This weekend, I’ll be presiding over my niece’s wedding. An honor, to be sure, but yes…it’s this weekend. The first Saturday evening and Sunday morning we’ll gather without our beloved Pastor Doug following his 22 years of ministry with us. Needless to say, it isn’t the best weekend to be gone during the immediacy of ministry transition and all, but the wedding venues that fervently drive the nuptial industry don’t care about such things. This will be the place that wonderful and love-filled memories will be made to last a lifetime for the bride and groom and family and friends, and that is what matters most.
Ah, the potluck. The Lutherans proudly claim ownership over the culinary art, but I have a feeling the Methodists, Presbyterians, Episcopalians, our best friend Catholics, and all the rest of humanity know how to maximize on the opportunity to partake of numerous savory nourishments. Nevertheless, we Lutherans will still insist that we have perfected the casseroles and pies and fruit punches to marvel all the tastebuds in fellowship halls all over the world.
It is believed to be one of the most photographed places in all of Ireland (including Northern Ireland), rivaling that of the Cliffs of Moher, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Trinity College, and numerous castles and the greenest scenery imaginable. Approaching the northeastern most edge of the Emerald Isle are these trees that appear rather surreal. They are called the Dark Hedges: scores of beech trees alongside a road that led to a Gregorian style mansion, as the owner attempted to mesmerize his guests while they ventured towards his home. It is believed they were planted around 1775, taking generations for them to create this visual masterpiece of the natural world.
I can’t remember when the tradition started, but it’s usually the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend that my one aunt and some of her family make the trip from Columbus to the farm where she, my other aunt, and my dad grew up with my grandparents. She meets up with my mom and whomever else can join at one of the town cemeteries, where my grandparents, and other family from generations past, are buried. They bring flowers and take care of those precious resting places. Of course, it’s not only about pulling some weeds and planting in some natural forms of new life on the site of mortality. It’s about sharing stories and laughter and joy over memories and of on-going family love-filled moments.
Pastors are often asked about their call story: how they discerned spiritually or otherwise that public ministry was for them. Some might focus on a couple influential individuals or events where they felt God was reeling them down the ordained route. For me, several people and seemingly holy instances had me wondering if something was going on there. The final straw might have been the college choir.
