Straight Talk on Gay Pride

I wrote this blog 12 years ago, while I was serving at Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in Charlotte, where my congregation taught me so much more than I realized at the time.

I hang out a lot with LGBT folks. Often I find myself in a social situation where I am the only straight person in the group. It’s become so commonplace for me that I sometimes have passing moments when I forget I’m not gay. And I’ll wonder, “What’s wrong with me that I’m not attracted to women the way my friends are?” Then I'll remember. Oh, yeah. It's because you're straight, Nancy.

My relationships with gay, lesbian and transgender friends have developed while serving at Advent and then Holy Trinity, both in Charlotte, over the past 15 years or so. I’ve learned a lot through those years. In the beginning, I remember being relieved to discover how much we have in common. But as I’ve grown closer to my gay, lesbian and transgender friends, I've also come to realize just how different we are.

I have trouble imagining the world as they experience it. Their sexual orientation seems to be the soundtrack of their lives that’s continually playing in the background. They may not always mention it, but, in every conversation, they are filtering everything they say and hear through their experience as a gay or transgender person. Everywhere they go, they are scoping out how safe the situation will be for them. Will they be accepted? Will people feel uncomfortable with them? Will someone say something hurtful, knowingly or unknowingly? Will it be better to hide who they are in this situation? Such thoughts are always present for them. And yet, such thoughts never cross my mind.

Once, my friend and colleague Pastor David Eck, who happens to be gay, told me that every time a gay person reads a Bible story they identify with the person in the story who is being ostracized or judged or persecuted in some way. They see themselves in the outsider. I had assumed they read Bible stories the same way I do. And when I read a Bible story, I NEVER identify with the outsider. I always identify with the people who are being challenged to welcome the outsider, or even Jesus, as the one who is standing up for the outsider. That’s the perspective I take when I preach. And yet, many of my parishioners who are gay/lesbian/transgender don’t really relate to the story as I do. When they read about outsiders, that's who they identify with. This blew me away.

As we’re preparing for the Pride Festival in Charlotte this weekend, I’ve been thinking a lot about that word, pride. I confess that in my younger years when I saw gay people parading in the streets on T.V., usually in some far-off place like San Francisco, I couldn’t understand the point of it all. Yeah, okay, so you’re gay, I thought. Do you have to make such a public display of it? Well, I don’t see it that way anymore.

Now I think about how pride is actually the opposite of shame. Every gay person I know has struggled with shame on some level. Growing up in our homophobic culture has done a number on them. They may internalize that homophobia and turn it upon themselves. Or maybe they rebel against it and express their sexuality openly and freely. But in any case, they are living in reaction to the shaming that has been directed toward them in their school or their place of employment, their house of worship or their family. They have been told in hundreds of ways that who they are is not acceptable and the only way to become acceptable is to become someone they’re not.  

What courage it takes to journey from a place of shame to a place of pride! To live into the person God created you to be. To love the person you truly are.  To be gay and proud! I can only imagine how freeing it must feel to emerge from the shackles of shame to strut your gay-self down Tryon Street with Pride.

It truly is something to celebrate. That’s why I’ll be there, waving my rainbow flag, basking in the pride of those who are so dear to me. Even though I can never fully understand how it is to live in their world, there’s a larger world that we share. My life would be greatly diminished without the gifts of the LGBT community. And that fills me with a pride of my own.

Where have all the flowers gone? (the floral sins of my youth)

 As I’m seeing the first flowers of spring start to make their yearly appearance, I’m ruminating on the flowers I’ve enjoyed in my life. From prom corsages to wedding flowers in my hair, festive worship services, curtain call honors, anniversaries, birthdays... Flowers add magic to any occasion.

In the house where I grew up, we had a small strawberry patch in our backyard. This was a gift bestowed upon us by our neighbors. After they planted the strawberries on their side of the fence, they never got a single one. Instead, the plants popped up on our side. Collecting the berries and putting them on ice cream was an annual summer treat. Except for one year. That was the year when I saw beautiful white blossoms in the strawberry patch and picked every last one of them to present to my mother. She always had admired the bouquet of yellow dandelions I gave her and placed them in a little vase where they lasted about 30 minutes. I assumed the strawberry patch flowers would receive the same reaction, but they didn’t. 

I should have learned from that experience that there are times when flowers are best not picked. But I was a slow learner when it came to some things.

My friend Fritzy and I admired the flowers in a neighbor’s yard, and we just knew they would make a perfect gift for our mothers. We each picked a lovely little bouquet and brought them home. And both of our moms asked, “Where did these come from?” We told them that we had picked them from the yard on the corner. We thought our words were spoken as information, but for our mothers, they were a confession. 

Apparently, it’s a really big deal to take the flowers from someone else’s yard. I was shocked when our mothers called it “stealing.” I had always figured that flowers belonged to nature, and they didn’t really belong to any person, even if they’re in that person's yard. So, wow. This was stealing. But the flowers were already picked. What could we do? 

“You’re going to take those flowers back and apologize to the family.” Suddenly, we were shamed as the thieves we were. 

Realizing that the yard with the flowers had a huge blue spruce that obstructed the view to the front porch, Fritzy and I hid behind the tree for a few minutes, left our flowers on the ground and then returned to tell our mothers that we had apologized.

They didn’t buy it. Now, in addition to being thieves, we had become involved in a cover-up. Needless to say, they marched us down to the front door and watched us do the mortifying thing we needed to do. 

That wasn’t the last time I was responsible for taking a neighbor’s flowers. A few years later, my pet rabbit escaped his hutch at night and went straight for a (different) neighbor’s petunias they had just planted. He ate the blossoms off every single one. I don’t remember the name of those neighbors or the rabbit involved, but I do remember that they were pink petunias and cost $36, which was a lot of money back in the early 60s. 

At my home in Charlotte, and then again in Timonium (Baltimore), I spent a lot more than $36 and many hours of my time, over the course of years, building up a perennial garden in my yard, including an entire fence line of roses. In both cases, these got just about perfect right before I moved. 

Now someone else is enjoying my labor of love. I like to think that I’ve given these people I will never know a gift. But maybe it should also be considered penance for the floral sins of my youth.

Freedom is a precarious gift

 Freedom is a precarious gift.

When in the garden God gave us everything that is,

the riskiest gift of all was freedom.

 

White men in powdered wigs with ink-stained fingers,

defying a tyrant,

signed up for the freedom of all,     

          (when all were far from free)

propelling a nation forward

          that has never stopped fighting for freedom.

 

That fight, we call democracy,

is lived through the consequences of our choices:

          compassion or cruelty

          decency or immorality

          competence or ignorance

          peace or chaos

          patriotism or betrayal

 

A democracy may choose to turn on itself,

relinquishing its power to a tyrant.

          (or a petty, little liar)

Or a democracy may choose to do freedom better. 

