Blessing of the Backpacks Litany

The following is a litany that I wrote for our Blessing of the Backpacks service at North Hunterdon UMC on Sunday, August 24, 2014. The parts that are listed in bold indicate the congregation's response as the leader holds up the item to be blessed.

Enjoy!

-Pastor Amanda

Dear God, you are our Teacher, Creator, and Guide through life’s classroom.

As we prepare for the beginning of a new school year, we ask your blessings on our students, parents, and teachers.

We thank you for pens and pencils that are held by big and little fingers as they learn to write their names, their thoughts, and their stories. Bless the words that flow from these pens, and bless the ones that write with them.

We thank you for crayons and markers, for all the bright colors in the world around us. May they be used to create beautiful pieces of art that show the wonder of creation and each child’s imagination. Bless the art that they create, and the ones who draw and color with them.

We thank you for calculators and rulers, that help us to add and subtract, multiply and divide as we learn to work with numbers, shapes, and how the world works. Bless the ones who help us understand these things and more.

We thank you for notebooks, folders and binders, for handouts that teach us our letters and numbers, and blank pages we can fill with our own thoughts and stories. Bless these things that help keep our thoughts and work together and from getting lost, and bless the ones who fill them with writing and drawings.

We thank you for the books we read, for the books that teach us our history, the books that teach us who we are, and the books that open up magical worlds of possibility. Bless these books and the stories they tell, and bless the ones who read them.

We thank you for our lunch boxes, filled with food to help our bodies and minds grow strong and mighty. We know that there are children whose lunch boxes are empty, and we pray that their lunchboxes might be filled with good food from caring people. Bless these lunchboxes and the bodies they feed.

We thank you for our backpacks that carry everything we need. Although they may be heavy with school supplies, may the children that wear them be unburdened. May the children who do not have backpacks or the supplies receive the things they need, so that they can get off to a good start this school year. Bless these backpacks, and bless the ones who wear them.

We thank you for our teachers, who fill our children’s minds with knowledge, who nurture their spirits, and who protect them while in their care. We thank you for our principals, counselors, custodians, nurses, cafeteria workers and bus drivers who take care of our students. May they receive the support they need and the honor they deserve as they live into their calling to educate this generation. Bless our teachers in their sacred work.

We thank you for our parents, grandparents, and other childcare providers who support and encourage their students in all that they do. Who spend countless hours helping with homework, volunteering in classrooms, driving the carpools. Bless our parents in their sacred work.

We thank you for our students, for the blessing that they are to us. Strengthen their bodies, minds and spirits throughout this school year, that their knowledge might grow and their imaginations soar with new thoughts, new achievements, and new dreams. Bless our students in all that they do, work and play, for it is all sacred work.

In the name of Jesus, the Great Teacher, we pray. And all God’s children said, Amen.

John 20: a modern re-telling of the Easter story

**This piece was written and originally posted on my old blog 

as part of a class on the Gospel of John.**

The rain poured down from the dark sky in torrents as Mary pulled up to the funeral home. She did not know if they would be open or not, but she knew she had to see him. She needed some time alone with him, alone with his body... she glanced at her reflection in the rear-view mirror, making sure that her eyeliner and mascara had not smeared as she had rubbed her eyes.

Water-proof mascara was a wonderful thing.

With trembling hands she unfastened her seat-belt and opened the car door, wondering if her legs would support her as she crossed the parking lot to the sterile funeral home that was trying so hard to look inviting. She dashed across the parking lot, covering her head with her coat, regretting that she had not thought to bring an umbrella. Then again, when your beloved friend has been murdered, umbrellas are the last thing on your mind.

Thankfully the door was unlocked and Mary let herself in, immediately assaulted by the smell of flowers that permeated the air. Her coat dripped on the plush carpet, and she looked around for someplace to hang it to dry. Finding nothing, she nervously draped it over the back of a chair, then proceeded to the viewing room that had been reserved for his body. There were only several, very small bouquets in the room, but she was not surprised. Many of his friends could not afford the expensive floral arrangements that filled the other viewing rooms. He wouldn’t have wanted their money wasted on frivolities in the first place, even if they could afford it. It took Mary a moment to notice that something was wrong, but when her eyes finally fell on the empty casket, her knees went out from under and she collapsed to the ground, her hand flying to her mouth. His body was gone. Choking back a sob, she struggled to her feet and wobbled over to the casket to be sure that what she saw was true. The casket was completely empty. Panicking, she bolted out of the funeral home, forgetting her coat, running through the pouring rain. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she put the car into drive and peeled out of the parking lot. She didn’t know who to go to... she would have always gone to him!

