So I was just reading Luke 1:5-20, as instructed by Dr. David Lose's daily devotions from his blog "...in the Meantime" (great blog and great devotions, check them out if you're looking for that). And as I was reading the story of Elizabeth and Zechariah (Mary's aunt and uncle), I came to the part where the angel appears to Zechariah and announces the birth of their son, John. This verse struck me in a way it never has before:
"...[John] will be great in the sight of the Lord. He must never drink wine or strong drink; even before his birth, he will be filled with the Holy Spirit." (Luke 1:15, NRSV) And seriously, isn't that hilarious? As if the combination of the Holy Spirit and strong drink would just be too much for any one person to handle, and they'd just explode!
I'm guessing that's not actually what Luke intended to convey when he recorded the angel's words, but hey, it gave me a good chuckle.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Perks of Having a Baby
When you accidentally drool on yourself in public, and it leaves a water stain on your shirt, you can always blame it on your daughter, even if she is asleep in her carseat next to you.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
The Theology of a Pregnant Stomach
So one of the things I've heard from multiple sources (friends, articles, books, magazines, random strangers) was that once your stomach gets big, get ready for Stranger Danger: random strangers coming up to you and touching your stomach, with or without asking permission. I heard warnings, complaints, laments, and annoyances, the most descriptive and apt one probably being, "I just don't understand how when a woman gets pregnant, it means that her body becomes public property."
So I braced myself. And had two surprises.
The first is that very few people--stranger or known entity--has touched my stomach without asking. I can only think of one complete stranger in the past 9 months. Most seem afraid to even ask permission. This could be in part because I'm a pastor; my parishioners are for the most part very respectful and sensitive people. I smile to myself when I see some of my older ladies' hands start to gravitate toward my stomach, and they catch themselves and pull them back. There's a definite respect for my personal boundaries at war with the desire to touch that big, irresistble belly. It's fun to watch that battle play out. It also could be the place that I live; personl boundaries are very highly respected in this part of the country, along with the flag, 4-H, and anything to do with corn.
But the second surprise for me has been discovering that I actually want people to touch my stomach. At least I certainly don't mind it. It was hard for awhile to put my finger on why I might be feeling that way, and it didn't become clear until a Mission Trip I took in July with our awesome youth group. We took the train out to a Native American reservation in North-Central Montana. On the way, we were thrown together with complete strangers in that bizzarely intimate way that travel in closed spaces engenders. And the comments were not slow in coming. "When are you due?" "Is this your first?" "Do you know what you're having?"
This was another aspect of pregnancy that I was warned about--the incessant and repetitive questions. And again, I found myself not minding them at all. At one point, I was walking down the aisle (trying to get some circulation back in my swollen feet), and passed an Asian family for about the third time. The mom looked up at me, smiled, and said in a beautiful accent, "When...is you due?" I smiled and told her. She grinned and nodded, then turned to her 10-ish-year-old son and addressed a question to him in a fluid tongue. He looked up at me and said, "Do you know what you're having?" I told him no, that we wanted to be surprised. He translated to this to his mother, prompting a flurry of head nods and a huge smile. She said one more thing to him, and he beamed at me and said, "She says to tell you congratulations!"
And it hit me, the reason that I don't mind the belly-touching, the repetitive questions, and the blatant belly-stares; the pregnant stomach is a very visible, very obvious sign of something to be celebrated, and it's one of the only things that I can think of that generates an immediate desire to share in that celebration among strangers. It's a condition that inspires hope, happiness, joy across the board; gender, race, culture, income--language even!--you name all the barriers that separate us today, and there isn't a single one that pregnancy doesn't surmount. It's the ultimte equalizer. But instead of equalizing us down to a level playing field, it raises us all up to a state of excitement and expectation.
And isn't that an awesome theological place to be? Sharing joy with strangers, the joy and expectation of something good to come, something beautiful that will happen in the future, something we can't see for certain right now, but by golly we can see the signs that it's coming.
Advent isn't here yet, and neither is this child which we've been expecting. But we know that both are coming. And we wait in happy anticipation of what they will bring.
So I braced myself. And had two surprises.
