Remembering Richard

I like to remember things and I get frustrated when I can't. That's why I journal, every night now for almost 25 years. It's why I blog, it's why I write. It's why I keep cards and mementos and things long past their usefulness. Objects and words evoke memories for me, as they do for most of us. And it's why I take pictures. I love taking pictures. Pictures transport us. They remind us. They stir us. They make us smile and make us cry and make us happy and make us remember. They transport us. 

But recently I've been trying to remember a particular day and I cannot. It's possible it's written down in a journal somewhere but I'm not sure it was. I don't have a picture of it either. Because so often, we don't know that a day will be important or noteworthy. The day I've been trying to remember is the day I met Richard Settle.

When Angela and I found our way to Hollywood United Methodist Church fifteen years ago, we never dreamed how so many of the members would impact our lives. How some would become family. How some would drift off after intense periods of friendship. How others would hurt us or love us or show us Jesus in so many ways. We rarely realize the impact people have on us as it's happening. And it was that way when we met Richard.

I imagine we met him that first day at HUMC because that was his way. For years he was the first person we'd be greeted by when we made our way to our seats in the sanctuary. (Us always halfway down on the left, him closer to the windows on the right.) He'd watch all who came in and he'd often be standing there, ready for a hello and a hug before we even set our purses down. He always asked about Mom and Dad, always wanted to know about school and work, and then he was off. To make someone else's morning brighter or to snap a picture. Or many pictures. Because Richard was the one who helped us remember. Through his love and through his photographs. (Side note: because it's who he was, one day Richard showed up at HUMC with a tripod that he said might have been older than me. It was in perfect working condition, still in its original box, and he wanted me to have it. I'd gotten a new camera and had been taking some photography classes and he insisted it would be good to have a tripod in my tool box. It was, it still is. I used it first to take photos at our Hollywood United Women of Faith Christmas party, turning the tree in the corner of the room into a little photo shoot area, and having such fun with our community of women that night! His thoughtful gift turned into so much more...) 

He was rarely without a camera around his neck or at his side. He was our community's collector of memories. It's what he did for a living and what he did for us. I have dozens of photos of myself taken by Richard. Too many to count. He was always there to snap a holiday pic or an important moment. He was so thoughtful in that way. Good photography requires a good eye, a strong sense of the moment, and a thoughtful consideration of the subject. And Richard was always so thoughtful, in his photographs and in his life. 

I do have four photos, yes, just four, of Richard that I or others took. The first is from a picnic we had at Sean and Lu's apartment building. It was a wonderful day full of sun and food and friends and games and laughter. I mostly remember getting terribly sunburned but also remember Richard taking over at one point and capturing smiling pictures of so many of us. But I'm so glad I snapped this picture of him. And I'm so glad to have this afternoon to look back on, of all of us, a community for sure.

Matt & Richard

The second picture is just a regular old Saturday game night. Lu was teaching us to play mahjong. Richard always had stories and tales to share and this night was no different. Sometimes it's those nights that add up that matter just as much...

Sarah, Angela, Sean, Monica & Richard (Lu behind the camera)

The third picture is one I'll treasure always because it's Richard doing what he was always doing, capturing the moments. To help us remember. 

Richard taking photos of a Halloween event at HUMC where Angela, Laura and I were playing games with some kiddos (credit unknown)

Finally, I have a picture of Richard, Angela and I serving communion at HUMC, something we did regularly. 

Angela, Sarah & Richard serving, others assisting and partaking (credit unknown)

This picture reminds me so much of who Richard was, and what his life stood for in my eyes: service. Service to his country, he was a proud Navy veteran. Service to his community, he worked in the entertainment industry, and in local politics, documenting events and history over decades. And service to his family, his church, and his faith. He's the person who took us on a tour of the HUMC Bell Tower when we first arrived and shared so much of the building and community's history with us. He's the person who greeted us without fail every single week. He served communion and documented baptisms and so many celebrations. And I'm not sure I ever got to thank him for that. For any of that. It was always a given that Richard would be there, snapping pictures, sharing a smile or a hug. But as too often happens, people leave us. And back in July, Richard did just that. 

As the church and community prepares to honor him this weekend, I pray he's up there taking photos of all who went before him and all who'll follow him someday, reveling in the wonder of it all, doing something that seemed to bring him so much joy. And I'll always be thankful for his time down here with us. Being the one to remind us. To help us remember. I'll remember Richard always. And I'm thankful for every photo that can transport me back to a day or a moment that he was a part of. 

He always made us smile, for the camera, and in life. The best smiles. Thank you, for that Richard. We love you. We miss you and your gifts. But we're so thankful to have known you, to have had you be a part of our LA family. 

Dad, Sarah, Angela & Mom, photo by Richard Settle

Lenten Thoughts

Today was my assigned day for the Lenten devotional for Hollywood UMC:

Matthew 6:1-6

Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven. 

 

In The Message bible, there is a passage in these verses from Matthew that made me sit up straighter as I read: “When you help someone out, don’t think about how it looks. Just do it—quietly and unobtrusively. That is the way your God, who conceived you in love, working behind the scenes, helps you out.” 

 

I’ve read this passage over and over again in my life. It’s one I’ve tattooed on my heart. Do good deeds, help people out, be of service – just quietly, without drawing attention. I was taught to do that from a very early age. We helped in the church kitchen during Sunday brunches. We served coffee at funeral luncheons. We staffed the nursery, taught Bible school, helped on mission projects. And it didn’t just apply to church activities. If someone needed something, you did it. You left food on the doorstep if someone was sick. You gave someone a ride. You put extra in the collection plate for the family who needed it. You mailed off cards with words of encouragement. But it was always to be done without expectation of anything in return. It was always to be done behind the scenes.

 

That phrase sticks with me, but also the part about that’s how God works. And I don’t know why I never really thought of it that way before. God is always working behind the scenes. He isn’t out and about making grand pronouncements, “Look at how I orchestrated that!” or “Woo, that was an awesome save!” or “Did you see what happened when you didn’t get what you wanted but then got something way better?!” 

