In what seems like a lifetime ago, I met with someone who was a pastor and mentor to many. They were known for helping young leaders and new clergy get their start and offering funding to go along with it. I was encouraged to reach out to them and specifically to share a vision I had for my future work in the church and community.
I was really nervous to request that meeting and even more so to show up for it. I didn’t expect them to be excited about my dream, but I did hope they would be curious. There was neither excitement nor curiosity. They never even looked at the doodle I brought along. It was less a conversation, and more a lecture on all the things I needed to do and not do, be and not be.
It ended with this advice, “every good minister always has three things in his pocket.”
a prayer
a sermon
a willingness to die for a cause
I left feeling discouraged, confused, and reaching into my pockets to take an inventory. Doubting my worth, my abilities, and my gifts. Convinced I’d never share my dream with anyone ever again.
This memory caught me off guard. I’m still not sure where it came from. But it definitely got me thinking. And then searching for that doodle. I found it. A dream doodled out on a piece of printer paper, first in pencil and then with colored ink.
A house, with a wraparound porch. Rocking chairs and a swing. Lots of windows. A chimney billowing with smoke. Trees. Hammocks. Picnic tables. Bird houses. Bushes. A flower garden. And one for vegetables. Beehives for honey. A backyard kitchen. Barrels to catch the rain. A basketball court, walking track, labyrinth, and fire pit. Outdoor classrooms. A library. Art studios. A sanctuary. A pool. A hot tub. A lake. Kayaks and canoes. Life jackets and rafts. It was a place for women to come rest, renew, recover, heal; learn how to love and forgive themselves; explore creativity, and discern their purpose.
Shortly after that disappointing meeting, I folded the doodle up and slipped it into the pages of a book that was required reading for ordination. After surrendering my clergy credentials that book and the doodle inside it, went into a box in the basement.
Finding it again brought a host of emotions to the surface. Grief for what I lost. For a dream that seemingly never had a chance. For a calling that was disconnected just as it was getting started. Gratitude for what I’ve survived. For opportunities coming alive. For the joy that accompanies being unashamedly and unapologetically myself, even in—especially in—a society that would rather I stay hidden.
Last week, celebrating my birthday, I went up north for several days. I took that doodle with me. Sitting on the shores of Lake Huron the sky aglow from an incredible sunrise, I saw that doodle in a new light. It looked similar to a doodle I made when I was 18, hospitalized for depression, depicting where I wanted to be when I was finally discharged. It also looked like a doodle I made last year about what I want for the future of 10CAMELS. Each doodle had some type of physical dwelling and various elements of spirituality and nature. They all had WATER.
It’s been 30 years since that extended stay in the hospital. It’s been nearly 10 years since my calling (as they defined it) died for their cause. While I no longer have a title or credentials, I am still asked to pull sermons and prayers from my pocket. Much has changed. Who I want to be and what I want to do in this world has stayed constant.
I want to be authentic.
Generate space for honesty and vulnerability.
Make room for courage and risk.
Open doors for compassion and empathy to enter.
I want to teach.
I want to learn.
I want to listen.
I want to write.
I want to speak.
I want to create.
Poems. Stories. Possibilities.
I want to bring people to water.
To gather. Eat. Drink.
Swim. Float. Walk barefoot in the sand.
Breathe. Rest.
Organize.
Imagine and design the world we long for as the world we have is falling away.
I want to stir deep reflection about who is missing,
who is in the storm,
who is thirsty,
and who controls the supply.
The church was never the foundation of my dream. It was an anchor that kept me until it almost pulled me under. My dream is and always has been rooted in words and saturated by water.
On my last night up north, I built a fire. The sun had just set. The moon was rising. A herd of deer peeked out at me from the woods. The wind and waves making their presence known.
I reached into the pocket of my fleece jacket and pulled out three things.
a stick
a Petoskey stone
the old doodle folded up tight
After holding them for a while, I walked over to the trees and placed the stick in a pile of brush. I took the Petoskey stone back to the beach and gently dropped it in the lake. Returning to the fire, I placed the doodle in the pit, letting the flames lift its embers to the sky.
May sticks and stones reveal my path
and dreams never cease to guide me.
Water-fully yours, Rebecca
Invitation to Reflect
Is there something in your pocket that you are ready to release?
What’s in your pocket that you want to share?
If you doodled your dream what is the first thing you’d put on the page?
Wow!! I, too, lover the ending! Water has always been a part of me and my life when asked where I want to end up after I retire. Thanks, again, for sharing.
Your ending is beautiful. And I’m leaning into that doodle dream, too. I wonder where your path is leading because you’ve dared to dream? I wonder about mine, too. I am privileged to have opportunities to hear your stories that connect with my stories. God is present, I am sure.