The first is that very few people--stranger or known entity--has touched my stomach without asking. I can only think of one complete stranger in the past 9 months. Most seem afraid to even ask permission. This could be in part because I'm a pastor; my parishioners are for the most part very respectful and sensitive people. I smile to myself when I see some of my older ladies' hands start to gravitate toward my stomach, and they catch themselves and pull them back. There's a definite respect for my personal boundaries at war with the desire to touch that big, irresistble belly. It's fun to watch that battle play out. It also could be the place that I live; personl boundaries are very highly respected in this part of the country, along with the flag, 4-H, and anything to do with corn.
But the second surprise for me has been discovering that I actually want people to touch my stomach. At least I certainly don't mind it. It was hard for awhile to put my finger on why I might be feeling that way, and it didn't become clear until a Mission Trip I took in July with our awesome youth group. We took the train out to a Native American reservation in North-Central Montana. On the way, we were thrown together with complete strangers in that bizzarely intimate way that travel in closed spaces engenders. And the comments were not slow in coming. "When are you due?" "Is this your first?" "Do you know what you're having?"
This was another aspect of pregnancy that I was warned about--the incessant and repetitive questions. And again, I found myself not minding them at all. At one point, I was walking down the aisle (trying to get some circulation back in my swollen feet), and passed an Asian family for about the third time. The mom looked up at me, smiled, and said in a beautiful accent, "When...is you due?" I smiled and told her. She grinned and nodded, then turned to her 10-ish-year-old son and addressed a question to him in a fluid tongue. He looked up at me and said, "Do you know what you're having?" I told him no, that we wanted to be surprised. He translated to this to his mother, prompting a flurry of head nods and a huge smile. She said one more thing to him, and he beamed at me and said, "She says to tell you congratulations!"
And it hit me, the reason that I don't mind the belly-touching, the repetitive questions, and the blatant belly-stares; the pregnant stomach is a very visible, very obvious sign of something to be celebrated, and it's one of the only things that I can think of that generates an immediate desire to share in that celebration among strangers. It's a condition that inspires hope, happiness, joy across the board; gender, race, culture, income--language even!--you name all the barriers that separate us today, and there isn't a single one that pregnancy doesn't surmount. It's the ultimte equalizer. But instead of equalizing us down to a level playing field, it raises us all up to a state of excitement and expectation.
And isn't that an awesome theological place to be? Sharing joy with strangers, the joy and expectation of something good to come, something beautiful that will happen in the future, something we can't see for certain right now, but by golly we can see the signs that it's coming.
Advent isn't here yet, and neither is this child which we've been expecting. But we know that both are coming. And we wait in happy anticipation of what they will bring.
Why I Love My Town: Reason 1
It seems that one of the most widely accepted truisms today is that kids can't just be kids anymore. They can't run wild from dawn until dusk; strangers can't be trusted, and you just don't know what trouble they'll get into unsupervised. They're never outside playing. And their imaginations are sorely lacking.
I present to you Case Study #1: The Little Boys.
Our backyard connects with the backyard directly behind us. There are no fences in this town--at least none that I've seen. The family that lives behind us has 4 boys: a 6th grader, a 3rd grader, a 2nd grader, and a 1st grader. Or The Little Boys, as Tim and I have dubbed them. They defy all of the above truisms. They run absolutely wild from dawn until dusk, and sometimes beyond. They certainly do get into trouble unsupervised, but the nice thing about a town of 70 people (very soon to be 71) is that they rarely are actually unsupervised--one of us always kind of has an eye on them. They are always outside playing, and by always I mean always. In fact, I don't think the 1st grader wore shoes the entire summer. No seriously; I can't think of a single time I saw him with them on. And their imaginations are always going.
Take this morning for example. Tim and I are sitting at breakfast, in our usual spots: me facing our neighbors to the south, Tim facing our neighbors to the east, which happens to be the Little Boys. We're eating quietly, when I hear from Tim, "What in the...what are they doing?!" I lean over the table (no easy feat 5 days before your due date) just in time to witness a bizarre spectacle; Jaydn and Isaiah (the 2nd and 1st grader, respectively) are busy tying a gigantic rope between their two bikes. The rope is about 14 feet long and about as thick as a couple of gas hoses. Isaiah still has no shoes on. When they've accomplished the task of connecting the two bikes, each boy slings a green reusable shopping bag over a skinny shoulder, and off they go.