Freedom is a precarious gift.

 

- 

The gift no one wants, yet we feel compelled to give

No one appreciates unsolicited advice. So, why do we continue to offer it? Is this just one more pointless human activity, like when someone screams at you and you scream back at them, or when you carry on philosophical conversations with your cat? There is no explanation for why we do such things. We know they don’t serve any purpose whatsoever, yet we continue to do them anyway. Does unsolicited advice fall into that same category? Or could there possibly be a good reason for this compulsion we have to tell other people what’s best for them despite the fact that they have no interest in hearing it? 

When I go to a friend with a problem and pour my heart out, it doesn’t mean I’m asking for advice. I don’t want her to solve my problem; I just want her to listen to me. When I want advice, I ask for it. If I don’t ask, it doesn’t matter if it’s the best advice in the world, I’m not receptive to it. The only time I respond well to unsolicited advice is when someone advises me to do something I wanted to do all along. Otherwise, put a sock in it! And while I know this is true for myself as an advice-receiver, I have difficulty recognizing how it might also be worth acknowledging for myself as an advice-giver.

Advice-givers will often find well-disguised ways to get their message across. There’s the stealth advisor, who sneaks his directives under the radar by asking innocent questions like, “Were there any instructions in the box?” Or the disclaim-er who thinks she can clear the way for receptivity by preceding her prescription with, “I don’t mean to be telling you what to do, but…” The one I find most endearing is the yarn spinner, who opens with, “Did I ever tell you about the time…?” You know this stroll down memory lane is going to be a story with an agenda, perhaps a disturbing, cautionary tale.

There are clearly some people who enjoy telling others what they ought to do. I suspect it gives them a feeling of superiority. Others are insufferable control freaks who jump at every opportunity to push other people around. But what about the people who truly mean well when they freely offer up their pearls of wisdom without being asked?

My children have been the recipients of unsolicited advice through the years. I know this because I’ve been their unsolicited adviser. They used to roll their eyes and sigh while I said my piece. Then they proceeded to do whatever they wanted. But I couldn’t help myself. I felt compelled to dish it out like great big heaps of mashed potatoes.

When they were little, they needed me to guide them. If I hadn’t, they probably wouldn’t be here today. They needed me to tell them things like, “Don't play with rattlesnakes 30 minutes after you've eaten without a lifejacket on.” As they grew more self-sufficient, I tried to keep my mouth shut as much as possible. Yet, I still found myself saying things like, “It’s never smart to make the minimum payment on your credit card.” Or, “Please promise me you wear a condom when you have sex.” The content of my advice changed, but my need to offer it didn’t. And that may be the key to understanding why I still do it.

It’s not that I think Gretchen and Ben are incompetent to figure these things out on their own. They’re both smart people, and I know they don’t need me to give them advice. Yes, they’ll do whatever they choose, despite anything I might say to them. But when I offer them advice, it’s not for them, it’s for me. I do it because I need to be needed. 

When you love someone, your happiness is intricately connected to theirs. You want to protect them because, if they’re not safe, you’re not safe. You don’t want them to mess their lives up because when they do, it messes up your life, too. When they pay the price for their mistakes, you pay the price as well. Their heartbreak breaks your heart. Their failures leave you feeling defeated. Their wounds make you bleed. That’s why parents have no choice but to offer advice to their children, whether they ask for it or not. Yes, it may be annoying as hell for them, but hopefully they understand that offering unsolicited advice is just another variation on “I love you.” 

Angels, Shepherds, Wise Men... and a Mass Murderer?

Preached at The Church-in-the-Gardens, December 28, 2025.

What figures do you usually find in a nativity scene? 

In other places, including some Eastern European countries, you might also find a mysterious figure dressed in a robe, with his arms folded and a great big frown on his face. Not the Grinch or Ebenezer Scrooge, but someone who goes back to the very first Christmas. There with the angels and the shepherds and the wise men stands a mass murderer named Herod. How weird is that? Does he belong there? Is Herod really a part of the Christmas story?

During Advent, we began the year of Matthew for our gospel readings. Only in Matthew do we get the story of the magi from the east, following the star to find Jesus and bring him gifts. And only in Matthew do those same magi stop along the way to ask Herod for directions. And only in Matthew do we get… “When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the wise men.”

It’s an abrupt ending to what had been a merry little Christmas. Merry, right up until the point where the evil king starts killing innocent baby boys. 

You may have never heard a sermon on this text because most preachers avoid it. I mean, really, who wants to hear this right after Christmas? But in Matthew’s gospel, there is no Christmas without King Herod.

Now, Matthew also makes a point of inserting stuff throughout his narrative to prove that Jesus was a fulfillment of the Hebrew Scriptures. The parallel he draws here, of course, is with what story from the Hebrew Scriptures where all the babies are killed and one child is saved? And remember where that story of Moses took place? Yes, it happened to be the same place where Mary and Joseph fled with their baby boy. (A part of the story we also only hear in Matthew.) So, perhaps Matthew just threw in this story about killing all the little boys as a literary device, and we don’t need to fret over it. 

But I’m afraid that might be letting us off the hook too easily. For Herod is a key part of the story Matthew wants us to see. 

When the Magi ask him about the king of the Jews, Herod is miffed because, after all, HE is the king of the Jews. Seeing a threat, he has the power to eliminate it, and he goes for it.

Matthew wants us to know, from the get-go, that Jesus was born into a world mired in violence. In fact, the reason Jesus was born into this world was because it is mired in violence.

Now, if you’ve ever read the Old Testament, you know that its pages are dripping with blood. Often, the violence is attributed to God. God is angry. And when God is angry, somebody’s gotta pay. 

Those who told the stories we have in our Old Testament were trying to make sense of the world and their relationship with God, and they were speaking from their own limited experience. The early writers held a primitive worldview that’s reflected in a primitive understanding of God. God rewards the good and punishes the wicked, and you’d better do everything you can to appease God’s anger because when God gets angry, somebody’s gotta pay. That’s a primitive understanding of God.

And then, along comes Jesus. “Do you really think that’s what God’s like?” he asks. That God smites entire cities just because they don’t do what he wants them to do? Nothing could be further from the truth. God isn’t about violence. God is about love.

That means that when someone strikes you on your cheek, you don’t strike them back, you turn the other cheek. That means you don’t fight your enemies, you pray for them. That means you don’t retaliate when someone does you wrong, you forgive. The secret to being happy in this life is in giving yourself in love.

That’s what Jesus taught, again and again, in as many ways as possible right up to the very end. As he was leaving them, he taught his disciples one last time about the most important commandment of all. “Love one another.” He said this after he demonstrated what that love looks like by kneeling before them and washing their feet.

