There is a an object lesson here somewhere

 We will start on May 3.  There was a 15 min or so thunderstorm/hail storm.  Not much to report other than at one point I thought the windows were gunna break.  However, I did decide to go out and stand in the rain for a little while.  (Funny the things you miss when leave them behind.)  Now being moderately wet I decided to enter the apartment through the back door by the kitchen.

Well the door knob on the inside of said back door had become loose so there was no way to turn the knob and open the door.  So I did what any normal person would do.  I turned around and "mule kick"ed the door open.  No harm no foul. (or so I thought).

Just about then it was time to get ready for the night's activity: Avengers-opening night-midnight showing-IMAX-in 3-D.  After getting out of the theater my leg felt sore.  And I wasn't sure why.  (Then I remembered that I had kicked the door some five hours earlier).  The mystery solved I went to the diner with my assembled friends and then home to bed.


The following morning I thought that maybe I had pulled a muscle in my leg (the right one, for those of you who want the details).  However there were two items on my to do list.  One was meet at the library to work on a group project (the only assignment left for the semester outside of studying for finals) and pack for the Church Family Retreat.

So I walked to and from the library, came home and packed.  My leg was still a little sore and I thought could probably use some rest, however I was on my way to camp and was in charge of the lessons for the children (ages 3-4th grade).  (i.e. I knew that this weekend the leg wasn't going to get any rest.)

Friday night was just hanging out (plenty of snacks and board games-I love this church more and more) so I did stay off the leg as much as I could (you know 24 hours after the injury, and not resting it before that).

Saturday morning and the leg is still pretty sore.  It hadn't swollen yet, but it only hurt when I would walk on it, particularity uphill.  I thought one of two things was true.  Either I had broken a bone and was going to be one of those stories about the guy who breaks his leg and doesn't know it for a week.  Or it was just a minor injury that needed rest that I wasn't giving it.  The solution?

Play in the basketball tournament that afternoon.  There were only three teams (four if you count the team of kids) and the leg wasn't swollen.  What is the worst that could happen?

My leg, which gave me no pain during the hour and half I played on it.  Swelled 50% of its normal size.  The solution?  Take full advantage of camp and pretend like the leg was fine.

By Saturday night there was some swelling that appeared to be caused by popped blood vessel or some such.  By Sunday, it hurt to walk, and I even had a doctor (a great guy who is a member of the church) look at it.  There were two little bumps as well.  He said they were just little blood collections, and to take care of the leg.  (You know rest, elevation, heat, the things I hadn't done the last three days.)

Sunday was a kicked back day, and when I got home I spent the afternoon/evening with my leg up with heat on it.  Monday I got a ride to campus for my one class and spent the night at a friend's house.  More rest and more heat.  Tuesday I was on campus and went to classes but took it easy.  I did make it out to Wheaton for counseling on Tuesday night.  By now the little bumps were bigger.  Well one was still tiny, the other was about 2/3 of a quarter and had hardened considerably due to the heat that I had placed on it.  The solution?

Skip down to the next paragraph if you are squeamish.  I decided to pop and drain the suckers.  (The little one had already "sprung a leak.")  It left a nice open gap in my leg, but the pressure of the blood was now gone (leg didn't feel 100% yet, but I could walk on it if I needed to).

So Tuesday night I returned the car I had borrowed to get out to Wheaton to campus and walked home, (with a stop at a friend's house to catch up on Castle via Hulu).  Wednesday I walked down to campus to help a friend cram for our OT final the following day.

Walked home (by this time the wound is covered with band-aids and I can walk just fine, but standing is painful and/or makes the wound itchy), slept, woke up, got dressed, walked back to campus for the OT final.

So I had this plan.  I have never worn my hair really long before, so I spent the majority of this semester without getting a hair cut.  I wasn't a fan of the look and since summer is coming my plan was to go to the salon a block from school and get my hair cut nice and short right after my final on Thursday (last thing I had for the semester).