Tim bursts out laughing. When they round the corner in front of our house a few minutes later, they've gotten the rope tangled in Isaiah's tire and have to haul the bikes over to the side of the road to avoid a grain truck. "Go ask them what they're doing," Tim urges. "It's bound to be a good story!"
So I grab my cup of coffee and tromp outside in my pj's (reason #2 why I love this town). As soon as I get outside, I get a cheerful wave from Isaiah and a shy smile from Jaydn. "Alright," I say when I get close enough, "You've got your bikes tied together and a shopping bag on each shoulder. I gotta know; what are you doing?"
"We're pulling each other on our bikes," Jaydn explains solemnly.
"Yeah, and we've had a couple of crashes, too!" Isaiah adds cheerfully, as if that explains the purpose of connecting the two bikes. "And the shopping bags we found in the road." He displays his proudly, Menards tag still attached.
I rip off the tag for him, and by the time that's done, the rope's been untangled and they're ready to go. Isaiah starts off, pulling Jaydn behind him. As they go, I get a couple of happy waves, and then I hear Jaydn start his motor car impression, the one that you can hear a couple of blocks away; "Vrrruuuuuuhhh, vruh, vruh, vruuuuuuuhhhh!"
Tim just laughs and shakes his head when I tell him their logical explanation for their behavior. As I watch them make their wobbly way down the road, I can't help but smile and think, "That's why I love this town." Then as I turn to make my way back into the house, another thought makes me freeze.
"God help us when they get their licenses!"
Monday, April 23, 2012
How Pregnancy Prepares You For Kids: Lesson #1
Disclaimer: I have not yet given birth. Our baby is still in the incubation stage. But here is one experience I've been having lately that I imagine is a crossover lesson from pregnancy to kids:
1) Balancing what they think they want with what you know is good for them.
I'm referring specifically to my stomach at this point. I can recall (and maybe you can, too) being a small child and insisting that I could handle another scoop of ice cream, no, that I needed another scoop...and then getting it, eating it, and realizing that was a bad idea. I thought I'd mostly grown out of that as an adult, but it turns out that having a pregnant tummy is much the same as having a 3-yr-old tummy. Especially if I go too long without eating. Then all of a sudden, I'll hear about, smell, see on tv, or even think about a food (could be any food, really), and all of a sudden, I HAVE to have some of that NOW. I don't consider these cravings, more just a very volatile belly that is very easily influenced. I begin eating said desired food, and the message I get from said stomach goes like this:
"I need more. More. More. More! TOO MUCH! TOO MUCH! TOO MUCH! TOO MUCH!"
Sigh. Perhaps by the end of nine months I'll have a sufficient handle on this to be able to translate that experience to a child.
1) Balancing what they think they want with what you know is good for them.
I'm referring specifically to my stomach at this point. I can recall (and maybe you can, too) being a small child and insisting that I could handle another scoop of ice cream, no, that I needed another scoop...and then getting it, eating it, and realizing that was a bad idea. I thought I'd mostly grown out of that as an adult, but it turns out that having a pregnant tummy is much the same as having a 3-yr-old tummy. Especially if I go too long without eating. Then all of a sudden, I'll hear about, smell, see on tv, or even think about a food (could be any food, really), and all of a sudden, I HAVE to have some of that NOW. I don't consider these cravings, more just a very volatile belly that is very easily influenced. I begin eating said desired food, and the message I get from said stomach goes like this:
"I need more. More. More. More! TOO MUCH! TOO MUCH! TOO MUCH! TOO MUCH!"
Sigh. Perhaps by the end of nine months I'll have a sufficient handle on this to be able to translate that experience to a child.
Great Tractor Challenge Update and Apology...
For all who are curious, the Blessing of the Seed, Soil, Water, and Tractors service went fantastically well. Across our 5 churches, we had 18 tractors (21 if you count the three young boys who brought their toy tractors along to be blessed)! There was a tie between Immanuel and Grace for the church that had the most tractors show up...let me just say I'm already excited for next year--and I don't think I'm the only one!
My apology is that, in my ignorance of farming culture, I limited the Great Tractor Challenge to just two companies, Case IH (red) and John Deere (green and yellow). I learned this Sunday that there are many different brands for tractors: New Holland (blue), Cat (yellow), and Ford (also blue), to name a few of the others we had present. I will not make the same mistake next year!
