An old gospel song, sung by Sweet Honey in the Rock, echoes through my brain, my body, and tonight, through my soul. The haunting lyrical sound moans:

Would you harbor a Christian, a Muslim, a Jew? A heretic, convict, or spy? Would you harbor a runaway woman or child? A poet, a prophet, a king? Would you harbor an exile or a refugee? A person living with AIDS? Would you harbor a Tubman, a Garret, a Truth, a fugitive or a slave? Would you harbor a Haitian, Korean, or Czech? A lesbian or a gay?

After a repeat of the lyric above, the song ends with the reciprocate phrase:

Would you harbor me? Would I harbor you? Would you harbor me? Would I harbor you?

That’s the question that is repeating in my soul tonight as I hear from the people who are on our southern border attempting to help people stay alive and even, hope of all hopes, feel welcomed after their long and dangerous journey.

These who are “boots on the ground,” who live in the areas that are making the news, who see the real events in real time…they are telling me about the desert town called Jacumba Hot Springs, where a growing peaceful crowd is moving between two borders: the wall on the Mexico side and the wall on the US side. There they wait in the hot desert days and cold desert nights, and there they move on to the places where the volunteers are providing food and water. The United Methodists have a church there, Jacumba UMC, near the the gas station that has become a staging area for the town. The townspeople are doing their best to help provide food, water, and shelter. There is a quiet, determined move to provide aid for the people who have arrived in their town.

The shelters are not full. The churches in nearby cities are waiting with temporary housing and with food and water. The travelers include children, and babies, and pregnant women, and teens traveling alone. And they, the people who are able to make a difference, are doing what they can to change a little part of the world. They are providing harbor spaces for our traveling friends.

And so, as I go to bed this evening before Mother’s Day, I hear the words rumble in my every cell:

Will you harbor me? Will I harbor you? Will you harbor me? Will I harbor you?

Dear God, as I lay down to rest this night, may You create a miracle of justice, mercy, and shelter. And even more, may You help us to welcome our hurting and tired neighbors. And even more, would You help us create a politic of love and policies of compassion? We are tired, weary, and worn out from the callous and inhumane behaviors of our world. Save us, O Merciful God of Love! Amen and amen and amen.

Bishop Dottie Escobedo-Frank, California-Pacific Conference of The United Methodist Church

So here we are, starting a New Year after a couple of tough years. We thought 2020 was hard, but then we lived through 2021. And now we are entering 2022 with a bit of trepidation, and a strong dose of hope. Could it be that this pandemic, this discord, this era of hatred will actually end this year? Is it possible that this year will bring the change we have all been waiting for?

When I was in Jr. High, I was on the Cheerleading Team. We would arrive at a game all dressed and ready to go, thinking that our cheers would somehow arrive at just the right moment to change the outcome of the game. We felt part of the game even as we cheered from the sidelines.

And that’s almost how it feels at this moment as we enter 2022. We can almost hear the cheers when we walked into this new world. We went back to in-person last year, bringing out old wardrobes and pushing back the sweats and t-shirts of 2020. We got vaccinated, and learned to love and live with those whose ideas are different than ours. We figured out where racism raises its ugly head in our own past and present life. We learned to walk into spaces where masks were mandated and where they weren’t. We found out that good restaurants could make take-home food and drinks. We got closer to those we live with, and put distance between those we don’t. Some of us have’t seen our friends in a very long time, though we have followed them on social media. We have learned to navigate the news of new variant and changed instructions. We have shaken off the initial fear, and entered the world that will never be the same. And we did all that with silent, self-talking cheers from the sidelines. We hear the whispers of the Encouragers to keep moving in a new-normal kind of life.

So, here we are saying, “Come on, 2022!” We see you. We know you are here. We can feel your pain. But despite the struggle of the recent past, we are ready for you. We invite you in to our lives. We open the doors of the future because we have hope that it has to be better.

Come on, 2022! We have been waiting for you.

I’m just coming off a two week vacation; one that I wasn’t sure I could take till the evening before I left. It’s not like other vacations. We didn’t go far and we went to places we could seclude ourselves away. Interesting to live in isolation and then to go to a cabin where the isolation continues. But at least in northern Arizona, we could hike in the cooler weather and look at pine trees instead of our usual (and beautiful) cacti.

Living through Covid-19 means staying home and staying close and staying away. It wears on ones nerves. In order to cope, I’ve learned to watch less news and more Netflix, meet on ZOOM and make calls on phone while hoping to figure out an easy and delicious dinner, make quick runs to the grocery store, watch the gray hair grow wild and unruly, and to pray more deeply. To say the summer has been slow is not really the truth. It has been busy. But it has also been quiet in a “hunkered down” kind of way.

And so we chose to go on vacation so that I could take a break from this new normal and, frankly, from videoing my sermons and services. Now THAT is wearing. When we video, we have to look at lighting, angles, background, and attend to make up and dress. And when we video we have to figure out if the sound works, and when the sanctuary will be empty, and then of course we wonder if the sermon we created is what the people holed up in their houses will need. I can’t complain because I know others have it much worse. It’s just all so new.

