25 Questions to Ask Your Mate on Date Night

My husband and I just celebrated (so, maybe more like "observed") our 33rd wedding anniversary recently. Yay! Congratulations to us!! Where have the years gone?

It got me thinking...there are a lot of semi-silly ideas out there floating around about how to keep your marriage either "hot," or "interesting," or "livable." One maybe not-so-silly proposal is the "date-night" tradition.  I have several young couple friends that like to tell me about how they take one night a week to "date," and I always nod my head agreeably while inwardly smirking at the sweet idealism...alright, if you are a young friend of mine, I NEVER INWARDLY SMIRK AT YOU...I'm just using poetic licence here, OK?

Because of all these young, romantic friends I am lucky enough to receive Facebook links that clue me in to "questions to ask your mate that start a great conversation!!!" Deep things like, "What was your biggest fear as a child?" "What's your favorite tree, and why?" and "If you could change one thing about your feet, what would it be?"

I am very sorry, but after 33 years you'd better come up with something better for me to ask than that. I have been with this man FAR TOO LONG to even CARE about his preference for oaks over pines.

So, for your consideration, here are---

25 questions to ask your mate on a date night (after you've been married for 30 years or more)

1.      What exactly was it that made you want to marry me again?
2.       How many of your socks do you think I've picked up off the bedroom floor in the last 30/35/40/years?
3.       What were you saying as you were drifting off to sleep last night...something about "mayonnaise" and "sheep dip?"
4.       By the way, your Aunt Agnes called again about the family reunion. Yeah, I know that’s not a question.
5.      What's the password for our Netflix account? 
6.       How old is our oldest child? Ok then, quick—what’s his birthday (WITH the year!)?
7.       What is that guy’s name on that show we watch on Tuesdays…you know…the one who was in that   movie we liked…you know…c’mon, help me out here….
8.       Where are my car keys?
9.       Have you seen the cat lately?
10.   Wow—has your hairline changed just recently, or are you just doing a comb-over now?
11.   What is your favorite meal that I cook? (you can choose between hamburgers and hot dogs.)
12.   Could you please start the grill?
13.   Why can’t I ever get my Facebook configuration figured out before they go changing it again?
14.   Do you remember the night we fell in love? No, not that one, the OTHER one!
15.   Could you see if my big toe looks infected?
16.   What kind of things do I do that bug you?
17.   You want to know what you do that bugs me? OK….forget it then.
18.   If we were stranded on a desert island and we could only bring along one living room chair, which one would you pick?
19.   Would you let me sit in it once in a while, or would you hog it most of the time and call it your “command chair?”
20.   Would you like a cup of  coffee?  No?  So, not grown up enough yet, huh? Hahaha…I  know how that annoys you…
21.   So, do you think I love you more than you love me?
22.   Or do you love me more than I love you?
23.   Does it matter?
24.   Why are you furrowing your brow at me?
25.   Are you hoping that this lasts for another 33 years? I sure am!  It’s a riot!

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, BABE!

Parenthood: The Long Goodbye

...now the new mother, that leaky vessel,

begins to nurse her child,

beginning the long goodbye. 

(Kathleen Norris, "Ascension")

Carefully, reverently, she lifts the blanket covering her daughter. Her eyes travel over the sweet sleeping face, the still hands, the soft hair...perfection. All where it should be...just as God created her.

The hospital garage is cool and quiet. No nurses stand by to ooh and ahh, no family members are able to come in and share this time with her. Her beloved daughter lies peacefully on a gurney beside the ambulance, never to open her eyes again. Never to smile; never to respond to her mother's voice. This is not the "hello" of birth, but the "goodbye" of death. My mother touches my baby's sister's face for the last time. Her 21 busy, fruitful and blessed years of life on earth are over.



When we become a parent, we do not look forward to the possibilities of suffering. We naturally look ahead for our children, but these long gazes down the future tend to be for happy things--smiles, toddling, baby talk, cuddles, and then on to  medical school and financial success. What  mother or father in their right mind looks deep into a newborn baby's eyes and coos "oh, sweetheart, I can see it now...you'll be bullied at school for your overbite, have a boyfriend who abuses you, and won't be able to find a full time job until you are 30. We are so excited!"


