My father, Duane Preimsberger, wrote his memoir, Badge of Honor: Memories of My Life in Law Enforcement, to honor the courage, caring, commitment, and comedy of the men and women he served alongside during his 35 years with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department (LASD). Now that his memoir is published, he plans to honor the City of Hope with the book’s proceeds. My dad began his career as a deputy with the LASD, the largest sheriff's department in the world, at the age of 20 in 1961, just a few months before I was born. In 1992, a few short years before his retirement as Assistant Sheriff in 1995, he was diagnosed with a rare sinus cancer and received treatment at the City of Hope, the Southern California research and treatment facility specializing in catastrophic illnesses. (In the photo above, taken at his retirement party, you can see that he lost an eye to the cancer.) In response, he and my stepmom, Judy, a deputy sheriff (now retired, too), formed a fundraising and blood donation chapter for the City of Hope. It was the first law enforcement chapter of its kind in the nation and has procured several million dollars and many gallons of blood for the City of Hope. Since then, both my parents have needed the City of Hope's care and cures for other cancers. They owe their lives to the City of Hope, and my father is donating all author royalties from the sale of Badge of Honor to them. In his colorful memoir, which I had the privilege of editing and publishing, my dad recounts delivering a baby, holding a dying drunk driver in his arms, patrolling the Watts Riots, interacting with East Los Angeles characters like Scooter Man and Scuba King, rappelling from helicopters, tracking a mass murderer, supervising detectives with monikers like Pumpkin Head and Turkey, coordinating athlete transportation for the 1984 Olympic Games in Los Angeles, introducing laser weapons training to the Sheriff’s Training Academy, and several volunteer activities to entertain and assist sick children—they were granting wishes long before the Make A Wish Foundation existed. A good friend, and fellow sheriff (may he rest in peace) drew a number of illustrations for the manuscript, one of which appears on the cover (below), and I've included photos from his career, including some provided by the LASD historian. My dad penned the occasional story about his work escapades when I was kid—roping an alligator was one—and began writing in earnest after his retirement. In addition to his stories he wrote news and profiles for dozens of newsletters, newspapers, and magazines including the FBI Journal. He has won multiple awards from the Erle Stanley Gardner Murder Mystery Writers Contest and is included in the anthology Felons, Flames, and Ambulance Rides. My parents have made their home in Temecula, CA, since retiring and have been active in the community serving on the board of the Hospice of the Valleys, City of Hope Patient and Family Care Advisory Council, Assistance League of Temecula Valley, Canine Support Team, and the Temecula Valley Museum where my dad also acted as a docent. I am grateful for his legacy of community service and proud to be part of birthing his memoir. Badge of Honor: Memories of My Life in Law Enforcement is available for purchase at Amazon.com.
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A Reflection on Luke's Gospel, Chapter 10:1-11, 16-20 Years ago, my husband and I left our young children with his mother and went to see a Shakespeare Santa Cruz production of Othello. In an attempt to make the 400-year-old play more approachable, much of the cast was dressed in modern day military uniforms. But the language was just as Shakespeare wrote it, and I admit that although we recognized some of the words in the characters’ dialogue, we didn’t understand it. We felt frustrated and clueless, and when the lights came up at intermission, we left the theater and went to dinner. I’ve felt a bit like that as this Gospel reading percolated in my mind the past few weeks as I thought about what wisdom I could glean from it to share with congregation I attend. My ruminations raised so many questions that I found myself wishing, not for the first time, that I could ask Jesus for clarification, or put in a request to the Gospel writers for a new edition with contemporary situations, so I’d understand better the meaning behind his words. I’d like to know how Jesus would word his directives if he were sending the 70 followers out in the context in which we live now: a world of instant global communication where we can seemingly know everything about places we’ve never been and people we’ve never met. A world of letters, books, email, Facebook, Twitter and the Internet, where people can speak to each other across space and time without being physically present or even alive, since our words are preserved and archived in print and The Cloud. And I’d have questions about the specific details of his instructions: “Carry no purse, no bag.” No purse? No bag? I need my keys, driver’s license, phone, cash and credit cards. And a water bottle, lip balm, and a sweater are always a good idea, aren’t they? Shouldn’t my purse equip me with everything I need in order to serve God? “Greet no one on the road.” Does that still apply in a world of cars and planes? Is speaking to the stranger next to me on the train, plane, or bus taboo? Or is it the modern-day equivalent of staying with a stranger’s household? I hope these small encounters count, because otherwise Jesus’s directives seem impossible to me. “Whenever you enter a town and its people welcome you, eat what is set before you,” and “Remain in the same house, eating and drinking whatever they provide.” I certainly can’t imagine going door-to-door in a town of strangers hoping to become a houseguest forced to eat dairy and wheat, soy and eggs, and so many other foods that would make me sick in order to talk about God. And even back then, what if a host fed one of the 70 pork, which was against their religion? Was Jesus saying they should they eat it anyway? Can’t we buy our own groceries and still profess our love for God? And, what about being a resident in the towns where Jesus sends the 70 in a nation with motels at every Interstate exit and cities full of Airbnb’s? Am I supposed to open my door to two strangers and invite them to stay for days, doing their laundry and cooking for them while they wander around Union or Shelton looking for people willing to be healed? I have a hard enough time being polite to the Jehovah’s Witnesses I talk to through the screen door. But, back then, in a culture centered around hospitality, Jesus’s plan actually worked. The seventy returned with joy, saying, "Lord, in your name even the demons submit to us!" And he replied, "I watched Satan fall from heaven like a flash of lightning. See, I have given you authority to tread on snakes and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy; and nothing will hurt you.” I wouldn’t even want to ask Jesus about demons, Satan, snakes, or scorpions or “the enemy.” I want to follow him in a world free from supernatural forces, venomous creatures, or enemies. Would Jesus tell me that today’s demons are addiction and violence and mental-illness? And the venomous creatures are corporate greed and systemic injustice and government corruption? And that the enemy is our own inability to recognize the humanity and belovedness in all people? If so, I could really use his help understanding how to gain authority over them. I’d want to talk to him about “Being a lamb among wolves.” Now that Christianity has become a dominant institution, those of us in the West who consider ourselves Christian are hardly in danger like the lambs Jesus’ followers were. Too often the church has acted like the wolves, preying upon the bodies of children and bilking money from the flock for personal gain, aligning itself with power, currying political favor, and promoting cultural conformity, rather than remaining rooted in Jesus’s teachings of aiding the poor, orphaned, and widowed. In that way, I wonder if we’re any different from the religious establishment