She found herself driving on autopilot, and arrived at Peter’s home without even planning on going to him. Of all the people to go to, Peter was far from the top of her list, and yet here she was, banging on his door as her hair lay plastered against her face, rivulets of rainwater mixing with the tears on her cheeks.

“Peter!” she cried, as her knocking left the door unanswered. At the sound of his name he finally opened the door, his face haggard, dark circles under his eyes.

“Whaddya want?” he croaked, his voice raspy from his tears and cigarettes he had been smoking undoubtedly nonstop since Thursday night...

“Peter, please,” she begged, “let me in.”

Wordlessly he moved aside and motioned for her to enter. She stepped into the stale foyer and wiped the water from her face. Silently another figure appeared, handing her a towel, and she nodded to their other friend to thank him.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his arms crossed tightly against his chest as if he were trying to hold himself together.

“He- he’s gone!” They both looked at her skeptically.

“What do you mean he’s gone?” Peter said mockingly, taking a long drag from the cigarette smoldering in his hand.

“I mean I went to the funeral home, and the casket... it’s empty. Someone must have taken his body.”

The words came out more calmly than she could have ever imagined; suddenly she felt exhausted. She had no more energy to put into her grief; her well had seemingly run empty. Now a look of concern flashed through the men’s eyes, and they glanced at each other uneasily.

“Are you sure Mary? Were you in the right room?” Mary sighed.

“Of course I was in the right room, I’m not an idiot. Never mind; I just thought you guys might care...” She turned to let herself out, and it wasn’t until she was in her car that she realized it had stopped raining.

“Wait Mary, hold on!” Peter yelled, running down the steps after her, the storm door banging noisily behind him as he followed their friend to his car.

Once again Mary pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home; she watched as their friend jumped out of the car before Peter had even turned off the engine, leaving Peter behind as he dashed through the doors. Peter took off after him, his jacket flapping behind him as he ran through the puddles, kicking up water. Mary slowly climbed out of her car, unsure if she could bear to walk into that building again, but she forced herself to move forward; she had to see if the casket was still empty.

She silently let herself into the building and made her way to the viewing room. Their friend was standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, his jaw set grimly.

“I believe you,” he murmured as she stood beside him, his eyes unwavering as he stared at the empty casket.

“Where is Peter?” she asked softly, not knowing if she should touch him or leave him be.

“He went downstairs to see if he could find an attendant.” They stood perfectly still, the only sound the tick-tick-tick of the clock, until their silence was broken by the sound of a door slamming. Peter stormed into the room, his face flushed with anger.

“I can’t believe there isn’t a bloody soul working here!” he exploded, his fists clenched tightly by his side.

“There was nobody downstairs?” Mary asked, frightened.

“No! And there weren’t any fucking bodies down there either!”

“Peter,” their friend scolded gently, but returned to being silent at the look Peter sent his way.

“I gotta get out of here,” Peter muttered, storming out of the viewing room and banging the outer doors open. Their friend sighed, and followed after him; Mary did not envy him and the ensuing conversation he would have with the hotheaded Peter.

Finding herself once again very much alone, Mary reverently walked to the casket and knelt on the kneeling rail. She tried to pray; it was what Jesus would have wanted her to do. Instead of words puppy-like whimpers came forth from her body, and once again she found herself crying. No longer caring if anyone saw her, so consumed was she with grief, that she found herself curled up into a tight ball on the floor, rocking back and forth as sobs wracked her body. She didn’t hear the man enter the room; the carpet cushioned his footsteps. Through her moans came the sound of a gentle voice;

“Woman, why are you weeping?” It seemed an odd question, seeing as how they were in a funeral home, and Mary turned to see who would voice such a ridiculous query. A man stood in the doorway, and from the looks of him he worked at the funeral home. He was dressed in a well-cut, black suit, with a necktie tied sharply in a double-Windsor knot. His face was clean-shaven, and his dark hair was slicked back professionally. He was well-poised and polished, with his fingers interlocked together as his hands rested against his belt.