So I hobbled on over to the salon but it was closed.  I took that as a sign and went to the student health center to set up a doctor's appointment.

Took the bus over to the hospital at 2pm and by 4pm I had bandages, anti-biotics, and a appointment to come back in a week.

That was a long week.  I watched all of my DVDs including all of the special features.  (More rest and elevation for the leg).  The leg wasn't getting better.  On Tuesday I was actually concerned and thought about going in early to the doctor.  Wednesday morning there was finally clear and obvious healing visible on the wound.  Thursday I went into the doctor who cleaned the wound, recieved some more bandages and was sent home.  The leg was still a little swollen.

The leg seems to be normal sized now, the wound is still open, but it has decreased in size by half since Thursday and looks healthy.  You know as far as flesh wounds go.

So yeah that is May thus far.


--Serving Him alongside all of you, just from further away
 --Jesse Letourneau

He is Risen Indeed! (the week started out so well part 3)

A couple of days passed and I found myself in the upper room with what was left of the Twelve (Judas was gone and there were rumors he had hung himself). I don't know why we gathered. There was nothing left to do, but sit and hope that those in charge didn't want his followers as well.

Then the women burst into the room and began to talk about angels and stones, and how they had gone to put spices on the body, only the body wasn't there, and they didn't know how they were going to move the stone, but it didn't matter cause the stone was gone and there was an angel and...

I didn't catch most of what they were saying, they were pretty excited and it was hard to catch it all. Then Mary Magdalene said something I did understand. "Jesus is alive!"

I took off running toward the tomb. Peter was right behind me. I must admit that Peter is in better shape than I am and made it to the tomb first. He stopped at the entrance. I bolted past him and went straight in. There were the linens and the head cloth, but there was no Jesus! He was alive!

All of us who saw him after that (and there were more than you might think) all have our favorite story of meeting him. The two chaps from Emaus tell the tale of how they met Jesus on the road home, but didn't recognize him until after he left. Thomas tells his tale of disbelief and being invited to touch the wounds. My story is about the time he made us breakfast on the beach.

Those of us who fish were out in the boats. It was a horrible night. We weren't able to catch a single thing. We fished through the night and not a single fish came into our nets. At one point I think we kept fishing just cause it was personal. We weren't going to let the Sea win.

Sometime around dawn we heard a voice from the shore. "Caught anything yet?" When told him that we hadn't, the stranger told us to cast our nets on the other side of the boat. Confused, we were desperate enough to try anything. We cast our nets on the other side of the boat. We had to strain to pull the net it in it was so full of fish. At once we all recognized who it was that spoke to us from the shore. It was Jesus!

Of course I jumped from the boat and swam ashore. The guys still give me a hard time about that. Not so much that I jumped from the boat to get to Jesus sooner, but that I didn't stay in the boat to help them unload the catch.

We sat and talked and ate fish. Everything was back to normal. It was better than normal. As the meal wound down Jesus got up and began to walk down the beach. He asked John to walk with him.

As they were gone, the rest of us speculated as to what they could be talking about. We decided that it would be funny if Jesus was going to talk with each one of us and reveal our future and tell us how we were going die. John came back to the group just as we offered this hypothesis. "That isn't funny!" he said. Then he turned to me and said, "You're Next." I walked down the beach and caught up with Jesus.

"Peter, do you love me?"
"Of course I love you!" I was hurt that he would even ask.
"Then feed my sheep." I had completely forgotten about that night. I had forgotten that I had disowned him. Feed his sheep. Who I am to do such a thing? I stopped dead in my tracks.

"Do you love me?"
"You know that I do." I said without looking up.
"Then feed my sheep."

"Do you love me?" he asked a third time.

One for each denial.

What was he trying to accomplish here? "You know that I do."
"Then feed my sheep."

I said nothing. Eyes down, feet kicking at the sand. Jesus reached out and placed his finger under my chin.

He lifted my head.

Our eyes met.

Again the look in his eyes was unlike any I had ever witnessed before.

Compassion. Mercy. Justice. Love. Peace.