Love isn’t just a mushy feeling inside. It’s something we do. We show it in our actions. The opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s violence. And, by violence, I don’t just mean when we physically harm another. I mean whenever we assert our power over another in a way that causes them harm…physical, psychological, emotional, spiritual… whenever we assert our power over another in a way that causes them harm, that’s violence. 

We seem to have a blind spot when it comes to violence. Maybe because we’re so accustomed to it in our culture that we have little awareness of what it’s done to us. It’s like the proverbial fish unaware that they’re swimming in water. It takes something really big for us to notice, something so shocking that we can hardly bear the thought of it. Like the slaughter of innocent babies in Bethlehem over 2000 years ago, or the slaughter of innocent schoolchildren in our time. 

We’ll look at these events as if they’re anomalies, strange occurrences that appeared out of the blue, for no apparent reason, and we wonder, how could such things happen? When, in fact, they are the inevitable result of what happens when you eat, sleep and breathe violence. 

We have an addiction to violence in our culture. And what is the first step in dealing with an addiction? The first step is admitting that you have a problem.

Have you ever looked at the shows that are on T.V., movies, video games, the sports we follow, and considered how much of our entertainment is based on violence? At the top, or near the top, of nearly every list of favorite Christmas movies in America is Die Hard. Can you believe that? Perhaps that’s appropriate for a nation whose Christmas morning surprise this year was the bombing of a small African nation.

Isn’t it incredible how even a grave tragedy like the murder of 26 people at Sandy Hook Elementary School, 20 of them children 6 and 7 years old, couldn’t get our nation to budge an inch by passing a single law that would make gun regulation more reasonable?

We obviously have a violence problem. But it runs deeper than that in ways that may not be so obvious to us.

When the people we encounter in our everyday lives become objects to manipulate or control so we can get what we want from them. Or when we think nothing of belittling other people to make ourselves feel bigger?

We have a violence problem.

Imagine how our relationships with those closest to us would be transformed if we could stop posturing and protecting ourselves from one another, and instead, give ourselves in love by forgiving, and showing mercy, and daring to reveal our vulnerability to one another? What would happen if a person really lived without violence in our violent world? Well, actually we know what would happen. And perhaps that’s what we’re trying to avoid. 

Jesus lived a life of non-violence, a life given in love. And he ended up nailed to a cross. But even then, he met that act of supreme violence with love. He could have cursed those who unjustly crucified him, or worse. Instead, he forgave them. And, to my way of thinking, that was the most significant moment of his life. Not when he was executed on a cross. Lots of people were executed on crosses. But only one forgave the ones who put him there.

Ironically, many Christians completely miss this point and have used the cross to project their own violence onto God, assuming God is as violent as we are, and God is angry with us and somebody’s gotta pay.

Doesn’t that primitive explanation of the cross completely miss the whole point of Jesus’ life? He died as he lived. As a God who confronted the violence of this world with love.

So, where does that leave us, as people who want to follow Jesus and yet may be, in fact, a lot more like Herod than we are like Jesus? As people who are addicted to violence, how do we love as Jesus loved? Could we turn our church into something like a twelve-step group that meets regularly to support one another as we struggle with our addiction to violence?

I don’t know what it would look like if we dared to be that honest and vulnerable with one another. But I do know that in a church like that, when we read about Jesus’ birth, we would always include Herod in the story.

Precrastination

 In June, I was pushing my daughter and son-in-law to get tickets to go to a Mets game in August, and they were resisting me. It made me nuts. Not long after, they had an end-of-the-school-year party where I met people who will be going to Paris in a couple of weeks and, other than flying from NY and landing in Paris, they have no plans. What?! This is beyond comprehension for me. How do people live like this? 

It’s a gross understatement to say that I’m not a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of person. I can do it in a pinch, but the very thought of it has me on the ceiling. I don’t understand people who are just asking to be stressed out. Like procrastinators. 

A number of people in my life are procrastinators, to one degree or another, and I’ve spent some time researching why they are the way they are. There is a common understanding that procrastinators tend to be perfectionists. I’m not sure about that. What I do know is that they tend to make their lives more difficult and stressful than they need to be.

It's important for me to have all my affairs in order in case I die today. I have a file for my daughter that includes all the details. In it she will find passcodes for my accounts, my will, payment for all final expenses, instructions for my funeral (including a worship bulletin ready to print after filling in a few blanks like the date of death), and even a slide show. I update this information on a regular basis. God forbid I should exit this planet with loose ends! (Of course there are always loose ends, but I’m in denial.) How can any adult sleep at night if they don’t have a will? Or how can they sleep at night with credit card debt? Or unresolved conflict with another person? Or unfinished shopping the week before Christmas?

It suddenly occurred to me that I am the exact opposite of a procrastinator and that’s why they make me nuts. What is the opposite of procrastination? Perhaps, planning ahead? Or thoughtfulness? When I looked it up, I discovered that there's actually a word for this. One I’d never heard before: precrastination. Is that really a word? Wikipedia tells me, “Precrastination is the act of completing tasks sooner than necessary, often at the expense of increased effort or diminished quality of outcomes.” Instead of feeling vindicated, I feel unfairly judged by this definition. Further reading told me that precrastination is as problematic as procrastination. Could this possibly be true?

This revelation has caused me to rethink my entire life. How I abruptly changed the direction of my life in college. The way I married a man before I really knew him, fully aware that if I waited I would never go through with it. How, whenever I move to a new location, which I’ve frequently done, I always unpack as quickly as possible and can’t rest until it’s done. The way I have all my big trips planned and paid for through 2027. The way I can’t leave an email unanswered. How I can’t leave tasks undone, or thoughts unshared, or decisions unmade. Never before have I ever considered this behavior a problem.

Why am I like this? I’ve tried on a variety of explanations. I can’t leave things unresolved. I don’t want to be caught unprepared. I must clear things from my mental “to do” list to ease my load. I have to act while I’m thinking of it before I forget (an excuse that makes more sense for me now that I’m older).

I’ve long known that I’m a glass-half-empty person. The culture around me tells me this is not a good way to be, so it’s difficult to admit that. But it’s true. No matter how hard I try, I can’t become a glass-half-full person. I always expect something bad to happen, especially when I’m in the midst of lots of good things happening. And guess what? Eventually something bad happens, of course. When it does, it’s okay, because I was prepared for it. It doesn’t knock my feet out from under me. Now I’m wondering, is this just another manifestation of precrastination for me? Could my glass-half-empty outlook explain why I obsessively prepare for what’s to come?

I don’t know exactly what to think of this recent self-revelation. I can’t believe it’s taken over 70 years of my life before I could see it. I could easily have lived without ever seeing it. But it’s there now. So, what do I do with it? I’m going to try my best not to force an explanation for it. Instead, it’s my intention to let it unfold and come to me when and if it comes. Am I capable of that? We’ll see.

