Born (near) the Fourth of July

Happy birthday, America.

It’s been great to splash in your streams, bob in your lakes, drink in the deep green fragrance of your forested hillsides. You are a land of landscapes, a place where I have found happiness in solitude and quiet companionship with the very greatest and least of creation.

You also made my beautiful best friend of a husband into the man he is. Your complicated politics challenged him to live out what Jesus asked of us all, and your amazing educational system gave him the tools to love learning for a lifetime. Our amazing opportunity to live abroad is rooted in the feeling of home here. Our marriage is rooted in the way that promises and hope are still the foundations of all good communities, including the smallest of them.

I’m proud of you, America, just as I am proud of all the beautiful things I participate in. Children’s lives, communities, extended and extending families. The closer I get to a certain tween in my life, the more I realize how much this kind of encouragement matters to all people. We’re all still in process.

There’s a lot for me to laugh at here, including platter-sized chicken fried steak, angry drivers, and a whole bunch of nonsense about professional sports. There’s a lot that is no laughing matter, like the way that you forgot that we were once all immigrants or the fear you have of our neighbors and friends. Your power is in humility, not in humiliation.

Maybe we all need chances to feel a little more shock and awe at the presence of Love and the ultimate power of healed hearts on the mountaintops and a little less of the habit of exploding over the desert of broken relationships between our selves and our places. Maybe we could try war a little less? Seek peace a little more?

A birthday party isn’t the best time to embarrass you, but it’s a good time to check in and say that I’m still paying you attention. While we’re celebrating your best, it’s another chance for us to work on heading deeper into the right directions, led on by how much good builds on good.

This is a pretty long birthday card, I guess. I love you, America. Always will.


From Being Useful to Just Being

Hi friends,

Part of why I wanted to revive this blog was as a chance to document the processes of getting to Rome, getting to be married, and getting to do ministry over the coming years. A place to record what it felt like before, and a place to hold our visions for the “after”.

The past few months have been a blur of preparation. Mostly, that has meant asking the hard questions about what items are necessary to feel “at home” here and whether they are worth their weight to carry. Each thing means not bringing a different thing. Some are available here, new; some are not. Some make sense to give to others; some are, inevitably, trash no matter how useful they once seemed.

the interior of my second checked "bag" from the spring moving trip
tuna in foil packets, reese’s peanut butter eggs, my yoga mat and a birthday surprise… and it all miraculously arrived intact!

But arriving here in Rome for the first long stretch of settling has been filled by one big struggle after another. A delayed bag, a sudden sickness, the throes of pubescent hormones. Now that the first round of bags are unpacked, I’m beginning to settle in and see what work there is to do to integrate into life here… And it’s going to be work!


You see, I have always thought of myself as a competent, capable, confident woman. I’ve run my own business well. I’ve accomplished complicated and meaningful tasks. I’ve done things. And all of these activities have left me with a somewhat brittle shell, I admit: I have been, for so long, what I do. My value to the world is in what I can get done and give.

So, when I lost our family’s grocery loyalty card (inside the the grocery store!) yesterday, it was a watershed moment. As in, I shed tons of water crying over losing something important to our daily life that I simply do not know how to recover.

But also it’s a moment of coming around to the other side of the hill. After so long of feeling like I could do things–and on my own!–I was reduced to tears because I could not simply ask my fellow shoppers or helpful clerks whether they had seen my card or what I might do to find it or replace it.

I circled the store. I retraced my steps. I breathed in and out, in and out. I was alone and helpless, and nothing could put things right again. And finally, I walked home with my heavy head, feeling sorrier for myself with every curb over which I yanked my overloaded carello.

Because I have wanted to be useful here. To contribute to our family life, not to make us waste precious time searching and asking and replacing and doing something that was already done. And honestly, since I don’t speak well enough, I know that all that “we” talk actually means asking someone else with his own work going on to do it for me. Adding on to someone else’s to do list. Not doing it all myself, stubbornly, like the cosmic kindergarten child I still am. I suffer because I am still clinging to what it was like then, not what it is to be where I am now.

I give up my claims to comfort. And one of these days, I promise I’ll give up my claim to only being happy when things go my way.

I’m passing through. The pilgrim gives. The pilgrim receives.

We’ll get a new card. It will come in the mail weeks from now, but I bet we can get a temporary one to hold us over. We will restart counting our points, and I will find a way to build a good habit of memory around its use and keeping so that we don’t have to repeat this effort again and again. I will even learn to ask for help in a new tongue.

But it’s a humbling grace to wake up today and know that it’s going to work out, even if I don’t know how yet.