And who really, truly can believe that one day that little progeny of ours will willfully walk out of our front door never to return as our dependent child?  Yes, in a sense they will need you. But you know what? They no longer will need your listening ear for every detail of their daily lives. Suddenly, it seems, they will have friends you have never met. Dates you know nothing about. Apartments or dorm rooms you may never get a chance to visit. Griefs and problems of their own they will never share, even with you. You who poured your soul out for their benefit. The umbilical cord is finally, irrevocably cut. And the pain will bring you to your knees.

I had to physically restrain myself when one of my children had a bad experience at their work place...I wanted to march right down there, hands on hips, and say to this manager "How DARE you treat my child like this!! What kind of an idiot manager would treat ANYONE this way? I'm telling on you to your supervisor, and you'd better give my child a raise for all the trouble you've caused!"

OK, mamma bear, I had to remind myself...this "child" is now 18 years old, and beyond your legal defensive screaming. But...but...I don't want any of my children to suffer! Please, let me straighten the path! Let me remove all the rocks, let me make sure the sun shines every day and no bad guys lurk in the shadows! Let me believe they will live forever...

Because that's what it really is. We look down that long, winding path and have that sinking realization that there is nothing we can really do to stop the lurking bad guys. We will be dead and gone, and our children will be walking that path without us to be their personal body guards. In fact, to be truthful, we may continue to walk our own lonely paths while their journey comes to an end. That is probably the hardest and most painful thought of all.

This is the core. This is a secret grief all parents carry. This can be tapped at any random moment, and will bring tears during church sermons, movies, beautiful sunsets, and even coffee commercials. The deep, abiding belief that "behold, children are a gift from the LORD (Psalm 127:3)" and they really are not our property. God can call them back to Himself at any time.

Should this be grievous? Should we complain? Or should we be like Job, who after losing all his children in one disastrous moment, says "The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord"?

I don't know about you, but seeing my mother lose a child and witnessing friends lose children, it seems like God is asking a lot for a "Job" response. And yet--He does. He asks us to back away...to give up...to trust Him with the future and with things most precious to us. He asks us to hold our children in a light grasp, ready to offer them up in a few fleeting years, or in a moment of time. He asks us to say "this is another human being...independent...made in His image for His purposes, not for mine."

Am I ready for that? Probably not. I'm in practice. I have quit giving (well, not so much!) unsolicited advice. I don't call and leave voice messages on their phones (I'm a good girl and always text). I try not to say "so...met anyone special yet?" too often. I don't insist they clean their bedrooms in their apartment 600 miles away. I still tell them I love them. Regularly.  So we shall see. God is working on my heart, one heartbreaking day at a time.

I shall close with my favorite parenting quotation of all time:

“Making the decision to have a child - it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ” (Elizabeth Stone)

May God be with and bless each of us as we both struggle with and share our griefs with each other.

How to Raise Genius Children the Patented Sanders Way

OK, it has been observed my many people that I have 4 of the smartest children on the planet. By many, I mean by my mother and by my children themselves. But I'm sure many of you out there who are blessed enough to know my kids would wholeheartedly agree (except, of course, for the fact that YOU probably think you have the smartest children in the world. Well, you are wrong.)

I know you must be wondering by now...Carla, what IS your secret? Just how did your offspring attain such dizzying heights of intellectual magnificence?

It's a secret for a reason. Do you think I want your litter of humans out there in the big world competing for jobs with mine??

I will, however, let you have just a GLIMPSE; a peripheral glance into the vast system that is--

THE SANDERS SYSTEM for RAISING
 INTELLECTUAL GENIUSES

1. Marry a smart guy

I had little hope of passing on much brain cell power unless I could reproduce with someone of superior fire-power, brain-wise. My husband passed a rigorous test before being chosen as my mate. SAT and ACT scores, GRE scores, all-night Scrabble tournaments and Dr. Who knowledge all factored in.