 

Don't Trust the Cameras

 About 10 years ago, Donald Trump decided to run for president. I was among those who didn’t take him seriously. So much that he said was antithetical to the life and teachings of Jesus that I assumed others would see this, and he wouldn’t stand a chance. Of course, I was completely wrong about him and the voters in my country.

Back when he first ran, I remember the time he was going to speak at one of our ELCA universities, Lenoir Rhyne in Hickory, North Carolina. I was among those who were outraged by this, but he had a right to speak there if he chose. College campuses are all about the free exchange of ideas, after all.

Many Lutherans, including our synod Bishop and about 100 clergy, decided to show up on campus that day, not to protest, but to witness to our faith. As people waited in line to enter the auditorium, they could hear us singing hymns and see us holding up signs with scripture verses. We wanted to show them Jesus because surely they would see that DJT was not of Jesus. We sang until we were hoarse.

As we gathered outside the auditorium and the line of those waiting to go inside snaked all around the campus, other groups were gathering as well. They had come to protest. It looked a lot like there was going to be a violent confrontation. I watched it all unfold on the green space before me. The T.V. camera people were watching, too, as they moved in on the two groups who were moving closer to one another, almost face-to-face, screaming. A real life rumble was about to happen! This was going to make for some great T.V.

Then something unexpected happened. A long line of people in clergy collars joined hands and lined up smack dab between the two groups and started singing, “Jesus loves you this I know…” Immediately the groups dispersed. And here’s the thing. So did the cameras. They had been zooming in for the big smack down and there wasn’t one. So, they all put their cameras down and walked away, disappointed. To me, they missed the biggest story of the day!

I remember that event whenever I watch T.V. these days. We are seeing what the T.V. crews decide to show us. And they decide to show us, not the good, but the bad and the ugly.

I’m getting ready to head out for a No Kings Protest today. I pray that they will all be peaceful and millions of people who resist the actions of the current administration will be safe.

If you’re not a part of one of the protests, I urge you not to believe everything you see on T.V. or on the internet. If you want to know what’s happening, talk to someone who was there.

Now that Bishop Budde has your attention...

Along with many others, I cheered as Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde spoke truth to the most powerful man in the world at the national prayer service after he was inaugurated. She exemplified the love of Jesus, not only in her words, but also in the way she spoke them. As a preacher myself, I have been gratified by the attention she has received from the media. But a part of me also is feeling unsettled because I suspect many of those who are cheering her on have an incomplete picture of the movement she represents. Here’s what I want you to know… 

Bishop Budde is not an anomaly. There are many Christians like her. I can’t tell you how many times I have seen all Christians attacked on social media and tried to assert that not all Christians are horrible human beings only to have my words met with animosity. A whole lot of people in our world want to have absolutely nothing to do with organized religion in general, and Christians in particular. I can’t really blame them. Christians don’t exactly have a great track record. Just consider the crusades, inquisition, witch trials, slavery, fascism, clergy sexual abuse and other atrocities that are a part of the Church’s history. But the Christian Church has also given us hospitals, universities, schools, great art & music, abolition, Civil Rights, prison reform, safer lives for children and immigrants, and so many other things that have made our world better. There have always been faithful people who have devoted their lives to following the life and teachings of Jesus, often despite the actions of the Christian imposters around them. Christian Nationalists and MAGA-Christians are not followers of Jesus. I know they are the ones you see in the media these days, but their ways are not the way of Jesus. For all those who assume that’s what it means to be a Christian and want nothing to do with us, please know that there are people in the world around you who are faithfully seeking to follow the Jesus way. (No, not perfect people, but people who are doing their best to live and love like Jesus.) Perhaps Bishop Budde opened your eyes to that reality. Know that she actually represents millions of Christians. She is not an anomaly. 

Did you know that on inauguration day there were anti-Trump protests all around the world? You would never have known this from American media. But Google it and you’ll see the pictures. It really happened. Many of the people involved in those protests were clergy and people of faith. I know this because I have friends who were protesting. Bishop Budde wasn’t the only person of faith who spoke out against injustice and made a plea for mercy and compassion. She was simply the only one who was given the opportunity to speak publicly to the newly inaugurated President’s face for 14 entire minutes. 

Please know that Christian leaders from a variety of denominations are doing their best to preach faithful sermons based on Biblical principles like justice, peace and love. Just as the prophets of the Hebrew Scriptures, Bishop Budde and so many others enter the pulpit fearfully week after week. Not knowing how their words will be received, but sensing a responsibility to show people Jesus, they are compelled by their calling and the Spirit to speak the truth. Just as Jesus did, they advocate for the poor and marginalized people in our world, including the homeless, LGBTQ folks, people of color and undocumented immigrants. 

Some of them preach in communities that receive their message with enthusiasm. Others struggle to open minds that are less than receptive. Many have reminded people of Jesus’ words to “be merciful as God is merciful”, and their congregations have been so offended by the gospel that it has cost them their ministry. This is a precarious place to be for those worried about providing for their children or retirement plans. There may be no group more maligned and more necessary in our nation than those who faithfully preach the gospel of Jesus in our churches in 2025. Unnoticed by the world, they are all heroes to me. (I’m giving myself permission to say this because, as a retired pastor, I find myself listening from the pews these days.)

I want you to know all this because Bishop Budde’s sermon caught your attention, and she represents so much more than her 15 (okay, 14) minutes of fame.

Surviving Another Trump Win with God’s People

The last time I blogged, I was dealing with pre-election anxiety, and I had decided Harris would be our next president so I could quit stressing over it. And we all know how that turned out. 

Still carrying PTSD from 2016, I recalled how I cried for weeks when Trump was elected. It was inconceivable to me, and I was angry—Angry with anyone who would choose a joke like Trump to be our President. Angry with the rampant misogyny, racism and general lack of human decency on display throughout his campaign. Angry with the Democrats for nominating a candidate who was so clearly despised by so many Americans. Angry with the people who voted third party. Angry with strangers I encountered on the street; I suspected they all had voted for Trump.

At that time, I knew that a portion of the people in my congregation in Maryland also had voted for him, and I will confess now, although I never would have confessed it back then, I was angry at them. I didn’t know exactly who they were. I didn’t really want to know because I still had to love them and be their pastor. There was an unnamed tension in the air. Of course, being who I am (incapable of leaving things unsaid), I felt compelled to name it. We had some healing conversations which seemed to help for a while, but the constant political implications of my sermons were inevitable, even when not stated overtly, because I was preaching the gospel and, well, that’s what happens. (In fairness to Jesus, he is equally offensive to Democrats and Republicans alike.)

After retiring to New York, for over two years I have been serving a small, nearby congregation in transition. Membership includes people on both sides of the political divide, but it leans heavily toward Trump. As the election approached, everything within me wanted to be anywhere else. Maybe with a congregation that was more my tribe. Or maybe somewhere in the Caribbean combing the beach for unknown treasures. I dreaded the election and the Sunday after. Especially when, before I even began serving them, leaders of the congregation had reservations about allowing me to preach from their pulpit after they googled me and saw my “liberal” background. Was it going to be déjà vu all over again?