“May I help you?” he asked smoothly at the sight of her puzzled face. “Perhaps you are searching for someone?” Mary turned her face away, mouth gaping, speechless. She sniffed deeply and cleared her throat, then stiffly rose to her feet. She turned to him slowly, trying to keep her cool.

“Sir,” she began, and she noticed how her voice trembled, but how underneath there was a dangerous edge. “If you have moved him somewhere else, tell me where you have put him, and I will take him away. Tell me!” Unable to look at his perfectly composed face in the midst of her anguish she had to look away, clenching her jaw tensely as she waited for his reply.

“Mary...” At the sound of her name she jerked around, nearly losing her balance. How did he know her name!? She took several steps towards him, and then saw it. There were his eyes; there was the familiar lift of a brow.

“Teacher?” she gasped incredulously, and was rewarded with a slight nod and small smile. She laughed at the impossibility of it, and reached out to him, but he took a step back, unlacing his fingers to hold his palms out in front of him, keeping her at bay. She needed to hold him! To feel the warmth of his body, to smell his scent- why wouldn’t he let her touch him? He must have seen the pain in her eyes, because he smiled at her gently.

“Mary, my dear Mary,” he murmured lovingly. “You cannot hold onto me. I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go, to my brothers, and give them this message for me.” She nodded, listening carefully. “Tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and to your Father, to my God and your God.’”

Mary repeated the words silently to herself, committing them to memory. He gave her one last smile, then turned and walked away. With speed and energy she no longer thought she possessed, Mary gathered her things and ran to her car to go and tell the others.

As she sped through a stop sign on her way back to Peter’s, the sun came out.

They Could Come on Friday: Good Friday pregnancy reflection

These words came to me as I have been preparing my heart, mind, and body 

for the pre-term delivery of my twin daughters in the next week or two.

Imaga Christa:
This crucifix was given to me by my spiritual director:
the figure on the cross is woman, holding a baby.

They could come on Friday...

People will gather for vigils at noon

or in dimly lit churches

filled with soft candlelight to hear the story

of long ago.

Of thorns and crowns,

nails and wooden beams.

There will be no tenebrae for me

as I enter a room of strangers,

surrounded by metal instruments yielded

not by the hands of Roman soldiers as

implements of torture

but as tools of

healing.

But the fear is still there.

It won’t be under the noonday sun,

or a sky that suddenly turned black.

Instead it will be under

cold

fluorescent

lights

that betray no sense of time where

my arms will be stretched

wide,

as far as they can reach:

I love you this much.

I may cry that I thirst,

but there is no water,

or wine,

or vinegar

for my parched, dry mouth.

No sword will pierce my side

but

there will be water

and blood.

They will lay his body in the depths of a tomb

and from the dark recesses of my womb,

where only God and modern science can see

they will pull out

new life.

And my daughters will breathe their first breaths,

and cry their first cries,

and I will remember that in him was

LIFE.

That the life was the light of the people,

and the darkness did not overcome it.

Then Friday will be truly,

remarkably,

miraculously

GOOD.

Written Words

What better way to begin Lent, the season of repentance and preparation, than with a confession?

I have not felt like writing in quite some time. And I haven't actually written in quite some time.

That second part isn't entirely true- I've written when it has been required of me.
I scraped together mediocre papers in the fall semester, with a few extensions along the way.
I have written sermons, although I admit I've done my fair share of searching through my personal archives to find an older pice that will suffice, rather than creating something new.
I have written call to worships, opening prayers, and communion liturgies, although my heart has not truly been in it.

There has been no creative writing, no jotting down of ideas, no work done on my thesis.
My journal entries consist of "To Do" lists instead of reflections on my day and my heart.

You may be thinking: this is not necessarily a bad thing. Motivation comes and goes, we all go through dry spells. You may not think even counts as a confession.

And you would be right.

My confession is not so much that I haven't felt like writing, but rather why I have been unable and unwilling to pick up my pen.

My confession is that I have not written because I have been afraid.

I have let fear keep me from doing one of the things I love most.  let fear take the upper hand, let fear silence my voice, let fear cause my spirit to build up walls so that I've spent most of these past months living in my head and not my heart.

I always thought that when I was blessed with the gift of bearing new life I would write about it.
Poems.
Prayers.
Reflections.
Letters to the baby.
I thought I would fill journals and sketchbooks with creative outpourings of joy.