of Jesus’ day. And what’s modern-day equivalent of shaking the dust off my feet when the roads are paved and my feet are safe inside shoes as I walk from home to car to store to car to home? Is it a scathing letter to the editor or shaming on social media? As you can see, I could go on and on, asking Jesus to explain himself just for me. In my imagination, I did ask Jesus all these questions. And in my imagination, he is always patient with me—even if he wasn’t with his disciples. I imagined him shaking his head with sad laughter, and telling me that I am so caught up in details and context, that I’m missing the core values and timeless truths behind his words. Like his disciples, much of the time I just don’t get it. Jesus asked me to set aside my intellect and literalism and listen for the Spirit’s guidance. To clear my mind, I cleaned my kitchen and bathroom. As I wiped and scrubbed, a few words floated into consciousness from early in the passage: The reminder that Jesus sent out his followers in pairs. We are not meant to follow him in isolation, to be guided only by our own interpretations of his words and actions. Whether we are two or twelve or seventy, we are meant to live out our faith in community. How better to understand what Jesus means by saying, “The kingdom of God has come near to you,” than to walk alongside someone for an hour, a day, a year, or a lifetime, and to learn about and share in their experience of faith, of questioning and struggle, of hope and celebration. Personally, I’ve been blessed to have a prayer partner for 25 years, a woman I met at church in California, who moved to Washington a year after me. Together, we confess our transgressions, share our joys, wrestle with God’s call in our lives, pray for others, and listen for the Spirit. All things I can imagine the pairs of 70 followers doing on their journeys to the nearby cities. The other thought that came to mind as I cleaned is what Jesus asked his followers to say as they approached strangers and how to handle the strangers’ response.
Greet them by saying: “Peace to this house!” We come to others with words of blessing, of kindness, not of condemnation, guilt, or coercion. Offering peace—however we might phrase that today—we extend an invitation to speak about the things that really matter in life. An invitation the other is free to accept or not. Jesus says, “And if anyone is there who shares in peace, your peace will rest on that person; but if not, it will return to you.” When I step back from the feeling that I need to interpret and follow the words of the Gospel correctly, I remember that Jesus is always more interested in relationships than right beliefs. That he is always extending the circle of God’s love wide enough to include everyone who responds to his invitation. An invitation offered by the desire for human flourishing, not as a matter of force or fear motivated by the need for power and control. Growing up in a family fractured by divorce four times, I strove to be perfect so that I would be loved enough not to be left. But I could never be good enough. When I accepted the unconditional love God offered, I began healing the brokenness in my own life. As that old wound has been healed by faith, I’ve longed for some of my dearest loved ones who are trapped in pain and suffering to experience the freedom and peace I’ve found. And yet, the words I’ve offered about God and the healing power of love haven’t “worked.” My dear ones are still suffering and not at peace. For a long time, I believed I’d failed them and God by my failure to save them, or win them to Christ. But in this scripture passage Jesus offers me the much needed reminder that his peace can remain with me if I accept it—no matter how others respond. There is so much richness to be mined from this Gospel passage, especially if we can look beyond the questions of how to translate the culture of the time to 21st century circumstances. I encourage you to spend more time with these words this week, to let them percolate in your life and see what emerges. May the timeless truths of Christ continue to reach through time and space, blessing those who listen with open hearts and minds. May we be among them. On the last Sunday of June, I stood in the backyard of a Victorian house in Loveland, Colorado, surrounded by 85 smiling, tearing with joy, happy people all dressed up and gathered to celebrate the wedding of two kind, smart, funny, and generous humans incredibly dear to us—one of them being my oldest daughter. I’d convinced myself, as the bride’s mother, that I’d cried all my tears several days before the ceremony when I wrote letters to my daughter and her betrothed. And, walking her down the aisle with my husband, the three of us were all smiles. My smile at moments looked more like a grimace, the eyes-screwed-shot-nearly-maniacal grin of the insanely happy, caught on camera. Everyone laughed at the best man’s speech; and the maid-of-honor, who’s been my daughter’s best friend since the age of three, gave a delightfully funny and sweet toast. Everyone guffawed when my husband, who used to work in high tech, rose and joked about not being able to use PowerPoint—a platform our daughter and her friends employed in high school to bolster their request to make an unchaperoned road trip—and became weepy when he spoke of his mother, who met the groom once when he and my daughter had first started dating, and had predicted their wedding long before they made that decision—as she had with my husband and me. The time came to read the poem I’d written, a blessing for two precious people, and emotion wracked my voice. This moment, this leap of love this saying yes spills from the lips of our beloved bride and groom words shimmering with joy. Together we celebrate the wonder of life in which these two so precious to each of us have found and chosen each other and today have pledged their lives to one another’s keeping. What a gift it is to journey alongside them in a world made sweeter by the kindness and generosity of their love. Cherished ones, may your marriage continue to bring out the best in each of you and each person blessed to know you now and in the years to come. After dinner, I’d learn that I’d made some of the bridesmaids “ugly cry.” Three of the “mom friends” in attendance, who’ve known my daughter almost as long as I have, were brought to tears as well. One couldn’t finish her meal. I know it wasn’t that my words were so exceptional or powerful, it was because love was overflowing, spilling out of us on this “happy, happy day,” to quote one of my daughter’s childhood friends. But on this happy, happy day there was still recognition of our human frailty: photos of the grandparents who’d died were on display next to the guestbook. And at 5,000 feet altitude some guests faced challenges: one with cancer suffered from the lack of oxygen, and even some who were healthy had headaches and trouble breathing, but they were all there; they’d come to celebrate love. One of the young bridesmaids was widowed less than a year ago, and despite her grief she hasn’t lost her riotous sense of humor as her infectious laugh rang throughout the weekend. I’m sure there were quiet moments that brought back bittersweet memories and sadness. I also know, that surrounded by her closest friends, she could be herself exactly as she needed to be in that moment. It wasn’t only the love of the bride and groom for each other that drew the wedding guests together and made the day so rich; it’s the love and care that this bride and groom have for their friends—the way they keep strong relationships over the years, the way they make new friends wherever they go, the generosity and kindness shown to others. We celebrated in a spirit of joy and abundance, and in those days of travel and celebration, I took a break from “the news of this world,” returning to it heartsick over all the ways we separate ourselves from love as a society. Outside of our circle of family and friends, we’re often fearful of others. We treat them in ways we’d never treat those we love, or those we just met at a wedding reception, or sadly even our unruly pets.
