I’m never sure how to interpret disappointment.

I am not disappointed easily (I’m usually more surprised when something good happens, to be honest), but when it does happen, I’m not sure if it’s because I made a mistake, I did everything right and still wasn’t enough, or whether God has something else in mind and I’ve been barking up the wrong tree.

I try to shy away from “everything happens for a reason” theologizing for the most part; that ends up turning God into a sadistic parent figure who gives people cancer to teach them a lesson, or sends earthquakes to punish entire nations (because we are punished/rewarded based on collective guilt/ collective virtue? Not so sure about that). I’ll sooner live with my feelings of disappointment before I take that road.

At the same time, I do believe God is at work in ways seen and unseen, and my inability to see why something didn’t work out has little to do with whether or not God was at work in it.

I’m also never sure how to interpret possibility – one of the great things about my gig is I have LOTS of conversations about potential projects that may or may not come to fruition: a free health clinic, maybe? Or a safehouse for trafficking victims? What about a new host home network specifically for teen moms? At any given point, two or more pieces might seem to be coming together – and I have to ask, should I pursue this? Is this where God would have me put my energy, or is it just a cool thing? Or a coincidence that will end up biting me for my trouble?

At the same time, I have limited time and energy, and can’t run down every rabbit hole that presents itself to me. Heaven knows I’ve followed plenty of white rabbits already in my life. They surely don’t all lead to Wonderland and hookah-smoking caterpillars. I’m not even sure that it would be a good thing if they did.

My work puts me on a path that bounces every day between disappointment and possibility like a game of Pong (for younger readers: ask your folks), and some days I bounce more than others. And today was a bouncy day.

Homesick today.

Granted, even home-grown Minnesotans can get cranky with the weather this time of year – I defy you to find a reasonable flight to anywhere points south from now until April. And no, don’t tell me if you find one.

When you sign up for my line of work, you accept to some degree that “home” will have to be a fluid notion. When I was called into ministry at the ripe old age of 16, I think I sort of pictured myself as a Methodist nun (to answer your next question: no, that is not a real thing), quietly working out my call in churches across western Kansas, living a semi-monastic life on the prairie.

Instead, I find that wherever I’m called to be for the moment is “home” – the place of least anxiety and most fulfillment. This, of course, is a very sentimental and entitled understanding of what “home” means – the young people who find their way to the youth food shelf we help operate would settle for a bed they know they can return to each night, a safe place where they are not threatened with violence or coercion. Such is the gulf between my reality and theirs. Even so, it means that now I call Brooklyn Center/Park home, and so my interior landscape here is mapped out by where the closest Caribou is and Mosaic’s next ministry opportunities might be. In that, I find peace of mind knowing that I am exactly where God wants me to be.

Even so, I spend this time of year listening to a lot of country music, frequently checking the status updates of folks from back where I grew up, and wondering if the roads that lead to the farm are a muddy mess from the recent storms. I put my oldest son in the K-state hoodie that his cousins gave him, and I dress my infant son in overalls even though they are less convenient. I make pot roast, intentionally say “casserole” when everyone around me says “hot dish”, and take care to flatten my o’s lest anyone think I’m a native. I refuse to care about hockey.

And I content myself knowing if any of the work Mosaic does leads to some kid in the northwest metro of the Twin Cities finding his or her way to a stable and safe place to stay as they get on their feet, we can both be thankful. In that work, we both find ourselves at home.

This Wednesday is Ash Wednesday, which begins the season of Lent.  On Ash Wednesday last year, one of the kids who comes regularly to the youth food shelf popped into the chapel and asked if the ashes were from dead bodies – which, when you think about it, is a kind of legitimate question from someone who’s only experience with ashes is in a fireplace or in an urn.  I explained that no, they were from palm branches, and that they were an ancient symbol of repentance and humility.  Then she asked if she could have them put on her forehead, too – so I did.  That’s my Ash Wednesday story – your turn.    I’d be interested to hear others.

The season of Lent certainly had its usefulness in the middle ages, when food was scarcer during the late winter/early spring.  Sort of like the old saw that if Christmas didn't exist, we’d have to invent it from a commercial perspective, Lent also functioned as a religiously under-girded practical necessity.