 

And I also like the reminder that God isn’t just playing puppet master either. Rather, He’s helping us out. He’s reminding us that He’ll always be right there, behind the scenes, ready to jump in when necessary, even if we don’t ask for His help, especially when we don’t ask for His help. He’s that friend who always seems to know just when to send the “thinking of you” text. He’s that person who gives you the most unexpected gift that was exactly what you needed. He’s the family member who loves you no matter how many times, or ways, you screw up. 

 

And because of His example, we are reminded, again, to also work behind the scenes. Do what needs to be done. Pray the prayers. Worship. Love. Be there. But not in a way that is expectant of anything in return. Not in a way that demands attention. But in a way that helps others out. Just as God helps us out. A reminder I’m beyond thankful for this Lenten season.

 

Dear Lord – Thank you for always being right there with us, and for us. Thank you for working behind the scenes. For loving us even when we forget you’re nearby. May your actions be a reminder to us to do the same.

The First Cut

Last night I sat in front of my computer, my hands clasped in my lap, and tried not to throw up. I honestly hadn't felt that nervous in such a long time, if ever. I felt clammy and anxious and like the world was seeing everything inside of me: my guts, my heart, my brain. 

It was terrifying. 

So what was I doing last night? 

Oh, just watching the first cut of my directorial debut, the short film LAUGHING AGAIN. 

Remember the eight months of work I mentioned back in my last blog on this project? Yeah, we're up to 12 now. We've been working on this project for almost an entire year. And I say we because this isn't just me, it isn't just the actors, it isn't just Ayelette. It's so many people. And for the last few months it's been our director of photography turned editor, Tyson. He's been sculpting our hours and hours of footage into the 12 minutes and 3 seconds of what he sent me last night.

So what's next you might ask? 

Well...now I get to work. I have to watch the cut a million more times and Tyson and I will make notes and changes and add stuff and take away stuff. We'll make sure the sound is perfect and the color is exact and that shot with the boom mic dipping into it gets replaced. We'll figure out the transitions and the music and the credit sequence and the title card. We'll make so many little decisions. Tyson and I will work together for a few more months. And then, God willing, we'll lock picture! 

That's when we'll have a short film that's ready to go out into the world. That we can show to everyone we know, and everyone we don't. That we can submit to festivals (Ayelette and I have been working on festival submissions since August) and premiere to audiences.

In the meantime, I need to get back to work. I need to watch the cut again. Am I still nervous? Maybe even more so. You know that feeling you get when you ride a roller coaster for the second time? After you already know what's coming? And the anticipation is more intense than the experience itself? That's where I am -- on that rollercoaster.

But it's an amazing ride. I'm so proud of the work we've already done together, and excited for what's to come. I love this story, and even if it's scary to put my work out there for the world to see and hear, I'm ready to do it. Stories are meant to be told, and we're about to tell this one!

My Advent Devotion

 Isaiah 40:1-5

“Prepare ye the way of the LORD; make his paths straight…Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain shall be made low; then the glory of the LORD shall be revealed.”

 

In the note next to this passage in my student Bible it says that beginning in this passage, Isaiah’s emphasis has moved toward comfort and that comfort will ultimately come through God’s arrival, which we should prepare for. That one word stuck out to me as I read the passage and the note over and over: comfort.

 

I used to think of my faith as comforting. I fell back on it in times of celebration or concern, in times of stress or skepticism. The words on the pages of my Bible comforted me. My prayers comforted me. Worshiping comforted me. But now, I’m not as comforted. I’m not as consoled when I pray. I have a harder time quieting my soul, voicing my prayers, lifting my praise. I definitely get the sense that I’m in this desert Isaiah describes, but I’m not so sure how to prepare the way for the Lord anymore.

 

Health issues. Employment issues. Creative issues. Political issues. Violence. War. Fear. Terror. All of this and more starts to untether us from our faith. To do the exact opposite of comfort us. And yet, we are directed to work harder, prepare more, raise up every valley, lower every mountain. 

 

That. 

Is. 

Overwhelming. 

 

All of it. 

 

And yet, while I start to feel untethered, just by coming back to the Bible, by coming back to these words, by coming back to the shortest and least descriptive prayers I pray in the middle of the night, I know, deep down, that I am still tethered. We all are. We believe. We love because He first loved us. 

 

And so, we get to work. Even when we don’t want to. Even when we feel empty down to our soles. Even when we don’t have an inch left to give. We get to work. 

 

We know that God will always be there for us, even when we feel less than comforted. We know that God will always be there for us, even when we feel judged. We know that God will always be there.

 

And so, we prepare the way for Him. We open our hearts. We take another breath and the tiniest step toward him. And that is all we have to do. 

 

Preparation can be comfort. It can be a reminder that despite what the world around us might look and feel like, it’s what’s in our hearts that matters. Our love matters. God’s love matters. 

 

So, we prepare…because He’ll be back. That baby always comes back to share His hope. Thank God, literally. 

 

 

Prayer:

Thank you, God. Thank you for the smallest, and the biggest, reminders of what you can do, of who you are, and of how you comfort us, day in and day out, even when we forget.  Amen. 

Remembering Francis

2016, on the rooftop of Francis' new apartment building

In late November of last year, a woman named Remy called me from the LA County Coroners Office. It was a random weekday afternoon and as soon as she said her name and where she was calling from, my heart sunk. 

Then it broke. 

I knew what she was going to say before she said it. 

I had suspected it for a couple of weeks. 

The Halloween card and letter I sent him had been returned to me. I’d double checked the address. I pictured the lobby of the apartment building where I knew the bright orange envelope should have been slipped into it’s proper slot. 

But when I got the envelope back, I knew. I didn’t admit it, even to myself, but I knew. 

Francis was gone. 

Remy had a kind voice and took her time telling me what little information she had to share. He’d been found in his apartment, deceased. They’d gone through his things to find next of kin to contact and made some calls. I was on the list. It had taken longer to track me down because the envelopes they’d found only contained my name and address. 

Francis didn’t have a phone. I’d given him my digits a long time ago but they weren’t for his use. They were to give to a case worker, and eventually a friend, in case they needed to get ahold of me for him. He didn’t want a phone he said. He liked writing. He was a writer. 