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Nothing but Clay Pots
So I'm stoked about our worship coming up this Sunday; we're doing a Blessing of the Seed, Soil, Water--and Tractors! service. Pr. Mark wasn't so sure about doing this, because he's done it in the past and only ever gotten one measly tractor to show up. I took that as a challenge, and issued my own challenge to the farmers of the congregations: when I pull up to church this Sunday, I want to see who better represents--green and yellow or red.
For those of you who know farming culture, you're laughing already. For those of you who don't, there is a huge huge HUGE rivalry (did I mention it's a large one?) between those farmers who use farm equipment from the John Deere brand--green and yellow--and those who drive Case IH--red. You don't cross over; you don't have a couple of green and a few of red. Oh no. Sacriligeous, that is. You choose one and you stick with it for the rest of your life--excuse me, that's not quite correct. Your grandfather chose one, and you will stick with that brand for the rest of your life. No excuses. No joke.
So I'm excited to see who shows up more this Sunday. I'm betting we get more than one tractor at our churches. But that's not the reason I'm writing today. The reason I'm writing is because as I was working on my sermon for this Sunday--based in the Creation story--I realized that there's something that's been bothering me about it lately. Well, not the story itself, but what we've done to it.
You see, I think we've lost the meaning of the Creation story. It seems like there's two extremes we typically jump at when we read it. The first ditch to dive in is the Disney "Circle of Life" ditch. That's the one where we’re all connected and it’s through living in harmony that we will save the world. There is some truth in that, and some good ideas, but I don’t think it’s the main message of the Creation story.
At the same time, though, I'm wary of the other ditch we're chugging these tractors along. I also don’t think that the main message of the Creation story is that human beings are the ultimate and pinnacle of all Creation. Now that is an idea we like a lot. It’s true that we were created either last or first in the accounts of Creation (Genesis 1 and 2; did you know they have different timelines?), which puts the creation of humans at a focal point in the story. It's also true that we were given dominion over the rest of Creation (bring on the "hoorah's" and the "go humanity's"). But sometimes when we focus on that idea so strongly, it’s like we forget that, oh yeah, we were created ourselves. We are as much creatures of the Creator’s fashioning as the birds, the mountains, and the dung beetles (humbling, no? Read on...). Paul calls us “clay pots” in 2 Corinthians 4:7, and I’ve always liked the deflating effect that can have on us. Yes, we have dominion over all creation—but that’s just one type of clay pot lording it over another type. Sounds a little less grandiose when you think about it like that.
So what do we do with all of that? What's the main message of the Creation story for us? Well, the first account tells us what God's opinion of us is; God created Creation and thought, "Oh man, that is really good--in fact, I love that!" That's a pretty awesome message to hear. The second account then tells us what we're supposed to do with all that dominion we have over the other clay pots. Hear the Word of the Lord:
"And the Lord God planted a garden in Eden, in the east; and there he put the man whom he had formed. Out of the ground the Lord God made to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food...The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to till it and keep it." (Gen. 2:8-9a, 15)
Till it and keep it. The Lord God created us, loved us, and gave us a job to do. Have you ever been in a position in life where you don't have meaningful work to do, whether that's a job or taking care of your family or a good hobby? Tim had about 2 weeks of that when he joined me in New Hampshire, and it was as if something was itching at him all the time and he just couldn't get a good scratch at it. Meaningful work--of any kind--is what draws us out of our own clay pots and forces us to look at the ones around us. I'm sure there are many more great messages in the Creation story than just these two, but that's where I find good hope and enouragement.
God loves me. I'm a clay pot. Till the ground and keep it. Guess I better start looking for a tractor.
For those of you who know farming culture, you're laughing already. For those of you who don't, there is a huge huge HUGE rivalry (did I mention it's a large one?) between those farmers who use farm equipment from the John Deere brand--green and yellow--and those who drive Case IH--red. You don't cross over; you don't have a couple of green and a few of red. Oh no. Sacriligeous, that is. You choose one and you stick with it for the rest of your life--excuse me, that's not quite correct. Your grandfather chose one, and you will stick with that brand for the rest of your life. No excuses. No joke.
So I'm excited to see who shows up more this Sunday. I'm betting we get more than one tractor at our churches. But that's not the reason I'm writing today. The reason I'm writing is because as I was working on my sermon for this Sunday--based in the Creation story--I realized that there's something that's been bothering me about it lately. Well, not the story itself, but what we've done to it.
