Apocalypse in Flames with Tint of Ocean

We are not experiencing as much smoke from Canadian forest fires as much of the rest of the east coast of the U.S. has been.  Still, there were moments yesterday when I looked away from my computer screen wondering if I had lost track of time because it had gotten dark.  Or maybe a storm was coming?

Yes, a storm is coming, but it won't be an easy thunderstorm, the summer kind that blows up quickly and only lasts an hour.

Nothing like apocalyptic pictures from New York City and DC to bring out my apocalyptic side.  For years (decades?), I've been saying that future generations will wonder why we focused on such minor matters as abortion and other attempts to legislate bodies (like with the current arguments over the bodies of trans people, both minors and adults), when such a huge horror was bearing down on us.  How could we not notice?

My non-apocalyptic friends might say, "What horror?"  Even being in the midst of a global pandemic might not have seemed like such a horror if we happened to be lucky.  Those who have never had to evacuate don't understand how eerie it is to be facing a storm that doesn't care about all that you have built up and restored, of the wealth stored in your modest house.

Perhaps I am not writing a blog post, but a poem.  Some of it will make its way into a poem, to be sure.  But poet Dave Bonta has already written what seems to be a perfect forest fire poem.  I started playing with lines that visualize the planet as wanting to reshape its body in various ways, but I'm not sure I can pull it off.

The planet excising parts of itself as a cancer--fairly standard imagery now.  The planet practicing plastic surgery has a nice alliteration.  The planet as feeling trapped in a wrong body and excising the parts that don't fit--forest fire as corrective surgery--perhaps this imagery is too transgressive?

But maybe we want transgressive imagery.  Maybe in an era of apocalypse, transgressive imagery is what we need to shake us out of our complacency.

Living in the most southeastern part of Florida, cleaning up flood after flood after hurricane after flood, I always wondered how people could be complacent.  Now that I live in the mountains, where climate risk is much lower (not true of all mountains, I know, but true of mine),  I understand complacency.  Yesterday, it took me a few hours to wonder if the haze outside might be more dangerous than I thought.  I looked up a different chart from a different government agency, one that measures fire risk to lung health.  Our particulate levels weren't particularly good, but for those of us without breathing issues, it was fair.

I looked up my old address in DC.  This morning, the code is purple.  I am glad I am not there.  My air quality here in the NC mountains is green.

A new apocalypse, a new metric to be learned, new charts to follow, new numbers rising and falling.  But don't turn your back to the ocean, which is always rising, and faster than we've been told.

Day One of the Kitchen Install

Soon, I will get back to posting about other things, like poetry or the fun I'm having watching the birds in the yard.  But the kitchen install is ever present in my mind.  So let me post some updates, with pictures.

Here's the way the kitchen looked just over a year ago, when we first bought the house:

In some ways, it would have been fun to work with what was there--it's got a vintage appeal.  But the oven part of the stove didn't work.  There aren't enough cabinets and some of the ones that were there weren't very functional:  the corner cabinets were deep and impossible to access most of them.  My spouse hated the scalloped trim at the top.

So, instead of keeping it, we went in a different direction, but in many ways, it's a direction we've covered before.  Whenever I've chosen cabinet colors, I always come back to a cinnamon color.  It seems relatively timeless.  We thought about gray, because the house is dark, and we thought that a lighter cabinet color might make the space feel brighter.  But in the end, we came back to the spiced maple kind of color (this cabinet maker calls it cherry) that I love.

I never had any question that we would pay for installers to put the cabinets in place.  Even in my younger years, when I was much stronger, holding a cabinet in place while someone else screwed it to a wall stud was not something I could do for more than one cabinet.  We are both older and less limber now, and I'm glad that the cost of the installation wasn't more than my spouse could consider.  

Yesterday I expected a team of installers, but only one man showed up.  He was more than capable.  He could install an upper cabinet all by himself.  I thought he would make much less progress than he did, so I'm pleased with what happened yesterday.

I sat at my computer for much of the day, which was fine.  I got all the reading done for weeks 1 and 2 of my seminary class which starts tonight.  I got most of an essay done; it's due to the magazine editor today.

Here is how the kitchen looked at the end of the day yesterday:

It still needs lower cabinets, along with appliances installed.  But still, an amazing amount of progress made by one man doing it all himself.