His cursive was elaborate, his words filled pages of stationary, or just the small left-hand side of a post card. He’d mark up books and magazines to pass to me. This began when we first met. But I don’t know when that was. Was it the first day I visited Hollywood United Methodist Church? The first time I volunteered on a Tuesday passing out lunches and supplies to those in need? I cannot recall, and I’ve tried. Especially over this past year. 

But it doesn’t matter. Francis was just always there. Like a member of the family, because he was. Family.

Over the past decade or more, I’d come to know Francis, and he’d come to know me, Angela, my parents, and so many of my friends. We’d see him on Tuesdays and Sundays and send letters in between or when we’d travel. I sent him a postcard from London, telling him we were in his beloved homeland. He sent a postcard from up the coast near Santa Barbara where he often went with friends around Christmas. The postcard in December of 2020 told me how much they loved the molasses cookies we baked and packaged carefully and snuck out to our secret post office at night to mail in a terrible surge of the pandemic. We hadn’t seen Francis in person since March and those letters and postcards were our tether. The cookies were an extension of that tether. They were the cookies his mother used to make. I loved that he loved them.

Francis would pluck flowers, even roses, from front yards or who knows where, and present them to Angela and I on spring mornings in the breezeway at church. He didn’t often go into the sanctuary for the worship service, preferring to sit in the warm air and listen from afar. He did not seem to like to be confined, I figured out after a while. He’d lived on the street a long time. But eventually, he got an apartment. And it was as if he’d won the lottery. Everyone who knew him had won the lottery. We celebrated and shed happy tears. And we had a housewarming!

I’ll never forget sitting in that big half moon booth at Denny’s. Eating and laughing and celebrating. Then we made our way a few blocks down and found the apartment building. He showed us all around the studio as if it were the grandest palace he’d ever seen. And it was. Because it was his. It was perfect. I noted the dishrags Angela and I had knitted him being used as doilies on an end table, the scented soaps we’d gifted him displayed in the kitchen. Francis had an apartment. For the last six years of his life. That fact makes me cry again today.

Francis didn’t have an apartment when we first met. He’d come over to the United States from England at some point, though dates were fuzzy with him. He had a fiancee who we believe passed away and that was his transatlantic catalyst. He spoke of her, and his family, with fondness. He went to boarding school. His father was a teacher. He loved that Angela and I were teachers. He asked Angela about her kids every time he saw her. 

So many nights I sat in my living room, darning clothes, patching sweaters, teaching myself how to repair a jacket, all for Francis. He found out early on I could sew, and constantly had projects for me. He was always dressed so well and took such great care in the items he collected and I was happy to help him stitch a few things up. As I stitched, I always thought of him, him and his smile. That smile that never failed to appear on a Tuesday just before closing time or when I’d pull up to his home to pick him up for an appointment. 

He never failed to ask about my parents, he loved the winter hat mom knitted for him and wore it long into the warmer months. He wrapped the scarves she made him around and around his neck and grinned. He asked about other mutual friends and always had a clipping or a magazine for someone. He loved to read and watch old movies and he was a writer. Screenwriting brought him to Los Angeles. Though he never let on exactly what he was writing. 

In our letters in 2020 and early 2021 we discussed heading back to Denny’s once we got the all clear. He promised he’d get vaccinated, we did too. He said he had lots to keep him busy inside, always something to clean or read. He missed the library though. 

We sent him a book or two and we smiled whenever we’d get a note from him. Angela often read them aloud at the dinner table as she was the Francis handwriting whisperer (that teacher thing!). We all knew we’d be back to normal soon. 

But then that orange envelope came back. 

I have put off writing about Francis for almost a year. But today, on the one year anniversary of his passing, I forced myself to sit down and do it. 

I figure out my feelings, I figure out life, through my words, through my fingers on the keyboard. And I’d given myself too long to let all of that roll around in my brain. Some days I can pretend he’s not gone because we don’t visit on Tuesdays or Sundays anymore. I can just tell myself I’m waiting for the next letter. I’ll send more molasses cookies soon. 

But I know, because grief tells me, that that isn’t true. My heart is broken because he is gone. My grief is real. I cannot ignore that. 

The last three years have taken so much from us but one of the worst things is the ability for so many, myself included, to be in physical community with others. I miss being with my friends in person. I miss making new friends in person. I know times will change and life will resume for me eventually, as it already has for so many. But for now, for then, for what has happened, it is just this. 

Francis is gone. I will continue to mourn him. And I will never forget him. His smile, his laughter, his accent, his hugs, his letters, and most of all, his heart. 

Thank you for loving me and my family, Francis. Thank you for being a part of my family. 

I miss you. 

I will always miss you. 

And that's a wrap!

Eight months of preparation. Three months of writing. Countless hours of studying, learning, making decisions. Creating a look book (the colors and design and actual visual look of what the film will be on screen), watching audition tapes, considering budget, buying props, making changes to the script, hiring crew, figuring out how to create a shot list, creating a shot list, lining the script for said shot list, blocking out shots in my house day after day, cleaning the house, individual meetings with the cast and crew, negotiating COVID protocols, worrying, stressing, being excited...

Eight months of work. 

And in 48 hours it was over. 

We began at 6:15am Saturday and we wrapped Sunday at 6:02pm! 

AND IT WAS AMAZING. 

Every single minute of it was exciting and fun and exactly what I had hoped it would be. Honestly, it was so much more than I had hoped it might be. We had a crew that showed up and WORKED. Many of them are union members and professionals and signed up to work on our project for reduced fees (or no fees), to support our project and our vision and women-led films and yet, they committed to the days like we were a big budget project. 

When I was asked this summer by a friend what a director's job is on set, I said leader. The director is the person who sets the tone, who gets everyone going, who builds momentum, and who creates the vision we will execute. And that's what I worked hard to do this past weekend. I started by gathering everyone early Saturday morning and saying two main things I wanted for our project: number one, that everyone be safe, and if they didn't feel safe, to come find me immediately, and number two for us to have fun. And I think we accomplished both of those things! 

I had a directing cheat sheet I'd cobbled together over the past few months and years, things I knew I should do day of, for every scene and every shot. And I did those for the first hour. And then things just came naturally to me, to all of us. We came together as a team and made it happen! 

Was it 102 degrees at one point, over 90 degrees INSIDE our house? Yes it was.

Were there mosquitoes everywhere? Yes there were.

