By Kieran Lin Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Something happened to me last Sunday that has never happened before.  Jeff and I were visiting the next contestant in our seemingly ever-present quest to find a new church home.  Nothing unusual there.  We were enjoying the experience, although the church was on the smallish-side, thus making Jeff and I stick out like the proverbial sore thumb.  Some people may love the extra attention a situation like that generates; but, Jeff and me, charter members of Introverts Anonymous?  Not so much.  Everyone was so genuine and friendly though, it was hard to feel uncomfortable.  Mostly.

The youth pastor/children’s director/utility infielder gave a very thought provoking devotion before Communion and then they began passing the trays.  I have never had a problem taking Communion in a church that was not my own because I understand the concept of open Communion being just that — open to all believers, regardless of church affliction…I mean affiliation.

That wasn’t the problem.  The problem was, of all things, God.  As the tray was passed to me, a little nugget of Scripture popped into my head with a little ding — like an email popping into my in-box — and it caused the “Holy Chiclet” train to come to an immediate and screeching halt.

The scripture was from Matthew 5 – after the Beatitudes…after Jesus talks about being salt and light…oddly, when I looked up the scripture later Sunday afternoon, I found it right smack in the middle of a paragraph on murder.  An interesting topic for a personal Communion meditation, don’t you think?

 The scripture that popped into my head was Matthew 5:23-24. “”Therefore, if you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there in front of the altar. First go and be reconciled to your brother; then come and offer your gift.” 

So I passed the tray to Jeff without taking Communion and I looked at the floor rather than meet his questioning gaze.  “Have you already written off this church?”  He whispered.

“No, my heart hurts,”  I sniffled.  “Communion…I can’t…I’ll explain later.”  And I did.  Or at least I tried.

This was one of those times when I felt decidedly female as I tried to explain my emotions and the conflict of my heart to one who is decidedly male.  Don’t get me wrong…Jeff is an unusually good listener but he is also about as male as they come.   It requires serious effort and restraint on his part to not have my problems solved before I’ve even finished telling him about them.  If it is true that women are from Venus and and men are from Mars, then Mars and Venus aren’t nearly far enough apart. 

But I gave it my best shot and tried to explain to Jeff about all of the conflict and confusion and anger and pain in my heart.  And he listened and tried to understand as I told him how a very personal situation had caused this pain and anger of mine to absolutely explode and how the aftermath of destructive debris was still continuing to rain down.  I tried to explain how hard it’s been to even pray about the issue because each time I do, old wounds are re-opened resulting in raw, mind-searing pain.  I hurt for God.  I hurt for all of the people that are involved and yes, I hurt for myself too. 

Hurt is nothing new though.  I’ve taken Communion plenty of times with a heart full of hurt.   At those times, I have found the act of Commuion to be a comforting invitation and a time of sharing my hurt and sorrow with the ultimate Healer.   It has always been very soothing.

The difference this time was that attached to the hurt was a lot of anger and malice.  That is something new for me.  And there’s so much anger to go around, it’s hard to even keep up with who I’m angry at.  Myself?  Yep.  My friends?  Probably.  My family?  Uh-huh.  God?  Absolutely.  Some kid that I don’t even know.  Yeah.  I’m angry. 

So granted, there has been a lot going on in my head and my heart but I’ve managed, until this point, to compartmentalize very nicely, thank you.  But when God tells you not to take Communion?  That’s a pretty serious wake-up call and well…you sort of begin to notice these things that until then you’d been able to ignore.

I mentioned last week that the default theme for February seems to be “living with courage.”  And again, this week’s blog has fit nicely into that theme without any planning or preparation on my part.   Coincidence?  I think not! 

So where do I stand now?  I have no plan of action on how to solve this problem.  I could just not take Communion ever again; but you know as well as I do that the Communion issue is only a symptom of a greater disease.  And now I am left with this blossoming sense of dread that I’m entering into one of those painful, lonely periods of Godly growth.

Courage aside, to be completely honest, I’m not really interested in growing right now.  I kinda liked where things were.  But God has made it painfully obvious to me that some change needs to take place — not on the surface but deep in my soul where the salt burns. 

One of my favorite movies in the world is “Remember the Titans.”  For me, it has all the markings of a great movie.  It has football, it has a good story-line, it has humor, and it was based on a real moment in history.  There is a quote part way through the movie when the head coach is trying to get his newly-integrated, racially charged, football team of 1971 to come together.  Coach Boone takes the team on an early morning run through the woods.  A run that ends at Gettysburg.

As they stand panting and gasping for breath, watching the pre-dawn fog rise over the battlefield, Coach Boone tells his boys, “This is where they fought the battle of Gettysburg. Fifty thousand men died right here on this field, fighting the same fight that we are still fighting among ourselves today. This green field right here, painted red, bubblin’ with the blood of young boys. Smoke and hot lead pouring right through their bodies. Listen to their souls, men. I killed my brother with malice in my heart. Hatred destroyed my family. You listen, and you take a lesson from the dead. If we don’t come together right now on this hallowed ground, we too will be destroyed, just like they were…”

I’m not playing football.  I’m not fighting the segregationist fight.  But I am in a battle.  I do have malice in my heart and that malice and hatred is threatening to destroy my family.  I take that pretty personally.  However I’ve realized, through the course of this week, that at its very ugly heart, the malice and anger and hatred that I’ve been feeling aren’t as nebulous as I first thought.  All of those feelings do have a focus.  It’s not directed at God or my friends or my family or even that kid I don’t know.  It isn’t directed at anyone but me.

