Now what?

Transfigured - There are no words

2012-02-19T19:56:00.002-06:00

In the story of the Transfiguration in the Bible, Jesus instructs the few disciples he has with them "not to talk about it." I've always wondered why that was. At one point, I thought it might be because Jesus knew that if they told the truth of what they saw and heard on that mountain, people would think they were insane and they would be rejected and stigmatized even more than they already were. At another reading, I thought perhaps Jesus was tired of people chasing after him. After all, he is/was human, and I'm sure he was worn out and tired. At yet another time, I thought perhaps it was reverse psychology - "Don't tell." Wink, wink. Today as I listened to another discussion of this event, it occurred to me. Perhaps none of these explanations make sense to me in the here and now. (Warning: this latest thought is subject to, and most likely will, change without warning.)

There are certain experiences in life humans get to have that are simply inexplicable. The birth of a child, the tragedy of great loss (whether to death or other circumstances), falling in love. These experiences are the subject of poetry, bad country music songs and much discussion. But really, nothing does them justice. It's just not possible to put into words, song or painting what it feels like to hold your newborn child in your arms. Breathing in her scent, gazing at him, feeling a child's weight in your arms for the first time. It is an experience that surpasses expression. It is not possible to explain it adequately to another person. No matter how artfully one tries, the experience is too rich, too textured, too beautiful to put into words that make sense to anyone who has not experienced the same event. And even someone who has experienced the same event will have a different experience and the words that I think are helpful in describing the experience may mean nothing to someone else.

I was reminded of this reality recently when it became clear to me I was falling in love again. It has been a very, very long time since I felt this way about a man. At first I wasn't even certain what to think or how to feel about it. I had the long-forgotten butterflies in my belly and I wasn't able to hold an ordinary thought in my head. I wasn't able to eat much and all I could think about was this man's voice in my mind. The term "falling" seemed to fit perfectly for this out-of-control state of being more than alive. The more I tried to be logical and resist these feelings, the more profoundly they became made manifest. Despite just having spent the past 5 minutes trying to explain how I have felt this past month, my words do not serve any real purpose. If you've ever fell in love, you might be able to relate...but your experience is undoubtedly different from mine. That's just part of being all too human. And mostly I don't want to try and express how I feel to anyone but my beloved, because it almost seems to cheapen the experience. How can one explain the fire in the belly that is part of falling in love? What words are there to use? If I were a painter, I could paint you a picture...but still my hues and designs would not bring to life how I feel about this man clearly enough.

All of this to say, I can't help but think that Jesus got this. I wonder when he told the disciples to "not tell anyone" if implicit in his instruction was the idea that no one else would get it. After all seeing some one's clothes change colors and seeing dead people wasn't what most of us would think of as an ordinary day. I think Jesus understood that some experiences in life are so amazing and incredible and beautiful...that all the discussion in the world will never do them justice. We can try to find the words, we can create a painting and write incredible melodies...but still we cannot fully put the experience into anything that makes sense to anyone but us and the other in our experience. I think Jesus lived his life fully alive...and therefore he had these sorts of experiences regularly. And yet he spent little time trying to explain the events of his life to others. The Bible indicates he wept at the death of his friend. That he sweated blood on the final night before his execution. That he expressed anger. But you don't find him waxing on eloquently about his life experiences. He doesn't appear to try and convince anyone about the amazing nature of life.

I suppose my latest thoughts about the Transfiguration are colored by my latest thoughts about finding love and then perhaps losing love in short order. But I can't help but think Jesus got it. Most simply put...there are no words. And so then why force them? Of course I recognize my "Peterish" way of looking at the world - I need to say something. I must try and stammer my way through explanations and lovely turns of phrase simply to ultimately admit there are no words to describe the feelings and experiences of life. I think Jesus got this, and rather than try and explain what was happening to him, he avoided the cliches and catchy phrases to describe what was indescribable. And he gave us an incredible gift in doing this...we can have the experiences for ourselves. We can create music and art and prose to try and expound on how we feel (perhaps being a little like Peter). And then we can find the silence where our own thoughts and feelings about the experiences of life are quieted, perhaps even suspended somewhere between earth and heaven. And we can be grateful for the experience in that suspended space.

Sex

2012-02-01T22:06:00.003-06:00

Lately it seems, it's everywhere I turn. Sex.

Recently some children were visiting in my home with my children. One of them asked me if "my man" had bought my house for me. To his surprise (and maybe my own), I blushed a little and then laughed. No, my man wasn't the owner of my house. And by the way I don't have "a man."

I read a blog about how women in many evangelical circles these days are viewed as the "weaker vessels" and therefore unable to resist men if said men want to have sex with them. Apparently our free will flies right out the window in the presence of a penis.

It reminded me of the gender issues of my childhood brand of Christianity...that is...if a man strayed in his marriage, it was because a temptress had taken over somehow. He couldn't help himself. Men could not be expected to control their carnal urges when women flaunt themselves in front of them.

This reminded me of the women I know who think a man is incapable of being faithful and monogamous, because they are, well, men. And that reminded me of men who think women are all secretly lusting after some other man, not their mate.

This reminded me of the demise of my own marriage and how I spent a long time thinking about what all I had done wrong, and how perhaps my yo-yo weight lead my husband to look elsewhere for sex.

This reminded me of recently watching my 8 year old daughter flirt with 14 year old boys, and how uneasy it made me. That she already felt the need to try and impress these boys with her charm and lip gloss.

This reminded me of all the conversations I've had with female friends that have included some sort of discussion of men and how they want sex too often and how
"we" don't need sex nearly as often as "they" do.

This reminded me of how, in the end, societally speaking, it comes back to a few assumptions. None of which are flattering to women. Or flattering to me.

First, women are really only here to meet men's desires for sex. Second, we are on one hand really powerless and yet we hold all the power when it comes to sex. Of course neither position is tenable. Third, the pressure to be "desirable" or "acceptable" to men is so pervasive and strong, I'm unsure if my daughter will learn any of things I want her to learn when it comes to relationships, sex, men.

When I was still a young girl, I remember having so many ideas about men and sex and marriage and babies. From my earliest memories, my father used to talk about women being whores. My brother was supposed to avoid pornography, because having that around the house would "turn your sister into a whore." I was to avoid boys because all they wanted was sex, and they didn't really like girls. "If you kiss on boys, you'll end up pregnant." I thought I was pregnant when I was 9 years old because I let Kenny, the kid down the street, kiss me. I spent months looking at my belly in the mirror, trying to think of what I would say when I had a baby at 10. While the kiss from Kenny wasn't much to write home about, it made me feel special. Loved. Worthy, somehow. A few years later, it became evident to me that men sometimes just took what they wanted from you. And as I had no say about that, neither would I have say about whether a man would "pick me." I remember in my female-dominated college feeling as if I needed to dumb it down so that men would desire me more.

Even now, all these years later, there is a certain discomfort I feel when someone says I'm single. While I am, and I chose to be, this feels a bit like when Kenny kissed Terri. Even though I had rebuffed his advances, I knew he had chosen her over me. And it hurt. I wanted to be desired. Deep down, I suppose I still do. But yet, that desire...to be desired...still feels a little like being a whore. Good girls don't want sex, do they?

While I would like to claim to be highly evolved. Afterall I'm a feminist. I'm a lawyer. I'm raising children on my own. And still, there is some sense of shame in being alone, not having "my man" to buy me a house. And perhaps even more shame in admitting wanting to be wanted.

I want more. More for my daughter. More than the tired old stereotypes and strange misconceptions I know about sex. I want more for me. I still want to believe that people, men and women, can be well-intentioned and good and decent and loving. And that sex has a place in there somewhere.

Leaving

2012-01-01T21:00:00.002-06:00

As I've struggled to find words in the past few months...or at least words to write anyway...I've been largely unsettled. At first I didn't identify what it was I was feeling, but now I remember this. Unsettled.

Ordinarily unsettled would be a bad word for me, but not at this moment. At this moment, it actually seems highly appropriate and a welcome time in life.

The past few years have been out about settling in. Adjusting to being divorced. Adjusting to being mom and dad to my kids 95% of the time. Adjusting to a different church community. Adjusting to a new set of friends and peers in my career. Finally about a year ago, I began to realize, by and large I was settled again. And it was a nice change, turnabout. It made sense.

Now, in the normal course of life, change comes again. More and more I have felt a change coming. I'm not getting re-married, my kids are still the priority of my life. But, I have realized that the faith community I find myself involved in isn't really what I need. And in the same moment, I realize the community is also not what I want. The needs I had, the needs they had...they coalesced briefly. But, now, it seems more and more that leaving really is the next step. It's not a running away sort of thing. It's time to move on.

I find myself preparing for the journey I know is coming. I'm being lulled out of the comfortable, roomy place I have been hanging out in for the past few years. Instead of that making me uneasy, it actually makes a lot of sense at this moment, in this time.

The church I've lighted at the past few years is a nice place to visit. But ultimately I don't fit in a permanent way. I'm not a lifelong Episcopalian. While I still find myself drawn to the Episcopal Church, I don't find myself drawn to the small, often inwardly-focused sort of place I currently myself in. The debates over programs and liturgy are not meaningful for me. While I have found myself drawn into the discussions at times, I don't feel drawn in because this is my family. Rather, I feel drawn in because I think I can help. And of course that's not really relationship. Everyone needs a community. I have to believe that in fact I'm like most other folks, I'm made for community. The question is what community? When? How does it look?

The only community I really think is authentic is one formed out of relationship. While commonality is useful, it really has little to do with community. When I think of my circle of friends - the ones that are also friends with one another - while we share some commonality - our relationships are not built on the foundation of need. Instead we are a community because we want to be. There is a desire to be with one another. A want - to be involved in each other's lives. I want to know these people better. I want to share our journeys - because I have presence/presents to offer them and I am able to receive from them those things that make me a better person. This community is gift. While it has its share of difficulties, miscues and pain, it is by and large a great thing.

Each community in my life seems to be present for a reason, a season or some such thing. What I feel called to these days is a faith community that it outwardly focused. Where we meet, who's in charge or how it looks isn't really of much concern to me. What is of concern to me is what the point is. Is the point to build relationships with the least of these? Is the point social justice? Is the point to serve others first, and ourselves last? I sure hope there is such a thing. That's where I want to go. And if it doesn't exist, then God help me, I feel the need to create such a community.

So, for once in my life, change actually seems imminent, and it's not making me queasy. I know something that can exceed my expectations waits, just down the road. And rather than staying for the sake of proving I can stay, I look forward to leaving in search of a new sense of being settled.

Resurrection

2011-11-22T21:44:00.002-06:00

I've had a hard time writing for the past few months. Part of my issue is that I feel somewhat exposed in the past year. I have kept this blog largely hidden from most people I know. It felt safer and more secure to write in obscurity. I didn't have to be concerned about being confronted by my writing by anyone. As people have discovered the blog, whether on purpose or by accident, I have had to contend with feeling as if my thoughts and feelings are really "out there" for anyone who has the inclination to look. This is not comforting. Still, I have felt the need to begin again (again). When I started writing in this forum, well over two years now, it was a place to record the difficulties of my life at that time without fear of having to "explain" myself to anyone. I was in a tough spot - my marriage was ending, I felt something new beginning, but couldn't identify what it was, I had started a law practice and was still concerned about survival.

A lot has changed in the past nearly three years. And yet, much remains as it was. I'm divorced, and most days the trauma of that event feels as if it is over. My children are thriving. I am still managing a law practice that continues to pay me enough to support my children and I comfortably. And largely I have realized that my vocation has little to do "change" at this moment in my life.

The issue that most stands out as "needing to be dealt with" these days is my weight. I've regaled myself (and lots of other people) with my up and down weight stories. I've lost and gained numerous times. The last time I lost, I lost big. About 140 pounds. It took 2 years, but I felt physically great. Mentally and emotionally I couldn't get my act together. I still felt over 300 pounds. I weighed myself obsessively. I couldn't stop thinking about calories and exercise and weight loss. Slowly, over two years, the weight came back. I've regained approximately 85 pounds. My focus went away as quickly as it had come. My singular focus became my divorce, children and life.

The past few months my weight has begun to really bother me. I feel like a giant in a small world. I'm making myself sick overeating. I'm vomiting, having heartburn and having other physical symptom that make it clear I'm eating myself to death. I'm struggling to walk very far, losing my breath and have aching feet on a daily basis. I realize that the time has again come to make some changes.

Ultimately I'm not certain I know how to do this again. Of course I know how to count calories and work out and do all of the things that must happen to coax my body to shed the weight. It seems to me though that there is more to understand or know.

I've been reading several books that reference the 12 steps lately. I can't help but think this goes beyond coincidence. I'm not certain how it works next. But, I seem to be "being resurrected" in a lot of different ways. Now what?

Community

2011-07-24T21:37:00.006-05:00

Every now and again I have a moment of clarity that seems a tad negative...even for a girl who considers herself to be at least somewhat cynical. Still this morning at the place I attend church each Sunday, I was moved to think "what if?" with not just a little skepticism about what the church (as I've experienced it - mainline denomination-style)can do and offer those of us who have by and large outgrown the institution and don't feel quite at home anymore.

Each week during the principal service in my parish we have a few moments in the middle of the service (post-sermon, pre-Eucharist) where we offer prayers for people who had a birthday that week or for people who are going to be traveling somewhere. We also offer prayers for people who are celebrating their wedding anniversaries. I've always kind of liked this part of the service - many of the members of my church are pretty advanced in age. I feel like they deserve to be celebrated along with the children, who often seem to be growing up before my eyes.

Today, after the usual birthday and traveling prayers, our priest asked if anyone had an anniversary to celebrate. A young man who has just recently begun attending services with us got up and said he was celebrating his third anniversary of "working." Some of the folks who are ordinarily in our midst looked at one another and rolled their eyes at this "newbie." A few seemed happy with his announcement. Our priest quickly offered a prayer for him, and we moved on to Eucharist. This young man has been playing guitar (and some other instruments) with an outreach program of the parish for the past year or so. I've seen him and spoke to him at some of the recitals and performances of the group.

It occurred to me, again, how much it seems we in the church (or perhaps in my church) are missing the message about community that Jesus seemed so hellbent on modeling. What if...we were a place where people could stand up and announce their sobriety anniversary, whether it was one day, one month, one year? What if we could share, out loud, that we are struggling with what to do with our feelings about heaven, hell and the afterlife and not fear being labeled a heretic? What would happen if someone stood up and announced to the community his infidelity and asked the group to heal both he and his spouse? How would we, as a community, be different if we were able to actually speak of such raw, painful things with the people we say are our community? It would seem we would be much closer. We would be much more invested in one another.

The realistic part of me recognizes the danger in such openness. Of course it invites judgment, and sometimes further isolation. Still, it seems in my other close communities (albeit these are smaller groups of folks)...if someone has a particularly bad weekend, or something really great happens or someone is struggling with a health issue...we all talk about it. We text each other, we talk on the phone, we email jokes about it. We may laugh, we might cry, but ultimately we care for one another. Of course nothing is perfect, still it seems that we know how to love each other pretty well most days. Still, it seems the church isn't by design a place to be honest with each other or to love each other unconditionally. How paradoxical.

This strikes me as tragic. After all what's the point? As someone at the festival I was at recently articulated better than I can...do you really think God needs you to say the right words or praise Him/Her? Do you think Jesus is concerned with praise songs and lovely sentiments shared aloud? Really? Is that what we were made for? I don't think so. We were designed for community - we were meant for one another. How can we care for one another if we don't really even know one another? If I'm unaware of my brother's struggles, how do I pray for him? How do I love him? Love implies a certain level of intimacy. A certain knowledge. While I recognize this is risky, difficult stuff, I can't help but think it's what Jesus called us to, as the church.

I've been fascinated with Mary Magdalene for a long time. Her feast day just passed a few days ago. Depending upon who you believe (the Catholics vs. Orthodox) after Jesus died, she disappeared. She lived her last 30 years in a cave in the southern part of France. She was so distraught at the loss of her Jesus (and my interpretation)her community, that she lived in isolation, where she allegedly had many divine experiences of Jesus in her final years, but ones that were mostly alone.

My point in throwing Mary into all of this talk about community is to say that her passion for this Jewish carpenter was so strong, that when he was no longer there in the flesh, she ran to a cave to hide out from the world. Community was no longer something she could take the risk to commit to. I find this very tragic. And yet, I get it. Community is hard. It's counter-intuitive. It's radical. It requires a commitment, an openness, a mercy that I cannot always find in my own heart. It's complicated and messy. It can't be accomplished in an hour on Sunday morning. It probably can't be accomplished completely in a lifetime. Still, I find this more and more, my call.

To be part of...to build...to grow...to encourage...perhaps even to dare to love those that are around me...to build community, one life at a time. Even when it's hard or seems complicated and messy. While I'd like to think I'm a peacemaker at heart, I recognize my own hard-headed-ness enough to know that I, too, need growing up, transformation, conversion. At the end of the day, I hope I get there. And I hope I'm surrounded by other people who are just as confused, befuddled, amazed, humbled, scared, thrilled as I am to be there and to be there, together.

I heart Jay Bakker and Peter Rollins...all at the same time.

2011-06-28T16:06:00.004-05:00

I traveled east this past week to attend the Wild Goose Festival. I had heard about the Goose some time ago, and knew I wanted to be there for this first-time event. I coerced (gently) my best friend from college to go with me. I picked her up in Nashville, and we had a good time laughing and talking all the way to North Carolina. I was longing for something...a connection to something bigger. A renewal of hope and of love. The schedule was jam-packed with all sorts of folks I have read about, friended on Facebook and admired from a distance. Shane Claiborne, Tony Campolo, Brian McLaren, Ashley Cleveland and the list goes on and on.

I must confess something. I have a minor crush on Peter Rollins. It may be the Irish accent or the fact that he gestures even more than I do when he talks - or that he's brilliant...I'm not sure. Regardless, one of the things I looked forward to was listening to some new ideas of his that he was going to present at the Wild Goose.

My second confession...I also have a thing for Jay Bakker. I came upon his first book some six months ago, and have followed his sermon-writing and second book closely. For entirely different reasons, I like Jay. He's the adorable bad boy with the tattoos and loud music. He seems to wear his broken heart on his sleeve. He and Peter and I are members of the same generation. One man appeals to my emotions - my desire for grace above all. The other appeals to my thoughts - and challenges my ways of looking at faith, doubt and the complexity of both.

The weekend was fun - it was good to listen to voices I've heard and read before - like Nadia Bolz-Weber, Shane Claiborne, Becca Stevens and Richard Rohr. It was maybe even more fun to meet new voices that I had not heard before like Ian Cron (what a fantastic storyteller!) and Karyn Wiseman (she's a smart cookie).

Ultimately though, I awaited the talks/sermons/ruminations of...Pete and Jay. I had already heard Pete speak in Springfield, Missouri in an academic setting back in October. I've listened to some of Jay's sermons online, but I had never seen Jay in person or heard him speak.

Ultimately I can only say this about my experience with my favorites. For as different as these two fellows may be in their approaches to speaking...they represent the best of emergent church, faith, grace and life for me. Pete is my inner mind talking - things are not always as they seem - or perhaps they are...but they may not exist at all. Jay is my heart speaking what I only dare hope at times -that there is a love and grace big enough to hold me and ultimately us all.

I'm so grateful to have been there for the first of what I hope will be many more Wild Goose Festivals. And I hope that the message that I received is the same one that gets communicated year after year, decade upon decade to each new generation of geese lovers - God loves us with a ferocity that seems impossible and that we in turn are able to love one another and our world with a wild and mystical love.

Faith of my father

2011-06-19T20:39:00.005-05:00

Today is Father's Day. I did the obligatory thing. I bought my dad a gift card and his favorite pie from the bakery. I had my kids color some stuff and we took it all down to him. On the ride to his home, I thought about my ambivalence about today. My dad and I have never been close. In fact, we have been sort of the opposite of close and loving. We have spent months alienated entirely. We have argued. We have disagreed. I have never felt I was what my dad wanted. And of course I'm fairly certain that in my own ways I have made him feel he was not what I wanted.

As I thought about it some more, I realized that I've never really had a warm, fuzzy relationship with any man in my biological family. My brother and I have been distant since we were kids. Separated by nearly five years and what seemed like a million miles in the way we thought about life, love, faith, whatever. He has spent the past 4 years incarcerated. I write him occasionally. I've traveled to see him. But, we haven't really bridged the distance that has been there since we were small children.

My mother's father was a quiet man. I remember him vaguely. We spent time on the floor playing with toys when I was very small. He was neither affectionate, nor effusive. He was quiet, seemingly in his own world...a world that I didn't understand. My father's father (his biological father died when he was a small child, but he was adopted)was also a quiet, seemingly cold man. The only distinct memory I have of him as a child was being confronted by him when I had eaten some candy I wasn't supposed to eat. He reprimanded me. I apologized. He walked away. After that I was fearful of him. I felt some strange sense of shame around him.

None of these men were abusive to me in the most visible sense of the word. That is, no one was physically harmful. But, I also never felt really bonded to any of them. And perhaps that is the greater harm in many ways. I've never understood my father entirely (or either of my grandfathers). I've wanted to. But, still I must admit I don't. I've spent a good part of my adult life making excuses for his bad behavior. The lesson I've learned is that while I've never really stood up to my father when he has been hurtful to me, I have no tolerance for his behavior when it is directed at my children.

Today the kids and I were eating dinner with my father, my mother and my niece and nephew. I have watched my father berate my nephew occasionally about his weight. My nephew is not a fat kid by any stretch of the imagination. There are times of the year when he gains a bit of weight, still he is an active 14 year old boy. He plays sports and bikes everywhere. I have expressed frustration with my father on occasion over this. Tonight my father took aim at my 7 year old daughter and began chastising her. To put it simply, I lost it. I recognize some of my angry words have been stuck in my throat since I was my daughter's age. Suffice to say dinner was eaten in silence after my tirade. My father didn't react in the way I would have anticipated. He was fairly quiet. He said a few extra things that he knew would be hurtful, but then he was silent. As I was leaving his house, he said he wouldn't bring up the subject with my daughter again. Of course I don't believe him, I recall him saying the same thing about various subjects over and over when I was a child. Still, I was surprised at how quiet he was.

My child had begun to cry at the table, and I took her inside and washed her face and held her as she cried. I told her that her grandfather was wrong for saying what he had, and that I loved her very much. As I drove my nephew home, he finally said, "I remember you tried to stick up for me when I was younger. At least you stick up for your kids. Grandpa is just mean sometimes."

My own inner armchair theologian would say that my father's faith and my own are as different as they can be. My father was raised attending church on Sundays with his adopted parents. My grandparents were pillars of their church community. My grandfather was an elder in the church, my grandmother taught Sunday school and was part of every part of the life of the church women could be part of. My grandmother would be the first woman to acknowledge that my grandfather was the head of their household, and that this was God's will. She waited on my grandfather, cooking and cleaning for him. When they would pray at dinner, everyone would wait for my grandfather to lift his head after praying silently, and take the first food on his plate before beginning to serve themselves.

My father was a bit of the prodigal son. He left home at his first opportunity by joining the military. He was then sent to Korea to fight in a war. He was barely 18 years old. When he returned home, he continued to avoid living anywhere near his parents, staying in the big city, St. Louis, and working any number of odd jobs. He has told me he was mad at God in those years, completely avoiding church of any sort. Eventually, after 2 failed marriages and 5 children, he met my mother - 19 years his junior and married her after 3 months of dating. She compelled him to return to church because for her, it was the responsible thing to do. Because she had never had a church affiliation, they returned to my father's Lutheran roots in a town 20 miles away from my grandparents. Over the next several years, up until I was a teenager, my father rarely darkened the church's door. He did enjoy throwing around a random Bible verse here and there..."spare the rod, spoil the child" or "an eye for an eye." But, mostly religion, faith, God was seemingly absent from his thought process.

In the years since I was teen, 20 or so now, my father has returned to the Lutheran church, taking his place as an elder, usher and in various other capacities. And his daughter has wandered around, mostly aligning with the Episcopal church in a loose, non-conformist way. I've had phases of being mad at God...but the church is always where I end up, sometimes surprising myself.

Ultimately I suppose what we share is a gnawing sense that God is there and that we can't really figure it all out. My father seems to think God is waiting to strike someone (anyone perhaps) down for their misdoings. And I seem to wonder if God is hiding from me. I still cling to a mainline, traditional denomination that I largely don't identify with anymore and that lacks the authenticity I crave. My dad continues to show up each week despite the fact that he can't hear the service and doesn't much care to anymore. While I have always sought to distance myself from my father in many ways, in some ways we remain linked. As always, I wonder where my children will land. Will I judge them in the way that my father judges me? Will they judge me the way I have judged my father?

I hope my kids get the awe and they mystery that is God. I hope that they find a community that loves them and that they can love. I hope that whatever touches them is available to them, whether it's a ritual, music, art. I hope that they see the Spirit in everything.

Letter

2011-06-09T21:02:00.002-05:00

Lately I've thought a lot about what I would say to my younger self. There's an entire book on the subject - women who have written letters to themselves at younger ages. It's had me thinking.

I realized recently that I have finally reached a point - now nearly 2 years post-divorce where I look back and see good intermixed with the bad. For some amount of time, the vast majority of my memories of my dating/marriage life were focused (incredibly so) on all of the bad stuff. Those times when we fought, or times where I felt abandoned or unhappy. In the past few months I've started to remember the good things too. It's taken awhile. And it's a welcome moment for me. It's been awhile.

There are so many things I know now that I wish my younger self would've known. I think about how much easier life could have been. So I've started to work on my own letter written to my 23 year old self.

Dear Michele-

You are so young. Slow down. Stop wishing the years away. Life is wonderful and full and so are you. You are complete on your own. Stop looking for a man, a job, a degree, whatever... that's going to fix you or complete you. There's no such thing.

Continue to love the man you've chosen to spend your life with. Don't take him for granted. Trust him, love him...do the things that are your instinct to do. But don't expect him to always be who you want. He has his own history. His story. The only way you can love him better is to recognize your own story - Her story. You have your own complicated and rich story. Don't deny it. While some of it is painful, it is yours. And you have done such a great job in surviving the bad and enjoying the good. Still, the time has come to face up to the rough stuff. Trying to push it down with food or addictive behaviors isn't going to make it go away.

Most of all, please know that those things that happened that have made life hard weren't your fault. You were a child. You never chose that. It was a decision made by someone else. You are brave. And you have survived unthinkable things. You must believe that God has been with you. That She never wanted these things for you. Still, She is with you. Hoping for your healing, knowing it will come in the time it takes to heal - which sometimes seems a long, long while.

Life is going to take twists and turns. Some of them are going to be beyond your wildest dreams - and you will get to experience things, people and love that you never imagined. Some of it will be hard and not make sense. Try not to make decisions based upon your fears. Keep the faith. The faith that sustained you through some rough years remains, and it is what makes you who you are.

Enjoy every moment. Laugh. Out loud. And love. Out loud. In your finest moments, that is who you are.

-Michele

Altar Call

2011-05-21T21:49:00.005-05:00

I've been fighting with myself the past few weeks. It's a strange, self-absorbed place to be. While the argument is one I've felt, lived and experienced before...it seems more complicated these days. Tonight the argument was driven home in a very real way at my children's first altar call. And the ensuing questions it brought.

A confession: One of the reasons I cannot be part of most sects of Christianity is because I cannot affirm the notion that human beings are fundamentally bad. I don't believe in the "old Adam." I do not agree with the notion that at our core we are all seeking to do bad things, and only when God intervenes at some point, do we stand a chance. This has never made sense to me. Perhaps it's my life that makes it difficult.

From a very young age, I got the sense that I was indeed bad. I recognize my own makeup has a lot more to do with this than even I realize. But still, I internalized every negative comment, criticism or even perceived slight. I took it all in, and I believed that for all the good I might try to do, I would never be enough. That no matter what I was when I grew up, I could never really be anything very good or loveable. It wasn't until I had my own children that I finally understood how this thinking impacted me and my decision-making continually. Suddenly I knew I had to figure out a new way to be. This realization led to the loss of 150 pounds for me. It led to my divorce. It led to some confrontations with my past and people from that past that have been difficult for me. Perhaps the most significant thing it has led to is that it has changed my faith and my relationship with God. All of these transitions in a short period of time...and all emanating from a change in my thinking that didn't seem very significant at the time.

I wish I could say that I've learned to live happily ever after. Or that life is now much easier than it was. But the honest part of me must admit that isn't true. My own self-doubt, that damaged part of who I am, continually rears her head. I've gained back 60 pounds, my divorce ripped my heart apart and has affected my ability to trust men, and my faith has seemed tenuous and shaky at times. Still, I'm certain of very little except that this is where I was meant to be at this moment in my life.

I was watching TV this past week and a woman who had lost over 100 pounds was describing the wonder of finally feeling some sense of worth - she tearfully said, "I finally realized, I am not nothing." This is where the trouble enters for me.

It seems to me that a large part of "church" (as defined in many of the "altar call" sort of churches) involves affirming, again and again, that we are indeed nothing... perhaps even worse than that that we are dirty, evil, no good and terrible. And that if we say the right words, God might intervene and fix us. But not everyone gets the opportunity to be fixed. And those who can't see their way to choose to get fixed will burn for all eternity. I cannot and will not affirm these things. I will not allow my children to be abused by an institution in this way. Because quite honestly, that is best word to describe what happens to a lot of people looking for answers inside of churches.

Every now and again I come into contact with a teenager that has been abused by her family of origin. She wanders into a church. Only to be told of how dirty and filthy she is. And yet there is a strange attraction to the message there...the church is only affirming what this girl already knows from her own life experience. What sort of damage is done to her through this message? I don't know. But I know I've got some of those scars myself. And I won't choose this sort of god for my own children.

As my children sat with me through the altar call, they both looked at me quizzically. And my son, caught up in the moment, raised his hand when asked if he wanted Jesus to make him clean. I wasn't certain how to react. My daughter has had lots of questions about it all. Still, I know I've done one thing right in 7 years of parenting. I've taught my children that they are not nothing. And even better, they are wonderful, beautiful, capable and gifted. And they were born this way. It's not my parenting or DNA or some sort of intervention. They simply are.

I want my children (and myself) to know God. But not because they're fearful of hell or feel dirty or bad. But because God is love. And because they can't help themselves but want to know God because of her vast and endless affection for them and for all of creation. And because they feel a need for God that goes so deep that they are drawn in, even when they resist. I want them to long to know this God of love more and better as they grow older. I want them to experience God and the divine in and around us.

So, what is my conflict these days? I think it's in the realization that while I try to shrug off my own inner critic, I'm not as successful as I'd like to be. And that each time I allow that voice to speak to me, I am not affirming who I want to be and who I believe God is. As I listened to the altar call I realized that part of me still worries that the preacher is right. What if we really are *that* bad? Can we ever be redeemed? I hope at some point the voice of God - of love - of all that is good - in my life will overpower the voices of doubt, self-loathing and pain. I would say that is as close to heaven as I will ever get.

Swinging/Gaining Perspective

2011-05-18T22:20:00.002-05:00

As is so often the case in my life, a sudden shift in my perspective makes all the difference.

I was recently at my son's martial arts class when he had to use the bathroom. He came out right as class was ending. His belt was tucked into his white uniform. I helped him right himself, and realized a little too late, that he had gotten himself a bit dirty while in the restroom. Sort of par for the course at barely 5, he hadn't really gotten himself cleaned up, and now his uniform pants and belt were a mess.

It had been a long day. I was worn out, and just wanted a warm bath and my bed. I tried not to react to him, as he was obviously embarrassed and wanted me to take care of the mess. I was able to get his belt and shirt off him (he had a tshirt on under his uniform) and into a bag I had with me so his classmates didn't realize what had happened. After we got home, and I got both kids cleaned up, read bedtime stories and tucked them in, I went downstairs to deal with the uniform mess. As I washed my son's uniform in the kitchen sink to get the stains out, I found myself overwhelmed and tearful. I never "planned" this.

I didn't want to be a single mother. I hadn't signed on for this. I began to dive into a deep pool of self-pity. After wallowing for a bit, I realized this: Most days, in most ways, I love life. I wouldn't trade watching the kung fu boy punch and kick to have tea with the President. There's no greater gift in my life than getting to watch my kids grow and learn and become who they are to become. All in all, they are worth the poop and puke and tears and moments of being overwhelmed and times of feeling inadequate as a mother.

A few days later I sat next to my ex-husband and watched our son graduate from preschool. As he waved at me from the stage and blew me a kiss, I knew that I wouldn't trade a moment of my life. And I realize what a gift to be in this place nearly 2 years after getting divorced. 2 years ago it didn't seem possible that I could sit in the same space with my ex-husband and not want to alternately cry or scream. And yet, it seemed natural to watch my son next to his father. It felt right. Finally.

It seems to me that life is a bit like swinging on a swing on a spring day. There are moments where we are pushing up and out - times of anticipation and growth and new heights attained. There are other moments, those times of swinging low - the times of difficulty, challenge and sometimes sadness. And there is the life in between...the suspended space. In those moments, there is such a potential for growth. Life is about those moments between the now and the not yet.

I am exceedingly grateful to be back in the suspended space. Not living for the next high...and not feeling as if my whole life is over...being back into the space of full and rich life.

Can I be with you?

2011-04-26T22:25:00.002-05:00

My son turned five this week. The day passed with very little fanfare. He was excited, and we had a good time at the Magic House the day after his birthday. He has grown so much in the past few months. He's almost becoming unrecognizable to me. I remember his sister going through this phase a few years ago. It surprised me with her, too.

When I learned I was pregnant with this boy child, I was less than thrilled. I hadn't planned on another baby at that moment in my life. My life was chaotic and I had a lovely little girl who I had built my whole life around from the time she was born. She had just turned two when I found out I would have another child. I adjusted to the shock of the pregnancy, and soon I found myself excited about the arrival.

I had decided from the very beginning of my pregnancy that I was carrying another girl. My daughter had been such fun from the day she was born that I was very content to imagine another child just like her. When my husband and I went to our routine ultrasound 5 months into the pregnancy, our doctor announced we would have a son. I was stunned. And not at all happy. A boy? What did I know what to do with a male child? I knew how to fix hair and paint fingernails and buy frilly dresses.
Still, I adjusted to the idea of a tiny baby boy coming into my world. By the time my son arrived, I was ready to welcome him.

On April 21, 2006 he arrived and has joined his sister as one of the two people who are the most important to me. Now that he has decided to grow into a boy, and leave his baby-ness behind him, I find myself wondering where the years went. I wonder what I will do when he turns 10, 16, 20, 30? He is very much my life.

There's this longing that comes with children. It has taught me much about God. I thought I understood love and desire and fear and pain. But, really I knew very little about any of these things before my kids came to be. There's a song by the late Rich Mullins that I've been fascinated with for some time that has a line after talking about the world sort of falling away. The line is said with more than a little longing, "Can I be with you?" It's directed at God. But until I had children, I didn't really get it. Romantic love has never held me with as tight a grip as the love for my children does. While I've certainly been infatuated with, obsessed about, in love with...a few different men in my life. I've never felt that gut-level longing, can I be with you? for a man.