Did the planes from Burbank's airport have me calling "CUT" more times that any of us would have liked? Yes they did. 

But...we persevered. 

I think one of the parts of the weekend, and of the job, that I was most surprised at, and want to learn more about but really found enjoyable all weekend was the juxtaposition of the technical side of storytelling and the art side of storytelling. Here was a story I'd written, characters I'd birthed in my brain, into a family, into a world, that I'd formed. And this weekend, real people inhabited those characters, became those people and that family, and moved into this world in a very real, tangible, way. Theses actors held hands and ate donuts and carried bags and got angry and broke things and laughed...all because of this story I created. To see the way those two sides came together, to see on a small (but very heavy) screen I wore around my neck (sometimes, again, it was very heavy) what these actors and crew members were doing was simply mind-boggling. 

I watched as our Director of Photography (DP) changed the look of the shot by rotating the camera lens. I marveled at how the visual of the whole scene softened when our PAs (shoutout to Abby and Jaime, family friends who ROCKED their jobs!) moved the lights and set up filters. I eavesdropped as two of our actors stayed in character between takes and crafted backstories so beyond anything I'd ever imagined in their commitment to doing their jobs at the highest level. I smiled every time I saw our COVID Compliance Officer (CCO) turn on the portable air purifier between scenes to keep us all safe. And then there was Angela...

She was promoted quickly from CCO (we hired another woman to fill the role) to AD (Assistant Director), the person who handles the logistics of running the set. Angela kept us going all weekend by ALWAYS knowing what was going on, constantly handing me a water bottle, being ready with the clapboard for every single take (which meant being in constant communication with the Script Supervisor), coordinating who went where, answering hundreds of questions, helping to frame shots AND move the patio umbrella about two dozen times. She did every COVID rapid test in the morning and then took hundreds of still photos and videos for us to use for social media. The weekend just didn't happen without her. 

And honestly, it didn't happen without every single person who was here. And who genuinely seemed pleased to be here at 6:15am on what was mostly her or his day off. And that's the fun of it. We all WANT to make cool things. We all WANT to tell stories that don't get told often enough. This particular story is about grief and post-traumatic growth and miscarriage and on Sunday at one point, a large group of us had the most amazing conversation about politics and health care and women and it was just...one of those things that only happens when people come together. When we do something instead of just pretending like we can't make a change or be a part of something bigger. 

Speaking of change, on Saturday at noon, a reminder went off on my watch. As soon as we finished the scene and broke for lunch I went to my bedroom and did exactly what one of my favorite directors says to do as a new filmmaker. I changed my socks. Ava Duvernay says change your socks at lunch each day and you'll feel like a new woman. And she was correct! I was hot and sweaty and at the same time tired and hyped but changing my socks, it felt exactly right. And then I was ready for the rest of the day.  

Are there other things I'd like to go back and change about our weekend? Yes! A hundred times yes! Cooler weather, more time to get different shots, more time with the actors, a bigger budget, etc. And yet...I don't think I'd really change a thing. I know I'll be processing what we did for a long time. I'll write more about it at some point. And the job isn't done yet either. The DP (who now has his editor hat on) and I will begin the editing process now. We'll take the work that every single person did this past weekend and we'll distill it down into the best 10 or so minutes it can be. And then we'll send it out into the world. 

But for now? For now, I'm going to keep smiling. I'm still tired. My mind is still reeling from what we did, what I did. But I do know this for sure: I want to do this again and again and again. It was a hell of a lot of fun. 

#AWomanDirectedThat

To Make Something

A few years ago, maybe it was more, certainly not less but time is an odd thing anymore, I made a decision that I was going to direct a movie. My movie. 

I made this decision after a host of adventures in this industry, some good, some less than good, and then set about to learn everything I could about directing. 

I shadowed a well-known episodic director. I read books. I listened to podcasts. I attended roundtables and classes and screenings. I took classes. I signed up for programs and talked to other directors and actors. I directed a scene. I planned to direct more, to gather groups of friends and start the actual work of training. And then...well we all know what happened. Time became odd. Months morphed into years and here we are.

I didn't exactly give up on directing but when the pandemic hit I realized my project had to go on the shelf for a host of reasons. So I dove back into writing. I blogged daily. I wrote a new screenplay and another pilot. I wrote a novel. I started rewriting said novel. And then I got a text message.

It was in December, right before we were scheduled to go back home for Christmas. It was from my friend and former producing partner, Ayelette, of The Couch fame! She was thinking of dipping her toe back in the water of production. Was I interested? 

I was. I am. And so here we are. Six months later.

I've written a short film script titled Laughing Again. 

The script was years, then months, in the making. As most stories are for me. I write them all at once after I've been writing them my whole life. 

This year has been a whirlwind. It started with Dad getting sick and then Angela and I traveling back and forth to Michigan more than we ever do in a given year, much less in the span of a few months. It has been new and continuing waves of the pandemic that have created so much uncertainty and fear in so many ways but we've figured it all out. But when Ayelette and I first chatted on Zoom in December, I knew this was going to happen. I already had the central image of the film in my mind. I saw it as clearly as if it were already filmed. 

And it will be. Soon. Very soon. 

Yesterday, Angela and I took the training to become COVID Compliance Officers (CCOs) on film sets. We did this because the first week of August we'll be filming Laughing Again.

There's so much work left to do. But it's all falling into place and coming together and it's happening. 

This morning I received the first batch of taped auditions for the two roles we have left to cast. It was exhilarating to watch these women, to listen to these women, as they read my words. As they embodied the characters I created. As they brought to life, for just a few moments, this story I've seen only in my head and on some pieces of paper. 

Angela will be our CCO. A friend's daughter who wants to make movies is going to help us out on set. We'll film over the course of a weekend at our house. (Not the plan when we started but it seems meant to be now, #ClubCleon is going to be famous!) 

And I'm going to direct. 

Finally!

Recently, a friend asked if I was nervous about directing. And honestly? No. I thought I would be. And no, this isn't about hubris. I know I've only ever directed one scene in my life. And I'll mess up and I'll do it a bunch before I get better. But...I'm preparing. I'm learning. And I'm excited. I'm surrounded by people who are also excited to do this. To produce. To film. To make something. 