I want to hope that the gifts gleaned from my daughter’s wedding overflow into my behavior in the world: that I might see each person as a bride or bridesmaid, groom or groomsman, or the family, friends, parents, and children who love them and extend hospitality. And I want to hope that my small bit of generosity and kindness combined with your small bit of generosity and kindness can make a difference in the life of others—strangers and friends alike. The following is the message I delivered to my congregation on the Lectionary Scripture:
John 10:22-30 Last week’s gospel reading ended with the resurrected Jesus exhorting Peter to “Feed my lambs; tend my sheep; and feed my sheep.” Today’s Gospel reading moves back in time to Jesus’ ministry before his death and resurrection, and the words John writes about Jesus’ identity as the Good Shepherd. The scripture opens with Jesus observing the Festival of Dedication we call Hanukah in Jerusalem. “Jesus was walking in the temple, in the portico of Solomon. So the Jews gathered around him and said to him, ‘How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly.’” Of course Jesus and his followers were Jewish, so “the Jews” that John refers to are those who oppose Jesus, those with authority—likely the scribes and Pharisees—who are expecting a messiah; and they’re looking for a messiah who will restore them to their homeland and free them from the power of the Roman empire. Maybe they were hoping for a politically savvy rabbi, or someone who would organize a rebellion and take on the Roman soldiers. It’s likely they are expecting a rabbi who has spent a lifetime steeped in the Torah, studying and applying the laws of Moses. And I would imagine that they’re looking for someone who will recognize and reward them for their faithfulness in following the rules, keeping the commandments, interpreting God’s laws rightly and effectively, and for instituting policies, and procedures to ensure that the true faith is preserved without dilution or assimilation. But Jesus isn’t acting like the messiah the groups in religious power have imagined. He’s the son of a carpenter who hasn’t been properly educated, he’s lax about the laws of purity, he associates with questionable people, and dismisses the concerns of those in power. He doesn’t praise the scribes for their accuracy or applaud the Pharisees and their rigidness; he challenges them instead. Jesus has attracted a band of riff-raff, from hard core devotees, to crowds of thousands, curious about his charismatic style, his turn-everything on its head teachings that are peppered with stories, satire, and humor, as well as his miraculous ability to heal every imaginable ailment. The Pharisees see these things, but they don’t understand them, and confront Jesus again and again. Who is he? What’s his agenda? Where did he get this authority? Jesus seems to grow tired of the same religious people asking the same questions over again, not really interested in the truth, wanting the answer to be the answer they want to hear—an answer that will either expose Jesus for being a fraud, or one that will get Jesus to agree with those in power and adopt their limited agenda rather than continuing to challenge it with his own expansive and inclusive invitation. “Jesus answered, ‘I have told you, and you do not believe. The works that I do in my Father’s name testify to me;’” Jesus answers with a rebuke that upsets them, that lets them know Jesus thinks they’re asking the wrong questions, that their priorities are misguided. He’s told them who he is. “You don’t get it. You don’t listen, he tells them. It’s not a matter of keeping them in suspense. “But you do not believe, because you do not belong to my sheep. 27 My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me,” Jesus tells them, implying that though they’re educated men, they don’t know much. They know less than Jesus’ outcast band of followers. They know less than a flock of lowly sheep. In a blog post at “Journey with Jesus” Reverend Debie Thomas writes: “At first glance, Jesus's reply might appear to suggest that belonging to him depends on believing in him. But in fact, what Jesus says is exactly the opposite: you struggle to believe because you don't consent to belong. In other words, belief doesn't come first. It can't come first. Belonging does…. And therein lies our hope and our consolation. According to this text, whatever belief we arrive at in this life will…come from the daily, hourly business of belonging to Jesus's flock.” Two thousand years later in our industrial economy, most of us haven’t seen a flock of sheep of the size that would’ve been common in Jesus’ time and hardly any of us are employed as shepherds. A few of us who still live a rural lifestyle may have kept a small flock of sheep, but most people in the US have probably only seen a few on a farm as we’re out for a drive, or seen some raised by 4H kids in pens at the County Fair, or patted a few at the children’s zoo. But many of us have memorized the twenty-third Psalm, made cotton-ball sheep in Sunday school classes, and sung along with various renditions of “Savior, Like a Shepherd lead us.” The metaphor of Jesus as the Good Shepherd is familiar. It sounds sweet and romantic until we think about what it really means to be sheep: Sheep have no agency. Sheep have no control over where they live and roam, where and what they eat, who they live with, and how they spend their days is limited by the environment someone has chosen for them. And when turned loose in a pasture, sheep have a reputation for being dimwitted. They appear to blindly band together and make bad choices in adverse weather and when being confronted by predators. They seem to get stuck in branches and thickets and won’t cross streams when necessary. They need their heads anointed with oil to keep away flies. They wander off and can’t find their way back and need to be rescued and tended by a more intelligent life form in the form of a shepherd. I don’t know about you, but I want to have agency. I want control over where I live and work, where and what I eat, with whom I live, and how I spend my time. I want to think for myself. I want to be independent, to follow my own desires wherever they might lead. I want to believe that I choose wisely in adversity. I want a reputation for being smart, dependable, innovative, someone who is never lost, someone who can always lead the way, someone who freely offers assistance and knows exactly what to do to help others, but never needs help and never has to rely on anyone other than myself. I pride myself on following rules and doing things the right way—and the right way, incidentally, is always my way. Given those traits—I think I would’ve been a fantastic Pharisee, the kind of person who didn’t understand what Jesus was up to. I can’t know for sure, but I imagine the Pharisees are motivated by faith, by their love of God and the laws that God has given them for right living in relationship with God and with other humans. I suspect that they strive for absolute obedience to the law and perfection in its interpretation because it will bring them closer to God…not just themselves individually, but the entire Jewish community. I’m the daughter of a father who became a deputy sheriff in Los Angeles County at the age of 21, just three months after I was born. A man, who before he retired had been promoted to sergeant, lieutenant, captain, inspector, commander, division chief, and assistant sheriff—the highest non-elected rank possible. Though I didn’t live with him after I was ten, his belief I the law and devotion to law enforcement were deeply ingrained in me as was the expectation that I would be a leader, too. When I went to college, I majored in Political Science Public Service and worked in local government after graduation, training to be a shepherd, not a sheep. Like my father, I strived to serve the greater good, believing that my dedication and hard work would or should result in accolades and external rewards. I grew up a modern-day Pharisee, with the government as God, but eventually I, like some of the Jews felt as though something was still missing in my life and became both intrigued by and resistant to Jesus’ message. Earlier in this chapter of John’s gospel Jesus calls himself, “The Good Shepherd,” and says, “I am the gate for the sheep. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture.” To accept my belonging as one of Christ’s sheep, to enter through the gate and to take my place as a member of the flock, to become part of the beloved community, is a gift beyond measure. But it is also an ongoing process of surrender: It means surrendering my ego and my desire to be special or set apart—I am loved no more and no less than any other sheep. It means letting go of my tendency to think solely or mostly about myself and my needs—and how I can get others to meet those needs. It means considering the welfare of others and contributing to the greater good not because I want to be helpful or share my expertise or abundance with the less fortunate, but because cooperation is simply my role as part of a flock a whole that is interconnected and interdependent, where the health, safety, and welfare of every single sheep is of equal importance. It means surrendering my desire for rewards and praise and affirmation by society for a job well done. It means recognizing that external validation is meaningless and hollow, that is does nothing to satisfy the deep desire of the soul. Taking my place in the flock means letting go of my expectations and desire for control over my own circumstances, and accepting the reality that is before me as it exists—not as I want it to be. It means coming to the realization that control itself is an illusion. I do not have power over events or people in my own life, or in the lives of others, but I have the power to accept Christ’s invitation into a belonging that can never be taken away. Following Jesus doesn’t guarantee wealth, health, or happiness or any worldly tangible reward; but it offers an abundant life for the soul, an intangible connection to God through Christ, something that can’t be seen and isn’t always felt, but is always present. Theologian Bruce Epperly writes that “Jesus reveals God’s nature to us, and calls us to be his own, aligned with God’s vision…. No one is excluded from God’s love, and yet we experience this love only when we accept the path of Jesus…. Grace is given to all, but some may turn away, forfeiting the experience though not necessarily the reality of grace.” Most of the Jews referred to in John’s gospel turn away and forfeit the experience of grace, but others come close. “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me,” Jesus says. When I, when we, respond to that voice and enter the gate becoming part of the Good Shepherd’s flock we are held by a shepherd who said he would lay down his life for us and did. We are shepherded by one who promised that no one will snatch us from his hand. No human endeavors, no amount of excellent law enforcement or absolute rule following or acts of community service can earn us what Jesus promises: the grace of unconditional love and eternal belonging. Yet Jesus offers these gifts freely to absolutely anyone who will follow. “I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So, there will be one flock, one shepherd,” he says earlier in this chapter of John’s gospel. One shepherd who, even today, gathers us up and into one flock. It happens something like this: Jesus walks through the neighborhood on a Sunday morning calling us from our homes and our cares. Curious we follow behind him dragging our worries in shopping carts and red wagons, jangling our woes like pocket change as if he’s the Pied Piper and we can’t help but fall hypnotized by his flute. Strange that we hear him over the buzz of power mowers, the hiss of cappuccino makers, the roar of TV sports, the pounding bass from car stereos. Odd that he appeals to the retired hi-tech VP with shrinking stocks and irritable bowel, and to the single parent on food stamps renting a room in another family’s house. Strange, that we gather at the corner church, as if Jesus is a convenience store and we need what he’s got-- a quart of milk, a pack of cigarettes, a lottery ticket. We come freshly showered, fresh from cancer, fresh from marriage, fresh from divorce, fresh from college, fresh from grief. Jesus opens the gate for us, we step through it, crowd next to each other and him take refuge in this pasture, gathered up, gathered in by the Good Shepherd—free in this moment, from anxiety and the uncertainty of what comes next. We pray, we sing, we listen, we share bread and wine. We watch the sun stream through the clouds shafts of light teeming with tiny insects life abundant suspended in the air all around us. Funny that before he gathered us into one flock we shared the illusion that we were alone. As we respond to the Good Shepherd’s invitation to follow and listen, may we, the sheep of his flock, carry out the directive Jesus gave to Peter to feed and tend one another. Behr paint is hiring a Color Explorer to tour the U.S. and Canada this summer taking photos of natural beauty and cultural celebrations and naming paint inspired by the experience. They're marketing it as "Your Dream Job" and they're right!
I just submitted my application for the position, which along with having a passport, is based on my answer to this directive: "Tell us what color inspires you most and why—in 150 words or less." I don't know if this is the type of answer they're looking for, but it was fun to write, so thought I'd share: Blues bounce from sky to water ever changing as the sea reflects clouds’ grays and whites, trees’ greens and browns, sunsets’ pinks, reds, and purples in the Puget Sound kaleidoscope where I make my home as poet, writer, teacher, photographer, home renovator, realtor, and collector of paint sample cards that become gallons for project houses and imaginative names for writing prompts. I brush robin’s egg on a wall, royal on a headboard, photograph cerulean expanses. Faded blue jeans and navy deck shoes, the favored blues of my first road trip, pre-teen explorer under sapphire skies from Mammoth Hot Springs to San Francisco Bay. Still curious about our pale blue dot, attentive to beauty in natural and built environments, cobalt skyscrapers to azure streams, my blue eyes open wide, wander in wonder discovering possibility and connection in blues—water, sky flowers, birds—novel and new, that always paint peace, become home. Imagine yourself as Thomas in John’s Gospel. Jesus, the man you loved, the man you believed would save your people from oppression and tyranny, the man who inspired you to upend your entire life, to leave your home and family behind in order to follow him, is dead. The man you listened to and learned from for three years, the teacher you tried to understand and emulate, this one with whom you lived and travelled this beloved friend, leader, and brother was ripped from your midst, betrayed by another whom you also loved, a shock you’re still reeling from.