Somewhere along the line, I have become the enemy.  And in the midst of my anger and utter loathing, I’m rehashing the same battles that Jesus fought over 2000 years ago.  

And now I’m at a crossroad.  No pun intended.  I can either accept the victory…the one that Jesus bought with His own blood or I can keep fighting a fight that I will never win.   Seems pretty pointless, doesn’t it?  And yet I fight…

Later today, I will go to church and I will worship.  I probably won’t take Communion because my gift is unacceptable until I’ve found a way to be  reconciled with God and with myself.   That hurts; but, there is comfort in honesty and in knowing the truth.

I guess the only question that remains is which I love more — My God and my Father, the One who knit me together in my mother’s womb, or those comfortable, familiar parasites of anger and malice and loathing that I wrap around myself like a cloak.

The time has come to make a choice.

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

It was one of those mornings at our house.  You know, the mornings when life just seems…well, a lot like life.  I had my typical Sunday morning.  I got up, stumbled around, ran into large pieces of furniture and then it happened. I went to take my medicine and the lid wasn’t on the bottle so I spilled my 3 1/2 remaining pills all over everywhere.  Jeff woke up to the sounds of me trying to find the pills, Mr. Magoo style.

When it became obvious that I was not going to find the pills with my current modus operandi, Jeff jumped out of bed, flipped on the light, and announced, “I’ll find them!”  He is a very chivalrous guy.  However, his willingness to jump out of bed and find my medicine at 6:00 AM was rooted more in self-preservation and a deep desire for more uninterrupted sleep than chivalry.

So together we hunted little green pills and found exactly two of them.  The rest fell into the black hole that literally seems to surround me at times.  Rather than wasting our morning searching for pills that had obviously already fallen to China, we gave up and listed them as MIA — hoping all the while that our mail-order pharmacy has actually mailed my little green pill prescription that they’ve been sitting on for two and a half weeks.

Jeff got dressed and headed upstairs to check football scores from yesterday; and I started to get ready for church.  We were visiting yet another congregation this morning in our quest to find a new church home.  If I had any sense, I would have just jumped into the black hole with the missing 1.5 little green pills and gone MIA myself.

But I didn’t.  For the next hour, I dropped things.  It’s not really a hobby, mind you — just a study in how clumsy I can be first thing in the morning.  I dropped, in no particular order: one contact, one hairbrush (Three times.),  the toothpaste (On my foot, lid closed, thank you very much.) one lid to hairspray (MIA until after church.),  deodorant, the curling iron and, my lip gloss. (Lid off.  Very messy.) 

I also ran into the corner of the dresser, got my toe caught in the pocket of my pants (Don’t ask me how!) and dropped one of my clunky shoes on my foot.  As I was literally waiting for the other shoe to drop, I prayed.  “Please let me get to church in one piece.”  This was truly a passionate plea for help.

We finally did get out the door — after I stopped looking in the mirror, that is.  No, I’m not especially vain but I am the proud owner of one of the more stubborn cowlicks in the state of Tennessee.  And of course, it picked this morning to stand up and be recognized!  After poking, prodding, threatening, and a copious amount of hairspray, I was worse off than when I started.  I finally just turned off the bathroom light and walked away — secure in the knowledge that a big chunk of hair right in the middle of my forehead was reaching for the sky and praising God!

We went to breakfast and then to the new church, a charter member of the “Fire & Brimstone Association” where people come forward to accept Christ for no other reason than because they are scared to death of either the preacher or the bus that’s going to run them over when they leave the church — it’s really a toss-up.

The Pastor did have some good points in his sermon but this style of worship was just not for us.  Unfortunately, we knew that about 10 minutes into the service when they had a mass baptism and everyone repeated the same, obviously coached, sentence about why they wanted to be baptized.  It made me really sad to think that one of the most important moments in their lives had been mass-produced.  Shouldn’t baptism be a very personal time of reflection?  When did it become ok to have that moment scripted by anyone other than God?

Today’s church experience left me a little sad and a lot discouraged.   I want to be part of a church family again.  I miss the fellowship, the sense of belonging, and the deep relationships that are cultivated.  But then, tonight, after a nap, a shower, and the nightly dropping of inanimate objects (In real life, I’m really coordinated.  Honest!) I came to a startling conclusion — or rather, God knocked me over the head with it.

We can choose not to go back to that church today.  We can make a choice to try one of the dozens of other churches within a 15 mile radius.  We have that freedom.  Nobody is going to hunt us down (Or run us over with a bus.) for our beliefs.  We can worship our Creator openly and without fear.  Doesn’t that make us…make me…about the most blessed person in the whole world?

Kinda makes black holes, inanimate objects bent on revenge, bad hair days, and complaining about churches that have missed the mark seem rather unimportant and downright silly.  I am incredibly thankful for my life and my freedom and my God — even if the way I live that life sometimes suggests anything but a thankful heart.

Please forgive me, Lord, and thank you for another day with You.

Amen.

