Meme

This is the eulogy I offered at my grandmother's funeral.  It has been a hard week, and I helped bury another grandparent with Christmas decorations all around.  Today, I found the Christmas presents she had bought for my kids.  I see many blessings all around, yet, the grief is deep.  I snapped this picture last year because I loved to watch my grandmother's love for my kids expressed in such tender ways.  My favorite quote from the funeral was from a prayer my cousin offered about the fact that my grandmother could be 'simultaneously demanding and compassionate'.  My oldest child sang a duet for the Lord's Prayer during the service.  It was stunning.

Through a very strange set of circumstances, I found myself in Trenton SC at the exact moment I received a text to call my husband ASAP. I was informed that my grandmother was being rushed to the Edgefield county hospital, only 15 minutes away from me. Now, in my 41 years, I have never been so close to Edgefield hospital looking at my phone other than the exact moment I needed to be there. It is my belief that God plays a part in our lives in ways we don’t even understand.

As I tried to walk with an appearance of calm towards the hospital, the first familiar face I would see, would, of course, be a Ridge Spring fireman. This is a very special group of volunteers who serve quietly, ever present when needed. I also found faces of family and neighbors. Also, ever present in my grandmother’s life.

Many of you know my grandmothers as Mrs. Householder, or Florence. Her family knows her affectionately as Tookie. Her grandchildren and great grandchildren know her as Meme. We’ve all tasted her cakes and eaten her famous macaroni and cheese. We’ve all known her to offer a ride, a meal or some help. Just last week, Meme drove two older ladies, in the rain, to the American Legion Christmas party and someone told my grandmother “Aren’t these old ladies lucky to have you to drive them around.” She was faithful to her ministry of helping others to the very end.

In speaking at someone’s funeral, it is hard to keep from sounding as if the deceased was perfect. I want all of you to know that my grandmother was far from perfect. But, I think there is something even better than being perfect and that is being Human. Meme was human, fully human.

My grandmother was married to my grandfather, known to me as Pop for over 56 years. This was a quite interesting marriage. Even after Pop died, Meme saved a seat for him in church, often admonishing people who sat in that reserved seat “You’re sitting on top of Bob!”

For their 50^th wedding anniversary, her brothers and sisters threw a big party out at the family home. My grandfather had bought a very nice ring for her. When he gave it to her, I saw such tenderness in his eyes and her face flushed. It was a special moment for me because I got to witness the deep love they had for each other. There were other tender moments scattered throughout the years especially as my grandmother spoke of her brothers and sisters. One of those stories that stands out is the story of an angel that visited her when her sister Hazel was terribly ill in the hospital. Meme always wore a guardian angel on a chain around her neck after that.

I was also privileged to witness her stubborn streak on more than one occasion. Just a few weeks ago, my oldest daughter laid the claim of being the only person in our family to win an argument with Meme. Alena went on to say that we are all very stubborn people in our family. She proclaimed “We all have a piece of Meme in us.” Wouldn’t we all be so lucky.  I am ever grateful that all of my children were able to experience four generations on this earth.  Meme took special care of them, always making their birthday cakes.  One day, she was walking off hand in hand with Carter saying that she just walked better when she had a child’s hand in hers.

 

Our worlds is quickly loosing this generation that started out without all of these modern conveniences. They knew a simpler world where you took care of your family and neighbors; they grew up growing their own food and always make cakes from scratch.  They know what hard work is, and they don’t take anything for granted.

To all of you who are missing Florence Householder today, I offer my heartfelt condolences. I miss her, too. She never complained or ever wanted anyone to feel sorry for her. She just wanted to figure out what she could do to help out the next guy. I hope that you find comfort in each other and comfort in knowing that my grandmother died doing exactly what she always wanted to do, serving others.

I am reminded of the passage from Matthew 25 verse 35. “’For I was hungry and you fed me; I was thirsty and you gave me water; I was a stranger and you invited me into your homes; naked and you clothed me; sick and in prison, and you visited me.’”