Forgiveness.

Restoration.

He had called me home. He had called me to feed his sheep. He had forgiven me and restored me. All without words. All with a simple look.

As we turned to walk back to the others I looked up at Jesus and asked him what he talked about with John. He put is arm around my shoulder and laughed.

"Don't worry about him." he chuckled. "Maybe he'll stick around for all eternity."

The week started out so well...Friday

Part One

After they took him from the garden, panic and confusion broke out. Those of us left standing there didn't know what to do. I decided to follow (from a safe distance of course).

Eventually we wound up at the palace of Pilate. I was able to make my way to the courtyard. I did my best to blend in, hoping to hear some snippet of news, some idea of what they were doing to him. Some idea of what we should do next.

It was cold that night as the sun began to set, and I soon found myself sitting around one of the many fires that was lit. Those gathered around me said nothing. The silence was unbearable. I began to make small talk, but all that I could think of was Jesus and what they had done to him. I tried to act nonchalant as I asked for any news of the prisoners that had been brought to the temple that night. I guess I wasn't too subtle.

Another man at the fire accused me of being a follower of that "Jesus character." I denied that I was. I tried to insist that I was simply in town for the Festival. Seeing that they weren't believing my story, I got up slowly and moved away.

"How could I do that?" I thought to myself. Moments ago I was willing to risk everything for him and now I was denying that I was his follower.

Moving to a new fire, I sat down. This time I was sure that I wouldn't have anything say. The time pasted and I was able to hold my tongue. then one of those gathered looked me dead in the eye and asked, "Didn't I see you come into the city with Jesus of Nazereth? Yeah I am sure of it. Are you one of his disciples?" I assured him that I wasn't. A little servant girl was standing behind us. She was sure that I was one of the disciples of Jesus, the one the crowds were calling the Christ. She too had seen me enter in the gates on Sunday. Besides she could tell by y accent that I was from Galilee.

I swore (in every sense of the word, I am ashamed to say) to her that I didn't know this Jesus that everyone seemed so interested in talking about. I didn't care about this teacher or his followers, I just came into the courtyard to get warm. As I rose to leave, I saw them bring him out and walk him across the yard.

Our eyes met. This was not a look that said, "you are missing the point" or "you have gone too far." This was something new. It wasn't sadness, and it wasn't quite disappointment, but it wasn't a look I care to ever see in his eyes again.

After that, I don't remember much of the rest of the night, or of the weekend really. I guess I was just numb. I heard that he had been crucified and was buried in a tomb near the hill where he died.

Died.

Dead.

Jesus was dead.

Gone.

Buried.

It was all over. No more denials, no more swords, no more dinners with cryptic talk about bread and blood. No more teachings. Or healings. Or travels. Or talks along the road. No more storms calmed, or fish with coins for the Temple Tax. No more walking on water. No more looks. It was all over.

The week had started out so well.

to fall into God's grace

To become like a child is to open ones' eyes again to the violence that surrounds us, but also to fall into the arm of God's grace, The God who experiences the violence that scars the earth and announces the final word of peace. --Jensen

Conclusion of sorts (aka cacophony of thoughts part 2/edge of epiphany part 2)

When we last left our hero he had graduated from college and moved to the big city.

Okay, I didn't really move to that big of a city. But I did have a kind of "if I can make it here I can make it anywhere" attitude. The original plan was to work as a classroom teacher for a couple of years while getting my credential and then be able to work anywhere in the US as an elementary teacher.

Eight years later...

I was still working as a substitute and barely able to make ends meet. Clearly, I wasn't cut out to be a classroom teacher. I was however made to be a Children's Pastor. This fact was evident to all but me.

But before we get there I wanna back up to my first few years at Grace.
Grace was a home for me. It was more than just a place to serve, it was more than just a place to go that wasn't my apartment or the occasional sub job. It is a place where I found family and security.

