Spent Friday evening and Saturday all day at the church (helped lead the new member’s class, then preached at Saturday night service), then all Sunday morning of course. Witnessed some luminous moments. A couple in the new members’ class talked about giving birth to a child who was missing part of his brain. He was supposed to survive a few days. He lived eighteen months. It was, to state the obvious, a life-changing experience. Priorities are clear. Life is a gift. They went on to have four healthy children. I felt like I should take off my shoes.

It was not until later that I realized that they'd had him as long as I’ve had my daughter, and this realization knocked me back. They knew him and loved him and fed him and cleaned up his messes and knew that he would soon die, that he would never go Trick-or-Treating or call it “pisketti” or play a tooth in the school play. How did they go on? If that’s not grace I don’t know what is.

I baptized a sweet little girl today—my second little-baby-girl baptism in as many weeks. That is the crazy cool part of my job. Last week, the child stared at me, smiling, as if she understood all my religious mumbo-jumbo and was excited about the adventure. Then when the water came, she cried, but just a little. We use warm water, but still it can be a shock. Was it my hopeful imagination, or did it seem that she cried from the enormity of it all? Because once the baptismal prayer was over, we all looked up, and looked at her, and beamed at her sweetness, and she wasn’t alone any more, and she stopped crying. I carried her around the meeting house and we sang. Sometimes baptism feels like The Cute Sacrament—the oohs and ahhs, the babe in the adorable gown. But sometimes the babies cry, and somehow that feels more authentic. It’s worth crying about, this instantaneous death and rebirth in a single soggy moment.

This week, the baby looked at me, bemused. She seemed utterly unfazed by me, by the water, by everything. I held her and prayed, and she grabbed my finger with one hand: “Pray it, sister.” With the other hand she was fiddling with… something. When I opened my eyes I saw she had my lapel mike in her mouth.

I was supposed to attend an interfaith dialogue tonight, but I drew the line. It would have meant that the grand total of hours spent with my child this weekend would have been, like, four. Not so good.

Little she-who-is made her wishes quite clear when I went to give her a kiss earlier this afternoon, just because, and she said, “Bye bye Mommy.” I froze. Ohmygod my child has discerned a heartbreaking cause and effect: “If Mommy’s giving me a kiss she must be about to walk out the door.” So that was it. My decision was made. I called the senior pastor and said it wasn’t going to happen. I may be in pastor purgatory for a while on this one; so be it. I spent the evening giggling with my daughter in a makeshift tent in the living room—a blanket propped up between a rocking chair and my husband’s head.

My husband, who is a preacher’s kid, apparently made up a sad little ditty as a child, called, “Daddy’s Going to a Meeting.” How his father made it out the door while being serenaded with that little masterpiece eludes me. Every now and then R threatens to teach it to our kid, which is code that I’m spending too much time at the church.

How much time is “too much time” at the church?
How much time is “enough time” with my family?

The answer to these questions is such a moving target. The church deserves more than I can give. No amount of time seems enough at home. So I stand on idiotic cliches like "doing my best" and "trusting the process" because where else is there to stand?

Still, I want to linger over the story of the miracle child who lived eighteen months. I want to luxuriate in holy moments like these. Most of the time though, I must be content with a time of awed silence, a prayer of thanks, an embrace, and on-to-the-next-thing. Meanwhile, at home my daughter is moving too quickly. I want to hug her for one beat longer than she has the patience for. I want to rock her until she’s totally asleep—not every night, just one night—but she will only rest her head on my chest for a moment, a nanosecond in Mommy Time, before she sits up and declares her independence: “Amen, Night-night.”

Not yet! Just a little bit longer. Please.



God called to him out of the bush, ‘Moses, Moses!’ And he said, ‘Here I am.’ Then God said, ‘Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.’ Exodus 3