I can say that my grandmother obeyed the command in Matthew for us to serve others and she did that her entire life. I believe that when she meets her God, The Maker will say to her “Good and faithful Servant, Well done”

I say, well done, indeed. May she rest in Peace and Rise in Glory! Amen

 

Control

There was a time in my life where I thought I had control over things.  If I do this, then this will happen.  I had decided to take things and FINALLY be in control.  Then an event happened, and I realized that any sense of control I had was simply a perception.  I had perceived control, but not actual.  My life has been better since that event.  I'm glad that I don't have to carry the weight of my world in my control.  I am learning to be a part of the world, not someone trying to control things.  Although, my desire to control things does bubble out.  I think it always will.  I think controlling things is how we control our own anxiety.  I'm sure there is some psychological basis for that. 
Over the dinner table, I heard a friend talk about friendships.  She admitted that she is great at doing things with people, as long as she had control.  It took me to another conversation with a someone a while ago.  I was asking her why it is so hard for our children to get together and play.  She went into a litany about how busy she is, needing to schedule things.  Finally, she just admitted "It has to be on MY terms."  I responded with "EXACTLY".  It was an enlightening moment for me.  You see, I had been naive to the fact that I seem to invite this sort of dynamic in a relationship.  I was happy for the other person's terms, so long as we were friends.  I've grown a bit since then.
This seems to be a bit of a life long lesson for me, and I'm not exactly sure why.  I know that I was raised in an environment where controlling kids was the whole purpose of everything.  Sometimes, I think people try to control their children, because everything else is so out of control.  I try to exert my own control over things.  I'm probably at my worse within my own marriage.  I guess I get to start rethinking all of those things.
The sad part for me is that I don't know how to make a friendship survive when the other person needs control.  In the past, I've ended up rebelling against it.  Whenever I rebelled, the other person rejected me in the most ugly way.  I could give you a pretty long list that goes back to 4th grade.  Recently, this came to light when my best friend in that grade posted a picture on facebook that I was in.  Of course, you couldn't see me because she scratched me out.
Over the past few years, I've learned a great deal about relationships, healthy ones.  I know in order to be in one, you have to healthy yourself.  So, my focus goes on to myself, wondering what I need to learn.  I know I want ones that give and take.  There has to be a relatively even flow of things between two people.  There has to be a surrender of that perception of control.  I guess for me, I've got to surrender my tendency to be the one controlled.  There was a time where I was desperate for any sort of friendship or attention from another person.  I was lost to who I was and needed people to be around.  Now, I'm not so needy in that area.  I'm understanding who I am and I know I'll be ok.
Life seems to be giving me some gut-checks right now.  I pray that I am surrendering to those lessons.

To be humbled...

     One of my least favorite nursing instructors left me with a few nuggets of wisdom.  I still wonder why I didn't like her.  She talked about a patient, almost making a mistake and being humbled.  She says nurses need to be humbled often.  It keeps us honest.
     Today, I was sitting at the chiropractor's office and telling my third grader about the time my dad forgot to pick up his big sister from school.  I laughed talking about how bad my dad felt and the cheesecake that he bought her.  A little while later, I heard my phone ring.  I looked at the clock and gasped.  "I FORGOT TO PICK MAX UP!  I FORGOT, I FORGOT!  I'm on my way!"  My husband was calling to let me know that he was on the way to pick up our middle schooler.  I felt horrible.
I can give a list of reasons why I forgot.  His sister usually gets him, I worked last night, I'm tired, I.....
     I sat out in the drive way worried about how Max would greet me.  He just sorta grinned and said he wanted to text me "Forgot something?", but he didn't have wifi.  He wasn't upset.  He found out a long time ago that I'm fallible.  Quite frankly, I learned the same thing.  I guess it was good to get a reminder.
     It seems to me that most people in this world use being 'better than' to differentiate themselves.  They point their finger at someone else's folly.  They pretend that they are not capable of making the same mistake.  Somehow this makes up feel better.
      Well, I've come to accept that my next humbling moment is right around the corner.  I'd better not get too comfortable. 
I still owe a middle schooler a milk shake.  We'll get one this week.

