Chatting with friends at the San Francisco Writers’ Conference, I was happily ruminating on the benefits of endo- and exoskeletons in the context of spirituality and religion, explaining that there are times in our lives when, like bugs, we need external structures to keep us safe and functional. Though we delight in the strength and mobility offered by our internal skeletons, we often need external buttresses as well. Most notable examples are when we are growing and our bones are not yet strong enough to support us adequately, or when we are experiencing personal or social stress during times of trauma and transformation. A protective parent, a crib, armor, and a cane are all examples of external physical structures that we need in order to flourish. But there are also non-physical supports that we need in order to be fully alive and effective. These include such things as a therapist, a twelve-step program, a personal trainer, a deadline, or a religious community.

Most people have a yearning for connection with the natural world, with other humans, and with God. Whether there is a “God gene,” or just social conditioning, I do not know. But while we may yearn for a personal relationship with a loving God, many of us have turned away from religious institutions as being more about hate than love. Those of us who have abandoned the institution often describe ourselves as “spiritual but not religious,” meaning that we see ourselves as principled, loving, and connected to a higher authority without the constraints of an overly rigid religious institution.

So far so good, but …

I think of religion as the exoskeleton and spirituality as the endoskeleton of faith. Most of us manage very nicely with a strong spine of spirituality and a direct connection with the divine. And certainly the exoskeleton of religious systems and dogma can keep us fettered and unable to develop as we ought. Like the crib that the child outgrows or the shell that a hermit crab molts out of before it can grow, many of the creeds and dictates of the institutional church (or synagogue or temple or mosque) may be useful in our infancy but can impede true growth as we mature.

But there are times when our inner spines are not enough and we need more. Parents who know how to protect and push, friends that know how to comfort and challenge, and religious organizations that use external structures to empower without enfettering are life-long gifts. Though we prefer the mobility and strength of spirituality (our internal skeletons), we should also acknowledge the benefits of the religious institutions (our external skeletons) for helping us manage life’s challenges.

“Okay,” said one friend. “How do you answer someone who asks what to look for in a faith community? How can one identify a church that provides an external structure that is empowering rather than limiting?”

“Well, friends and neighbors can tell you a great deal about the strengths of a particular church or faith community. And a robust and updated website is an important tool,” I answered.

He pressed. “But what if someone doesn’t know what to look for or what questions to ask? What advice would you give then?”

It took me a couple of days, but here goes:

First of all, a yearning to be part of a faith community is all about connection. We want a connection with God and our fellow creatures on the journey. And to the extent that searching for God is like scaling a mountain, we need ropes.

So here are the clues (presented in the Biblical chiastic structure) that I would look for in finding a religious community that offers me a rope to climb rather than chains that will keep me in enslaved:

• Respect – I look for genuine respect between all of the people of the community. This includes appreciation for but not adoration of clergy. Disagreements are healthy as long as they’re out in the open. The Golden Rule of treating others as we wish to be treated is critical. Respect is also evident in how we treat people of different ages, races, socioeconomic backgrounds, sexual orientations, and lifestyles. I worry when I go into a religious community where everyone looks like each other. I delight in seeing different ages, clothing styles, accents, and opinions (both theological and political).  It’s a good sign if there are people with obvious physical and mental challenges, as this means that they feel valued. As a visitor, I like it when people come up and show interest in me, rather than trying to get me interested in them. Respect is a key part of being welcoming. Respect

• Openness and Opportunity – A community that is willing to try to new things is healthier than one that insists that doing it the same way it’s been done in the past. Equally important is the practice of openness and transparency in decision-making. Further, it should provide many and diverse opportunities for celebrating, learning, and serving. Thus, a wide variety of educational and arts programs, mission trips, service opportunities in the local community, book studies, prayer groups – to say nothing of different styles of worship – are signs of an empowering church. Always look for a community where the large majority of people are involved in providing services and making decisions.