And I cannot wait to share that something with the world. Soon. So soon. 

In our pre-production days. On set. After. What an adventure. Let's go! 

#AWomanWroteThat

#AWomanDirectedThat 

This Lenten Season

Today was my assigned day for the Lenten devotional for Hollywood UMC:

Philippians 3:17 – 4:1

Agree together, my friends, to follow my example. You have us for a model; watch those whose way of life conforms to it. 

 

Friends volunteering at the HUMC Tuesday Lunch in 2019

One of the losses I’ve grieved the most in the past two years is the loss of my in-person volunteering experiences. Yes, I’ve found ways to volunteer from home since the pandemic began but I have not been able to recreate the time spent in the company of the people I volunteered with. I miss them. I miss the conversations, the hugs, the smiles, the venting sessions, the tears, the community. I had friends at my sister’s middle school where I chaperoned dances and cleaned out filing cabinets. I had friends at Planned Parenthood where I folded letters and addressed en
velopes. I had friends at Hollywood UMC’s Tuesday lunch program. Friends who knew me, knew my family, friends who supported me in ways I didn’t even know I needed supporting. 

 

And it’s true, I still have those friends. The people are not gone. But the time we spent together, in close physical proximity, disappeared in the blink of an eye. I haven’t seen some of those friends in person in almost two years. I haven’t hugged them. I haven’t seen the lines around their eyes crinkle at a story. I haven’t sat quietly together as we worked. And that changes a person. That has changed me. 

 

However, that change isn’t all bad. In this Bible passage Paul instructs us to “keep track of those you see running this same course, headed for this same goal” (The Message) and I think about that when I think about these people I volunteered with. Whether we worked together at church or at school or somewhere else, we all worked for a common purpose, to help others. We gave of our time, our selves, for others, to others. These are my people, no matter where we are, what we are doing. And when I talk to them today (thank goodness for social media, telephones, and yes, good old-fashioned paper and stamps), I still know we are running the same course. Their lives, and mine, still show that and they are inspiration for me to keep going. We share our love for Christ, and our hope for this Lenten season, through our actions. Through our lives. I’m grateful for them. I’m grateful for Paul’s reminder to take note of those who conform to the model set before us. Lent is a good reminder to take time to recommit to sharing our love, and to creating community with those who strive toward that same goal. 

 

Dear Lord – Thank you for examples, whether they’re from Paul in Philippians or from people in our lives today. And please Lord, remind us that one day our communities will be able to be together in-person more and more. It is that hope, and your love, that sustains me, and so many others, through this particular Lenten season. 

 

 

Angela's Advent Devotion for the Season

Angela's Advent Devotion: 

Zephaniah 3:14-15

“Sing…..shout aloud! Be glad and rejoice with all your heart!” 

 

To be honest, when I opened my email with my assigned Advent scripture, I was like who is Zephaniah?! But then I started to read. And I found out that he wrote his book about a pretty tough time in his country of Judah. There was a sense that the nation’s future hung in the balance and Zephaniah’s words could help. 

 

Okay, I can relate. I suspect we can all relate. We’ve gone through a pretty tough time lately here in our nation as well. The last presidency, the pandemic, now the pandemic part two…it’s unrelenting. And sometimes, I have a hard time seeing a way out of this tough time. 

 

And so when I started reading Zephaniah, I realized him and all of Judah were going through some things. It seemed the Lord was angry and wasn’t holding back. But… (there’s always a but in the Bible) if they trusted God, they would be alright. In fact, He reminded them that He would be with them always. And raise them up.

 

It’s that “but” that keeps me going. And I suspect so many others as well. It’s been a terrible year (yes, I’m talking about 2021) but…there were so many happy moments. Work has been harder this month than ever before but…I love the kids I get to see at drop off every morning. I miss eating out in restaurants or brunching with friends but…I’ve perfected homemade pizza and we have more frequent intentional catch-ups now. The list goes on and on. 

 

God (and my new friend Zephaniah) remind us to shout aloud, to be glad, to have a happy heart even when things are hard or were really hard not that long ago. And while it’s difficult at times, I try to remind myself of that whenever I’m down. While this may not be a season with as many gatherings as usual, I am safe and I am keeping others
safe and God is taking care of us all. That’s surely something to shout about! 

 

Prayer – 

God, you’ve turned back our enemy, figuratively and literally, time and time again, and I rejoice over that today and always. Thank you, for getting us through the tough times, and for reminding us there are always reasons to rejoice, at Christmastime and all the time. Amen. 

My Advent Devotion for the Season

Luke 3: 1-6

“Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low…”

 

Christmas has always been my favorite season. My heart brightens at the sight of the first Christmas lights spotted on a dark drive. My voice belts out every and any Christmas song I hear. I get way too much joy from wrapping packages and laying them beneath the tree. And yet…this season has felt different. 

 

Last year we had to make the best of things. We sacrificed being with family and friends for the greater good. We celebrated in our homes, alone or with our housemates, watching gifts be opened on Zoom, singing the Christmas Eve carols with a virtual congregation. So this year, when I booked our tickets to fly home, across the country, for Christmas, I thought my heart might sing. I thought my cup of joy would overflow. But it hasn’t…yet. 

 

Last year was hard. We lost so many, so much. And I thought this year would be different. And it is. But it is its own kind of hard too. We wonder what is next. We wonder if we’re doing the right thing. But isn’t that every year? Should we spend the money? Should we change jobs? Should we trust that it will all be OK? 

 

John the Baptist reminds us in this passage to prepare the way for the Lord’s coming, which is what Advent is all about. He reminds us to be content, to share, to prepare. Sounds simple enough. But then why am I not as joyous as I want to be? Why do I feel a sense of fear and dread? 

 

Because even though there are scary things out there, and genuine things to worry about, I have lost sight of what this season is really about. It’s not about the travel or the gifts or the songs. It’s about preparing the way for the Lord’s arrival. It’s about preparing for that baby who has come to save us all. And isn’t that glorious? The rough ways will be made smooth by Him…and all of that work happens right here within me. An important reminder as the season takes hold. 

 

Prayer – 

Lord, thank you for this season. For this reminder. For your gifts, big and small. A tiny baby, a unique snowflake, a friend’s laugh, a soft hug, a nudge to make the right choice. Thank you for, literally, everything. 