The day I found out I was pregnant was a flurry of shock, surprise, and joy. In all the excitement I forgot to pick up my pen to memorialize the words I had so longed to cry out:
I'm pregnant!
I didn't write.

We had our first ultrasound very early- at only six weeks -where we discovered there was not one, but two little beings growing inside me! I laughed, and cried, and gasped then laughed some more...
but I didn't write.
There was a chance, the doctor said, that one of them would get "absorbed." We would have to come back, at eight weeks, to see if there were still two.

I could not commit those words to paper. Even though the words were written on my heart, I couldn't bear to have them written in ink, to be returned to days, months, even years later if we lost one of our babies.
So I didn't. write. anything.

All is well, and has been well, and our two little girls are growing like weeds, their movements in my belly a constant reminder: We are here!

But still I've been afraid. Afraid that this is all too good to be true. Afraid something will go wrong. Afraid of making myself vulnerable to potential hurt by recording these moments of joy and wonder, in case something doesn't work out.

The words of our mouths are like ether. They float in the air and then dissipate into nothingness. The hope or sorrow they convey is truth, but it is fleeting, and can easily be forgotten.

The written word is different.
Once is has been written it cannot be undone.
It can be scratched or rubbed out, even written over, but a remnant will always remain.
It is there to be returned to, over and over again.
The written word is REAL.

So I confess I have allowed my fear to keep me from living fully into this incredible experience happening inside me. I confess it, and I ask forgiveness and freedom from this fear, trusting the words that appear again and again in our holy, written words: do not be afraid, I am with you.

I finally sat down the other day, opened my journal, picked up my pen, and took a deep breath.

"Oh my darlings," I began, and then a miraculous thing happened. The words flowed. Nothing flowery, nothing heart wrenching or particularly warming. But the words came. It was easier than I thought it would be, and as I wrote I breathed a sigh of relief, because I was no longer afraid.

And finally, I got up the courage to say what's been on my heart these last six months:

"I love you both so much.

I can't wait to meet you.

Love, 

Mommy"

I think my Lent began with a kind of resurrection.
Thanks be to God.

Snowy Mornings

After sleeping in (which I've been doing a lot of these past few weeks, since I have nowhere to be except Sunday mornings), after cuddling with kitties in bed under the warm blankets on our bed, after finally hauling my big belly out of my snuggly nest, I donned my robe went downstairs to sit in my chair and enjoy my daily cup of coffee.

I love the view from my chair, when I turn my head to look through dining room and out into the world beyond the walls of our home. Want to see?

The picture doesn't do it justice. Try as I might, I couldn't capture the light and detail of what I see with my eyes. I need to become a better photographer. Anyway- here's what I see:

The sunlight that filters in through the open shades makes the wooden floors look the color of syrup- amber and gold. The alcove is bright and inviting, and the colors of the curtains pop: red, aqua, orange, with hints of lime green on a buttery yellow background. Happy curtains. I love them. 

Looking through the windows the snow is drifting down, blanketing the world in white. The branches of the spindly, naked bushes outside reach up to heaven like arms, or bulrushes, and it's not difficult to imagine that they stand between our home and a pond, instead of the house next door. When I sit and look out the window, I can't see the other homes, or cars, or swing sets that flank on us either side. All I can see are those branches, and snow, and big evergreen trees in the distance. It is beautiful, and peaceful. I could sit and look out this window for hours.

But, alas, there are things to do. I can't sit here forever, even if I'd like to. Stay warm!

Sermon: Connect-the-Dots

**This sermon was given at The United Methodist Church in Madison on Sunday, January 19, 2014. I was inspired by Ben Lee, student pastor of the Oxford Colonial and Summerfield UMC's who first used the image of puzzles in relation to baptism.**

John 1:29-42

The next day he saw Jesus coming towards him and declared, ‘Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world! This is he of whom I said, “After me comes a man who ranks ahead of me because he was before me.” I myself did not know him; but I came baptizing with water for this reason, that he might be revealed to Israel.’ And John testified, ‘I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it remained on him. I myself did not know him, but the one who sent me to baptize with water said to me, “He on whom you see the Spirit descend and remain is the one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit.” And I myself have seen and have testified that this is the Son of God.’