• Play and Pray and Passion – Joy is a really good sign; laughter and playfulness are green lights. But so also is the acknowledgement of sorrow. A faith community needs to provide opportunities for sharing pain and providing support for those in need. Organizations where lay people engage in visits to hospitals and shut-ins and are active in providing spiritual care are healthier than those where clergy do it all. (Churches where the pastor does most of the work – whether it be in worship or in pastoral care responsibilities – are often communities that are being cared for, not empowered.)  A religious community should have passion, i.e., a delight in witnessing and sharing the love of God and a yearning for justice among all people.

• Experience and Encouragement – Several commentators have noted that those religious institutions that emphasize belief about God are in decline whereas those that emphasize experience in the Holy are growing. This makes sense to me, because one person’s belief can be another’s anathema. Some people use the Bible as a bludgeon – which is not helpful to them, their opponents, or God. What faith communities must do instead is to provide opportunities for people to experience God. There are as many different ways to experience the divine as there are individuals on this earth. Thus I look for diverse ways to connect through worship, study, service, e.g., choral classics, African drums, lessons for Scripture, modern poetry and stories, art, drama, dance, meditation, training in spiritual disciplines, book studies, volunteering at the local homeless shelter and elementary school. Perhaps most importantly, I look for churches where I can experience the divine through the genuine kindness and care of each other. Also, since encouragement means, literally, “to give heart to,” a religious community should be one of encouraging each other to be the best that we can be and to share our gifts and skills with those in need.

• Spirit – Is this a faith community or a Fortune 500 company? Is the focus on numbers or on spirit? Are people more focused on budgets and people in the pews or on celebrating God and serving God’s people? While good stewardship means a healthy respect for budgets and numbers, the time we spend in fellowship with a religious community should be markedly different from the time we spend at work.

I welcome your comments on this. Do you have a better explanation or list of things to look for? I would love to hear your stories.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and we celebrate the reality of love – or, better, of joys of connection.  Most of us yearn not just for love – which is rare and fairly private – but equally for connection. We need to know that we are living lives of synchronicity and right relationship with the world. We want to connect – to live in harmony – with both spirit and substance.

Surely it is suggestive that we share the same air – the same molecules of nitrogen, hydrogen, and oxygen that swirl through time and history from the earliest life forms through the great people of history to those we love and us.  It is the same air that connects us with the people of Asia and Africa, with saints and sinners, with apes and zebras.  We are all unified and blessed by the gift of air.

It is no wonder, then, that God breathed over the cosmos on the first day of creation and brought it to life.  It is no wonder that breath/air/wind is the same in Hebrew (ruach), Greek (pneuma), and Latin (spiritus).  It is no wonder that when we breathe this air, we are inspired.  All life and all creation begins with breath.

…including grand dreams and silly songs.

Yesterday, I was privileged to give the invocation of the San Francisco Writers’ Conference. Until last year, it was The Very Reverend Alan Jones, the retired dean of Grace Cathedral, who had the honor.  But, beginning last year, he was traveling or otherwise unavailable. So Michael Larsen and Elizabeth Pomada, organizers of the conference, asked me. With the help of the Holy Spirit, I “discovered” a long-lost version of Psalm 23 and the Lord’s Prayer composed especially for writers.  (See http://felicitywright.com/blog/2009/02/16/a-prayer-for-writers-the-invocation-at-the-sf-writers-conference.) It was well received – which only added to the pressure when I was expected to ferret out another long-lost gem.

But, with prayer and supplication, Spirit came once again to my aid. So here is the invocation, for your amusement:

Good afternoon. We have come together in this, the seventh convening of the San Francisco Writers’ Conference, to learn, create, and connect.  And whatever our religious beliefs, we are woven together in a sacred web of art and creativity as we pray for “Spirit,” holy or otherwise.  So let’s pause and breathe deeply of the same air that inspired writers from Aeschylus to Zola. As we exhale, we share Spirit’s blessings with one another.

And then we sing:

O beautiful for spacious sighs

That soar o’er the mundane,

For purple patches’ majesties

Above the phrases plain.

O poetry and prose sublime! Muse shed her charms on thee

And crown our arts with happy hearts

From A through M to Z.

O beautiful for writers’ dreams

That see beyond the shame

Of impoverished oblivion

To works of great acclaim

O poetry and prose sublime! God shed His charms on thee

And crown Thy good with authorhood

From A through You to Z.