Honestly, I am writing this silly story down because one day it will remind me to laugh with this memory that losing our DOC*Roma card felt like the most important thing that happened all day one day. Had it not been for that, I could have kept on believing that I had it all together. Ha!

This is what this part of life is: embracing that, while there are still things I can do, I am not here for the purpose of having it all together, alone. I’m supposed to trust that someone else giving me the gift of doing things for me is a blessing to them, no matter how frustrated it makes me. My time will come to give, too, especially as I learn this language and this culture.

I will transition from tourist to pilgrim to being at home, right here. I might have to lose a few more things in the process, though.

Midweek Advent 1 Reflection

Maleah Pusz

Wednesday 6 December 2017

Advent 2

St. David’s In-The-Valley, Cullowhee, NC


I ask God’s grace as we ponder an old story made new in the season of expectation, journey, and wonder. Amen.

This Advent season finds us opening a new year of our life together before all other things close, much like last Sunday’s apocalyptic Gospel reading starts us in an end of a book rather than perfectly aligned at the fresh beginning of a Chapter 1 for Advent 2. And why shouldn’t it be that what grace we take from our sacred space here sanctifies the work of doing our waiting “out there” in the overlap? We are conditioned to accept, by way of the relationships that form us into adults, the great mystery that life was here before us and will come after us, even when we don’t quite understand it.

We are always starting in the middle.

When we meet a new friend, a potential lover, a beloved mentor, we deepen our bonds by asking to hear every story they’re willing to tell about what it was like to be them before they were with us. Stitch by stitch, we embroider our lives with theirs and their hard-won wisdom. We bind our lives together and do our best to note the diversity within our unity: who are the gluten-free at our table? whose father is a sore subject of conversation best left for prayerful silences? who celebrates a recovery? who mourns a lifelong love lost?

In relationship, we grow as we hear ourselves speak, hearing our past tumble out of us newly re-formed, learning lessons that might have remained hidden before. We apologize for things that often need no apology, we battle our own ghosts instead of engaging the flesh and blood of our present partner. We sometimes speak without thinking, and can be thoughtlessly hurtful.

Giving oneself finally, fully over to being in relationship with any human being is embracing a mess—and being embraced as a mess in turn.

In my own life, as a not-yet-stepmother, I have new lessons to learn. As I confide in friends about the messiness of reimagining and remaking family in the middle of everything, I am trying to understand how parenthood works for those of us who were gifted with a frightening amount of Love for “other people’s” children and all the complications of emotion entailed. Sometimes, I wince at the well-meant but hurtful reply, “Yeah, but you knew what you were signing up for when you started.”

Did some woman in her circle of friends say this very thing to Mary, the Mother of God? As her body told a story her society didn’t have a room for, how did she meet that expectation—while she held together both her first-hand knowledge of human life in its dust and dirt and her awe at a transcendent and as-yet-unembodied Creator?

How did Mary, our consummate Mother, make her preparations through all those earlier, quieter months of anticipation and challenge? How did she walk faithfully into this final stretch of longing for an event that begins a new Life—which always interrupts the middles of established ones? How many of her own experiences felt reassuring, even into Egypt and Galilee, because they were made recognizable by participating in motherhood like so many generations before? And as her own understanding of His power and place changed with each new day, how did she awaken to her own strength to claim a role forged brand new by this specific child, this specific life, this specific Love?

As she waited for the mystery of the Christ child to arrive, did she also know to await the arrival of an accompanying grief, saying to herself: “I can do almost nothing to spare this child whom I love more than breath itself from the unvarnished truth of pain and suffering in this imperfect human life?”

Did she know that being left standing on the outside of His life while He privileged his spiritual family over their blood connection could sting as badly as hearing “you’re not my mother” flung with the acid of preteen angst?

But you knew what you were signing up for when you started… No, but you might get a taste of it. We might have heard this story before.

And then we start this journey together anyway, because that is what Love does.

See, the messiness of being in relationship to the human family is knowing that the inevitable end will also come one day.

While on a family trip to Venice this September, our feisty tour guide walked us past the local hospital and described the beautiful view of the graveyards from the maternity ward. She smiled as rambunctious kids played soccer in the shadows of the crosses and spires of Basilica dei Santi Giovanni e Paolo next door and speedboat ambulances idled in the water, waiting.

What better to remind us, she said, that we make a small part of the whole cycle? Every day is a gift.

My soul sings in gratitude.

I’m dancing in the mystery of God.

The light of the Holy One is within me

and I am blessed, so truly blessed.