To be honest, I was a bit miffed with God for putting me in this situation once again. I was retired, dammit. I didn’t need this shit.

I braced myself for the worst. And it didn’t happen. In fact, the Sunday after the election, no one mentioned it. At least not to my face, which I considered a great kindness. I was expecting some jubilant greetings or sideways digs, but they never came. A month passed and not a word.

Last Sunday, I was talking about dualism in my sermon. I pointed out how we choose sides, and our side is always good while the other side is always bad. It’s us against them. And I suddenly went off script as only a manuscript preacher can when she has a flash of insight that had never occurred to her until that exact moment standing in front of her congregation. I suddenly found myself speaking about the presidential election that happened a month ago. I was honest with them about how I knew many of them voted in a way that I hadn’t. And I told them that I was expecting to have a problem with that as the election approached, especially if Trump won. But then, it was never a problem for me. Yes, I still had a problem with the way the election went. But I didn’t have a problem with them. I knew they were good people. It didn’t feel like us against them. Because I loved them. I had been surprised that I hadn’t reacted the way I expected I would and, at that moment, I figured out why. I had to tell them.

I hope they heard what I was trying to say. Christian love is the cure for us against them. How can you demonize people who sing hymns with you and share the Body and Blood of Christ with you? Of course, I've always known that’s true. But I lived it in the past month. 

I’m grateful to God for sending me to a congregation that isn’t my tribe so I could experience the grace that surpasses an us-against-them world. I would never have chosen this for myself and would have missed out on unexpected joy.

 

I have decided who our next president will be

You haven’t heard much from me lately because I have been so consumed by anxiety that it has nearly paralyzed me. Reading the NY Times every day on my phone before I get out of bed. Watching Morning Joe over breakfast. Morning, noon, and night checking in on CNN and MSNBC. Scrolling my social media for any glimmers of hope. Following the polls like the scoreboard at a championship game with everything on the line. 

I have been genuinely fearful that I might have a nervous breakdown on November 5. I’ve gotta figure out how to get a grip. This isn’t good for my mental health.

In September, I took a 10-day trip to Ireland with a lovely group of people. I thought it would be a great distraction for me. I needed to get away from this stuff. Because I would be traveling with people I hadn’t met, all from the Carolinas, I was worried that some would be Trumpies, and it would be difficult for me to relax with them. In reality, just the opposite proved true. They pretty much felt the same way about Trump as I did, and they weren’t afraid to make their opinions known throughout the trip. Apparently, there is no escaping this madness.

It’s comforting to know that I’m not alone in my anxiety. But that doesn’t help me deal with it. I was so distraught after Biden decided to run again that I was in a perpetual state of despair. When he withdrew, I wept. When he endorsed Harris, I wept. All through the Democratic National Convention, I wept. When I watch her on the campaign trail, I weep.

My daughter, Gretchen, has an amazing ability to compartmentalize and rise above what she can’t control. It’s a solid coping mechanism that’s gotten her through some tough times. She has a strength about her, and an ability to let things go, when they need to be let go, that I sorely lack. I want to stop obsessing over negative stuff, to live in the moment, and to accept what I can’t control. I long to be like Gretchen, to do my best and live with whatever happens because, really, what choice do I have?

Maybe this is how I could survive these days of uncertainty, I thought. I vowed that I would stop checking my phone, my TV and my computer for one day and see how it felt. Surely, I could do this. I almost slipped when 11 a.m. rolled around and my girlfriends on The View were meeting without me, but I held my ground. I made it until 10 o’clock that night, when I heard Lawrence O’Donnell on MSNBC whispering my name. I’ll just check in for the first 10 minutes, I said. And I was back at it.

I can’t look away. My obsession with the election has a hold on me; I can’t let it go. But it’s more than just a lack of willpower. It’s simply not who I am.When something is on my mind, I go after it relentlessly, like a dog with a bone, until it's resolved. Sometimes this has served me well, and other times, not so much, but it's always exhausting. As I've gotten older, this character trait has become even more pronounced. 

The unknown makes me a bit bonkers. When I was little I always peeked at my Christmas gifts and knew everything I was getting before Christmas morning. Somewhere in the first couple of chapters of reading a novel, I normally skip to the end to see how it all turns out. I binge shows on T.V. because I have to get to the finale as quickly as possible. By reading the spoilers online, I always know who The Bachelor picks at the end of the season before it even begins. Some would say this ruins all the fun. For me, it simply puts me out of my misery so I can enjoy myself.

Knowing this about myself, I think I finally figured out the best way to cope with the 2024 presidential election. I will just skip to the end. No need to fear the unknown. I already know what happens. Harris wins. Easy enough. No reason to fret. I will watch the process unfold as someone who already knows how it ends. Kamala Harris will be the next President of the United States. Decided. And done. She wins.

She has to.

 

No, you can't do anything if you put your mind to it

You know that scene in Star Wars where Luke Skywalker is flying his little X-wing fighter into the Death Star and he has to find the exact spot to destroy it, and instead of using his fancy high-tech instruments, he trusts the Force to guide him, and he ends up saving the Galaxy? Well, don’t try that at home. 

I learned that back when I was in third grade. Ridgewood Avenue stopped at Adams Elementary School on one end, and at the other end, four blocks away, it stopped at my house, 435 Edwards Street. It was a straight shot from the school to my house, downhill.

So, one day as I was riding my bicycle home from school, I got it into my head that if I coasted perfectly straight and closed my eyes, I would end up at 435 Edwards Street. I knew nothing of the Force, since it was years before George Lucas would even imagine Star Wars. But, in my mind, there was no reason why this wouldn’t work. So, I closed my eyes and coasted toward home.

A telephone pole jarred me into reality.

When you were growing up did anyone ever tell you that if you put your mind to it, you can do anything? And do you remember when you learned that that’s a bunch of hooey?

We all have limitations. Our school years alone teach us that. Everybody can’t be class valedictorian. We can’t all become the homecoming queen, or the star of the basketball team. And for those who seem to breeze through it all effortlessly with the wind filling their sails, it’s simply a matter of time before they, too, are confronted with the reality of their limitations.

It’s just not true that if you put your mind to it, you can do anything. Learning to live within the limitations of our lives is a primary task of growing from a child to an adult.

Since I turned 70, I’ve been thinking a lot about how the limitations I’ve learned to live with in my life are changing and how they will probably continue to change even more.

The world that we once commanded in all its fullness gradually shrinks for us as we age. Surely a senior citizen’s worst day is the one where they have to relinquish their car keys, knowing that for the rest of their lives they will be dependent upon other people for something as simple as picking up a loaf of bread.

