The Noble Beast

Loomis 

~ 2006/7-2019 ~

We said farewell to our dog last month.  As I reflected on who Loomis was, I remembered a friend referring to him as the "noble beast."  He truly was.  I may add to this poetic story of Loo's life later on, but for now, here's how I'm remembering our four-legged friend.

No king was e'er as regal
No lion e'er as brave
No breeze e'er as gentle*
As the noblest of beast who at rest is laid.

*Unless, you were a cat.

poem by Katherine Chullino

02/15/19

'Tis A Gift

Mark 12:41-44 NRSV
41 He sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. 42 A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. 43 Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. 44 For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”

The church is rich.

Overwhelmingly, abundantly, resoundingly wealthy.

I know this because, yesterday, in worship, we gave an offering.  We do this thing every week where a couple kids and older guys jump up, grab some plates and pass them around the congregation.  Every week, those plates come back filled with little white envelopes.  Sometimes, there's some change and dollar bills in there, too.  Sometimes, those offerings pay the bills, sometimes they don't.  Sometimes those offerings are for the church, sometimes they're not.  Sometimes those offerings come from hard-earned wages, sometimes they come from well-invested stocks, sometimes they even come from the heart.

Yesterday, there was a particularly thrilling offering.  When our seven-year-old acolyte came forward with the stack of offering plates, the only thing wider than her eyes was the grin on her face. She loud-whispered to me, "Look!" raised her eyebrows, dropped her jaw, and pointed at a gift on the top of the plate--a $50 bill!

$50 is a lot of cash when you're seven-years-old.  And when you're seven-years-old and your mom is on church council and you're in church for every worship and every meeting, you learn that your church is often short on cash.

Acknowledging her excitement, I gave her a thumbs up and smiled, whispering back, "That's awesome!"  And I laughed throughout the offering prayer because the offering was so, simply, joyful.

The situation plays in my mind with joy and awe.  This kid didn't care that the money wasn't hers.  She didn't even have a mite of her own.  She didn't even know who gave this gift.  But she saw the gift--what was, to her, a great gift--and she pointed it out.  For her, this gift was good news, and she shared it.

This kid reminds me of the story of the widow giving her last penny. She reminds me of the old Shaker hymn, "'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free."  I am reminded that we are free.  Free to be this thankful, gracious, and joyful.

What if we lived as free as that seven-year-old?

What if we were so awed by and thankful for every gift?  What if we so happily shared other people's gifts everytime we saw them?

Uncle Onionhead

I have two distinct memories of  my Uncle Dale. The first was deciding that he was going to be my Uncle Onionhead. The second is a much more serious conversation which happened when I was in high school when he stopped by on his Harley one evening.  Uncle Onionhead was talking about making mistakes and he told me, “You kids can learn from our mistakes, maybe you can, I hope you can.”  Uncle Onionhead died on February 22, 2016.  Being 805 miles away, I wish I could have read this with my family, but thank you to my cousin, Chris, for reading the "family only" version of this poem during his memorial:

               

Here we are at long last,

            You and me and this epitaph.

“‘Tis too soon,” some will say.

            “Lord bless him and keep him,” others will pray.

But, worry no more and have no regrets.

            My life was so full – never forget:

I’ve made mistakes, I’ve hated and loved,

            I’ve given in and I’ve even given up,

I’ve lost hope and found hope and I’ll always hope for you

            to learn from my past and remember me when you do.

Remember when you see a silly Mickey Mouse

            and when you hear a Harley rumble past the house,

How I want for you to laugh with me

and to know, to feel, what it is to be free.

When a hundred other things remind you that I’ve passed on,

Know that I’m at rest, at peace, where I belong.     

Love,

Your father, son, husband, and friend,

            your brother, your grandpa, and Uncle Onionhead.

poem and blog by Katherine J. Chullino

February 2016

To the billionth person who asks me "that question"

Weekly, my husband and/or I are dragged into a conversation that goes like this. Sometimes it happens after being seen playing with or talking to a child at church or in our family. Sometimes, it’s from someone just standing in my office doorway while I should be writing a sermon.

“When are you going to have a kid of your own?”

Never. It’s irresponsible for me to bring another life into the world right now…and maybe ever. “Um, someday, maybe, we’ll adopt a child.”

“There’s never a good time, you know.”

No. But, especially not when you’re drowning in $200,000 of student loans, a $1700 rental payment, a $400 car payment, your vehicle doesn’t run right now, you are both on-call 24/7 and work 50+ hours a week, you have precisely four weekends a year in which you might be able to take short trip or attend a tournament or contest for school. We hardly have time enough to even make a child! Why are you so interested in my sexual habits and life. It’s NUNYA BIZNESS! Oh, yes, I ought to respond. “It’s complicated. Now is not the time.”