One Year Ago, One Year From Now

One year ago today we were sitting in our rental house on Abbey Place in Los Angeles, a heat wave melting us. We were working and trying to make it through another day of life in the Safer At Home world. It was Day 90 of The Distancing. At some point in the late morning Angela called me into her office (AKA her bedroom) where she was laid out on her bed, working, listening to a Zoom PD about something or other. 

Brent & Angela one year ago tomorrow

I found this house, she said. On Redfin. I didn't even know what Redfin was at that point. She sent me the link and we looked at it. We dreamed. She had made a list a few days earlier of everything she'd wanted in a house and it seemed to have all of that. And some. And so...she called our friend Brent, who became our real estate broker Brent and the next day (one year ago tomorrow) we would visit Club Cleon for the very first time. We'd fall in love instantly. We'd know this was where we were meant to be. And we'd put in an offer that very evening. 

One year ago.

I keep thinking, as The Distancing becomes much more of a memory, of all that life entailed a year ago. I listen to podcasts recorded last year and I giggle at the reminder that we quarantined our groceries for days on end. That we wore gloves whenever we went outside. That we weren't as big on the masks back then. (Well, we were by June.) I smile at the memories but I also remember the real fear. And I remind myself it's not over yet. We just have better masks now. 

The 400 days we spent physically distanced from most of the world was hard. It was devastating. It was, at times, simply too much to comprehend. We lost friends and family members we still haven't properly mourned. We lost time together which we'll mourn forever. We lost momentum and energy and fight. 

And in some ways we gained all of that too. We gained more time with family and friends then might have happened in another timeline. We reconnected with people via Zoom and FaceTime in ways that kept us up to date daily, weekly, monthly in ways we'd never been done before. Game nights became once a month instead of once a year events. Coffee with college friends became regular dates. Yes, Christmas wasn't as magical as it usually is for me but I adjusted. I rolled with it. We all did. 

Angela and I never would have contemplated moving much less buying a house if it weren't for that time. We likely wouldn't have started our Instagram cooking show that brought us so much joy and hopefully a little joy to some others. I'm not sure Angela would have ever perfected her homemade pizza dough recipe, a staple we now love and serve to family! I never would have taken the month of November to write a novel. 

I certainly wouldn't have taken the time out to begin meditating once a week, on a schedule, had I been in production on my film instead of locked inside. The film will still happen, one day, but I also know the meditation will continue. I still remember how it felt that first Wednesday night when we sat down to worship and the meditation was so new, and so welcome. 

One year ago Club Cleon was but a dream. A dream we barely dared dreaming. We sat and looked at those photos on that website and wondered what if. And then we bought Bob the tomato a bigger house and thought, no, this can't possibly happen. 

And yet it did. 

As we move back toward one another, toward the way things used to be, I have to think that The Distancing gave as much as it took. I have to have faith that we'll come out the other side of this OK. Not great, not happy, not even better. Just OK. I have to have that faith so that I can continue on. So I can keep venturing out, in my dreams, and in my physical space. 

One year ago. 

What will one year from now become? 

Guest Blog - Angela's Lenten Devotion

Angela's lenten devotion written for Hollywood United Methodist Church: 

Psalm 51: 1-2 

Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions. 

One of my jobs as an educator is to teach students that it’s ok to make mistakes. We often discuss that once a mistake is made, the best thing that the student can do is to adjust their behavior moving forward. If I am being honest, it usually doesn’t take the first time, especially in middle school. Sometimes I have that conversation many, many times with the same student. And that’s ok, because the students know that I am going to listen and give them space to make better choices. Middle school is just the beginning of learning how to make mistakes and how to move forward from them.  

As adults, we can be hard on ourselves when we make mistakes and it can effect everything from our health to our relationships. By taking our mistakes to God, we can ask forgiveness and begin the healing that needs to happen. The prayer that David prays in Psalm 51 is the perfect prayer for us to keep on hand and incorporate into our daily prayer and talks with God. 

Lenten promises

My lenten devotion written for Hollywood United Methodist Church: 

Psalm 25:6-10 (The Message)

“Mark the milestones of your mercy and love, God;
Rebuild the ancient landmarks!

Forget that I sowed wild oats;
Mark me with your sign of love.
Plan only the best for me, God!

God is fair and just;
He corrects the misdirected,
Sends them in the right direction.

He gives the rejects his hand,
And leads them step-by-step.

From now on every road you travel

Will take you to God.
Follow the Covenant signs;
Read the charted directions.”

 

As I sat reading this passage in my Student Bible (hey, pink neon cover from high school!) and in The Message Bible, I focused in on the part that asks God to plan only what is best for me. Jeremiah 29:10 is my go-to memorization verse, where God says He has plans to prosper me and not harm me, plans to give me a hope and a future.  And this psalm fits nicely with that reminder from Jeremiah. I ask Him for help and God says, “I got you, girl.” 

 

And as I sat there reading and praying, I thought about how I haven’t felt that God’s had my back much in this past year. I have felt alone (I am not), I have felt afraid for my physical safety (I have not been in harm’s way), I have felt anxious, I have felt scared, I have felt abandoned by the people in charge (we all were), I have felt angry (join the club, right??). And I have had a hard time focusing on what I should be focusing on, what God has laid out for me. And none of those feelings have anything to do with God changing, they’ve all been because of me changing. 

 

He promises me I will never be alone. He promises me I will be alright with him. And yet…I stray. I spend time reading the news and being angry and trying to make a difference and all of that is OK. I know that. But more than that, I need to follow His signs, listen to His directions, take His hand. 

 

I wake up most mornings thinking about what I cannot control. I cannot get the vaccine into my parents’ arms or others’ arms. I cannot will my sister and her students back into their physical classrooms. I cannot wave my arms and vanquish this virus. I cannot snap my fingers and erase the hatred in people’s hearts. So, I roll over and I pick up my daily devotional. I used to read it at night and sometimes I’d be too tired or too into Twitter and I’d forget about it. But now I read it each and every morning. There’s no excuse I can use. I roll over and I pick up the book and I spend just a few moments with God. I think about how everything is SO HARD right now. And then I think about how fortunate I am – because I know that God will send me in the right direction. He will listen to my thoughts and prayers and He will lead me, step-by-step. He is right there with me. He wants everything I want. He loves everyone I love. And that helps. 