In all this thinking about growing old, I’ve had a revelation. In the past, it’s seemed to me that growing older is primarily about loss. I think a lot of people see it that way and that’s why they spend so much time pushing against it. Few people like to admit to being old and they will resist the notion for as long as they can. But I’m thinking that’s not the way I want to grow old. It’s my hope that I will do a lot more than resist and resent it.

During the first half of life, we discover what the possibilities of our lives are. But the second half of life is about accepting our limitations. It’s about finding peace with our humanity.

And that’s the point of Ash Wednesday. It’s a day for all of us, no matter where we are in our life’s journey, to remember that a time will come when our hearts will stop beating, and our brains will shut down. It’s the ultimate limitation, the one that not one of us can expect to escape.

364 days a year, we may pretend that we are faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. But not today. Today we remember that we’re all going to die.

That’s the message of Ash Wednesday. We’re all going to die.

Some people may fight against that reality. Some run from it. Others face it with fear and trembling. Or they resign themselves to the inevitability of death as the sad reality of their lives.

But we gather on Ash Wednesday to face the ultimate limitation of our humanity in the presence of God, standing in community with our brothers and sisters in Christ all around the world. We come because God invites us to rest in his grace. We can be at peace with who we are because we can be at peace with who God is.

Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return. Hearing those words and receiving a cross of ashes on your forehead can feel a lot like riding a bicycle with your eyes closed and being jarred into reality by a telephone pole. Or hearing those words and receiving a cross of ashes on your forehead can feel like falling into the arms of our God who is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.

Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.

 

 

Aging, Acceptance, and a Word About Our Presidential Candidates

 This is hard for me to say, but I must say it. I’m not the person I was. And despite all my efforts to hold onto the person I was, I need to accept that I’ve become someone else. For me, this acceptance is the primary task of aging. I say “for me” because I know that aging is not the same for everyone. I don’t assume that what is true for me is true for others, but at the same time, I also can safely say that I’m not alone in my experience.

I remember how I found old people amusing when I was young. There was a woman in our neighborhood who drove her car down the street at about 10 mph. Every time my friends and I saw her peering over the steering wheel we would howl with laughter. I’m beginning to understand why she was so fearful, and it’s not so funny anymore. (The fact is, she should not have been driving.) I often rolled my eyes when old people told the same stories repeatedly without realizing it. Now I can see how I too have the potential to become one of those storytellers on a loop. I used to wonder how an old woman could go out in public with long whiskers all over her chin. Why didn’t she take care of that? I understand now that she probably couldn’t see them. No, I’m not there yet. But I am aware of the direction my life is going, and I can see it coming if I live long enough. That’s just the way it is.

I felt this happening before I retired at the age of 70. Yes, I could continue functioning in my job. Yes, I had acquired wisdom from the experience of serving for over forty years in my field. Yes, I was still enjoying my work. But I was not the person I once was. Not as quick, not as creative, not as energetic. That wasn’t going to change; it was only going to get worse.

Not very long ago, I was in the thick of things. I was a vital part of important decisions. I had amazing moments of triumph. I felt powerful. I could change the world around me in significant ways. It was my time. That is no longer the case. I’ve moved from being an active player in the game to becoming a spectator on the side-lines. It’s a weird feeling.

Because I am a Baby-Boomer, I know that, along with me, a whole lot of other people are coming to terms with their aging status these days. We are learning firsthand about the indignity of agism in our culture. But a greater challenge seems to be the inability we Boomers have accepting that our lives have changed. Most notable are the two likely presidential candidates for 2024. Why are they hanging on for dear life as if the future of the world depends upon them? The truth is, it doesn’t. It’s time to step aside and trust that the next generation is capable. And, I dare to say for all of the above reasons, more capable. It's their time. I’d like to see what they can do.

I’m not who I was. That part of my life is over. But that’s not to say that my life is over. I have a future, and I have some control over how I will live it. I look forward to spending more time with the people I love and new adventures yet to unfold. I long to savor good food, music, theatre.  I continue to be curious about the things I've yet to learn. I believe I still have a contribution to make to the world around me. I’m interested to see what comes next for our country and the planet we share. All of that is true. And yet, in order to live fully in my present reality, I need to accept the fact that the past is in the past. 

 

Who's going to clean up this mess?!

 I’m growing to love my little neighborhood in Queens. It’s close to everything, so I can walk to the grocery, the butcher, the dentist, the pharmacy, and my favorite bodega selling homemade honey-ginger tea with lemon. Apart from the occasional parking space altercation, people look out for one another. But there’s one thing I don’t think I’ll ever get used to, and that’s all the trash on the sidewalks. I see it everywhere and want to shout, “All the world is not your trash bin, people!”

It seems that once a person litters, it gives lots of others permission to dump in the same spot. Every crumpled-up McDonald’s bag, candy wrapper, snotty Kleenex or used condom tossed on the ground is like an afront to me.

I often see baggies of dog poop, all tied up, just left on the sidewalk, and that really puzzles me. Kudos to those who go to all the trouble of bagging their dog’s mess. But then, why do they just leave the bag for someone else to dispose of? I can’t even…!

I’ve been wondering why this bothers me so much. It’s deeper than an esthetic gripe I have. Yes, I’d rather not see ugly trash while I’m walking around in my neighborhood. But the sight of it actually pokes at one of my pet peeves. It really grinds me when people leave a mess for other people to clean up. Is there anything more self-centered and inconsiderate than that?  It goes way beyond trashing the sidewalk. It can also mean irreparably harming a child or bombing the homes of innocent people or destroying an ecosystem. Who’s going to clean up this mess?!

None of this is to say that I haven’t been known to create messes of my own because I certainly have. I suspect we all do, from time to time. But I’d like to believe I don’t leave my messes for someone else to clean up if I can at all help it. When I finish a drink, I don’t throw the paper cup on the ground for someone else to pick up; I carry it home and throw it in the trash. If I use the toilet and the toilet paper runs out, I don’t leave the empty core for the next person; I replace the toilet paper. In the same way, if I have hurt you with my careless words, I will do what I can to make things right with you. If I find out that I can change a simple behavior to make the earth a healthier place for people I will never know, I do it. I try to show consideration for the people who will come after me.

As a woman, a mother, and a pastor, I’ve spent a lot of my life cleaning up other’s people’s messes and I’ve reached an age where it’s all I can do to keep up with my own messes. I can’t be responsible for yours. Is it asking too much to expect people to clean up their own messes?

*Deep breath*

Okay. I’m done. I’m better now. (Until I go outside and look at the sidewalk.)

The Amazing Guy Upstairs

The guy upstairs often amazes me. No, I’m not talking about God here. I’m talking about the man who dwells in the top two stories of the house where I live, above the lower level where I am. His name is Jon, and he’s married to my daughter, Gretchen. He’s also the father of my grandsons, Nick and Justin. In addition to being the kind of dad who tosses a football with his sons, patiently helps them with their homework, and prepares their favorite mac-n-cheese for dinner, he has a special dad-gift that never ceases to amaze me.