First Day (Hopefully) of the Kitchen Install

This morning, my kitchen looks like this, but with the drywall painted:

It should have looked even more crowded, but Lowe's had to postpone the delivery of some of the appliances (dishwasher and microwave) and the sink and its accessories.  We placed the order weeks ago in hopes that everything would get here, but delays no longer come as a surprise.  If we had to have a delay, then I'm glad it's not with the stove.  We need the stove here on Thursday when the gas plumber comes to work his magic.  The gas has been run to the house from the street, the gas plumber will do what needs to be done inside the house, and then the gas company will come back to connect the gas.  And then we will be cooking with gas, as the old saying goes.

People have asked if we're worried that our stove will be banned, that the state will come to take our stove.  That has not crossed my mind, although I did read the reports about gas stoves that led to the worries of people that the state will confiscate my stove.

The cabinet installers come today, and I'm hoping that by the end of today, we'll have more space to move around.  It may be a 3 day project, according to the guidelines sent.  But it's a small job, as kitchens go.  By Thursday, we should have a temporary sink, which will be a huge improvement.  I have planned meals with an eye to having few dishes to wash in the tiny bathroom sink with the inadequate space between the faucet and the sink.

Fingers crossed that all goes well--with yesterday's stove delivery, carried down the gravel drive by the Lowe's delivery guys, I feel hopeful.

First Day as Synod Authorized Minister

Yesterday was my first day as a Synod Authorized Minister, which is a position where I am allowed to do/have all the responsibilities and duties of a minister in a church, but only in one specific church that the Synod designates.  So, I can consecrate bread and wine, but only in that one church.  I can officiate a funeral, but perhaps not a wedding, since there might be state laws about that.  It's different from being an ordained minister, but much of the work looks the same.

Yesterday, we got in the car and drove over the mountains to Bristol, Tennessee.  We had no trouble finding the church, and we pulled in at the same time as one of the church leaders was walking across the parking lot.  I had 45 minutes to meet people and to get oriented to the building and the worship service I was about to lead (I had the bulletin in advance, so there weren't any unpleasant surprises).

I had wondered if any of my relatives still went to the church, and sure enough, a cousin introduced himself to me.  That led to me explaining my family connection to the other early arrivals at the church, and they knew my grandmother's sister, Martha, who worshipped at that church her whole life.  So, at the beginning of the service, when I introduced myself, I explained the family connection.

The worship service went smoothly.  The altar sits flush against the back wall, an older style.  I decided not to turn my back to the congregation as much as possible, and I asked how the previous pastor had located herself in the worship space.  She did much of the service down close to the congregation, which works for me.

I preached 2 sermons on the Trinity, since it was Trinity Sunday.  My children's sermon used ice, water, and steam from an electric kettle--hurrah for quick heating kettles that did produce steam.  My adult sermon focused on God the Creator who we meet in Genesis and God as Community.  I may say more about these sermons later.   I woke up thinking about how I could have made each better, but that tendency probably comes with the sermon territory.

After church, I talked to more parishioners and then de-robed and figured out the exiting process; I don't have a key for the door to the sanctuary (two other doors have a code for entry), but the person who does have the key stays to lock up.  People spent time lingering in the sanctuary to talk to each other after the worship service, a coffee hour of sorts, but without coffee and treats to eat.

We got in the car and drove back over the mountain, and the drive back seemed even easier/quicker than the drive there.  We didn't eat before the drive, and on the way home we saw a sign for a brewery called the Thirsty Monk.  We speculated about monasteries and breweries and followed more signs.  Alas, it wasn't a monastery, and the brewery was actually off site.  Still, we stayed for a flight of beers and fried pickles.  It was spontaneous and tasty and didn't take us too far off our itinerary.

One of our neighbors had an impromptu late afternoon neighborhood gathering in their beautiful backyard, which was a great way to end the day. Several of our neighbors are retired pastors, and they said, "It's a shame you're not further along in ordination" and told me about other churches that have also not had a full-time minister.  These are churches in the mountains of North Carolina, Tennessee and Virginia--not unpleasant places to live.  I know that there could be many reasons for vacancies, but it does seem a bit troubling (and also not my problem to solve, not exactly).

We finished the evening on our own deck, overlooking our own beautiful back yard.  My spouse spread birdseed along a deck rail, and we watched the birds approach, eat, and fly away, over and over again.  I said, "It's like we're sitting in a cathedral made of birds!"  It was mystical and awe inspiring.

Mystical and awe inspiring--in many ways, key words to describe the whole day.  