It seems to me that the God of my understanding, the one I've laid claim to, is just the sort of God who inspires that sort of longing for. I don't want the 'all powerful, distant, sometimes angry kind of' Father. I want the 'I feel the need for him in my bones' Father. I don't want some sort of heady intellectual understanding of faith or the need for faith. I want the experience of God. The closest thing I know to this is my experience of Melena and Rudy.

I don't just love my kids because we share some DNA. It really has to do with who they are. I love the 'hand on my hip, rolling my eyes' girl. I love the 'i've jumped off the couch for the 10th time today and smashed gold fish crackers into the carpet' boy. While they are part of who I am and I am part of who they are - I long for them. I want to be near them. I want to understand them. I want their lives to have purpose and meaning. I want to shield them from all the bad things out there. I want them to have a full and rich experience of life. I want to continue to long for them because I feel fully alive when I can experience who they are.

Ultimately faith isn't a belief thing for me as much as it is an experience thing. It's not about what beliefs are in or out this month. Or what beliefs are correct under someone's interpretation of what faith is to be. No, faith is the experience. It's the longing. In the same way I would never give up being the mom of a five year old named Rudy, I cannot give up my longing to be with God.

Resurrection

2011-04-19T21:19:00.003-05:00

The past few months have been full of speculation from theology types about heaven and hell. And while I feel a bit like a child with my nose pressed against the glass as the grown ups talk inside about grown up stuff, I have enjoyed following the debate...from a safe distance. Not committing one way or the other, just observing.

This morning it occurred to me when watching my son why it is I'm not fully engaged in the debate. I can't say I much care about the afterlife, conceptually. Maybe that's short-sighted. Or immature. Or maybe it's the freest I've felt since I first got into "God" stuff at the tender age of 10 or 11. Regardless it's a matter of "whatever works." It works for me, here and now.

I watched my nephew get confirmed into my childhood denomination this weekend. Afterwards he and I took my two young children to a local park. As my kids ran and played, he and I hung out on the swings. We talked about confirmation, church, religion. He's a great kid. I'm really proud of how well he's done. He's smart and personable. But more important to me, he's grounded and compassionate. As we talked he expressed how the pastor at his church doesn't get it. He wants him (and the other kids) to spend more and more time at church. He finally said, in an exasperated tone, "as if God lived at the church anyways!" I laughed. And I was reminded what a bright kid he really is. At his age, I was pretty convinced God did live at my church. And He was waiting for me to screw up. And I had better have a good explanation when I did, because it was inevitable. I was, after all, worthless. And I would be burning in hell for all eternity if I didn't get it right. I'm so thankful his experience of God is so different from mine. He gets resurrection more clearly than I did at his age. It really has nothing to do with what goes on in church buildings.

The pastor who confirmed my nephew preached for a time about how this was the time for my nephew and his peers to "stand on their own two feet" as individuals. That they no longer could rely upon the faith of their parents or older family, they had to make a personal decision to be followers of Jesus. I wanted to object to his sermon (being a lawyer never comes in useful at church). Being confirmed and accepted into the body of the church has absolutely nothing to do with "standing on one's own two feet." In fact, that's the whole point. Community is about having hundreds of feet to stand on. We don't have to have all the answers or get it all at once. The community is there to help us remember when we forget the fundamental truth - God still loves us. Even now, after all this time. I don't know if I get to go to heaven, but if I can experience even a glimpse of this overwhelming, all-encompassing love, I'll be ok if there is nothing else after this life. I've already been resurrected to that truth. I have died to the image I had of God as the mean dad and replaced it with the resurrected reality of God as the One who is with us and in us.

Back to watching my son...this morning as I dropped him off at preschool, it was pouring down rain. We ran into the building. We hung up his coat and did our usual kisses and hugs. As I reached the door, he called out. He had forgotten his blanket in the car. I was a little confused, as he has not been especially attached to this blanket for some time. I asked him why he needed this blanket from the car, particularly since it meant I was going to have run back out in the rain. He, through tears, explained that the blanket in the car covered his feet, and the one he currently had at school doesn't. I went out in the rain and retrieved it. I was rewarded with a kiss and another hug. His need to be covered, all of him, while he rested stuck with me for the rest of the day. It seems to me we all hope for this, to be covered.

And the resurrection is about this. I don't know why Jesus had to die. I know all the theories about it. I don't know why all of the kids I work with have to be abused. I understand the theories - the drug abuse of their parents, the cycle of abuse, etc. Still, it doesn't make sense to me. The only Jesus I can understand at all is one that is with us, covering us, standing with us. Otherwise the crucifixion/resurrection story seems pretty tragic with a sort of supernatural ending that I can't reconcile. I need a Jesus that wants to be sure my feet are covered, and one that helps me live in a community where my feet are covered whether with my own blanket or someone else's for a time. A Jesus that thinks there is good in me, even when I can't recognize it, and sends me friends to remind me of this when I forget. I don't know if I'll get to meet that Jesus in the afterlife. I suppose I hope so. But in the meantime, I'm happy knowing Jesus here and now in the context of my communities as we struggle, laugh, love together.

Wonder

2011-03-19T19:56:00.003-05:00

The past few weeks have felt stressful to me. Work has been incredibly busy, combined with kids who have been at each other's throats continuously and add in a relatively minor conflict in my church community and well...life has been chaotic to say the least. And for me, chaos typically means I feel stressed.

The kids and I ventured to Chicago this last week and for part of the weekend. It was a fun trip, even if too short to do all the things I would've liked to do. We went to the large aquarium in Chicago first thing Saturday morning. After a few hours of taking in all the sights and sounds and smells, we got a lemonade to share and sat together on a bench overlooking Lake Michigan. It was an awe-inspiring moment, one where you draw your breath in and then release it slowly. A moment where I realized yet again how amazing life is and how abundantly blessed I feel. And as young as my children are, they sat quietly staring at the lake, sipping lemonade, snuggled into me, one on each side. Their feet dangled over the side of the bench, and every few minutes one of them would speak...almost in a whisper. As if they might disrupt the moment being created around us. After a few minutes, we finished our lemonade and walked to the car. Rudy returned to his normal busy self - running ahead. The wonder I saw on their faces and in their voices won't soon leave me. I have to believe life is meant to be lived in such a state of wonder.

On the drive home, I was thinking aloud with God about why things seem to turn out the way they do. My community has been shaken up recently with what I would call a disruption of sorts. The leader of our community made public a decision of his. I'm fairly certain he had no idea what would ensue. When I first learned of his decision (which wasn't even an earth-shattering sort of decision in my opinion), I didn't see the tidal wave coming. When the wave knocked me over, I was still rather stunned by the developments that came quickly behind that initial wave. At some point, I commented to a friend that I keep thinking I am able to read people well, and then I find out differently...again. I never cease to be surprised by the rest of the human beings on earth with me.

And I suppose that's part of wonder, too. Sometimes I'm disappointed by others' actions. Other times, I am amazed and not just a little thrilled with them. Regardless, that sense of wonder that accompanies what I didn't know would come about is pretty awesome. I think that's why I enjoy being around children so much. They never cease to be amazed and awed by the world around them. Of course there are moments that frighten them or cause them upset...but that thrill at seeing a dolphin jump out of the water for the first time...or the simple joy of a first kiss...or the taste and texture of an ice cream cone on a hot day. There is so much in this life that is wonder-filled.

I sometimes wonder about the idea of heaven because of this. Is this world crazy and mixed up and violent and tragic? Absolutely. Is it at the same time beautiful and amazing and incredible and sweet? Yes, I think so. I can do without streets of gold, if I could hear my son giggle one more time. I don't need angels singing if I can hear my daughter tell me she loves me. The wonder of the world I live in is all around me.

Giving Up God

2011-03-09T21:09:00.006-06:00

For some time now I have read (and appreciated) the writing of Peter Rollins. But, tonight was the first time I think his ideas really permeated my own thinking and feelings about God, and finally something he talks about with regularity made perfect sense to me.

Today is Ash Wednesday. One of those holy days that I've been observing since I was a child. I've always felt like it was a day of beginnings, not endings. That is - it has ordinarily signaled the beginning of Lent - a time of deeper reflection, righting the things that need righted and a time to figure out how I've gotten off track. While the day is about recalling that "from dust we come, and to dust we shall return" - it also marks a change in seasons and is full of not just a little anticipation of the main event for Christians - the resurrection of Jesus.

As I sat in church this evening, I felt something shift in my thinking. For quite awhile (probably most of my life), I have grappled with two fundamental questions. The first - why do bad things happen to people? And the second - when bad things happen to people, where exactly is God in the midst of it all? Or in other words, why doesn't God step in and stop it/fix it/heal it?

My questions are something I wonder for those around me - for all of the children (and adults for that matter) I see who continually suffer and have suffered the worst indignities. But, the questions are also deeply personal and painful for me. In those times when I come undone remembering my own trauma vividly, I still question God why? And where were you? And why didn't you save me?

Over the years of my life, I've felt and held different answers to these questions in my heart.

For some time, particularly when I was a teenager, I felt that if perhaps I had been better or done better or been more...whatever...that God would have intervened. That in fact all the evil we see done to others is the result of someone's sin. If I could just get "clean enough" God would make things better for me - for all of us. Getting clean really was a matter of faith - if I believed the right things, said the right prayers, did the things I knew I should, God would bless my efforts with His love and healing.

Later on, as I got older, and rejected such an arbitrary God, I started to think that while God didn't cause the horrible things to happen to people, there still had to be some intervention by God. Surely, a loving God couldn't stand by when his children were raped or abused or harmed. It still had to come down to some logic, right?

Still fast forwarding, at some point I began to believe that God really did weep for the terrible things that we humans do to one another. But I still clung to the notion that God, being God, would exact some revenge on those who harmed His children. And that after all "what goes around comes around." Or in the words I have said to my own children, "that's what you get." Still, I wasn't quite comfortable with this sort of judgment, probably because I feared I would be judged just as harshly as I judged others.

At some point in my recent history, I began to understand my faith as entirely relational. That is - that faith to me is not really an individual pursuit so much as a communal thing. I only understand God in community and through community. If we are to be united to God - not in an afterlife, but here and now - then the kingdom of God must begin now - in all of us - together. While this faith doesn't provide any easy answers to my questions, it has led me to a place of: Shit happens. We don't know why. And trying to figure out why is an exercise in futility. Together though we can dig ourselves and one another out of the shit. And God is found in the digging out. Right in the middle of the pile, God (through each of us) picks up a shovel and steps right into the dung heap to get us through the mess.

So, where does this leave me? I think it means I'm giving up God for Lent. That is - I'm giving up all of my limited ideas of God, faith, relationship, forgiveness, even resurrection. I don't have answers to my two fundamental questions. And for once I actually feel that while I don't have the answers, I'm closer to the fire that is faith than I've been before. I think Lent is less about burning off that which needs burning off and more about getting our hands dirty, both figuratively and literally. It's about giving up our fear of the questions, doubts and conflicts faith (and God) naturally bring us, and rather seeking to hold them in the same space we hold those deeply held beliefs that have sustained us in the past. Faith isn't about a fidelity to ideals and truths we have clung to out of fear or bitterness or a need for justice. The only truth I know is one can only be found if one has been lost. And getting found sometimes involves giving up entirely on the notion that someone else will find us.

If I can give up on God for Lent, then I am free to step ever closer to the all-consuming fire that is God.

How can I keep from singing?

2011-03-01T21:59:00.002-06:00

As life rolls forward, sometimes it seems so quickly, I realize that I spend a lot of time thinking about, worrying about, concerning myself with...things that really have little to do with life as I experience it. I get caught up. And before long, a week, a month, a year has passed, and I've forgotten just how *good* life is.

As I drove home from work tonight, I began humming an Enya song I used to listen to here and there called "How can I keep from singing?" Today wasn't a particularly fun day. My work has seemed increasingly hard lately. And still, I find myself in a place of gratitude, how can I keep from singing?

Tomorrow morning, God willing, I will wake up. I will rise from my bed and have clean water to bathe in. I will wake up two sleepy children, and cuddle, cajole and prod them to get ready for the day. After we play, I will drop them off in the care of people I know love them and want what's best for them. I will drive a running car to my office. People, both adults and children, I barely know will trust me to help them. They will tell me their stories, and I will have the privilege of guiding them through the turmoil they face right now. I will get to each lunch with my friends. We will laugh and laugh. They will care for me, in small ways and I will care for them. After I finish my day at work, I will pick up my kids. Melena will read to me. Rudy will recount what he did at school and ask me funny questions. We will eat dinner together, and we will say our prayers, asking God to take care of our friends and family.

Each day I am gifted with so much. I have the most amazing people in my life. They are a hodge podge of incredibly talented and loving individuals that form the net of safety I can fall into if I need to.

My children are healthy and happy. They are funny, inquisitive, smart and loving. I get to watch them grow and change and learn how to navigate this crazy world.

I can read and write. I can think and understand. I can laugh. Often and loudly. I feel. I've known and loved a man with all my strength.

For all of my angst and stuck-ness at moments, I really can't be sad. Or angry. Or bitter. Life is too damn good. How can I keep from singing?

Absolution

2011-02-19T15:33:00.004-06:00

My relationship to and with my ex-husband has changed significantly in the past few months. It's hard to explain or articulate, but our lives and our ways of relating to one another have shifted. For a long time, we were distant. We didn't speak unless it was necessary. I avoided interacting with him. I was angry with him. His actions, words and seemingly just his being on earth annoyed me somehow.

In January, things began to change. He came over one night and we talked for awhile. We were both hesitant. I'm not certain how much of it I really heard. We were physically affectionate with one another. It felt somehow familiar and comforting, but also somehow terrifying. It seemed like I was opening up Pandora's box.

Since that day, we've been friendlier. And quite honestly it's been a relief not to feel so angry all the time with him. He seems to be trying harder to do what needs to be done with regards to our children, or perhaps it's that I'm taking his actions less personally. Regardless.

Last night, as we were talking late into the night, we began to argue. Not in a hostile way, but in a somewhat heated way. When our discussions turn to the demise of our marriage, my ex-husband tries to do what I would call "apologize, while somehow minimizing his behavior." In other words, "I know what I did was wrong, but a lot of people have done worse things." Or "You know I'm sorry, but everyone makes mistakes." I began to argue with him. Not that he wasn't sorry but that he wanted what I cannot give. He wants me to say that we can reconcile. That our marriage is something we can save, even now, after 18 months of being legally divorced.

Of course, I cannot say this. While I'm no longer angry with him for his infidelity, I will never trust that he can be faithful. I'm not certain he's capable of it. I really think that at some point he learned to lie and deceive with such ease, that it is somehow second nature to him. And I can't live that way. I can't spend my life worried about what my husband is doing or not doing everyday.

Early on in our relationship, I told him that the dealbreaker for me would be an affair. That I could handle almost anything else that came to us. Anger, fighting, passive/aggressive-ness, a sick child, financial disagreements, societal pressure, our race differences...all of these things I could survive with him. But, for me, once he chose to seek affection from another woman, and then subsequently hide the relationship from me...the trust I had for him, the belief that he could somehow behave differently...it is gone.

What it seems he wants from me is complete absolution. That not only do I forgive him (which I finally do), but that I desire to enter back into a loving relationship with him. If I'm honest, I wish I could do just this. Not just for my children, but for me, too. I loved this man like no other. He was my first wild, crazy love. I loved him deeply and completely. His physical presence still feels a bit like coming home to me. The loss of him as my friend and lover has been devastating to me. But, still...I cannot give him what he desires. No matter how hard I have tried to move past the...past...I cannot believe he has changed or learned from this entire experience. In fact, I know he has not changed. The fact that he is in my home, seeking affection from me, while going home to another woman, tells me precisely what I know deep in my heart. He is not able to be true. It is not who he is or can be. If I choose to enter back into relationship with him, he will continue to behave as he has in the past...he will have affairs, and he will lie to me. And I simply cannot live that way. I finally value myself enough to refuse to be subjected to that kind of abuse. And if I'm really honest, my heart still hurts so badly from his betrayal. While my anger is gone, and I forgive him, I still ache with the pain of the loss of my innocence, my trust in this man.

So here we find ourselves. Him unable to understand why I cannot give him the one thing he so desires. And me, finally unwilling to live the life I lived for 12 years, unwilling to sacrifice my heart for the man I desire more than anyone else. All of it saddens me. I'm overwhelmed at his loss and my own. There are moments in all of this that I wonder if I will ever feel whole without him, healed from the wounds. I wish for my own absolution, I suppose. Not just forgiveness for my own mistakes, but to finally be restored to myself.

Euphoria

2011-02-12T21:27:00.003-06:00

I recently attended a concert. The two artists were ones that I grew up listening to, and who I watched in concert a few times back in the late 80's/early 90's. I've always enjoyed their music, more so one than the other, but still I was interested to see both of them again. I think I wanted to see how we all had changed - 20 years have passed.

Shortly before I made my way to the concert - it was three hours away - I found out that a friend's wife had passed away unexpectedly. His wife is a few years younger than I am - in her early to mid-30's. She had no health issues, her death was the result of a doctor's mistake.

As I sat at the concert, my thoughts returned to my friend many times. He is a good person - funny, hard-working, caring. I kept thinking how much he must be hurting right now, and how hard it must be to know what to say to his three young children about their mother's death. I enjoyed the show. Still, part of me struggled to enjoy the time. My thoughts continued to fall back to my friend.

As the music turned more religious in nature, I was a bit surprised at the crowd's reaction. The crowd was clearly of the conservative Christian bent, and they identified more fully with this genre than I did/do. And while I recalled that part of the artist's music from years earlier, I was still sort of taken aback by the euphoria that swept the crowd. People were crying, lifting their arms to heaven and swaying with eyes closed. The concert turned into a bit of a revival. I felt more than slightly out of place.

I have always struggled with this manifestation of faith. I'm not certain why. After all, I cry more than the average person. I feel things deeply, and I'm not particularly embarrassed of being emotional most days. As I greeted my friend at his wife's wake tonight, he and I both cried. I embraced him and we both shared tears for his loss. This display of emotion didn't bother me, in the sense that it felt natural to share my tears with his. I told him I loved him and I was so very sorry for his loss. He cried into my shoulder and thanked me for being there. I don't harbor any notions that I was really all that helpful, but my feelings overflowed, and it felt like the most natural thing to have happen.

Still, I've never really understood the hands lifted, teary-eyed sort of worship. I used to think my reservations were really just a matter of upbringing. I grew up in a stoic, Germanic Lutheran tradition. We didn't cry. We didn't laugh, and we didn't applaud during church. It was as simple as that. In college, I made my way to the Episcopal church early on, and again, we aren't known for our effusiveness during worship. Still, I've experienced enough charismatic worship over the years that it doesn't shock my sensibilities at this moment in my life..

I think at least part of me looks at the displays and finds them disingenuous. People can't all be moved at the same moment by the same things...I think maybe some of it seems too much of an act for me. As I was waiting to greet my friend at his wife's funeral visitation, I was talking with a friend who is far more conservative and outwardly religious than I am. As he approached the grieving widower, he began to tell him that "God would see him through." And that "God had a plan." His words struck me. Not because I agree with him necessarily, but because he was doing what he knew to do. In his moments of distress and fear, these things were all he knew to offer. He didn't cry, and he didn't offer much of an embrace. It was clear the entire messy business of life and death was making him uncomfortable. As I held my friend, and cried with him, I patted his back like I often pat my children when they cry. It was all I knew to do.

On my drive home, it struck me, we all have different ways of connecting to God and to each other. Some of us are called to cry with one another when the pain gets too intense. Others of us stay strong because it seems like the person who is hurting needs strength. Some of us sit quietly in our pews listening to someone(s) talk about God. We pray, we hear and we leave. This experience of God is part of our lives, but is not IT for us. My encounters with God are ongoing, deep and authentic. But they tend to be quiet encounters. God comes to me where I am, and how I am.

Some people I know need a different way of meeting God. They want emotion and they want it to "feel" like something. This hasn't been my experience, but it is not any less real for those who have this experience. My friend at the funeral was saying what comforts him most in his own distress. And that is a gift, even if it is awkward or ill-informed or perhaps even insensitive. It was what he knew to do. I believe God hopes we can give this - to do what we know to do. To love one another, even if imperfectly.

I'm not likely to ever feel at home in a "worship band" sort of church experience, but I recognize those who do as my brothers and sisters.

Amending

2011-01-31T21:33:00.005-06:00

When I logged in tonight, I noticed that this is my 101st post to this blog. What started as a way to vent a little, to throw words into cyberspace, has turned into being at least to some degree therapeutic for me. I can feel the pressure valve being turned when I write. There is a release for me. Whether anyone is following along really doesn't matter to me. Actually it's easier for me to think that no one reads what I write. So much of what I write is ill-informed. Not well thought out. Ideas that haven't matured all the way. Sentiments that I can't entirely explain. Reflections of someone who isn't so sure most of the time.

This past week I've been down. I'm not certain why. As seems almost commonplace these days, I don't often feel in control of how I feel. For someone who used to be fairly in control of herself and her emotions, this new way of being is often disturbing to me. I've been stressing about a choice I made awhile back that wasn't very smart. My brother turned 40 this past week - in a federal prison in Minnesota. A liberation theologian I have followed died.

Saturday I attended an ordination ceremony. It was for a guy I got to know as part of a few classes I took through my church body. He is a smart, funny, wonderful person. I really enjoyed getting to know him in the two very, very small classes we were in together. He will do a wonderful job in his role in the church, and I'm happy he completed his process. The service itself was incredible. It was joyful, beautiful, moving. As I felt the tears coming at a few different points, I wondered what was behind them.

I think the conclusion I have drawn is that I'm still so uncertain. While I'm fairly certain I am not called to follow the path of my friend, I still don't see clearly the path I am to follow. And while most days this fact doesn't really upset me, other days I just wish for some semblance of certainty.

Today I called off court. I have never done this. The only other time I missed court since becoming an attorney, my son was in the hospital. It just isn't something I do. I cleaned my house, scrubbed, did laundry, just locked myself in the house and worked. The distraction was just what I needed. To feel in control of "something" helped me get through some of my angst.

A line that was part of the liturgy on Saturday has run through my mind repeatedly.
"And for the grace of the Holy Spirit to amend our lives, we pray to you, O Lord." What does it mean to "amend my life?"

Attorneys use the word "amend" a lot. We amend our pleadings. We amend our plea. We amend our requests. We file Motions to Amend Judgments. It's something we spend a decent amount of time working on. In this context, what we mean ordinarily is that we need to change something. Whether we "forgot" to put something into a court document or we made a mistake or we simply learned new information that requires it, lawyers tend to amend stuff a lot. Something I tell my clients often at the beginning of a case is that we can "always amend" our court filings if things change or if we get new information. This seems to help people relax a little.

As I prayed that prayer, I wondered if I really want what I'm asking for. Change is not something I'm particularly adept at. Does this mean I have to give up my control? I'm fairly certain if that's what the prayer means, that I would probably pass on that one. I think perhaps all I'm certain of at this point is that there are cracks and crevices and weak spots in my heart. And that perhaps asking the Holy Spirit to amend my life has something to do with those places. It has at least something to do with allowing that spirit, that breath of life, to seep into those places. And it helps me to relax just a little to realize I can (and perhaps should) always be amended. That no matter how far gone I feel, there's still that possibility that my life can be amended.

And so, today I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to be doing. And I'm sad that my brother passed into his 40th year in prison. And I'm disappointed that one more "hero" for me is no longer on this earth with me. And I'm bothered that I can't maintain any sense of control these days over my emotions and how I react/feel about things.

But, still I will pray that the Holy Spirit amend my life. In all the ways that only She can.

Words

2011-01-20T18:33:00.002-06:00

I love words. While I feel so much of life cannot be adequately expressed through words, and still sometimes a single word carries so much with it, that there is no need for additional thoughts or ideas. While I am not notorious for my brevity, I do love powerful words. Two of my favorites these days are fortuitous - which is defined as not just something happening by chance, but something good happening by chance. The other is magis - a Jesuit phrase that means "more" - as in doing or being more somehow.

Fortuitous has come up several times for me lately. Mostly I think encounters I've had with some interesting people have been fortuitous.

A few years ago I felt this pull or push or drawing into. At first I thought that perhaps I was being called to the priesthood within my church body - the Episcopal church. So, I explored that, albeit reluctantly and with some fear and trembling. Soon though I began to feel the twinges that told me that I was misinterpreting the road signs. That the path I thought I was being pulled onto was not mine to take. With that realization came a little bit of confusion and sadness. If that was not my call, what did that mean? What will I become when I grow up? Will I figure it out prior to being retirement age?

As I continued down the road, somewhat uncertain and angst-ridden, I stumbled (in a very fortuitous way) onto a different path. While I'm still not certain what it means or how it looks, I know for sure how it feels. It feels very much like coming home. It is the magis for me - the more. I first got a glimpse of what this looks like in October as I experienced, very late at night/early in the morning, the theology and praxis of someone I knew very little of. As his excitement lit up the room, I found myself enveloped by it. It was fortuitous. And I felt blessed by the encounter. And changed in some not-so-easily expressed way.

As the months have flown by since that night, I have had so many refreshing moments with people who feel at least somewhat the way I do. That the magis is there - that at this moment in their lives they are being pulled or pushed or taken in by something, something more. Something that I can only call holy. These encounters cannot be described in any other way but to say they are fortuitous.

For example, last weekend I spent time in a community that was a big part of my life as a teenager, I was reminded again of how incredible that sense of belonging to something so much bigger than oneself really is. As I watched kids (of which I was one, sitting there some 20 years ago for the first time) embrace one another and sing and just bask in that warm glow of a loving environment, I remembered the hour I first experienced the power of loving community. It was in this community that I was first loved freely and was able to love others freely. Over and over, as I have experienced this same miracle in various forms, in different places and at different times, I realize just how wonderful a life I have led so far. And I can't help but be excited about what is to come.

Yesterday I had a conversation with a friend about this fortuitous business I call my life. We both laughed at how timing is sometimes so incredible that of course it can't be an accident, it's not just fortuitous after all, but something much bigger. As we talked and laughed (and cried just a little), my friend expressed to me how deeply he feels this magis. How at this transitional time in his life, it (the big IT) is still there for him. I didn't have to tell him, he already knew...I felt the same way. And how fortuitous for me. To be part of yet another encounter with someone who knows how I feel, and who feels the same way and who is happening along the same road I'm called to travel at this moment in my life. Very fortuitous, indeed.

Especially Fond

2011-01-09T21:26:00.003-06:00

And when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. 17 And a voice from heaven said, "This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased." (From the Gospel of Matthew)

Today's Gospel lesson seems to tie in very well with what I've been contemplating these days. (I'm not certain why that still surprises me when it happens...)

As I was listening to The Shack on CD while traveling, I grew to really appreciate a phrase the author used repeatedly. God, in various forms, indicates to the main character in the book many times, that He/She (God) is "especially fond" of him or of another human being. As I listened to it, I wondered how many times I have felt this way for someone else, for God, or even how I feel about this phrase directed at me?

What do I think of God speaking to me in this way? I'm a little unsure. It seems informal of God, I think. But I like it conceptually. Who doesn't want someone to be especially fond of her? I'm not certain I've ever been able to claim this for myself wholly or fully. What I'm learning, albeit haltingly at times, is that the more I am able to love others in this way - being especially fond of them, sometimes in spite of who or how they are, the more I can feel in a fresh and new way the love God has for me.

There are people I am especially fond of. I often label people I really enjoy as my "favorite" for example my son is my "favorite boy" and my daughter is my "favorite girl." There's a Judge I really like, I tell him he's my favorite. A good friend who is part of my usual lunch group knows she is my favorite. I'm not sure when I started doing this, but I enjoy the practice of ascribing favorite to people I love. I enjoy being expressive and loving people. I feel especially alive in those moments.

As obsessed as I've been at moments in finding my "calling," I know for sure I am called to be a lover of souls. And how blessed a life I lead! To be surrounded by people that I'm especially fond of much of the time. Sometimes I lose my patience or my ability to be the person I want to be, and yet those I'm especially fond of usually see past that and love me back to where I need to be. Those people, both past and present, are the ones that make my life make sense and who know that I mean well, even when I'm not completely certain of my own intent.

Forgiveness Redux

2011-01-05T22:10:00.000-06:00

I've thought a lot about forgiveness in the past few months - as evidenced by the fact that I'm writing about it, yet again. Oftentimes these posts are my way of trying to work out what's happening with me. The topics of forgiveness, redemption, healing and resolving one's past have been on my mind continually in the past few weeks. Some of my obsession with this topic is deeply personal. Some of it relates to the work I do some days as a guardian for kids who have been the victims of abuse. Still more of it relates to my own children and what I hope and want for them.

I traveled to Philadelphia this past week. It was a nice break. I went with an old friend, and I laughed harder and longer than I have in years. Between laughs, we had some serious discussions about love and life. We also went into some old cathedrals - one of my favorite things to do. Our last stop before leaving the city was to go into the art museum. I wanted to see a painting I've always admired, but I ended up being drawn to a very different painting. One that echoed the theme of my life right now - healing and redemption. It was a beautiful image of Jesus healing people at the shore of what I assume was the Sea of Galilee. The sun was either rising or setting in the background - it was hard to tell which. An incredibly moving painting.

As I drove home the last 6 hours by myself, I listened to The Shack on CD. I had read the book over a year ago, but thought it would be interesting to listen to in the car to pass the time. The most intense parts had me weeping hard and long. It is such an amazing and moving story. The part though that struck me in this "reading" was an exchange about forgiveness. God is asking the man in the story to forgive the man who raped and murdered his child. As I listened to the narrator, the tears poured from my eyes. Does God really understand what He/She is asking of this man or of so many of us?

As the protagonist struggles with God's desire that he forgive the man who harmed his child, God takes center stage in the book and explains that forgiveness is not what I (or the main character) perhaps perceives it to be. It is not about forgetting. It is not about relationship. God in the book describes it as "removing your hands from around another person's throat so that he can be redeemed." This isn't the warm, fuzzy, sentimental image I have of forgiveness. And perhaps therein lies my struggle.

I often feel that if I forgive my ex-husband for his actions (or at times inaction), then that means we have to return to some sort of relationship. And I know that I'm not at a place where I can handle that. In the book, God assures the man that is not what forgiveness is. Rather for relationship to be restored, the person who has transgressed must choose change and repentance as well. In addition, God tells the man that forgiveness doesn't mean excusing the bad behavior or allowing it to happen again.

All of this brings me around to the topic of resolution or reconciliation. I had an interesting discussion with a friend about whether it is possible for us (or anyone) to really resolve old trauma or past bad experiences so they no longer impact or affect us? I told my friend that I didn't particularly like the word "resolve." To resolve something, in my experience, suggests that something has been dealt with and is now shelved away, never to be considered again. And honestly the worst hurts we experience can't be resolved, or at least I haven't figured out a way to do that yet. My own life has shown me time and again that some of those old hurts will re-surface on occasion, and not always in a horrible, crippling way. Sometimes I think the hurt has re-surfaced because it can be used in a new and different way now. That somehow I've been underwent a transformation that allows me view it in a different light now.

What I do think can happen is that we can experience a reconciliation with regards to these traumas. I don't mean reconcile in the way that we often use that term - to reconcile oneself to a life of difficulty. No, the reconciliation I mean is the true meaning of the word for me...to feel put back together - to feel some harmony, some sychronicity. Not a denial of the experience, not a minimizing of it (it wasn't so bad, really...), but also not an overdramatization of the experience or the myth created around the experience. No, I really do mean to bring oneself back into right relationship - with oneself and with God. To allow the experience to be what it was, a bad experience of life, but to not allow it to define my very existence in this life.

Certainly I don't mean to minimize how hard I think reconciliation really is. It requires a suspension of judgment that I am unaccustomed to being able to pull off in my own life. It calls for the ability to confront the feelings and emotions that come with the experience and not run away. It is hard work, and I am in no way saying I've mastered it. Yet, I am beginning to understand that reconciliation is possible for me, for me and God and for me and my life's events that have been difficult and painful.

While I still can't say I've had my "a-ha" moment regarding being able to forgive a few of those who have hurt me deeply, I can say that the experiences themselves are changing shape and form for me. I no longer feel paralyzed or held hostage by those moments. I feel differently about how things look and feel around the experiences. I feel redeemed.

A touch

2010-12-24T09:19:00.002-06:00

My four and a half year old loves to sleep in my bed. I think he was probably two and a half when he figured out that he could sneak into my bed at night. He was a great crib sleeper - he loved his crib, and would willingly let me place him into the crib every night. Once I moved him to a bed though, he began to slip into my room at night. At first I fought his presence in my bed. I wanted him to be independent and sleep in his own bed. After a time, I realized that fighting him was actually adding to fuel to the fire - it was some sort of an elusive privilege to get in my bed. Over the past year, I've stopped fighting him. I figure eventually he will grow out of this phase of life, and want his own space. For now, I'm joined most nights by my son at some point through the night.

My son is not just content to be sleeping in the same space with me, he needs to touch me. Sometimes it's his foot or his bottom or his hand...but some part of him needs to be in contact with some part of me. This doesn't usually please me. My preference is that he would stay in a corner of the bed, and leave me in some peace. But, I can't really get too angry with him, he doesn't even know he's reaching out most of the time. He just does this instinctively.

A few days ago, as I was trying to fall asleep and had a hand on arm, I was reminded of a time he was in the hospital right before Christmas. My baby was a year old. He was there for five days. Because he was so small, I was afraid to leave him, even for a moment. I was fearful that he would wake up and not see anyone he knew, and panic. I lived in his hospital room those days, and spent hours and hours holding and touching this child. Even in his sleep. I would hold his hand or touch his feet.

As I thought more and more about my experiences with my child, I was reminded of the coming of the Christ child. What does this time of year remind me of? What am I preparing for? What am I most hoping for?

And in reality, it is for that one touch. Like Thomas, I'm not at all satisfied with just hearing about the Good News - no, I want to experience it for myself. I want the emotion of it and the love made manifest. An intellectual faith stopped making sense to me awhile ago. I want the wild and holy love of God.

The only place I know to look for this is in every relationship I have. It's in every interaction, every moment. Whether I recognize it or not, it is there. It is in the small things that seem insignificant and the grand things that seem overdone. In the laughter with good friends, and the tears of the kids I work with. I simply have to become more and more adept at recognizing all the times I come into contact with it. It really remains my job to open my hands and heart to the gift.

Like my child and his ability to locate my hand or foot in his sleep, I recognize the touch of God in life - my life and the lives around me. I deny it at times, I run from it at other times, and sometimes I just plain miss the big picture, but deep in my heart, the recognition is still there.

Last night I had dinner with friends. As we talked about my new "thing" - gatherings of people to talk about faith, life, love...I was excited and that excitement was evident. At some point in the conversation, one of them looked at me, and said, "I'm in. Just tell me when and where to show up." There is great wisdom in that statement - particularly as it relates to the Divine. My hope this year in this time of great expectation and joy is just that simple - God, I'm in. Just tell me when and where to show up. And maybe, as an added help - help me to recognize the divine everywhere in everything. Amen.