With a background in screenwriting, Jon is a true cinephile. I’d bet on him every time in a movie trivia contest. He has instilled this same passion in his sons from birth. Their vacation itinerary is often designed around visiting places where films were shot as the boys re-enact the scenes. Nine-year-old Nick has learned to write screenplays, and he’s always working on one at the computer. When the Academy Awards are on, it’s his favorite night of the year. He’s becoming a cinephile in his own right.

The age gap between Nick and Justin, age 5, presents a challenge to the movie-viewing in our family. This is most evident on Friday night, our movie night, when it sometimes takes us as long to decide what movie we’ll watch as it does to actually watch it.

We adults can only watch so many PG movies before we need something more.  R rated movies, of course, are off limits for family viewing right now. And that leaves us with the wide-open category of PG-13 movies to choose from.

PG-13 movies cover a wide range of sex, violence, language issues that leave most parents struggling to decide whether their kids can appropriately watch them. But this is no challenge for Jon; he’s something of a movie-rating savant. He can tell us exactly why each movie is rated as it is and if Nick or both boys can handle it. And then, his magical movie powers go way beyond that. Not only does he know which movies are inappropriate and which pass the test, but if the movie is just a tad inappropriate, he also knows exactly when the bad parts occur so he can censor the movie while we’re watching it. He knows just when to cover Justin’s face, or cough loudly to bleep out the sound. And he can do this for hundreds of movies! (Occasionally, a movie will come up that he hasn’t seen and he’ll preview it, but that’s rarely necessary.)

How does he do this?! I’m a movie fan, too, but I’m at the age now when I can scarcely recall what a movie is about. I’m often half-way through it before I realize I’ve already seen it. So I couldn’t begin to remember if an F-bomb occurs in the dialogue and exactly when so that I can bleep over it before it happens. I am continuously amazed by Jon’s ability to do this. You wouldn’t think this uncanny ability to recall sex, violence, and swearing would be all that useful, as information goes, but as a father who likes to watch movies with his sons, it’s invaluable.

I’ve told him that he needs to make a podcast or write a blog for other parents to help them through this minefield, but don’t look for that anytime soon. He’s too busy watching movies with his boys.

From Trauma to Triumph on the Track

When Nick was in second grade, some of his close friends were running track with the CYO and he decided to give it a try. It’s a program that is open to kids age five through grade eight. They compete against teams from all around the area, and track meets are a big deal, often lasting 3 hours or more. Nick has faithfully attended practices and done his part for the fall cross-country and winter/spring track meets over the past two years. His name is on the banner with the rest of the boys’ team from last year as first place winners for the season.

Justin had been tagging along with Nick to track practice, and when he turned five in December, he said he wanted to join, too. This made him the youngest person on the team, and it was a struggle. Sometimes he was into it and sometimes he wasn't. No one knew how he would handle an actual race. 

At Justin’s first track meet he ran a 50-yard dash. Even within his peewee age-group, he was the smallest one. He was so anxious and distraught about running that I thought he was going to back out. It didn’t help that his race was the very last one of the day so he had hours to get himself all worked up. But when the time came, he did it! He ran his little heart out, finished third out of four for his heat and proudly wore his medal. His parents and I breathed a sigh of relief; it looked like he was going to be okay.

The next track meet didn’t go as well. Justin started the race, saw the other kids running past him and stopped running, in tears. The meet after that, he finished the race, but with tears streaming down his cheeks. What happened between his first meet and the second one? No one knows, but now it had become a thing. And when something becomes a thing for a five-year-old, the chance of recovery is slim to none. 

This week they had the last meet of the season. Justin wasn’t happy when he got there and learned that he would be running in a relay. He started freaking out. His teammates and Nick did everything they could to convince him he could do it, but he wasn’t having it. Nick came to the stands where his parents and I were sitting and said that the coach asked for one of Justin’s parents to come and talk to him. So Jon went to him, and Justin had a melt down. Clearly, it wasn’t going to happen.

The coach was understanding. She found another boy to fill in on Justin’s leg of the relay and Justin would run in the 100-yard dash at the end of the meet. No other peewees were running in that race. (They were all in the relay.) Justin was a leftover and they put him in a race with an older age-group so he could run. He was up against five boys who were three to four years older than him. So there was Justin at the starting line, waiting for the pistol to go off, standing next to boys who were a foot or two taller than him. This wasn’t going to go well. His competitors were going to leave him in the dust, and God knows how he was going to handle it. We were holding our breath.

Now, it just so happens that one of his competitors in that race ended up being his almost nine-year-old brother Nick. As soon as the race started, Justin fell behind, just as I expected he would. But what I hadn’t expected was how Nick would run. Forgetting about the other competitors in his race, Nick fell back to run beside Justin and stayed with him all the way to the finish line, both of them smiling and laughing all the way.

This time, the tears weren’t coming from Justin, but from his mom, his dad and me. We all lost it. And I have to say that no matter what Nick may go on to accomplish in his lifetime, I will never be prouder of him than I was in that moment.

Justin was over-the-moon happy as he announced to me, “Nick and I tied!”

Confession of an Extremely White Woman

I was a freckly kid. When a neighbor boy poked fun at me because I had a “dirty face”, my mom explained to me that I had fair skin. She said it in such a way that it was like she was letting me in on a secret, and our stupid neighbor boy had no idea that I came from royalty.

As I grew into a teenager, I realized having fair skin mainly meant that if I wanted to get even the slightest color on my ghastly, ghostly whiteness, I would have to endure a sunburn first. So every summer, I baked in the sun until I resembled a lobster and screamed in pain from the touch of the clothes on my back. After a couple of weeks, the burn turned into a tan. It was ever so slight. Unless I pulled my clothing back to where the sun never shone, you wouldn’t realize the tan existed.

This was a never ending process for me. I would lay out in the backyard until I was so hot you might as well have thrown me onto a charcoal grill. It was grueling. But I was determined.

During the spring of my senior year, I was looking forward to prom. My mom sewed my dress--a pale pink, dotted Swiss, empire-waisted dress with puff sleeves. It had a scoop neckline edged in a white ruffle. I loved the dress but knew exactly what I had to do if I didn’t want to look like Casper’s sister.

About a month before prom I started working on it. I baked in the sun to get good and burnt. And I did. I was so burnt that it made me physically sick. It took a while to recover, but that was a small price to pay for how I was going to look in my pale pink prom dress with the white ruffle around the neckline. 

Once the pain from my sunburn subsided, my skin peeled, mostly on my chest—right where the white ruffle was to show off my tan. When the skin peel came off, so did my tan! 