As we give thanks for the sun, rain, and earth that grew this food, the hands that planted and prepared this feast, and the friends who brought us together, we also honor the Holy Inspiration that lies at the core of the cosmos.  And we say:

I pledge allegiance to the Word

Of the creative force of the cosmos

And to the connection for which we strive

One yearning with the Spirit

Indivisible,

With inspiration and success for all.

Carla was the first to notice the blood that seemed to come from nowhere. She, Kymri, and I had already scoured legs and arms for signs of the pesky creatures, but none were to be found. Yet the large red spots on the bedspread were proof: one had escaped our careful searching. Where was it?

Tiny though they are (typically 1/4^th to 1/3^rd of an inch and as thick as a .007 mm pencil lead), the leeches of the Nepali forests are ferociously clever. Mostly, they sneak their way in through the cuffs and mesh of hiking shoes, slinking under and through heavy trekking socks. Some of them wait on misty leaves, leaping onto hats, outer garments, and exposed hair.

Suffering the humiliation of being bested by these tiny mites and mindful of the furious bleeding and painful itching that accompany their affection for us, we had become quite adept at spotting them on ourselves and each other, usually finding them before much damage had been done. And on this day – after many hours of slogging through swollen creeks and soggy mud piles – we were especially vigilant. But one got through and found its way to the tiny crevice between the ring and little finger on my left hand. Though I attacked it instantly with salt and then stanched the bleeding with sugar (to counteract the anti-clotting agent left by the leech), I am still scratching the spot five days later. Give me a mosquito bite anytime.

As it happens, I was one of the lucky ones, for I tucked my pant bottoms into silk sock liners, which were themselves inside heavy wool socks, which were well cushioned by heavy hiking boots. I also had tight cuffs on my jacket and kept my head protected with both a hat and hood. And maybe – who knows – I smelled bad. (Certainly I sweated enough!) So my leech infestation usually was less than three a day.

Poor Kymri had it much harder – she usually discovered three or four of them every time we stopped for tea or a meal. There was even one especially large one (about 3/4^ths of an inch) that did a cobra-type dance on her tea saucer, apparently trying to hypnotize her into submission.

But leeches, we soon found, were a trivial nuisance compared to the real challenge of the trek. Aftereffects of the Pacific typhoons included freak weather in parts of India and Nepal, specifically four days of torrential downpours that caused major flooding, treacherously slippery downhill treks, and sudden landslides. On Tuesday, we barely made four miles of a planned six-mile trek, opting to spend the night in a small teahouse without running water or electricity rather than continue in the dark through driving rain to our planned destination. We huddled round the small fire, searching for leeches and trying to dry boots and clothes while the winds howled and the waters rose.

And almost as soon as we made the decision to stay, we began to regret it. We were now trapped in a tiny glen, feeling the shakes of both land and air. Was that a landslide forming just over the bluff or the sound of a gentle brook suddenly morphing into a furious waterfall? We tried to distract ourselves with games, masala tea, and hot chocolate laced with rum. That, prayers, and bravado were all we had.

At night, gentle snores were punctuated with muffled tears. When our sherpas checked the situation in the early morning, they asked us to get packed and moving pronto. Hastily dressing in still-wet clothes and armed with headlamps and trekking poles, we looked out to find a brand new waterfall just twenty feet from the inn. A quarter mile down the road, a fierce torrent about two-three feet deep and eight-feet wide blocked our way. Three sherpas were able to move a heavy boulder (about two by four by two feet) into the stream. Then, working together like a fireman’s line, they planted themselves thigh-deep in water and carried us across what was likely to become a treacherous waterfall or landslide that would effectively close off the glen for the next few days.

When we finally arrived at the next teahouse after eight hours of miserable slogging through muddy streams, we learned that four trekkers had lost their lives in a slide not four miles from where we had been.

What does one learn after being cheek-to-jowl with the possibility of imminent death? Fear is, I believe, the default emotion that governs most of our lives; we hope to make decisions grounded in love rather than fear, but it’s counter-cultural and it’s hard work. Many of us held our fears at bay by carrying the love of our families (both dead and alive) with us as we trekked quietly through the crud. I know that a major part of what kept me going was the awareness that – cold and miserable as I was, it was a trivial nuisance compared to the daily hunger and lack of shelter experienced by many of the orphaned children we had come to love.