“Well, don’t wait until it’s too late.”

Too late? There will be a shortage of children whose parents cannot care for them in the future who cannot be fostered or adopted? IF that’s the case, you—who last week called me too young for my job—think my ovaries are older than I am? “Oh, would you look at the time, I have a meeting! See you Sunday!”

          I have an innate need to justify things. My mind is always explaining why a situation happens or why I choose what I choose. It’s just how my mind works. It makes for some creative stories. But, my answer to this particular question is one I rarely justify to anyone except closest family and friends. When these situations happen, I try to not explain myself, because I should not have to, but also because I’m afraid I’m going to just be a major asshole to the offender...and that’s not pastoral. Prophetic? Maybe. Effective in teaching or making a point? Sure. But, not pastoral. 

As I share this with you, please understand these are givens in my mind, these are realities:

1.    My reasons for not bearing children are not everyone’s reasons for not bearing children.

2.    Though I believe that adoption is the best stewardship of God’s creation, it may not be the right option, or even an option, for you or someone else.

3.    Child-bearing isn’t bad. It’s a part of creation and I’m pretty glad my own parents and my husband’s parents opted for it.

Those realities stated, I feel offended, disrespected, and devalued for all that I actually am and want to be when I’m asked about when I’m going to have “one of my own.”  And, here’s why…

First, I don’t understand any child to be “my own.” As a pastor I hear, read, and preach that nothing belongs to us. Everything is created by God and belongs to God. We are that creation and stewards of that creation—plants, animals, earth, waters, and people. Even more, in baptism we celebrate the Spirit which descended on Jesus and for us all calling us each God’s beloved. I will never have “one of my own.” I will always be deeply intertwined with God’s creation. Every person will always be my brother or sister by creation and in Christ. Theology tells me that living with or for another person isn’t about ownership, it’s a relationship.

Secondly, do you think that I might not want to bear a child? I know, I’m a woman—breasts, hips, PMS, and all—but, I’m also a daughter, wife, sister, auntie, and pastor. I have many other commitments and desires for my life. I also have asthma, a heart that sometimes beats funky, a perpetual kink in my neck, and wicked high cholesterol. That stuff already prevents me from doing things which renew my spirit like hiking, climbing, snowboarding, and even pottery. Can you imagine what a big belly and swollen feet would add to that? Not much renewal for this weary pastor which would mean some really tough days reigning in resentment to be the family-member and worker I already am. Plus, I already eat like a 14-year-old boy. I can’t afford to eat for another person, too. My point: I don’t want to be pregnant—not now, maybe not ever.

Moreover, I feel that it is irresponsible for me to bring another child into this world while I’m surrounded by so many of God’s beloved children who wait and long for family in the foster- and adoption-care systems. These are children who deserve love. Who should not be adopted because a person or couple can’t have one of their own. Who should be adopted into a family because they deserve love and life and because a person or family has that to share. In my mind, these are children—people­—not the crumbs at the bottom of the Pringles can that you scrounge up because there are no whole chips left.  (No offense to chip crumb eaters...I devour those crumbs as if I'll never eat another chip again! Also, there are many people who cannot physically bear children who raise them beautifully and wonderfully never allowing their child to think s/he's second-best, and thanks be to God for you!)

Sometimes another question pops up, when I actually engage in conversation about becoming a parent, “Don’t you want to leave a piece of you, someone to look like you?” The answer is, NO! I don’t need a person to look like me—though, they’d be pretty lucky to—in order to love them. I don’t need my DNA to be in another person to leave a mark on the world. And, I don’t think it’s my call to leave my mark on the world so much as it is my call to share the gospel with the world.

That’s all evidenced by the fact that I work with a congregation of people who look very little like me. And, I love them, or I wouldn’t be there because being a pastor ain’t easy. I’ve gathered my share of that $200,000 debt to be with them, I’ve rented a small house in an expensive metro-area in order to serve with them in their community, and I have stayed with them because I believe all of God’s children deserve love and life. Not just those who are cute and cuddly and look like me.

So, why don’t my husband and I just adopt a kid now? That debt. The entirety of my paycheck goes toward student loans. And the majority of those payments goes to the interest on student loans, so those are going to be around for awhile. My husband and I work crazy hours to pay back those loans. And because we are called to life in community, too. We work because we have gifts to help particular organizations and people and, by God, we think it’s important to do that. Crazy, right? We also have professional goals and dreams. We see these gifts taking us to other callings, in other places.  And, I believe that God’s love for us does not culminate in our being parents. I think we’re a pretty great family together, the two of us. We love each other. We even like each other most days! 

