Good Friday and Ghosts

Puddle diving sometimes results in funky looking outfits like this one...pajama pants and a self-selected sweater, this boy's gonna have some serious style when he grows up!

Our Good Friday's been full of glorious weather. Sunny and warm with an evening thunderstorm that somehow managed to melt into a sunset. The plants are happy. My boy who loves the puddles and the rain is happy.

A story from our week that's the stuff of baby-book chuckles: Yesterday when Myles woke up from his nap and I went in to get him the room smelled like poop. So I assumed he had a poopy diaper. As I was getting ready to transfer him to our changing cushion on the floor, he tooted loudly (yes folks, we now call them toots) and giggled. I asked him if he needed to make a poop and he said, "no!" I transfered him to the changing cushion and prepared for changing a #2 diaper duty. When I pulled off the diaper, though, it was just wet. Myles giggled and said something that sounded like "gha poop." "Do you need to poop?" I asked again. "No!" he said, "gha poop." And it dawned on me that he was saying, "ghost poop," which is what we call it when his diaper stinks like the dickens but has nothing in it but pee. "Ghost poop?" I asked. "Yes!" he giggled, "gha poop." We laughed so hard together.

Here's what church planting consists of lately:
opening a bank account
opening a p.o. box
beginning a web site
creating the first e-newsletter
visiting possible locations
designing business cards
sharing communion with the core group for the first time
putting dates on the calendar
talking about marketing and "tweets"

It's a sweet and busy life we have.

This Holy weekend I'm feeling a little exiled. I will go to an Easter service at the wonderful little church I've been attending since my time at First Congregational came to an end. And despite their incredible hospitality, I know it's not home. Planting a church doesn't often consist of as much worship and Sunday school as you crave...it requires an ability to engage in menial tasks, things you weren't trained to do in theological school. It requires more faith and trust and hope than I can sometimes muster. Oh, and patience. Where will we be next year at this time? I can't even begin to imagine. Maybe I've let my imagination muscle grow a little too weak. This is the first Good Friday maybe since before college that I haven't attended church. But I'm hopeful that with the new life of Easter this little church-dream will send down some roots and sprout high toward the sky. I'll keep you posted.