For most of us on this trek, it was faith in God, faith in our sherpas, and a quiet determination that kept us walking. And, in the process, I believe that – whether we can identify it or not – we came into a new kind of power, a willingness to take ourselves more seriously for having triumphed over this little piece of hell. There were no words or overt signs, but in conquering our fear we also claimed our power. Though we missed many of the gorgeous Himalayan vistas we had hoped for, we climbed up our personal mountains and emerged both stronger and gentler than when we started. Humbled by their courage, my own was bolstered.

… Or perhaps I wax grandiose when a much simpler explanation will suffice.  Perhaps what really helped us contain the horrors of leeches and the terrors of landslides was nothing more than … live music.

The first sign of something special was a surprise encounter with a young Nepali boy who happily sang the Nepali national anthem. Later the same day, we came across a small band that was celebrating Dashain by parading around the village. The most unlikely musician was a small mutt that barked in time with the music!

Then there were the wonderful evenings with Brett Holland (the professional musician in our group) who worked with the children at Loving Arms to create special musical events. Then there was the chance encounter with John Kelly Gill, an American guitarist heading to Pokhara who entertained us with a twenty-minute concert while having a rest break en route to Ghorepani.  And finally, it was an Nepali guitarist staying at our teahouse in Panthana – the final night of our trek which followed a grueling ten-hour day of ascending nearly 2,000 feet in the morning and early afternoon, only to have to find our way down wet stone stairways in the darkening afternoon and evening. Our friendly guitarist and Brett spent the evening sharing songs and instrumental pieces with us and the other guests.

How often have you been visiting friends or gone out walking in a strange neighborhood when suddenly someone is giving you a personal concert – and a multi-cultural one at that? – For us, it happened not just once but every other day.

Live music. It brought us together as an appreciative family, enjoying each other and our shared gifts and terrors. Like the salt that killed the leaches and the sugar that restored the blood’s natural coagulants, it was live music that countered the poison of fear with the power of hope.  And so we shared a love song which, for a time, infused sudden harmonies into our mournful episodes of blood-and-fear letting.

… Now I understand why music has so many grace notes!

Here is a picture of the memorable tea house where we spent such a terrifying evening:

The sudden waterfall that greeted us in the morning. It wasn’t there when we arrived. (We decided to leave pronto!)

And here’s a link to a news story about the horrible flooding and landslides: http://www.reliefweb.int/rw/rwb.nsf/db900SID/SNAA-7WN4XX?OpenDocument&RSS20=03

Note to readers: I have just returned from Nepal to Los Angeles and have to drive myself home and get myself and all of my possessions washed. But give me a few days and you’ll see lots of great photos on my Facebook page.

Note to readers: If you’re enjoying these tales from Nepal, you might also want to check out my Facebook page, where I’m putting most of my photos and different “takes” on our trip.  (In other words, I don’t duplicate.) In any case, please keep the prayers and the comments coming.

Trekking through the rice fields on our way to the Hindu temple to Ganesh last week, I slipped in the mud and fell – not once, not twice, but three times. I blamed it on the fact that I was wearing Keen sandals and didn’t have walking sticks, assuming that if I were wearing the proper hiking boots and using sticks, I would be as sure-footed as … well … the umpteen children around me wearing flip flops and flimsy sandals, galloping up and gamboling down the hills like, well … mountain goats.

Goats. Jesus said something about sheep being better than goats, but it has never made much sense to me. Sheep are dull, stupid and self-centered. With sheep, it’s all about me. Bleat, bleat, bleat.

Goats are different – a big improvement over sheep. First of all, we owe a debt of gratitude to the goatish Pan, Greek god of music, nature, sex, and general merriment. Second, most of us would rather be a “kid” than a “lamb.” (In fact, as I approach senior status, I want to stay a kid for the rest of my life.) Lambs are for eating; kids are for playing. Yes, I’d much rather be a kid.