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

I sinned last Sunday.  This, unfortunately, is not really big news.  However, it was the way that my sin was committed that particularly bothers me.  And although I do not normally feel the need to confess everything to my faithful readers (A special ”thanks” to all five of you!), I wanted to tell you about my sin.

It all began as a pretty normal Sunday.   Jeff was in the tech booth so we had to get to church early.  I took my laptop so I could blog while he rehearsed with the Praise Team.  All was normal.  As service time got closer, I took my usual token stab at socializing and I picked up a bulletin.  Everything I did and said was well…normal.

And then I opened the bulletin.  “Children’s Ministry Wants YOU!”, it read.  Given that it is the beginning of the school year and that most churches are volunteer-starved anyway, this may not strike you as anything out of the ordinary either.  And I guess it really wasn’t; but, what was definitely not normal was my reaction.  I felt an immediate conviction from God about using the things He has gifted me with — which I haven’t been doing.  Much.

I did react as I normally do when God wants me to do something I don’t want to do.  “I’ll pray about it,” I thought — quickly filing the entire issue in the, “I don’t want to do this but I’m going to attempt to pacify God by telling Him that I’ll pray about it.  However, I have no intention of following through and actually doing it but I’ll definitely pray about it.” file.

Oddly, God was not pleased.  I know this because He spoke to me.  Now, don’t get all freaked out.  It wasn’t audible.  I am not hearing voices.  Most of the time.  But in this instance, God spoke to me as clearly as if He were sitting across the table having a cup of tea.

“Talk to Amy,” He told me.

Amy is the Children’s Director at our church.  So when asked by God to go talk to Amy, did I immediately say, “Yes, Lord!  Absolutely.  I will obey You immediately after the service!”  Of course I didn’t.  Instead, I sinned.  I did not worship.  I did not learn anything from the sermon.  I spent the ENTIRE service arguing with God about why I could not teach in Children’s Ministry this fall.  Although it’s not written anywhere, “Thou Shalt not argue with God in church!” should have been the 18th or 19th Commandment.

I can’t even remember the numerous, lame excuses I offered up as I argued with God.  What I do remember is His response to every excuse.  “Talk to Amy,” He said.

So I talked to Amy and afterwards, for the first time since moving to Atlanta two years ago, I was really excited about an opportunity to serve God.  I still didn’t want to teach.  For me, teaching little kids about God is an all-consuming passion.  It takes time.  It takes attention.  It takes research and reading and prayer and really listening to God.  It takes stepping out of my comfort zone.  It takes genuine and sometimes painful personal growth.  And above all, it takes great care and compassion and remembering who’s dog is sick, who is struggling with Spelling, and who’s friendships are rocky. 

Teaching takes an awful lot of love and it takes a lot out of me.  Quite honestly, I wasn’t sure my heart was ready to care about a new group of kids.

After talking with Jeff and an awful lot of honest, searching prayer, I agreed to teach 2nd & 3rd graders this fall.  I’m still not sure I’m ready to do this and yet in spite of all my trepidation and my doubts, I have found a deep and incredible joy in following God and being willing to do what He wanted me to do.

And everyone lived happily ever after, right?

Well…yes.  When God is part of the story, they ALWAYS live happily ever after; but, at what I thought was the end of the story, God threw me a little curve-ball.  It is in the form of a possible answer to a long-standing prayer, which may bring about a major life-change for the Rich family.

If you’re thinking that I’m being a little nebulous here, you’re absolutely right.  At this point, nothing is for certain and I am not at liberty to divulge any more information at this time.  However, I can tell you that we are extremely excited and we should have some answers by this time next week.  

Will Kiera teach Sunday school?  Will God throw another curve-ball?  Will Jeff and Kiera’s life indeed change?  Tune in next week to find out!

Hey!  Don’t laugh!  This “cliff-hanger” ploy works for the soap operas.  And maybe, just maybe, this is exactly what I need to boost my blog readership to 6 people!

And I leave you with one last thought… 

Amazing things happen when you join God in what He’s already doing.

by Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

It’s Pop-Quiz time!  And the subject you have chosen is United States Presidents so answer these questions to the best of your ability. 

43 men have been President of the United States of America.  How many can you name?

Who was the only U.S. President to serve two non-consecutive terms?

Who was the only U.S. President to not have a Vice-President for his entire term?

Which U.S. President was not elected to either the office of Vice President or of President?

Who were the only grandson/grandfather team to both be United States Presidents?

In our Nation’s history, there have been two father/son duos of Presidents.  Can you name them?

You may find this difficult to believe; but, I have a passion — some might call it an obsession — with U.S. Presidents.  Alternately, they fascinate me, they disgust me, they inspire me, they educate me, but above all, they motivate me to leave the world a better place than I found it.

One of the things that I love about the presidents is that they were just ordinary men.  Before he became president, Lyndon Johnson was a school teacher.  And James Garfield?  An ordained Minister.  Woodrow Wilson was the president of Princeton University, while President Harding was a newspaper man in Ohio.  Presidents Washington and Carter were both farmers and President Truman ran a failed clothing store in Kansas City.  He never even graduated from college.

Throughout history, our presidents have been Just ordinary men who, by their placement in history and their personal actions, did extraordinary things – sometimes good and sometimes bad.