Minutiae from May in the Mountains

I am having trouble believing it is already June.  Before the new month turns into the month that is slipping away, let me record some moments from May that I don't want to lose.  Let me collect some of the Facebook posts that never made it into a blog post:

--I am at the saddest Barnes and Noble in all of North America, the only store still functioning in a once vibrant mall, working on my sermon for Sunday, thinking about the Trinity and community as one does, on the Thursday before Holy Trinity Sunday and after Pentecost.

--There is a dead wasp under the table, which seems like a great metaphor in the saddest Barnes and Noble in North America, but I don't think it will fit with my sermon. Same for the fact that in every light fixture, at least one fluorescent tube is out. I did finish a mostly finished draft of my sermon for Sunday, so that's a plus, even if I can't use these abundant metaphors in this sad, sad store.

--Long ago, I majored in interpreting poetry. This morning, after a long time on the phone, I discovered what one specialist charges for interpreting lab results. I majored in the wrong thing--but then again, the specialist probably doesn't create lines of poetry like the ones I created this morning: Does milkweed grow in the mountains? / Monarchs migrate and the world burns," and I'm adding some lines about the coronation of Charles and a reference to the late Permian period extinction. Perhaps I didn't major in the wrong thing after all.

--Last month, I made bread dough, and put the extra in the freezer. Today, I had it out to thaw, a lump of solidly frozen dough in a plastic bag, on the deck railing. We will not be grilling it for lunch. A squirrel nibbled through the plastic bag and into the bread dough before I noticed. I suppose it could have been worse--a bear would have been worse.

--Today I am grateful for a smooth plumbing install--replacing supply line valves for the kitchen sink that will be part of the remodeled kitchen. Those of you who have known the Berkey-Abbotts for a long time know that we have not always had smooth plumbing installs, but happily today went well for Carl Berkey-Abbott, plumber extraordinaire.

--For a variety of reasons, I haven't been taking naps in the past 9 months. I took one today; I forgot how glorious a nap can be. Those nap/rest ministry people are onto something!

--"All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go"--but I'm not leaving on a jet plane. My car is packed too, and soon I will head west and south, back to our Lutheridge house, heading west and south for the next chapter, which will be a continuation in some ways (seminary studies and online teaching) and new adventures too (volunteering at summer camp in a variety of ways).

--Your resident seminarian found herself oddly impressed by this Coronation sermon--well done, Archbishop.

--Since NPR.org has live coverage of the coronation, I am watching it. I spent many years studying British literature, so I'm not uninterested. The attempts to be more inclusive interest me, but even more, that at age 70 something Charles finally gets the job he's wanted all his life, that reality warms my heart.

--Back in December, I heard my upstairs seminary apartment neighbor singing "Silent Night" with the grandchildren that were half a world away (ah, the miracles of technology). I just heard them singing "Old McDonald Had a Farm." I will miss this. Of course, even if I stayed in this apartment, I would miss this, since they are moving to be closer to those grandchildren.

A Quick Trip down the Other Side of the Mountains

For the past six weeks, I've been on the road, often the same road, for six or more hours.  So this week's journey down the other side of the mountain was a refreshing change in that it was shorter.  It was also refreshing because it gave me a view into the near future.

In addition to teaching online classes this fall, I'll be teaching first year English courses in a physical classroom at Spartanburg Methodist College.  Since I had never been to that campus, I thought it was wise to take a trip to see it and to meet my new department chair, and to do that before the first day of class, and that's what I did on Thursday.

Happily, the campus wasn't hard to find--hurrah for highways marked with signs to schools, and for follow up signs on secondary roads.  And what a campus it is!  It is huge for a small, liberal arts college, which is even more surprising, considering that it only started offering 4 year degrees recently (it began life as a 2 year school).  I parked my car under a beautiful tree, thought about my own Lutheran undergraduate school down the road in Newberry, and felt a momentary pang.

The English department is in one of the newest buildings on campus, and it is beautiful.  The classrooms have are well appointed, and some of them have gorgeous views of ancient trees and rolling hills.  My chair was welcoming, as was everyone I met on campus, from future colleagues to the women in the closed coffee shop to the cleaning staff to the Public Safety officers who helped me with a parking sticker and ID.

I didn't meet any students, but that wasn't the purpose of my trip.  I wanted to find out basic information like location and copy machine rules and how long it takes from my house to my teaching workplace.  I'll feel much easier in my spirits when I make the trip for the first day of class on August 15.