But that’s just the beginning. Several years ago, I was on a study trip led by a friend who is a brilliant and passionate woman whom we’ll call Aurora. Also joining us were twenty students and another close friend of Aurora’s whom we’ll call Linda. At one point, when Aurora was getting rather stressed about the various activities that weren’t quite falling into place, I asked Linda how she – being Aurora’s helpmate – remained unflappable. She answered, “Well, I’m just her goat.”

Linda was Aurora’s “goat”? – I must have frowned, so she explained that there is a long history of putting a goat in a stable as a calming influence for a racehorse. In fact, the term “get your goat” refers to the practice of trying to sabotage a rival’s horse by stealing his goat the night before a race, leaving the opponent’s horse nervous and less likely to win. Getting his goat would upset the rival horse’s owner, so the phrase has evolved into modern day language meaning to upset someone. The point is that goats are calming influences, good for Type A folks of all species. I was impressed by Linda’s insight, and realized that it was an apt analogy for much of the pastoral care required of therapists and pastors.

And, in Nepal this week, trekking here and there with the various children from the two orphanages we have been visiting, I realize that all of them have served as my “goats,” calmly leading me here, waiting for me there, happy, unflappable, sensible, wise, warning me when the path was slippery and reassuring me that I didn’t need to rush. Ranging in age from 10-20, each one of them has functioned as sherpa and encourager – in short, as goat. (Having said that, please don’t presume that I think of myself as a racehorse! An old gray mare – perhaps; a racehorse – not hardly…)

Today Carla, Kymri, and I joined Kent Rogers, his 2½ year-old son Evan, and his four Nepali-born teenagers on a long trek that climbed steeply up 1700 feet along slippery paths. I watched as the four young men took turns helping the three women and also carrying Evan on their backs. Several times, as they glided effortlessly down thin slippery paths with young Evan on their backs, my heart skipped a beat knowing how prone I was to slipping and winding up on my arse. But none of them had a false step or even a close call. Mountain goats for sure!

And so, it seems to me that being a goat is what the Nepali people are all about – calm, caring, and sure-footed companions on the journey we call life. If I had my druthers, I would take a dozen or so of the children we have met and weave them into a safety net that would surround me wherever I go.

For the truth is that all of the Nepali people we have met – old and young, male and female – are genuinely solicitous and protective of us and each other – even the children who decide not to scamper up the long stairs to the temple, choosing instead to trudge slowly up each long-hard-sweaty-stop-to-catch-your-breath step until we reach the top. The Nepali people are among the most loving and most caring people on earth. And watching their calm sure-footedness, I’m sure that all of the nicest people in the world have at least one gene evolved from mountain goats. (It appears that the people of Nepal have “got my goat.”)

Thus I am surprised that one of the highlights of Dashain (the chief festival of Nepal, equivalent to Christmas in the excitement it brings) is the ritual slaughter and happy eating of, yes, goats. All along the roads are large groups of goats (they’re not herds, because they’re too smart to be herded) collected for selling, slaughter, and sacrifice. In our various walks during the last week, we’ve seen too much of the dark side of the goat’s life. It had all the symbolism of the long road to Calvary and the surrender of Jesus.

Which makes me wonder: considering the origins of the many children at the orphanages we have visited, perhaps the goat/Nepali child analogy is more apt than I would wish. Too much slaughter; too much sacrifice. When will we ever learn?

At Loving Arms Children’s Home, we had a delicious goat curry for dinner today, but there was no sacrifice or blood. Instead of a ritual slaughter, Kent’s sister Nadine created a goat piñata filled with candy. As the children (of all ages) enjoyed the happy beating and scrambling for candy, it brought out the kid in us all.

For which we thank God!

The following pictures show the leading of castrated male goats to sacrifice. (Females are not used for the obvious reason, and non-castrated males are nasty tasting — no surprise…) After being ritually beheaded, they are placed in a vat of water, cleaned, and shaven.

We were fortunate that our pinata goat was beaten, but not ritually sacrificed. Also, I’m guessing it was a female, because lots of goodies came out of her.