I am currently reading a book called, “The Defining Moment:  FDR’s Hundred Days & the Triumph of Hope“.   I’m only a couple of hundred pages into the book so my knowledge is still limited.  But here are a few of the important things that I have learned so far.  FDR wanted to be president more than anything in the world.  He was willing to do pretty much anything to achieve this goal — even if it meant bending the rules or simply making them up as he went along.  A rather inauspicious beginning for a man who would go on to be considered one of the greatest presidents in U.S. History, don’t you think?

And FDR was not alone in his “rule-bending” ways.  His 5th cousin, Theodore Roosevelt, wanted to build a canal through an isthumus in Columbia.  However, the Columbian government was not in favor of his plan and politely but firmly told him, “NO!”.

Did Teddy take “no” for an answer?  Of course not, he simply changed the rules.  He backed a small group of revolutionaries who seceded from Columbia thus creating the independent nation of Panama.  And Teddy got his canal. 

Teddy was famous for saying the word, “bully”.  In TR’s use of the word, it means, “superb or wonderful”.  I can’t help wondering if he understood another meaning of that word though.  The meaning, according to  Dictionary.com, goes something like this “a blustering, quarrelsome, overbearing person who habitually badgers and intimidates smaller or weaker people.”

I think it’s safe to say that everyone, at sometime in their lives, has had to deal with a bully.  A young man by the name of “John” tormented me throughout elementary school.  When I got into 7th grade, he passed the baton to a young lady named “Julie”.  She was a quick study and apparently used John’s bullying cirriculum because she picked up exactly where he had left off.  Julie picked on me until I moved out of state in 8th grade at which time “Bryan” took over.  As I think back on John, Julie, and Bryan am I filled with nostalgia and a sense of gratitude for the important lessons they taught me?  Are you kidding???  Lost in the memories of my childhood, they all still make me so mad I want to spit at them! 

And I admit, I’m disappointed by my reaction to the bullies of my childhood.    With the exception of dumping a juice box all over Bryan when I was a freshman in high school, as a rule, I pretty much took the path of least resistence.  I gave up and gave over power, giving the bullies free reign to terrorize my life.  And then I went and picked on someone smaller and weaker than myself.  Vicious cycle, isn’t it?

I do wonder about the bullies of my past.  What became of them?  Do they now follow people around the office and make fun of their hair cuts?    Do they sneak into the break room and steal the goodies out of people’s lunches?  Do they make up catchy rhymes and songs about people’s piglike noses?  Probably not; but it is kind of amusing to imagine how society would react to those scenarios.

But not every bully has to have a soundtrack.  Maybe the bullies still intimidate people, but in more subtle, insidious ways.  Maybe they don’t resort to out and out name-calling but don’t hesitate to tell people they’re “stupid”.  Maybe they badger people so extensively about a mutual project that the badgeree feels like nothing more than the badgerer’s puppet.   Maybe they sit on a committee at your church or school or board of directors and simply make everyone’s collective lives miserable.  Maybe they do get emotionally, verbally, or physically abusive in their personal relationships.  Whatever the level of abuse, it has continued through their lifetime because nobody has ever dared to tell them, “No.  Stop it.  This is not acceptable.”

Many of our presidents have been bullies.  Andrew Jackson used verbal intimidation and screamed at people to get his way.  With Lyndon Johnson’s 6′4″ frame, his “in-your-face” management style often had a physical component.  And Richard Nixon?  I don’t even know what to say about him.  I think President Ford summed it up pretty well though when he said, “Any man who has to have a list of enemies has too many enemies.”

And yet for all of the bullying characters who have occupied the White House, we have still seen amazing accomplishments.  President Lyndon Johnson had a vision for the ”Great Society”.  His programs gave aid to education, attacked disease, and fought poverty.  He started Medicare and championed the causes of urban renewal, beautification, conservation, crime prevention, voter’s rights, and environmental protection.  He made great strides in ending the blatant segregation that still haunted our nation.

President Johnson sounds like a great man, doesn’t he?  He certainly accomplished a lot and left the world a better place than he found it; but, at what cost?  Who did he crush in the process?  Who paid the price for Johnson’s success?

John 14: 6 says, “Jesus answered, I am the way and the truth and the life.  No one comes to the Father except through me.”

This verse is often used to explain the path to Salvation.   Nobody comes to God except through Jesus.  Pretty simple.  However, I also think it tells us very plainly that the end does NOT justify the means.

Jesus IS the path to God.  But along that path other things matter too like our attitude toward the other creations of God — people, all the critters of the earth, the environment.  It isn’t all about me.  How I treat other people matters.  It matters a lot.  It matters to Jesus and it should matter to me just as much. 

I have to confess…I, at times, am guilty of manipulation to get my way.  I’m guilty of emotional blackmail.  I’m guilty of putting someone down in order to feel better about myself.  I am guilty of bullying.  And I need to stop.

50 years from now, I may have accomplished great things.  I don’t know.  I’m not off to a real swift start but who knows what God may have planned for me?  I think it’s safe to say that I will never build a canal or end a world war or enact a program that will provide health care to millions of people who truly need it.

However, I would rather be known for my kindness, my compassion, and for the way I have lived my life than for the way I changed the world. 

How about you?