That God called the two of us together is a blessing. This story is mine and he is part of it and I wouldn’t be writing this if we weren’t on the same page in this book of life.  Frankly, we wouldn’t be husband and wife if we weren’t on the same page.  We probably have some different ways of talking about our desire to someday be parents or not be parents. We probably have some similar and some different feelings about these discussions in which people prod into our personal life. And, if the goalie broke and a leg we had an “oops,” then, you know, I guess there would be a new person in the world to love and we’d figure it out. But that’s still none of your business unless we choose to share it.

That’s my personal story. That’s why I do not want a baby to be in me or to come out of me! For someone to assume that I do, to expect me to want that, to tell me that I should want that is hurtful. It denies my personhood. It denies the things that God has created me to be and do!  Bearing a child may be or may have been what you are created for and I celebrate that. I give thanks to God for that! It’s amazing, for real! But, I’m not you and I’m not your wife. You are not my husband and you are not his wife. So, yeah, not your business. Now, if you wanna talk about scripture, about theology, about how to love our neighbors, let’s have that discussion instead.

I was born...

Tomorrow is my birthday.  I'll be 29.  I've had lots of good birthdays, many parties with pizza and friends, many sweet gifts from my parents, husband, and family. 

But, the birthday I remember most was my fourth (at least, I think it was my fourth...that was a long time ago).

My mom and dad were travelling for a few days to another city where my dad was having some health tests.  My younger sister and I were spending that time with Grandma Amy and Grandpa Herb.  Grandma Amy felt bad for me because Mom and Dad were missing my birthday.  She knew a little bit about that.  On the day I was born (to her youngest daughter, a couple weeks early, by emergency c-section, giving my mom lots of health problems), Grandma Amy was out of town with Grandpa Herb who was having surgery on his foot.  I think she always felt a little bad about missing it. But she didn't miss anything after that.

For my fourth birthday I wanted, very badly, for my parents to be there and my dad to be well.  But, my second-best wish was for a round cake with chocolate frosting and blue candles.  I had seen round cakes in pictures and on TV and they were beautiful. 

And, so, that birthday, Grandma made me the perfect round cake with dark, chocolate frosting and blue candles.  I sat in Grandma's chair at the kitchen table and blew out the candles with my sister and Grandpa and Grandma.

I wish I could have that cake again.  I wish that I could look at my grandma with the awesome wonder of a four-year-old whose wish had come true.  But, you know, life happens and we're only four-years-old for one year.

After almost 92 years, my grandma lived her life through and she died on February 6, 2015.  If one picture, one peak at a memory, is worth 1,000 words, I can't imagine capturing almost 92 years of pictures.  

Today, I think back to my fourth birthday.  And I cry because I love my Grandma and she loved me so much and I miss her.  (Yes, I, a cold-hearted Scandinavian-Midwestern-American, cry.)  I hope that everyone has a birthday like that. I hope you all get to celebrate being born with someone who cares enough to make you a round cake with chocolate frosting and blue candles.

For a glimpse at what almost 92 years of memories looks like (in far less than 1,000 words written by someone who has only almost 29 years) here is this poem which was written for Grandma's funeral a few weeks ago:

Amy’s Poem—March 28, 1923- February 6, 2015

I was born and they said, “She won’t live,”

            -her arm is crippled, she’s weak and she’s small.

But I, I would show them: my life was not their call.

I would grow and learn, I would work and write

            I would live life.

I would love—through many of life’s throws

            my parents and dear sister, and a farm boy with dirt on his toes.

I would teach you, my children, to walk and to run

            to learn every day and to always have fun.

I would knock heads together and indeed raise some hell

            if you or your friend or even a stranger were not treated well.

I would hold you, my grandchildren, and sing, “go to sleep,”

            bandage your wounds, sneak you cookies and treats.

I would weave thread and yarn in blankets and clothes

            for you, my beloved, to always feel close.

I would share every thought—ever deep, often smart

            to engage you and change you and open your hearts.

I was born.

And they said, “She won’t live,”

            -her arm is crippled, she’s weak and she’s small.

But I, I would show them—and you, too—my life was not their call.

Because, before I was your friend, sister, grandma and mom,

I was born, fearfully and wonderfully made,

            created in the image of God.