BELOW: Carla, Santosh, and Fran

BELOW: Brian (another volunteer at Ama Ghar, but not part of our group), Srijana, Tina, and Carla:

Today, Thursday, is day 4 at Ama Ghar, the “Motherly Home” for Children in Taukhel, Godavari (about 11 miles south of downtown Kathmandu). It was founded by Shrawan Nepali, himself raised in an orphanage. Later, with the help of two Peace Corps volunteers he met in Nepal, he came to the US to get an MBA and pursue a successful business career.

Eight years ago, he started work on his greatest dream: to create a “motherly home” (“Ama” means mother and “ghar” is house) where children always “have the keys to come home.” He then convinced old friend Bonnie Ellison, who grew up in Nepal as the daughter of a U.S. State Department official, to take an early retirement from her work as an advertising executive and become the managing director of the home.

The first group of 14 children came soon thereafter and a dream became a home. Now, eight years later, some of the children have graduated into college and beyond (still returning “home” whenever possible) while others are still here, going to school, learning new skills, and finding hope.

Most of the children are not here; they are celebrating Dashain with their extended families. Lasting for two weeks, Dashain is the biggest festival of the year. Schools close, homes get painted, clothes and new furnishings are bought, and Nepalis basically think of nothing else. The holiday focuses on family reunions, exchanging gifts and blessings, and devotions. Those children who remain (about a dozen) are here because they have no home or, in at least one case, because the home is unsafe. So Bonnie and her able staff of “parents” try to engage the children in fun activities during their vacation time. We’re doing our best to help out.

In addition to the dancing and singing on our first night (just before most of the children left), we’ve been having a relaxed time with those who are still here. This means playing games, teaching them how to ride a bicycle, going on short treks to see Hindu and Buddhist temples, constructing a makeshift basketball hoop, and the like. Later today, one of the children has promised to teach us a Nepali folk song, and I’ve promised to teach them how to play the comb. (Bonnie and her staff may never forgive me, but what the heck…)

The pictures give a brief glimpse of some of our activities.

We arrived in Bangkok after 17 hours, had a 3 hour break and then flew to Kathmandu (another 3 hours).  From Los Angeles airport door to Kathmandu airport door, it was just under 25 hours. Today is Monday, I think. Carla and I are staying in the apartment, while the rest of the group is in the hotel. Yesterday, we had a welcoming ceremony with the kids. Today we went on a 4-5 mile hike into the hills to see the location for the new home (still under construction) and a temple.

No hot water, intermittent electricity, mosquito nets, hot and humid — BUT there are no complaints. The kids are wonderful, the country is beautiful, and the group is wonderful.

Day 2 (or 3) or whatever it is — Tuesday evening — Went into town, on vans that would accommodate 9 people max in US but take 24+ in Nepal.  Squeezed, hot — and understatement.  Tried to exchange some money. Saw a bit of the temple.  Went to a grocery story.  Walked a lot. Had more wonderful meals with rice, lentils, spicy sauces, etc.  So far so good!

Two important life lessons: 1) whenever you’re unhappy, go help someone who is worse off, and 2) when you are doing good and having fun simultaneously, that is heaven on earth!

In the previous blog, I alluded to an upcoming mission trip to Nepal. It happened quite by accident when my friend Carla Friedrich, a Swedenborgian minister in San Diego, put a note on her Facebook page asking for volunteers to help birth a dream of founding a Children’s Home, probably in Mexico. She linked with the Wayfarer’s Chapel in Los Angeles that was planning a mission trip to an orphanage in Nepal and then connected with a second home in Nepal, created and run by Swedenborgian missionaries and supported by the church.

She was asking for friends to join in the mission project, make a film, and create a business/promotional plan. Having time on my hands and some experience in business, I jumped at the opportunity. Grace happens!

The trip – which begins on September 18 and ends on October 11 – includes three segments of about a week each:

1. The full group of “Carla’s five friends and helpmates” plus the six-eight Wayfarers’ Chapel folks will do mission work at Ama-Ghar Children’s Home in Kathmandu. I don’t know if I’ll be hammering, painting, cleaning toilets, or tutoring. Check out www.ama-foundation.org for pix and details.