2. Read to them a lot--major on Dr. Seuss


I like to  read to them in a chair. I do not read them with a bear. Not with a rat, not with a mouse. I only read to them in a house. I like to read them here and there; I read out loud to them everywhere. Bear, rat, mouse, chair; books in our house are EVERYWHERE!!








3. Live in a neighborhood that sparks conversation

Ask any of my children about the benefits of low-cost housing in a major city, and they will respond by assailing you with stories of stolen wagons, house break-ins,  stolen cars, drunks in the driveway, drug dealers in the alley, bike jackings, citizens arrests of garage break-ins, zombie Satanist killers trying to come in the house on an early Sunday morning, gun shot holes in the window sill, muggings, and really interesting SWAT team activity in the neighboring homes.

"So...how was your day?"
"Ah, the usual. Had to call the cops again."
 "Cool. I got an A in math today."

See how that works?

3. Keep them isolated from "cool" people by dressing them in hand-me-downs and thrift store clothes

Who needs the pressure of cheerleader politics and jock culture put-downs? Stick with the proven gangs--chess club, math competitions, crossing guard duty, AV club--anywhere that Payless shoes are accepted attire. Sweatpants fit the bill. As well as haircuts done at 9 PM on a school night by mom in the kitchen.






4. Give them absolutely no privacy

All four of my children shared a bedroom until my youngest was 3 years old. One bunk bed for the boys, a roll-out mattress on the floor for the girls. Rolled up during the day and put in the closet so there was room for play. They spent nights chatting about math theory, theology and the merits of various Pokemon (Pikachu rules, am I right??).




5. Feed them the highest quality Guv'mnt food

The day my oldest son realized I'd been feeding him reconstituted dry milk with his meals all along was a sad and difficult day. I had to swear him to secrecy--"you must NOT reveal this to the other kids, or no more processed cheese for you!" I always hid the 'adult' milk (i.e. 'real') in the back of the refrigerator and didn't let them see me pour it for myself.

The dry egg mix was a real challenge--I usually tried to hide it in another form of food (not always successfully). The canned beef stew may have possibly ended up (I will not confirm this) in the cat's bowl on occasion. The peanut butter, on the other hand, was always consumed wholeheartedly, and contributed to everyone's brain development.

6. Send them to high-quality public schools

I did have a slight concern about a teacher showing "Jurassic Park" in science class, and really did wonder about why kids were feeling compelled to throw chairs at each other in another classroom. But for the most part I found that public education in the inner city held a unique advantage...if you actually got involved as a parent at the school, they would bend over backwards to try to accommodate you. It's especially important to get the crabby school secretary on your side. (I actually brought flowers to one of them. I know; suck-up. It was worth every penny that year.) The school also inadvertently taught my kids survival skills--first duck, then run. Only fight back if absolutely necessary, and PROTECT THOSE GLASSES! However, your place in the lunch-line is God-given. Don't back down on that.



Now, I have other theories about brain development, like how they ate the same homemade pizza every Friday night for years and years, and how they never got many vegetable variations because of my husband's irrational fear of green peppers. But I'll save them for my upcoming cookbook, "Cooking for Brain-Power on the US Government's Dime" (the sequel to my popular "Beans Comin' Out'cha Ears" cookbook published last year).

What I Wish. Do You Wish?

I'm currently very cranky. So here's my cranky thought.

I wish I could just have a meeting once a month at my house.

Just for friends that wanted to do what I'd like to do, but don't like doing by myself.

Let's see.

A reading group. I used to have a really great one back in Minneapolis with friends who knew how to get into a book and talk it through with intelligence and wit.

A singing group. For people who really miss reading music off a PAGE rather than the overhead screen at church. For people who love harmony, printed notes, and some good early music polyphony.

