Done

Done is better than good.

This was my mantra all through the first two years of seminary. I repeated it with great faithfulness, especially toward the end of the semester when papers and deadlines started to pile up. Done is better than good. Did I believe it? Absolutely not. I am an insatiable perfectionist. I think pretty highly of myself, which leads to having pretty high standards for my work. Done is better than good was my mantra, but it was not one I followed with any regularity.

Then I went on internship. And Lent happened. And people took vacations. And suddenly I was preaching twice a week, teaching a lot of adult ed, behind on visits, daunted by seminary paperwork. Suddenly I was very, very busy. And done seemed like an impossibility, good was even further off.

“This isn’t fair,” I told my supervisor frustratedly one afternoon. “The congregation deserves better than I can give them. This isn’t my best work, I just don’t have the time.” My supervisor looked at me, calmly.

“Sometimes finishing is accomplishment enough.”

The thing about done as opposed to good is done allows space for the Holy Spirit to work. If I stand in the pulpit and finish an acceptable sermon on a Sunday morning, it has more chance to hit someone’s heart than if I preach the first half of an amazing sermon, and never get to the part about grace. Done acknowledges that I am not perfect. That I am a sinner in need of God’s grace, that I am not up to the task set before me, that I need God’s help to get me through. Done keeps who is human and who is God in perspective. Done can be pretty amazing.

Names

My name is Kjersten, pronounced sure-sten. It’s weird, I know. How “Kj” makes a “sh” sound is beyond me. It’s old Swedish, but such old Swedish that the one time I was in Sweden I got funny looks. Minnesotans, however, find it to be the most normal thing in the world. Best I can tell Kjersten was a common, or at least known, name during the height of Swedish immigration in the 1800s. The Swedish language in Sweden continued to evolve, while the Swedish of the immigrants was frozen in time. Thus you get someone like me, a third generation American, a second generation Californian, with a name that looks like I just got off the boat clutching an armload of lutefisk, sure ya bet’cha.

I’ve always been fairly sensitive about my name. Because it is such a mouthful, I value people who actually take the time to learn it. While I’ll respond to pretty much anything, it grates on me a bit when people repeatedly pronounce it wrong. I had a co-worker once who recommended I go by Kristen, “because it would be easier for customers.” I was offended. Kristen is a fine name, it’s a lovely name, I know many wonderful Kristens, but it’s not my name.

I’ve been reflecting on this because it turns out I’m horrible with names. This is becoming a problem six months into my internship. It is as if my brain shuts off when a name is said. I can remember detailed facts about the person, but the name itself is gone. Especially if the name is not one I’m used to. One of the youth I keep accidentally calling a roofing material, because that word is more familiar to me than his name.

So I am learning to be more gracious with people who stumble over my name. Maybe they are trying. Maybe it’s not that they don’t care, but that they’ve never seen a silent j before (because really, unless you’re blessed with my parents’ creative spelling efforts, who has), and they just can’t get their mouth around it. It's a mouthful, but it's mine, and I'm proud of it.

Spring is Here!

Spring is here! How do I know? It’s not the plants; nothing is poking out under the foot and a half of snow on the ground. It’s not the weather report; more snow is forecast for tonight and again this weekend. It’s not the temperature; bone-chilling cold and damp. No, I know spring is here, because the ice cream place is open again.

Gannon’s Isle is the local ice cream place in south Syracuse, maybe even in all of Syracuse. There’s one up the street from my house, and fall evenings I used to head up there for a scoop of whatever their current seasonal flavor was. I was devastated one evening when I arrived to a “Closed for the Season” sign. I could not imagine such a thing. Since when does ice cream have a season! The main store near the church stayed open for another month or so, but eventually even it gave in to the realities of a Syracuse winter. So for three months I have been without ice cream. Oh sure, I could buy Dreyers or something from the grocery store, but it’s just not the same. Then recently the marquee announced the glorious news: “Opening in 14 days!” I patiently watched as the days ticked off, until last week when the marquee read: “Gannon’s Now Open!” Spring has come. Gannon’s knows it, even if the weatherman does not.

The office manager and I went out for ice cream yesterday to celebrate the arrival of spring. I had crème brulee, she had Oreo cheesecake. It was delicious. Here’s to you, Spring. Welcome back!

Livin' on a Prayer

A classmate offered this Bon Jovi video to all of us who have now completed six months of internship. I’m sure six month evals was not what Bon Jovi had in mind with this particular song, but it feels strangely fitting for how I feel at the halfway point. “A prayer” is pretty much what I’ve been livin’ on.

I’ve been tired recently. Not physically tired, but mentally. Things just seem to be taking a lot of effort. I was talking to my co-worker about this the other day; she seemed not at all surprised.

“You’ve hit the Atonement wall,” she explained. “You’re six months in, bogged down with Lent planning, and you haven’t seen the sun in three months. Don’t worry, this is totally normal, it will pass.”

One of the greatest gifts I think we offer to one another as people in ministry, or maybe just as people, is the gift of perspective. “Yes, this is hard. Yes, you’re right to be tired. No, this is completely normal.” As Alison so eloquently pointed out last week, we’re not superheroes. We’re people, and people get tired. So “take my hand, we’ll make it, I swear.”