I remember one Easter where I joked that I had to leave my "adopted family" (the Derby/Harsh clan) to go to my real family for their Easter meal. Before I could leave Meredith insisted that she take pictures with me and her two girls. In some very real ways, I was adopted into that family. Greg served as a surrogate father and the girls were like my little sisters.

Times change, schedules change, rhythms change, and eventually the Harshs weren't as strong a part of my life as they had been. Somewhere along the way I bonded with the McMullens. I can't even begin to describe what that family has been to me.

Between this transition there came the failed experiment of my going to UC Irvine to get a teaching credential. There were some good times, there were some hard times, some lessons learned the easy way, and some lessons learned the hard way. Ultimately, it wasn't what God had for me. Some of the failure came at my own procrastination, some came through challenges that were beyond my control.

Ultimately, I didn't pass my classes at Irvine because I didn't do all the work. Instead I spent, my time serving in the Children's Ministry at Grace.

I still remember when, after that lunch with Scott Peterson and the bus ride from the airport a few weeks later, that it finally clicked, and I knew what I was suppose to do. I was so excited to tell family and friends of my revelation. I was met with a lot of, "We already knew that." and "It's about time you figured it out." (all said in the most loving way possible.)

When I told my mom her response was, "Of course you are suppose to be in a church and not a classroom. Why didn't you pass the classes at Irvine?"

I was always a Children's Pastor, I just didn't know it.

During these years there were those who knew my story (again mostly those who worked closely with me in ministry). But it wasn't my identity anymore.

At least not to the outside world. Inside though-as I look back, I certainly didn't see it at the time-their was that sliver of need. need to be a kid. need to be a dad. need to be loved.

need to know the stories were real.

More than that, what was inside of me during these years was the belief that I wasn't good enough. There was no way I could be called into ministry, because I am no example, no model, I am too broken to fix others.

Then came John Coe. Or at least tapes of John Coe listen to and discussed in an intimate Bible Study made up of two couples (one of which were the Young Adult Pastor and his wife) and myself. Tapes of John Coe describing the dark night of the soul and what that means. Tapes of John Coe listened to and discussed in a group that had dinner parties around getting me to fill out applications and start to move forward. Tapes listened to and discussed with a group that made me cookie monster cakes and went to see Les Mis at the Hollywood Bowl.

A group that cared. Not about my mission, my calling, and certainly not about my failures. But cared about me.

Then God called me to camp.

The first part of this blog centered around the death of my father and how that impacted my identity. It started as very external thing, and slowly moved inward. By this point (circa 2008) it was moved in so deeply that even I hardly notice it.

At camp even fewer knew about my dad. Funny thing was though, they accepted me none the less. They didn't pitty me or need to support me cause I was broken, they just accepted me. Same thing happened at the church I went to. In fact during my time at ARCG/RCC I can only think of two times I told the story of my dad from start to finish (and one of those was in South Africa.)

Then I got involved in the Children's Ministry at RCC, which lead me to North Park.

Something was said to me last semester that is one of the most encouraging things and one of the most frightening things that has ever been said to me. It is encouraging because it shows the strength and healing God has already done in my life. It is frightening because it shows that my course, my path, my story was not inevitable. I had always assumed that my life with all its ups and downs just naturally led me to the place I am now.

We were sharing in small group setting about how we address God in our prayers. The group knew my story from previous conversations. I began with the statement, "I usually begin my prayers with 'Father God' which isn't really a surprise given my story." One of the response to me was, "I don't think that the way you address God is a given, given your story. I think there are several other ways you could understand God through all of that."

It was another reminder that I have been called out. Set aside, made special, made especially for the work of telling children THE story.

So here I sit. On the edge of epiphany. Here I sit ready to go back and expose the wounds, so that they may be cleaned and healed. I am not completely sure when and how this will all happen. But I am trusting God to equip the one he has called.

--Serving Him alongside all of you, just from further away
--Jesse Letourneau

the week started out so well

The week started out so well.

We had all come into Jerusalem to celebrate the Feast of Unleavened Bread. Our rabbi told us to go to a certain man and borrow his donkey. We walked into the city and the people came out of nowhere! They began shouting and singing and waving palm branches. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. …I’m sorry. How rude of me, my name is Peter and I was one of the disciples of Jesus.