After that, I made my way to Columbia, SC to see the two grad school friends I see periodically.  It was delightful to reconnect and strange to think about all that has happened since then.  When I last saw them in August of 2022, I was about to move to seminary housing, and now, I've moved back.  I have a new part-time teaching job and a new part-time preaching job, opportunities that weren't even on my radar in August.

As I was talking to my friends, I realized that I haven't ever had this much freedom in the classroom before; for example, I could choose any books for my classes that I want, and students have much less obstacles to getting them.  They go to the bookstore, get what they need, and it's all part of the financial aid package, so no need for waiting for student loan checks to come through or any of the other ways that keep students from getting their books--at least, that's the way I understand it.  Of course, for the classes I'm teaching, the first year writing/literature classes, there's plenty of online resources, so I didn't order books.  But I could.  I have never been completely free to choose my own books, and I've taught at a wide variety of places.   At best, I've always had 3 to choose from, and I had to choose one.  From an accrediting standpoint, from a bookstore stocking standpoint, I understand.  But how delightful to be able to choose more freely!

For the future, I'm already thinking of the possibilities, poets I could support, opportunities to have poets interact with my students via a Zoom session.  This time, I didn't have much time to make a decision, and I decided to take the easiest route.

I had easy travels the whole 48 hours, and I know I'm lucky.  There's road construction between Newberry and Columbia, which often but not always snarls up traffic, and there's similar construction approaching Asheville exits on the other end.  But this time, I was lucky.

Yesterday, as I drove home through the hazy mountains, I thought about how lucky I feel these days. I'm looking forward to the upcoming months, not dreading them.  I feel hopeful about the future, not foreboding.  It's a nice change from some of my past years.

Hurricane Season, Pride Month, and Shifting Into Summer

Today is June 1, which means different things to different people.  Let me write a collection of snippets loosely connected by the fact that it's June 1.

--Hurricane season starts today.  I am glad that I'm living in the mountains.  Last year I wrote that I was glad not to be a Florida homeowner, and that was before Hurricane Ian.  I am still glad to be a homeowner of a house in the mountains.  I know that when a storm like that hits the state, or even when a small storm hits the state, insurance rates go up for everyone.  I look back at what we paid for homeowner's, hurricane, and flood insurance, and I am astonished we could stay there as long as we did.  It required us to work a lot of jobs to keep our financial heads above water, even as the water (both literal and metaphorical) was rising below us.

--It is the start of Pride month.  What does this mean in a time of legislatures that are bearing down on transgender people?  I listened to a great episode of 1A that explained that many of the things that legislators say they must prevent, like genital surgery of minors, simply isn't happening.  Here, as with many issues, I firmly believe legislators shouldn't insert themselves into medical decisions when they aren't trained physicians/clinicians.

--It's a month of Synod Assemblies for some Lutheran synods (ELCA brand, the kind of Lutheranism that is more inclusive), and I have no idea if any of them will be addressing any type of oppression at all.  I know that my home synod, the Florida-Bahamas Synod, has a bishop election, and often other items get put aside so that elections can move forward.

--I will not be going to any synod assemblies, although there are several that hold my interest (I live in the North Carolina synod, I have an internship this school year with the Southeast Synod, I go to a school that's part of the Metro DC synod, and I have had a scholarship from a church in the Virginia synod).  I begin my part-time preaching job in Bristol, Tennessee this Sunday, so getting away for a synod assembly doesn't make sense.

--Yesterday I sat down to write my sermon for Sunday--what a delight.  I know the writing process won't always be this easy, but I am writing about God the Creator as a focus for Trinity Sunday, the creator in the first Genesis story that's part of the Revised Common Lectionary selection for this Sunday, the one who declares everything "good and very good."

--I am reminded of what I wrote with chalk on a sidewalk last month:

--Last night, we went to a picnic at the lake at Lutheridge, a picnic to introduce the summer counselors to the people of the residential section.  Here's a picture taken by my next door neighbor:

--It was interesting to reflect on our various ages.  Most of the counselors are fresh from a year or two of college, and only a few of them are people who have been a counselor for more than two years.  Most of the residents are 15+ years older than my spouse and I am.  I think we baffled both sets of people at the picnic last night:  you're living here full-time, and you're not exactly retired, and one of you is in seminary?

--Forty years ago (I first typed thirty years ago, and then did the math), I graduated from high school, at the end of May.  Part of me feels it's impossible that so much time has gone by.  Part of me is astonished at all I have accomplished.  I am interested to see what happens in the next 40 years (while also realizing that I am likely to be dead at the end of those 40 years; next month I will celebrate my 58th birthday).