on the replacement pills. My doctor said that it will kick in fairly quickly. Good thing because I'm starting to operate like a kaleidoscope in shades of grey. It's really hard to pin down anything -- a decision, a task, a thought, etc. My doctor said that the thyroid is like a clock and without it the timing of all bodily systems go haywire. I've been OK but am noticing the haywire this week.

Anyway, we had a lovely, lovely time with the Call Committee of St. Johns Lutheran Church in Des Moines. They really know how to make a beaten down seminary couple believe that the Spirit is truly at work in the call process. They really know how to make a pastor's family believe that the Spirit is telling them that there is a place prepared for them in Des Moines, Iowa. They've even thought through my LWR office space.

Ed and Mary recommended an Italian wine bar for dinner. Bob and I made our way there, later after a quick rest. We basked. We just flat out basked. And ate Italian food that we couldn't pronounce and listened to a torchy singer croon in low tones.

But now, I am not going to write anything else about this call until after the congregational vote on August 19. Even though there is so much more I could say. Because you don't even know yet about Rachel Thorsen Mithelman, the Senior Pastor who will be Bob's supervisor and colleague. Ordination plans are underway. I'm bugging Bob to come up with a date, like quick, so I can tell you all, so you can come.

With love, T

Boy do I have news for you!!

And it is better than dessert in a wine bar.

The only thing is, I don't know if I can tell you just yet so let me double check first. Come back soon.

Thanks for coming over to the liver blog! Thanks for everything! You are all the best!

With love, T

Otherworldly

This is the view of the collapsed bridge from my office, the 15th floor of the Thrivent Building in downtown Minneapolis. Facing east, the morning sun makes for a bad picture.


NPR reported that the rescue workers had conversations with the victims as they were dying. I suppose they were stuck in debris or something. It's like an avalanche; if you move one thing, then tons of concrete and steel fall onto everything including the rescuee/er. During these conversations, the people trapped in the debris asked the rescue workers to convey messages to their families. I'm sure the contents of those messages were all about fierce love.


"Fierce love" is what my VP at LWR calls her relationship with her husband. Lisa and Aaron. They are mucking through the debris of Aaron's 45 cancer procedures; chemo, surgeries, etc. She says that they are like sugar sweet to each other.


Bob called it "otherworldly." When you have one foot in this world and one foot in the next. He and I got all sugary sweet too when we believed he was dying.


I think that is why I have enjoyed so much living among international families during our time at Luther Seminary. I could very well be wrong. But I am guessing that when you are shaped by a place where basic stuff like food, security, and health care are not so easy to come by, you understand very well that you must live in fierce love with your neighbors. That you are in a perpetual "otherworldly" state. Maybe the theologians have a word for that.


In this country we can easily go for years, even decades, and believe that we can beat death. That we are invincible. That we can buy or change anything that gets in our way. Most people around the world have long ago understood the myth of that. And if you don't believe me, then listen to this: 25,000 children die everyday of preventable causes. Almost one per second. Snap your fingers. One thousand one. One thousand two. One thousand three. One plane crash full of kids per half hour. A gazillion fallen bridges crammed with school busses.


I think that my international neighbors get that much more than they will ever admit up front to me. Just a hunch. And that's why they knew what to do when Bob's liver collapsed.


And that's my explanation for Lisa and Aaron's "fierce love." When you are in that position of in between life and death something happens to you. You want to love your family. You want everyone to be OK. You want everyone else around you to be OK. When Bob's liver was out, I remember having such warm feelings towards, say, the grocery check out clerk. I just really hoped that her life was treating her well.


The fact of the matter is this -- we are all in a state of being otherworldly. We all know we are not going to live forever. The question is, what do we do with that? I say that is where faith comes in to play. Faith in both other worlds. Fiercely loving the here and now. Fiercely trusting that all is well for all eternity. And by the Grace of God, grabbing hold of our time and position to right as many wrongs as we can, including preventing all those kids from dying from things we thought were irradicated long ago. If that is not fierce love, then I don't know what is.


If you were stuck in debris between life and death, otherworldly, what would be your fierce love? It's really not an if.


I'm getting way to philosophical and really have to get to work. Wish I could edit on this essay all day. But. . .

With love, T

P.S. It feels pretty sad around here today as one of the people who died was a Thrivent employee, Sherry Engebretson. Even though I didn't know her. You just feel sad.

Bob, Me, and the I35 Bridge that Collapsed

5:00 p.m., August 1, 2007 -- This picture taken. We took Bob's brother Tommy to the Guthrie Theater. This is the view from the Guthrie's endless bridge that juts over the Mississippi River.

6:05 p.m., one hour later, the bridge collapsed. How weird is that?

10:00 p.m., as I write this dispatch they are still attempting to make the most difficult rescues.

Take care everyone.

Love, T