A group of friends who could sit around and watch a really bad movie and make fun of it. Or just watch an installment of Mystery Science Theater 3000 together and laugh at it. I used to watch the Miss America pageant every year with some friends back in high school, and rag on all the talent and swimsuit competitions. Great times.

A hiking group. Gather at my place, drive to a not-too-far away place, and hike for a couple hours. Then sit around and drink coffee and soak sore feet at my house afterwards.

A lawn-care group. Everyone can come to my house and mow, trim, weed-whack, and edge while I sit and watch them. (I guess I could hire this out...)

A word-game group. Only word games allowed--no card games, adventure games, games involving any bidding, role-playing, etc. Just word games like Scrabble, Catch Phrase, Guesstures, Charades, etc. And I get to make up words.

A gripe-group. We could sit around and gripe for an hour about life in general, then break out cheesecake, because that makes everything better.

What's your wish?

The Theology of Poop Scooping

Meditation is hot right now. "Mindfulness" is the buzzword of the era, with books and videos encouraging us to "live in the moment--appreciate the NOW." You can be of almost any religious persuasion and practice meditation--it only takes silence and some solitude (except in yoga classes!).

Classic Christianity has long encouraged meditation as a spiritual discipline.

I, unfortunately, have been the kind of Christian who tends to have long stretches of non-discipline interspersed with spasms of self-righteousness (that are very annoying to anyone within arm's reach). I have tried all sorts of Bible reading plans, prayer charts and lists, and "quiet time" strategies. To be honest, the majority of my life has been spent THINKING about doing these sorts of things, and then feeling guilty that I wasn't having much success.

I've realized lately that one reason I'm glad I'm getting old is that I can look back and see how pathetic most of my attempts at "spirituality" have been. Hindsight is a liberating thing. It has taken me this long to grasp that I will never be a spiritual giant; I will never lead an amazing ministry or create a social movement--I'm beyond that point already. As my husband and I joke--it's too late to be famous, and the only other alternative is to be infamous. Which we really don't want.

Which brings me to poop-scooping.

My part-time job as a "farmer" at an educational farm here nearby Washington, D.C. is really the culmination of all my dreams, believe it or not. After years of trying to decide what I want to be, this is where I ended up. Visitors to the farm often will say, "You must really love your job!" and "This must the be best job ever!" I think they are referring to the cuddling bunnies part of the position.

However, if I had to tell you which part of this career is the most valuable to me, it would be...

yes--the poop-scooping.


Every day...day in, day out....season after season...animals continue to defecate all over the place instead of using the porta-johns and bathrooms we would gladly provide them. No matter how many times we lecture them on the benefits of personal hygiene, they insist on urinating in the middle of their living quarters and plopping in the center of their bedrooms.

So--we scoop. Daily, weekly, monthly, yearly, we scoop that poop into wheelbarrows and small dump trucks and remove tons of excrement to be turned back into soil. The never-ending march of "s**t" (pardon my French, but that's what it is!) probably is the single-biggest consumer of our valuable time.

So how, you ask, does poop-scooping enrich not only the soil, but your spiritual condition?

Not to change the subject--

But I just finished reading a book called "Transforming Our Days: Finding God Amid the Noise of Modern Life." The author (Richard Gaillardetz) tries to encourage the reader to evaluate how modern technology effects how we experience the grace of God in our lives:

By devaluing the more mundane spheres of human life, transforming human goods into mere commodities, relieving us of all 'burdens,' and assisting us in the mastery of time itself, technology makes it increasingly difficult to be open to the grace and blessings that come to us in our basic human activities.

He makes many fascinating points about the nature of a Trinitarian God and the human need for communion, etc. But the one thing that struck me as a 'poop-scooper' was his encounter with his newborn twin sons in the middle of the night:

In the first few months we were up repeatedly in the night to feed the babies and change their diapers. I recall awakening in the middle of one particular night and being grasped by a profound awareness that has been always something difficult to describe. I realized that right then, changing my son's diaper, I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing; I was engaged in an action as vital and fundamental as any I would have in my life. It was a mundane action (a tad unpleasant), part of the daily routine that generally went without significant discussion in our lives. But that basic action of care for our child engaged me in one of life's most vital relationships, a parent nurturing a child. That encounter with my son was a moment of communion and surely a graced moment. 