This goes deeper than human thinking.

I am filled with awe

at Love whose only condition

is to be received.


The gift is not for the proud,

for they have no room for it.

The strong and self-sufficient ones

don’t have this awareness.


But those who know their emptiness

can rejoice in Love’s fullness.

It’s the Love that we are made for,

the reason for our being.

It fills our inmost heart space

and brings to birth in us, the Holy One.

–John Shelby Spong, A New Christianity for a New World


Even though I have re-read the Magnificat pretty often through the Daily Office, I am just beginning to see the fierceness of unconditional and pro-creative Love as Mary takes a place beyond roleplay in the story of salvation. She sets the example, living out the poetry of hope she sings regarding the new Life coming who will remove the sting from Death itself. The Blessed One who comes to us in the name of the Lord, long awaited and mighty. Once unknowable. And now uncompromisingly incarnate.

For it is her new life she dreams of—and ours, if we choose to embrace it again this season. Could we not also take this moment to give thanks that Christ will come again to widen our circle? To listen again to the promise that we will see the glory of the Lord in our lifetime, and to celebrate how we already have? To know beyond doubt that the apocalyptic thunder in the clouds is the sound of our very own heart giving way again to a new and heavenly peace? There will come a time, in the stillness after the storm, when we will be able to hear what God is saying to us now.


Quiet friend who has come so far,

feel how your breathing makes more space around you.

Let this darkness be a bell tower

and you the bell. As you ring,


what batters you becomes your strength.

Move back and forth into the change.

What is it like, such intensity of pain?

If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.


In this uncontainable night,

be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,

the meaning discovered there.


And if the world has ceased to hear you,

say to the silent earth: I flow.

To the rushing water, speak: I am.


Thinking about home

Asked to speak for Wednesday Advent service, which means I have too many things to say and not enough time to say them.

So here is one of the pieces that doesn’t fit, but is no less true:

In the quiet of winding down my life on this continent slowly—so slowly, in fact, that people are regularly surprised that I’m still here—I have been given such an abundant gift of time to meditate on the mystery of the daily life of our little, faithful, Episcopal community. As Michael promised me ten years ago in our little weekly formation group, these words have become the words of my heart, these seasons frame my thoughts. And as Muff so wisely called it, we sure are some “free range lambs”.

We have prepared so many tables full of bread and wine and soup and lemonade and I have been blessed to hold the cup of our wholeness, the blood of the new covenant, to the lips of you, my sweetest and dearest friends. We have sought Christ and served all kinds of people and loved our neighbors, be they farmworkers or college football fans. We have confessed our sins and taken hold of our forgivenesses, we have been challenged by the holy orders that Michael and Alice and others lived out among us, and we have buried what will always be too many of our friends and family. We have been showered with holy water whether we liked it or not and renewed our fight for justice in our time, prayed for peace among all people, and we have upheld and respected the dignity in every human being including the ones who post things to Facebook without spell checking.

If I know how to be in relationship at all–how to begin to love well what is mine and let go of what is not mine–it is because I have seen you do it first.

How did you get here?

–How did you get here?

Usually when I ask someone else this, they have responded with a flatfooted answer:

–By car; didn’t you?

–By walking. I was just around the corner.

–By flying, silly! How else do you get over an ocean?

It’s as if we’re so used to the feeling of not being heard (or wanting to be clever) that we can’t risk going with the deep answer first.

We avoid telling our story too quickly on first meeting. First impressions matter so much, and what if I change my answer later? What if what I think I know about my journey now is not what I’ll know of it later on? What if I’m in an awkward part of the story right this minute?

Luckily, being in the in-between doesn’t stop us from finding a deep connection, if we’re honest–and if anything, it enhances it.

And the day came when the risk

to remain tight in a bud

was more painful than

the risk it took to blossom.

-Anaïs Nin

So, I got here after 30 years of venturing outward from a small, rural town in Southern Appalachia, from a loving and complicated family, through such diverse jobs as chocolatier, Christian missionary, restaurant bookkeeper, and small-town wine shop owner, toward a union with something bigger that I have variously called Love, or God, or the Universe, or Creation, or the Human Family, or Christ, or Logic, or sometimes something I couldn’t have called anything at all. I’ve been looking for a thread, writing about a thread, trying to wear or make or buy a thread to connect it all.

I’ve been lucky or blessed or hard at work to find good people to walk beside. And, as I start off on another grand adventure, I’ve decided that this might just be the place to keep a record of the next couple of chapters for my benefit and maybe for yours.

Good thoughts of love and life always,