The Friends You Take with You

I moved a lot.
Like three jobs in the last three years a lot.
Like living in four states in the last five years a lot.
Like I have down sized more times than Marie Kondo a lot.
Like even then, I haven't completely unpacked in over a decade a lot.

There are places and people that I love dearly spread across this country. Some of those people are still in the cities where we met, others have gone off on their own adventures having moved since our paths first crossed.

And the reality is, no matter how deep the connection or how many suitcases you own, not everything, not everyone can come with you when you move.

So, instead things come to be reminders of the places you once lived. Physical items become totems of the people who were once near.

Chicago 2011
Bob, Mooby, and Cookie get displayed even before I have any furniture

Over the years, I have accrued a handful of these totems. And they all fit into a single box. A single box that is always made accessible whether the rest of my things are in storage or not. A single box that is always unpacked and its items displayed regardless of where I am.

While it may appear that this box is nothing more than a box of toys, each item carries significance for me.

In the photo on the right, the anthropomorphic tomato, Bob (far left), is progenitor of this tradition of hanging onto items that take on a greater meaning. Bob and I first met in college. Bob survived a mission trip in 1998 to Australia. He beyond being rescued from the more curious among our team, carries with him not just the memories of that trip, but the memories of my four years of college. He holds not only the memories of dorm rooms, study sessions, bad cafeteria food, finals weeks and missions trips, but the memory of everyone I met, everyone who broke my heart, and everyone who loved me in spite of my flaws for those four years in Redding, CA.

Copperopolis 2017
More shelves lead to more of the box unpacked

After college, I spent nine years living in Southern California. It was then I met Mooby. Mooby is the cow (really a golden calf) on Bob's left in the pic above, and on Bob's right in the pic below. Mooby represents a unique group of friends unlike any I have had before. It was becoming a part of this group that allowed me to attend private screenings of small documentaries, wide release studio films, and private indy films that never sought distribution. It is the reason I have the autograph of Johnny Depp's daughter and once had to help a Hollywood director shoo a group of drunk fans out of his bedroom. But it isn't these memories that ensure Mooby a place on the shelf. Rather, it is the friends who saw past my own doubts and insecurities and made me feel welcomed and accepted without having to change anything about myself.

Gainesville 2019
Albert joins Bob, Larry, and Mooby
(apologies to Pastor Beth)

Each of these plush toys and souvenirs that have accumulated over the years represent not only the people and places where they come from, they have come to represent parts of myself. My past and my present. My joys and failures, my pain and my victories. Little slices of my story that add up to where I am today. Parts of my identity reflected in the people and places that shaped them.

Most all of them were gifts, and most came about toward the end or ever after the experiences whose memories they hold. Today, I added a new "friend" to the shelf.

This new friend, Albert (the green one wearing the tee) is different. Albert is on the shelf not just as a totem for what has been, but as a totem for what can be. He represents not only this last year in Gainesville, but my future here. Albert represents the piece of myself that has found a home here in Gainesville.

Albert holds the hope and the faith this place will have many more memories to come.





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

Feb 10th

February 10th has been a date of significance for me the last few years.

In 2016, my world was shaken. In 2018, a muppet hued sunset gave me assurance.

I have already written about the journey I have traveled the last decade, and how my hope is that FUMC is my last stop.

The last two years, February 10th has been a date where I take a moment to stop and take stock of where I am. This year, I didn't even realize it was the 10th until I logged into Facebook and checked my Memories for that day.

I am beginning to focus not what could have been, rather, I am looking at what is. Instead of obsessing about what I have learned and how to use it, I am simply using those lessons in this new setting, and in this new calling.

This year the significance is that the date held no significance. No major revelations. No major moments of clarity.

And maybe that is a good thing.

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

The Curated Life

It is often noted that what we see on social media isn’t reality: that each of us is putting on a brave face and presenting a false narrative of positivity.

It is true that social media is full of filters (and not simply the ones we use for our photos).  We filter our thoughts and our emotions on social media.