Doubt

2010-12-19T20:39:00.003-06:00

"Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt, but believe." Thomas answered him, "My Lord and my God!" Jesus said to him, "Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe." From the 20th chapter of John's Gospel

For the past few weeks I have been wearing a St. Thomas medal quite a bit. I'm not entirely certain why, or even what I expect to get from Thomas, but I feel a kinship with him. When I first began to experience a renewal of faith, life and love, Thomas seemed to be my guide. A man who most of us only think about when talking about his doubt or his lack of faith has become a symbol for me.

Doubt is an awfully frightening thing. It tends to isolate us in many ways, and sometimes even paralyzes us. Who among us is eager to admit we doubt God or Jesus or the resurrection or even smaller parts of the story like Noah, Moses or the whole virgin birth thing? After all, it seems like a slippery slope. Once you start doubting parts of the story, the whole narrative is called into question. And what does life look like if none of it is true? For someone who has grown up in the church, it looks pretty damn scary, I can tell you that much. But, what if?

How would my life, and the way I live it, be different if Jesus really was executed, and never rose from the dead? If Jesus was simply another hero of another time that I read about...how would my life be different? Quite honestly, the question isn't a fair one, or even one that I can possibly answer. I've spent the better part of 30 years believing in God, Jesus and the story. To try and undo my history of believing is nearly impossible. Jesus's story, my story, they are part of one story. I cannot imagine one without the other.

Thomas's story has always moved me, because I can see myself very clearly in the story, I'm fairly sure I'm that guy. I'm the one who wouldn't know what to do with it all. I can very easily picture myself as that overwhelmed, frightened, slightly angry man. It reminds me of a time I was sitting in a political science class in college, and I was being told in very clear terms that in many ways, it was all hopeless. Our political systems, parties and way of doing things would never accomplish what we hoped it would. Our leaders would fail us, our ideals would give way to the campaign dollar and our dreams of a just and merciful society were just that - a dream, not a reality that could be attained. I remember my frustration at being told all this, and my exasperated expression to the bearer of the bad news, "Then, what the hell is the point of all this?" She smiled at me, and gently said, "That's what you need to work out for yourself."

As I continue to work out what Thomas's story means to me, and how his story is mine in many ways, I am led to wonder what about all of this doubt business? What is it good for anyway? How does it help me? And then I recall the lesson I've learned this year.

I've always been an end game kind of girl. I want to know why we're doing whatever it is we're doing. Why does it matter? What is it good for? At the end of the day, will it matter? If not, then I have a hard time investing myself fully in whatever it is. It's not that I'm all about results, and not one to believe the journey can be worth something, but I want to believe that what I'm doing makes some difference, to someone. I don't have to believe I'm achieving world peace, but I want to believe that what I do matters to someone besides me. But, like Thomas, sometimes I'm not so sure. I begin to want to *see* the happy endings. I want to know for sure that the decisions I'm making ultimately lead to something good happening, at least in the end.

This past week a friend posted a status on facebook that caught my attention - his question, can we ever really resolve the traumatic events of life? It was at that moment, the epiphany finally reached my heart. (I never said I was a quick study)It's really not about resolving the past, it's about learning what we can from it in a gentle way, and then allowing it to be our past, and not our present or future.

Certainly I'm not thankful for the experiences that I had as a child and young adult that were hard and painful. But, I know who I am, my ability to be a healing agent, a loving person, were at least partially shaped by those experiences. And, so it's not about resolving those events or changing what happened, because that really isn't possible. We can go around or through or into those moments, but the truth of the matter is, they still hurt. And trying to deny the hurt and damage only lands us in deeper water. Just as Thomas acknowledges, when confronted head on with a recently risen Jesus, "My Lord and my God" - acknowledging the hurt is important. But, that's not where we stop. No, we must move forward, and we must be able to see the beauty all around us. Lest our pain define us to the point of destruction rather than transformation.

I'm glad to be walking alongside Thomas. Only someone who has expressed his profound doubt, really understands how I feel. My heart aches because it is full with the love and pain of being all too human. Of experiencing both the incredible presence of God and the desperate absence of God. Our stories remain intertwined.

The Old and the New

2010-12-09T22:02:00.005-06:00

Today I spoke with a friend I hadn't spoken with in years. We've kept in touch through things like facebook and email, but we don't speak or see one another with any regularity. We went to college together. She was part of the Honors college I was involved in. We knew each other fairly well by the end of 4 years, and I enjoyed her. Our lives have moved in different directions, but still we share a history. Our memories of those years are still part of who we are.

Life goes by with such speed, sometimes I don't feel like I've had time to catch my breath. It seems like it was 5 minutes ago when she and I spent significant time together. When she called, the first words out of her mouth were, "what does this time of year make you think of?" And I immediately knew the answer she was thinking of...pancakes.

Each December, our professor, who was also my mentor/mother/sister in college, would invite all of us over to her home. We would find her in her kitchen, in blue jeans and bare feet. She would be making us pancakes on a big griddle on the counter, adding in pecans or blueberries or chocolate chips. Once we all had a pancake, she would join us in her great room. We would be snuggled up with one another when she came in, and she would join for a time in our chatter. A bunch of college kids, enjoying each other and eating pancakes. After awhile, she would pick up a well-worn book. Sometimes it was Dr. Suess. Sometimes it was Shel Silverstein. After a few minutes, she would start reading to us. The room would fall quiet as we all soaked in the holiness of the moment. The divisions we ordinarily felt...politics, religion, the Greek system, whatever...fell away. We were children again, and our mother was reading to us, teaching us, loving us. It was my favorite night of each school year. I felt her warmth and the love of my friends so strongly on those nights.

I remember my first December experience at my teacher's home. Late into the night, when we began to file out to head back to our dorms, she stood by the front door and hugged each of us. As she held each of us in her arms, she would whisper a blessing of sorts. I still remember her smiling at me and telling me she how very happy she was that I was there. I recall watching the seniors in our group become teary-eyed as they realized they were receiving their final blessing from our beloved professor. A few years later, I remember being one of those seniors, wiping my own tears away as I left her home.

As my friend and I caught up on our lives and how they look and feel these days, she asked me if I missed those nights. I answered her with a resounding yes, but for different reasons than even I understand. Those days, and that age of my life, were filled with so much promise. I felt pregnant with hope and possibility. I was just discovering who I was. My life seemed rich and full and textured. There was a part of me that felt strongly that I could change the world. That my life would mean something, that all I was learning and seeing and believing would lead me right into the next stage of my life, and I welcomed that. Those experiences at my professor's home were at least partially about love and relationships for me. The conversations, the pancakes, the affection was so vital to my survival during those times. Those times have sustained me, even to this day. More than perhaps at any other time in my life, I realize now how important loving relationships really are.

I'm certain if someone had asked me at 21 what I thought my life would like at 35, I would have answered very differently than how life actually turned out for me. But still, here I am. And life is rich and full and textured. The past year has made me see, and believe, that there is still so much to come. As I caught up with my friend I couldn't help but laugh and smile (and cry just a little) at our common history and our common story now. Two girls who have grown up, but who are somehow still pregnant with hope for the future. My vision now is different, for sure, but it is still one full of so much promise.

As I settled in to read to my children tonight, I see so clearly how my life and development have come full circle. I'm so thankful for the old relationships that have nurtured me and formed (and perhaps even transformed) me, but today I'm just as thankful for the new relationships that are defining me in the here and now. And I still find myself as hopeful at 35 as I was at 19; hopeful that love never fails and hopeful that the future is still full of the possibilities and opportunities I first glimpsed all those years ago, when I was sitting on the floor in that warm house, surrounded by so much love and pancakes. My relationships look different and feel different today, but still they are what supports me and nourishes me from the inside out, and make me convinced that I still can change the world.

Forgiveness

2010-11-25T21:46:00.004-06:00

Sometimes I write about things I think I have a good understanding of. Other days I write about things that confound me, or that I'm struggling with. Today I suppose I'm writing about both of these things at the same time. As seems so often the case, I feel a confluence of events/things/ideas are coming to me at one time. As is also usually the case, I'm not certain what to do with all of these things coming together right now.

I've been contemplating forgiveness lately. And not in the abstract way I often contemplate things. For the first time in my recent memory, I've really wanted to forgive someone, and yet I can't seem to find my way. I know my own ability to forgive would bring me healing, and being able to let go would be living into the way I think God intends for me to live this short life I've been given. Still, here I sit, unable to really forgive and move beyond the bitterness.

In the past week, I have come to understand that God is speaking to me about this. The message has come across in different forms and through different people, but it may as well as be a burning bush; it is increasingly evident.

I got together with an old friend this past Monday. We hadn't seen one another in quite awhile. I really enjoyed the time I had with him. He has always understood me, and always seen the best in me, even when I couldn't quite see it or feel it for myself. We talked old times and new times. As our conversation turned more serious, I confessed to him that I was struggling with being able to forgive my ex-husband for his infidelity and a host of other things. I insisted to my friend that my ex wasn't even sorry, how could I be expected to really be able to forgive him when he had never bothered to apologize, or to even be completely honest with me? My old friend listened quietly, and then said, "It's going to hurt for a long time, but if you are who I know you are, you have to open your heart again and forgive him." His words brought me to tears, but still I find myself stuck in this place of sadness and not just a little bit of anger. At least part of my own stuck-ness is that I struggle with forgiving myself for the parts I have played in my own drama, whether with my ex-husband or with others around me.

Just to be certain I got the message, a few days later my ex-husband showed up at my office. To say this was unusual is an understatement. We haven't had a real conversation in months, perhaps a year or more. Our last months under the same roof were ones filled with minimal interaction, we only spoke to one another when forced to. Once he left our home, and I discovered his betrayal was not just imagined, we rarely spoke at all. Most of our interaction was via text message, and was only the most basic of communication, the "when are you picking up the kids?" kind of interaction.

My ex-husband stopped by my office, and I wasn't clear why. Eventually after chatting with me for awhile, he said he was sorry, sorry that he caused me pain and he understood why I was so upset with him. I think his motivations were slightly less than pure, but still, I can no longer complain that he has failed to apologize. I can't use his lack of repentance as an excuse any longer for my own refusal to forgive him, to forgive myself.

In the midst of all of my self-imposed angst over forgiving my ex-husband, I have considered the hypocrisy in my own inability to forgive. After all how many times have I screwed up? And yet I still come to the table. I still ask for and receive the absolution so freely offered by a God I believe loves me again and again even when I'm not sorry, and I don't get it right. I've hurt so many people in my lifetime, and I've felt the relief and joy of being forgiven so many times.

Later that day I was listening to a guy sing a song that was simple, and yet so expressed where I find myself today...in this strange place of seeking forgiveness for myself and yet being unable or unwilling to forgive another. It's an exile of sorts. Perhaps a self-created one, but still it feels a bit like exile. Knowing what needs to happen, knowing who I am and knowing what I value demands that I forgive, and still I seem determined to remain in my current place of separation. I'm not clear where the answer lies. I'm hopeful that I will get to that place in my journey where I will forgive freely, where I will judge less harshly, if at all, where I will seek to understand rather than be understood.

"You are my strength, and I am weak.
You are my strength, and I am weak.
You are my strength, and I am weak.
Maranatha. Maranatha. Maranatha.

I've given up sometimes when I've been tired.
I've given up sometimes when I've been tired.
I've given up sometimes when I've been tired.
Does it move you? Does it move you? Does it move you?

I've fucked it up so many times.
I've fucked it up so many times.
I've fucked it up so many times.
Alleluia. Alleluia. Alleluia.

I've found my home in Babylon.
I've found my home in Babylon.
I've found my home in Babylon.
Here in exile. Here in exile. Here in exile."

"Maranatha" - Padraig O Tuama

Thank you

2010-11-21T22:44:00.005-06:00

A confession: Thanksgiving is not my favorite holiday of the year. In fact, to be honest, I dread the coming of Thanksgiving every year.

I have a lot of not-so-fond memories of Thanksgiving. On a day so many spend with their families, I can recall spending more than one Thanksgiving alone as a child. In my late teens and twenties, I worked very diligently to create a family for Thanksgiving. I made elaborate meals and traveled to friends' homes in other states, and still I felt some sense of loss on this holiday. A day people traditionally spend with their families seemed to highlight my alone-ness, my separateness from others.

Four years ago at Thanksgiving time was when I was first confronted rather head-on with my husband's infidelity. Last year I insisted my ex-husband move from our home at Thanksgiving time. The holiday has not been especially happy for me in either my distant or my recent memory.

It isn't that I'm not thankful or don't love the idea of a holiday that is centered on being grateful. In fact, I would characterize myself as someone who often sees the gifts in life, and is abundantly thankful for them. I find myself saying to God multiple times a day a simple, "thank you." And in the past few years I have started to recognize the value in telling the people in my life that I love them and am thankful for their lives. Gratitude is a huge part of my life nowadays. And I'm...well...I'm thankful for that, too.

Tonight I spent some time with an old friend. She and I have known each other since we were 5 or 6 years old. Our current lives are vastly different, and yet our histories are very much the same. As we talked about our families, both of which have been difficult to contend with since we were little girls, she expressed how hard it is to let go of the hurt when there is an expectation that you "be happy" at holiday celebrations with the family that has hurt you so intensely in the past. As I listened to her words, I realized what I am truly thankful for this year. It's really very simple. It's clarity. And it's the grace to let go of all of those old expectations so I can fully open my hands and accept all the blessings in and around and through my life now.

Yes, my family of origin has continually been a disappointment to me. And it's not getting any better. It's true, I have lived through a divorce in the past 18 months, and I still struggle with feeling bitter and sad about it. My job, on some days, is incredibly painful and difficult. I continue to struggle with my weight and my insecurity about my weight. I don't know where I'm headed in many ways. My friends are people who struggle with their own families, addictions, conflicts and issues. And yet...and still...

There are more and more days when I feel really good. Those days and times when I realize that I have created my own family - one centered around love and goodness and laughter and compassion. There are times when I look at the two little people sleeping in my bed and see very clearly that they are healthy, inquisitive, funny and loving. Over and over, I have laughed, loud and long, with the people I work with about whatever serious stuff we are confronting. There are those moments when I understand that all the pain I see and feel for these kids pales in comparison to the joy I see and feel when a child is adopted or loved or cared for. There are days when I know that my weight will again come under control, but that perhaps giving myself a little time and gentleness is what is called for in this moment. There is the hour I confront that I don't know where I'm going, but I know where I've been. I've been to some incredible places, and I've known and loved some wonderful people, and I've been known and loved by some even more wonderful people. But mostly today I am thankful for conversations like the one I had tonight. To be able to listen to someone's struggle and realize that this is what I know to do...to love my sister. I know how to hear what she cannot say and to bear witness to the fact that she is here: a strong, compassionate and beautiful woman.

Out of the ruins of a family who could not love her, she is here, and so am I - and she is thankful for her incredible life and the grace of the Divine, and so am I.

For whatever inexplicable reasons, God has loved me and cared for me in more ways than I can possibly know in my lifetime. Life, as it is ever unfolding, is good and full and amazing. And all I know to say is "thank you."

My boy

2010-11-11T21:06:00.003-06:00

This Sunday I'm having my little one, my son, baptized into the community that has already accepted him (and us) into their midst. Last year when my daughter asked to go through this ritual, I knew that she had reasons for wanting to do this. She had seen many children baptized, and she had thought about it. Even though she was only six years old, she seemed to grasp some of the weight of her decision.

Last year when my daughter was baptized, I decided, that as a family, I wanted both of my children to be able to share in the Eucharist - receiving the bread and wineat the table. So despite the fact that my son had not yet been baptized, I let him begin receiving communion. My reasoning, faulty it may be, was that as a family, we had all been attending the church for nearly a year and together we would go to the table to receive what was being offered and to give what we offer - the love of Christ, fellowship with a new family, our own thanksgiving for the blessings of our common life.

For the past few months, my son has mentioned that he wants now to do what his sister did a year ago. At first I sort of let the conversation drift around and didn't really question him or talk with him much about it. I offered the typical momism..."OK, we'll see." As he has grown more and more sure of himself recently, I finally told him I would mention it to our priest and move forward. He was pleased, and for the past week he has gotten downright excited about what was to come.

My son is in many ways me, in male form. My son, since the night before his birth, has not been an easy child. His entrance into this world was rocky. After a simple, and full 39 weeks and 6 days of pregnancy, I was preparing for bed. I had put our 2 and 1/2 year old daughter to bed in her toddler bed, fed the dogs and was ready to heave my large belly into bed. I had been assured by my doctor a day earlier, that I was still probably a week or so away from delivering. My son, unlike my daughter, was in the right position to be delivered naturally, and I was living in that slow period of waiting for his arrival. As I crawled into bed, I decided to make one last trip to the bathroom. And then in dramatic fashion when I stood up, my water broke. I was stunned. And a little unnerved. I wasn't ready for this new adventure just yet.

Regardless of my preparations, the contractions started, and pretty soon I found myself in a hospital room. We arrived there around midnight, and I assumed that by morning I would be holding my son. My expectations were not immediately met. I labored through the night and the next morning...and the next afternoon...finally my doctor came to me and said, the baby was in distress each time I contracted, and that he was not going to come on his own, that they wanted to perform a c section. I was so tired by the time this development happened, I quickly consented, and was ready to meet this child. I recall very clearly the moment of my son's birth...it was silent. He didn't cry. He was blue. I was frightened. Within a minute he was screaming and bright pink. I remember crying in relief. He was here, he was alive and by all accounts he was healthy, and born on his due date, after 21 hours of labor.

My daughter, as an infant and toddler, was affectionate, loving and happy most days. My son was not really any of these things. He was an adorable baby, and not at all a fussy infant...but he had his quirks that were clear early on. He didn't take to people the way his sister did. He was cautious and sometimes seemingly anxious about situations and events. He resisted change, and was only content if we were following our ordinary routine. And to complicate things further, he had health issues that landed him in a doctor's office or hospital often from birth until he was over 2 years old.

And yet...and still...I have always understood him. He is so much who and how I was at his age, and his life has healed me in so many ways. I recall feeling the way he often seems to feel. Not entirely trusting people around me, not having an innate ability to show affection to those around me. As he ages and learns to express himself and to accept the love of those around him, I am continually amazed by this boy.

By far the best part of today was seeing how much he has changed and grown in just a few, short years. He was excited, loving and happy. And he was able to express those feelings openly to the people around him. Shortly after he was baptized, he ran into my arms and said, "that was awesome mom." I told him how I proud of him I was. He is in all ways, my child.

Things left unsaid

2010-11-07T22:31:00.006-06:00

As is common for me, I've come crashing back to earth. I tend to be reactionary, emotional and a little crazy. The past month has been ripe with new ideas, new people and excitement for me. In a way, I feel as if for a moment I left behind all of the wreckage of my personal life for bigger things. But, still I know myself well enough, and perhaps even accept myself enough, to feel it coming on and I'm ready to listen to what the lessons are this time around. About a week ago, I could feel this "spell" a-coming on. So what's eating me?

I'm not entirely sure. I think part of it has to do with trying to figure out some balance with my ex-husband, and still feeling ill-equipped to get it all ironed out in my mind. To my chagrin, I've discovered that some days I miss him. That seems strange to me, to even say those words, but it's true. Not that I've said those words out loud to anyone. It might be that I think it's strange because I chose this road. I made the decision that both of us feared. In the end, I decided for both of us that we would no longer be together. As I was getting misty-eyed listening to some Amy Grant last night, a line from one of her songs struck me, "the road of life is rugged, any road you choose, when I find the other side...I'll wait for you."

I suppose I didn't really get how hard this would be. To be alone. To feel alone. I find myself feeling sad that no one is "waiting for me" anywhere. And yet, I don't feel ready or able to love someone the way I loved my husband. I don't feel ready to admit my own neediness. In many ways he was my first, my only. It still hurts too much. The loss is still fresh in so many ways. I find myself envying those around me who move onward and upward so quickly. My fears are too great. I find myself silent.

I sat in the emergency room with my daughter Friday night after she experienced an allergic reaction to something. I called her dad on my way to the ER. I'm not certain what I was hoping for. Regardless he asked me to call him when it was over and let him know what was going on. The difference for me this time is that I was just left sad. So many words left unsaid.

Back when our son was an infant and I was sitting in hospital rooms with him - holding him for hours, quieting his tears, pacing the hallways, praying that he would be all right - I was alone then, too. My ex-husband hasn't changed in the past year. Back then I was so consumed with anger at him for not being who I wanted him to be in those moments, I could barely look at him. And yet, I was quiet.

And just so I don't appear the martyr, I don't believe he ever meant anything by not being present. I think he figured I had it handled. After all I never let myself crumble with him. I was stoic, in control and edgy when it came to our children and their crises. Even now, I'm not certain how to talk about being scared. I expected him to know, to understand, to see past my bravado. And when he didn't or couldn't, I was angry.

I still recall with more than a little bitterness the night I labored with our son. We left for the hospital around 10pm after my water broke unexpectedly. My parents met us and took our sleepy little girl home with them. I was determined to have our son naturally. As the hours came and went, I grew more and more scared. I was in pain, my labor wasn't progressing and I was becoming increasingly tired. In the midst of all this, my husband decided to "take a break" and left me alone for 3 hours. I had a mini-breakdown. Here I was, in a hospital room, in intense labor with our child and completely and totally alone. And yet, when he returned, I said very little. Some days I believe that was the beginning of the end of our marriage.

There are so many things I never said. And so I feel sad today. I wonder if any of those things would have made a difference for us. I've made tough decisions. And while I can't honestly say I regret those decisions, I also am still left full of sorrow in some ways that I had to make them. So many things left unsaid.

Zaccheus

2010-10-25T22:26:00.004-05:00

As is my custom on Mondays, I read the upcoming Gospel lesson for next Sunday. I like to let it soak in a bit before Sunday rolls around. The week generally passes so quickly, that I don't really feel that gives me enough time...but I try.

This lesson is the one that kids at Vacation Bible School have been singing about since the beginning of time...the story of the "wee little man" - Zaccheus. As I re-read the story this week, it occurred to me, that Zaccheus's transformation is exactly what Peter Rollins has been talking about with some of his recent blogs. (www.peterrollins.net) Transformation brings about change. If we are truly transformed, change is imminent for us.

We aren't told what happened at Zaccheus's house between him and Jesus. Jesus gets him out of the tree, they head out, and then we hear about the end result - Zaccheus's entire way of doing "life" is changed in an instant. He goes from sinner to sanctified, just like that.

More than ever I'm curious what the intervening day/evening looked like. Did Jesus just have such a presence, that he swayed Zaccheus without even really saying a word? Or did Jesus ask him about his life and they get to know one another over some bread and wine? Did Jesus move him with beautiful, powerful words? I'm left wondering. How did it go? What did it look like?

Sometimes life happens like that...in an instant we feel alive, the connection between ourselves and another person is overwhelming. It's as if we are set on fire about some thing or someone. It's inexplicable really, that moment of *knowing.*

Today I was in court with a woman who was losing her rights to her two small daughters. I have found myself very moved by her situation from the beginning. I cannot imagine the pain she had to face today. Her addiction has landed her in a number of messes, but this one had to have been the worse. Not only is she in prison for her drug problem, but now...to heap on the insults...she loses her parental rights to the children she carried in her womb, delivered and loved. Despite her addiction, or perhaps in addition to being an addict, she was a mother. And no one would have testified today that she didn't love those girls. She and I met today in a tiny jail cell prior to her hearing. She was shackled and looked like a child herself. I sat next to her. As she cried, and I fumbled for words and fought my own tears, I finally looked her dead in the eye and said, "You will always and forever be their mother. No court proceedings will change how you feel about them. They were yours from the day you knew of their existence, and they always will be in your heart." She stopped crying for a minute and met my gaze. She understood. I wasn't her lawyer anymore, I was another woman who knew what it was to carry, deliver and love my own children, imperfectly. There was a moment of transformation for her, for me. My life has been altered by hers, by the intersection of our lives. As my son sleeps softly next to me, I am thinking about her and her daughters, and hoping for their futures.

Try as we might to turn over a rock and find it somewhere else, the message, the Good News is always there, just at or below the surface of where we live. We find it always in relationship to another.

I still wonder about Zaccheus. I wonder what Jesus said or did (or perhaps what he didn't say or didn't do) to usher in transformation for Zaccheus. I wonder how Jesus was changed by Zaccheus. Because we can't relate to another and not be changed/transformed/altered in some fundamental way. I suppose it's another question I don't have an answer to. But all the same, I know the result. And it's a beautiful thing.

Home Free

2010-10-24T16:38:00.003-05:00

Every so often I go through a phase of looking up songs I listened to years and years ago to see what I think about the thoughts expressed in them now. (Thank you very much iTunes) Mostly the songs I look up are from the contemporary christian stuff I used to like in high school and somewhat in my college years. This past week I recalled a lovely song called "Home Free" by Wayne Watson. I don't know whatever happened to Wayne, but I used to love this song.

It is basically a "sweet by and by" kind of tune. It's a song that talks about the yearning for what he calls "ultimate healing." I find myself still liking the song, but of course for vastly different reasons today.

When I was younger, late teens/early 20's - I subscribed to the idea that someday we would understand it all. When we got to heaven we would have some sort of list of explanations handed to us. A sort of conference where God would say, "This is why I caused/allowed the tsunami, here was the reason behind HIV/AIDS, this is why I allowed all the bad things that happened in the lives of everyone I knew". And I also assumed that whatever the explanations were, they would all make perfect sense. I would have arrived home to my Father's house, and I would have a room and everything would all add up just the way it should. Even better, I would get to see all those people I knew who had died before me, and they also would be able to explain to me the stuff that I didn't "get" in this life.

The other side of this heavenly coin was the idea that magically all of our shortcomings would be healed. Finally, I would stop overeating, and be magnificently thin. All of the scars I got from living in this world would be magically erased as if the wounds never occurred. What a lovely thing: to die as if I had never lived the bad parts of life...

The song's chorus goes like this: Home free, eventually. At the ultimate healing, we will be home free. Home free, oh I want to be there, at the ultimate healing, we will be home free.

I'm pretty sure what Wayne meant by the "utlimate healing" was death/heaven/the afterlife. And that is a lovely thought. But what about now?

Is our only real hope in the afterlife? Is that really what Jesus meant? If so, it seems pretty hopeless down here on earth, doesn't it?

More and more I see the message of Jesus, truly the Good News, as something that is happening all around us. When my child learns to be loving, when I learn to forgive, when my heart is healed after feeling torn apart...these things are the here and now of faith. And thank God for her grace. It's not that I don't wonder about all the terrible things that happen, and that I don't try and figure out some solutions that are woefully inadequate to fix the problem, but still healing is here and now - and perhaps faith really does allow for the "ultimate healing" Wayne sings about. Only because the healing comes in community.

In a similar vein, I saw a sign this week that I have read and chuckled about for a few weeks, but didn't think about its significance until today, it reads, "Free Seeking the Truth self-study DVD's." Really? Seeking the truth can be done through self study? I can't imagine that's true. It seems to me the only way to find the truth (not that it's a one-time mission so much as journey with lots of pit stops)is in community. It is only with my sister's journey in my heart that I can discover where I am supposed to go and where my journey fits into the tapestry of faith. It is only when I take my brother's hand that I have the strength to continue, the courage to see what it is that lies before me. Without the context of community, healing seems like an event that must happen in some other time and some other place. Within the context of community we can see healing as sure as one can see a wound scab over.

In some meditation time yesterday a strange image popped into my mind...a large wound that had developed an equally large scab. Out of the scab, flowers grew. All in and around the wound were blooms of pink and yellow and purple. So much so that the scab was barely visible. However if you looked carefully, it was still there. When this thought occurred to me, I knew nothing else to do but to thank God immediately for all of those scabs that have become beautiful in some way. I don't thank God for the wound that caused the scab...that seems almost masochistic to me. But I am so thankful that in the healing I have been able to see the beauty that is there and that grows wildly all around. It is only in community, in the context of another's hurt, that I become incredibly aware of the healing I have already received. It is only in the moment of loving the other, that the healing becomes complete in my own life.

In the end, I don't think I'm awaiting the "ultimate healing" to come so much as I am blessed to receive it on a daily basis now. Still love the song.

Gospel

2010-10-20T22:25:00.003-05:00

Luke 18:9 (NRSV) He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: 10 "Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Phar'isee and the other a tax collector. 11 The Phar'isee, standing by himself, was praying thus, "God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. 12 I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.' 13 But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, "God, be merciful to me, a sinner!' 14 I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted."

This is the gospel lesson for Sunday...and as usual it seems especially poignant today. I was having a conversation with a friend this week. It started innocently enough, but soon it turned into a free for all. I inquired about another friend and asked how the two were getting on these days. I didn't realize the land mine I had stepped on. Before I could respond, she began to categorize all of the things she believed this other person was doing that were inappropriate, foolish or downright wrong. I think my jaw dropped open slightly at some point. I wasn't sure how to respond to her criticisms. I mostly listened interjecting to defend the other person on occasion. Perhaps some of the criticisms were valid, but mostly they seemed petty and insignficant to me. Though clearly they were serious concerns for her. Her message seemed to be, "Thank God I'm not like HIM."

I'm not certain what we do when our ability to convey a message becomes hindered. When we simply cannot reach the other with our intentions/our heart. Whether it's because of his or her baggage or our own, sometimes we lose the ability to effectively communicate with another person.

I think back to a time when my ex-husband and I really enjoyed one another. We would talk for hours. Politics, religion, life, love, all matter of things. In the beginning when I was still a student, I would drive to his flat on the weekends, and we would lie in bed for hours. Besides the sex there was always a commonality of ideas. We were gentle with one another, and we could disagree without it being dramatic.

Somewhere along the line life got in the way. We stopped really seeing one another. The fact that we had a history together seemed to almost complicate matters even more. Our conversations became stilted, forced. Our disagreements became occasions for silence or bitterness. I don't know what day things changed. Or what even precipitated it, I just know things changed.

If I think back on some of the other relationships that I've had, I can see the same pattern. And if I'm honest, I can see my own participation. Whether it be that I withdrew from the relationship because it became hard. Or that I struggled with my own feelings of inadequacy or my fear of intimacy. I'm not certain. Regardless the pulling apart happened. And oftentimes I stood, in my self-righteousness, and thought to myself, "at least I'm not like that person." At least I'm smart or liberal or open to new ideas or saavy or rooted in faith or... And of course I should be able to trace these thoughts to the beginning of the end. When the beloved becomes an "it" or an "other" it becomes easier to be critical. I know for myself that I become condescending, dismissive and distant. And at some point down the road, I seem confused about how I got there.

Therein lies the lesson. I'm fairly certain the gospel's tax collector didn't feel glorious when he walked away after baring his soul to God in the temple. He wasn't smug or self-righteous or even particularly pleased with himself. Rather, it says he "could not even look up to heaven." When we are our most vulnerable with others, our most honest, it often is hard to look the other person in the eye. But that moment is where true relationship begins. Suddenly someone's faults, whatever they may be, seem to be less serious and certainly can be overlooked in favor of love you feel for him or her.

I have found myself saying often in the past year that if we could just start with the premise that people mean well, that we could get much, much further down the road in our conflict resolution. Whether it's in my mediation practice or my life. If I can push aside what I think I know about someone in favor of simply believing for at least a few minutes that he or she has the best of intentions, I can really hear the other. And when I can hear him or her, I can love the person, for the person that he or she is.

And so what is the good news? That we can start anew each day with one another. No, I think it's better than that. I think the good news is that despite our differences, we can love one another anew each day. And that love means forgiving what we think is wrong or mistaken about the other person. Whether that person is a sinner who knows full well his or her shortcomings or a pharisee who will never admit wrongdoing - both of these are the beloved.

The Absence of God

2010-10-16T19:31:00.002-05:00

I took some much needed respite this weekend from my ordinary life. I set out with some lofty goals of figuring out why I've been so troubled by my job lately and what all this theology/discernment means for me. Though I won't claim to have caught sight of any burning bushes, I was confronted with some real truth.

This weekend I heard a lot about the theological/conceptual idea of the death of God. I haven't read much about this, although I have followed some of the debate over time. Still, this concept of the absence of God sparked something in me that I can't fully articulate. (Although apparently here I am, trying).

Peter Rollins talks a lot about doubt - and the almost sacred nature of doubt. When Peter talked about the crucifixion as an experience of Jesus being abandoned by God, it shook me up. And it resonated somewhere deep within me.

I have struggled in the past months with my own past, and that part of my past I have kept hidden - from God, from others. I have struggled with the abuse I see on a daily basis with the kids I work with. By and large, I have kept my sadness and anger at their situations hidden - from God, from others. I have struggled to remain silent and objective lately in the face of the suffering of these kids. It bothers me. And I can't seem to get control of myself and my feelings. I vacillate from being mad as hell and crying out for some mercy. It is a strange out of control kind of space, and I'm not particularly comfortable occupying it.

The idea of the absence of God is a terrifying thing for me. Peter Rollins is right when he says for some of us belief is easy, but doubt is terribly hard. Suddenly, sitting there listening to the concept that God could or would abandon Jesus/me/anyone else struck me with some force. This, of course, is what I have believed for some time. But, I don't say that out loud to anyone, not even to myself. After all I'm a believer, and have been my whole life. What would it sound like/look like/feel like to admit that I have felt, in the moments I needed God most, that I was left behind by God. That He turned and walked away from me without so much as a backward glance.

And therein the connection to what has made working in juvenile court so hard for me lately. Part of me believes God has also abandoned the kids I work with. Why else or how else would these things happen to them? And so my wound, the wound I've carried all these years becomes more painful, like someone is picking at a scab on my soul.

Now if I were feeling particularly evangelical today I would write that obviously Jesus is and was with me in the most painful moments of my life. Unfortunately I can't say that I believe that. Not today, and if I am to be painfully honest, I have never believed that. Not really. Not completely.

Part of me is bothered by this revelation and part of me feels startlingly free to write the words. As I chatted with God on my drive home today, I explained my anger, my sadness in the best way I knew. Haltingly, but finally truthfully. I asked God in some sort of strange, Jacob-like wrestling match to give me faith. I want to be convinced that God never abandons us - his/her beloved. I want to understand a God of compassion above all else. Or as John Caputo would say hope against hope that such a God is possible even if the face of the impossibility of faith. It is only in the absence of faith that authentic faith is realized fully.

The irony I suppose is that the presence of God is only truly known after the absence of God is truly felt. I cannot have one without the other. I have lived for a very long time with the absence of God as a reality. I have refused to admit it, but I have lived it. It has been somewhat of a schizophrenic life really. To on one hand see and believe in the grace and love of God in my life and those around me, and on the other hand feel as if God could not permeate the worst part of my life and the worst parts of the lives of others. I cannot help but feel hopeful in this moment. My doubts are opening up my heart again, anew to the possibility of the divine. The hope of it all is enough for today. A new day.

The "I" word

2010-10-01T20:04:00.001-05:00

For the past few months my weight has been accelerating upward with some speed. It makes me nervous and self-conscious. While I am somewhat aware of what I'm doing and not doing...still I seem to be gaining quickly. Yesterday as I was driving to work, the truth of it all came crashing down on me as I recalled a recent conversation with a good friend. He was trying to coach me through a divorce issue I've been having. He's been there, done that - having divorced from his wife when his children were small and being much further down the road than I am now. I felt vulnerable in the discussion, like he could see right through my facade. I could feel that creeping uneasiness coming over me. I felt exposed in that moment. As if my friend, a person I've developed a very good relationship with in the past 6 months was seeing too much, getting too close.