I had wondered why my poop-scooping mornings had seemed so serene and calming. It finally washed over me...I was performing a task that at its heart was a loving service and a conduit of God's grace to me. I am quietly, rhythmically,  methodically moving the piles from one place to another while thinking...

• I am so thankful for these creatures that God has created to bless our lives...
• I am so grateful for the fact their digestive systems appear to be working well, and they aren't sick...
• I am grateful I can make this area more pleasing to look at (and smell!) for our visitors... 
• I am grateful for a body that works well enough to handle a manure fork and rake; I can walk, I can lift, I can see...
• I am thankful for the song of the birds, the caress of the wind, the murmur of the trees, the rhythm of the raindrops on my hat...
• I'm so blessed to have a husband and family who let me take this low-paying but highly emotionally rewarding job...
• I'm really glad that no one is standing over my shoulder and telling me "you missed a spot..."
• I'm grateful for the fact no one is listening to me talk to myself (except for the animals, who promise never to pass on secrets...)
• I am thankful for my co-workers who are always willing to take over when my old body parts refuse to go on.

And I serve.

I clean up after the horses (whose noble predecessors have given their lives in thousands of wars they had no part in starting)...

I clean up after the cattle (whose relatives die by the thousands every day to give us Big Macs and Sunday roast dinners)...

I clean up after the donkey (whose meek ancestor carried my Lord into Jerusalem)...



So, yes...I do meditate.

Ozzie and Harriet in the 'Hood: Some of my best friends are...

I've never been any good at discomfort. Suffering for Jesus always sounds good in a sermon, but being a good red-blood-celled American, I believe somehow that being part of the Christian World  makes me a special commodity that should warrant a good job (because I work hard!), security (because I'm careful!) and lots of friends (because I'm so doggone nice!).

Not my church.

And I certainly don't take to social discomfort. That's why I avoid any event that entails more than 2 forks at the dinner table. I have no idea how to correctly critique a piece of modern art while holding a martini.


And please don't ask me to go clubbing...my idea of dancing is limited to "Put your right foot in..." while in roller skates.

Even going to a different church can be a pressure cooker for me--I know, we are all "the body of Christ," and "we are one in the Spirit" and "blessed be the tie that binds," etc. But face it...a church is also a social institution, and holds a microcosm of a world that doesn't always welcome outsiders. It mostly is inadvertent, I know (coming from a proud line of Baptists who knew how to "welcome our visitors today with a handshake!"). But we just can't help it--when we become a group, we see our little circle as the way things should be done; and we do an awful lot of talking to ourselves, if you know what I mean.

North Minneapolis is a host to a number of churches; many of which are historically African American. The Black church has a proud history of involvement in not only spiritual matters, but in political and neighborhood activism. We, as Euro-Americans, could appreciate that history, and enjoyed talking with our black friends about their church experiences.

So, after coming back to Minneapolis from our Dallas Seminary time (and after being members of a black church for a couple years), we wanted to visit a few of the larger churches in our area to get a sense of what was happening in our neighborhood. On Father's Day Sunday, we dressed ourselves up and headed for one of the largest and most historical congregations in the city to sample a service. My husband, ever the calm and unruffled person, didn't mind being the only "white dad" among probably 600 people. A few stares, but the ushers seated us politely toward the back (we were late, of course...something about having little kids?).

The preacher was a highly-known personage in not only church circles, but local political ones, as well. His oratory style was classic and bombastic...he launched right into his Father's Day exhortation.

"Black man...why are you SO STRONG??"

"The Man?"

The sermon was an hour-long admonishment to black men and fathers about their importance to their community and children despite challenges...especially from The Man. The code word. I looked over at my "Man," and he seemed ok with this. Rolling with the punches. It was rousing, to be sure, but I wasn't quite sure of how I should feel or respond. I glanced nervously around me...no one seemed to notice that I was fidgety.