Social Media is a public place. I do my very best to treat it as such. What you see on my Facebook page is (or at least should be) what I would be comfortable shouting from a street corner. The local passerby may not care I am excited about the latest sci-fi offering on Amazon or that I got to hang out with preschoolers and talk about Jesus with a lion puppet (by the way, I am pretty sure they know the script/routine better than I do now), but I wouldn't be embarrassed for the hypothetical passer-by to know that.

But those filters are not there so that you all will think I am a good person or that I have it all together. I do that for myself. I do my very best to create a place where I can look back and see the good things that I do have. I can look and see the opportunities that I have been given.

It is easy for me to feel lonely. To feel forgotten. To feel useless and unable. I think it easy for all of us to feel that way. Facebook is one of the places I can look to remind myself that none of those things are true.

Back in my day we had physical photo albums and those were full of pictures of birthdays, vacations, and candid holiday snaps. Seldom if ever, did my mom whip out a camera to take pics to show off our bumps and bruises, our tantrums, or when the house looked like a family of four lived there.

Back in my day Facebook was called photo albums.

Photo albums are curated. They are carefully chosen to present a particular story.

The most intentional way I curate my online presence is through my (not so perfect) daily picture photo albums.  Just under five years ago, I began a project to catalogue one thing from my day. One part of my routine, one place I went, one thing I saw, one thing that marked the day.  One thing to remind me that when I feel isolated or limited or even just stuck that the total picture of my day, week, month, year is larger than what I can see in those moments. These albums balance somewhere between a journal, spiritual exercise, art project, and time capsule.

Those that follow this blog will know that there have been some rough times, and more transitions than I really care to count in the last few years.  However, just because something ends, doesn’t mean the good times of the past didn’t happen. Certainly our present colors our past, but it shouldn’t completely rewrite it.

My pictures don’t always reflect the fondest of memories. Amidst the board games in Chicago, the Middle School Concerts in Florida, and the blue purple-ish sunsets in California are photos marking auto collisions, hospital visits (unrelated), and braces for busted elbows.

As noted above, these photo albums are put together for me to look back upon. However, I am grateful for all of you have come along with me on this journey. 

Nine years ago, I started this blog when I moved away from my home and my friends in Southern California. It was a simple way to keep those who I served with, those I loved, and those who loved me included in what I was doing.

Today, this blog serves to help keep in touch with those I have served and loved, and those who have loved me along my travels.

From Long Beach to Occidental, to Chicago, to Houston, to Copperopolis, back to Long Beach, and now out in Gainseville. I am privileged to be able to continue to curate memories and then be able to share them all with you.

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

Deadites, D-Day, and Departures part 3

When I started this series of posts. It was intended to be just one post.

As I began to share about my All Saints Day (part 1), it quickly became evident that the follow up on Caroll Spinney was going to be its own post (part 2 naturally).  The day I posted part 2, there was another notable departure.

Stan Lee left the mortal coil on November 12, 2018.

Since then, there has already been plenty shared about his contributions to the field of comic books. Personally, my exposure to his impact was felt second hand. My introduction to Stan Lee came not through the books he wrote, rather it came through "Stan's Soapbox".

Stan's Soapbox was a column written by Lee that ran in every book published by Marvel. So no matter which book you picked up that month, you were guaranteed to get a dose of Mr. Lee. The Soapbox was part advertisement, part life advice, and part behind the curtain peek at the inner workings of the Marvel office. But it was so much more than that.

The Soapbox was the front door into the world of Marvel Comics. The Soapbox was the way in. It was where the inside jokes and announcements of upcoming projects were found. It was the place where the reader went from passive observer to an active participant. The amazing thing is that this was all done with plain text. 

There were the more interactive ways to participate in Marvel. There were letter pages and the fan clubs, and of course the famous "No Prize" (just an empty envelope sent to a reader who sent in an explanation for an apparent mistake). And while these things created actual interaction and sometimes meaningful dialogue, I never delved that deeply. (I do remember sending a letter to the editors of Captain America once, but I wasn't picked for publication.)

Despite my lack of formal interaction, I always felt the comics with the Marvel logo were more than just stories. They became more than stories tucked away in plastic bags and cardboard boxes. Through Stan's Soapbox, I came to see myself as a part of something bigger than just me.

