by erinrobinsonhall@gmail.com | Jun 9, 2019 | Reflections, Wonder |
This week, I got the high and holy privilege to volunteer with Camp Create in my church, our week-long summer children’s event. Our theme – Better Together – played out in five mornings of creating: cooking, science, music, drama, lettering and painting. This glorious week was chock full of giggles, bubbles, songs, squirt-gun painting, and exactly the amount of high energy you might think. I stayed caffeinated each morning. On the last day, our story was about Pentecost. Leading up to Pentecost Sunday, Associate Pastor Ruth did a beautiful job inviting the children to wonder about the “birthday of the Church.” Then, she gave each child a red ribbon to hold as they fashioned a prayer of thankfulness or concern. As they tied the ribbons together, they could choose to say their prayer aloud or keep it a silent prayer. The heap of loud, energetic children became silent as they took their task very seriously. Ruth let each child have a turn to tie their red ribbons to hers. I added my silent prayers to theirs. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done. My prayers are tied up with yours. My prayers are tied up with women and men around the world who offer prayers for peace. for their families to be well. for a job where they can thrive. for their loneliness to ease. for community. for the safety of their sons and daughters. for strength to face this day. for a place at the table. We are praying. I’m thinking, today, of this thought from NT Wright about Pentecost and prayer: “Thy kingdom come, he taught...
by erinrobinsonhall@gmail.com | Apr 20, 2019 | Prayers, Reflections |
At dinner with friends the other night I got to explain one of my very favorite Easter traditions: flowering the cross. It’s a true Easter moment for me. Some people say Easter happens when they sing at a sunrise service or say Hallelujah. For me, it’s when a chicken wire cross fills with flowers. Probably because it’s so communal and sensory and all those other churchy words. And I just love that there is no way to pattern out what this display will look like. Everyone is told to bring their own flower, so you may have huge daffodils or store-bought roses or scrawny looking “daisies” that we all know are weeds. You can try to have some easy carnations there for people who forgot their own, but like the Church itself there will always be one obnoxious, mis-matched blossom shoved in there. That’s what makes it beautiful. One year there was a gigantic, stubborn tulip. It was shoved onto the cross by a frustrated, heartsick woman. It slowly became surrounded by wildflowers and lilies, the whole thing processed into the sanctuary during a choir anthem that sounded like the skies opened to heaven. But it didn’t start out that way. That tulip showed up on that flower cross because I showed up at church at 6:00 am that morning. Our family had been in a season of struggle: everyday frustrations, tough moments of ministry. And infertility grief. But life doesn’t stop for liturgical seasons, and Easter did not go easy on us that year. It hurt. My husband and I had welcomed a rainy Good Friday that seemed...
by erinrobinsonhall@gmail.com | Apr 19, 2019 | Prayers, Reflections |
Today is Good Friday. I’m remembering a Friday a few years ago. My husband and I learned some heartbreaking news that a friend, a young woman, had reached the end of her life. Her three children gathered for goodbyes and last moments. Everyone wept. A few hours later, we also learned that our friends had welcomed a baby girl into the world. Death and also life, in that one day. I wrote a letter to this precious baby girl as a gift for her to keep, as her birth story begins on Good Friday. Today, I am remembering this letter as I worry for friends who received a frightening diagnosis, and pray for another friend who weeps for her lost loved one. I believe my friend Elizabeth, who reminds us, “We cannot get to Easter without Good Friday.” I am ready to get to Easter. But we can pause at Good Friday first. “Letter to a Baby Girl Born on Good Friday” Dear one, We have waited for you, hoped for you. Your mama, daddy, grandparents, cousins, family, and friends can’t wait to see you and say that because you are here, this is surely a good day We woke up this morning glad that we can mark this day as the one that brought more joy into the world. We know how we have done Good Friday in the past, remembering the darkness, remembering the words that we have chiseled down to neat phrases we can handle: I thirst. My God. It is finished. But it isn’t. Not for you, beautiful girl. It is just beginning. And...
by erinrobinsonhall@gmail.com | Apr 18, 2019 | Reflections |
First, I want to share this memory of precious little toes and a great big hot mess. I read this story again, and it still speaks to me. * * * * * * * * * I’ve learned a little something about parenting a preschooler: there is always some kind of liquid on the floor. Maybe water because you splashed the sink full of legos when you were supposed to be washing your hands. Maybe juice, because who doesn’t carry juice to go potty? You can’t set that stuff down, it must be carried throughout the house and the cup must be lid-free. Maybe (usually) the liquid on the floor is pee. Because, boys. I’ve come to terms with the wet floors in my house. So, I was surprised by my almost four-year old in the bathroom screaming at the top of his lungs, “MOM!! Come quick, it’s a ‘mergency!” The ‘mergency was that he became distracted while standing at the potty. What was supposed to go in, went everywhere but in. ALL over the floor, his clothes and his feet. We are a tad bit high drama around here, so with fair warning that this was an emergency, he began to weep. My job was clear: calm, wipe, flush, wipe, then scoop him up. “My feet, mama! What will we do?!?” (I have no idea where he gets his flair for the dramatic) “Freeze!” I said. He froze in place. I scooped him up, ran some warm water in the sink and plopped his pee-covered feet into the sink. His tears became laughter as...
by erinrobinsonhall@gmail.com | Apr 17, 2019 | Prayers, Reflections |
John 12:20-26 If it dies, it bears much fruit. If we let it go, it lives. Let it fall. These words took my breath away last spring. My friend Kimberly sang them, over a quiet chapel. About a dozen people gathered, mostly women and just a couple of men. We gathered there for a “Hannah Service.” Our church hosted this unique space for worship and reflection for people who grieved around Mother’s Day. People who had experienced infertility, miscarriage, or adoption loss, and people who experienced the loss of a child or parent were invited. The whole idea was to offer sacred space to grieve. As we planned this service, we were unsure who would attend. My friend Rachel and I had both experienced grief. Between the two of us, we knew the sorrow of infertility, miscarriage and loss. We also knew that church is sometimes the last place we give ourselves permission to feel. We planned the service knowing what a healing thing it is to bring real feelings into sacred space. We were almost surprised when people showed up. Many were people we had not met before. A few shared that they were in the middle of infertility treatments. Some were silent. One woman explained to me that her young child died last year. “I can’t go to church anymore, she said. But I thought I could come to this.” We spoke about anger, fear, and sorrow. We sang. As an act of remembrance, we planted small bulbs into little planters. Through tears, we dug into the dirt. We listened to Kimberly sing: “Have you been trying...