I get nervous and uptight when I start getting too close to people. Whether it's a boy or a friend or a group of friends...I'm not good with intimacy. Hell, I don't even like the word. Over the past year I have found myself drawn into 2 communities more deeply than before. In addition to that, I have forged a few new relationships with men in my life as well as renewed an old friendship with a girlfriend that had fallen away years ago. The natural reaction, for me, is to pour on weight.

I'm not sure how this started for me...but I know myself well enough to recognize the pattern. I meet someone, whether it's a boyfriend sort of thing or just a close friendship, and the relationship begins to develop. I find myself enjoying the time I'm spending with this person or group of people, and I start feeling some level of reciprocity in the friendship. Then, out of nowhere it seems, part of me feels invaded. To try and protect myself, I gain weight. It sounds simple really, but it's not. Most of the time it takes years and a hundred pounds for me to even recognize what I'm doing. This time I seem to be a little quicker on my game. I've gained 50 or so in the past year. And it is startling to me how clear it is right now what I'm doing. I can even see it happening. While on one hand I long for closeness to others, I still feel threatened by the relationships somehow. Logically I can say that this isn't sensible. But my heart seems oblivious to what my brain knows.

About 18 months ago I started attending a new church as well as meeting regularly with a priest about some of the turmoil and transition in my life. At about the same time I started hanging out with a new group of attorneys. I've grown close to both the church community as well as the lawyer community. And so when stress comes up I struggle with how to gloss over it or act as if everything is wonderful. It's easier to pull off the act with people I don't know very well. And so I eat crap and become sedentary. It's as if the stress has to go somewhere...and the only place I know to put it is in my mouth.

Now that I finally see this pattern clearly, the question remains whether I can reverse it. A few years ago when I dropped significant weight it was as a result of a singular focus on weight loss. I became obsessive. I thought about it all the time, and I ignored all of the areas of stress or concern in my life at the time. It became easy over time, to have one focus. It was simple in many ways. At the time my marriage was crumbling, my son was sick and I was in a job I hated. Why not focus on weight loss? I could avoid thinking about all the other terrible stuff in my life.

This time around, I feel like it has a lot to do with balance. I can't climb back into the cocoon, that's surely not the answer. But still, there has to be a way for me to get more at ease with intimacy. To not take a step forward in a relationship by being honest about what I'm thinking and then quickly retreat by destroying my physical self.

My size and weight is upsetting to me right now. And embarrassing. I don't like being this size. All I know to do is to try and be conscious of what I'm doing. To live in the now as opposed to the past or the not yet. I do hope that the lessons are more easily learned the second, third or fourth time around. I don't want to lose the relationships I've begun to develop. I think there is room for both my fear and my openness in intimate relationships I have.

The Problem of Evil

2010-09-29T22:07:00.003-05:00

For as long as I've considered myself a Christian, which has been the vast majority of my life, I've struggled with what we do with evil. I don't mean the evening news kind of stuff. Although, that too is problematic. No, I mean the run of the mill tough stuff that many of us endure in our lifetimes. The crap of life that seems to go on unabated for some people.

It seems some days to be all around me. Children who have been battered or molested or just plain not cared for. Women who are manipulated, controlled and mistreated. Parents whose children have gone astray somehow. I still don't know what it all means in the grand scheme of things. I cannot reconcile what I see with who I believe God to be. It seems incongruent.

Sometimes it doesn't bother me. The not knowing of this life. Why *this* child? Logically I know this kid didn't do anything so terrible to deserve what has happened to him or her...so why? And where is God in the mess that exists? I don't have soft, easy answers to that. At times I'm able to live in the not knowing.

But on other days I become overwhelmed with it all. Why doesn't really sum up my questions...although it seems a good place to start at times. It's not as simple as why do bad things happen? It's more specific than that. Why do bad things happen to people if God is so good? If I believe that there is this Being/Light/Source that embodies love - where is the divine intervention to stop this madness?

And if God doesn't intervene ever, then what's the point in all this? Surely God is God. He/She can step in. After all who wants to be Superman if he can't really fly? If God is God, and therefore always present, always able to aid us in the time of fear and trembling, what's the hold up?

I think these sorts of ideas started bouncing around in my brain years ago - when I was a kid. God, the Church, was my refuge. I remember sitting in the balcony of the sanctuary in the quiet of a night. I was not able to speak most of what I thought about back then. It was too much, it overwhelmed my sensibilities. But being in that place, I felt some sort of Presence. It just seemed things would be ok. In the end. Looking back though, things weren't ok.

I recently heard God compared to a father who tries to shelter his child. During the analogy the speaker talked about how perhaps in our most terrified moments, God is there holding us. He stopped just short of suggesting that God is ok with our being terrified, because he gets to be the one to carry us through those times. These sentiments disturb me on some very fundamental level. If my darkest hour was God's greatest hour...well that seems more than just a little sick to me. I would compare it to taking one of my children into a horrific place just so I could protect them from the worst of the horror. No, I hope that's not how the story ends.

In my darkest moments, I still believe God exists, that He is present. Perhaps the painful realization I'm coming to lately is that I don't trust God very much in those moments. Such a realization shakes me up and springs tears to my eyes. I want to trust God, but sometimes I have to wonder. Does He know how much it hurts? Why didn't He/doesn't He intervene? While the image of a parent holding his child close to try and protect and love him is of sentimental value to me as a mother, I have a hard time being in that picture. I have a hard time being the child in that picture. I'm not certain how that looks or feels. It certainly strikes some fear in my heart. The out-of-controlness that such an idea evokes is terrifying to me.

As I sat today with a young boy whose heart is hurting, I recalled a scene in Forrest Gump where the young girl kneels in the corn field and prays, "Dear God, make me bird, so I can fly far, far away from here" over and over. As Forrest notes, "God didn't make Jenny a bird." No, Jenny endured sexual and physical abuse by her father. And as a result, Jenny was pretty screwed up. It took the whole rest of her life to figure out how to undo the damage done to her.

Here I sit at age 35. And I wonder if I'm any closer to understanding me, God, God and me than I was at 25 or 15 or 5. I hope so. But still I'm plagued by the doubts of my childhood. And maybe if I had chosen another line of work...I could forget all the bad things that happen to the least of these. Unfortunately I'm slapped in the face with the realities of ugly human behavior on a very regular basis. Why didn't God rescue me? Where is the redemption? If the word "redeem" means "to make worthwhile" - how is that possible? How can any of those experiences be made worthwhile? It reminds me of my days spent in evangelical land where we were told that "everything happens for a reason" and "if you just believe the right stuff, God will bless you." I always wanted to stand up and heckle the guy spouting this crap. "Really?! Everything happens for a reason? Let's start with the Holocaust and work our way up to today."

I'm still uncertain what to say to these kids. The ones who look at me with tear-stained faces and ask "Why?" I'm not certain what to tell myself in the dark nights, when my heart hurts from the memories I carry deep in my soul. I'm tempted to say, have a little faith. It will be ok.

But I worry about what I will say when it's not ok.

Hurt

2010-09-18T17:16:00.005-05:00

We are such mysterious creatures. All of us. Our love, our hurt is all so intense.

A few days ago I was unkind to a friend. I'm not sure why exactly. One minute I was laughing at something he said, and then next moment I was rude, abrasive, abrupt. I can't say I feel horribly about it, but I do wonder what my motivation was. Why this friend? In this moment? I remain unconvinced it was random on my part, but still I'm unsure what I was thinking. I didn't apologize directly, but certainly his skin is thicker than mine, and we have moved on past the experience. Whatever forgiveness I needed from him, I received, and we remain good friends...we enjoy one another. Still my words hurt him. Our story includes that experience.

I had a particularly frustrating mediation this week. After two very successful ones, where walls came down and the transformation was lovely, this group wasn't having it.

As I listened, really listened to what was not being said, I could hear the anger and bitterness these two people had for one another and for the situation they were in. Then I heard it...the underlying thing in every one of these situations...the hurt, pain, sorrow, the out-of-control-ness of it all. Sometimes in that moment, I'm able to speak words that make sense, that speak to people's hearts. For some reason, I didn't have the words this time. I tried, but they were not able to hear me just yet. When I felt they could not hear me, I felt tension set in for me. My voice was getting louder, I was becoming more abrasive. I think I was thinking if they would just *listen* to me, I could make them understand. I could fix their problems.

I'm continually reminded, in the midst of a two hour session with a divorcing couple, that there is very little I know about who these two people are. What I am observing is who they are allowing me to see. I am perceiving them at a crisis moment for them. Fair or not, it is the moment my life intersects with theirs. I've discovered that I have very little time to get to the heart of the matter. If I can't identify where the source of their pain or anger or guilt lies, then I'm not likely to get very far in the mediation. Even if I can get to the root, it is not always so easy to pull it up...to extract it from the soil that is their life. And perhaps that's not my function. My real role is to help them to see for just a moment why it makes more sense to work through their issues with one another rather than to continue to hide them from the light of day. I was not able to do my job in the mediation, I couldn't get to that moment of transformation. I'm always disappointed when that happens. I hope for the best.

On the heels of my messy mediation, I was by and large an observer in a group this weekend. This group is attempting to be centered on God, the Source, the Light, Jesus. The group is struggling with change, the potential for growth and forward momentum.

My history in this community is both a great story of loving relationships and also one with some disappointments. It didn't take me long to recognize some of the same issues we have everywhere else in life existed in this space, with the people here. The honeymoon ended pretty quickly. Fairly early on in my attending this church, I witnessed some amount of backbiting and mean-spirited comments.

As I listened to the group talk, I was overwhelmed by the amount of hurt that seemed to be just below the surface. It felt eerily similar to a mediation to me. All of the unspoken words, the untapped emotions, the bubbling just below the surface. Clearly these folks have history that I'm unaware of. I feel that way in every mediation I work on. The difference - there are several people within this group I care deeply for. I consider them friends, perhaps even family. I know parts of their stories. So to see their hurt...well it hurt me. I don't know how they got here, but it is evident how it is impacting their current level of functioning with one another. I was so overwhelmed by it at one point, that I escaped to the sanctuary of the church for 10 minutes to think, pray, pause. As I sat there the thought that occurred to me was, "How did we get here?" As a church, as a people, as followers of Jesus.

There is a song by Rich Mullins I've never really fully appreciated that has a line in it that says, "Jesus, write me into your story. Whisper it to me. And let me know...I'm yours." That's all I think we can hope for. As a church...as a people. We hope to be part of the story. Our hurt, our love, our hope. I recognize that hurt is a part of life. And mostly it comes back to knowing we are still loved, still cared for, still valued. And that is what appears to be missing.

Similar to the mediations I work on with dysfunctional families, this group seems to have trust issues. There doesn't seem to be a common story uniting them, at least not all the time. In the case of the church, the common story is Jesus - the man, the intense love, the invitation to participate in his body and his blood. Perhaps thinking that such a group can exist is pie in the sky. Afterall the church hasn't exactly lived up to the highest standards in the last few thousand years.

Still I was left feeling sad. Not because the group wasn't able to overcome their differences, but because I see my own sadness reflected in theirs. The pain I saw in the faces and words left unsaid reminded me of how hard it is for us to let the walls down. Even in the safest of places, we still hold something back. We still can't quite allow our hurt to be brought out in the open. I know that difficulty. There is still so much I cannot say, cannot express for fear of being judged.

At the end of the day, I hope for this group, as I hope for myself. That as I grow into more and more the person I was created to be perhaps I will be able to see my own hurt as a chance. An opportunity to connect more deeply with others. And if I'm really able to live this life, the one I know was given to me to live...then when others are hurting I will not be able to turn a blind eye to their pain. I will have the courage to see their hurt for what it is...and respond by connecting to their story, our story. Jesus, write me into your story. Whisper it to me. And remind us, we are yours.

The Message

2010-09-12T21:10:00.004-05:00

Today I watched two very different scenes unfold around my son. I recalled again what I hope my son takes from our life together. I hope that I can continue to surround him with people who love him, who value him simply because he is on this earth.

My son is going through what I would call a "testing boundaries" phase. I would call it the "terrible 2's" - but he is now 4, so that doesn't fit exactly. At 2 he was a sweet, loveable little guy. This phase, well it likely began some months ago, and continues on. He challenges authority. He pushes me to find out where the lines are, and add that to his ordinary level of energy, and well, he wears me out somedays. He is a very different animal from his sister. He is stubborn. And I don't mean the ordinary stubborn-ness that little kids have. I mean he is obstinate. When he doesn't get what he wants, he can hold a grudge like no other kid I have known. He will argue with me. He will cry, whine and generally make life miserable for those around him when life is not progressing as he hoped.

I must admit to having lost my patience more than once or twice with him. Overall, he is and remains my child at heart. While he is stubborn, I can see now as an adult how stubborn-ness is at times a gift. While he is testing boundaries, I can see the importance of being consistent with him. Still, I don't know if it's because he had health issues early on...but he gets away with more than his sister did at this age. Or perhaps she just didn't push the envelope the way he does. I'm not certain. Regardless, I am not oblivious to the fact that he can be a challenging child.

Today I was reminded in a direct way what I hope for him to get from the adults in his life. When I was child I was taught that adults were by and large infallible. Certainly we were not to question the adults in our lives. If they made a mistake, well, I was taught to overlook that fact, and to not expect an amends. I grew up in a household, and in a larger family, that was not amused by children. We were typically to be seen and not heard, and we were taught that until we were grown up, we had little to nothing to offer the family. It's strange that I would wind up the person I am today. The way I parent is drastically different than the way I was taught.

When we walked into church this morning, we were greeted by the people we ordinarily see. My son was excited to be there. Sunday school was starting up again for the year, and as he put it, "he missed Ms. Ruth" - his teacher. As he hugged the adults we saw walking in, he was swept up in the arms of our priest. He was happy to see him as well. When he finished with sunday school and he came into the service, towards the end, he was fairly calm and cooperative with me. As we went forward to accept the Eucharist, he became a little bit of a tyrant. He was pulling, pushing and generally acting out. When it came his turn to take the bread, he held his hand out. One hand contained gum he had just taken out of his mouth in preparation for communion, and the other hand he used to take the bread from our priest. Unfortunately, at 4, his communication skills are lacking at times, and because I didn't understand what was happening either, our priest asked him if he was going to eat the bread. I don't think my son knew how to respond, so he was quiet. The ordinary course of events at the altar is that he accepts the bread from the celebrant, and then dips it into the cup of wine when the chalice bearer comes to us shortly thereafter. However in a comedy of errors, our priest ended up taking the bread back from him, misunderstanding his intent.

As we walked back to our pew, my son leaned close to me and said quietly, "Father Steve is mean." I couldn't help but giggle a little bit. After the service, I tried to explain that our priest didn't understand, that he had just made a mistake. Regardless, the boy was angry. After church, I explained to my priest what had happened. A few minutes later he appeared smiling with a giant wafer to give to my son. I didn't get to witness him giving it to him, but a bit later this child of mine came running to me and told me, "Father Steve gave me the BIG bread." He was happy. Pleased with himself and with our priest. If I was a therapist, I would say his feelings were validated.

Later on in the day, I took my kids to an art fair and to play in a nearby park. My son ran, jumped and rode his scooter around the large park. We were joined by a friend and her infant daughter. Both of my kids had fun, but by the time we got back to our car late in the afternoon, my baby was worn out. But ever the ball of energy, he managed to run to the car and hop in his car seat. On the way to a relative's house, he fell asleep in the back seat. Forty-five minutes later we arrived at her home. I had to wake my child up as we got out of the car to see her. He good-naturedly greeted her and began to do what he ordinarily does at her house - color and play with stickers. As he played, he chatted about his favorite stickers, favorite colors and what he had been doing that day. While he was still tired, he was fairly happy.

I should explain that in the past several months, I have decreased my visits to this relative's home. While I used to take my kids there fairly often, I have found for my own sanity, it is better if we go less often. Everything my kids do and everything they don't do is scrutinized. It seems they notice this on some level, and seem to act badly more so than usual when we're there. I can't explain the phenomenon, but it seems to hold true most days when we're there.

As if on cue, my son began getting an attitude. I don't know why. Maybe it was just his time to act out, or maybe he was getting overly tired. Perhaps he was even getting hungry. I don't have a great explanation for it. But it started. He began getting mouthy and not being cooperative about picking up, listening, etc. Before I could respond to his unruly behavior, my relative said to him pointedly, "You don't know how to act right at home, but you won't act that way here." I must've looked slightly taken aback. Because then she turned to me and said something about how I didn't know how to handle my children. This should have been my cue. I likely should've gathered the kids up at that point and gotten ready to go home. But, trying to remain polite, I scolded my child and turned back to what I had been doing. Of course because he is my son, he was not going to be outdone. He stomped across the floor into the kitchen. This time my relative scolded him and put him in time out. I didn't find this punishment inappropriate, although I will say I don't find time out to be particularly effective with my son. Still, I held my tongue. When his time out was through, I gathered up our things and we ended the visit. As we went to the car, my family member doted on my daughter (who had been well-behaved this visit) and didn't speak to my son. The message to him was loud and clear. And my own face reddened slightly at the way she was treating my child. She is one of the older generation in my family (those over 50) who still believe children should be seen and not heard. I question to some degree why I subject my kids to these folks, but for whatever reason I cannot entirely cut the biological cord that connects me to them.

As I drove home, I thought over these two seemingly unrelated incidents of my son's encounter with adults that are not me. I wondered what the experiences looked like to my child. If I could read the thoughts playing in his head, what would they tell me about who my son is growing up to be? Of all the influences that I allow him to experience, which ones are the ones that stick with him? It didn't take me too long to know.

This evening as we prepared for bed, I asked him to say prayers. As he went through his litany of "thank you for ... and God bless...." I reminded him to thank God for our family and friends. He did, not by name as he sometimes does when he wants prayers to last awhile, but as a group. Then just before his "Amen" he whispered quietly, "and thank you for Father Steve" and he smiled at me.

My church

2010-09-06T21:07:00.003-05:00

This weekend I traveled south to Nashville and the surrounding area for the holiday. The kids and I were going to visit my old college roommate and her family. I hadn't seen her family in quite awhile, and I was looking forward to getting away.

On Sunday morning, I attended church at St. Ann's Episcopal in Nashville. I had wanted to attend because my roommate's brother attends and is very active there. I arrived a few minutes late and quickly took my place in the back of the church. It was a typical service in my tradition. Liturgy, hymns, a short sermon. The norm for me. I can recite most of the liturgy without looking at it, and there is something comforting about that to me. I can really consider the words, and their meaning changes for me over time. What might be particularly poignant one Sunday is a blur a year later.

As I looked around me, there was a fairly good cross-section of society in attendance. Straight, gay, young, old, a few black folks, a guy robed that I discovered later was a Franciscan brother. People were friendly without being intrusive. I was greeted after the service by the rector of the parish among other people. When I explained that I was just passing through, I still received a warm reception.

As we prepared to recite the prayers of the people, the woman leading asked us to pray for our Jewish brothers and sisters who would observe Rosh Hoshanah this coming week as well as our Muslim brothers and sisters who would be observing the end of Ramadan this coming week. I was struck by this simple gesture. And I was moved by it. This is my family, this is my church.

As Episcopalians, we are people who pray for others regardless of the religious, political and sociological differences that so often divide us. We prayed for the unity of the church universal. We prayed for those who are alone. We prayed for the sick and the healers alike. We prayed for justice and peace for all people.

I've always been drawn to the liturgical church. There is something about the order and sameness of it that comforts me and makes me feel at home no matter where I worship. But more than that, I am drawn to the Episocopal church because of scenes just like the one that played out in front of me Sunday. A group of 80 or so folks who gathered for an hour to be together in worship and in life. People who care about one another and the broader world. I was encouraged by them and their commitment to those around them. Part of their work involved a homeless shelter that was getting ready to open its doors in the coming week.

I am not an ideological person in a lot of ways. I would never profess that my way is the only way, or that the Episcopal church has the corner on the truth market. I don't pledge my allegiance to much. I don't belong to a political party. I'm not ordinarily a follower of much. Not to be glib, but don't think most movements are completely correct about any one thing. While saying all that, I don't mean to indicate I don't take seriously our political dilemmas and our moral and religious crises. Certainly I take them too seriously most days. And while I'm an American who typically votes for Democrats and consider myself a Christian, I don't think any of those groups (Americans, Democrats, Christians) get it right all the time.

Perhaps it's not that I don't take things seriously enough, but rather that I take my loyalty a bit too seriously. For me too offer my support, my unabashed, undying allegiance, I have to believe that on some level those in charge of that body/institution/country have it right. And quite honestly that doesn't happen very often. I mistrust most institutions. And I think rightfully so in most ways.

Having said all that, I was proud of my church Sunday. Pleased to be an Episcopalian. Happy that my children get to be part of this body of believers. And loyal to the values we talk about, that we live out everyday. We love each other and we love the world. The rest can be argued, debated and worked out later. If we start there, that regardless of your creed, color, sexual orienation, gender (name all the other things that separate us)...we will love you, we will accept you where you are and we will welcome you to worship with us and to live in community with us. Certainly that's the way I read the gospel (the "Good News") of Jesus. And it makes me proud to be among those who are doing their best to live out this good news.

A year later

2010-08-26T22:41:00.002-05:00

Today was the one year anniversary of my legal divorce from my now ex-husband. The past few weeks have brought some moments of relative peace between us. We have never been the sort to outwardly war with one another. Still, there has been fighting for the past year. Some of it bitter, some of it hurtful, all of it sad.

Tonight my ex had our children for a few hours. I was cleaning house and started watching Joe versus the Volcano. I had been reminded of this movie recently and so I ordered it through NetFlix. I watched the first hour until the kids got home. I forgot how alive Joe becomes after having been so dead in so many ways. I feel much the same way about letting go of my marriage. Each day, each week, each month that passes, I realize how dead I was in the relationship. What I understood my role to be, what I took on, what I perceived, none of it seems to make much sense to me anymore. I still wake up and wonder how I got so far afield.

When my kids burst through the door I said yet another prayer thanking God for them, and for my ex-husband who was part of their creation. I gave him some pictures I had taken of them recently. He thanked me. We talked about a friend who had a baby recently. Then he left. My daughter looked quizzically at me and said, "You know... you and dad can still get back together." I wonder if the woundedness she carries from our divorce will heal in time. I pray it will. My son quickly added, "I don't want you to marry anyone mom!"

Now a year later, I can see what I couldn't see a year ago. My perspective is shifting back into some semblance of focus again. It's not entirely in focus yet, but it's shifting. Like a kaleidoscope, the colors are becoming more brilliant and yet more cohesive again.

Tomorrow I will have go to my office and do my best to shepherd more people through a sticky process. And tomorrow night I will have dinner with an old friend. We will laugh and remember when. But best of all, my babies will come bursting through the front door and I'll remember my highest calling. To be a witness to their lives...their growing, their changing, their loving. What a gift my life is.

Funny

2010-08-21T21:48:00.004-05:00

A few nights ago I went to a comedy show. In the interest of full disclosure, I knew nothing about the comic ahead of time...and this of course was my own fault. A friend had lent me a few DVD's of his work, but I never got around to watching them. I assumed that given my love of laughing, jokes and teasing I would enjoy the comic and even if his material wasn't hilarious, I would still laugh. It doesn't take much.

I have loved to laugh as long as I can remember. I crack jokes constantly. At one point in my life I'm sure it was a coping mechanism, but still all in all I love to laugh. I was voted "Class Clown" in high school. I have pulled awesome practical jokes on people, and have been the target of a few myself. I laugh at slapstick humor like Chris Farley, profane humor like Ron White and Chris Rock and more sophisticated humor like Jon Stewart. I'm not what I would call a comedy snob. I think a lot of things are funny.

So I showed up at this show thinking it would be funny. The opening act immediately launched into a song he wrote about how "Arizona has gotten it right" - referring to the current immigration reform. The song crossed more than a few lines and was quite simply offensive. He then cracked a few jokes about Democrats and launched into a rock star version of the national anthem.

This is probably the moment I should also confess to not being very patriotic. I think my country (and I do claim it as my own) does a lot of stupid stuff. I do not think that just by virtue of my birthplace I'm better or more entitled to anyone else on the planet. I'm bothered by the Pledge of Allegiance and am by and large a pacificist. I don't think we have any business invading other countries, and I don't think Muslims are to blame for the downfall of America. I think our own greed is.

So, the main act emerged on the stage and essentially spent 90 minutes making jokes of every stereotype ever known to white, straight men. Women are nags , Asians can't speak English, Hispanics are dull-speaking and lazy, Blacks speak in incoherent slang, wear big jewelry and listen to rap music all day long, gay men are all hairdressers. You name it, he generalized it. And then to top it off, he mixed it in with some good ol' "God Bless America" kind of Muslim hatred. He actually has a character he does named "Achmed the Dead Terrorist." His mantra, "I keeelll you."

I'm not laughing. As a matter of fact, the two hour show made me realize all that is wrong with my fellow Missourians who find this sort of humor funny. He wasn't laughing "with" these groups of people, he was clearly laughing "at" them. As if by virtue of his whiteness or straightness or whatever, he was obviously superior. To top it all off, his hatred of Muslims is so en vogue these days that it made him all the more popular with the folks who had paid, some of the more than $100 to see him, to see him and laugh with him.

I felt my face redden a few times, I'm not certain if it was embarrassment or anger...though certainly I felt both. I was bothered for all of the people I knew who fit his categories. My gay and lesbian friends, my Jewish friends, my black friends. And I felt as if I was somehow betraying them by sitting and there and not speaking out. Or at a minimum leaving the show.

I thought about what message I want my kids to have in this life about people who are different than them...I remember taking a barely 5 year old Melena with me to the voting polls in the election of Barack Obama...and the pride I felt at being able to vote, in this country of so much history of racism, for a black man to be our President. I remember the tears rolling down my cheeks as I watched the civil rights leaders of the 60's and 70's watching this man become President, tears rolling down their faces. I remember trying to explain to my 5 year old how important that day was...how much had had to change to reach that day. I recall those weeks after 9/11 and feeling embarrassed for our country as we lashed out at the Muslim community in misdirected hatred. I remember crying for Matthew Shephard. I know what it is to be a woman, and therefore judged to be less than a man. These things that separate us, what do we do with these distinctions? I am not naive enough to believe we are at a place in history where we are able to celebrate our differences. But surely we have come further than this...an arena filled with people who are laughing at those who are different as if they are and always will be inferior. A gathering to celebrate that which we fear...the unknown, the not yet understood.

I'm still not sure what I think my reaction should've been besides outrage. I had plenty of that. But I wonder what else I'm feeling and what lies below my own surface. What prejudices do I have underneath it all? What stereotypes and preconceived notions am I hanging on to that should be let go of? I'm still not certain. I just know that none of it struck me as very funny at all.

A soft place to fall

2010-08-17T21:30:00.003-05:00

Tonight I was struck by something. As is ordinarily the case for me, it took me a minute. Oftentimes when my kids return from visiting with their dad for a few hours they have vastly different reactions when they walk through my door.

My son is typically thrilled to see me. He flings himself at me and is laughing and smiling. He takes an hour or so to really unwind. It's as if he has pent up energy that he needs to be let out. While he is a high energy kid on a normal day, he seems even more wound up. Not in a bad way...just bouncing around. He is full of hugs and kisses and is clearly happy to be home.

My daughter is often the opposite. She typically rushes through the front door with her stuff in tow, dropping it on the way down the short hallway to my arms. She often is tearful. She will express something happened that day...she stubbed her toe, she missed a word on a spelling test, she didn't feel well...most often it is that something bothered her. It seems as if she has been waiting to tell someone this information all day, and now that it's spilling out she can't control her tears. She sits on my lap and buries her head in my shoulder. Most of the time she is consoled quickly and we move about getting ready for bed. During our "tuck-in" talk, she often is quiet, wanting reassurance that I love her. That life will continue on much the same tomorrow.

It's a strange thing, my children's reactions to me. I often describe them to others much the opposite of these reactions. My son typically is the quieter, more reserved child. He likes routine and is uncertain at times. My daughter is the outgoing charmer. Always making friends and with a great ability to "roll with the punches" she is rarely bothered by change or chaos.

Tonight it occurred to me what's happening. And in some ways I felt honored to be my daughter's mother. Yesterday when my son was again undergoing medical procedures and issues, I was pretty composed. I rarely show signs of stress, particularly when he is having medical issues. My job in these situations is to hold his hand, get thrown up on sometimes and to advocate for the best treatment for my child. And I know how to do those things well. There is nothing that bring outs the lioness in me more than when my child is sick. This morning, on my way to work, I had a mini breakdown in the car. I was talking out loud to God (something I do in my car often). And I lost it. I think part of me senses that it's ok. God has heard my stuff before. She gets me. It's ok for me to cry and to be out of control for a time. I feel some comfort in those moments with God. Knowing that despite my own judgments, I'm just Her kid, and the world is scary sometimes. And it's ok to cry about it.

I realized tonight that's what's happening with my daughter. She has this angst...sometimes it's a big deal and sometimes it's not...but regardless she needs an outlet...someplace to say it. And for her, I'm that person. Her mom will listen. I don't judge her feelings, and at the end of all of it I hug her, kiss her and tell her I love her.

All of us, as human as we are, need that place we can fall down and cry. As I find myself wandering deeper into this forest with God, I am so thankful for that soft place to fall. I don't know how I got here...to this place in my life...but I'm so thankful to have both sides of the coin...to be the one falling and to be the one someone else can fall on. I continue to pray for the ability to be the soft place for my child, to be whatever she needs me to be. I continue to pray that God will be my soft place as well. That She will listen, hug me, kiss me and still love me at the end of it all.

Seek and ye shall find

2010-07-25T21:44:00.003-05:00

Today I was sitting in church listening to the Gospel lesson, and a thought occurred to me. Admittedly this is not going to be a well-thought out post...but...that never stopped me before.

The Gospel was from Luke, "And so I say unto you, ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you." I'm fairly sure I've heard this gospel a hundred times in my life in the church, and yet the primary emotion for me today was one of doubt.

You see, I've known a lot of people in my life who aren't ever going to ask. They've been too wounded. It hurts too much. Maybe it's because they've been burnt by the church. Or because they've suffered wounds too deep to be able to believe that if they ask they might get what they want or need. The hope of it all has been beat out of them. Or maybe it's just because they aren't really the seeking kind. What about those people? What happens to them? If they never find their voice to ask, how will it work out for them?

Or perhaps it's not even that they don't know to ask, but they're not sure what it is they're asking for. I'm familiar with that scenario. "Um, God, I don't know where the hell (oops sorry God) you want me or how you want me or what you would like from me. But I'm here. And I want to understand. And I hope you want to understand me too." I'm not sure what my question is there, but surely it's not clear to me. I hope God can translate "confused and disoriented in Missouri" well enough that those well-meaning prayers count as "seeking."

There are even others who are lost. They have wandered in the woods so long, that they can't make it back out. What happens if they never get to the door in time? If their whole lives is an exercise in trying to survive and they never get to the point of seeking. In my opinion, it's hard to be a seeker if you're hungry and homeless or an addict or a mother of 4 and not sure where you're going to get your kids' next meal. Seeking in those situations seems an existential luxury that many never have.

I have to believe that God didn't mean the passage in Luke the way it sounds. That it never begins or ends with what we can muster up on any given day or time. That if we are weary and hopeless and confused and preoccupied, that She will seek us out. That if we cannot find the strength to lift our hands and knock... that if our voice has been stolen and disregarded by this world...that if we cannot seek, because we cannot bear the thought of another loss...that God in her wisdom and abounding love gets that and is able to meet us wherever we may be in ...this ...very ...moment. That She knows our hearts, our intentions, our capacity to love; and that rather than condemning our efforts, however small and insignificant, that She cherishes each of those moments when we are able to seek Her out. That She is delighted when we stumble over our words and hide our faces in doubt...but still offer what there is offer of ourselves. When we stand before Her and say that I don't know and I'm unsure and I'm fearful of how it will all work out...but still I have faith that God is good.

Even when I'm afraid to seek or ask or knock...I know that God still hears, responds and loves me. For all of my Lutheran upbringing, I have to think Luther stopped just short of getting it. While I agree that salvation is not something that can be earned...I would take it step a further and say I'm not sure Jesus cares much about how sorry we are or whether we have repented sufficiently. I have to believe that God loved us from the start. That anything good comes from God. And that we are enough on our own. Even when we don't know it or can't accept it or can't come to it on our own.

Relationships

2010-07-24T22:19:00.003-05:00

So I've met this boy. My downfall starts and ends with that sentence. Alright, maybe it's not that serious or dramatic, but still, I know my own limitations. And keeping things in perspective is not my strong suit. I tend to get caught up relatively easily.

The interesting thing about this new boy is that I've finally (admittedly, it's taken me a minute) realized that relationships can be all different shapes and sizes. That not every relationship has to end up at an altar. And in fact, most aren't meant to ever reach that point.

My relationship with the boy...well it's not likely to be a marriage sort of thing. In fact, I can say 100% that it won't end there. We are more different than we are the same. We are different religions, have a pretty serious age difference and are at very different places in our lives. Still, he makes me laugh. A lot. And I enjoy spending time with him. And I make him laugh. A lot. Both of us have very clear priorities. He has two children (older than mine) and I have two children. They are the clear priority. So there's no real pressure. If one of us has our children, then we aren't going anywhere together that day. And there's no angst over being torn between a boy and my kids. It's just the way things are. And I'm not complaining about that. It's nice to have a part-time relationship. One that is there when I want it, but not when I don't. I would typically rather spend time with my kids than a boy. They are only small for such a short time...I'm not inclined to miss out on seeing them grow up to chase men. It doesn't make sense to me. They are the coolest people I know.

When we do spend time together, we're not talking about world politics or who the historical Jesus really was or how to solve the current recession. We don't talk shop much either, despite the fact we do much the same sort of work. We talk about our lives, how we got here, what we were like as kids, what we think about divorce and we joke even more. It's a fun distraction. A flirty thing. Sweet and somewhat innocent in nature.

I was talking with a friend recently about him, and questioning whether it makes sense to be involved with this boy. My friend laughed and said, "why the hell not? Don't you deserve to have fun and be loved with no strings attached?" I tend to agree, although it still seems foreign to me. To enter into a relationship realizing that it won't be the be all, end all of my life.

Sometimes I realize just how limited my experience has been with men. My relationship with my ex-husband started when I was barely 22. And didn't end until I was 34. I had very little history prior to him, and no history since meeting him.

I'm inclined to go with what my friend said, "why the hell not?"

Was that a spiritual thing or what?

2010-07-15T21:50:00.003-05:00

This past Thursday I got my nose pierced. I almost took off out of the place before I could get seated in the chair...but the actual process was really simple and hurt very little. I was pleasantly surprised. I had been anticipating today being the day for the past several days. It's something I've considered for months, but the last few weeks of feminist writings sort of set me in motion.

Today at church, a woman I know slightly asked me, "So was that a spiritual thing or what?" I don't know that I would have called it spiritual...but then I thought about the word and realized that in fact, that was likely the best word to describe the experience.

The past few weeks have felt very much like an awakening for me. An awakening to what I have been denying and running from for years. My last post was the angry part...but there is a sad part of me, too. And there is an overwhelming feeling of change approaching. I feel it coming on, and part of me wants to abandon myself to it.

