For my daughter's baptism

Written on the eve of her baptism

I was baptized once
Twice, three times for good measure
Desperate to make sure God was looking when I went under
Like a kid yelling for mom to watch before doing that really cool trick

I’m thankful for those that raised us 
and the songs that uplifted us
and the stories that imprinted onto us
the way of love and humility and justice

And I want to teach them all to you and we will but oh my sweet child, dear daughter of mine, this is what I will teach you before all the rest—

You are already a beautiful, beloved Child of God. 

God is already watching you, already creating life with you, with every breath you take and thing you discover about this amazing world. 

There is nothing, nothing, nothing you could do to better earn or even ever lose that blessing, dear heart. 

So we baptize you in the faith, trusting in that deep down, believing that no where you will ever go will be outside the love of the God who knit you together in my being, who knows your befores and afters and forevers. 

You, dear one, are eternally blessed. May the waters that mark your head seal this prayer in our hearts forever. Amen.

Who comforts God? (2022)

Who comforts God on days like this?
When God’s children cry out in agony
When evil tears apart the souls of the beloveds
Who comforts the Creator?

Does God turn on a mindless movie to tune out the sorrows of the world
Or instead is God’s grief swallowed down with ice cream
Or does God whisper out, “I just need a hug” before collapsing
Into the couch, pulling a blanket over their face
Dreading the light of the next morning where it must all be faced again.

God, who comforts you?
The pastors and the therapists—we go to other pastors and therapists
Encircling each other with enough care to make it through the day
But if you are God—the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer—where do you go
When the creation is dying
And the redemption seems failing
And the sustaining isn’t lasting

God, my God, who comforts you?
If I ascend to the heavens, you are there.
If I make my bed in the depths, you can crawl in with me.
We will hold each other, and we will cry out
For grace and mercy and justice and resurrection.
Even there your hand will guide me, our hands will hold each other steadfast.
We’ll see through the darkest night because you light the way.

God, forgive us and maybe we can comfort you.

I dreamed of being 60

God, thank you for my body

I wrote this prayer awhile back, but I’m sharing it now during my journey through “My Body is Not An Apology” by Sonya Renee Taylor.

God, thank you for my body
Fearfully and wonderfully made
Knit together in my mother’s womb
Now outside, but still connected

Thank you for my body
My soft folds that exude love through cushioned hugs
My heavy chest that bears the sobs of those in pain
My thick legs that testify of a more just world when we march
My kind face that honors the complexity of others’ stories
Thank you for my body

I repent for the years I spent in self-loathing 
The sin of hating what you have loved
And I pledge to use every pound I carry
To preach of a world that is free and full of joy

Amen. 

A Deep Breath for the Last Week of July

An open letter to my community, but also for higher ed professionals and students everywhere:

Today starts the last week of July. Even in normal years, I like to think of this week as the deep breath before diving into the pool. Yes, planning and preparing for the fall has happened all summer, but the tone shifts in August. Yes, many of you have been working EXTRA hard this summer to prepare for the unique fall that comes in 2020. But we need to be honest—everything we’ve thought so far about the fall was preliminary and full of contingencies, which makes us extra anxious... extra tired.

Deep breath before diving in. Breathe in, breathe out.

Some of us are dealing with the uncertainty by working more. Some of us are dealing with the uncertainty by checking out. It’s all human. It’s all beautifully human. You’re okay. We’re okay. Breathe in, breathe out.

Oh dear hearts. It’s not even just the stress of a pandemic, but the heartache of a hurting world that is not just, that is not equitable—where the same people keep leading and the same people keep profiting and we lose sight of the hope of change and new life.

Breathe in, breathe out. The dive in can be refreshing. The cool water against a hot face, you know?

So it is the last week of July. Can you take a deep breath? Can you lay in bed a few minutes longer? Make a meal you love? Dance a little wilder? Laugh a little louder? Stack joy like marbles in a jar that you can take out when you need them this fall? Because beloved, I can’t tell you what the fall brings. We never can tell, of course, but this year we’re admitting that we don’t know. Maybe this approach will serve us well.

Tell me what joy you’re going to collect this week, and I’ll ask you about it later. These marbles will sustain us. Feel the cool water on your hot face. Deep breath before we dive.

Rest for Creators

We tell the artists to keep creating
We know that art heals so we pray it heals us now
So to the creators—create.

But we also tell producers they might stop producing, and that's okay. After all, pandemics don't have to be productive, right?