At the end of the preaching, it was time for the altar call. And this call was..."All you fathers out there...I want you to come forward for a prayer of dedication and challenge."

So--up front "The Man" marched.

After the prayer, the pastor went down the line, shaking each father's hand and greeting them...my husband stood obediently waiting for his turn.  The dignified minister walked up to him, took his hand, pulled him in close enough to say quietly and apologetically in his ear...

"I didn't mean you."

We have laughed over this story for years--it has passed into our Family Mythos, as it were. Shades of "some of my best friends are black!" and "I had a black nanny as a child--she was like part of the family!"  The role reversal was priceless. And we have mused--how did the pastor KNOW it wasn't him? Maybe he was "The Man?" Maybe he was a slum landlord! How did he know?

It brought home the insidious ease with which we can judge individuals by the behavior or appearance of a group they supposedly belong to. When we make broad statements about the "other" at work or online, could it be that standing there near us (or online with us) we have a friend that we have hurt? Do we need to be telling them all the time "I wasn't talking about YOU...you understand, right?"

And I'm not talking about just being "politically correct." I'm talking about being Christian in our attitudes about people we really don't know. Political correctness is just a smoke screen for covering our real feelings about "the Other." Loving the stranger and "the Other" cuts both ways--or all ways (racial, social, educational, man, woman, Jews, Greeks, slaves, free, etc., etc.).  If we, as Christians, can't honestly challenge each other in this area, I don't know where else to go. We've got to get past the "handshake in the vestibule" and get downright open about connecting with each other.

This entails a lot of discomfort. Oh, bother. I hate discomfort.

But--I profess to loving God. Admittedly, not always enough to go out of my way to try to understand "the Other." I sure like myself and my ways a whole lot. I do find that I at times deeply believe that I am the pinnacle of Creation, and that everything and everyone would be OK if they just did what I told them they should do.

And then the Good Lord throws stuff in my path (wrenches, people, rejection), and suddenly I am reminded that I am one of 7 billion (or so)  humans running around this world, and I have no higher standing than any of them in the eyes of my Creator. Humbling. Did I mention I hate being humbled? Almost as much as I hate discomfort.

Be not angry that you cannot make others as you wish them to be, since you cannot make yourself as you wish to be. (Thomas a Kempis)

Ozzie and Harriet in the 'Hood: The continued adventures...

Phew. I certainly did manage to time my blog posts on race relations well, didn't I. Whenever a big story like the Trayvon Martin case comes along, I find myself in a very awkward position between two very important parts of my life...my self-professed and very evident Caucasion-ness, and my long-nurtured and treasured friendships with people of other melanin persuasions. I cannot, in good conscience, come out on the public pages of Facebook and some such like and offer my wisdom  and opinions about the details of the case and the outcome of the trial. It's not that I don't have opinions...I do have some that change every day, depending on how mad I am at somebody else's post.

I can see right now is a great time to tell a racially insensitive joke.
How many washcloths does it take for a white person to take a shower?
NONE--white people don't use washcloths. (OK, most of my white friends won't get that one. I didn't used to. Plus, I made it up, which means it's pretty lame You know me and jokes.)

 Better yet, here's a picture of a cute kitten.

OK, y'all chill now?

Human beings seem to divide over every and all  aspects of life. Our tribal loyalties extend all the way from race and national pride down to whether we like Captain Picard or Captain Kirk best (pfftt...it's Picard all the way, you morons...now, you see? You're mad at me! See how easy that was?). The dislike of the "Other" is so basic to humanity that we can't even see ourselves and our biases clearly. Yes, we are ALL Racists. We are also all Nationalists,  Sexists, Ageists, food-snobs and insensitive to people who like to wear socks with sandals. Maybe it's because we're human. And maybe it doesn't help that all we ever do is hang around people who agree with us on everything from politics to religion to Redskins loyalties.  How much do we ever get to experience being "The Other?" And how does that change our outlook on life?