Pop Quiz Answers

43 men have been President of the United States of America.  How many can you name?  Answer

Who was the only U.S. President to serve two non-consecutive terms?  Grover Cleveland

Who was the only U.S. President to not have a Vice-President for his entire term? John Tyler

Which U.S. President was not elected to either the office of Vice President or of President? Gerald Ford

Who were the only grandson/grandfather team to both be United States Presidents? William Henry Harrison & Benjamin Harrison

In our Nation’s history, there have been two father/son duos of Presidents.  Can you name them?  John Adams & John Quincy Adams.  George H.W. Bush & George W. Bush

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Today is a truly momentous occasion.  Let me tell you why.  With certainty of over 99.8%, I can say that I will never again post a blog that shares a title with the University of Nebraska fight song.  I am not now, nor will I ever be a Husker fan.  It is just NOT going to happen.  But for today’s blog, the title seemed to fit.

Many families at our church travel this time of year as kids are out of school for a week for sping break.  They go skiing in Colorado.  They rub elbows with Mickey and Minnie at Disney World.  They take in the scenery at Tybee Island or Hilton Head.  And this is how I know my husband loves me…Jeff and I go to Nebraska.

We came to see the musical “All Shook Up” at a local high school because a very dear friend of mine had the lead.   It was an amazing experience.  I got to sit in the audience and hear this young woman sing her heart out.  All the while, I pictured the little girl that she used to be.  The one who drew angel pictures for me and thought that I was magic because I made her a Snow White costume out of a bag of shapeless fabric.

It has been a very busy few days.  In addition to the musical, I have had the joy of spending time with a lot of other dear friends.  We have shared meals and conversation and a lot of laughter.  Each night as I crawled in bed next to Jeff, my mind would replay the day and I would marvel at how things have changed in the last two years.

Some of my friends are grandparents now.  Others are partial empty-nesters with kids away at college.  Other friends who had preschoolers when I left are now grade-school parents.  And time marches on.

The kids that I said good-bye to in the summer of 2006 have changed as well.  The boys are taller and their voices deeper.  For the first time this week, I called a friend and when her son answered, I immediately knew who I was speaking to and didn’t mistake him for his  sister.

The boys conversation has changed a little bit too as I heard the word “shaving” mentioned a few times today.  In year’s past, the item being shaved would have undoubtedly been someone’s hamster — not anyone’s face.

The girls have grown too.  They are much closer to looking me in the eye than they used to be.  They wear make-up, have their own cell-phones (With obnoxious ring tones.) and talk about learning to drive.

My old church has changed.  The smallish building that was once bursting at the seams, has been expanded greatly with the addition of a generous children’s wing.

As I got the official tour of the new space, I had a raging attack of A.C.E (Acute Closet Envy.)  The room that now houses the 5th and 6th grade Sunday school class has a spacious storage closet with shelves.  And the closet door LOCKS.  What a comfort to know that needed supplies would be where I had left them the week before; and, not misplaced by any one of the dozens of other groups that I shared my room with during the week.

And the space!  There was space within the classroom to play active games, do dramas and split into small groups without literally being stacked on top of each other. 

Many things have changed since I’ve been gone.  Interestingly, some things have not.

My friendships have not changed.  They, of course, are different than they once were.  But without exception, the fellowship felt old and familiar and wonderful — as if we’d all been together last week and not 18 months ago.

I felt the same feelings of “I never want this to end” as I sat on a friend’s couch and talked about everything under the sun.  Just as it has always been, her children popped in sporadically to share interesting tidbits of their lives with us.

And as odd as it may sound, my basic ministry within my old church has not changed.  Due to the fact that I am a member of a different church and live 1200 miles away, my ministry is definitely different than it once was.  But in its most basic form, I still love the Children’s Director and the kids she serves and I want to do everything I can to help. 

I had the opportunity to meet with the Children’s Director and her faithful sidekick for one of our “Dream & Scheme” times.  We used to do this monthly.  And, as I was reminded, the last time the three of us met was when I dropped the bomb that I was getting married and moving to Atlanta.  (Sorry guys!  I probably could have been a little more gentle in the way I broke the news!)

Saturday, over pancakes, we talked about this summer’s VBS, future curriculum ideas and an amazing array of other topics.  There was definitely a longing in me to be working with these incredible women on a weekly basis again.  I miss their friendship.  I miss praying with them.  I miss dreaming and scheming and having the opportunity to hang around and watch our plans come to fruition.

They inspired me to use the gifts God has given me in a way that few other people have in my life.  I miss that.  I miss laughing with them.  I miss being part of their weekly (And sometimes daily.) lives.  I miss them.

After all this reminiscing, you may be wondering where this ”family reunion” weekend has left me.  Am I ready to pack it in and stay here?  Is Jeff drafting a letter of resignation from his job and buying long underwear so he can survive winter in Nebraska?

Nope.  We are going home tomorrow and I’m sad but ready.  It’s time to get back to our regularly scheduled lives.  It’s time to get back to our church and our cats and the fellowship of our Atlanta friends.  It’s time.

I’ll probably cry tomorrow and not be able to stop thinking of my Nebraska friends.  I’ll probably re-play the priceless memories of this vacation for a long, long time.