You haven’t heard about Jesus? You must be new to these parts. Let me tell you all about him.

Like I said the week started out to be wonderful. We walked behind Jesus as he rode in on the donkey. The people were singing and shouting and were so happy to see him. I learned from Jesus for almost three years now, I have never seen anyone respond to him the way the people did. No one threw him a parade when he healed the lame and blind. No one cheered when he touched the lepers or ate with tax collectors. And they certainly didn’t lay down palm branches and coats along his path when he told the crowds that following him was to follow Yahweh, and that following would be hard. In fact many left him when he did that. But I stuck around. I would never betray Jesus. Well that isn’t completely true…

So the week went pretty normal from that point on. Well normal when you spend time with Jesus. He spent a lot of time teaching. Saying things that I wasn’t really sure what they meant. But so much of what Jesus said didn’t always make since to me.

But it was the night we had our Seder Meal where things got really confusing. We were all around the table. The meal is about to begin, and Jesus stands up and goes to a corner of the room. He grabs a bowl and a towel. Then takes off his outer cloak and fills the bowl with water. He returns to the table and without a word begins to wash our feet! Our Rabbi was washing our feet! The man who only days before had been welcomed into the city with singing and celebration, was now dressed in a towel and washing our gross smell disgusting feet! The one who I thought was the one. The one we had been waiting for. The one promised to his people by The LORD was now on his hands and knees like a common lowly servant. I sat in awe as he made his way around the table.

I decided I was going to have no part in this tomfoolery. I was going to have no part in this ridiculous behavior! Wash my feet! I don’t think so! And I told him sold! No way my Lord! There is no way you are touching these gross feet of mine, that is beneath you.

Then Jesus looked me straight in the eye. There was a little smirk at the corner of his mouth. It is the same look he always gave me when I was close to what he wanted to teach us, but not really getting the point. It was the look that I knew meant, I love your enthusiasm Peter, but you are missing the point. It was his look that told me to Stop. Wait. Listen to what I am about to say.

“Unless I wash your feet then you have no part of me.” That is what Jesus said to me. Well if washing the feet is good then washing the head and the hands must be even better. No one loved Jesus more than I did. No one understood me like he did. And I understood him better than anyone else. “Wash my head and my hands as well then!” “You are already clean, you need only have your feet washed.”

From there the meal was pretty normal. That is until the end of the meal. As we were finishing the Seder meal, Jesus took some of the bread and said, “This is my body broken for you.” I will be honest here; I thought that was a really odd thing to say.

Jesus took the cup and said, “This is my blood shed for you.” No it isn’t I can see it from here, its wine. (Really good wine too, but not as good as the wine we had at Canaan that one time).

I really truly didn’t understand what Jesus was trying to say. Why was he using bread and wine to describe a broken body and spilled blood? Then it dawned on me….All last week he kept saying things about going away, and rebuilding temples. Did Jesus plan to die?

We left the upper room where had had our meal and walked outside the city to a hill known as the Mount of Olives. There is a garden there that Jesus loved. He took us all there, but told the others to stay as he went on. He brought James and John along with myself a little further into the garden. (By the way, John always claimed that he was Jesus’ favorite, but I know it was me, and I was ready to prove it.)

Jesus went further in and prayed. He told us to watch and pray. We all fell asleep. It was really late. When I woke up, Jesus walked by us, mentioned something about our inability to stay awake for even a little while and said that the time was soon.

When we came back to where the others were I could see torches being carried in the distance. As they got closer I could see that it was Judas (he had left earlier) along with some of the religious leaders and small group of Roman soldiers. I don’t know what Judas thought he was trying to prove with this little stunt, but I had come prepared. I was packin.

I drew out my sword and swung it at one of the Roman guards. He moved, but I still sliced off his ear. No one was going to take my Jesus away from me.