It isn't only that, though – not even mostly that.  Lent began as a preparation for baptism into Christian community as early as mid-second century.  Folks joining the church would fast and pray and work with a mentor who was a little further down the journey to prepare for the commitment to a life following Jesus.  On Easter Sunday, they would confirm that commitment through baptism and feast in celebration.

The useful piece Ash Wednesday has to offer our current world, I think, is that it is essentially a ritualized apology.  When we gather for the ashes, we gather to say to God, ourselves, and one another that we are sorry for all the ways we have wounded, abandoned, betrayed, condescended, manipulated, ignored, and made excuses.  We acknowledge publicly with ashes on our heads that we are mortal and fallen, and that we have asked too little of ourselves.  This sounds like a downer – it is a downer, really.  Apologies, like ashes, are not sexy.  They shouldn't be.

When is the last time I apologized to someone – I mean really, really apologized?  Not the “gee, I’m sorry the thank you note was late” little piffle or an “I’m sorry you took that the wrong way and can’t take a joke” sort of thing, but really sat down and said “I am so sorry for how I hurt you?”  It has been a while.  How would it be received if I did?  I can certainly think of things I need to apologize for without much effort – what keeps me from doing it?

If nothing else, Ash Wednesday puts me on a journey toward honesty – with myself about who I am, with others about my intentions, and with God about my inability to fix either when broken or bad.  We can all use a day like that, ashes or no.  It makes the next day better both by comparison and by consequence.  If you see me tomorrow with a cross made of ashes swiped on my forehead, think of it as my apology to you and the rest universe: I have wronged you, and I’m sorry.  Let’s start again.

*NOTE: The last time I updated this blog, it was mid-October and we’d just entered into the hard work of addressing human trafficking in our area alongside law enforcement and other community partners.  Since then, I’ve had a baby and was away for 6 weeks while my very able colleague, Amanda Lunamann, held down the fort.  Thanks to her and to the good folks at Mosaic for their generosity during my time away to welcome our new son, Heron!

Oh blog, I’ve missed you.  More specifically, I’ve missed having time to update you.

I’m already the parent of an almost 3 year old, so I thought I knew what I was getting into when we found out #2 was on the way.  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.  That’s one “ha” for each time, on average, I find myself awake each night.

In a more serious vein, the following happened during my time away:  the shooting at Sandy Hook elementary school, a “father” in Indiana was convicted for keeping his 13 year old son in a dog cage and beating him to death, and the young Pakistani girl who was shot by the Taliban for saying girls deserve an education was released from a London hospital.  It was not a good month for kids.

All during the season we celebrate the birth of the baby in whom God came to the earth.

I understand that the notions of childhood and adolescence are relatively recent constructs; for most of human history, children were brought up and regarded as sort of miniature adults.  Our social structure does the opposite – hence the existence of “Babies R Us” and entire stores devoted to toys.  “Children” make up a useful economic segment to which a company can market.  Beyond economic utility, the categories of “childhood” and “adolescence” now have vast amounts of literature devoted to them, and behavioral and developmental experts are happy to write at length about how to discipline/educate/nurture/feed anyone below the age of 21(ish – some of said literature argues for defining adolescence until as late as 25).  Rather than treat our children as small adults who can work in the fields or factories and be married off at the age of 12, we treat them as valuable but alien creatures with their own needs and wants that are distinct from our own.

In this new year, I'm reflecting on this double standard I’ve occasionally encountered:  treating “our” kids/youth as precious aliens to be nurtured and cared for, while expecting “those” kids/youth to grow up and deal with life’s harshness on their own.  We will save pennies and dimes to make sure our own 18 year-old can go to college, maybe even graduate school, without incurring too much debt – and then ask why another 18 year-old without a place to stay and utilizing food shelves can’t just get a job and support themselves.  Somehow “those” kids should be treated as little adults who just need to get out of the way and take care of themselves, whereas “our” kids are special, with gifts that the world needs.

I give thanks to God for the many, many adults who helped me navigate my way to adulthood, from my earliest years on.  If I had been on my own at 18, heaven help me.   While I don’t do New Year’s resolutions, if I had one, it would be to be the kind of adult to the kids I come across in life and ministry that helps them chart the choppy waters into adulthood, not the kind who tosses them over the side of the boat to see if they can swim.  And to make no distinction between “our” kids and “those” kids that they don’t make themselves.  I didn’t deserve the help I received as a kid.  By the grace of God, may I be there for some other kid who doesn’t deserve it either.