 

It doesn’t completely take away the fear or the anxiety or the anger. Sometimes we need other tools to deal with those parts of our lives. I know that too. But knowing He’s charted the directions is a good tool to have as part of my arsenal. He’s there with me. He’s here with me. He’s here with each and every one of us. And we need Him now more than ever. Him and His reminders. 

 

Dear Lord – Thank you for rebuilding the ancient landmarks, including my soul. Thank you for marking me with your love. Even when the markings are faint, I know deep down they are there. Continue to guide me, Lord, even when I stray, especially when I stray. Amen. 

Angela's Advent Devotion

Angela's Advent Devotion

Mark 13:32-36

But about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come…

Telling a child that Santa is watching makes parenting a wee bit easier in the months leading up to Christmas. No one wants Santa to take away their gifts because they were whiny or misbehaved at the mall. As an adult who still gets presents from Santa, I make sure to mind my Ps and Qs this time of year as well.

Here’s the thing, God is always watching. It is up to us to remember that and act accordingly. Not just on Sunday or when we remember. It is up to us to have empathy for those around us, to share in the joy and pain we see around us.

Throughout the past few months, heartbreaking and challenging as they have been, a theme has emerged from the Zoom calls with colleagues, friends and family. Give grace. The whole world is struggling, and our lives have changed so dramatically in such a short period of time. We are encouraging one another to extend grace to those around us and to ourselves. We are doing enough, we are enough.

When we are able move forward as a society, I hope we do not lose the idea of extending grace to those around us. The truth is we can never know another person’s circumstances or experiences. Just as Santa is watching during the Christmas season, God is watching through all the seasons. Each time we extend grace we honor and renew our commitment to be the Christians God has taught us to be.

Prayer: 

Dear God, thank you for the grace you extend to each and every person, may we follow your example and be your light this holiday season.

The season of Advent is upon us...

Today is the first day of Advent and I wrote the devotion for Hollywood United Methodist Church to start the season.  

Isaiah 40:28-31

“Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless. Even youths will faint and be weary, and the young will fall exhausted; but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.”

When I opened up my email to see which scripture I’d been assigned for this year’s advent devotion, I read my verses and thought, yeah, that’s about right. That’s so 2020. That’s exactly what I’m feeling…

 

I have grown weary and I feel powerless, I am exhausted and I sometimes have a hard time understanding what’s happening and more so, why it’s happening. It’s been a year full of sickness and strife and so much pain. So. Much. Pain. 

 

I am heartbroken for so many, for our world. I am sad all the time. I am angry all the time. I am fragile and jaded all at once. And yet…

 

This passage from Isaiah reminds me that there is help. It reminds me that even though this year has been one like no other I’ve experienced; God is in control. He will renew me when I cannot renew myself. He will help me to stand tall and confident and He will shore up my reserves. And I need that. Every. Single. Day.

 

This advent season will be so different from any we’ve ever experienced. We will not gather in person to worship or celebrate. We will not gather in person to exchange gifts and eat cookies. We will not carol with friends. We will not shop in malls. We will not eat and drink and be merry in public or with anyone who doesn’t live in our house. We will celebrate differently but we will still celebrate. 

 

For the Lord will renew us regardless of what the world throws at us. And we will mount up with wings like eagles. We will hunker down and be thankful for what we have and that we are healthy and able to stay at home when we can. We will run and not be weary. We will wear masks and smile with our eyes, spreading the news of Jesus’ birth online and via the postal service. We will walk and not faint. We will be hopeful for what tomorrow will bring, knowing God will protect us, that He will save us. He’s got us. 

 

Advent is about waiting and preparing. We do that as we get ready for the baby Jesus’ birth. We do that too as we get ready for life after the pandemic. We put our faith and trust in Him. We believe in Him. We love Him. Because no matter how tired and powerless we feel, He loves us, He strengthens us. Every. Single. Day. 

 

Prayer – God, please hold our communities close. Please be with every person who is doing their part to make this world safer, healthier, happier, better. Please strengthen all of us. You are amazing, God. And we remember that, even in the darkest of days. Amen. 

  

I do not know what tomorrow will bring but...

Four years ago I wrote a blog post entitled: What happens next. In it I wrote about my sadness, my disappointment, and my determination not to quiet my voice. We had experienced a long election season and I had campaigned mightily for Hillary Clinton, among others. And we lost. 

I wrote these words at the end of that post: 

Be that person who's not just asking what happens next but actually be that person who goes out and does what happens next. Because what happens next will be extraordinary. It has to be.

And it's true. The last four years have been extraordinary. I have never been so invested in so many issues and projects outside of myself. Four years. I keep thinking about how my life is so very similar to how it was all those days ago. And yet, how it's so very different. 

Since 2016, I've made a web series. I've committed to directing a movie (pandemic-pending, but isn't everything?!). I've helped feed and cloth people. I've raised money. I've raised awareness. I've helped make sustainable menstrual health solutions for girls and women around the world. I've marched for and worked to help educators and students. And I've worked to Get Out The Vote more because I believe that is one of the most important things we can do. We need leaders who we can be proud of. We need leaders who look like us. ALL OF US. We need leaders with empathy. We need leaders who are smart. We need leaders who are women. And I've tried to help with that. And I'm proud of every single person I know who's doing all of these things too and so much more. 

So much has happened in the last four years. And yet, when I think back, I'm immediately flooded with stomach-churning memories of that night. The night we knew the election wasn't ours. Of the day after when I needed comfort from friends and family. When friends and family needed comfort from me. When we hugged and cried and decided we'd grieve but we'd try again. Because...

What else is there? 

These last four years have not been ordinary. They have not been easy. They have not been palatable. They have not been calm. Not for one moment. They have been violent. They have been heartbreaking. They have been maddening. They have been full of terror and anger and astonishment. 

I've never invested so much time into learning about my country, my government, foreign policy, community movements. And while I'm exhausted by it all, I have no right to be. I am a citizen. I am a woman. I should expect this from myself. I should expect to be involved. To be constantly learning and evolving and sharing. As part of a community, a country, I need to do better. Be better. TRY HARDER. We all do. 