Through those Soapboxes, Stan reached through the page and spoke directly to the reader. Addressing the reader directly, allowing us access to the process of creation, and treating the stories as seriously as we did were the tools found up Stan's sleeve that allowed him to turn a simple column into the gateway for a larger world. A larger world not just of tights and capes, but a world where everyone was welcomed.

The greatest trick, and really his greatest gift, was Stan's ability to create a sense of identity in those columns. We were not mere "readers", no in Stan's world we were all "True Believers". Stan didn't simply sign his name at the end of column, rather he signed off with the now oft-repeated, "Excelsior!". 

Stan created a world where all you had to do to belong was to show up.

My introduction to Stan was not through the comics he created, rather it was through his continual support and praise of the works that followed him. For many who have never picked up a comic the same is true. Stan is known to many through his cameo appearances on film and television. In what might be described as the third wave of his career, Stan continued to find ways to support and praise the stories told with the characters that he helped create.

Like Carroll Spinney, Stan lived long enough to see his characters passed onto other creators. He lived long enough to see them recognized by fans born long after the characters were created.

Yet, Stan was much more than the co-creator of much of Marvel Comics. He was more than an ambassador for the MCU. Anyone who has seen Stan in an interview knows that his enthusiasm extended far beyond comics. Stan was an ambassador of kindness, sacrifice, and optimism.

So all that is left to say is simply, Godspeed and of course “Excelsior!”

Jason Lee and Stan Lee (no relation) in Stan's greatest cameo

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

Deadties, D-Day and Departures (Part Two) aka Follow that Bird

Last time we spoke of Deadites, D-Day, and duality (more or less). Today, I want to carry on that theme of duality as we look at two departures from the world of Sesame Street. The first is Big Bird. Big Bird reflects unbridled curiosity, unfettered optimism, and unquestioned loyalty. The second departure is Oscar the Grouch. Reveling in the discomfort of others and interested only in being left alone, Oscar may just be the anti-thesis of Big Bird. The man who has performed Big Bird for fifty years is retiring. And at the same time the performer who brought Oscar the Grouch to life these last fifty years is also retiring.

As you may know (or even may have learned if you watched the video above), the performer of Big Bird and of Oscar is one and the same. Caroll Spinney is finally stepping down from his dual role on the Street. Thankfully Matt Vogel will carry on as Big Bird and Eric Jacobson will perform Oscar.

I am truly excited by this news. Not because I wish to see Caroll leave behind these characters, but because the characters he played are being handed down thoughtfully and intentionally. Too often in the world of a Muppet fan the news of recasting is due to the death of a performer or a messy firing. Even in cases where the characters were being shared before the loss of the original performer, death still seems to mark the passing of generations within the world of Muppets. But not this time. This time we can celebrate the work that has been done with the celebrant joining in the festivities.

Serving God along side all of you, 

Just from further away

Jesse Letourneau

Deadites, D-Day, and Departures (Part One) aka A Romans 12:15 Kinda Day

Those of you who read my facebook wall, may have seen the occasional “a Romans 12:15 kinda day” posts. The idea behind those comes from the Bible verse Romans 12:15: “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.” This verse has been a part of how I approach life and ministry for a number of years now.

At first, it was simply an admonishment to be present with those who are near. If they are grieving, it is right that we grieve with them. If they are celebrating, it is right that we celebrate with them. Then I saw those ancient words as permission to both rejoice and weep. If someone has sorrow, I can enter their sorrow. If someone else has joy, I can enter their joy and not belittle or betray the sorrow of the other. Both are possible to hold.

This is where the idea of a Romans 12:15 kinda day came from. It is a day where social media, ministry, or life itself brings me moments of great sorrow and of great joy. I am always privileged to enter into those spaces and grateful for the opportunity to reflect on the complexity of our time here. The Romans 12:15 days that get posted are the ones that are easy to define. A day with preschool chapel and a funeral, a day of floods and fires contrasted with weddings and graduations, a day of funeral and a high school play. Funerals tend to remind me of Romans 12:15.