2. Then we split. The Wayfarers’ Chapel folks stay at Ama-Ghar, while “Carla’s five” go to Loving Arms Mission, in another part of Kathmandu. While there, we help with those children and get started on the film and business plan. See http://www.lovingarmsmission.org

3. Returning to the full group, we embark on a spiritual pilgrimage in the Himalayas with seven of the ten original women Nepalese sherpas. It’s an amazing story because they come from different communities and castes, and they are now working to promote empowerment opportunities for women and youth. See http://hopebuilding.pbworks.com/Ten-young-women-who-climbed-Everest-inspire-Nepal%27s-youth,-women-to-dream-big

During our time in Nepal, Kymri Wilt (another of Carla’s friends and a professional travel photographer) and I will be adding to our blogs and putting photos on Facebook. (Kymri’s is http://miraterra.blogspot.com.)

A couple of friends have asked if they could help. I don’t have much room for school supplies, but head lamps (for children who need to study when the electricity has gone off) and financial gifts are always welcome. If you wish to help make Carla’s dream come alive, we’d be delighted. (I’m paying airfare and trekking costs of $2000, and Carla hopes to get a grant to cover some of our room and board. But we need about $50/day to cover food and lodging, so there’s a big gap that needs filling). If you are able and willing to support us, you can: 1) mail a contribution directly to me, which is easiest for me but not tax-deductible for you; or 2) make a tax-exempt gift by sending a check to “Nepal Service Project,” and mailing it to Wayfarers’ Chapel; 5755 Palos Verdes Dr. South; Rancho Verdes, CA 90275; Att’n: Rev. David C. Brown. If you do this, please let me know so that I can properly thank you.

Of course, you can also check the websites for the two orphanages (above) and get connected that way.

But please know that your prayers and encouragement are the most important gifts, so please keep them coming. And you might want to subscribe to my blog so that you don’t miss out on the coming goodies. Thank you.

This is the first of two blogs on the misfortunes (literally) of the last six months and the amazing events happening now. After reading this, please subscribe and stay tuned for the next story, on the adventure of a lifetime.

Ted Kennedy Jr.’s story about going sledding just after losing his leg left me teary and gasping for breath. Here are his words as his eulogized his father:

But today I’m simply compelled to remember Ted Kennedy as my father and my best friend. When I was 12 years old I was diagnosed with bone cancer and a few months after I lost my leg, there was a heavy snowfall over my childhood home outside of Washington D.C. My father went to the garage to get the old Flexible Flyer and asked me if I wanted to go sledding down the steep driveway. And I was trying to get used to my new artificial leg and the hill was covered with ice and snow and it wasn’t easy for me to walk. And the hill was very slick and as I struggled to walk, I slipped and I fell on the ice and I started to cry and I said “I can’t do this.” I said, “I’ll never be able to climb that hill.” And he lifted me in his strong, gentle arms and said something I’ll never forget. He said “I know you’ll do it, there is nothing you can’t do. We’re going to climb that hill together, even if it takes us all day.”

Sure enough, he held me around my waist and we slowly made it to the top, and, you know, at age 12 losing a leg pretty much seems like the end of the world, but as I climbed onto his back and we flew down the hill that day I knew he was right. I knew I was going to be OK. You see, my father taught me that even our most profound losses are survivable and it is what we do with that loss, our ability to transform it into a positive event, that is one of my father’s greatest lessons. He taught me that nothing is impossible.

For reasons that will soon be clear, the last six-nine months have been like traversing a slick driveway, worrying that I might break a leg, slide into traffic, or worse. Basically, I felt like a victim. The can-do attitude that was had anchored me in past years was buried in a snowdrift. I knew there was a loving Father* out there and that nothing is impossible (eventually!) but I couldn’t feel His strong, gentle arms carrying me up that hill I couldn’t climb alone.

In the past, when those dealing with feelings of victimization came to me for ministerial support, I would listen sympathetically and reassure them that they are not bad people and they are not alone. Then I encourage them to get therapy (if appropriate) and do three things: 1) create some beauty – art, gardening, music, writing, anything – in their lives; 2) reach out to those in greater need; and 3) make a list of five-ten simple easy-to-do things and complete at least three of them. In doing so, they will regain some semblance of self-esteem and slowly – with the encouragement and help of others – their lives will turn around. Good advice, no?