The next day John again was standing with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by, he exclaimed, ‘Look, here is the Lamb of God!’ The two disciples heard him say this, and they followed Jesus.When Jesus turned and saw them following, he said to them, ‘What are you looking for?’ They said to him, ‘Rabbi’ (which translated means Teacher), ‘where are you staying?’ He said to them, ‘Come and see.’ They came and saw where he was staying, and they remained with him that day. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon. One of the two who heard John speak and followed him was Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother.He first found his brother Simon and said to him, ‘We have found the Messiah’ (which is translated Anointed). He brought Simon to Jesus, who looked at him and said, ‘You are Simon son of John. You are to be called Cephas’ (which is translated Peter).

I have always enjoyed puzzles. Not just jigsaw puzzles, although I’ve spent countless hours over the years bent over a table, trying to fit tiny pieces together to create the image on the box. What I really enjoy are word or number puzzles. I think the only reason I ever picked up my undergraduate school’s newspaper was for the crossword puzzle, and it wasn’t even very good. If I could get my hands on an extra copy of The Baltimore Sun, I could usually complete the crossword puzzles for the first half of the week (my mom could do every day of the week- in ink!). My favorite homework assignment in elementary school was completing or creating word searches with the weekly vocabulary words. I was delighted when I found an app on the iPhone that has word searches! And I loved, loved, loved Sudoku. In my home growing up the newspaper always ended up in the bathroom, probably because that was the only place my mom could get a moment of peace with four daughters. I would go in the bathroom and rifle through the paper until I found the daily Sudoku puzzle. I would get lost in the numbers, trying to fill in the blanks without duplicating anything in each row and column--- sometimes I would get interrupted by a knock on the door. Just checking to make sure I hadn’t fallen in.

I think the first puzzles I ever did, though, were in the pews of the church I grew up in. You see, every week when we first got to church we stopped by the ushers and got two bulletins. The grown-up bulletin, with the order of worship, and the children’s bulletin. Oh how I loved the children’s bulletin! The front always had a picture of the Bible story that you could color in, and the back usually had a empty, framed space with some prompts for you to create your own picture. I always drew horses, no matter what the prompt was. Inside, there were puzzles. Word searches. Another kind of puzzle that I don’t know the name of, but where letters are assigned numerical value and you have to figure out what the numbers are spelling. Or there was another kind where there was just a jumble of letters, like a word search, except you had to circle every fourth letter, then put them together at the end and they spelled something, like, Jesus, or baptism, or Peter, or the Rock. And there were connect-the-dots. I think the connect-the-dots were really the first puzzles I ever did, successfully. How about you? Maybe you don’t think that counts as a puzzle, but I think it does. When you first look at a connect-the-dots, you don’t really have an idea of what you’re looking at, of what the finished product is supposed to be. It only comes to you gradually, as you find and connect each dot in the right order, until finally you have the completed picture. And then- voila! Everything makes sense! Every bump, every curve, each one has led you to complete the big picture.

I think life is like a puzzle. I think life is like a connect-the dots.

Don’t believe me? Look at our gospel lesson for this morning. In our gospel lesson we find John the Baptist, speaking to two of his disciples when Jesus walks by. And John calls out, “Here is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world!” This is the one I’ve been talking about! I didn’t know it was him at first... When John first encountered Jesus, he didn’t have the full picture. All he knew was that he had been called to baptize with water, had been called to preach repentance, to prepare the way of the one who was coming after him, and that somehow, through his works, the Son of God would be revealed. John the Baptist has had many dots in his life that’s he’s been connecting, but then he finally connects the last dot once he has baptized Jesus, and seen the spirit descend and remain on him as a dove. That last dot completes the picture of John’s ministry, and allows him to proclaim, some days later to his own disciples that, “Here is the Lamb of God!” This exclamation made by John starts a whole new series of connect-the-dots for his disciples, who go off to see for themselves who this man Jesus is. It is a connect-the-dots puzzles that each of the disciples, and we as readers and hearers of the gospels, live out, piecing together puzzle pieces and connecting dots with every miracle, every parable, every teaching that Jesus says. As we journey through the gospels, we connect the dots, until that very last dot is connected, drawing the image to a close on Easter morning, with the big fat dot that is the empty tomb. And we realize that Jesus is the Messiah, the Risen Son of God, who even death cannot contain. Who is, and was, and is to come. With the realization that Jesus truly is the Christ, the one that we’ve been waiting for, we begin our own journey through life as his followers. Our own lives, that are each like a puzzle, filled with moments like dots just waiting to be connected in order to reveal a big picture.