But I am so incredibly thankful for two reasons.  The first reason is that I have all these people that love me.  There is great joy in knowing that our friendships can survive distance and time.  I was actually a little scared to come back to Nebraska because I was afraid things would feel awkward.  But they were not and I’m so thankful.

The second reason is because of the sermon this morning.  The youth pastor delivered the message and it was on salvation and John 3:16.  He spent a lot of time on the part of the scripture that says, “Whoever believes.”   And I was reminded that eventually there will be a day when I don’t have to say good-bye.  A day when my heart isn’t torn by longing to be in two places at one time.  That day is coming.  You really can go home again.  And I can’t wait.

As the lyrics to “There is no place like Nebraska” say, “We’ll all stick together, in all kinds of weather…”

I can’t wait.

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

On any given day, there is a whole lot of hissing and snarling going on at our house.  Once in a while the HissFest has human participants; but usually our cats are the responsible parties.

Our cat story began with Scooter and Kacey.  They were Jeff’s cats for four years before I came on the scene.  When I met them for the first time, I did what any potential step-mother would do.  I attempted to bribe them by bringing gifts of treats and cat-nip infused toys.  Scooter was not impressed.  Kacey wasn’t either — at least that was the vibe she sent out from her hiding place under the bed.

Thankfully, Jeff did not listen to the opinions of his cats and decided to marry me anyway.  Three months before the wedding, I moved to Atlanta.  As we moved furniture and combined our two households, Scooter supervised from a perch in the corner of the dining room.  I am quite certain that the only thing keeping her from toting a picket sign was the fact that she lacks a prehensile thumb.  And Kacey?  She was absolutely terrified of my presence and demonstrated this fear by hiding under large pieces of furniture for weeks at a time. 

During those months before the wedding, I spent a lot of time at Jeff’s unpacking and getting things situated; but, I spent nights at the home of a friend of ours.  Scooter and Kacey eventually got used to having me around during the day and every night they would breathe a collective feline sigh of relief when “that woman” disappeared for several hours.  They had their Daddy and the warm water-bed all to themselves and life was as it should be.

And then it happened.  Daddy disappeared for a week.  Scooter and Kacey hissed and spit at my aunt who stayed at our place while Jeff and I honeymooned.  Although we had tried to prepare the girls for the inevitable, they were still shocked when Daddy returned home with “that woman” in tow.  And when it got dark, I didn’t leave.  And when they went to snuggle with Daddy at night, there was someone in their water-bed.  No wonder they hated me.

And it was about to get worse.  Enter Tucker.  Jeff had promised me that after the wedding we would “get a cat that likes you.”   Tucker not only liked me, Tucker liked everyone.  He was a 12-week old ball of grey and black fuzz when we adopted him.  He had a sore under his nose that the shelter workers didn’t know the origin of.  After we got home, it was apparent.  Tucker was a kamikaze who knew no fear.  We quickly nicknamed him “Deathwish”.  He would hurl himself off of any surface at a high rate of speed.  He ran into walls and other inanimate objects, climbed everywhere, and did it all with speed that would have made the Tasmanian Devil look like a snail.  

Much to their horror, Tuck repeatedly asked his adopted sisters to play with him.  His requests were very vocally denied.  But that didn’t stop Tucker.  He would just wait 5 minutes and then ask again.  And when all else failed, he would simply knock them over.  What he was lacking in gentleness and tact he made up for in persistence.

Time passed and Tucker got bigger and smarter.  Like any little brother, he enjoyed annoying his sisters.  He loved to hear them scream and he would not be denied a good chase, even if he had to spend hours provoking his sisters in preparation.  Needless to say, Tuck spent many an afternoon in time out because he simply would not leave Scooter and Kacey alone and we were tired of listening to them screech.

We didn’t blame Tucker much.  He was bored and frustrated.  He just wanted someone to play with and try as he might, he simply could not convince any one of us to spend hours chasing him down the hall.

Last fall, we went to Colorado to visit my family.  My nephews proudly introduced me to the newest member of their family.  Max was fluffy and cute and so very sweet.  He was also a very playful little kitten.  Although we tried to resist, Jeff and I soon had visions of a playmate for Tucker dancing in our heads.  So after we came home, we ignored the little voices of reason that told us 4 cats in one family was insanity on the paw; and, we adopted Wyatt.

Tucker may have been a failure as a little brother but he was an outstanding big brother.  He was very patient and gentle with Wyatt for the most part and they became fast friends.  Tucker was in heaven.  He had someone to wrestle with and chase.  He had someone who would chase him and who shared his fascination with tin foil balls and ice cubes.   They play together until they’re exhausted and then they snuggle up together and sleep it off.  They truly are best friends.

Meanwhile, we still have Scooter and Kacey too.  Scooter hates her life and everyone in it — with the exception of Jeff.  Sometimes when she sits on his lap, her soulful yellow eyes seem to be saying, “Just you and me, Dad.  That’s all I need!  Let’s get rid of everyone else — especially that ‘mom’ person.”

Kacey has elevated herself to “Daddy’s little girl” status and enjoys all the privileges thereof; but, thankfully she also seems to like me now.   She checks on me when I get up at night.  We also have private brushing sessions and she seems to enjoy sitting with me when I scrapbook.   Her human relationships are pretty well defined.  However, her feline relationships are a confusing mess.