The image that has occurred to me and drove me to the nose piercing was of a woman (most of the time me, but increasingly my daughter) on her knees. It seems I've spent a good part of my life there, figuratively speaking. When I was a little girl, I was told regularly there were things I couldn't do or achieve. These messages came from both men and women ... my father, my church, my pastor, the older folks in my life as a child. I'm sure that no one meant much harm by what they told me...but harmful it was. Like a deep wound that is hard to even talk about...much less heal from.

Later on, during the month I turned 13 I was victimized by a man, and very literally pushed to my knees by him. What he did was horrible and I carry that scar on my spirit. 22 years later and that experience of being pushed down is still painful.

I went away to college at 18, and yet again I was greeted by young men and older ones alike who knew very clearly what a woman's role should be. That age though for me, brought my first real crisis of faith. Suddenly what I *knew* came into conflict with what I was being taught, told and preached. I wasn't sure how to reconcile the two worlds, and so I burrowed into the ground and went to law school.

Surely I had arived... there I was bucking all the gender stereotypes...a tough woman in a man's world. Still, a part of me felt lost in that world. I still do.

My marriage turned out to be one long exercise in kneeling...making my husband primary. He didn't even have to ask, I just did it. After all that's what women do, isn't it?

And so now I find myself on a very spiritual journey. One that is at least partially defined by the fact that I am a woman. Spiritual journey is really about becoming more of a comprehensive self, isn't it? One that can incorporate the parts of life that have been difficult and trying with the parts that are pure joy and light. Certainly there has been joy and light in my life...and the nose ring is about that. While I knew that the men in my life...my father, my ex-husband, many of the male attorneys I come into contact with...would disapprove of my choice...for me it was about rising from my knees and standing.

The thought I had immediately before the piercing was, "It's about time to stand up." And so I have. And I will. And I'm pleased that I've found the strength to again take the first steps on yet another spiritual journey. It feels authentic. And good. And full of promise.

"I'm not bitter, I'm mad as hell."

2010-07-10T21:21:00.003-05:00

Warning: This is likely to be contain some profanity, images you'd rather not consider and some seemingly irrational thoughts.

I've been reading a lot of feminist writings lately. I'm not sure why. I just know I've been drawn into it, and I haven't resisted as strongly as I might have years ago. Part of me has considered myself a feminist for years - hell I was labeled a "feminazi" in college by some of the more conservative white boys. But I don't know that I think I ever really got it. I think part of it has to do with the realizations of the past year concerning the role I played in my marriage and its destruction. Part of it comes from a wellspring deep in my soul that I've been struggling to hold down for years...perhaps my whole life. The problem of course is that one cannot hold back the water forever. Even with the best constructed levees, dams and fingers stuck in the dike, the water leaks out. And in my case it feels a bit like the levee has given way to a deluge of water.

From the time I was a little girl, I was been conditioned to be less than, subservient, submissive. Whether at home, in church, at school, it was all really the same in the small, subtle ways. Cook and clean for your man, women weren't allowed to be in lay or ordained leadership and girls were to be seen and not heard.

The line I used as the title of this post is from a Tyler Perry movie called "Diary of a Mad Black Woman" - and the woman in the movie is talking to a man who is dismissing her as "another bitter woman." I've watched the movie many times. In some ways it has been healing for me. In other ways it simply perpetuates stereotypes that I have grown to resent.

At no time in my life have I been more aware of all the things women endure that men don't seem overly concerned about. From the skinny, childlike girls who give blow jobs in porn movies to the girl children who are prostituted in the streets all over the world to the girls who are raped, mutilated and abused to the women who are beat on by their partners...it angers me. I'm not certain what to do with my anger. It doesn't feel very instructive or able to be utilitarian...all I know is I'm mad as hell. For the parts I was assigned in these sorts of horrors, but much more so for the collective whole of all of us who are women who have had to endure such things. Throughout history we have been oppressed, abused, raped, tortured, killed for nothing more than being born female. Just this past year a woman was kidnapped and murdered 100 yards from my office by her spouse. I have been the guardian of countless girls who have been victimized by men - whether sexually or physically. I continue to be involved in divorce cases as guardian for children whose fathers beat their mothers. I lived in my own "traditional" relationship where I was secondary to his primary. I have survived my own abuse at the hands of a man years ago. I don't get it. Where the hell is the outrage among women, men, the church, society?

I remember arguing with my ex husband years ago about pornography. His view (as is seemingly common) is that ordinary porn is not degrading to women. I remember seething at the time, but not really expressing it. I mean really, these women on their knees performing all manner of humiliating acts on men who hold their heads and occasionally slap or demean them. Really, this is not degrading to women? I'm amazed at how acceptable pornography continues to be in our society. And the same things goes for strip clubs. Hell, I'm not certain I've met a man alive who hasn't ventured into one of these places at some point. But, I've been largely silent about these things. Why? I can't explain it entirely other than to say I blamed women for their participation and I didn't figure it affected me by and large. That's the mistake, really. To assume that the oppression of one woman doesn't impact all of us in some ways.

But back to why I didn't express myself years ago - as is common with even educated, seemingly independent women like me, we are indoctrinated from the day we are born to be nice, speak quietly, not contradict the men in our lives. And I think the thing that has me the most incensed is that my religion preached this shit. Girls were dirty from day one - after all we ate the fruit - we allowed ourselves to be manipulated and then we tricked our man into eating too. I recall vividly my ex husband saying more than once to me, "Well, it was all Eve's fault." REALLY? The downfall of our entire species was a woman's fault. I suppose that's why so many of our churches still relegate us to the backseat, where we are told to keep our mouths shut and our opinions to ourselves. Look pretty, speak softly and above all serve the men in our lives.

What happened to God - our Mother? And why precisely is that so threatening for people to say? I'm not suggesting we upend all of our tradition - well perhaps I am. And what of it? Isn't it about time we let go of the patriarchal, misogynist, sexist theology of the past 2,000 years? Hell, we have so little recorded history of the women who lived in the first 1,000 years of Christianity, one would think men birthed themselves. And even the women in the Bible were rarely central or integral to any story. Why? Surely they existed. But in so many ways we have not advanced much since that time. We still dumb ourselves down. We still struggle to make our appearance acceptable to the standard created ... and perpetuated by...men. We still try to be seductive and "serve" whether it's in sex or in the kitchen or at the workplace.

As I said earlier, I'm not certain where all this anger in me is going. I just sense it there, stronger than I've ever felt it. And for the first time I'm choosing not to push it back down. I am noticing the little nuances and not ignoring them. When my father waits for my mother to clean up after him or a man I know well cannot stop ogling the women around him or the fact that most of the men I know take their position in the courtroom, church, society for granted. I want something different for my daughter than what I've known than what my mother has known, than what her mother knew. I'm not certain how to show her something different. It seems oftentimes that even the stereotypes and ways of conforming are so a part of me, it's difficult to separate my soul from it.

This is incomplete and unfocused and largely a product of a lot of reading and insight in a short period of time. But none of what I have to say is untrue and all of it is rather painful in many ways. As I struggle with my anger, I hope that I can learn where to direct it and how best to change my life and affect the lives of the women around me in good and loving ways. Regardless of how I got this far in life without having this awakening sooner, I recognize it for what it is now...an awakening and opening of my spirit. God as Mother, Sister, Woman. It's still difficult for me to imagine, but all the more important for me to imagine. So that one day my daughter can realize it on her own. So that awakenings like mine aren't necessary at some point in our collective history.

Providence

2010-07-08T22:16:00.002-05:00

There's this thing. I call it Providence or sometimes divine providence. What I tend to mean by that phrase changes sometimes...but ordinarily what I mean is that thing that you cannot see or understand by reason alone. One has to be thinking with one's heart to "get it." But it's that unexplainable phenomenon where things just "fall into place." Whether it's coming upon someone who needs us, or someone we need or even finding a new friend...it's not explainable by logic.

Sometimes I think of providence as placing me in the right spot at the right moment to experience something big. Like for instance one of the families I have been involved in at juvenile court. I firmly believe that providence stuck me in the case for a reason. My understanding of the law, my expertise, my drive was needed for these children, and by what would seem to be happenstance I ended up being appointed their guardian. I had just the right knowledge of the law to be able to advocate for them very well. I believe God (however one might define him or her) knew what these children needed, and stuck me in the path for a reason. And the only way I would be as passionate as I am about their situation is because I have suffered some of what they have. I get it. From my own heart, I get it. I think God knows that despite the pain their stories bring me, there is healing for my own wounds there too.

Other times I think of providence as allowing me to meet the right people at the right time. Over a year ago I was sitting in my little church and was struck by the guy preaching on a Sunday. Turns out our lives have many parallels, and I've learned a lot by just talking with him about life, faith, relationships. What trajectory led to our meeting and then my persistence at figuring out how to contact him? I'm typically stand offish when I meet people. Certainly I don't just call them up and insert myself into their lives. Yet, that's precisely what I did in this situation. And I believe there was something bigger than me at work.

In another instance, I have known an attorney for years. But, from a distance, and not close-up. She and I, again seemingly randomly, have gotten to know each other in the past year or so. I've really come to enjoy her and love being around her. She's smart, interesting and a good person. She enhances my life in ways both clear and not always clear to me.

In yet another way, I stumbled upon the church family I now have come to love and appreciate. I was not really looking very hard when I happened upon the church. But something that is bigger and more gracious than I can be led me to the doors and provided an impetus to get me to walk through the door. I can't explain it any other way than providence.

While life seems random at times, and certainly I'm not pollyannaish enough to claim that I believe "everything happens for a reason" - I do have to believe that we receive gifts all the time, some we accept and others we reject. Perhaps the rejection is a deferral, I don't know. I do know when I'm open enough to accept the gifts and avoid trying too hard to discern from where/whom they came, they seem to fall from the sky continually. I know of no other way to describe those gifts as divine providence.

I was listening to a song the other day, and the songwriter said, "What is chance of that?" Really - what is the chance that these things would happen without the intervention of something greater and bigger and more loving than I can be? Whatever I choose to call it - I just pray to be open to the experiences.

Disjointed

2010-07-05T17:50:00.002-05:00

If my thoughts are scattered today, it's because...well I feel scattered today. I've returned home today from spending the better part of three days with my parents and my children. It was a difficult weekend for a lot of reasons, and I returned home with a sigh of relief. Add to the feeling of being scattered to my current reading list which includes a healthy dose of feminist writings, and I become even more disjointed.

I went to the Lake thinking I would have a somewhat relaxing, laid back weekend of sun and boating. I planned some times to take the kids on my own, because I knew I would need the getaway time too. As it turned out, it really wasn't enough.

As the years pass, my parents age more drastically. And with that aging comes a more and more difficult relationship for them. They have fought often over the years, but now they live in a constant state of tension. The cross words and bickering have reached a feverish pitch. And unfortunately any one who gets caught in the crossfire becomes a target. This weekend that extended to my children. Nothing they did was appropriate. And unfortunately for me, they reacted to this constant state of tension by fighting continually and acting out.

As I tried to keep the peace all around, I just grew tired. And perhaps it forced me to face some of my own unresolved stuff from when I lived in the tension more often. In the still of a night, in my bed, my daughter asked me if her grandparents loved her. I answered that of course they do. She then asked me why she couldn't tell that they do? It broke my heart. I recall wondering the same thing as a child. I tried to explain to her that some people have trouble showing their affection. But, when you're 6 that doesn't make a lot of sense to you. So, all I knew to do was to reassure her that I loved her, and that even though it didn't seem so, so do my parents.

The other chief source of conflict this weekend was the contradiction between my parenting of my 2 children and my parents' ideas about what is appropriate parenting. We have had some minor skirmishes in this area since my kids were born, but none so obvious as this weekend. And while I respect my parents, I choose a very different way of raising my own children. It's a way of love and joy. Not of fear and domination. I have to believe that I am doing my best for my kids. And I do believe that, despite my parents' warnings of how my children will end up screwed up because of my permissiveness.

All of this ran headlong into the feminist thinking I have been reading about regularly. I see my job as a mother somewhat like a gatekeeper. I still feel disjointed, but I know that most of this will work itself out in time. I do understand more than ever that I have to protect my children from the influences of people who are toxic to them...even if those people are family members and even if it causes me some conflict. As I have tried to create communities for my children of people who care for them and love them, I have to make sure that those efforts aren't thwarted by the other people they come into contact with on a regular basis.

The bright spot for me this weekend came when my daughter, in the same conversation in the dark, told me by name other people in her life that she knows for sure love her. I knew in that moment, that I am succeeding in my job as her mother by building a community for her. And she fell asleep before she had named all of the people who love her...I thanked God for the people I have found, stumbled upon or who have found me and who love my child. If I have ever doubted divine providence, I believe in it now.

Another year, another lesson

2010-07-01T20:48:00.002-05:00

Today was a somewhat monumental day for me. It was my 35th birthday...which I was mostly ambivalent about. It was a nice day - I had lunch with friends and dinner with the kids - it was mostly uneventful, but in a good way.

What made the day good was some time I spent by myself in the middle of the afternoon. For the first time in months, I felt something being restored to me. One of the things I've learned to about myself is that I can generally empathize with anyone. On some level, in some way, albeit small at times, I can usually put myself in someone else's place and feel for them. I've been like this since I was a little kid. While it is part gift - in that I think it makes me more sensitive to the people around me - it is also part curse. At times, my sense of feeling for someone makes me blind to his or her faults. And it clouds my judgment sometimes. Overall I trust people. I believe people mean well, even when perhaps they don't or can't. In essence, I feel things and people deeply. While it means great sorrow sometimes, it also means great joy at others. I can accept the lows, because I get to live the highs too. I have learned to love being the way that I am. And I've learned it's a gift. All in all, I like who I am, who I've become.

Today during a quiet moment, I realized that despite all of my anger lately, I feel some sense of sympathy for the woman my ex-husband cheated on me with. And I don't mean the fake, insincere, "Gee, you're so pathetic I feel sorry for you" kind of sympathy. I mean the genuine thing. The "I don't understand you, but part of me feels sorry for you." This feeling took me by surprise. I've been so pissed off recently, that I've forgotten I am who I am. I feel restored today, redeemed.

While I'm not silly enough to believe my anger has dissipated entirely, I realize now if I had to do it over again, I wouldn't change anything. I went into my marriage believing that my husband could be faithful to me. I trusted him. I didn't question him. I didn't quiz him about his whereabouts or his associations. Perhaps I was naive. Or even unsophisticated. But, all in all, I believed him. I thought he was a good person, who meant well. And despite all of his actions to the contrary, I wanted him to be able to overcome his weaknesses. In the end, he couldn't pull it off. His demons got the best of him. Not to let him off the hook for his actions, but he never learned from his mistakes...never got past being in his past.

Regardless of everything that happened, I wouldn't do things differently. Even if I could I would not go back and be a skeptic. Someone who didn't trust, couldn't overlook mistakes. That's not who I am. Fundamentally, I trust. I love. I care. I believe. These things get me hurt sometimes. And certainly the hurt makes me question why I do things the way I do them. But it doesn't change me fundamentally. And I don't want it to. I'm happy with who I am in this regard. That I can wake up one day and feel sorry for the woman who had sex with my husband and was a part of the demise of my marriage makes me who I am. I love. It is who I am. And I know that God blessed me with the ability to be who I am. Free of bitterness and hardness of heart. I am.

Last year at this time, I knew I had a hard year in front of me. And I would not want to repeat my 34th year if given the option. It was painful, difficult and sad in many ways. But it was also a year of tremendous growth and opportunity for me. And I've emerged from this year into the next one whole and intact. I hold a lot of hope for this coming year. I know that I can take control of my body again and get myself back into physical shape. I can to continue to feed and nurture that which is part of who I've been from the start - someone who trusts people - who believes that most want what is best for others.

Maybe in the end I will be accused of being overly naive. But that wouldn't be the worst thing.

My daughter

2010-06-26T21:49:00.001-05:00

Tonight I was talking to my daughter - my firstborn. She is away from me, with her dad in another state. I didn't realize just how much I missed her until she called me tonight. She was slightly weepy. Tired, ready to come home, wanting me to wash her off and put her in bed like so many summer nights. But I can't from here. So I put on my "happy mom" voice and told her I loved her and that she'd be home tomorrow.

When I found out I was pregnant with her, I was overjoyed. My ex-husband and I had originally planned to get married in Hawaii in the fall of 2001. Then 9/11 happened, and no one wanted to fly to our destination wedding. Flights were getting eliminated and costs were skyrocketing. So, we postponed. We had been dating since late 1997, so there wasn't any huge rush. We ultimately married in May, 2002. I immediately stopped taking birth control, and hoped I would conceive quickly. I felt like I'd been waiting my whole life to be a mother.

The day I found I was pregnant, I had had a trial. I was throwing up during recesses. It was December 13, 2002. When I arrived home that night, my husband suggested the flu. Then we both looked at one another, and we knew. I took the test, and around 7pm we found out - we were going to have a baby. We relished in the news - not telling anyone that night. Talking about our hopes and dreams for this little girl. Somehow we were both sure I was carrying a girl.

A few weeks later I went to my first doctor's appointment and found out indeed I was pregnant and would deliver August 3rd. It seemed an eternity. I read everything I could. I cut out caffeine, alcohol and aspirin. It seemed so surreal. As my belly swelled with the life I was carrying, I found myself amazed. As the weeks and months passed, I cherished it all. I was fortunate, I was never very sick and had little bad effects from being pregnant. In fact, I felt round and full. It was a pretty glorious time. As summer came, and my ankles and belly swelled bigger, I looked so forward to her arrival. By then we had confirmed I was indeed pregnant with a girl.

Finally August arrived. And then the bad news - the unmedicated birth I had hoped for would not be. Our baby was breech, and they suspected had some hip dysplasia. I remember weeping at my appointment that week - the first week in August. I was overdue, tired, swollen and hot. My doctor told me she would have to be delivered via c section. I was upset by the news, so much so I sought a second opinion. Ultimately we scheduled a c section for August 14th.

That morning we checked in bright and early at Barnes Hospital, just down the street from where we living. It was hot. In fact there was a massive power outage in several cities that day from the heat. I wish I could say Melena's delivery was easy and roses, but it wasn't for me. I had an allergic reaction to the morphine in my epidural and felt out of it. It wasn't until several hours later that I felt I was really present.

She was born perfect. A big, healthy baby with a lusty cry. She fed easily and stared at me as if to say, "I know you." Her birth seemed like some sort of odyessy. She was so amazing. I fell in love on sight.

We brought her home from the hospital, and she delighted everyone. She smiled and laughed often. She was (and is) loving, affectionate and sweet. As time passed I realized what a gift she was. I'm still amazed at her. She will be 7 in August.

Now I'm most proud of her heart. She is a good kid. She loves others, has empathy beyond her age and is miles ahead of where I as at her age. I'm abundantly blessed just to be able to be her mother. To get to see all the "firsts" children go through, and realize that she is a part of me in some ways. I'm fairly sure I would feel this way regardless of our genetic makeup. When you spend your life with someone, and your role is to be sure that person has what they need physically, emotionally and every other way, you know them. While my daughter, now 7, has her own thoughts, ideas and feelings, I feel bound up with them and her. Her happiness is mine. Her sorrows are mine.

This morning (her 7th birthday) she woke me up at 6:30 a.m. to tell me it was THE day. I watched her open her gifts and now she's playing pretend with some of the toys not really aware I'm watching her. There is no better thing than this. If she is my life's work, it would be enough.

Letting Go Redux

2010-06-18T19:40:00.002-05:00

Today I got a massage and a message all at the same time. It's been a crazy week complete with 2 kids who got sick and are now better. I'm worn down and worn out. I've discovered a pattern in myself.

The few times in the past few years I have gotten massages, I find myself a complete ball of tension at the beginning. While I'm trying to reconcile something inside myself that tells me I'm lying mostly naked on a table being touched by someone I don't know, I tense up. Instinctively. And it takes some time for me to loosen up a little bit. And if you don't loosen up, it begins to hurt a bit. If you can't release your muscles, and allow some of the tension to drift away, it can get downright painful.

Today in the middle of flinching as I tried to relax at the massage, I was struck by the image of a fire. As the fire burns, the smoke rises to the sky and disappears into the atmosphere. If it were only that simple to let go. I've felt myself getting downright angry and bitter in the past few weeks with my ex-husband. Over what he has done and over things he never did. And try as I might, I am mad. Some days that anger dissipates into tears of frustration. Other days I feel as if I'm biting my tongue clear through to stop myself from saying the things that spring to mind when I'm dealing with him or dealing with my children talking about him. Still other days I wonder what is wrong with me that I can't just "let it go." I tell myself I want to let go of the anger and hurt. But somehow I don't seem able to. No matter how much I try and convince myself, convince God that I don't want to harbor this anger any longer...I still do.

As I lay there, I thought of how I wanted to let those feelings burn off and into the sky. I want to be able to let go. A few words wandered through my mind - surrender, give up, let go, let it be.

Surrender to me is a very different thing than letting go. Surrender makes me think of giving up a part of myself to something/someone else. I surrendered my own wants and needs for those of my ex-husband. I don't want to surrender anything to him ever again. No, surrender is not what I'm thinking of.

Give up holds a relatively negative connotation for me too. Give up seems like quitting or walking away because I just can't cope anymore. While perhaps that is exactly what I need, it is not what I want.

No, the posture really is one of letting go. Similar to the fire, as it lets go of the smoke and releases into the air...I want to let go of this anger and bitterness. I want to release it to God, and allow Her to redeem me of it. I recognize it isn't useful to me anymore, that it is only causing me pain. All of the questions I have will never have all the answers I want...and so really there is no reason to continue the fight. There is no winner. There is no loser. The anger isn't holy, nor is it helpful. And, so as I lay there I began to imagine what would happen if I just let it go? Let it rise up to the sky.

I'm still not entirely sure I can let go. But I feel like I have nothing to lose by trying. My prayer is that Jesus can help me let go. That His love is strong enough to overcome the voices of anger, revenge, hurt, frustration that drown out the part of me that knows it's time to let go. I know it is. Now the questions is whether I can believe that my love is strong enough.

Letting Go

2010-06-12T18:17:00.002-05:00

Today in a quiet time, I was overcome with an image. The thought or metaphor was of a plug/drain being pulled out of my side, and of some sort of "gunk" (for lack of a better word) came flowing out of me and into the earth. At first I didn't get it, but the longer I sat in silence, the more sense it made.

It occurred to me that I've been bombarded by a lot of really ugly things lately. Being confronted with my ex-husband's infidelity head on, watching the aftermath of his irresponsibility play out in our children, worrying about my niece, contending with a lot of really heinous cases of abused children...well it's been a little much to take in. But as my usual pattern, it takes me a minute to realize that my level of stress has gotten toxic. It isn't until I'm quiet and realize that my mind is racing from one thought to the next that it becomes crystal clear that I'm not coping as well as I would like to think I am. As I sat there, feeling overwhelmed by it all, I realized that the plug needed to be pulled. And now.

As much as I think I've got things under control most days, my emotions have gotten the better of me lately. As I sat through a trial recently, it became evident to me that my sense of control has eroded considerably in the past year. As I listened to a woman describe injuries to one of the children I've been appointed to advocate for, I felt tears spring to my eyes. I've heard her story many, many times. Her's and a hundred others equally terrible. Hearing it again, made me realize my lid isn't on as tight as it used to be. I overflow more often than ever. And I think that's a gift of some sort. The ability to feel for these kids makes me who I am, and makes me more sure than ever than someone must speak for these children. But there are those days when it all wears me down, wears me out. There must be a place that I can go inside of myself that replenishes my soul. That place where the Spirit lives and breathes.

As the metaphor of the plug being pulled became more clear in my mind, so did a new one. The idea of new life-giving water replacing that old gunk. The image recalled to my mind that passage in John about streams of living water.

More and more, I realize that I must daily, hourly, minute by minute pull the plug on all of my worries, fears, toxicity. This is the only way to live. Not by holding it back as if these things were to be treasured. Letting go is the only way to let in the Spirit that is love. Otherwise there is no room. All of the bad stuff takes up all the room in my heart, and no room is left for the Spirit to come in and transform/transfigure me.

As I left the silence, I was reminded of a hymn, that I've spent the remainder of today humming,

When peace like a river attendeth my way;
when sorrows like sea billows roll;
whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say,
it is well, it is well, with my soul.

More alike than we know

2010-06-05T21:27:00.003-05:00

Tonight I took my kids to see a musical. We typically go each year at this time, it's a play put on by the church that runs my son's preschool. This year the musical was about the story of Esther in the Bible. The production is always pretty cool, particularly for a "church run" play. The church who puts on the musical is what I would categorize conservative, evangelical, perhaps bordering on fundamentalist.

While I have sent both of my children to this church for preschool, I have cringed on occasion at some of the things they have come home singing. "I'm in the Lord's army" or "The Devil is a sly old fox" - the songs are cute little numbers...but I worry about what messages my children are getting. After all, I am basically a pacificist - I don't want my children to be part of any army. And I'm not certain what I believe about the devil...but I don't typically think he's lurking around every corner wanting to trick me.

Ultimately though, as I watched the musical tonight, I became aware again that we are more the same than we think we are. We, as humans, draw all these boundaries and lines and demarcations. You are good, but you, well you are bad. Republican, Democrat...conservative, liberal...Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Jews, Agnostics, Atheists...American, illegal alien... As a people, we have spent so much time figuring out who is like us and who isn't. Who we are and who we are not. And despite all of my "open-minded" notions, I still judge people I meet fairly quickly. Particularly if I think they are close-minded or conservative or judgmental themselves.

The people at this play are not people I would normally socialize with. They make jokes about Hillary Clinton and laugh at the ideas I believe whole-heartedly in. But, perhaps before I get too far down the "self-righteous path" I should recall, that I make jokes about Sarah Palin and I laugh at things they are passionate about too.

As I watched the play, I was swept up in the music. Several songs about being fearless, about being thankful to God, about loving each other. These are all things I can subscribe to. Things I aspire to. While I have no doubt we have very different definitions of how these things should be lived out...we still have a commonality. Certainly this is what I hope my children are learning from this place. And sometimes I see the results of learning our shared story in them...when they come home and talk about Jesus ... when they sing "Jesus loves me" or "This little light of mine." I'm reminded we are part of one body, one world.

We really aren't that different. While we choose to express ourselves in vastly different ways, we remain part of a whole. I recall a good friend I had in college. She was someone I loved from the day I met her. We were on opposite of ends of every spectrum. As politically conservative as she was, I was politically liberal. For as seriously Baptist as she was, I was not so serious about being an Episcopalian. While church and faith were important to me, it was as important to me to question what I thought I "knew" as it was for me to worship or pray. And the questions didn't scare me, they brought me further into the faith. She, on the other hand, didn't have any use for the questions. She was fairly certain of her beliefs, and didn't have any use for the debates and messy stuff. But, I never questioned her faith. I certainly knew that she loved me and God. And it wasn't superficial. In some ways she represented everything I would fight against, and in other ways she was a blessing to me. If I needed her, I have no doubt she would've been one of my defenders. While there was a whole heap of things we disagreed about, she was kind and loving. I hope she would say the same about me. I cared about her, and no philosophical differences could've stopped me from being her friend.

As Pollyanna-ish as it sounds, I sometimes think if every person could have one person in their lifetimes that was completely opposite in his or her beliefs, but who personified love, that perhaps most folks could look past their own prejudices. I think about how different racism looks when you love someone of another race. I think about crazy homophobia seems when you love someone who is gay. Suddenly racism, homophobia, sexism, etc. all have a distinct taste. And it's ugly and not at all something we can tolerate. We are all bound together in this mystery of faith, of life.

And so, when my son sings about "the Lord's army" - I smile it at him and tell him what a great job he did singing it. I hope he will learn someday that we really are more alike than we know.

In the belly of the whale

2010-05-24T20:49:00.005-05:00

Today would have been my 8th wedding anniversary...if I had not gotten divorced nearly a year ago. I'm left feeling somewhat ambivalent today. On one hand I am well aware of my current status as a divorced mother of 2 and on the other hand it all feels rather raw and difficult, still. It was also one year ago this week that I announced to my husband that I believed we needed to separate. It was an ultimatum of sorts...either work with me or I'll not work on this anymore. I meant it, and we were divorced just a few short months later.

I was re-reading the story of Jonah and the whale recently. I was inspired to re-read the story after an author I've been reading talked about it as a story of finding oneself. As I looked again at the story with fresh eyes, I was taken by how fully I can identify with it.

The story begins with Jonah on the run. He hears the voice of God loud and clear and he dives in the bushes. Or rather below deck. I was struck by the observation of how Jonah (in his running away) fell into a deep sleep. As if he wasn't too bothered by the fact that he was on the run. It doesn't seem to be a big problem for him, at first.

I feel much the same. In the beginning, when I first started moving away from who I was, I wasn't even really aware of it. It was like a slow dance...one that was carrying me away from what I knew for sure and from God. By the time I reached the point when I began to understand that something was amiss, I had drifted far from home. I almost felt unrecognizable to myself. I hadn't just run away from home, I had created a new home where up was down and wrong was right. I couldn't recall who I was. And when I started wanting to, I just became more upset with myself, with God. How to make sense of this mess? Who am I? What do I need? What is my "call?" What the hell do I mean by that anyway? The questions overwhelmed me, and I wasn't sure that I had any faith, let alone enough to sustain this sort of bumpy ride to nowhere in particular.

Still there was something compelling me. Or perhaps more appropriately stated propelling me forward. A deep recognition that something seemed different. That God was with me, even then. Even in my darkness. Maybe especially in my darkness. While I felt I was groping for something I couldn't see clearly, I understood this dance was not *the* dance, and I had to break away.

The others on the boat wake Jonah up and tell him to pray...to stop the waves from tossing the boat so they can live. Jonah's wake up call is loud, profound and leaves little room for doubt. And pretty soon he finds himself thrown overboard into the raging sea. It doesn't take long, and Jonah is swallowed up, and next thing he knows he's in the belly of the whale suddenly ready and willing to go to Nineveh. Amazing what desperation does to us.

When I was startled awake, I found my own wake up call loud, profound and leaving little room for doubt. I knew life had to change and move and grow. What had been static was now dynamic. I could no longer stay in a marriage that was artificial and harmful to me. I could no longer pretend I didn't care or wasn't affected, when I did and I was. But I had no idea where to go and how to start. What I did understand, fundamentally, was that life was a-changing. And I could either run like hell, or try to adjust my eyes to this new place. To see what was around me, in me, through me.

As Jonah sat in the whale's belly - he had time to think and to see clearly, with his heart. So too, I have had the past year or so as time to try and understand...to make sense of...to feel deeply what I know is next....to let go of fear. I can't say I get it...or that I'm always able. But certainly there is a new recognition in me. Of God. Of me. Of God and me. Of communion. Of what it really means to be in relationship with as opposed to trying to relate to. The belly time is important I think. Although for this impatient woman, not an easy thing. I heard a song recently that said something to the effect of "if it all happened overnight you would never learn to believe." There's value in that. Some sort of wisdom. I get it. I'm listening.

A few nights ago I was really struggling. Thoughts racing through my mind and I couldn't shut them off to try and sleep. The same sorts of thoughts I've struggled with for weeks...how did my marriage/relationship/life get so off course? How did I not see what was right in front of my face? How could he do that to me? Why me? Why any of us? Where the hell is God in this mess? And after laying in bed restless for an hour, wrestling with the multitude of thoughts, I finally just whispered, in a moment of panic "Jesus help me." Out of my desperation. Out of my depths. It was the only thing I knew to do. And while the thoughts were still there, I was able to sleep. I had some measure of peace. Even here. Even in the belly of the whale.

The story of course doesn't end in the belly. I realize that I am approaching that moment when I will be coughed up onto the shore. While I long to feel forward momentum, that moment is a little worrisome for me. What will it look like? What shore? What then? Now more than perhaps any other moment, I trust the answers will come. And at the rate and depth I can handle. If I've learned anything in the belly, it is to have a little faith. That when I feel at my most vulnerable, if I can whisper, "Jesus help me" - that he will. It really only takes a little faith. Nothing that's moving any mountains.

Sometimes I realize that but for the belly time, there would be no authentic faith. No life-giving faith, hope, joy. And perhaps that has been the most valuable lesson of being in the belly of the whale. It is only in the belly that I learn that faith has texture and layers and depth beyond what I ever knew intellectually. It becomes sustaining rather than just something to fall back on. As I remain in this time, I hope I am preparing for what is to come while still tasting what is now. I hope I can appreciate this time and accept the gifts that come with it.

When it all comes down

2010-05-19T22:12:00.003-05:00

I've been thinking a lot this past week about what I most hope to teach my children...what I hope they will get from me above everything else. I'm not dying or anything (at least not today I hope). But after watching them at Mickey Mouse Land, and feeling a little of the awe and wonder they felt at the sights and sounds of that magical place, I have been thinking about my legacy for them. And what I've begun to realize is that I hope they understand more than anything else that I love them. I want them to rest assured that for the rest of my life, until I have nothing left to give them, until I draw my last breath...that I will love them.

I know, all too well, my weaknesses. I am impatient. Sometimes I snap at them, and my tongue can be harsh. I lose my temper at moments. I forget they are 6 and 4 and expect them to comprehend things they cannot possibly fathom. And still I love them.

Above all, I love these two people like no one before and likely no one after. Since the moment they entered my world, they have been incredible gifts. Even in their moments of impatience or anger or frustration...they are still mine. I claim them regardless. And I love them.

I was listening to some good ol Amy Grant on youtube tonight, and there's an old song she sings called Hope Set High. The refrain, which I used to think was more than a little hokey, is "When it all comes down...when it all comes down...if there's anything good that happens in life, it's from Jesus." When it all comes down, the only thing I know to do for my children is love them. And yet it is the greatest gift I can give them. I recognize I fall short at times, but I hope that when it all comes down, that I can love them first, and figure out the rest second. This is the thing I hope for in the communities I'm involved in.

The fighting, the positioning, the silliness that we all succumb to from time to time...it's all really of very little consequence. When it all comes down...it's about love. The love that is so strong it knocks down the walls we build up around us and between each other. The love that knows no boundaries...that sees no limits. The love that despite our shortcomings and faithless moments still says I will carry you...I will hold you until your faith returns and you can come to the faith on your own again. The love that overcomes our anger, sadness and fear. The love that is holy, wild, beautiful.

Love doesn't mean we ignore our own shortcomings...or ignore or condone bad behavior by others...but what it does mean is that before we talk about those things...we love each other. Someone was complaining recently to me about another member of my community. After listening for several minutes, I finally replied, "But I love him, and I have to believe that he wants what is best for you and for me. If I don't believe that, then I have to leave the community." It really is that simple for me.

If I believe that those I trust with my faith, with the faith of my children are not examples of love...then I have to move away from the community and into some place different. I've reached that point in my life, and in my faith journey, where logistics mean very little to me. Whether we gather in a basement, at a bar or in a park...means very little to me. Whether we say the words of the past thousand years or we don't say any words at all...means very little to me. It's what we do. How do we live? What are we saying to those not part of our community by what we do? What message do we send everyday in the small, subtle ways? Do we love each other first, and talk about our differences second? When we fail one another, can we still be a community of love first and of everything else second? When we disagree, whether it is about the way we worship or whether we are moving in the right direction, can we love one another first and talk about our areas of disagreement second? When it all comes down, it's about love and if anything good is to come from all of our efforts, it has to start there.