As I continue (after this long introduction) telling the story of the "Sanders in the 'Hood," I want to stress this understanding of "Other-ness." It is very uncomfortable. And very necessary to the development of our humanity and seeing the Imago Dei in us all. .

After getting my husband's first master's degree done in Minneapolis, we made the big trek to the Big D--Dallas, Texas, so he could work on a PhD in Theology.(That's a 10-dollar word for the "study of God," which is kind of a large subject.) We moved into a 2-room apartment across the street from the school, which was just outside the downtown area. While taking a class in Urban Ministries from an African-American professor, we were encouraged by him to attend his church in South Dallas. Bibleway Bible Church was a mid-sized older church that was predominantly (and by that I mean, until we got there, entirely) Black. I think these folk were used to the stray seminary student wandering in and out now and then, since they never expressed any surprise about us showing up.

It was my first experience in being entirely "the Other" in church. The music had some vague similarities to my Baptist upbringing--they had a hymn book, too.

 But the likenesses stopped there. Never had I heard an organ played like that! No little old lady quietly wheezing away on a pipe organ in the corner...it was ROCK OUT, man! Truly amazing and extremely addicting. I still get all choked up when I hear certain "walking bass" lines in gospel music recordings. The choir sang every Sunday, and we got to sing along...from the audience! Never did that before. And my goodness...interrupting the sermon? With "Amens" and "preach it's" and "That's right!"s. Unheard of. (Well, maybe an occasional "amen" would have been acceptable back home. But there are limits..."Amen" is a Bible word. I'm not totally sure about "Preach it.")

My seminary student husband was included with the other young men-in-training up on the platform behind the pulpit. They were all seated behind the pastor, ready to leap up at a timely moment to offer a pat on the back, an encouraging "You got that right!" or whatever else they could come up with. My hubby looked so cute up there...glowing blond and Nordic in that sea of brown-ness.

One Sunday, the pastor was waxing eloquent on some Bible passage or other. He shouted, "You can talk and talk and talk about this to some people...you can talk until you're white in the face!"

A momentary silence. Then, turning slowly toward my husband, sitting behind him and to his right, he said, pointedly,   "Or...until you're red!"

And oh, my, was he ever.

We all had a good laugh at his expense. That "Other-ness" just liked to stick its nose out like that every so often when we least expected it.  Most of the time it was amusing. Sometimes not so much. But every time it happened, I was reminded of how much we as humans prefer our comfort to our discomfort, and to what lengths we will go to avoid being different from those around us. I even considered getting myself one of those really huge, colorful "church lady hats" just to fit in. But I never did.

We joined the church and became involved in the children's ministry. My husband was offered the chance to preach one of his first real church sermons (that one took a lot of "uh, huh...take your time...that's right!"s  from the audience). It turned out to be a sweet, sweet time for us; we found out we were expecting our first child, and the church folk threw me a surprise baby shower. I'll never forget the first time I felt my baby move...during one of the organ's more raucous offertories, baby kicked up a storm! (He didn't manage to keep this sense of rhythm, by the way...just ask him...he's been blessed with my Swedish immovability). We walked through some deep waters in our congregational life, too...hard times came with the territory, when sin tripped us all up here and there. Through those struggles we saw Biblical leadership displayed, and learned from it.

Our Dallas stay only lasted about 3 1/2 years, but it changed us fundamentally. Never again could we hear "Lift Every Voice and Sing" without getting chills; never again would we wear shorts in cold weather without laughing at our whiteness. And never would we see news articles about racial tragedies without feeling bone-deep sadness. We will never truly understand, and we are aware of that weakness. We are "the Other."

But thank the Lord, the "Other-ness" is transended by the "Together-ness" of the Kingdom of God. And someday that togetherness will be a blessed reality. I long for the day I can sing in the Gospel Choir of Heaven with my black brothers and sisters, and really figure out how to sway in time with everyone else.  (Let's get us some "Total Praise" up in here...we're having church now!)

Oh...and in Heaven, I wanna rock the organ.