Then Jesus bent down, grabbed the man’s ear, placed it back on his head, and the ear was healed. Reattached and working just fine. I was confused. And hurt. Jesus didn’t seem to be impressed by my courage or my swordsmanship. He gave me a different look. One I had seen many times before. It was the look Jesus gave me when I had gone too far. He didn’t need his words to tell me it was time to put away the sword. Then Jesus did the one thing that made absolutely no sense in that whole confusing night. He walked away with the leaders, the soliders, and that traitorous little snake Judas. He went with them. He let them arrest him!

The week started out so well.

cacophany of thoughts part 1

I haven't written on here in awhile. And I certainly haven't written as much as I should.

The move to Chicago was big and scary. I wrote some post on here then, and wrote a ton for my own journal. Then I adjusted and there didn't seem to be much to write about. Then my school load became real and there didn't seem time to write.

Yet so much has happened, and is happening, but I don't know that I have the words.

To encapsulate, to sum up, to get to a point--these all seem like the goal, and they all seem impossible.

New ideas form, new experiences form.
Building on each other, influencing each other, contradicting one another.

I wake up each morning and look at myself in the mirror. Each morning I see someone new. Sometimes there is confidence behind the eyes, sometimes there is fear.
Other days my reflection echos back a man full of doubt.
Then of course there are the days when it is clear I simply need to go back to bed for ten minutes.

I look at my schoolwork
The grades. The tests. The effort.
Somedays the work isn't so hard and I know that I belong in this world.
Other times I feel like a slacker and fool.
Then there are the days where I don't care about the theory and simply want to tell the story.

The story of God. Of his care, of his Love of his Son.
I want to tell my story. My story about God. His care for me, his love for me, his love for his son.

I want to tell this story to children. I want them to know and not to doubt. I want them to know that God is with them today and tomorrow.

I want them to know that God is with them when they grow old like me.

When they look in the mirror and see fear staring back.

To know that he is there on the days they feel like a fool.

and I wonder....

I wonder do I want to teach these things so that they will believe?

or so that I will believe?

I know God is there. But do I trust that God is here?

I know that God loves me, but do I live as though I am forgiven?

Now this isn't a crisis of faith or even of calling. Deep down in my bones
in my marrow
in my soul

I KNOW that I am called, that I am made to teach Children the story of God. There is nothing I would rather do, there is nothing that I am better at.

But I know that some piece is for me. Some sliver of my efforts, some sliver of my desire and motivation is to make me feel better.
And I wonder.

I wonder if it is to make me feel better now

or make me feel better about what happened in my past.

My father died when I was 12. Most of you already know this.

When I was 13 everyone at my school (the school I had been at since Kindergarten, the school where my mother taught) knew who I was and what happened the year before. I was Jesse, whose father just died. This new title that I now wore was often said in hushed tones, least I overheard. As if I didn't know, as if I had forgotten, as if I could forget.

I moved to high school but stayed in the same private school. The distance of time and the expectation of who I was becoming (an adult) caused the title to slowly drift away. or rather behind. it was still there, it simply wasn't the first thing you knew about me. It wasn't my title, it was slowly becoming my past.

College-the time where you can reinvent yourself. The time where the past is the past and you are free to find who you want to be. I wanted to be just Jesse. I wanted to not be the kid whose father died. For one I was no longer a kid. For two I wanted people to see all the other things that I was.

Granted there are those who shared my life, shared the stories of my past and knew that my father had died. Certainly anyone who did ministry with me knew the story. The event had become a story.

No longer a title pinned to my chest, or rope drug behind me. It was now mine. I could take it out and put it away when I wanted to. It informed me of the pain of childhood and drove me to do what I could to make other children's stories better. There was only one way I knew how to do that then (there is only one way I know now).

Tell them THE story. The one of God and his love.

I graduated college and headed toward being a classroom teacher. Over 12 years, with a stop over at camp, God directed me to Children's Ministry. We'll pick up there next time.


--Serving Him alongside all of you, just from further away
--Jesse Letourneau