You see, I think we've lost the meaning of the Creation story. It seems like there's two extremes we typically jump at when we read it. The first ditch to dive in is the Disney "Circle of Life" ditch. That's the one where we’re all connected and it’s through living in harmony that we will save the world. There is some truth in that, and some good ideas, but I don’t think it’s the main message of the Creation story.
At the same time, though, I'm wary of the other ditch we're chugging these tractors along. I also don’t think that the main message of the Creation story is that human beings are the ultimate and pinnacle of all Creation. Now that is an idea we like a lot. It’s true that we were created either last or first in the accounts of Creation (Genesis 1 and 2; did you know they have different timelines?), which puts the creation of humans at a focal point in the story. It's also true that we were given dominion over the rest of Creation (bring on the "hoorah's" and the "go humanity's"). But sometimes when we focus on that idea so strongly, it’s like we forget that, oh yeah, we were created ourselves. We are as much creatures of the Creator’s fashioning as the birds, the mountains, and the dung beetles (humbling, no? Read on...). Paul calls us “clay pots” in 2 Corinthians 4:7, and I’ve always liked the deflating effect that can have on us. Yes, we have dominion over all creation—but that’s just one type of clay pot lording it over another type. Sounds a little less grandiose when you think about it like that.
So what do we do with all of that? What's the main message of the Creation story for us? Well, the first account tells us what God's opinion of us is; God created Creation and thought, "Oh man, that is really good--in fact, I love that!" That's a pretty awesome message to hear. The second account then tells us what we're supposed to do with all that dominion we have over the other clay pots. Hear the Word of the Lord:
"And the Lord God planted a garden in Eden, in the east; and there he put the man whom he had formed. Out of the ground the Lord God made to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food...The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to till it and keep it." (Gen. 2:8-9a, 15)
Till it and keep it. The Lord God created us, loved us, and gave us a job to do. Have you ever been in a position in life where you don't have meaningful work to do, whether that's a job or taking care of your family or a good hobby? Tim had about 2 weeks of that when he joined me in New Hampshire, and it was as if something was itching at him all the time and he just couldn't get a good scratch at it. Meaningful work--of any kind--is what draws us out of our own clay pots and forces us to look at the ones around us. I'm sure there are many more great messages in the Creation story than just these two, but that's where I find good hope and enouragement.
God loves me. I'm a clay pot. Till the ground and keep it. Guess I better start looking for a tractor.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Garrison Keillor: On Meeting The Voice
Growing up, I had mixed feelings toward Garrison Keillor. (For those of you unfamiliar with The Voice, go here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garrison_Keillor)
His voice was of course a presence in my childhood since my mother was born and raised in Ada, MN-it truly could have been Lake Woebegon. He spoke to me, soothed me, and sang to me as a child...but it was often accompanied by sharp SHHH!'s from my parents for daring to speak during the program. Noon on Sunday was a sacred hour, devoted to The Voice, so if you had something to say, you'd better spit it out before 11:59.
I grew to appreciate Garrison Keillor's shows for their cleverness and music--the sound effects guy didn't hurt either. I've watched hs movie, gone to a recorded showing of a live Prairie Home Companion, and loved his poetry anthologies. But then, a few week ago, something happened that changed my relationship with Garrison Keillor forever:
I got to meet him.
It was a complete fluke. He was hosting a fundraiser dinner at his home for Al Franken. A good friend of mine knows Al Franken and had been invited to the home of The Voice. It was one of the most shocking moments of my life when I jokingly asked if he needed a personal secretary to accompany him and he said, "Oh, I could get you in--do you want to go?". (Insert feelings of awe, gasps of shock, and exclamations of joy). A few days later, we were on our way to St. Paul to have a nice little visit with Garrison Keillor.
The minute we pulled up to the front door, I felt like a 16-year-old getting ready for her first night as an adult. The surreal feeling of being extremely young intensified from there: we walked in the front door, and all of a sudden I was a gawky 15. We stepped into the huge receiving room containging a baby grand and walls of books, and I was 14. I turned to my left and got my first glimpse of Garrison Keillor in the flesh--red sneakers and all--and I was 13 verging on 12. He was right there. And I was about to meet him.