Because funerals are more than just a day of simple grieving. They add to how I understand what it means to rejoice and to weep with those who do the same. In a funeral service there is joy, there is hope. It is not just a day of the past, but one of the future as well. And while certainly each funeral has these pieces in differing percentages, I recently attended a funeral that masterfully carried the balance of these things.

The funeral was for a man I never had the privilege of meeting. His name is Donald Rothwell. He was on the beaches of Normandy. That isn’t the most interesting thing about him, but I needed to mention it to tie it into the title. Don was a man by all accounts who brought joy with him into every space he encountered. He taught, he volunteered, he loved well, he was a tea teetotaler, and the north star to an amazing family. He served in the church where I now serve for nearly twice as long as I have been alive. When we remember a long life, lived well, it is easier to see lost as bitter sweet; as a time of weeping and rejoicing; as a Romans 12:15 kinda day.

That evening I found myself in high school auditorium anticipating a musical based on the Evil Dead films. If you are not familiar with the Evil Dead franchise the short version is this: five high school students go to a remote cabin in the woods where cultist, trees, and zombies (aka the Evil Dead aka Deadites (again see title) attack. Then of course hilarity ensues. At least in the musical version.

That evening was absolutely a celebration of the hard work of the cast and crew as well as celebration of unbridled silliness. It was also a celebration of the macabre. Laughing in the face of death is another way to rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep. In the play no one really dies, they come back as the aforementioned Evil Dead. While the majority of the cast end the play covered in blood, it is stage blood. The audience is in on the joke. We know this all done tongue in cheek. Death has lost both its power and its sting.

That day I attended two services, heard two stories. One was a formal service with the story of Don Rothwell told by those whose lives he impacted. The other was an informal service dressed as a high school play where the story included a singing moose. A mixture of tears and laughter, grief and joy, celebration and remembrance. Certainly in different percentages, but there none the less.

A Romans 12:15 kinda day.

--Serving God alongside all of you, just from further away

--Jesse Letourneau

Me, "Linda", her mom, and a family friend

Roots

Journey, Packing, Unpacking, Quests, Beginnings, Endings, even a Thai String Ceremony or two. I have gone through quite a few metaphors to try and describe the journey I have been on the last nine and a half years. At each stop I learned. At each stop I grew. At each stop there was a time to move on. Some I was ready for, while others took me by surprise.

Last time I wrote about being in between. What I have come to realize is that I am also on the verge of. I am on the verge of staying in one place. I am on the verge of putting down roots.

At my interview with First United Methodist, they asked about my resume. They asked why I hadn't stayed in any one place for very long. It is a fair question. Seven Churches in nine and a half years is great experience, but it makes one wonder if that person has plans to stick around. I described the reason that each stop had come to an end. I let them know that I have always planned to stick around. Yet somehow each place simply didn't have a place to stick. Some places, like seminary, were designed to be liminal. Other places simply weren't the place where I was meant to land. And so they asked if I were to be given the job if I would want to stay.

I want to stay. I want to lay down roots.

The Bible says that since we don't control tomorrow, we are not to declare what tomorrow will hold. But, we are allowed to dream. to desire. We are allowed to want to stay in one place. We are allowed to want our roots to run deep.

Now, don't misunderstand me. I love that my roots run wide. I cherish each person, each memory, each lesson. But my dream, my desire is to stay in one place. To grow roots that run deep.

All of this moving means that I don't own any furniture (who wants to move a couch that many times), and that many of the physical items that hold memories for me have been tucked away in boxes, some for years at a time.

One of these items is a simple metal toy car. This car sat on father's desk. I don't know where he got the car or if it had any significance for him. When he died, it was one of the totems that I took for my own. It has lived on shelves and been tucked away in plastic tubs. It has traveled with me not just these last nine and half years, but has journeyed with me the last twenty-eight years.

Tubs and timing have kept it from being on my desk. That is until now.

Today it sits on my desk.

Placing that small car on my desk at First United Methodist is a small gesture. Yet, that small gesture has, for me, great significance. It states that here is where I wish to stay. It is here I wish for my roots to grow deep.

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