©2015 Katherine J. Chullino (poem and blog)

...from a chaplain

Four years ago, I spent the summer working as a student chaplain at a hospital in the Quad Cities.  Life as a chaplain is weird.  In a matter of moments you can go from consoling a mourning family to calming a person detoxing to rejoicing at a birth. One of the most beautiful practices at the hospital I worked in was that with every birth a song would quietly play down the halls.  The song played as people went into cardiac arrest, as nurses took blood and gave meds, as aids cleaned up vomit, any time a baby was born there was a moment of rejoicing on every floor of the hospital.  Here's an ode to that, written in my last week of chaplaincy:

...from a chaplain

The lullaby sings softly down the hall

--a child is born.

For a moment, there is joy,

sweet celebration, of life, of promise.

But, I wait for the merismos

--a bookend to the birth.

In anticipation, I wait, for the rattling breath,

the labored, gasping, death.

I wait for the merismos.

Which encompasses life and death and all that is between.

I wait, for those coming and those going

and I stay with those in limbo, in the dark and in the light.

I wait, for the merismos.

A sudden long-awaited end,

While I wait, I hear it again

--a voice proclaiming I’ve lived and I will live again--

The lullaby sings softly down the hall.

(c) Katie Chullino 2010

Dash to a New Reality

May 2004.  That was 10 years ago.  That is when I graduated from high school.  Wow, am I getting old, or what?  

Today, I biked to work.  This is the second time I’ve done this in two weeks.  The first time was because I “had” to bike because my 1974 Scout II was getting new suspension. Today, I didn’t have to. Today, I wanted to ride my bike. Like an 8-year-old riding around town all summer. I wanted to fly down hills and fight like the dickens to get my little legs to peddle up them. (Let’s just say my legs aren’t that much longer than those of an 8-year-old.)

I want to make the most of my dash.  Not my dash across Broadway to avoid being one of the pedestrian hit-and-runs that are disgustingly common in the Denver-metro area, but the dash that goes between 1986 (the year I was born) and some other year hopefully decades down the road.  That dash between birth and death.   See, when I graduated from high school one of my band directors gave me a copy from a book about making the most of your dash.

In the past 10 years, I’ve remembered that photocopy.  I can’t remember the exact words or the author’s name or the book title—even though I can picture the citation across the top of the first page.[1]  I’ve remembered it when I was tired of studying for college finals. I’ve remembered it when I was pretty sure I’d never finish my master of divinity thesis. I’ve remembered it as I’ve waited for interviews and call-backs. I’ve remembered it as I’ve sat at the bedside of dying parishioners.

I’ve remembered it a lot in the past five weeks (in which I’ve presided at four memorial/burials).  I’ve learned a lot about other people’s dashes.  Steven’s dash was filled with music and living as an uncle.  Loretta’s dash was filled with joy.  Lilo’s dash was filled with compassion children.  Richard’s dash was filled with support for his friends.  Some of these dashes filled more time and space than others but each dash made a profound impact on the world.

In the same time that I was busy learning about these dashes and burying the people who filled them, I became very aware of my own dash.  I’d neglected for some time (maybe a few years) to take care of some medical issues.  I didn’t want to waste time at the doctor’s office and I didn’t want people to think I was a sick kid. (FYI: Don’t do that. That’s not making the most of your dash.) 

It turns out though, I was a sick kid (not too sick though).  It took a couple of weeks, a few tests, and a cheap, low-dose, daily prescription to make my ticker tick like it should. As I biked today, I realized that I wasted part of my dash.  For the first time in years I wasn’t dizzy or having palpitations while exercising. How much more could I have done these past few years if I’d been on this medication sooner? Would I have hiked longer and higher? Would I have run faster and biked farther? Would I have had more energy to work youth lock-ins and campouts and service trips? Probably.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer (if you don’t know him, Google his name, don’t waste your dash not knowing his story) wrote, “Time is the most valuable thing we have, because it is the most irrevocable. The thought of any lost time troubles us whenever we look back. Time lost is time in which we have failed to live a full human life, gain experience, learn, create, enjoy, and suffer. It is time that has not been filled up, but left empty.”

Today, my dash has new life. It's more full (it wasn't empty before, just not as full as it could have been). Today, I rode my bike. I saved a gallon of gas. My heart is happier and healthier. I felt the wind as I rushed downhill and I broke a sweat as I rode uphill again. In a few hours I’ll plan worship for the coming weeks, I’ll sit at the bedside of our only charter members. And, I will have worked for myself and for the world. I will have accomplished something—if only 6 miles.  Those 6 will be 12 by the end of the day and those 12 will mark a beautiful day in my dash. Thanks be to God (and my ol’ band director) for that. 

Make the most of your dash.  Don’t just do something. Do something to make the world a better place. Do something that pushes you and the world beyond potential and into a new reality.

---

[1] I think the info on the original text is this: Aronson, E. (2004). Dash. : Synergy Books.