We were ushered into a short line of people waiting to have their picture taken with The Senator and The Voice. I stepped firmly from 12 right into 11. By the time I came face to face with him, Garrison Keillor, The Voice, I was a solid 8 years old.
It didn't help that Garrison Keillor is extremely tall. I introduced myself to both him and Senator Franken, then obediently turned to step away and let someone else turn into a pre-pubescent pile of goo. But the Senator asked me a question. We chatted for a bit, and I started to grow in metaphorical age again. And then Garrison Keillor leaned close and asked, "What did you say your name was?" and there was The Voice. Speaking to me. Coming out of a body. It was totally disorientating.
I descended straight back into the age of 8. "Rachel, Rachel Wrenn, you know, like the bird, just with two N's." Oh my lord, I am babbling! I thought to myself. He asked a few more questions, but I was feeling completely self-conscious and made my exit soon so I didn't hold up the line.
The next 15 minutes I existed in a strange state of being totally aware of my surroundings--Garrison Keillor's house!!--and totally disconnected. I replayed the conversation in my head several times, always wincing at my answers and marveling at the fact that that was the real Garrison Keillor!
The night passed slowly, for which I was grateful, in a state of heightened excitement. I drank in the house, the books, the paintings, family pictures. I listened to both Garrison Keillor and Al Franken give small speeches, filled with jokes, humor, and politics--I relished the first two and ignored the third. And yet all too soon, the evening was coming to an end.
As we turned to get our coats, I noticed Garrison Keillor standing just a few feet behind me, talking with another clergy member I'd met that night. I stepped closer but still at a distance, intending not to interrupt but to say thank you when their conversation paused. Both men stopped talking and looked at me. Well hello again, 8-year-old Rachel!
"I just wanted to say thank you for hosting us, I had a lovely time tonight, it was a pleasure to be here." Well, that didn't come off so bad.
"You're welcome," came the reply, still disconcerting coming from an actual body. "What did you say your name was? And where did you grow up?"
I soon discovered that Garrison Keillor, for all ist strangeness and eccentricities, has the amazing ability to out people at ease. With just the right combination of questions and comments, he explored my past and discovered my present. "What is it like, being a young female clergy-woman?". It was a thoroughly enjoyable conversation, though I wasn't entirely out of my 8-year-old self, which soon became apparent.
He was in the middle of describing the kind of group that St. Olaf students used to be at Luther Seminary and paused, holding his hands expressively as he searched for a word, and I offered, "Cadre?"
"Cadre! Yes, that's it, that's the word exactly," he said, satisfied.
"Oh my gosh," I squeaked aloud, "I just supplied a word for Garrison Keillor!" We both laughed self-consciously, as I mentally kicked myself for sounding like such an idiot. Soon after that I thanked him again and we took our leave. As we drove home that night, I couldn't help but reflect on the strangeness of the evening. It's a bizarre thing to meet a childhood icon. It's an even more peculiar thing when he turns out to be exactly as you'd imagined him.
I listened to The News From Lake Woebegon that weekend, waiting to see if it felt any different to hear to The Voice after meeting him in person--and, I must confess, to see if any of Pastor Liz contained some of my own story that I'd shared with him. Neither happened. The Voice was still The Voice. Pastor Liz was Pastor Liz. Probably the only person changed out of the experience was me. In one evening, I'd walked hand in hand with my childhood self and met--even confronted, a bit--the personality that had been such a part of my life. It felt good. It felt...whole, somehow. I had braved the creator of Lake Woebegon, and come through it feeling strong...good-looking...and even a bit above-average.
His voice was of course a presence in my childhood since my mother was born and raised in Ada, MN-it truly could have been Lake Woebegon. He spoke to me, soothed me, and sang to me as a child...but it was often accompanied by sharp SHHH!'s from my parents for daring to speak during the program. Noon on Sunday was a sacred hour, devoted to The Voice, so if you had something to say, you'd better spit it out before 11:59.
I grew to appreciate Garrison Keillor's shows for their cleverness and music--the sound effects guy didn't hurt either. I've watched hs movie, gone to a recorded showing of a live Prairie Home Companion, and loved his poetry anthologies. But then, a few week ago, something happened that changed my relationship with Garrison Keillor forever:
I got to meet him.