The drama began a few weeks ago when Jesus wanted to return to Jerusalem by way of Bethany where his friend Lazarus had died. The other disciples were worried because the Jews in Jerusalem had just tried to stone Jesus, and could easily do so again, and kill him. But you were bold and said, “Let us also go, that we may die with him,” though you never really expected that would happen. You thought everything would be okay. Jesus had evaded authorities and talked his way out of trouble before. You thought he’d do it again. But then, the night of the last dinner you shared together, Jesus who was dear to you, as dear if not more so, than your own twin brother, washed your feet as though he were your servant and said he was leaving with these words: “And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going.” But you didn’t understand what he meant and answered, “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?” His reply was another one of his all-too-frequent riddles: “I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” After dinner you and the others accompanied him to the garden so he could pray. He asked you to keep watch with him, but you fell asleep and woke up to soldiers and shouting. You drew a sword to protect your beloved leader, but he went with them without protest. Soon everything spun out of control: You scrambled to follow and were swallowed up in an angry mob separated from him. Later the crowds called for his execution and next thing you knew he stumbled up the road to the place of the skull, carrying the cross to which he was soon nailed, where he suffered and died. Perhaps you had the strength to stand alongside his mother and keep watch over your friend in those last agonizing hours of his life. Or perhaps you collapsed in a heap far from the scene and wept over what you knew was coming but couldn’t bear to witness. Whatever you did, the end was the same: Jesus died and left you flattened with grief, and with guilt—why didn’t you try to save him? You cannot fathom any purpose for your life now. Should you go back home and pick up your fishing nets, return to the family you left behind in Galilee? So much has changed in you over the three years you listened to Jesus as he taught and healed, offered hope to outcasts, even sent you and the others out in pairs to spread his message of hope, to invite others to follow. You doubt you can squeeze yourself back into your narrow old life, but how you can possibly carry on when your hope has been slayed and your heart shattered? For three days you stayed here in this locked room with the others. Some thought you were hiding, afraid of arrest by Jewish authorities, afraid you’d be thrown in jail for your association with this Jesus who was crucified for the crime of being King of the Jews. It’s true you were hiding, but it’s not the entire truth. Along with the fear, you were paralyzed by grief and guilt and confusion. You said you’d die with him, but you didn’t even defend him. He is dead and you bear some of the blame. How can you ever make things right? You woke a week ago to Mary Magdalene pounding on the door just after sunrise wild with despair saying Jesus’ body had been stolen. Peter and John went with her to the tomb and came back saying the stone had been rolled away and the linen strips he’d been shrouded in remained behind. None of you could make sense of that, and when, a little while later Mary Magdalene returned saying, “I have seen the Lord,” and told all of you about her encounter in the garden, you thought it was her imagination, wanting him so to return, that she conjured or dreamed him there. For he’d only been gone for three days and you, too, when you closed your eyes still saw Jesus, dreamed of him speaking to the twelve of you gathered around him at a table or a fire, his presence so vivid and comforting that in the first moments after you woke in the mornings, you opened your eyes and scanned the room, expecting to find him there among you. Soon after Mary left again, you left the house too, exhausted after days of confinement in the small house, worrying and mourning together, and then agitated and confused by the frantic conversations among your friends in response to Mary’s news: What had actually happened, what did it mean, what were you all supposed to do next? You walked stealthily through the city for several hours afterward, head bowed, slipping into shadows should you see anyone lest they recognize you as one of Jesus’ disciples, your mind a jumble of thoughts: Why hadn’t you stayed with the women to comfort them as they kept vigil near the tomb? Had soldiers been guarding the tomb? Had they rolled the stone away and carried Jesus’ body with them? And what about the grave clothes? Why would they have unwrapped and left them? It was only a few weeks before when you’d accompanied Jesus to Bethany, after he learned that his friend Lazarus had died. It’d been four days since Lazarus’ death when you arrived, and you’d watched as Jesus called him from the tomb, and Lazarus came stumbling out wrapped in linen strips. Once dead; now alive. It made no sense, but it’d happened. Jesus had made it happen. And if this is what had happened to Jesus, who had called him out of the tomb? Who, other than Jesus, could summon life from death? As you walked night began to fall, and though you’d set out to clear your head, you returned just as confused and to even more commotion. You knocked on the door, one of your friends furtively opened it, ushered you in, and bolted it behind you. Inside, your all friends turned to you and began blurting out the news: “Jesus was here.” “We have seen the lord.” “He lives.” “He appeared in this very room though the doors were locked.” “Twice he said: Peace be with you—He’s never greeted us like that before.” “And it was definitely him, because then he showed us the wounds on his hands, and side.” “He told us to go forth and forgive sins.” “He said, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit,’ and breathed on us.” “I’ve never felt like this before.” “It’s incredible.” The story tumbled from their mouths all at once, the way excited children tell of their discoveries. You asked yourself if Jesus had really been there? How was that possible? Did your friends see a ghost? Were they hallucinating?” You wanted to believe them, but, how could you? You’ve travelled with this crowd, and knew that they were no different than you—human, fallible, followers of Jesus lost without him. And if Jesus had somehow appeared to them from beyond the grave, you wanted with all your heart for him to do the impossible and appear to you, as well. Your friends finished speaking and looked to you for a response and all you could say was, “Before I can believe, I need to experience it for myself… I need to see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side." Centuries from now when the mystery of Jesus’ disappearance from the grave has been solved and named the Resurrection and has become the account in the Christian scriptures upon which our entire religion hinges, and the celebration of Easter has spread across the globe, Christians will still give you a bad rap for being hard hearted, dubbing you “Doubting Thomas”—although some interpreters will spread the blame a little and criticize the disciples for being such lackluster evangelists, that they couldn’t even convince one of their closest friends. In the far future, some will wonder why all of you kept hiding in a locked room after Mary shared her incredible news, not understanding that you all were frightened of the religious authorities, and the state, and distraught over Jesus’ death. You will want to tell them to think about their own lives, those moments of profound grief, or