Even God got tired after six days of creation. Does God still rest? Is God resting now? Is the seventh day a gift or a curse? I don't really know anymore.

I’m tired, and I need to rest.

When the Students Left

When the students left, the squirrels took over first. They yelled and ran and played, and we watched.

We saw one squirrel run up a power line. Use the cable to cross the street, and run back down. He knew what to do to stay safe. We watched.

Next, the birds took over. Did you know we have robins and cardinals and birds with blue on them and those big birds that stay high in the sky, circling the area looking for prey?

They're also louder, now that it's spring. Or is it because the students left?

I see people walking. One guy talks on his earpiece and tells funny snippets of stories, and we listen.

I once saw two women walking six feet apart, but now we're not supposed to do that either. Today it's quiet outside. Colder and gloomier. Windy. I don't see a single squirrel, bird, or walker.

But I watch.

Originally written April 13, 2020

Lent Begins With Ashes

Lent begins with ashes.

Lent begins with an admission of finitude, from dust to dust.

Lent begins, for me as a pastor, as a chaplain—with me looking my students and co-workers and friends in the eyes

And reminding them that they will die, but also that they are held in life and in death.

This year, Lent ends with a pandemic.

The death we reminded ourselves of weeks ago seems ever present this Lent.

I can still feel the ashes on my thumb—the foreheads of those I love pressed against it.

From dust to dust, ash to ash.

Lent ends with a pandemic, but also with the promise of resurrection.

From cradle to grave we are held.

Tiny Prayers

Tiny prayers (raw)

I’m tired.

Grant me patience.

I’m okay.

Am I going to be okay?

This isn’t what I wanted.

I’m breathing.

Are they going to be okay?

I love these people.

I do love these people.

I’m restless.

When will this be over?

Are we going to be okay?

I’m lonely.

I miss them.

This isn’t what we planned.

Why is this happening?

I can’t do this.

It’s too much.

I’m tired.

Already.

Tiny prayers (received)

Breathe. Rest.

Breathe. Rest.

Breathe. Rest.

Breathe. Rest.

Breathe. Rest.

Tiny prayers (clean)

I’m tired, but I won’t be forever.

I’m impatient, but I’m working on that.

I’m okay.

We’ll be okay.

The unplanned can surprise us, too.

I’m breathing. In and out.

We’ll be okay because we are held.

I love these people.

Love lasts. Love persists. Love never dies.

I must rest.

We must continue.

We must continue together.

We find ways to love, to be connected.

What a blessing it is to love and to be loved, to miss and to be missed.

We release what we thought this would be.

Sometimes things happen, and life is interrupted.

But we’ve been preparing for this, for when there’s interruption.

We meet this one day at a a time.

We pray, we rest, we breathe, we love.

Always.

In the Hours and Days Following an Announcement: Be Kind

To the community I love:

In the hours and days following an announcement that changes everything—be kind.

There are disappointments that seem small and anxieties that seem insurmountable. At times, the disappointments that seem trivial are merely masking the anxieties that seem unbearable. Be kind.

Only in kindness, only in grace, only in forgiveness, only together will we endure.

So when you are frustrated with another, take a deep breath.
And when it seems that they don’t get it, remind yourself that you might not get it either.
Or if you think they aren’t even trying, remember all that you do not see happening.

There are disappointments that feel too small to voice and anxieties too big to explain, and we must be kind.

Blessings,
Chaplain Hannah

A Different Time

Greetings! As the federal, state, and local governments and local schools and colleges make decisions in favor of social distancing, we will seek to come together in online spaces more than ever. This page will be used to collect prayers, poems, blessings, encouragements, and any other innovations we may create together. Feel free to share widely and mark this page with a bookmark for easy return.

All poems and prayers may be shared with attribution given to Hannah Adams Ingram unless otherwise stated.

Oh God, I’m Spinning Out: A Prayer

There is so much I do not know

There is so much I cannot see

There is so much I cannot control

In the moments I feel powerless, I will take a deep breath

trusting that I am tasked only with doing my part, not the whole

In the moments I feel unsure, I will take a deep breath

trusting that I am not alone and that together, our wisdom will be richer

In the moments I feel anxious, I will take a deep breath

trusting that there is no depth I can fall out of reach of the Spirit that holds me close

What I do know is that my life and love and worth extend far beyond my work

What I can see is that spring follows every winter and new life pokes out from cold ground

What I can control is my breath and the love I inject into a world so clearly lacking it

“And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.”