I think she’s honestly hurt that Tucker isn’t asking her to play every 5 minutes.   But the fact is, he doesn’t need Kacey anymore.  He has Wyatt.  Occasionally, I see Kacey watching wistfully as Tucker and Wyatt play tag and wrestle.  I can see her little cat brain saying, “Gee, that looks fun.  I wanna play.”  But her little stunted social skills don’t seem to allow her to ask nicely.  She tends to break into the boys games with a whole lot of hissing and spitting.  And the boys tend to ignore her — which makes Kacey furious.  At least that’s the story she gives us.

However, like any good story, there is another side.  This other side happens after dark.  After Jeff and I close the bedroom door for the night and the house is quiet.   For several months we have suspected that when the lights go off, Kacey plays.  Many times Jeff or I have gotten up unexpectedly in the middle of the night only to catch Kacey, Wyatt and Tucker tearing up and down the hallway together or sharing a toy.  Kacey seems absolutely horrified that she was caught in the act and immediately slinks off, leaving the two boys to wonder what happened.

Last night, I again caught Kacey in the act.  I got up to take some aspirin and noticed a commotion in the office.  Turning on the hall light, I saw Tucker and Wyatt crouched around a cardboard box.  Upon further investigation, I discovered Kacey underneath the box.  I could see one of her paws happily reaching out from under the box as she tempted her brothers to play with her.  It made my little heart very happy to see Kacey playing with abandon.  She was having such fun that she didn’t seem to care that I was watching.

As I went back to bed, I thought of Kacey and her split personality.  And I thought about how much Kacey I have in me.  I know I behave differently in the privacy of my own home than I do when the world is watching.  I know my conversation topics are different at church than they are everywhere else.  I know that I act differently around close friends and family than I do in public.  Does that make me a hypocritical Christian?  Yeah, it probably does.  I don’t think it really matters that I don’t mean to do it.   At least it doesn’t matter to God. 

Nearly four decades into my life and I’m still trying to figure out who I am.  It’s kind of embarrassing, really.  On the other hand, it’s also reassuring to me that I’m still growing.  I’m still wondering and still questioning and still reaching to discover who God made me to be. 

I’m a lot like Kacey.  When things scare me, I want to hide under large pieces of furniture.  I’m very timid at times and that sometimes keeps me from doing things I want to do.  I want to be a part of the close friendships that I observe; but I don’t know how.  But mostly, I just want to work and play and love and laugh and cry and grieve and live with abandon — no matter who is watching. 

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

It was a normal day.  A good day even.  We got up, went to breakfast, and then on to church.  We worshipped God in an extremely moving, inspirational service (with special guests “Sons of Mercy”!), and then we came home.  Everything was perfectly normal.  

But my heart was aching and my soul crying out to God for an explanation of how this could happen again.  “This” being the shooting at Northern Illinois University.  Wasn’t it just yesterday that people were shot at Westroads mall in Omaha?  The day before that, it was a church in Colorado.  Before that Virginia Tech was the epicenter of this evil.  And now it’s Illinois.

When I first heard the news, I turned the TV off.  Not because I am uncaring but because I sometimes care too much.  Although I tried to avoid it, I still began to hear the details of the shooting.   The enormity of the lives that were changed in an instant overwhelmed me.  Although I tried to ignore it, grief began to seep into the very marrow of my bones.  I am that kind of person who grieves for people I’ve never met.  Someone who hurts when the world hurts.  Today, I’m hurting a lot.

And what is it for?  Someone could tell you, I’m sure.  Like every other act of violence, the NIU shooting has touched off another round of everyone’s favorite game ”Pin the Blame on Someone.”  “It’s the NIU administration’s fault.”  “It’s the mental health system’s fault.”  “Parents don’t raise kids right anymore!”  “Where was campus security?” ”Where were the police?”  ”TV, movies and music glamorize violence.”  “The government doesn’t do enough to protect us.”  “The government is too involved.”  “‘Shoot `em up’ video games are to blame.”   ”Guns are too easy to buy.”  “If everyone carried a gun, none of this would have happened.”  “This is God’s judgment on an evil world.”  “Satan has taken control.”

These are just a small sampling of the available opinions.  But I have to wonder…does blaming someone really make us feel better?  Does it really make us feel more in control of the situation?   Does the whole “Blame Game” give anyone else a burning/churning feeling in their gut like it does me?  I am so beyond caring about who is to blame.  I just want the insanity, and the pain, and the evil to stop.

Another senseless tragedy has occured and there are a whole lot of people who’s lives are profoundly changed.  Some of their lives are simply destroyed.  And there were a whole lot of people that went to bed last night not really believing that the sun would rise this morning.  Some probably didn’t even care if it did.  But the sun did rise.  And life goes on.  And I wonder why.

I thought of those people this morning — when I went off to worship.  I thought of their grief.  I thought of them planning funerals and wondering how such a promising life had gone so wrong.  And I felt guilty that everything in my corner of the world is so completely normal when everything in theirs is spinning totally out of control. 

I don’t know the answers.  I don’t know how to make sure another school shooting never takes place.  I don’t know how to keep shopping malls, and sporting venues, and churches, and every other public and private space safe.  I don’t know how to reach every deeply troubled person.  I realized today that I don’t even know how to pray about this situation.  But I do know this.  Jesus promised He would return to this world.   