It was a complete fluke. He was hosting a fundraiser dinner at his home for Al Franken. A good friend of mine knows Al Franken and had been invited to the home of The Voice. It was one of the most shocking moments of my life when I jokingly asked if he needed a personal secretary to accompany him and he said, "Oh, I could get you in--do you want to go?". (Insert feelings of awe, gasps of shock, and exclamations of joy). A few days later, we were on our way to St. Paul to have a nice little visit with Garrison Keillor.
The minute we pulled up to the front door, I felt like a 16-year-old getting ready for her first night as an adult. The surreal feeling of being extremely young intensified from there: we walked in the front door, and all of a sudden I was a gawky 15. We stepped into the huge receiving room containging a baby grand and walls of books, and I was 14. I turned to my left and got my first glimpse of Garrison Keillor in the flesh--red sneakers and all--and I was 13 verging on 12. He was right there. And I was about to meet him.
We were ushered into a short line of people waiting to have their picture taken with The Senator and The Voice. I stepped firmly from 12 right into 11. By the time I came face to face with him, Garrison Keillor, The Voice, I was a solid 8 years old.
It didn't help that Garrison Keillor is extremely tall. I introduced myself to both him and Senator Franken, then obediently turned to step away and let someone else turn into a pre-pubescent pile of goo. But the Senator asked me a question. We chatted for a bit, and I started to grow in metaphorical age again. And then Garrison Keillor leaned close and asked, "What did you say your name was?" and there was The Voice. Speaking to me. Coming out of a body. It was totally disorientating.
I descended straight back into the age of 8. "Rachel, Rachel Wrenn, you know, like the bird, just with two N's." Oh my lord, I am babbling! I thought to myself. He asked a few more questions, but I was feeling completely self-conscious and made my exit soon so I didn't hold up the line.
The next 15 minutes I existed in a strange state of being totally aware of my surroundings--Garrison Keillor's house!!--and totally disconnected. I replayed the conversation in my head several times, always wincing at my answers and marveling at the fact that that was the real Garrison Keillor!
The night passed slowly, for which I was grateful, in a state of heightened excitement. I drank in the house, the books, the paintings, family pictures. I listened to both Garrison Keillor and Al Franken give small speeches, filled with jokes, humor, and politics--I relished the first two and ignored the third. And yet all too soon, the evening was coming to an end.
As we turned to get our coats, I noticed Garrison Keillor standing just a few feet behind me, talking with another clergy member I'd met that night. I stepped closer but still at a distance, intending not to interrupt but to say thank you when their conversation paused. Both men stopped talking and looked at me. Well hello again, 8-year-old Rachel!
"I just wanted to say thank you for hosting us, I had a lovely time tonight, it was a pleasure to be here." Well, that didn't come off so bad.
"You're welcome," came the reply, still disconcerting coming from an actual body. "What did you say your name was? And where did you grow up?"
I soon discovered that Garrison Keillor, for all ist strangeness and eccentricities, has the amazing ability to out people at ease. With just the right combination of questions and comments, he explored my past and discovered my present. "What is it like, being a young female clergy-woman?". It was a thoroughly enjoyable conversation, though I wasn't entirely out of my 8-year-old self, which soon became apparent.
He was in the middle of describing the kind of group that St. Olaf students used to be at Luther Seminary and paused, holding his hands expressively as he searched for a word, and I offered, "Cadre?"
"Cadre! Yes, that's it, that's the word exactly," he said, satisfied.
"Oh my gosh," I squeaked aloud, "I just supplied a word for Garrison Keillor!" We both laughed self-consciously, as I mentally kicked myself for sounding like such an idiot. Soon after that I thanked him again and we took our leave. As we drove home that night, I couldn't help but reflect on the strangeness of the evening. It's a bizarre thing to meet a childhood icon. It's an even more peculiar thing when he turns out to be exactly as you'd imagined him.
I listened to The News From Lake Woebegon that weekend, waiting to see if it felt any different to hear to The Voice after meeting him in person--and, I must confess, to see if any of Pastor Liz contained some of my own story that I'd shared with him. Neither happened. The Voice was still The Voice. Pastor Liz was Pastor Liz. Probably the only person changed out of the experience was me. In one evening, I'd walked hand in hand with my childhood self and met--even confronted, a bit--the personality that had been such a part of my life. It felt good. It felt...whole, somehow. I had braved the creator of Lake Woebegon, and come through it feeling strong...good-looking...and even a bit above-average.
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