But now I was on the receiving, not the giving, end of such wisdom. Recognizing that I needed professional help, I made an appointment with Dr. Dark Chocolate, M.D., Personal and Family Therapist. Seeing my maladjusted state, he recommended regular sessions. When he was unavailable, I went to one of his colleagues at Self-Help Therapies, P.A., either Ms. Freecell, M.S.W., or Mr. Spider, M.F.T. The three of them also recommended group therapy, so I joined four-six others in regular Red Wine Group sessions. (I always came away feeling better after these meetings, especially when Dr. Chocolate led them.)

And why, you may ask, did I need such intensive psychological and spiritual support?

Looking back, it probably started when I resigned as pastor from the church, although I believe it was the most loving thing to do. It had became clear that I was a lightning rod for disappointments that began before my tenure and would continue long into the future unless I withdrew from the situation and let others take over.

Soon afterwards, I was asked to support an amazing project developing a cultural awareness programs for non-native Alaskans. I was thrilled to research and develop a lecture series, educational web programs, and traveling exhibits that would introduce people to the gifts and challenges of the Iñupiat (Eskimo) culture. Unfortunately, just as we were hitting our stride, the project imploded when political issues and financial stresses halted the effort. I fell hard.

About the same time, the adult son of a close friend was helping me with yard work. After a year of trust and appreciation, he returned to his previous drug and gambling habits – and also stole cash, checks, and equipment from me. I understand how hard it is to get clean from one’s addictions (as shown by my need to visit Dr. Chocolate on a regular basis), but I nonetheless felt betrayed.

Then the biggest trauma – the cancer that broke my spirit and turned me into a victim – concerned my tenants. I had moved from the larger (upper) unit to the smaller (lower) unit as a way of saving money when I left the church, renting to a lovely couple with two fine boys. When the recession hit, the father (a self-employed contractor) could not find work. Monthly rent payments were late or for partial amounts. I tried to help by recommending him to friends and hiring his wife to help on my website; I worked out a new payment plan. Seeing them in tears, I paid to get their dog out of the pound after he had run away. I loaned them money for a much-needed date. While I was not their minister, it seemed that I had become their savior.

And then the payments stopped entirely. She received a minimal salary as a freelance web designer and office manager, and he had no work. They begged; I implored; things got worse. The fact that California law greatly favors the tenants did not help. So when they owed me over $6,500, I finally evicted them (after all, I was unemployed and broke also). My anxiety was heightened because they lived above me, and I feared for what they might do to my house, my dog, or me. I had to wait a month until they actually left – another $2,000 lost. In the process, for the first time in my life, I was paralyzed by fear.

I changed the locks, struggled to regain my footing, and slowly inched up the icy hill. Friends sustain me; tomatoes ripen despite aphids and weeds, Kyrie’s four puppies are healthy and growing, and even the occasional stranger brings words of comfort and good will. In particular, I thank Alan Olson who wrote to tell me that he had enjoyed my website and blogs and wondered why I hadn’t written in several months. He ended: “So, I am just a voice out of the cyber-virtual fog of the internet, calling out to encourage. Keep writing, keep encountering, keep expecting that what you see before you is only a veiled covering for what truly ‘is;’ and lies beneath the surface.”

Like Teddy Kennedy’s words to his troubled son, simple expressions of encouragement can also be the steady voice of hope. Thank you, Alan.

Yes, grace happens!

But wait! – there’s more! If you call 1-800-THANK-GOD within the next 10 minutes, we’ll double the offer and you can have two doses of grace for the price of one!

… About three weeks ago, Carla Friedrich, my best friend when we were at the Pacific School of Religion, put a note on her Facebook page asking for volunteers to join in a service trip to Nepal and help her develop a film and business plan for opening a new orphanage. Details will be in the next blog – coming later this week.

And, then, when I told Dr. Chocolate about Nepal, he decided that I was no longer in need of therapy. However, he gave me the address and phone number for a 12-step program that could be helpful. It’s called 12-step Elliptical.

I’m heading there now….

* I apologize to myself and others who cringe at the idea of a patriarchal god, but the image of Teddy Kennedy’s care for his crippled son and God’s love for all of us is just too beautiful not to use.