Mother's Day

2010-05-09T21:39:00.000-05:00

Today is Mother's Day, and I've been fairly contemplative today. I think I started thinking about this day yesterday during a quiet period of planned contemplation. My relationship with my mother has always been a bit of sore spot for me. Complicated. Complex. Not comforting. The benefit of being 34 is that I finally see that in most ways she was doing what she knew to do. I don't believe there was any malice on her part.

From a very early age, I felt a disconnect from my mother. My mother is aloof, at times cold, and often emotionally unavailable. From my earliest days, she demanded a lot of me. When I was a first grader, I was so fearful of getting anything but A's and B's in school that I sat on the stoop of the school crying when I saw a "C" on my report card. The C was actually my reading level, and not anything bad...but I knew my mother demanded more of me, and I was fearful of her reaction, of disappointing her. My mother was never physically abusive or intimidating. She just did not know what to do with me. But, my driven-ness made her happy. And so I spent a lot of time trying to get better and better grades, to be the best at something. But I never felt like what I did was quite enough. Not that she said so...just my own projection - I felt inadequate.

My mother was (and is) hard to read. She shows little feeling, and so it's hard to know what it is she is thinking and feeling. Contrast this to me...and well, I'm sure I was a challenge for her. I have always been someone that is emotionally charged - I love to laugh and I cry easily. I have always been pretty social - I like to spend time with people - all types of people. I enjoy hearing what other people think and feel. My mother has always had a strong disdain for overweight people. Sometimes I think one of my chief hangups with my weight is some sort of defiant gesture aimed at her. My mother and I...well we lack much commonality at all.

When I was a child, she took me to church. Even in the years my father was "angry" at the church and refused to attend, she continued to take me each week. She encouraged my participation. She went to church really for two reasons I think - first it was what you should do if you were a good, respectable kind of person and second she didn't want to go to hell. She didn't share any part of herself with the people there, and she spent a decent amount of time judging those in attendance. On the other hand, I was attracted to the community and to the "feelings" I got from faith. It didn't start out as an intellectual pursuit for me. Although she introduced me to the church, the church really became my home - I don't think it did/does really nourish her the way it did me. I remember her being incensed with me for telling our pastor that my parents were talking divorce. They had been fighting continually - and I was fearful...so I told the person I trusted - my pastor. He called my parents in for a meeting. To say they were displeased with my betrayal of family secrets would be putting it mildly. I was taught a lesson in that instance, and never again did I discuss our family drama with anyone at church. But the drama continued, and church was my escape.

My mother and I...we've never really shared much about what we think and feel about things. Despite this fact...I do realize that she has done her best with me. She did what she knew to do. She made sure I was physically cared for and provided for. She encouraged me to go on to college, and made sure that I knew she still expected a lot from me even after I had moved away. What she couldn't give in verbal or physical affection, she gave in other ways. After the birth of my first child, she came to my house and cleaned and cooked one day. Anytime I have called, she has come. I have rarely called, because our relationship hasn't really ever made me feel entirely comfortable asking for her help. This week I was telling her how disappointing it was to me that my daughter's father is not more involved in her schooling. She didn't say much about it. But today, she indicated she would attend my daughter's first grade play tomorrow night. My daughter has one line in the play. But, to her, having her grandmother there is a big deal. So, she will drive an hour to listen to a moment. She is doing what she knows to do. And I appreciate her efforts more now than I have in the past.

Maybe my new found appreciation has something to do with wondering how my own daughter will judge her mother some day. Will she only remember what I was unable to do? Or will she remember the good things to? Will she judge me on how little I know? Or will she give me the benefit of the doubt because she knows I love her? One of the things I never understood about my mother was why she stayed married to my father. They fought often. And it certainly didn't seem that they loved each other most days. Why stay? Perhaps someday in the not too distant future, my own daughter will question why I left. It's hard to know how all this will look 20 years from now.

Regardless I am thankful my mother gave what she had to give. I hope I have learned the lessons she taught me, both in what she did do and in what she didn't do. And I hope someday my own daughter will grant me a measure of grace for those things I did and did not do for her.

Becoming

2010-05-03T20:12:00.000-05:00

These past few days have been some of the hardest of the past few years. My daughter came home recently with the news that my ex-husband had fathered a child with another woman during our marriage. I have been alternately stunned, angered and incredibly overwhelmed with sadness and hurt. There really aren't any words to describe how I feel. Stunned probably comes the closest. Stunned that he lied to me so completely and easily. Stunned that I didn't see the signs. Stunned that he was capable of such a thing. The tears have flowed constantly, even when I've tried to stop them from coming. I feel as if a heavy blanket has been thrown over my head, and I can't get out from under it.

I started reading a new book last night, in the midst of my breakdown. Sometimes the synchonicity with which God works in my life amazes me. I had went to the bookstore a few days ago and stumbled upon three books that were unrelated, but that appealed to me. I, in an odd moment of impulse, bought all three, brought them home, and then got busy with life. I can't help but think now there was a reason I came home with these three messages.

The first is a book by Sue Monk Kidd called "When the Heart waits." I just started it, but already I see some light at the end of this seemingly endless tunnel. She says, "when the fullness of time comes, a sacred voice at the heart of us cries out, shaking the old foundation. It draws us into a turbulence that forces us to confront our deepest issues...one way or another, the false roles, identities and illusions spill over the sides of our life, and we're forced to stand in the chaos."

The thing that struck me when I read these lines is how radically I changed who I was to remain in a very dysfunctional marriage. If I'm honest, I changed everything about myself. I changed how I spoke...choosing to dumb down my speech rather than speak the way I know how to speak. I chose to appear less intelligent than I am. I chose to squash the feelings I felt and deny them to everyone, including myself. I stopped trusting my instincts, and stop listening to them altogether. I tried to lessen who I was, because if I was who I am, who I know I can be...then my light shone too brightly...so I had to dim it. I couldn't read philosophy, theology and the stuff I enjoyed. I had to be less bold, less funny than I was. It goes way beyond not being able to see the movies I wanted or eat the food I desired when we went out...I changed who I was all the way to my core. All so that this man would love me. And the kick in the ass is...it didn't work. He wasn't capable of an adult, faithful relationship. So, all that work on my part to be sure I was less than I am only to have the plan fail miserably.

Now that I understand all this, life must change. And perhaps this is how I got into this "mess" to begin with - when I really began to understand a year ago that I was missing something - that Thomas was trying to explain to me - that I had to enter into a period of becoming...I realized rather quickly my marriage was doomed. There wasn't room in the relationship for the real me. And for his part, my husband didn't know what to do with me acting like me. He was only accustomed to me acting like the version of me I thought he wanted me to be.

And if I'm realistic, this is how I have lived my whole life. I was who my parents wanted me to be for as long as I could handle that...then I was who my mentor wanted me to be until it conflicted with who I had to be for my family...then I was who my husband wanted me to be. Having children opened my eyes though. Suddenly I yearned to be who I knew I could be. I wanted my children to grow up whole, healthy and happy and I felt the only way that could happen was if there mother was whole, healthy and happy. Somewhere along each of the old paths, I lost who I was born to be...who God created me to be from the beginning. Again, Sue Monk Kidd says, "There is a self within each of us aching to be born. And when this aching breaks into our lives - whether through some crisis or struggle - we must somehow find the courage to say yes. Yes to this more real, more Christ-like self struggling to be born."

I cannot help but believe this is my truth. If I only have the courage to continue the path, stay the course. This new me is struggling to be born...can I handle the pain of this process and remain in it? It seems as if there really isn't a choice - I cannot go back. I feel the change coming over me...there really is no other option. It's sort of when you see something so promising and spectacular that you can't recall what life looked like before you saw it. Having each of my children was a moment like that - holding each of them shortly after they were born - that stunning moment when I knew that my life was forever changed by the experience of loving them. Similarly, I see clearly now that my life has changed. Not just because I got divorced, but because I have finally chosen to enter into the becoming. I am no longer running from it, fearful of what the consequences of such a choice look like. I am no longer trying to skip over it to move on to something newer and prettier. I am becoming something new...something old...something holy and blessed from the start.

Thomas - a year later

2010-04-29T20:46:00.001-05:00

It's been a year. A year spent trying to discern where I am supposed to go, discovering who I am going to be when I grow up. The instant I knew things were changing (if I can really narrow it to one) was the moment the Gospel lesson being read on a Sunday about a year ago. That old story about Thomas - needing to see before he could believe. I was moved to tears listening to the story that day. And I felt pushed to action. I could no longer deny that life had to change, and change drastically. And it has. If I know nothing else, I know this much.

I left a toxic, destructive marriage. And unfortunately I really believed for a moment that I was over that experience - that I had indeed "moved on." In fact, I see clearly now I have a ways to go. The anger, sadness, pain of it all still overwhelms me some days. I am not "over it." In fact, all the honesty I've been trying in the past month has sucked me into some sort of vortex. I'm having difficulty concentrating, struggling at work and feeling down. Releasing the denial of the past 10 years has overwhelmed me. I feel close to tears a lot. And I'm having difficulty communicating how I feel to people around me. I'm writing more lately. And talking less. Perhaps it's time for that.

Today, I feel no closer to discovering what it is Thomas was trying to teach me a year ago . But perhaps that's not fair. I heard this Gospel again recently. And while I was still moved to tears, I was gently reminded that while Thomas couldn't get there - not on his own - that God still met him where he was. And that there was no condemnation for Thomas. Jesus didn't kick him out of the club because he was struggling with it all. My faith, I've discovered, is still at its core shaken, but not broken. I still believe there is a God. I still believe that God wants relationship. I still believe I want relationship with God. These certainties are about the only ones I've got right now. But, maybe, just maybe, these are enough for now. Rather than feeling as if some sort of metaphorical biological clock is ticking for me, and that if I don't have some pretty monumental decisions made by tomorrow, then I'm not accomplishing what I set out to accomplish; I feel strongly that whatever path is set before me, I'm going to walk it. And that I won't walk alone. And despite all my misgivings about faith, life and my place in it, there is still so much beauty in the world. There is still laughter. There is still indescribable joy.

I jokingly commented to someone today that "it's all a process." I was joking because that phrase has become so cliche these days. We say everything "is a process." But, we don't really mean it. We don't really give ourselves (or those we love) room to grieve. Room to just be sad. Room to feel a little off. Oftentimes what we really mean when we say this is "Gee, I'm hoping this part is over soon. Maybe if I say it's all a process then this part will pass and I can move on." But this is largely the lesson I have learned from this past year.

For Thomas his journey certainly didn't end in that room feeling the scars in Jesus's hands. No, for him life continued on, and he was forever affected by this man. He couldn't undo what he had seen, what he had lived with Jesus. He was deeply affected - and his hurt as evidenced by his refusal to believe - was evident, even palpable. I'm sure if Thomas had thought of it, he would have told us, "it's a process." This thing called faith - hope - love. All are in process. While I yearn for the answers, I have come to accept that for whatever reasons they are not clear to me today. I have to believe God is still with me. That is really all there is say. All I know for sure at this moment.

Amy

2010-04-25T22:50:00.001-05:00

Tonight I went to see Amy Grant in concert. I sat there, near the front, crying my eyes out for the first 30 minutes or so. I had heard she was going to be in town, but delayed making a decision about going until about 3 hours before the concert. Then, at the last minute, I decided I had to go. Since I hadn't really planned on it, I ended up going by myself. This turned out to be a blessing I think. I didn't even try to rein in my emotions. I just cried. A lot. At first I wasn't sure why I was crying. After all, it wasn't intended to be a sad event.

I have loved Amy Grant since I was a pup. I think I might've been 10 or 11 when my church youth leader introduced me to her. Prior to that I was a big Madonna/Michael Jackson fan. (I still am actually) But there was something about Amy. I had never heard of "Christian pop" or "Contemporary christian music" - as she eventually was labeled. All I understood was here was this young woman singing about God, her faith and her struggles. I was fascinated, and I loved her honesty. I went to my first concert when I was 11 or 12 - at the Fox Theatre. It was actually my first concert ever. We were in the WAY back of the theatre, but still I was mesmerized. I went back, again and again, to see this woman sing. I followed her music over the next 2 decades as she went pop and then back to hymns and now to somewhere in between. Her newest CD speaks to precisely where I find myself today. It is soulful and gentle. It is painful at moments, and sweet at others.

I think the reason I was so overcome with emotion tonight had to do with a lot of things. At least some of it was remembering how easy and simple faith was back when I first met Amy. While it wasn't nearly as textured and layered and moving, it was faith all the same. And it was strong and overwhelming even then. I didn't understand God very well, and I was often fearful of screwing up - but I knew I wanted this thing called faith - this relationship with God. My image of God has changed drastically...but the longing remains. That beautiful longing for the Divine. There is something to be said for life experience, but that first breath - that first fall - it is holy. It is what drove the songwriter to write, "How precious did that grace appear, the hour I first believed." I remember, with not just a little longing, that hour. How new everything appeared - how I knew that my faith was enough to sustain me for a whole lifetime. Amy was a part of that experience.

Probably another part of my breakdown had to do with my present circumstances and fear. Amy sings a song called "It takes a little time." And it was one of the first songs she sang tonight. The idea behind it is that change/pain/difficulty is a process, and sometimes it takes some time to pass through it. While I have paid lip service to this idea for the past year, I am just beginning to feel the depths of the pain I have over my divorce. The loss, the betrayal, the pain of it all has overwhelmed me in the past few weeks. It has made me confront feelings I haven't dealt with...ones I have shelved away and hoped not to have to pass through. All I can say is, I hurt. It's hard for me to even speak of it without breaking down. As I type, tears stream down my face. It's as if someone uncorked something deep inside and I cannot help but overflow. My emotions are so near to the surface.

Again, Amy's music is defining for me. When she talks of being unafraid, I get that. While I feel pain, I feel that I can finally face my future unafraid. Fear has played such a large role for me. I have made so many decisions out of fear. Fear of being alone...fear of being rejected...fear of not being enough...fear of what it would mean to live unafraid. For the first time in my life, I am consciously aware that I want to face life unafraid. As she sang tonight, love has made me unafraid, I realized this is the difference. My faith has become about love - about claiming God's love for my life. I can't always tell you whether Jesus was a sacrificial lamb or whether we should have open communion or how I feel about the conflicts that mar our churches from the inside out. But I can tell you that love has to be part of this thing we call faith. And that faith means very little, if anything, without it. And that the only God I understand is one that is love first, and anything else second. And I can tell you that that love is stronger than any fear I have encountered. If I can get out of the way...if I can let go of the faith of my father...if I can embrace what I've always known is holy...then I can live unafraid. Love has made me unafraid. Amy says it best.

This post appears somewhat incomplete. I know there was more to my breakdown tonight than I can recognize or articulate at this point. But I'm thankful. By the end of the concert I was singing along and laughing. It was a journey through my past - a past of both great faith and a life lived with fear. And I know there's so much more to learn - to know - to have faith in.

Plausible Deniability

2010-04-18T08:03:00.000-05:00

Last night I found out that my ex-husband of 8 months is living with a woman...I knew he was living with a woman beginning in January, so I had already adjusted to that idea, and honestly didn't think too much of it. Then I found out last night that this is the same woman I accused him of having an affair with over 3 years ago. I found all this out when my 6 year old came home from a visit with her dad and told me that daddy had a girlfriend, and that he was going to marry her, and what her name was. As soon as I heard the name it felt like a sucker punch to my gut. I tried hard to control my reaction, because my daughter was distressed. She wasn't ready for her dad to have a girlfriend. Like most kids, I think she hopes we will reconcile at some point, and so the girlfriend doesn't fit in the picture very neatly for her. I reassured her that it would be ok, that after all she likes this woman, and that it is ok. I'm not sure how convincing I was. Her eyes searched my face to see if I was really ok with daddy having a girlfriend. I could tell she wanted to gauge my reaction to see if she should be upset. I did my best to be positive and happy while she was there. But I have to admit I feel a mixture of anger, sadness and humiliation.

In November, 2006, when our son was only 6 or so months old I began to find evidence that my husband was having an affair. Given that I was a divorce lawyer working for a firm that specialized in this kind of stuff, it wasn't hard to identify the patterns of my spouse. I went on a mini-investigation and it didn't take me long to figure out he was certainly seeing someone. If I think back to earlier days in our relationship, certainly there were signs that he likely had had affairs before this one. For whatever reasons I chose to ignore the evidence before me back then. I continued on, and reassured myself that I was just being reactive and paranoid. However, the incident in 2006 was undeniable. It was in my face. There was really no ignoring it. No pretending it didn't happen. While my husband denied that he was having a sexual affair with this woman, he did so half-heartedly. I wasn't overly convinced, but still there was some part of me that wanted some plausible deniability.

At the time I was struggling in a job I hated, contending with an active 3 year old and trying to care for my infant who was having a multitude of health problems. Additionally I was dealing with a major fall out in my family of origin over my brother's issues with addiction and the legal system. It was a hectic time in my life, and quite honestly I was ill-prepared to be confronted with my husband's infidelity. Initially, I raged at him. I cried for days. And then, I acted as if it never happened. I swallowed it down like a bitter pill. Life went on. Within 6 months his father died suddenly, and I tried my best to take care of him, to keep us together by the sheer force of my will. I ignored the misgivings I felt, and plowed through. Somewhere along the way I developed some sort of plausible deniability about the whole thing. After all I didn't know *for sure* that he had cheated. Maybe I was being paranoid or crazy or both. And of course my husband wanted me to believe that so he continually promised me he would never be unfaithful to me. I wanted desperately to believe him.

Even now, after divorcing this man, I must admit that part of me still clung to some notion of plausible deniability, part of me still hoped it wasn't true, that my husband had loved me enough to remain faithful to me. It is much easier to cling to plausible deniability than it is dealing with the feelings of hurt, betrayal, anger and pain over what I have always known happened. So, when I found out last night that indeed the relationship between my ex-husband and this woman was ongoing and now open and notorious, plausible deniability became impossible. It is right in front of me. There's no more hiding behind the illusion. I wasn't prepared for this. It seems overwhelming and hurtful, as if the scab has been ripped off the wound suddenly, without warning.

Someone said to me recently that it's a hell of a lot easier to live in denial than it is to live with the pain and disappointment life brings. I agree. But now there's no more denying what I know, what I've always known. And that's tough, but perhaps shaking off denial is just the first step. No more denying the truth, even when it hurts. No more hiding behind excess weight so that I can shield myself from my feelings, my heart. No more denying what I've always known was my path even if that path doesn't seem convenient, easy or simple. No more denying God, denying who I am as a child of God even when I'm sad, hurt and lonely. No more denying the gifts God has given me because denying them is safer, easier and comfortable.

Running

2010-04-17T19:45:00.000-05:00

Lately I've been considering some of my past life and comparing it to my present life. Sometimes I wake up and wonder, how did I get to this moment? This moment - right here and now. Someone told me recently that crazy is doing the same thing over and over but expecting a different result. I don't disagree with this contention. Yet it seems I am almost hardwired for doing just that.

Tonight I was mowing the lawn at my house. I actually enjoy this chore, if the kids are asleep or gone. I pop in some earbuds and sing along to whatever is playing in my ears, and push the mower around the yard until it looks pristine (ok, maybe just shorter). Since I'm not someone who "creates" or "builds" things for a living, I don't often get to see the results of any labor I might undertake. Seeing a freshly cut lawn afterwards is a great reward to me. I feel like I've actually accomplished something.

As I was mowing tonight I became increasingly aware of how much weight I have gained in the past year. This is distressing to me. I spent the better part of 2007 and 2008 shedding some 140 lbs. Slowly in 2009 and 2010, about 55lbs have crept back onto my belly, thighs, face. And the more physical activity I do, the more I realize how much weight I have gained. My huffing and puffing around the yard is inescapable. And I'm frustrated.

Since I was about 13 I have battled my weight/my physical self. Oddly enough if you had asked me some years ago when it started, I would've told you birth. My mother, who is obsessed with weight (both mine and her own), had me fairly convinced that I was likely to be mistaken for Shamu when I was 8 or 9. It wasn't until years later that I realized I was a pretty normal-sized kid until 13. At 13 and 14, I poured on weight. Again at 18 and 19, I gained. I lost 85 lbs or so my last year of college working out and eating better, only to regain much of that weight in my first year of law school at age 22 and 23. I gained even more weight prior to my first pregnancy, until I was well over 300 lbs. Oddly enough I lost weight with both of my pregnancies, and then in 2007 and 2008 I dropped off a substantial amount of weight to get to the smallest I had been since age 14 most likely. And I felt awesome. I was in great physical shape and had energy to keep up with my kids. Then in 2009, I began to slide backwards, and to land where I am now - about 55-60 lbs heavier and pissed off.

Of course it is no mystery why I have gained weight. I have made bad choices, I have spent time stress eating. I have chosen not to exercise for months on end. The question that comes to my mind is why? Why for nearly 2 years did I do everything right only to halt that course of action and go back to the way I had been living before? Part of me says it was the stress of my divorce. Or it was the stress of not knowing where the hell I'm going to land. But those really aren't very good excuses. In the middle of the worst marital stress I had, I did the right things. When my son was sick and often hospitalized, I managed to stay the course. When I was opening my own practice, and terrified of what would happen to my stream of income, I held on to the new, healthy habits. So, back to the question, why now?

Before I began to gain, I became somewhat obsessed with my weight. I was on a scale everyday, I couldn't figure out how I had gotten to the point of having lost a person, and I couldn't figure out how to stay there. Part of me felt the disconnect, but I couldn't identify why I felt that way. I just felt a sense of brooding.

I think perhaps the answer for me is my own discomfort with disclosure - with telling secrets- with revealing who I am. Each of the times I gained massive amounts of weight, I have been at a vulnerable moment in my life. I've felt alienated and lost from who I was. I have felt exposed in some way. My reaction to vulnerability appears to be to drop any and all good habits with regard to my physical self and to gain weight rapidly, as if a layer of insulation around me could protect me from the risk...the potential for rejection. This latest round of gaining started about 14 months ago, about the time I decided that life was going to change with or without my cooperation. I, as much as I could, embraced the process, and tried to be patient and gentle with myself. Some days I have been successful, and other moments I haven't been. But I started writing, reading and talking after spending years being fairly disingenuous with myself. I asked hard questions, and struggled with the answers. I let myself grapple with the unknowns. I refused to blink. As I struggled internally I no longer spent anytime on the external me. So, now what?

Well, I've come to the conclusion that I'm not much good at balance, and that I have to start to figure that part of my life out. Living in the not knowing has become normative for me, and I cannot afford to physically wait this phase of my life out. I have to begin again. Begin anew. I have to learn some balance between the search for God, for myself and the physical journey to renew my body. There is room for both.

The bigger issue is that I have to discover how to risk without running, how to be honest without seeking to hide behind extra layers of myself. This is the key that has eluded me each time I have lost weight. Each time I have failed to figure out the internal struggle associated with my weight. At some point I have gotten scared, frightened of who I was without the excess weight. And that fear drove me back down the physical road to destruction. Oddly enough even with my discomfort at having gained weight, I have again returned to a place where I am affectionate with people. I am being more honest, both physically by reaching out to people I love and emotionally by expressing who I am without apologizing for who I am.

The time for renewal has come again. And the time to run has passed yet again.

Sometimes there just aren't enough rocks

2010-04-08T21:56:00.000-05:00

There is a scene in one of my favorite movies, Forrest Gump, where Forrest and Jenny are adults standing outside of the now-abandoned home that she was raised in. It holds horrible memories for her, and she begins to fling rocks at it. She pitches several rocks at the house before falling to the ground in tears. Forrest stands there, he is present for her. But he doesn't try to tell her not to feel bad or convince her not to cry. The statement he thinks in the moment, "Sometimes there just aren't enough rocks." I've always thought that was a poignant moment in the movie. Today I think I understand Forrest's sentiment as one of bearing witness to Jenny's suffering. Without blinking.

In life, shit happens. It ain't pretty. There's not any way to dress it up or make it more presentable. The fact of the matter is that shit happens. Sometimes it happens to us, and sometimes it happens to people we love, too. And if I'm honest with myself, I don't know why shit happens, it just does at times. And if I'm really honest with myself, the not knowing of it all has always been one of those things that makes me angry with God for his silence and with myself at my own helplessness.

This week, among the normal hurting people I meet in my practice and guardian work, I've been confronted with two people I love going through horrible stuff. One's parent is hurting badly and is ill. The other is being confronted with cancer and a child who has his own health challenges. Both of these women are good people. They care for others, are loving and good folks. And the parent of my friend, he is a good guy, too. He has spent the better part of life loving and nurturing others. There is no rhyme or reason for these things to be happening to these people. They are hurting, I am at a loss for how to help. I so want to think of articulate things to say that will be comforting and helpful. I want to somehow come up with a solution or fix to the issues that are simply not able to be fixed. It just seems so cliche to say, "Gee, I'm praying for you."

And this is where Forrest comes in. All I can do in response to my friends is to offer my presence and my witness. I can be a witness to their suffering, to their strength and maybe to their love. When I was at Baptist college, I heard a lot about "witnessing" to other people. What I think was meant by this was evangelism...the idea of telling other people about Jesus. This was always a turnoff to my sensibilities. I didn't mind loving people, spending time with them, walking or talking with them...but mentioning God, Jesus or my faith because I was obligated to was not something that came naturally to me. It still doesn't.

When I talk about bearing witness in this context what I really mean is being fully present to another's suffering. Offering myself, all of who I am, to be present and faithful to this person and their pain and sorrow. This is not easy. In fact, I will venture to say it's a hell of a lot harder to bear witness to someone's pain than it is to offer a "Jesus loves you" and walk away. Bearing witness requires relationship...it requires risk. The risk of looking foolish, or not being able to find the words, the risk of rejection. It requires living in relationship to other people so that their suffering is my own... my pain is their pain as well.

I was trying to write a letter to the parent who is hurting, and all I could think to say was, "I'm sorry you're hurting." and "I love you." There are no other words. What's happening to these folks isn't fair. I have no words of wisdom that will heal them or make things better. But I can bear witness to their pain. I know that sometimes there just aren't enough rocks. And that while shit happens, sometimes joy happens. Somtimes healing happens, too. Not because I, or anyone else, found the right words, or prayed hard enough or did anything more than bear witness to suffering. And we hoped and prayed with the person hurting. And added our voices to those everywhere who are crying out for mercy and peace.

Despite all the pain I see and feel at moments, I still believe God hears us/loves us/wants our healing. That He/She is in this very moment bearing witness to our suffering, and working to bring about our healing. I am compelled to believe this because of the healing I've experienced, the healing I've watched others experience. But rather than treat faith or God or being a Christian as a passive, observation kind of sport, I have to believe faith is meant to be participatory. I cannot sit by and watch my brother suffer without hoping with him/loving him as he is/praying for his healing. I cannot help but be his witness when he cannot bear his own truth. And all I can say is I'm sorry you're hurting. Let me sit with you. Let me hold your hand. I love you.

Easter

2010-04-04T20:30:00.000-05:00

Another Easter Day is drawing to a close, and I find myself feeling thankful. This Easter started like most have in the past, a joyful celebration in church. The kids enjoyed their time at church, and Rudy was more attentive than usual, asking me about different parts of the service for the first time. Easter actually started for me last night at the Easter Vigil service I attended at the Cathedral. As usual, it was my favorite service of the year. Those age old stories and words repeated are moving and the experience in the cathedral was a delight to my senses. Different voices, different places, but each year I find the commonality of our shared story. My grandmother came to me in the service, and I was moved to tears. A line I've heard spoken many times over, "Be what you see, receive who you are" brought things into focus for me. I awoke this morning feeling refreshed from the experience last night, and ready for this day to be here.

After church, I took my kids down to see my parents this afternoon. First, we met up with my niece and nephew out on the farm where I spent a lot of time as a child. My grandparents have been gone for well over a decade, but the farm remains in the family. I take my kids there several times a year, and we wander the same fields and paths I wandered when I was their age. I show them the cows and explain the growth of the crops in the fields to them. We fish in the ponds and I tell them about my grandmother. The woman who adopted my father when he was orphaned at the age of 6, remains the one member of my family of origin that I will miss until the day I die. She was kind, affectionate and nurturing. I loved spending time in her presence, although we often sat in silence. I would sit at her table and watch her working, or follow her outside as she completed chores. She sheltered me, cared for me and loved me. I was the only granddaughter she knew very well, and she never let me forget for a moment that I was smart, capable and special. She had a lot of hopes for me, and I worked hard to make her proud of me.

In the spring of 1997, her husband, my grandfather, died unexpectedly. He was 87 years old. For the next year, I tried to hang on to my grandmother with all my might. I had just completed college, and had begun law school. I came home often to help my father care for his mother. I taught her how to drive again, at age 86, and made sure she knew that I thought she was smart, capable and special. I loved her presence and who she was, but in the end she died in the summer of 1998 from a broken heart. Once my grandfather died, she didn't know who she was or how to be without him. I had heard stories like this, but I watched her live this one. She had no medical condition that could be diagnosed or treated, but she hurt. Her heart hurt. She wanted to go home. And ultimately, she did. I never really mourned her death. I simply shut out the sadness, and got busy with my own life. Every now and again I would think of her, but mostly I tried not to. The pain of her absence was too much to bear. At every station of my life after 1998 - graduation from law school, marriage, the births of my children, I felt her absence acutely.

In the summer of 1988, my grandmother and I experienced our only impasse. I confided in her that something awful had happened in my life. It was beyond her ability to cope. I could see it in her face, I had hurt her speaking my truth. At that moment, she was the only adult in my life I trusted. She was the only person I could think of to go to when I was scared, alone and hurting. But, ultimately she did not know what to do with my pain, my shame. It would take years for me to talk about the experience again, and to this day I struggle to find the words to be able to talk about what happened. She and I never spoke of my confession again. It created a distance between us though, an unspoken hurt. I blamed her for not helping me, and I think she looked at me differently, perhaps that was my projection, but I went from being her beloved to a stranger she didn't quite recognize.

Ultimately, she died not knowing that I had long since forgiven her for not knowing what to do, for being scared of the truth. This past year, I have been struggling with that experience, and praying for some guidance in how to deal with the old trauma, the old shame that seems to be so deep that it permeates who I am, who I have become. While therapy was somewhat helpful, I think it really has taken unearthing the "stuff" of it all to help give me some clarity and ultimately some compassion with myself. That same compassion has spilled over, and I am finally able to see the whole experience from her perspective. There was nothing in her background, in her life experience she could draw from to know what to do, how to be or who I needed for her to be in that moment. I was a scared, broken child. She was a gentle woman who had lived an incredibly sheltered life, and was very likely as scared as I was in that moment.

Today, I took new flowers to my grandmother's grave. I've been doing this a few times a year for the past few years, but today I really wanted to go there. I felt something different and wanted to physically be close to where she is. I've dreamt of my grandmother a few times in the past few months. I feel her presence with me. It seemed fitting on this Easter to go back to the church where she was a matriarch and attended for 87 years. The place she was baptized, confirmed, married and eventually memorialized, where she is buried out back in the family cemetery.

I told her I was sorry for not being able to let got of my anger with her sooner, but that I wasn't angry with her anymore. And I wasn't angry with me anymore either. That I've forgiven both of us for not knowing what to say or do in that moment. I told her that I still loved her and thought about her nearly everyday. I thanked her for loving me, for being my shelter in the storm of a lonely childhood. I told her that I so wished she had lived to see my children - her great-grandchildren, but that I understood why she wanted to leave this earth. Mostly though, I told her that she didn't need to worry about me anymore. I whispered to her that I knew she was scared for me, but she didn't need to be anymore. That I was strong, that I had survived, and that I had found some peace in this life. That the God she clung to in her lifetime had delivered me from my sorrows, and gave me such joy this Easter. That while I'm not certain where she is or what she's up to these days, I wanted her to have joy in her heart. That while I was lost for a time, I have been found. I have been able to open my hands and receive who I am.

Maundy Thursday

2010-04-01T20:35:00.000-05:00

Tonight I went to church solo - my babies are with their dad for a couple of hours. It's still an adjustment going places without them. I miss them when they are away from me, even if it is just for a few hours. It turned out to be a good thing though that I was on my own. I think I was more able to settle into the rhythm of worship.

The story of Jesus washing his disciples' feet struck a new chord with me. I was so moved by Peter's cry in the Gospel lesson tonight. When he begins (and I say begin, because I think he still struggled with it all) to understand why Jesus is washing the disciples' feet, he exclaims, "Lord, not my feet only, but also my hands and my head!" He wants so badly to accept the love offered by his teacher, that he wants to be washed completely. Not to be only partially washed, he hopes to be fully cleansed. I understand his longing. Once I have tasted the divine, I only want more. Nothing satisfies me more than this. This incredible longing for God is powerful, consuming and a love unlike any other. It overwhelms me with emotion. I am rendered speechless and teary-eyed. And so I, too, want more. In fact, I, like Peter, long for more.

This combined with the sermon I heard tonight makes this day feel different to me this year. In the past, I have always thought of this day as one of a remembrance of the Lord's Supper. However, the sermon preached tonight reminded me of something different. As we turn towards the last night for Jesus on earth - his prayers in the garden - I am reminded that there is something missing. Despite all the growth I have experienced in the past year - it is incomplete.

It's not magic or anything earth shattering. The thing - that thing - is unconditional love. Despite all of what I want and believe and hope for - unconditional love is that thing that still eludes me at times. I want to experience it. Taste it. Know it fully. Be able to participate in the mystery - to love others without restrictions. And at times I catch a glimpse, and I like Peter, cry out for more and for that love to be complete here on earth, here and now. There have been those moments of realization - over time - that I can identify as moments of pure, unadulterated love. The birth of each of my children is probably the most memorable. In the first hours after each of my children was born I held them close to my face. I whispered prayers to God that He/She would hold them, keep them, protect them, love them. Tears fell from my eyes, as the newborn I was holding stared wide-eyed at me. I thanked God for the chance to be their mother, for giving me the gift of a healthy infant after 40 weeks of carrying them inside me. I have never felt the presence of God closer to me than in those moments. I knew immediately what it was to love another person unconditionally. And as strong as my passion for my children is, I know that God's passion is stronger, more full, more complete than mine can be. This is why the yearning will always be with me.

I understand now that this is not that moment where the story is complete, where I am made whole. And it will never be complete on this earth. No matter my intentions, I will continue to fall short, because after all, I cannot take it all in this side of heaven. Try as I might to love myself, God, others...I will continue to miss the mark. Not because I'm inherently evil or carry the old Adam with me, but because I am human. And others will miss the mark as well, and so at times I will be faced with the fact that others cannot live up to my expectations, that they cannot love as I had hoped they could or would.

While that news used to dash my hopes and make me spiral into a depression, I don't feel that anymore. I only want the taste of it that I can experience. The moments of grace that make me yearn for more. I want to be able to give and receive as fully as I can, here and now.

I'm liking Peter more and more, and hoping that I too can drop the pretenses and acts, and accept the love of God and the love of others fully and without reservation. That I too can cry out to God that I want to be loved fully and completely. Lord, not just my feet, but my head and my hands. Without reservation. Without fear. Fully. Completely. Here and now. Amen.