It was only a week until prom and I was undeterred in my quest to look fabulous. So I laid out again to burn again. And this time everywhere I peeled, I blistered. It was a mess.

Now, days before prom, I obsessed about drying up the blisters. But then, as the ooze was disappearing, a scabbiness took over, and I had a chest of crackling pork rinds framed with a white ruffle. I tried to mask it with make-up, which only made it worse. And that’s the way I went to my senior prom.

I’m thinking about this incident today, not because it’s prom time, but because this morning I went for my six-month exam with the dermatologist. About five years ago I had a melanoma removed and, since then, little chunks have been harvested from my flesh on a regular basis. So many places on my skin worry me that, before I go to the doctor, I circle them all with a pen to make sure none are missed. Invariably, the ones that concern the doctor are the ones I completely ignore; I have no idea what I’m looking for. 

If I could do a “Back to the Future” trip to visit my teenage self, I would warn her. I’d tell her to wear sunblock, cover herself, and avoid U-V rays, even if it means living like a vampire. I’d tell her that fair skin is better than skin with chunks removed, and it’s a helluva a lot better than cancer. Of course, there are many other things I’d like to tell her, too. Things that would have changed the course of her life. But that only works for Marty McFly. The rest of us are victims of our own ignorance. It’s too late to change some of our choices. That's why it’s so important that we learn to do better with the choices we make moving forward. These days, sunblock is my friend.

O God, give us the serenity to accept what cannot be changed, the courage to change what can be changed, and the wisdom to know the one from the other.

 

 

When Parents Are Human

As another Mother’s Day passes, I have been thinking a lot about the reality of parenthood. Not the stuff of Hallmark cards or unconditional love that is glorified and projected onto mere mortals. I’m talking about the reality that parents are human; there is no such thing as a perfect parent.

When we're kids, we tend to idolize our parents. They are the superheroes of our lives. It’s not until we're becoming adults that we begin to see their shortcomings. While they may have done their best at raising us from day-to-day, they also were people who had their own issues to work through. They couldn’t wait until their deepest wounds were healed before they became parents. (If that were the case, humans would have become extinct long ago.)

I know that some parents are absolute monsters to their children. But even parents who devote themselves to creating a loving environment for their kids to thrive mess up from time to time. Sometimes it’s so obvious that they may ask for forgiveness as soon as they realize what they’ve done. “I’m so sorry I yelled at you. I shouldn’t have done that. I love you.”

Those times when our parents have no awareness of how they have chipped away at our souls may be the most difficult to forgive: a word spoken in anger, treating our pleas for attention as an annoyance, a harsh punishment. What is long forgotten as a parent may remain seared on the brain of a child for a lifetime. Our parents may never see the ways they have passed their own brokenness onto us.

We can blame our parents for the ways they have harmed us and remain children, or we can forgive them for being human and grow up. Accepting this has been one of the most difficult tasks of my life and I’m thankful that I’ve been able to work my way through it.

Now, in the later part of my life, I’m experiencing a variation on this theme. I can’t stop thinking about my own parenting while my kids were young. I have so many regrets, so many things I wish I had done differently. I know I was not a monster, but I made enough mistakes that I’m sure my two adult children have plenty to discuss with a therapist.

I struggle a lot with my negative bias when I look back on my life. It’s much easier for me to focus on the ugly parts of my past than it is the beautiful ones. I need to give myself the same grace I grew to extend to my own parents. While I was figuring out how to be a parent, I never stopped being a human being, and I had more than a few issues to work through. I can beat myself up over the mistakes I made, or I can forgive myself for being human. Of course, that's easier said that done. But I’m working on it. This growing up stuff never ends, does it?

Bad Decisions and Alligators

I’ve been thinking a lot about the 4-foot-long alligator they found in Brooklyn this week. Most likely, it was someone’s pet and the owner decided to rehome it in the wild. (If you can consider Prospect Park wild.) Whoever the pet owner might have been, I’m reserving judgment. 

When I was growing up, we took all kinds of strange animals into our small, urban home in addition to the usual cats, dogs and fish. I don’t know what our mother was thinking. She either had a soft spot for animals or a soft spot for my sister and me, but if we wanted an animal, it was ours. (As long as we could afford it. No pony ever materialized, despite our pleas.)

Often at Easter time, in particular, we ended up with animals we had no business taking into our home. A few times, we had baby rabbits. Another year, baby ducks. And then there were the cute little peeps that were dyed pink. I can’t recall exactly how they came to live with us, but they did. 

Of course, the problem came after Easter had passed and the cute little babies grew into adults. We built a hutch for the rabbits, and a pen for the chickens. I recall the ducks swimming in our one and only bathtub. I think about all of this now and it seems bizarre to me, but at the time, it felt perfectly normal. 

At the end of the summer, the ducks were rehomed at a private pond. I have no idea what ever became of the chickens. But my point is, what may have seemed like a sweet gesture at the time always led to the difficult decision about what to do with these animals when they became adults. I remember crying each time they had to leave us. 

My mom isn’t around for me to find out how she dealt with this. I would love to ask, Mom, what were you thinking? How could you have done this again and again? Did it bother you when the animals grew up and you had to figure out how to move them out?

And then there was the alligator. I was in third grade and my sister Lorena took me to Florida with her. I had $5 for souvenirs. After spending $2 on a shell decoration with a lightbulb inside as a gift to my mom, with the remaining $3 I bought a baby alligator. I thought it was the cutest little thing, and I couldn’t resist. (Now, I think, EEK!) It was about 6 inches long and harmless. In true Kraft fashion, I didn’t think through the repercussions of this decision. I also didn’t tell my mom about it; I wanted to surprise her.

On the drive back to Ohio, I kept “Allie” by my feet in the backseat in a cardboard box  that was poked with lots of breath holes and lined with wet newspaper. I threw in a little ball of raw hamburger for him to nibble on. (How did I know it was a he? I must confess that it never occurred to me that such a hideous creature might possibly be female.)

Allie died before we made it through Georgia. I don’t recall being terribly upset over it; we hadn’t bonded. But I do remember some serious buyer’s remorse. I had spent most of my money on an animal that didn’t even make it home so I could show my mom. What a waste!

I still wonder how Mom would have reacted to my purchase. After all the other animals we had taken into our home -- turtles, salamanders, frogs, horned toads, hamsters, about a million prolific guinea pigs – I couldn’t imagine that she would have a problem with an alligator. But perhaps that would have been where she drew the line. It certainly SHOULD have been where she drew the line. It never got that far, so I never knew how she would have received the little beast into our home. Thankfully, we also never had to deal with an alligator that outgrew our ability to care for it. It wouldn’t have been pretty. 

So when I hear about the gator in Prospect Park, I don’t wonder so much about how anyone could take such an animal as a pet. And it’s hard for me to condemn them for dumping it at a public park. Bad decisions and alligators are a part of my story, too.