even joy, when change topples the old life, strips you raw, and you don’t know what comes next. You will want to remind them that though they might recognize something profound and life-altering is taking place when it happens, rarely do any of us understand the meaning of such events as they are happening. Meaning making emerges as we live into the hidden beyond of such moments and integrate this new reality into our daily existence. It takes time to develop perspective to understand the significance of events that have shaped our futures and illuminated our pasts. Thomas, your reaction is completely human. For you, the rising is still a rumor, but your response is a sign of faith. Wrestling with doubt is a sign of your desire to believe and for that belief to emerge from your own experience and understanding, not from hearsay, or by adopting the experience of your friends when it is not your own, but by finding something you can grasp onto that will bring your toward belief. It seems natural to ask for the same appearance and signs your friends received—the sight of Jesus and his wounds, his presence with you—because literally, while you were out of the room, the rules about everything changed. A week later, you are gathered with your friends in that same house, doors still locked, everyone still huddling together trying to figure out what comes next. For the second time, Jesus walks through closed doors and appears in this place, before his closest friends, including you this time. "Peace be with you,” Jesus says to everyone. Then he turns to you and speaks as though he’d heard what you said a week ago, "Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe." You take a breath and all your wrestling and doubt vanish. At the first sight of Jesus and at sound of his voice, you recognize your beloved master standing before you, his features familiar, though his body has defied time and space and death. He still bears the wounds of persecution, but you do not have to touch them or him to believe—though soon you will embrace. Your questioning has led to complete and utter faith. Here is Jesus no longer dead, but risen, capable of all things beyond your understanding, and you drop to your knees in a sweet flood of relief, surrender, and hope, uttering the words you now know to be true: “My Lord and my God!” You are the first person to name the significance of the Risen Lord, you are the first one, who after seeing Jesus resurrected, understands just what he has encountered, the one who can now help the other disciples interpret history in the making and encourage them into boldness of their own. To your declaration Jesus responds: "Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe." In the future, some might hear these words as a rebuke of you, implying that you should’ve believed the disciples when they first told you. But as John writes his gospel, his intent is not to use Jesus’ words to criticize you, but rather to offer hope to the early church that would form in the next decades, to record this sign and wonder, one of many they would not see in person, so that they might also believe. John didn’t know what the future would hold. Couldn’t know that the saving message of Christ would spread throughout a world much vaster than any of them had ever imagined. John couldn’t know that the Resurrection was the beginning of time as we mark it. Jesus’ blessing of those who believe without seeing doesn't negate those who believe because they see. Here in the year of our Lord two thousand nineteen, we have only to look at the journey of saints and mystics, religious leaders, and everyday believers across the centuries whose faith allows us to see Christ alive in the world. When we embrace the mystery of the risen Christ, when we follow Thomas’ example, then our fears, worries, questions, and grief can shift inside us and become the underpinnings of faith as we begin to trust in what once seemed impossible. In our un-doubting, comes our blessing: Blessed are we who live on the far side of the Resurrection. Blessed are we with centuries of the faithful traveling before us. Blessed are we who have been breathed on by the Holy Spirit. Blessed are we who are searching and questioning. Blessed are we, who like Thomas, who both see and believe. As we receive and respond to that blessing, may we become bearers of light, the embodiment of God’s love for others in this time and this place. May we, even in all our shortcomings become the hands and feet of Christ, our dear Savior whose horrific death was redeemed; whose rising has made all things new. In the Empty Tomb
You who’ve put on new life You who wear Resurrection like a clean white robe scrub me to the bone then let me rest alongside you for just a moment—the two of us shiny, pink, expectant radiant in our empty tomb ...... The Resurrection What would Jesus give us If we asked Our hearts broken in three pieces With grave clothes entombed He has nothing left But a set of wings To resurrect our faith Holy Week It’s time to walk tenderly along the rutted road feet blistered bare and dusty trouble plodding doggedly at your heels When hope is all that remains and your palms are rope-burned red make of faith and doubt a lifeline, not a noose and grasp tight despite the pain Gather up grief and despair lay them in baskets woven from reed and tears then lay your woes before the one who will not stay entombed Build an altar caged by ribs for the one who animates your every breath from birth to death who soon (all too soon) will cradle you home What He Said After Dinner In a moment I am leaving you In a moment I am gone returning to the One from whom I have come It will be time for you to be lost without me Time for you to wander the landscape of your familiar only to find it utterly desolate completely foreign I can’t tell you how to manage how to create a life from ashes only to say that you will do it It is your nature to grasp the limb of hope hold fast against the river of events that will sweep me away When you arrive safe on the other shore you will wail gnash your teeth curse the one who made us After you have blamed yourself for what you did not do you will catch sight of me scratch your head and wonder convinced that you are mistaken that my return is impossible Listen to your heart leap with recognition believe In that moment the entire world will change Wrestling the Good from Friday
On this day of your suffering and crucifixion we on the far side of the resurrection remember more than we mourn— Our hope refuses to die but what of yours, Dear Teacher? Do you know hanging from your cross as the sun is eclipsed that you have not been forsaken that “It is finished” becomes a beginning? O Sweet Savior we weep for the many times we did not understand or believe the truths you tried to tell us. For us the tomb is always empty come Easter. Though we have failed you though we do not deserve it salvation arrives. We live through these bleak days because, finally, we believe in you. Now, we beg you just this once, to believe in us. Saturday night I had the pleasure of reading from my short story "Impressions of a Family" along with four other readers included in Baobab Press' new anthology This Side of the Divide: Contemporary Stories of the American West, produced with the assistance of MFA students at the University of Nevada, Reno. The event was held in Portland in conjunction with the AWP writing conference—14,000 writers gathered to take part in 550 official presentations, a massive book fair, and dozens offsite events, like the one I participated in at Mother Foucault's Bookshop. I was fortunate and delighted to have four good friends cheering me from the audience. For those of you who couldn't join us, here are the excerpts I read. You can order a copy of the anthology here. And yes, that's Van Gogh's "Starry Night" I'm wearing, and yes my skirt received its own round of applause! EXCERPTS:
My father is dying. He’s been dying all week. I know it when I see him opalescent and shrunken, bony in the nursing home bed. My stepmother Janice leaves her place at his arm, and I shuffle in, nudging my son Jared in front of me. It’s the first time Jared and I have been together since August when he moved in with his father, my ex-husband, to attend an arts high school. I lean alongside Jared’s shoulder, which tops mine now, and squeeze my father’s flaccid hand. I remember it firm and huge. “Hi, Dad.” His eyes flick in my direction. “I brought Jared to see you.” “Hi, Grandpa.” Jared inches closer and peers at his grandfather. The last time they met was almost a year and a half ago, after my father’s first stroke, and Jared was pissed that he missed his first day of high school to visit some stupid stranger, as he put it. My father lets go of my hand and reaches for Jared’s. “Straight on ’til morning,” he says, quoting Peter Pan, his voice hoarse. I see their interlocked palms—-pale and fading, strong and tan. The last time they held hands was also in a hospital. Jared’s newborn fingers, tiny pearls, curled around my father’s index finger, firm and golden. My father had driven the length of the state to meet his first-born grandchild, only to kiss us both, buy Jared a stuffed giraffe from the gift shop, then turn around and leave within twenty minutes. I can tell Jared thinks I’m the only link between them, the one who holds them together. But I feel the inverse, the force with which their lives have forged me. First, my father’s distance, cool as ice in a whiskey glass, even before he left, then Jared’s infant need that demanded all my time, all my attention, all my wonder, and then evaporated before I was ready. I rest my hand on theirs for just a moment before Jared wriggles from our grip. The next day Janice and I join my father at the convalescent home again. We make small talk and greet visitors. “Oh, you’re the teacher from Napa,” they say. “Isn’t your son the one who’s attending the high school for the arts? He wants to be a painter, right?” I’m invariably surprised they’ve heard of us. An attendant brings in lunch, solids exchanged for purees, and Janice feeds my father, though he seems barely conscious. “Just one more bite,” becomes her prayer, but he’s helpless as a newborn bird, and with each meal less able to prove his love for her. I flip through a magazine and try not to watch. That night after his ski trip, I lure Jared to the Best Western with the promise of all-you-can-eat pizza and in-room movies. When I pick him up Don’s new wife fills the doorframe with her big hair, big teeth, and big breasts. “You’re early, Jared’s in the shower.” Rhonda pauses. “Won’t you come in?” We’d both prefer that I wait outside, but it’s dark and sprinkling and that wouldn’t be civil, and we try to be the poster family for modern divorce. Jared takes the stairs two at a time. He’s carrying his portfolio on one shoulder. His wet curls glisten. After he’s eaten seven slices of pizza, and about eighty-seven people are killed in Jean-Claude Van Damme’s latest movie, I ask Jared how he likes living in L.A. Instead of answering directly, he spreads his portfolio over one of the beds. He’s done dozens of sketches and almost as many paintings this semester. He holds each piece, framing it with his delicate fingers. “There are five principles of organization,” he explains as if he’s giving a school report. “Balance, movement, contrast, emphasis, and harmony.” He has me compare a series of charcoal sketches, and we determine that I favor irregular rhythm, and asymmetrical over radial or formal balance. “You’re catching on, Mom. Now, there are five basic elements of design: line, shape, color, texture, and space.” I study watercolor, oil, and pastel renditions of the same still life until I can correctly identify realistic from abstract shape, dark from light values, actual from simulated texture, and positive versus negative space. He shows me an experiment in Pointillism. “Everything is made up of tiny dots using only primary and secondary colors. What do you think?” “It feels static.” I do my best to sound like an art critic and not a mother who wants to snatch her son back for purely selfish reasons. “Exactly. The precision of color sucks all the life out of it. That’s why I like Impressionism. This is my favorite.” He holds up a painting of our yard in Napa. From across the room I see everything clearly, the dilapidated barn, the almonds and magnolia in flower, chickens pecking near the pond. When I come close, the images blur and become indistinct. They could be anything. Jared falls asleep while I floss my teeth. He’s sprawled across the bedspread, face down. I pull a corner over him and rest a hand on his back, feeling the shallow rise and fall. When he was a baby, Jared couldn’t fall asleep without my hand on the round of his back. Until he was three, I eased him into his crib after our ritual rocking and countless verses of “Bye Bye Baby Bunting.” I stood for long minutes with my hand across his spine waiting for the breath of sleep. Gradually, I retracted my hand into the space above him, feeling the connection between us diminish. Finally, I’d turn to tiptoe away, but often he sensed me move, and I’d repeat the process again. I was everything he wanted, and everything I could give him was enough. But I wonder now if that was ever completely true. Because Don was there, too, often taking my place on the second and third rounds of hand-on-the-back sneak-away. My marriage is over, but Don did not evaporate from Jared’s life the way my father evaporated from mine. My son has a father whose love is visible and present. I lift my hand and crawl into my bed. Jared doesn’t move. In the morning Jared asks me to take him to the Rose Parade New Year’s Day. “It depends.” I park on the street. “I mean, if Grandpa doesn’t kick off tonight.” “That’s rude.” I open my door. “Sorry.” Jared shrugs. “But it’s also true.” Don is a landscape architect who specializes in ripping out lawns and flowerbeds and replacing them with gravel. He calls it xeriscape. This morning he is washing his truck with some eco product from a spray bottle and pretends not to see me while I walk to the front door with Jared’s portfolio while they talk. “Dad said okay.” “Great.” “I love you, Mom.” He hugs me. I hug too hard. He bounces into the house. I walk toward Don who looks up. “I’ll probably be over really early tomorrow,” I say. “I hope it won’t interfere with your New Year’s plans.” “It’s fine. It’ll be good for the two of you. Jared won’t say it, but he misses you.” I nod. “He seems happy here. I’m glad.” “I’m sorry about your dad.” “Thanks.” “I never liked him.” He smiles, quick and sad, a lapse in the usual reserve. “I know. Thank you for that.” I return the smile and remember the afternoon I told Don about my father. “What kind of scumbag runs out on his family?” he’d asked while we were twined in bed. “I will never leave my family. When I get married, it will last forever.” It was a proposal, a confession, and an opportunity for someone to hate my father for me. Jared is a kid who sticks to his New Year’s Resolutions. “What did you resolve, Mommy?” he used to ask, showing me his crayoned list. “Nothing.” I’d reply. No resolution, no failure. This year it’s different. Alone in my hotel room, I can’t sleep. There’s a party in the lobby, firecrackers in the street, and a new century ready to impact me. I take a sheet of stationery from the bedside table and write resolutions for the first time in ages.