Come, Lord Jesus.  Please hurry.  I’m tired and I want to go home.

By Kiera Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Daniela is gone.  Last Sunday was supposed to be her last day but because church was cancelled due to weather, she slipped quietly out of town with no formal good-byes, no last hugs, no visible tears.  Daniela was the Children’s Director at our church.  Now she’s headed west to bless a new church and a lot of little lives of kids she doesn’t even know yet.

I was in Daniela’s shoes in the summer of 2006.  No, I wasn’t the Children’s Director at my old church but I was heavily immersed in Children’s Ministry.  To other people, they may have just been someone else’s kids but to me, they were MY kids.  And saying good-bye to my kids who had literally grown up before my eyes was painful at best; but the worst part was the wondering.  As my time at my old church wound down, my thoughts were constantly filled with things like, “Was I really finished with these kids?  Did I do what God called me to do?”  I knew without a doubt that it was time for me to go.  But still…I wondered.

As I look back now, I’m still unsure.  But since God’s timing is perfect, I have to believe that I was finished — just as Daniela was finished here.  However, there were a lot of sad kids at church this morning that would have said she was anything but finished.  Her absence will be felt for a long, long time.

After I made my official announcement to my kids that I was moving to Georgia, like pre-teen town-criers, they ran out of Sunday school to spread the news.  One of the parents responded by asking me, “Who’s going to teach my daughter’s Sunday school class next fall?”  At first, I was a little annoyed.  With planning a wedding, preparing for a cross-country move, and the garage sale to end all garage sales, finding a replacement to teach 5th & 6th graders on Sunday morning was really not a priority for me.  But then, as I thought about it, I was touched by the fact that I would obviously be missed.

I think most people assume that the leaving part was easy for me.  I was in a very exciting season as I was ready to begin a new life with my soon-to-be husband.  But I really wonder if my kids realize that leaving them broke my heart.  To this day, 18 months after my last, gut-wrenching Sunday, I still miss those kids.  I still have dreams of our time together.  I still pray for each one of them.  Every day.  And I still love them.

They always seemed happy to see me.  They always had an event to share with me from their lives.  I miss seeing them and hearing those stories.  I miss the way they embraced eccentricity and taught me how to view the world in a way that was just a little skewed from the norm.  I miss watching them figure out how to deal with people and learn how to be a real friend to someone.  I miss praying for the things that mattered to them and I miss sharing in the ups and downs of their lives.  I miss hearing them adopt strange accents when we did dramas.  The boys sounded a little like Orson Wells meets “Pirates of the Caribbean.”  And the girls?  One day it was Hillary Duff.  The next it was pseudo-ValleyGirl and the next it was Minnie Mouse with goat sounds added, just to spice things up.  

I miss their logic.  Although it often made me dizzy, it was always entertaining.  I miss how they kept me on my toes.  To survive class, I was forced to think like a tween again.  Otherwise, I would sink faster than a comedian on the Titanic.  “But seriously, folks!  Doesn’t the band sound terrific?”

Lessons had to be researched.  And yet they still managed to ask me questions that I wasn’t prepared for and had no clue how to answer.  Games had to be well-thought out and planned.  If there was ANY loophole in the rules, someone would find it and exploit it.  And sometimes, I learned, the best plan was no plan at all.

I remember chucking my lesson plan one day in favor of simply enjoying each other’s company.  We played games and we talked but I can’t say the kids learned anything that day.  As we were cleaning up, I apologized to my co-teacher about the lack of lesson.  Her reply?  ”You did something more valuable.  You built relationships.” 

I miss the laughter we shared.  My kids would come up with the strangest phraseology.  I don’t remember what Scripture we were studying when the phrase “East Genesis” was born.  It still makes me laugh every time I think about it.  In my mind, it sounds like the ghetto where Adam & Eve chilled out.  We laughed a lot in my class.

I think what I miss the most is watching my kids grow in Christ.  I loved listening to their questions progress as they began to understand more about Scripture.  I loved watching them discover how God created them individually and how it was ok to be different from their friends.  I loved watching them learn about their talents and abilities and how to use them to further God’s Kingdom. 

A friend of mine told me once, “The moods of pre-teens cannot be charted on ordinary graph paper.”  She was absolutely right, of course.  There were ups and downs and the headaches were numerous.  It was an extremely wild ride at times.  Nevertheless, it is a ride that I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. 

I am so thankful for Daniela and for all the lives she changed.  She may never know what an impact she had.  I hope she does, if for no other reason than to answer any lingering, “Did I do what God wanted me to do?” questions she may have.

I’m also thankful for the kids here and all they taught Daniela to prepare her for this next season in her life and in her ministry. 

And I’m thankful for everything that I learned and to the wonderful kids who taught me:  Courtney & Courtney, Jessica, Sarah, Abby, Ashley, & Kenna.  Luke, Mike, Matt, Zac, Ben, & Joshua.  Thank you for teaching me, for allowing me into your lives and for sharing your hearts with me.

In twenty years, you may not remember me; but, I’ll never forget you.  You will always be a few of the kids who blessed my life and left indelible fingerprints on my heart.  I am incredibly grateful that God gave me a season in your path.   Thank you for changing my life.