Joy - who knew?

2010-03-27T15:43:00.000-05:00

This past week it has occurred to me that save a cranky moment here and there - the primary emotion I feel lately is joy. Not contentment or satisfaction or good...but a real and heightened sense of joy and aliveness and amazement.

When Blaise Pascal had his "moment" - his experience of God, he cried out, "Joy, joy, joy...not the god of philosophers and scholars...the god of Abraham, Jacob and Isaac." He was reading in the book of John, and it just came to him, in the moment. I get that. That overwhelming sense of connection to something greater than myself - that brings a sheer sense of joy.

I find myself without words to describe just how good I feel (although apparently I'm trying). I've started exercising again - and perhaps it's the endorphins...but I almost feel as if I've fallen in love. With life. I'm laughing, smiling and loving everyday. Rather than feel weighed down by all of the responsibility of my life...I just feel joy. As I observe the world around me, I see so much light and love. In the people I know, in the places I visit and in the simple, everyday stuff of life. I have no logical explanations why or why now - but I feel it. And it brings me back to the faith again and again. I feel a sense of the holy in and around and through me that is at once incredible and moving.

On the lighter side, I have been contemplating piercing my nose...which at nearly 35 sounds a little crazy, even to me. It's something I've wanted for a long time, but for reasons of timing and my station in life (read: employers who would've fired me over it), I've never been willing to do it. The funny thing is all the laughter I've had from thinking about this, and the folks that I love who have weighed in on the subject...many years ago I made a proclamation in front of witnesses that I would either pierce my nose or love a man who wore earrings (and I meant more than one) before I died. It was a statement made on a beach surrounded by the love of my friends, and after a few glasses of Chardonnay. At the time I was admiring from afar a man who was serious, conservative (not politically, but socially I think) and who likely would never have worn an earring of any kind. When news of my pending nose piercing circulated among my friends, they've gently reminded of my long-ago statement made on the beach - and I'm laughing still. And perhaps I'm going to have work on one of those options soon. Although I don't know that I'm ready to offer my love to a man right now, with or without earrings, I do feel as if the cloud of my divorce and relationship turmoil is lifting, and I can see a day when I will want to be in relationship again with a man. I'm not against a guy with earrings coming along, but it's not my top priority at this point in my life.

To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what to do with this new sense of happiness. It seems foreign to me. My heart has hurt for a long time - and to feel a new sense of wholeness - of healing - well it's almost a shock to my system.

I think I've spent an inordinate amount of time on self-reflection and contemplation this past year, and it all seems worth it in this moment. To feel the joy of a new knowledge of myself and the love of God. To feel at peace with who I am and who I am becoming. While I know my journey is nowhere near completion, I am enjoying the view these days. I feel the words of Pascal, "O righteous father, the world has not known you, but I have known you. Joy, joy, joy...tears of joy."

Enough

2010-03-24T22:01:00.000-05:00

There are days when I am left with a sense that regardless what I do in this lifetime, it will never be enough. That somehow I will never be enough. Ultimately none of what we can do to save ourselves or one another is enough.

I realize this is fatalist thinking to some degree, and that some of it started back when I was a teenager/young 20's adult. When I was in college I took a lot of theology/philosophy and a lot of political science. And the thing that used to set me over the edge was the political science. Because ultimately there is no perfect system or way of doing things. We can theorize all day long, and we can work for justice and peace our entire lives, and ultimately maybe not make more than a small ripple, that is felt in our own ponds only. Part of me still wants heaven on earth. I'm worn of this world and all of it's craziness. Where the hell is the kingdom of God and when it is going to arrive?!

I want a life for the kids I work with that is full of the things they need and all the love they can hold. I want peace on the planet for those ravaged by war and strife. I want life, and I want abundant life for those who live with doubts, fears and pain. I want justice for those who have been harmed by others. I want simpler things too. I want some semblance of control over my body and my fluctuating weight (which happens to be up at this moment). I want my children to grow up in a loving environment free of the harsh criticism I endured. I want a partner in this life who loves me completely and without reservation. I want healing for myself and for those who need it. I want the happy ending...where all the struggle and strife and pain ends up being worth something in the end, perhaps turned into healing and unconditional love and peace.

That's a heck of a Christmas list I suppose. And yet I feel as if there is just not enough to go around. While I believe in God, and know more so now than ever that God desires relationship with me, I wonder where all this other stuff fits in. Is it too much to ask for? To hope for? To desire? It seems so. I've had Archbishop Romero on the brain today. It's the anniversary of his death - the day he was shot while celebrating mass in El Salvador. Romero has been someone I've studied for many years, and a sort of folk hero to me. Yet, for all of his passionate preaching and love for the Salvadoran people, he was gunned down. He died. He is not here now, the dream was never realized for him. King faced the same end - he worked to see the end of racism and classism, and yet, he too was killed before he ever got to be "enough." For all of the work so many do, it doesn't seem to be enough ultimately.

For every one happy ending I get to see in juvenile court, there are 5 crappy ones. So 1 kid gets the dream, and the other 5 get shit on. It just seems wrong. Unfair. Unjust. Hopeless.

The better angels of my nature reassure me that the one child would not have gotten that ending but for the same systems I rail against. That even if it is only one, it is someone. And that one should be celebrated and I should be thankful for the one. I guess I'm just at a cyncial juncture. I'm more caught up with the other 5.

Perhaps it's my own life - that I feel too close to - or identify too much with - the other 5. I know what it's like to face some of what they face - to never feel the warmth of unconditional love as a child. And to still long for it now decades later. To still want healing...to still hope that love wins in the end - that love really does conquer all. And despite all my desire as a kid to please God and to be acceptable, I just never could quite get the hang of it. I never could actually *feel* it.

More than anything else today, I desire to still have a spark of hope that what I'm doing is serving a higher good, even when it seems dismal. I so want to believe that God waits for me, wanting to share in both my despair and my joy. That even in the darkest hour of the darkest night, there is a loving Father, only too ready to shoulder some of my burden, to lighten my load.

Happy Anniversary

2010-03-19T08:58:00.000-05:00

Today is the 21st anniversary of my confirmation into the Lutheran church. I was a 13 year old girl. I studied with the pastor of my childhood church for 3 years to prepare, and then on a Palm Sunday in 1989 I was accepted into the Lutheran church. Back in those days you underwent an examination in front of the church to be sure that you knew the catechism, commandments, etc. It was a little nerve-wracking/intimidating for a 13 year old. There were four of us that year - which was a small class - so we found ourselves having to memorize more than classes before or after us. Four girls - now 34/35 year old women. I remember fear as the primary emotion of that day. Fear I would screw up the stuff I was supposed to remember to say. Fear I would trip over the robe/vestments we had to wear. Fear I was somehow not worthy of this event. My confirmation was a big deal for me. I was very into church at 13. It was my stability in the midst of my chaos. I felt drawn there. I wanted so badly to please God - who in my mind was waiting for me to screw it up. A god who didn't have much faith in me at all, but demanded a sacrifical faith of me.

How life changes! These past few months have been about letting go of fear for me. Releasing the notion that God somehow wants my fear or seeks to make me scared of Him/Her. As I struggle to understand now where I go from here, or how I move forward, I wonder why I ever bought into the religion of fear and dominance. What are the roots? How do I pull them up so that I don't give them to my children? When i was 13 I had to choose a Bible verse to be "my verse" for my confirmation day. I chose Psalms 118:14. "The Lord is my strength and my song. He has become my salvation." Today I would likely choose other verses in the same psalm..."O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his steadfast love endures forever...Out of my distress I called on the Lord; the Lord answered me and set me in a broad place. With the Lord at my side I do not fear...I thank you that you have answered me and have become my salvation."

This is what life is about. The love of God which endures forever. Steadfast means unwavering. In other words there is nothing so bad or so sad that I can do that would ever mean a loss of that love. That God has become my salvation. Not because I did anything spectacular, but because God so wants a relationship that He goes to the ends of the earth to find me. With God, therefore I do not need any fear in my life. Fear only stunts my growth, and makes me react with violence.

Back in 1989 there was an Amy Grant song that I listened to often (I still love me some Amy) called 1974 where she talks about the day she was confirmed.

"We were young. None of us knew quite what to say. But the feeling moved among us in silence anyway. Slowly we had made...quite a change. Somewhere we had crossed a big line. Down upon our knees we had tasted holy wine. No one could sway us in a lifetime."

That faith is my history. But perhaps it is not my future. And that is somewhat painful. That sense of loss. In 1989 faith was easy, comfortable and made simple sense. This new faith is tougher to come to, complicated and at times makes me uneasy. It is the grey, fringe areas - there is no black and white.

I was reading a book by a woman I have really come to love, and she said that when your experience and your religion clash or conflict, you have three choices. You can deny your experience and conform to the religion. You can leave the religion because you cannot deny your experience. Or you can become a theologian. While I see now clearly my call to the third option, the third option is not easy. While it makes room for experience and religion to co-exist, it still seems complicated, messy.

21 years later...and I feel good and holy and loved and that perhaps all I ever really needed was to let go of fear. The steadfast love of God endures forever. I know that much is true.

Signs, Symbols and Smells

2010-03-10T08:47:00.000-06:00

So, we're midway through Lent, and I'm sitting at my desk at work drinking a Diet Coke...hmmm. Well, that discipline isn't working out as well as planned...! As for the other things I was hoping for...well i seem to be right on track.

I read a book recently called Proverbs of Ashes. It was the book i was moved to pick up while at a bookstore that reminded me of Lent. It was a painful read in a lot of ways. The book confronts the notions of violence as it relates to God, the cross and Lent. Two women share their life experiences and reflect on how they fit into the church (universal), theology and christology. Some of it was heady, but most of it was pretty raw. You could feel their pain and alienation in the words on the pages. I had to put it down a few times so as not to become overwhelmed by it all. It confirmed for me though, that my childhood belief that Jesus died for my sins is ...well...a childhood belief, and not one I currently hold. I cannot love a God who would require his own son to die for my salvation. This idea just doesn't make any sense to me anymore. Part of me is liberated by releasing my old beliefs and part of me is unnerved by it.

This symbol of my childhood - that Jesus had to die for me - was one I held on to tightly. Perhaps it was the idea that I was important enough for such a sacrifice. Or maybe it was that I needed something to hold onto. I think at least part of it was that I indeed felt dirty and sinful in some ways, and so a theology that affirmed that made some sense to me. Regardless I clung to that idea, and was in some ways molded by it. Letting it go has taken me some time.

I have this thing about smells. I relate my life and events to smells oftentimes. In the same way some people relate a song to an event, I more often relate smells to big events. For example, if you took me into my childhood church blindfolded, I could identify it by its smell. Same thing goes for my dad. He has a smell to him. (Not in a bad way) In the same way, I have certain smells branded into my memory in not such a good way. The smell of mud reminds me of a traumatic moment in my life, and to this day a strong whiff of mud turns my stomach over. Recently, while thinking, praying, meditating (not sure how to define it)...the smell of mud overwhelmed me. I wasn't sure how to react. It caught me by surprise.

With it though, came a new clarity. That oft repeated phrase from Scripture...do not be afraid. And I recalled that the reason that Jesus had to be the ransom for my sin as a child and young adult was because of my own fear. I was afraid of a vengeful god, and felt that if perhaps Jesus did my time for me, it would be ok. I just knew I was a big sinner, and hopefully god would accept me if Jesus came first. My own fear of hell on earth, hell in the after life was enough to motivate me to cry out to Jesus to forgive me. Even when I wasn't sure what I had done wrong. I think I was also afraid of what it would mean to be in relationship with rather than subordinate to. I was speaking with a new friend recently and he was questioning why people are not more inclined to seek out God or a holy place that represents God. My answer, which sprung to my lips before I could think it through was that people are fearful. I am fearful. If you choose to live in relationship to God, life changes. You cannot stop the trajectory. If you surrender to it, the rug seems to be pulled out from under you. Not in a punitive way, but in a new and beautiful way. It doesn't mean there isn't still pain at moments. But it does mean you have to make choices that make sense to you in the moment as opposed to continuing to stumble along through life as if you don't know any better. It means you have to value yourself as a creation of God, holy and beloved from the start, as opposed to a fallen sinner who has no worth and carries the age old sin of Adam (or Eve) around until Jesus's blood cleanses us. It means risking a life of passion and love as opposed to a life that appears to be safe and good enough.

The sign is clear to me now. Clearer than perhaps ever before. I choose relationship. I choose understanding, compassion, and ultimately joy. The choice is not easy. It's not a cop out. But it is one without fear, without apologies.

20 days in...now if I could just give up Diet Coke.

Something new

2010-02-27T18:51:00.000-06:00

Today I went to a place I'd never been before. I did so with a little trepidation, feeling a bit like the test case. Some of the folks at the church I attend regularly and I were talking about attending a service at this center, and I quasi-volunteered to "try it out." I view (rightly or wrongly) the others in the group to be a bit more invested in the organized Episcopal church than I am. While I identify myself as an Anglican, I'm not too caught up in "right" or "wrong" way to be an Anglican. Part of the beauty of the tradition is that it is rich, diverse and mostly non-judgmental.

So after my kids settled in with a sitter, I headed down to the Clayton area to a place called the Living Insights Center. The premise, if I understood it correctly, is that this is a place where all religions and all followers of a particular way (whatever that may be) are welcomed and accepted. Regardless of your creed, or lack thereof, there is a space for you. I didn't get much chance to experience the place because the service I came to attend was starting. During the service's quiet time, I felt acutely aware of the sacred. It just seemed like a holy place. I can't articulate it much better than that, nor do I want to try to given that I tend to over-explain things that can't really be explained very well at all.

After the service I walked around and looked at the various icons, relics, etc. from various traditions...many were represented. Most I could think of in fact. I was struck by the unity of it all, and the universality of it all. I typically subscribe to the idea that there are many different paths to the divine, the center affirmed that in a new way for me.

Today's experience, and hopefully more to come at the Center, are exactly what Lent is to me. Part of my Lent was to be open to the divine - to allow space in my soul for something new to take hold. As much pain as I have survived in recent years, I am ready for joy. I feel prepared to be in love again. Not with a new man, but with something so much bigger than that... life, love and that which is holy.

Lent

2010-02-18T18:02:00.000-06:00

This year, in approaching the liturgical season of Lent, I was unsure of what to do. Most years I try to take on some Lenten discipline. Whether it's giving something up, taking something on, or trying to form a new habit, I usually take advantage of this 40 day period as a new beginning of sorts.

As i approached Lent this year, I didn't really know what to do. As tumultuous as life has seemed this past year, I wasn't sure what to try and take on. I opted first for the easy out - giving up soda. I've been drinking a ton of diet coke lately - so it would be good if I could drop some of that stuff. But for something deeper, I was struggling.

Then late on Shrove Tuesday, two things occurred to me. The first occurred to me while I was preparing some bankruptcy paperwork for a client...we categorize debts in bankruptcy by "priority." The debts that get paid first in a bankruptcy are priority debts and the others are listed as non-priority. All this talk of priority made me recall something fundamental. How I got to this point in my life, and ultimately what provided the downfall of my marriage was forgetting that I should at times be a priority. That my health, both physical and mental, and my life only gets to be a priority if I make it one. No one is going to oblige me that. I have to claim it for myself. For whatever reason, this is a tough task for me. I feel pulled in a lot of different directions, and it's tough for me to make me a priority. And perhaps I've felt for most of my life that there was something inappropriate about making oneself a priority. It sounds selfish and silly in some ways. But of course I really do believe it is difficult if not impossible to love someone else (including God) if I can't start with me. If I can't acknowledge the divine or holy in me (from God), then I don't value who I am, in all my abilities and disabilities. So, Lent is also a time for renewal for me - I'm headed to the gym tomorrow to begin to work again. I'm cutting back on things that are not healthy. Not so I can be thin, but so that I remember what it feels like to feel good about my physical body, and so that I can be physically whole.

The last part of this is going to sound "new-agey" or mystical...but I really want to recall again (and perhaps more importantly experience again) what it feels like to be in that divine communion. I've had experiences in my life that have felt holy, divine. But oftentimes I get so caught up in life, and explaining life to myself, that I close myself off from those sorts of experiences. I had one of those moments probably most recently when I was in Mexico bobbing around in the Caribbean. I just felt this presence. And then a peace, that was indescribable. In the midst of my turmoil and my un-settledness, I received this gift. It was all at once amazing, beautiful, holy. I want to be open to the experience. Accept that I cannot explain everything, but to be open. As I struggle to put some definition or some flesh on the bones of that I think is next for me...whether that be seeking ordination, staying precisely where I am, or a third path, I have become a little obsessed with wanting something to strike me. As I have felt "struck" in the past by a notion that I was right where I was supposed to be at a particular moment, so too I want some nod or nudge or gut reaction to arise in me that tells me what is next for me. But part of me is aware that I am perhaps not ready yet. Not open enough, not ready to receive that which is my birthright, my next "home." So the prayer for me, for now, is that I can be open to receiving...whatever it is I might receive. That instead of ripping off the paper and tearing open the box, I'm just open to receiving the gifts. Because knowing what is in store isn't really possible, and imagination of what is next is often scary and filled with too many unknowns. For now I just want to unclench my fist, one finger at a time. Just remain open to being transformed, transfigured into what I was intended to be all along.

It's going to be a good, powerful 40 days. That I know for sure.

Invitation

2010-02-13T22:39:00.000-06:00

Sometimes words seem to take on a new meaning for me. The word I have focused on in this past week has been "invitation." I first thought about this word some in the context of the sacramental theology class I've been taking. We've had some discussion in the class about the idea that God has taken the initiative in all of our sacraments...that God comes to us, invites us and we respond.

Then I watched my three year old play his favorite game these days...im-ba-tations. He colors on a small slip of paper and then hands them out to me, his sister, anyone else at our house at that time. He tells us these are our im-ba-tations - invitations - to whatever...dinner or bath time or his "party" he's going to have in the basement. What he really is asking you to do is to share an experience with him.

And isn't that typically what we are doing when we invite someone somewhere? Typically we are asking that they share in an experience with us. We're not asking for anything more than the presence of the other at something. In a normal invitation, we are not asking the person to be something, or bring something or perform in any certain way, we just want them to come along and experience whatever it is with us.

Oftentimes I think I have placed restrictions or requirements where God has none. Rather than just accept the invitation, and come along and be with Him/Her, I presuppose I know what God wants from me, expects of me, knows of me. It would seem not enough somehow for God just to want my presence. Of course that is a tall order in many ways. Can I be present, in the here and now, and simply be with God? Can I still my racing mind, drop all the things that *need* to be done today and let ago of my assumptions about God long enough to just "be with"?

I find myself at a loss that God would be inviting me, just for me to come along. Surely there must be something else He/She expects of me - otherwise grace begins to seem cheap. Then I recall just how difficult it often is for me to just be with God. Being with assumes a self-acceptance that I haven't figured out yet. And I realize that this grace is anything but cheap. But it is not costly in all the ways I assumed as a child and young adult. I don't have to be someone else, or do something extraordinary with my life. I simply have to live into who I was meant to be each day. In the small ways and in the everyday moments. I simply have to be willing to be with God. And to be with is challenge enough. I accept the invitation.

Trusting Me

2010-02-08T19:55:00.001-06:00

This past week I had two experiences that while seemingly unrelated are in fact indicative of a new way of being for me. Both of the experiences are some time in coming, but I feel they have a certain synchronicity.

The first relates to a woman I met about a year ago. I met her, and didn't know her at all. But for whatever reason I judged that she was entirely unlike me. That she seemed gossipy and girly and one of those people I would not typically like very much. She seemed very surface and not at all deep in heart. Then I spent some time in a small group with her a few weeks ago. The same person I had so quickly dismissed was in fact intelligent, articulate, vulnerable and amazing. I was sort of stunned. And then more than that I was humbled. I had clearly misjudged this person. In my rush to "know" her and have her figured out, I didn't look at her heart. I hate now that I wasted an entire year of life without getting to know her and her journey better when she was in front of me the entire time. But I'm glad that I was open enough to really see her now. I am inspired by her journey and hope to understand her better and better.

The second instance relates to a woman I met several years ago - while I was in law school. It was a strange time for me. I was exceedingly unhappy with where I was and with who I had to deal with on a daily basis. I was a square peg for sure in law school. And after I learned what it took to pass, I checked out to a large degree. I didn't invest myself in most of the people i met, and I avoided getting to know people very well. I had mixed feelings about this woman. We didn't seem to have much in common. We had mutual friends, but we never really gravitated to one another. Over time, I made more of an effort to get to know this person. But still there was always this obstacle of some sort. She appeared to be judging me at every turn. I actually learned at one point that she had made jokes about me to a group of people. Despite that fact, years later, I found myself interacting with this woman again. This time, she and I are peers in the legal community. In spite of some gut feeling or reservation I have, I have spent time with her socially. Today, when i saw her, I was struck by how different we are. And how I don't want to be anything like her. She seems to me now (years later) insecure, judgmental and not at all kind. She is not anything I want to be. She may be a wonderful person to others, but my gut and my experience tells me different. And so I made a conscious decision today to not be around her anymore.

As time goes by, and I find myself more and more drawn to those better angels of my nature. As opposed to wasting the time I've been given trying to be someone I'm not, or distrusting what my own gut and experience tells me, I'm going to try and live more into it. And trust that if I listen with my heart as opposed to my own judgmental eyes, I will see what I need to see. And then I can make the best decisions for me.

You can't go home again.

2010-01-31T21:00:00.001-06:00

If there is one thing I have learned in my 34 and half years on earth, it is that you can't go home again. I mean that metaphorically, literally and probably figuratively as well. The first time I learned this lesson was in kindergarten. Of course I wasn't as profound back then (or as wordy), but I sensed my first day of kindergarten that my world was changing drastically. And that it would never be the same.

I started kindergarten shortly after my 5th birthday. I had been a fairly sheltered kid. I had not attended any sort of pre-K or preschool. So this was my first foray into structured, American public school. And I didn't know anyone in my class. In fact, the moment I realized I wasn't going to be able to go home again, I was on the playground. I walked up to another kid, and she said, "Hi my name's Dana." I knew one Dana. She was the kid down the street. This was not that kid. So I said, "No you're not. You're not Dana." She looked bewildered and skipped away to play with a more normal kid. It was evident to me in that moment, I didn't quite fit.

Fast forward 12 years...I left my small, decidely midwestern, semi-rural, Lutheran existence for 3 states away to a Southern Baptist college in the south. Again, I was quick on the draw. It didn't take me long to realize, I could not home again. In fact my first long break back home I felt awkward, out of place and realized despite all of those promises, I was not going to stay close with the people I went to high school with forever. We seemingly had little in common and I felt like someone in a foreign land. My adjustment to college life in the south was a little rocky, but just about the time I had figured it all out, it was time for another transition.

This time I wound up at law school closer to my hometown, but still 150 miles away. When I traveled back to Tennessee to visit my "home" - I was shocked to learn that again, you just can't go home once you've left. This transition was decidely the most difficult for me. I felt like a fish out of water. I had no soft place to fall. My fellow law students were seemingly competitive and oddly self-focused. I had been an activist in college - both politically and to some degree in the religious left as well. Here, nothing seemed to matter to anyone. Everyone appeared to be out for #1 (himself or herself) and all my relationships seemed very, very surface. I was back to that strange playground where "Dana" didn't seem like Dana at all. Like there was a code that no one had let me in on.

After law school, I transitioned back in the St. Louis area - complete with a boyfriend that I had stuck with for most of my law school career. He got me through those years. He gave me something to look forward to. A soft place to fall I guess. Ultimately we married two years after I graduated.

Soon I was expecting our first baby - a fat and happy girl. Still I felt some sort of loss - that longing for my past life maybe...or a longing for getting back to who I was. I couldn't go home again. And I knew that my image of "home" was forever changed by this little person I had brought forth. A few short years later came a beautiful boy - but again I learned quickly that home had again moved out from under me. My little boy was not perfect...he was sick. And I felt as if the sun was hiding its face from me. Our second baby pulled through it all though, with some sort of determination that he might've picked up from me.

This past year brought another transition, and possibly the chance for even more transitions to come. I left my marriage. After several years of pain, and a complete loss of who I was, I made the painful and sometimes still questionable (for me) decision to leave. Once that card had been placed on the table, I again understood, although more intuitively than I have in the past, that I could not go home again. Home, again, had shifted. As I look down the path I have begun to travel, I sense yet more upheaval.

For someone who has never been particularly good at change, I'm scared. I'm frightened of that feeling of alienation. Of separateness. Of isolation. These were the markers of each of my journeys away from home. And although I realize that life has worked itself out at each of these junctures in my life, I am still scared. Scared of what leaving this "home" will look like and feel like. I was reading the alumni magazine from my college today. And perhaps this is what brought on this blog...but I realized I can never go back to that place and find acceptance. And of course in all of these transitions, that is what I have craved more than anything else. And in some places I found it. And in others, I didn't.

When I say that you can't go home again, I don't mean that I was ever meant to go back. Because of course life moves forward, and that momentum is not a bad thing. But sometimes, on tough days, I wish I could go back to certain times and places. If nothing else, to feel some sense of unconditional love and acceptance that I so crave. And perhaps that is how I know that I am not currently home. Because I lack those things in large pockets of my life at least as I'm currently living it.

The only thing I know for sure in this moment is that I'm sad. I almost feel as if I'm in a sort of mourning. In preparation for leaving home again. Because I know that the day is drawing nearer, and my heart hurts at the thought of leaving home, yet again.

Quiet Month

2010-01-30T08:36:00.001-06:00

I'm usually more wordy. It's been a *really* busy month at work and at home. My older baby was struggling this month. I think sometimes we delay adjustments, and then they hit you all at once. She was seemingly fine with the divorce, and then suddenly fell into a difficult period with it. She's stabilizing and seems to be doing better again. I'm hopeful.

As for me, well I'm here. That's about all I can do today. I'm not sad or mad or anything other than too busy to really think about what's next for me.

I got a mass email yesterday (or maybe the day before) from the guy who wrote Conversations with God. It said something to the effect of "your inner life is begging for some attention...are you listening?" I always seems to get these emails when I need to hear them. I've been so busy with work, kids, reading for my ESM class, just keeping my head above water, that I really haven't taken much time to meditate, pray and think. And I find myself missing that. Lent is coming, and life seems to slow down around Lent. I'm hoping to think of some good, healthy disciplines to take on this year for Lent.

For now, I'm content to have a break from self-examination.

A conversation

2010-01-15T18:09:00.000-06:00

My God, where are you?
I am here.
God, where are you?
Here
Abba, Father, I need you.
I am in the wind, all around you.
Help, Father.
I am with you, always.
Help me to see you, to feel you, to know you.
Are you ready?
I want to be. Still scared.
My child, why do you fear me? I would never hurt you.
I hurt Abba.
I know. Trust my love.
I can't. I still hurt.
Let me heal you. I so want that for you.
Do you?
Yes. Trust that. Can you? Start by trusting my intentions.
Struggling. But I desperately want this.
I want to know you. For you to know me.
Me, too.
You have to take the second step.
The second step?
Yes. I have taken the first...so long ago.
I can't remember that.
I know, but I was there...still am.
Can you love me?
I already do. I always will.
Why?
It is your destiny - my destiny - both of ours.
I love you.
I know. I love you, my child. You are my beloved.
I want to accept this.
Open your heart - not your head.
I see you Abba.
With your heart...see me with your heart.
I do.
That is faith...

The moon is full and so am I

2009-12-31T19:15:00.000-06:00

It's New Year's Eve...which typically means I should be reflective and thinking of all I want to do in the coming year. As I drove home tonight the moon rose in all its full splendor. I have a thing about the moon. I love to look at it. I still find it fascinating, and I wonder if something is living there and looking at earth and wondering about what goes on here too.

It's a great metaphor for the ending of the year for me. It's been a tough year. A divorce, building a law practice, gaining weight that I worked so hard to lose a few years ago, some challenges. But in the end, my life feels full. I feel full. Despite the painful moments (and there's been a lot of those), I have some peace about my life. About what's next for me, for my children.

I've felt anxious the past few days, and I think I know why. Tomorrow would be the 12th anniversary of my first date with my ex-husband. We got engaged on this night 9 years ago. In addition, 10 years ago tonight we were together in Detroit and for the first time I felt a strong sense of separation from Walter. Part of me knew on New Year's Eve 1999 very distinctly, this was not the person I was meant to be with, but I wasn't strong enough then to halt the trajectory. I couldn't give up the relationship then, the illusion of togetherness we had. It has taken me a decade to gather up the strength. It's funny, because in some ways it seems like everything happened overnight, and in other ways I can see the seeds of this year in a year that began 10 years ago.

I begin this year a divorced mother of two. An attorney. A guardian. One of the faithful. A follower of the man born over 2,000 years ago. Last night I was reading part of a book about grace. It's not a topic that's easy for me. In my life, it has always seemed that I must be earning things....earning love, affection, degrees, promotions, job titles...what have you. The concept that God would simply love me just because has always unsettled me. And of course the sort of response does that evoke...that unsettles me too. If I'm being honest I know that my heart has been called in another direction. And despite the unsettledness, I need to find out where that road leads and where I go next from here to follow that path.

Despite the not-knowingness of my life right now, there are things I know for sure. I know that I am a good mom to my two babies, and they are thriving and healthy and happy. I know that I do my best to protect the interests of the children that I am guardian to and for. I know that I am growing stronger and more capable of love everyday. Life is full.

What happened?

2009-12-25T00:11:00.000-06:00

Tonight I attended church with my kiddos. It was a nice service, Christmas Eve after all, so familiar hymns, familiar readings. My kids were fairly tame, so I got to hear a decent part of the sermon. It was a message that I suppose I needed, but still somewhat painful.

I put it out of my mind, came home and got busy with our Christmas Eve "stuff." Baking cookies with the kids, watching Christmas movies, and then after the kids fell asleep in my bed, dragging all the presents out of hiding and filling the stockings. I snapped the train tracks together and got the batteries put in. Everything is ready for the morningtime. The kids will be happy and excited. Both of them really wanted one thing, and lucky for them, Santa pulled through. Their dad is coming over first thing in the morning so he can see them open up their gifts and bring his to add to the pile. I'm glad that we are at least far enough through the divorce process that we can do this together with our kids.

The sermon, and a movie I've watched several times this year, reminded me again that I must revisit the path I have chosen and perhaps make room in my heart and mind for a different path. When I approached the end of the my college years, I contemplated going to seminary. I felt some sort of tug in that direction. I'm not sure where I got derailed. But somehow I ended up in law school instead. Now here I am, more than 10 years later, with two children, a job I enjoy most days and a freshly failed marriage, and I'm left wondering what influences made me run all those years ago. Perhaps it was fear of losing my family entirely. I'm fairly sure they would not have been able to support my attendance at a seminary, particularly if I was considering ordination. I think perhaps some of it was the fear of the unknown. Some of it was fear of choosing a path that seemed crazy for a woman (to me at the time...particularly after 4 years at a conservative university). I think at least some of it had to do with the idea that I would be giving up my shot at a husband, kids, a stable life. Or maybe fear of not being good enough or smart enough or *enough* enough. I'm not sure. Somehow understanding why has become important to me now. It seems the place to start in figuring out where I go next.

Part of me still feels that tug. Even now, all these years later, I feel drawn to God, to the study of theology and to the church, for all its dysfunction. We all have our dysfunction I suppose. I'm not sure where that leaves me, or what it means for me next. And perhaps I'm ok with not having those answers today...or tomorrow...or this year or next. At least I'm asking the questions again.

The hope and promise of the Christ child has descended upon my life in a new and fresh way. Merry Christmas indeed.

Letters

2009-12-12T13:36:00.001-06:00

My heart was light today as I did some Christmas shopping. I found some things that were wonderful, and I bought my usual cards.

Each year I write a few letters at Christmastime. It started as something I enjoyed doing to express love and gratitude to friends. Over time, it has become something I like and feel is important. I don't write one to every person I think of as a friend or every person I'm grateful for. But, I sit down to write and the first 5 or so people who pop into my head get a card. As I was writing one of the cards today I started laughing. The card was to a guy who I've known for a few years, but got to know better this year. He and I have had sort of a love/hate relationship this year. On one hand we've had some fairly heated arguments, and on the other hand he is funny and caring. So my card to him was kind of funny... it was like... "I really like you, but on the other hand you are weird, a little odd, crass at times..." I started giggling as I was writing it. Then I thought to myself, what if God was writing a letter to me...trying to express that he loves me and loves being in my life and in relationship with me...but also being honest enough with me to acknowledge my faults.

I think it would go something like this,

Dear Michele -

I love you a lot. I am happy that you are in my life, and happy that you have sought me out so diligently this year. I hope you know how much joy that brought me. I am seeking you too, and hope you feel my presence as a real part of your life.

Sometimes you do stupid things - you are mean-spirited, impatient and judgmental at moments. At times I wonder how you got so impatient and whether you realize your lack of patience sometimes costs you things you want and desire. Sometimes you are really funny, and make me laugh. Other times I think you use humor to hide who you are and it becomes an expression of self-loathing. I know your heart is in the right place though, and so I look through these things and love you for who you are and in fact because of who you are.

I know this year has been a tough one. You left the primary relationship you have had for over a decade. I know your heart aches at times from the loss of that relationship. And I know that have had a lot of fear of what that decision means for you and your babies. Please have peace in your heart that you have only done what you knew to do. And by leaving, you are returning to who you are and who I always hoped you could become.

I have sent you communities and friends this year to love and nurture you. And you were able to open your heart to the people I sent you. You have become more honest this year, and less judgmental. Sometimes it takes hurt and pain to learn lessons. While I didn't mean for you to hurt, I know you know it is part of the life you live. And you handled it with the grace and love that I meant for you all along.

Keep on walking the path that is set before you. Keep loving, even when it seems that it yields no fruit. And keep searching for who you are, who you were meant to be and who we can be together.

Love,
God

Thirst

2009-12-05T21:58:00.000-06:00

"The Spirit and the bride say, "Come." And let everyone who hears say, "Come." And let everyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift." (The Revelation of John 22:17)

This was one of the lessons that we read this past weekend in the community I've been spending time in each month. It reminds me of a lot of disconnected things. My first thought was "Come as you are." That first and foremost, we are acceptable to God without prettying ourselves up or somehow making ourselves more presentable (borrowing a word my mother used on me as a kid). The second thing I thought of was the phrase, "Let everyone who is thirsty" - who isn't thirsting for something? Whether for love, relationship, transformation, intimacy...we all are thirsting for something deeper, something real. It's what leads most of us to God, to the Church, and perhaps to community. Certainly my life has been an exercise in thirst these days.

I thirst for normalcy. I thirst for calmness, for peace. For some sort of tranquility in the midst of a tumultuous time. There are times at church, when it is quiet, that I find myself tearing up. I crave that quiet, that silence. And so often I'm unable to get there on my own, because my own life seems so...well...noisy...these days anyway.

Even more so, I find myself thirsting for the love of God in a way that I am unaccustomed to. My opinion or image of God is changing. Rather than a distant force who put his own son to death to fix my sins, more and more I see God as not only wanting relationship with me, but in some ways *thirsting* for it himself (or herself). And my response..."let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift." I wish. I want the relationship... and so I take the water of life from my God.