For John the puzzle is completed the moment Jesus rises from the waters of baptism. For each one of us, the journey of connect-the-dots began with the moment the baptismal waters were sprinkled or poured over our heads, the moment when we entered into the community of faith that is Christ’s body the church. Our baptism is not the end, but rather the beginning, sending us forth on a life-long mission of loving God, loving one another, and loving all the world. Our baptism sends us forth with ears open to the voice of the Spirit; having been told that we are beloved children of God, with whom God is well-pleased, we are sent forth to follow the whispers and calls of the Spirit, often down roads that are challenging as we are called to bring forth justice for the least, the last,and the lost, to live lives of kindness, to act with mercy. Sometimes we rise up mountains and are filled with exuberance and joy. Sometimes we go down into deep valleys, and feel lost and lone. Sometimes we wonder why we’re doing what we’re doing, why we believe what we believe, and ask if it’s all worth it. It’s easy to get caught up in these moments and to see them as the big picture, as the end product, like the picture on a jigsaw box. But they’re not. They are only dots, each one connected to the one before it and the one after, each one helping to create an image that will be made clear to us, if not in this life then once we’ve passed through other waters and crossed over to the other side. And it all starts with that moment when we were named and claimed by God. It starts at the moment of our baptism.

And so, on this morning as we reflect on the places we’ve been and look ahead to the places we are called to go, we will also take a moment to remember where it all started. To remember our baptisms, and be thankful.

**Following this reflection we reaffirmed the Baptismal Covenant (UMH 50-52)**

Remember Your Baptism

**The Sunday after Epiphany is another special Sunday, during which the church celebrates and remembers Jesus' baptism as The Baptism of the Lord Sunday. The following is a story that I have used in several settings to begin various sermons the reflect on baptism.**

It was a hot, hot day in the summer of 2010, and I was a stranger in a strange land. I had travelled to Geneva, Switzerland with my classmates for a required cross-cultural experience, a brief stop on our pilgrimage to the ecumenical monastic community of Taize, located in the Burgundy region of France. We were all coming with different hopes and expectations, but on this day, as we trudged through the streets of Geneva, thoughts of our final destination were far from our minds. We were hot. And tired. Our feet hurt. The return to our hostel could not come soon enough. I was regretting the black slacks and black T-shirt I had chosen that morning, and my feet had blisters from the shoes I had worn. We were all in need of refreshment, and the prospect of going to swim in Lake Geneva later that evening may have been the only thing that kept us walking that afternoon.

We had passed a public square earlier in the morning, near a monument the immortalized the devastation land-mines had and continued to wreak in Africa. There were families everywhere, many with small children, populating the square, and the most remarkable thing was happening. Water was bubbling up and bursting forth from the ground. It rose in organized rows, alternating in time and intensity; through the curtains of water children ran laughing, and adults watched from the sidelines, sitting on benches or under the little patches of shade that were available. We watched the streams of water hungrily, no, thirstily, debating amongst ourselves if etiquette would allow us to enter into fellowship with those who danced under the waters.

We ultimately threw caution to the wind; kicking off our shoes and rolling up our pant-legs we let go of our adult inhibitions and ran across the hot cement into the life-giving water. We whooped with joy as it bubbled beneath our feet, and shrieked as the cold, refreshing liquid poured down on us from above. We were drenched. We were ecstatic. We were refreshed... and renewed.

Remember your baptism, we called to one another, laughing, and our impromptu romp of childlike abandon became holy. Amongst this community of pilgrims, with those simple words, it became sacramental. Remember your baptism.

2013: A Photo Review

2013

JANUARY- matriculation into M.A. Program 

MAY: Commencement

JUNE: Farewell to UMC Madison 

JULY: Appointed as Pastor of Asbury UMC

 AUGUST: annual trip to Starboard Cove, ME

SEPTEMBER: Happy anniversary!!!

                        surprise- it's twins!

OCTOBER: apple-picking in Maryland with the Rohrs girls

NOVEMBER: celebrated Eucharist for the first time

 DECEMBER: merry Christmas!

 Happy New Year

from Amanda, the Rev-Ev, and the two Lady Lions!