I do not know what tomorrow will bring. I am equal parts terrified and excited, hopeful and anxious, angry and ecstatic. I do not know what tomorrow will bring. But I do know that the next four years will again, be extraordinary. They have to be. 

My mother, my grandmothers, and my great-grandmothers fought for me every day. They fought for me in ways big and small, by marching with their minds and with their feet. They wanted to make this world a better place for all of us, not just women. And I will pick up that baton, whatever tomorrow's outcome is. I will continue on. I will remind myself of that through the dread and the fear and the small glimmer of hope. I have to be the person who's not just asking what happens next but actually be that person who goes out and does what happens next. We all have to be that person. And it starts tomorrow, by voting. 

Please, BE A VOTER. Tomorrow and always. 

200 Days

Angela & our 200 Days of Distancing pie

Two hundred days ago was a Saturday. It was our very first day of The Distancing. We started a jigsaw puzzle. We assessed our grocery situation. We called our parents and texted our friends. We watched the first Fast and Furious movie. That seems like a lifetime ago. And yet I remember it so very clearly. 

In the past 200 days we've lost 200,000 Americans to this virus. To COVID-19. That terrifies me. And so I stay at home. I read the news day and night. I watch funny shows to dull that fear. I bake. I cook. I eat cheese and crackers for Sunday dinner. I cry. I rage. I take pictures. I write on my laptop, in a journal, on Instagram. 

We've experienced the start of three seasons during Safer At Home. Spring, summer, and today, fall. When Angela said last night that today is the first day of fall I replied, RUDE. And that's my general mood. I have friends and family who finished their distancing months ago, tens of thousands deaths ago. I try to remind myself I cannot control that. What I can control is my household, my environment, my actions, myself. 

So much has changed in the past 200 days. We moved. We left the house we'd called home for 12 years and bought a place to call our own for hopefully as long and beyond. We've lost people we love. My hair is so long. Angela's might be longer. We've grieved lost vacations, lost opportunities, and lost time with people, maybe the worst part of all of this. We cannot get that time back. 

Angela and I often talk about how this period has been a blessing to us and some of our family in so many ways. We firmly believe we would not have this house if COVID hadn't happened. We know people who would not have life changing opportunities if not for this pandemic. Our lives would have taken a very different path. But that path would have led us to Alaska and Vancouver and making a movie. A MOVIE. Instead we now own a swimming pool and luxuriate in central air conditioning while celebrating a script of mine winning a writing contest. Different timelines for sure. Better? Worse? We can't dwell on that too much. There's too much heartache. 

Two hundred days ago my toes were painted bright pink. I had a week-old pedicure. Today my toes are the color I was born with and they need their bi-monthly trim. I miss the pedicures. I miss the pampering. I miss the ladies who smiled when we walked in and always asked how our dad was. But when I took off that pink polish at the end of March I noticed my nails were slightly yellow underneath and had some weird ridges. Today? Today my nails are not at all yellow and they are perfectly formed as my toenails should be. They needed the time to breath after 14+ years of never having seen the light of day except for a few minutes between polish changes. Isn't it interesting what 200 days can teach us. 

In the last 200 days I've grown a tomato plant and eaten more tomatoes than I probably have in the past two years. Angela had never willingly eaten tomatoes before this. Now she requests bruschetta when we have extras. We learned to make our own pizza dough for a fraction of the price we used to pay for ready made pies elsewhere. I definitely never would have done that in the other timeline.

I've done almost 200 days of Spanish lessons, I've taken several photography classes, I've done a daily devotional and I've completed almost 200 daily crosswords from the LA Times. All things I likely would have never attempted or completed if not for the Distancing. 

The Distancing introduced us to Zoom game nights which I hope to continue with our friends and family across the country even when we can travel again. The Distancing has reintroduced us to people who we now chat with regularly who we hadn't spent time with regularly in decades. For that, I can never not be grateful. But the Distancing has stopped us from celebrating birthdays and births and lazy July days with those we love. The Distancing has instilled something in me that is not new but it certainly is distinct.

I live life constantly in fear. I know all of us do. Even if we pretend we don't. We fear aging. We fear losing people. We fear failure. We fear they'll be out of guac at Chipotle. Three hundred days ago I feared catching a cold or the flu but I mitigated the exposure by justifying I'd get over it. As someone with an autoimmune disease I have always been extremely susceptible to illness. I accept that even though I fear it and hate it. When I worked and/or volunteered in places where germs spread readily (i.e., schools or churches) I used hand sanitizer more than anyone should. And I accepted my fate that I'd likely end the Book Fair or the fall event with a cold. More often than not I'd get off an airplane with a head cold. Christmas vacation wasn't Christmas vacation without some form of sickness. I've played golf in the middle of August with a sinus infection. It's just my lot in life. There is so much worse I could have to deal with. But this...this time...it's different.

Two hundred days of being at home. Well, at two homes. We managed a safe move and for that I'll always be impressed and happily surprised. Two hundred days of mounting death tolls. Two hundred thousand souls we pray for and millions more left behind we grieve with. Two hundred days of making silly baking shows that bring us as much laughter as we hope that do our friends. Two hundred days of learning new words and swearing when we don't know old ones over the crossword with my parents on FaceTime. Two hundred days of opening our phones in the morning fearful of what the day might possibly bring next. Two hundred days of jigsaw puzzles and podcasts and crying for no reason and crying for every reason and not sleeping and sleeping in too late and no one even noticing because there are no longer time cards. Two hundred days of wondering if we could just go back and do it all over again, would we? Because then these two hundred days of life would vanish. And they haven't been all terrible. We laugh through the tears eventually. We order Twizzlers from Instacart. We remember when we couldn't buy fresh fruit and we couldn't get grocery deliveries or Advil from Target and we think about the fear we felt then we with a sense of nostalgia. And then we wish for that naive nostalgia because we wonder if tomorrow will really be worse. And in a way, it will be. We know more. And that's good and bad. 

My prayer is that in 200 more days life is drastically different. And at the same time I hope it's somewhat the same. That's the joy of being human isn't it? We yearn for comfort and we long for adventure. We can't have both. But we can. 

Two hundred days. A lifetime in the blink of an eye.