I want to write something about coming to understand in a deep way the difference between being alone and being abandoned, but I can’t figure out how to phrase it. I fall asleep with pen in hand. A meditation based on Luke 13:1-9 I imagine myself among the crowd of thousands surrounding Jesus, peppering him with questions, trying to determine if he’s cut out to be our leader. Half a dozen of my friends and I are fuming over the massacre in the Temple. Some pilgrims from Galilee were worshipping, offering their sacrifices, when Pilate sent in his soldiers and slaughtered them. It was horrible, the sort of thing that makes headlines, and we want to know what Jesus is going to do about it. A friend elbows me, so I shout out: “Hey, Jesus, what about those Galileans?” Not really expecting an answer. But he turns my direction: “Cathy, Do you really believe that misfortune comes to only the wicked? Do you really believe that you can guarantee your own safety? That by following all the rules and pointing a finger at every infraction, and by believing we only get what we deserve, that you’ll avoid trouble, that disaster will never strike you? Well guess again. The Galileans Pilate murdered in the Temple were no worse sinners than you. Taking up the cause of blame, hatred, retaliation, and plotting the overthrow of the government after their death will do you no good, and I will have no part of it. Likewise, walls tumble down, and the innocent are crushed. Earthquakes strike without warning. Workmen are shoddy. Towers collapse, and you might well be standing in one when it does. You cannot escape the perils of life by hiding out at home, or cowering in fear. From where you stand, life appears arbitrary and capricious, and absolutely nothing you can do will save you. You will suffer and one day, you will surely die. But that does not mean you’re doomed.” Well, that shut me up. How well Jesus understands my inclinations toward cowardice and blame, my reflexive reaction to pin the responsibility for my circumstances and actions squarely on others—not only in these extreme events which seem out of my control, but in my own relationships as well. Assigning responsibility to the government or the weather or the full moon or my disagreeable neighbor seems easier than having no explanation at all; and it’s certainly easier than scrutinizing my own thoughts and actions for complicity. “Repent or perish,” Jesus says. “Repent or perish.” What does it mean to repent? It’s not simply about feeling guilty or offering an I’m sorry. Matthew Skinner, Professor of New Testament at Luther Seminary in Saint Paul, writes that repentance “is, at its root, about thinking and perception. It refers to a wholesale change in how a person understands something. It implies an utter reconfiguration of your perspective on reality and meaning, including (in the New Testament) a reorientation of yourself toward God. Your behavior might change as a result of this new perception, certainly; but repentance first involves seeing things differently and coming to a new understanding of what God makes possible.” In my own life, repentance began in 1985 when I was twenty-four. I was attending a training weekend for the anti-nuclear group Beyond War, with the goal of saving the world from nuclear annihilation. Raised in a religious and spiritual vacuum, I did not believe in God or religion. I believed in what I could see and touch, in science and empirical evidence, and the facts of the nuclear threat paralyzed me as I studied the Cold War learning that the promise of “mutually assured destruction” was all that kept the super powers in check. I dreamed almost nightly of bombings, mushroom clouds and radiation sickness, of moving through decimated cities. I understood that saving the world was up to me, and knowing that, I knew we were doomed. I hadn’t been able to keep my parents from divorcing when I was growing up. How could I keep the US from launching ICBMs at the Soviets? In preparation for the weekend training, I read all of Beyond War’s literature, and learned to draw their timeline: one that showed the rate of evolution speeding up drastically once our ancestors crawled from the sea, so that all we had to do was will ourselves to evolve. It was that simple. And quick. If enough of us said, “No more,” then war and violence would disappear like our prehensile tails. That weekend in the mountains, with the timeline looming before me, I stepped from my cabin into towering redwoods. Their interlaced roots spread wide into bracken fern, neon banana slugs slid across fragrant duff, and a chorus of frogs and crickets filled the air. Here was an ecosystem in perfect harmony, beyond my ability to completely comprehend and my capacity to save. In that moment, I knew I stood inside a miracle. The forest ecology hadn’t happened randomly as I understood evolution, or because the trees had willed it as I understood the Beyond War manifesto. It was the first moment I felt God revealed—the creative presence in and behind all that exists. My repentance toward faith began then: a slow process of abandoning my fear outrage, unbelief and demand for certainty in questions great (how to prevent nuclear war) and small (when to start a family), and opening myself to the possibility of mystery, learning to trust in what I couldn’t prove. I began to attend a United Methodist church where believers cared about the environment and social issues along with personal salvation. In the Bible and in church I heard, and continue to hear, stories of hope in the midst of violence, of change that happens not because of righteous indignation and demands, but through love, and faith, and accepting life as it painfully is. Along this spiritual journey, despite continual cries for outrage and fear coming from society, my own righteous indignation and fears about the state of the world have gradually ebbed. I have a part to play, yes, but as I learn that the limits of my power revolve around my own thoughts and actions, I surrender my ego, and come to embrace the existence of a far greater power always working for good in the world, whether I see it or not. For me this reorientation of the self toward God, is a constant process. I fight against my “stuckness.” I forget that my opinions, understanding, and beliefs aren’t right just because they’re mine. I forget that my opinions, understanding, and beliefs aren’t supposed to be rigid or static, but are meant to grow and change with time and experience, study, prayer and self-examination. And I hear Jesus reminding me to choose a life that bears fruit in the parable of God the Gardener tending the fig tree that closes the Gospel reading today. Our growth can so easily be stunted in a society that feeds us with fear, outrage, scarcity, exclusion, and despair. And in our own illness, grief, and suffering, there is a necessary time for dormancy, for rest and suspended activity, for nourishment that takes place within as God tends to our battered souls. And there is also a time for responding to God’s invitation and desire for us to flourish. To leaf out and blossom, to ripen and mature, to become more of who we’re created to be, to bear the fruits of our individuality and faith, offering to a hungry and hurting world the sustaining gifts of beauty and comfort, signs of hope and reconciliation, our testimony to God’s abundant love, patience, and generosity. A Prayer in the Manner of Fig Trees
O God, Gardener of our souls, may you fertilize our lives through worship and prayer and fill us in presence and silence. May all our failures and defeats, all our accomplishments and joys all our human endeavors compost into wisdom and understanding. May the rich nutrients of the spiritual journey sustain and enrich us that we might bear fruit—and offering that fruit to others-- become through you a feast for the hungry world. |
I began blogging about "This or Something Better" in 2011 when my husband and I were discerning what came next in our lives, which turned out to be relocating to Puget Sound from our Native California. My older posts can be found here.
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