This brings me to my third thought, (or fourth or fifth)...I'm not very used to "taking" anything. I'm more of a giver. I'm not used to receiving, to accepting help, to taking something from another. It's a challenge. But it is only in the receiving that I am made whole. I cannot do it on my own. And all the giving in the world won't get me there either. I must be able to receive, and the word "take" is even stronger. It is a word of claiming. Claiming one's God-given gift(s), redemption, love. Not sheepishly holding one's hand out, embarrassed of being needy. To take is to recognize one's entitlement. And to speak it. To know it, intimately.

I'm not where I want to be in so many ways...but I feel strongly...a knowing of sorts...that I am thirsty. And that I don't have to remain that way. There is a gift. Given freely. And perhaps now that I have heard, the next step is to tell another to "Come." There is enough for us all.

Owner's Manual

2009-11-29T17:57:00.000-06:00

There's just no manual for divorce. Nothing to tell you how to do this and how to handle that. No book or magazine article that tells you what to say and how to be. No pamphlet that explains how to feel and what to think.

I've finally come clean to most people who know me very well. I've admitted that I'm getting (or now have gotten) divorced from the person I've shared the last 12 years with. People have had mixed reactions. I've been touched by the support of some. And hurt by the judgment of others. But overall that part is over and done with, and I'm glad. Maybe people will stop talking about it, and stop questioning me about it. It's complicated. There is a part of me that yearns for some privacy through all this. I don't want to discuss the demise of the primary relationship in my life with every Tom, Dick and Harry. I don't want to be the subject of gossip. But mostly, I just want to feel normal again in my relationships to the people around me. Whatever that means.

The parts that are still confusing really relate to my kids. I finally pushed my ex-husband out of the house. (It's funny that even I use his pejorative terminology, actually I asked nicely for months, and finally insisted on Sunday). Sort of. I told him he needed to be out by today. However, that hasn't happened. He moved some of his things out. He left behind most of the furniture, two cars and a garage full of junk. I think it's a control issue, and it's frustrating as hell.

He also left behind our two kids. Today he indicated that he will come by and see them tomorrow and daily from now on. I don't believe this. He hasn't seen them in nearly a week. He hasn't spent more than an hour with them in months. And because of his normal absence in their lives, they really haven't asked about him much. I think he assumes he will continue to make himself at my home here to visit with the kids. That he should be allowed to visit with the kids in my home. Since there's no manual, I've had to admit I'm not comfortable with him in the house at this point. He still has keys and remotes, and doesn't seem to have any desire to give up his right to stay, live and be here. It makes me uneasy. And I don't get it. Why would he want to be in the house at this point? Other than attempt to make me feel uneasy, is there any point to it at all? Then I wonder...should I allow it if only for my kids? Perhaps this is the only way they will spend time with their dad. Do I prohibit it? I don't know. I wish there was a manual. All through this process, I've been most concerned with how my kids would react to all this. By and large their lives have remained unchanged. Today we went to church and had a normal Sunday at home. We went to the store to buy their Christmas ornament (a tradition I started when Melena was 2 and I was pregnant with Rudy) and got all the Christmas stuff out and around the house. We ate fish sticks together for supper around our table. Life goes on. Part of me feels a lot of sympathy for Walter. The fact that he misses these moments...that he misses his quizzical little boy saying, "Is that polite mommy?" Or his daughter losing another tooth (her third this year)...biting into an apple hoping to knock it loose. He has missed so much with them...and continues to miss so much. I wish he got it. That life is so fast - and that soon these babies will have their own babies. Part of me is angry as hell with him for being so stupid, so self-absorbed.

Perhaps at the end of this experience I will write an guide to surviving divorce with your head and heart intact. Of course I haven't survived it yet. And some days I'm not at all sure I'm intact.

Don't waste a single moment

2009-11-25T18:22:00.001-06:00

Today I found out a friend died. I have only known her for the past year. She was a priest, and a friend in the sense that I knew her to some degree, and she knew me to some degree. We weren't close in the sense that there was a lot I didn't know about her, and a lot she didn't know about me. Still, I counted her a friend, and someone who I thought highly of. She was intelligent, warm and passionate about the church. She was an encourager, hopeful, a decent person. She died suddenly, and I'm left thankful for her life, and even more thankful I didn't waste moments and skip the thoughts I had of her the last time I saw her.

I last saw her in a group we are part of on Wednesday nights. She had started teaching the other group that meets on that night, as opposed to the one I participate in. But the last time I saw her (last Wednesday) I told her how much I had enjoyed her sermon on the Sunday my daughter was baptized, and how my friend (my daughter's godmother) really thought a lot of her words. She accepted my comments graciously and smiled at the compliment. We chatted for a few minutes. I'm so glad now that I took that opportunity to tell her that I valued her and her contributions to the church I go to. I'm thankful that I told her I appreciated her one last time.

I'm thankful for her life. I'm thankful that I was able to meet her and know her, even if it wasn't as deeply as I now wish I had. I'm thankful that I was able to share the words that came to mind when I saw her instead of holding them back like I so often do. Oftentimes I find myself unable to say the things I think. Perhaps it's the fear of looking foolish or even a little vulnerable, I don't know. Regardless, I will be thinking of Irene this Thanksgiving Day and I will remember her comment to me once about her prayer life...she had told me that she always starts her prayers with praise and thanksgiving for the blessings in her life - and she meant it. When she talked about God she had this certain smile, this almost glow about her. I never doubted her faith. She had a certainty to the way she spoke about God. She once asked me where I was in the formal process of discernment. I laughed and told her I wasn't in a formal process, but that I would figure it out eventually. She laughed and told me there was no rush, God will work it out. She was right. May she rest now with the One she was so very thankful for.

D day

2009-11-20T11:08:00.001-06:00

The day has come that I have dreaded since May. Today I have to sit down with my babies and tell them about the divorce. I have put this off, primarily because I didn't want to tell them prematurely only to upset them when we were all still living in the same house. But, a few weeks ago I finally gathered my courage and told Walter he would have to be out by the Sunday after Thanksgiving. That's only 9 days away. And I'm taking the kids out of town while he moves out, so in less than a week we will be in Indiana. I've thought of different ways to approach this, but quite honestly there is no easy way.

My daughter is my primary concern. My son is only 3. And his bond with his dad has always been tenuous at best. My daughter though recalls a loving daddy who tickled her, fried her chicken and took her to Chinese buffets when she was littler. Since our son's birth, Walter has distanced himself from the kids more and more. But our daughter is hard to resist. She is an affectionate, effusive, sweet child. She is also emotional. I know that she will cry. And quite honestly when she cries, I have a hard time not joining in. I know that I am causing her pain, and that's the worst feeling I've ever had. I've been upset all week knowing this day was coming, and feeling like I have failed her. There is no quick, painless way through this.

While I can defend my decision to myself and to my friends and family, my daughter is another story. How do I defend splitting our family into two pieces to a child? How can I explain that Christmas morning won't be the same? The whole mess is so complicated that I don't always get it, I certainly don't expect her to get it.

Everyone, well-meaning as they are, tell me she will be fine. And I hope she will, but of course I know that part of her innocence will be gone. I don't know how people have gotten through this intact. It just seems so hard. Staying was hard. Leaving is hard. Some days I wonder if this is the right path for me. I wish I knew for sure. I've been reading some Buddhist writings recently. They talk about living within the moment. And about not running, not holding back. Not grasping onto things out of fear. Hard to explain. Harder to practice. Perhaps in my struggle to hold on to my sanity, I hold back that which is the most precious.

A few weeks ago I felt paralyzed. I was so depressed I couldn't see light. After 5 days it passed. But I worry about falling into it again. It seemed so deep, so all-encompassing. Despite my struggles, I couldn't get out. Finally I just let go. I let myself sink down into it. And after a few days, it lifted.

This post is random, and seemingly disconnected thoughts. Perhaps that is representative of where I find myself at this moment. Without apology, without excuse. And still I was able to get up today. To work, to love, to smile.

Thin Skin

2009-11-13T22:20:00.001-06:00

There are a lot of things I could be accused of. Emotional at times. Stubborn. Passive aggressive. Some of these are positive and some are negative depending upon the situation and what I'm reacting to.

Something I would not say that I am is thin-skinned. In fact, I think for the most part I take criticism fairly well, and don't let the little insults get to me. This week might've proved me wrong.

I'm friends with a lawyer named George. He's a nice enough guy I suppose. I haven't known him that long. We both have contracts with the county we practice in to provide guardian services for juvenile court. He was there first. I think I "knew of" him prior my starting in juvenile court 18 months ago, but I didn't really know him. In the past year, because of some mutual friends, I now would say that I know him to some degree. We are not best friends, nor do we share large parts of our lives. But, overall, I would call him a friend.

George has crossed lines with me in the past. He's made comments that have been inappropriate. Most of these comments have related to race, and have been borderline in my opinion. I think my gauge of appropriateness is pretty liberal. In fact, I enjoy the slightly rude, funny comment as much as the next person, so I don't think I would construe something as off the radar unless it was...really off the radar.

This past week George got angry with me about something fairly trivial. I think he would likely even agree it was trivial. His reaction caught me off guard. He called me a profane name and then told me to ... well I suppose you can guess. These messages were delivered via text message. I was taken aback, and quite honestly, I was offended. For someone to get so angry over something so...inconsequential...well it surprised me.

Then to make matters worse I was approached my another member of the team of people we work with in juvenile court and was informed that George had told her some personal things about my life, my now ex-husband and my children. Not only had he made these comments to her, but he had chosen to say these things in front of several others on the team. By the time I found this out, I was incensed. What was he thinking? How do I react? In the past I probably would've chosen to either ignore the incidents all together or to ignore the fact that I was hurt by his behavior.

Then today I realized again that perhaps I am beginning to take things too seriously or read too much into people's behavior. My daughter was baptized today at the church I've been attending since last winter. She chose this, and was excited about it. I invited one of the people who sometimes attends the church. He was there, but acted slightly odd. Not at all warm or the person that I typically think he is. I felt sort of confused by it, and a little taken aback.

Sometimes I think I am developing thinner skin. Or maybe it's just that I am learning to feel what I feel and not apologize for it necessarily. I doubt that I will raise the issue with the person from my church. George, well I haven't figured out what to do with him. I'm sure I will figure it out. All these feelings and nowhere to go with them I suppose. Or my skin has gotten too thin. Whichever.

Feeling a little down...

2009-10-29T19:52:00.000-05:00

I've had a tough week. I'm feeling a bit run down and a bit emotionally worn out. There, I said it. I struggle with being honest with people when I feel down or sad or mad. I tend to smile, crack a joke and say "I'm fine." This is a lifelong pattern for me. I've always been good at making people laugh and smile. It's hard for me to break out of my "role."

Certainly there's a place for that. But, it makes being straight with people harder. People tend to expect the "funny" girl. I think sometimes that's why it has been so hard for people to come to terms with my divorce. I'm not joking about it. I joke about my weight, my odd biological family, my job, my kids. I haven't thought my own relationship failure has been real funny. So, I have been by and large quiet about it. I don't say anything at all, much less do I mention that I feel sad, broken, hurt, whatever.

Tonight I went solo to see the Michael Jackson movie of his last footage - This is It. It was wild. He was so alive on the screen. At moments, he was his 20's self - dancing, singing, entertaining. It was surreal. I miss Michael. I know it sounds odd for a 30something white woman raised in very white America who is a lawyer...but I do. There was something about him. He was an amazing artist, of course. But more than that, he seemed to be such a broken man. Beautiful in some ways, but broken. While I can't relate to his struggle directly, I always felt an affinity for the man. I never believed he was a pedophile or crazy or deranged. I just thought of him as wounded. He just wore it more openly than most of us do. I will miss what he could have still created. I look forward to seeing him again someday. I'm sad that he had to leave so soon.

I've come to realize that part of this journey is becoming a more honest, open person. I'm not sure where to begin. Perhaps that's what this post is. A beginning.

Pearls before Swine (Flu)

2009-10-22T18:37:00.000-05:00

So, it's been a week. I returned from Mexico a little more than a week ago. When I left town I was swamped at work and my kids were running amok. When I returned, it was worse than when I left. Everything demanded my attention, and I felt scattered and disorganized. Consequently when Rudy got sick last Friday, I groaned inwardly. I just didn't feel I had the energy to deal with him being ill, holding down the fort at work and at home. By Sunday it was clear, both of my children were sick. And they were whiny, crying, feverish, coughing sick. Mondays are my worst day of the week to have to miss being at work. I have juvenile court, so skipping out isn't a good option. Ever. Since Walter was off in the morning, I bargained with him to keep the kids for a few hours so I could try and get what was most pressing done. When I got home both kids' fevers had spiked and they were even more needy. We made our trek to the doctor, and we were told that both were likely infected with the dreaded swine flu. Our beloved pediatrician suggested I get the little one chest x-rayed just to be safe. All was well. No pneumonia, just two sick kids.

By Wednesday, I felt overwhelmed. I had tons of things needing attention at my office, and yet two children who needed me at home more. Luckily by today, the fevers were mostly over and the coughs subsiding. I learned a lesson these past few weeks. I'm on my own as a parent with these two babies. I have loving people in my life who will help me when I call, and try and assist me the best they know how. I'm thankful for my communities. They are invaluable, and they offer my children love and support. But, as for their father, well, he has his limits. I likely should have known this before, but it's crystal clear now. From the way he didn't care for the kids while I was gone to the way that he cannot seem to place their needs before his own, it is clear. This is a painful realization for me. I know that someday my kids will ask me, "why doesn't daddy take care of us?" And I don't have a good answer for that one. I know he loves the kids. I have no doubt of that. But he is not going to be able to put them first, whether it's taking their temperature or making sure they are cared for and loved, it's just not a priority.

All this talk of swine flu reminded me of the Sermon on the Mount - and the saying "pearls before swine." If I understand correctly, it's the concept that something valuable should not be given to someone not able to appreciate it's value. When I begin to have pangs of guilt and shame about my divorce, I remember this saying. Because if I'm honest with myself, my ex-husband was never able to value me for who I am. Partly because I'm not certain he ever knew who I was, and partly because I don't think he is able to value me. The same thing applies to our children. I believe he loves them, but I don't think he is able to value them in the way that I hoped he could when we decided to have them. At least part of this journey has been coming to terms with the realization that I deserve a partner that can value me. For me. Not because I earn it or have some intrinsic value, but just because I am. Perhaps this is too great an expectation, I don't know. I've finally been able to accept and receive that this is how God loves me and values me. That acceptance allows me to accept others and myself, even with my flaws.

Many of my colleagues have asked me recently why I haven't insisted that Walter get out of my home. I don't have an easy answer for that. It's not that I want him here. In fact, I keep thinking "when he moves out, I'll..." But, it is hard for me to be angry with him for his ignorance. While I don't like what he has done and continues to do, I feel some sadness for him, and I worry that if I push him out, he will pull back from our kids, leaving them entirely without a father. I understand on some level that I'm not helping things, and that I'm likely going to have to toughen up so we can all move forward. I'm just not doing well at toughening up just yet.

The key I suppose is to learn enough from this to be able to not fall into the same pattern or routine. Pearls before swine. It seems like a very different concept to me now.

Broken, but Alive.

2009-10-16T21:19:00.000-05:00

I returned this past Monday night from Mexico. What a beautiful country! Words can't describe (I won't even try) what amazing sights and sounds and smells and tastes that I experienced there. It was an incredible five days.

I must admit though, the flight there was rough. I'm terrified of flying. I avoid planes if at all possible. I am completely irrational when it comes to flight. I envision that we are going to explode in mid-air, or crash off the end of the runway or plummet to earth in a burning heap. It is one of the few areas of my life I don't really understand at all.
I don't know what drives my fear. I've heard all the statistics, I understand the likelihoods, I get it. But I don't *get it.*

On this trip, I boarded the plane before 6am to fly to Miami on the way to Mexico. The first leg was bumpy, and a little bit scary. The weather combined with the darkness made it a shaky experience for me. I realized pretty quickly that I felt out of control, and was actually shaking a little. I was trying to read to take my mind off the airplane. I was reading "The Shack." (As is usual, I'm a day late, this book was a huge hit a year ago.) I began to pray (because when I'm panicking, that's my instinct), about 20 minutes into the flight, I fell into a deep sleep. I didn't wake up until a few minutes before we landed in Miami. I'm not sure how to explain that, except that I think God knew what I needed, and that was to rest, to be at peace. And I was.

Once I arrived in Mexico, I was absolutely amazed at everything. The ocean was incredible. All at once powerful, graceful, beautiful. I played in the surf, and soaked in the sun. My heart felt lighter than it has in awhile. I felt alive.

These past several months have left me feeling fragmented at times, broken into different pieces that I haven't entirely figured out how to put back together. But being in Mexico, in the presence of creation of the God of the seas and sand, well it reminded me that despite my brokenness, I'm alive. I'm strong, and I am learning how to live my life, whole again.

I spent a day snorkeling in the Caribbean. I swam with the fish, a shark, a sea turtle and a big barracuda. It was a delight for my senses, and I ultimately left my wedding rings at the bottom of the sea. It was something I felt strongly about doing when I went to Mexico. I don't want to bury the memories of my marriage, or cast them away. I simply want to open my hands and let go of some of the pain, guilt and shame associated with all of this. So, I did. And despite feeling broken, I feel free and alive.

I'm glad I took the trip. I enjoyed the time, and I learned that I can be on my own. I don't have to have another person with me just to have the person there. It was a time to heal. And I was able to remember the Healer wants me whole again.

Alone-ness

2009-09-28T19:53:00.000-05:00

I'm getting ready to go on a trip. I'm traveling to Mexico. By myself. This will be the first time in many, many years that I am going somewhere by myself. For the last 10 plus years, when i have went somewhere it has been because my job required it...or my husband wanted to go there...or because my family was traveling to a place. I have not went somewhere strictly because I wanted to go. And I have never went alone.

This trip didn't start as a solitary plan. I originally thought I would travel with 3 friends, a married couple and a good girlfriend of mine. In the past several weeks though, they've individually had different reasons for not being able to go. So I was left with the choice of either going on my own or skipping the trip. I was really growing to like the idea of going to a warm place with a clear ocean to play in...so in 10 days...off I go. By myself.

I'm really looking forward to the trip. I expect to nap and read and swim. I've planned one formal thing and that's a day of snorkeling. I love the water and I haven't been snorkeling since I was 10 or 11...I can't wait!

The reactions of my friends and family to my adventure have been surprising to me. Some of them feel sad for me...that I have no one to go with. Some of them have seemingly thought I was fibbing about the trip, that maybe I had a man on the side, and that perhaps I was intending on sneaking away with "him" and didn't want to tell the truth. Others have applauded my independence and believe it's a great opportunity for me. I tend to agree with the third group. I think it *is* a great opportunity for me. I will have time to reflect, meditate, pray and relax without the time clock of everyday life. No little ones to care for and no ex-husband to detract my the time.

The second group - the ones that think there might be some mystery man I'm not disclosing - surprise me. It's like the folks that have asked me if I'm "dating." Holy moly. I just got divorced. I haven't even adjusted to that life change. A new relationship? Not even in the distant horizon in my view. And quite honestly I wouldn't know what to do with a relationship right now. I'm trying to figure out what the heck happened to my last one. And I spent over 1/3 of my life in that one. It's time for me to figure out...well...me. Maybe someday I will feel differently, but I can tell you, I don't imagine it anytime soon. Not that I want to be a eunuch or celibate for life...but for right now...it's exactly what I want to be. I have so much to discover about who I was created to be. I have two little people who rely on me for everything and I have a challenging job that takes a lot of energy. I don't want to fall into the trap of "I don't need a man" but ...well...at this point I don't think I do!

I'll post more after the trip - I've planned a ritual of sorts for the trip, and life seems good and full.

Metaphors

2009-09-13T14:07:00.000-05:00

I've been wordy lately. Even for me. (and that's saying something...) I view a lot of life in terms of metaphors. I often think they speak better than all of my wordiness can. For instance, we've all heard the metaphor of the caterpillar turning into a butterfly. That one has been out there for awhile, and yet it perfectly describes my current experience of life.

As a child, I was your typical caterpillar. Exploring my world, but not able to wander too far because after all, for all the legs a caterpillar has, they are short legs and not capable of running too far, too fast. As a young adult, I committed myself to the cocoon. I was probably 18 or 19. And I was learning about who I was, and how I fit into the world. I was exploring my religious, political and philsophical beliefs about the world, God and me. Those college years were tumultuous, but ultimately they provided a space for me to crawl into the cocoon to prepare to fly.

Once I was in that place, I had a hard time leaving it. While it was dimly lit and cramped at times, it was familiar and not too scary. So I stayed. Long past the time I needed to be ready to fly. But I was fearful. Out of fear, I made a lot of decisions. I married for somes sense of security in life. I lost who I was by becoming who I thought I was supposed to be. I worked in a dysfunctional and chaotic environment for many years simply because my that's what i was "supposed" to do. I couldn't get out of the cocoon, but if you asked me, I'm sure I would've said I was free, free to do what I wanted and how I wanted. In reality, I felt trapped, misunderstood and confused.

As life goes, things don't remain the same for too, too long. One day, seemingly out of nowhere, I spied a glimmer of light. As if the cocoon had cracked just enough to allow a sliver of light through the darkness. In the beginning the light was so overwhelming and bright, that I hid my face. I didn't know what I was seeing, and I was frightened. Eventually though, that big, bright world beckoned. And I couldn't resist. I wanted to see what was out there.

So, I entered into a journey of becoming. It hurt at first. I felt exposed, vulnerable and very alone. But with every step in the journey, the One who is Love, provided me with bits and pieces of who I was to become. Communities of faith, people who cared about where I was headed, and the knowledge that somehow, some way I would figure this all out. The journey was not to a place but to the center of who I am, who I was made to be.

I've finally allowed the cocoon to fall away. The work begun in me so many years ago is now beginning to make manifest in a new and wonderfilled way. There are moments when I see the old shell of the cocoon hanging from the tree, and I crave it's sameness, its security. But then I look again and see the brilliant colors of these wings, and I know that I was not meant to stay in that drab, gray place forever. Finally, it's time to fly.

Stony, God and Me

2009-09-11T21:26:00.001-05:00

I've had a dog named Stony as my close friend for over 11 years. I adopted Stony from the Humane Society while I was in law school. I was lonely, and hated my life in that town. I hated law school, and the competitiveness of it all. Stony was my faithful companion.

Stony is a mutt. He is some beagle, some sort of shepherd mix...some of more stuff. He's tan and white, a mid-sized kind of dog. Too big to be a lapdog, but small enough to occupy a small spot on the bed. He loves car rides where he can hang his head out the window. He's a runner. If he gets out, he runs. He typically always comes back. Unless someone picks him up, but mostly he's even too smart for that. Believe it or not, he looks both ways before crossing the street. He's a smart dog. He likes to chase rodents and birds, though he's never hurt one that i know of. He can swim quite well if there are ducks to chase in a pond. And he's perceptive. When I had a broken foot, he was constantly by my side, and only asked to go out if I was already up and around. He has soulful brown eyes that seem to penetrate my soul. I love this dog. He has outlasted many relationships in my life, several physical moves and even my marriage.

I recently started walking with Stony at night after dark around the neighborhood I live in now. He loves to go for a good walk. He pees on a bunch of stuff, and sniffs for the trail of some rabbit or squirrel. And he otherwise is a fun walker. He doesn't make me run and strain against the leash, but he keeps a brisk pace only stopping every now and again for a deeper sniff.

Stony and I have been walking, and I've been talking to God a lot. I've felt pretty overwhelmed this past week. My life seems a bit out of control. I'm divorced, but remaining in the same home with my ex at this point, with no end in sight. I want desperately to move on, and can't seem to get out of my rut. I tried to talk to him last night...and well it didn't go well. More than any other emotion, I feel angry right now. I just wrote out a private list of what all I'm mad about it. It spanned 3 pages. I don't express anger well. I've always learned to squash that kind of thing. Nice girls don't get mad. Or something like that.

But, me, Stony and God, well we had a good walk and talk last night. I told God I was sorry, but that I was pretty ticked off right now. I think if He/She was trying to make me feel better, he told Stony to be extra caring with me. And it worked. Stony knew just how to be.

Holding Something Back

2009-09-06T14:58:00.000-05:00

This morning, at church, I had a moment. These happen every now and again. Sort of a recognition that something/someone is speaking, and that it is time for me to listen.

The priest who preached this morning was talking about separation and relationship. But what created the moment was a statement somewhere in the middle about holding back. This is perhaps what I struggle with most these days. There is a part of me that I hold back. Whether from myself, God or others...it's what I do. I'm not sure if I've ever figured out how *not* to hold something back.

Sometimes it's because I don't want to feel exposed. Sometimes it's because I fear the reactions of other people to something I say or express. Other times it's because I worry about what saying something out loud does. Does it give the statement some power or effect that it would not have had but before giving it words?

The topic that is most easily avoided by me these days is my divorce. Hell, I still have yet to tell many friends and most family that I am already legally divorced. That should perhaps be a signal to me that I hold back. At moments I'm not sure how to begin the conversation. At other moments, I am ashamed of my own choice in all of this, and so I avoid speaking the words. This morning's gospel was at least partially about a woman whose daughter needs to be healed. She begs Jesus to heal her child. It reminds me again that my own daughter will need to be healed from all of this.

And then I remember of course we all need to be healed in some way. From some old hurt. For me, more than ever, I need to be healed of my own old pain, old shame. There's still so much I carry with me that doesn't need to be carried any longer. It can be released. It's time. But, for whatever reason, I insist on holding at least part of it back. Saving it for some later day. When of course, this is precisely what traps me in the same spot I sit in day in and day out.

Perhaps not holding back is what I fear. What if I let out everything? What will happen? Will I be enough? Will I be accepted? Even in my frailty. Even in my sadness. Even in my joy. From very early on in my life I learned that to be sure I was accepted I did that which was acceptable. I was the class clown as a kid. As a young adult I married a man I knew wouldn't be what i needed because he accepted me. He promised to love me. That was enough. That was all I ever wanted. Or so I thought. Then I seemingly woke up one day. I think more as a result of having my own children as anything else. Or maybe it was just time, I don't know. Once the egg cracks, the contents are hard to put back in. So I find myself struggling with holding back. Where it was second nature, it now doesn't make sense to me. So, I've taken small risks in letting things out. I'm more honest with God than I've ever been. When my tears rise to the surface, I let them flow. And I don't apologize for it anymore.

The message this morning to me was this: You are enough. And you always were. You didn't earn it. You can't buy it or barter for it. From the moment you took your first breath, you were enough, all on your own. You are the beloved. There can be no more or no less. Stop holding back who you are. I created you. I know you intimately, completely. Just like the father of the prodigal son, my arms remain open to you. Now you must open your arms. You must only accept the gift that has always been yours, your birthright. This was what you were created to do.

Amen.

Organized Religion

2009-09-03T15:37:00.000-05:00

The revelation that has struck me in the past few months is that organized religion, and particularly the christian church in america (in my case the Episcopal Church, but perhaps any church) evokes a sort of bipolar reaction in me. On one hand, I love the church. For all its flaws, and wingnuts, it is a place of community and of love at its best. On the other hand, the church can be as divisive and contrary as any other place on earth. Perhaps that is at its worst.

I have trouble with the idea of leaving it behind. Perhaps it's my upbringing. Or maybe all of the kind souls I've met there (or by connection with) that make me want to stay and see what's next. I'm not sure.

As a child the church was a comfort to me. My home life often felt chaotic and I often felt neglected. I was a needy child. I wanted someone to care about me and what I was doing. I found people like that in the church. The first example was probably my Pastor - the same guy who baptized me at 20 days old, confirmed me at 13 years old and was a support all through high school until his retirement in my college years. He was, and remains in my mind, one of the most compassionate and caring people I've ever met. Later, in my pre-teens and teen years it was youth counselors- all three of which I still maintain contact with despite our moves to different states and different lives. All three of those folks were Jesus with skin on for me. They loved and supported me through the turbulent years of my adolescense.

When I was in high school I started attending Teens Encounter Christ weekends (TEC). Those weekends were eye-opening, and I really began to come into my own in those years. I became less a follower and more a leader. I learned who I was in the light of my faith, and my faith became a living, breathing thing during that time in my life.

Later, in college, I found my way to the Episcopal church. I felt at ease there and enjoyed spending time with the priest and deacon at the church I was involved in during those four years. They were both, in vastly different ways, important influences for me.

From the time I graduated from college until perhaps 2003, I stumbled from church to church. I never felt at home, and I didn't stay any one place long. Part of this was actual geograhic moves from Tennessee to mid-Missouri back to the St. Louis area, and part of it was the changes in my life. The man who became my husband (who I met within 6 months of completing college) didn't particularly value church, and so I took my cues from him to some degree. Beginning around the time I gave birth to my daughter, I again began to yearn for a church home. At the time we were living in the City of St. Louis and so I attended the cathedral there. I loved worship there. The pomp and circumstance was beautiful, and I didn't stick out. I also didn't try very hard to become part of the community there. I was a new mother, working a lot of hours at a job I hated, trying to balance my life. I didn't make the time.

Slowly I moved away from church again, until about 8 months ago. My daughter, who is now 6, was beginning to ask me a lot of questions about church, God and death. She attended a Christian based preschool and then a catholic school, so her questions were a natural progression. I decided that it made sense to try and find a church home that could provide her with the community I felt as a child and teen. Almost completely by accident, I happened upon St. Stephens - an Episcopal church in a neighboring community from where we live. I started going there in February of this year with both of my babies - the little one came along in 2006.

The part I struggle with is the animosity. The gossip. The conflict. My idea of church is not defined by these things, and yet they exist. For all of the love and roses above about my "church history" - there were conflicts. One of the youth workers of my teenage years was forced out of our church over politics. In my childhood church our board of elders was constantly making life difficult for those that were not behaving as they should. TEC had its share of scandals and issues with those that were not Lutherans. For all the good, there was bad too I suppose. My last church home split over the ordination of Bishop Robinson a few years ago. All is not perfect. I get that. After all we humans run our churches. It can't be perfect.

What I find disheartening, or perhaps why I find myself feeling like a square peg at times is that I don't really care about the conflicts. I want to worship. I want to feel part of a community. That's about it. The color of the curtains, who sings at one point in the service and whether someone has Buddhist tendencies really don't much matter to me. I have gotten to the point in my life where I truly believe there are many paths to God. And I don't have a corner on the market. While I choose to recite (and to believe) the words of the Nicene Creed, I don't insist that you do the same thing. The church at times seems a confining and limiting institution that is outgrowing its usefulness. That's me stating it at its worst I suppose.

I'm still not sure I fit. For all the affection I feel for the church, I still feel as if I'm outside looking in. Perhaps it's me that hasn't figured out how to walk through the door yet.

Redemption

2009-08-26T21:46:00.000-05:00

Tonight I was part of a small group talking about the concept of redemption. Particularly the concept that every experience we encounter in life has redemptive qualities if viewed in the light of faith.

Quite honestly, I struggled with the conversation. I held my tongue. I wanted to say, I don't know if I buy this.

Whether in my own life, or in the lives around me...there are experiences that are ugly. That hurt. That are tragic. I cannot see the redemptive value. Sure, one could argue that because of that experience I am more empathetic or I needed that experience to grow into the person I've become, blah, blah, blah....I'm not buying it. I'm not drinking the kool aid.

I think there are experiences in this life that have no value in and of themselves. Experiences that add pain or sorrow or hurt to our lives. Who knows what the value is 20 years from now? Who knows who we would become without that experience? To guess would be pure speculation.

How do you tell a child who was raped that perhaps that experience has some sort of redemptive value? It seems a pure slap in the face to me. How do you tell a child whose mother died in the bed with her that that experience is something that can be redemptive if only she lets God use that experience? It sounds so pollyannaish. So naive. So...just...wrong. It seems to me that saying that minimizes the experience, or perhaps suggests that we shouldn't acknowledge that evil exists, and at times invades our lives. It suggests that bad things happen to good people to teach them a lesson of some sort. So who chooses?

I'm not sure I can believe in a God who will choose to damage some people horribly so that they can see the redemption in the experience. I'm sure that the teacher didn't really mean that, but it seems a logical extension of the argument.

Perhaps it just hit too close to home. Or perhaps I'm having trouble seeing myself and my experiences as redemptive or worth being redeemed. Not sure.

To me, those experiences happened. They cannot be altered. I can only try to understand how I can move forward and not make mistakes because of those experiences. So that my life doesn't become a product of only the bad, but also the good. While that perhaps has value, the bad experience isn't what created the value.

This post isn't really complete. I have more to think about. And perhaps I need redemption more than I know.

Back to the beginning

2009-08-10T18:18:00.000-05:00

When I first started this blog, I called it "Now what?" because I was trying to figure out what was next for me - whether in my life, my relationships, my spirituality, my career, etc.

So, here I am, six months later, and I feel I've been living in the crossroads for sometime now. I feel my spirituality has been deepened and grown in new and refreshing ways. I feel more comfortable in prayer, and have started to develop rituals around my faith that make sense and make me feel more connected to God, to myself.

My marriage has effectively ended, and although that's a healthy thing for me, I'm still feeling pretty sad and uncertain about all of that. I'm having difficulty coping, and consequently I haven't told many people in my life about this development. I don't want to have to explain myself, and yet that's what I feel compelled to do when I try and tell someone about the divorce. It's complicated, messy. I can't say this area of my life feels any better. I hurt. It's tough. But I have a knowing that is different and new for me. A little bit of certainty I suppose.

My other relationships - friends, family...all are still complex. I find myself being more honest than I've been in a long, long time (if ever) with those closest to me. Still, I struggle with intimacy in relationships. I still feel slightly out of sorts. I discovered that someone in the court system found out about my divorce and felt it necessary to tell 10 or 12 others. That hurt somewhat. I didn't really want to be confronted about my relationship with husband by those I don't know very well. It makes it tough. People seem to want to know the whys and hows and what fors and I'm not willing to share that with the average person I know as an acquaintance. It's complicated.

As for my career/job/vocation...well, that's still very much up in the air. I'm enjoying my job more and more these days. Which is a confusing thing. When I started down this road I felt I was being called or tugged or pulled in a different direction, and today I'm not really sure at all about any of that. Perhaps I've had too much to contend with for me to really focus on that part of my life for now. Not sure, and not ready to make any decisions about any of it. Part of me knows that even contemplating a change in career makes me uneasy (to say the least)...but I'm ok with it conceptually. If it needs to happen, I can handle that, I'm fairly confident of that.

I'm still drawn to the river, and I'm still reading Women who run with the Wolves. Everytime I pick it back up, I am opened to something new. So, it is still important for me to look at from time to time. I'm still struggling to find some balance in my life between work, home, kids, life, etc. But, I imagine that will likely be with me for some time. Life is busy and full and wonderful in many, many ways. I feel cared for by many of those around me, and while that makes me nervous in some ways, it also brings a new kind of peace.

I recently saw a sign on the side of the road in a rural area that is known for its Mennonite population. It said "Prepare to Meet God." If my whole life could be a prayer... A preparation to meet God in every person and every thing that I encounter...imagine that.