This summer reminds me of something I learned long ago while running a marathon. When the road is long, it’s a mainly a mind game. Keep your mind in good order, and you’ll last till the end. But, let your thoughts go down to despair, and the race is lost. In the marathon, for most of us, what matters is not speed, but finishing.

So on this long Covid Summer of 2020, remember the slow and steady pace, and thoughts of a finish line, will get us through to the other side. Hang in there, everyone! We can do this together. And we can pray for better days.

About three weeks ago, I noticed something different happening. Usually, my calendar fills up months in advance with meetings, conferences, and in-person gatherings to address local needs or to talk in confidence. I had several ZOOM meetings that were regular occurrences as well. But something changed, and I watched as one by one, my calendar cleared. Meeting after meeting after meeting was cancelled or postponed. Even some of my ZOOM meetings were no longer necessary.

Our children’s schools closed. The church Day School was closed as well.

The big event in the United Methodist Church that cancelled was the General Conference in Minneapolis in May. And because that was cancelled, some of the work happening locally to prepare for that event dropped out of calendar. A speaking engagement in Montana was postponed. We cancelled flights and hotels for three major events including some vacation time.

And a new thing: pastors were not allowed to visit patients in the hospitals, care facilities, or in some hospice facilities. All we could do was pick up the phone and call. The gas in my car extended further than it had ever before.

At the same time, the church moved to on-line worship only, and suddenly the local events that were scheduled also disappeared. This week, when we officially closed the church office and moved it to our remotely located homes, the last of my calendar events were cleared.

It sounds like I suddenly had a lot of time on my hands, but the truth is, pastors were working extra long hours to prepare our church for being the church without meeting in community. Telephone trees were formed. Online services took countless hours to figure out…and we are still learning how to do this without bringing harm to the worship leaders. Staff meetings were held by ZOOM, and took longer than normal to figure out how to reach out during this time. ZOOM meetings with church folk who had never met electronically was a learning curve.

Today, I look at my calendar and I see empty space. I am spending my time at home and with my family. Reading more is suddenly a cherished possibility. So is writing. I’m calling people to check on them, and spending some time on ZOOM meetings still. Last night the Mayor of Tucson ordered nonessential businesses to close and recommended residents to stay home. We are not sheltered-in yet in Arizona, but we are close to that reality and most are staying home to provide safety to those who are working the hardest to rid our community of this virus.

Space provides the possibility for us to hear God. The space of cleared calendars opens up the imagination to look at life and to face down death, and to see the places we might need to change. Space is difficult, but beautiful, and comes with the unease of a new kind of living. We don’t yet know how to handle it, but we are learning, and we are open to seeing life differently.

Calendar space is the new frontier. God be near us all as we listen, learn, and imagine something new. And God be near those who are sick, and bring healing and restore health.

Last Saturday I lived an Incomplete Full day. When I got to the end of it, exhausted, happy, and full, I also recognized that it was incomplete.

It started out before the day began. The day before, our plane was delayed due to storms, and we got in to Phoenix much later than expected. So I stayed overnight, and planned to get up early to leave in time for the Tucson events.

But before leaving Phoenix, Jim and I had to run over to see our new grandson, Nolan. We held him for a few minutes, brought mama some coffee, and then left for Tucson. On the way down, the highway came to a crawl and added another hour onto our trip. Driving is relaxing, and I put the rest of the day out of my mind, and just enjoyed listening to different YouTube stations and to music.

Finally arriving in Tucson, I was late for the first event of the day: Catalina was marching in the Tucson Pride Parade for the first time. I got there at the end of the parade, took a picture with our Catalina banner, and then rushed back to my house to change for the next event.

It was a memorial service. A full house in celebration and mourning for a beautiful life well lived. Betty Barnes made a mark on the world, and it was evident in the stories that were told, and the honoring that flowed. We have a large sanctuary, and the sound failed just before we began, and then interrupted us with a loud screeching noise in the middle. That was embarrassing, but even that didn’t stop this beautiful family from paying honor and tribute to Betty.

Next, I rushed over to a Poetry Reading of a dear friend who is experiencing health difficulties. I was late for that. Missed the reading entirely. But I was able to chat with my dear Cynthia Kirk, and her family, and the friends gathered. I felt enveloped by love and the sacred moment of sharing life together in celebration, hope, & truth. I came away knowing that these moments together are life itself.

Driving back home to eat dinner, I thought I had a few hours to get to the next event: a 16th birthday celebration for Genesis Velazquez, ala-Quinciñera style. It was in my hometown, Nogales, which is at least an hour drive away. In my mind, it started at 7. So when I checked the invitation as I was getting into the car, I saw that it started at 6pm…just ten minutes from that moment. I decided not to go, but Jim encouraged me to go anyway, so we drove down, thinking we would at least be able to greet sweet, beautiful Genesis. We arrived just as the service ended, and hugged Genesis and her family as they were leaving to go to the party. We couldn’t go celebrate with them, because I can’t function on Sunday morning if I’m out on Saturday. Even so, the family was gracious to us and glad we were there even for a moment. Beloved friends and important moments.

What a full day!

What an incomplete day.

If I only could stretch that day out to three, it would have been a complete and fully-lived day.

Sometimes life gets crazy and we leave tired and full and wanting all at the same time. It was an Incomplete-Full day.