The Day of the Dead

 

 

 

All Saint's Day is probably my favorite church day.  It is the day that you remember all that have gone before.  It is a day to gather some grief and place it before your community.  I remember it as an important day while growing up in the Lutheran Church, and later as an Episcopalian.  Since we now attend a Methodist Church, we don't recognize the liturgical calender.  I think this is what I miss most.

So, the effort for me becomes bringing these observances into the home.  I watched a TV show the other day and they had an altar set up for remembering dead friends and relatives.  A few google clicks later, and I realize that The Day of the Dead is very real tradition.  I decided to start it.

So, I visited the grave yard today.  I looked at tombstones of people I haven't thought of in a long time.  I had placed their memories somewhere else, and I was glad to retrieve them for a bit.  I've especially missed my grandmother lately, so I placed some pretty Autumn leaves at her grave.  I also spent some time going through old photos and found more than I expected.  I also placed a hunting knife and old friend gave me before he died. 

Grief is a slippery thing.  It is hard to really get a hold of, and if you aren't careful you can avoid it.  I can see real value in compartmentalizing a time to remember all the souls who are gone.  The dark, rainy day certainly added to the effect.  Earlier, at the cemetery, it was just windy.  I read that this means the spirits are restless.  In this time of year where the veil gets very thin, it was a good day.  Even if it was the day of the dead.

In the dark

     I went out to my long neglected garden.  A wise friend told me that when life starts feeling out of kilter, put your hands in the dirt.  My mom had given me some long neglected fall vegetable plants, so I went to plant them.  As I started clearing off the enormous amount of weeds, I found something that look different, and green.  It was a carrot!  I had planted them last spring and they never did anything.  Somehow, those seeds planted long ago found a way to grow underneath the weeds.
     It is quite similar to a talk I had with my Spiritual Director.  I had lamented to her that I didn't feel like I was really accomplishing anything.  I'm just doing what I do without any perceived success.  Her answer was simple.  You never know what seeds grow in the dark.  Sometimes the most important fruit comes from that time.
     I guess there is a time and place for benign neglect.  I also discovered a new crop of red potatoes and two tomatoes growing in my vegetable garden.  Still, I have no idea what may come of my spiritual garden.  This time seems to be for waiting and seeing what, if anything, will come of my ponderings and prayers.  I sense good things.  I learned from my carrot today.  It was quite small and needed some more time to grow.  I should have trusted it would continue to grow into its fullness.  I'll try not to make that mistake again.

Men working

When I was in grade school, I did a photo collage of this sort of sign and added "Wo" to the men part. I was always a bit sensitive to any lack of acknowledgement of women.  When I graduated from college, I went to work in EMS in a large service that had very few women.  In fact, I was the only woman on my shift.  I was expected to prove myself twice over.  I was expected to prove that I could physically and emotionally  handle the rigors of emergency medicine.  Not all of the men I worked with expected this, but I certainly was very sensitive to it.  Although, there remained a double standard.  If there were a call for a woman who was assaulted, they always sent me.  I remember one night we caught a call out of rotation and it was because it was an assault.  It was my 4th call like this in 2 weeks.  As I went to hop into the back of the truck, I looked at my partner and said "I can't do this."  Fortunately, I was working with a kind hearted guy, and he rode the call.  I was very sad while driving to the hospital and actually apologized to the patient as we were unloading her.  I felt like a failure because it was the one thing I could do better than my male counterparts.  It was the one place I could easily prove myself uniquely useful on this shift, and I had failed.  More costly, I felt like I had failed this patient.  I drank a good bit that night.  The nightmares were coming and the only coping skill I had was in several bottles of wine.
I would learn years later about self care.  I would learn that it is perfectly healthy to acknowledge your limits and ask for help.  I would learn that I had actually not failed.  Most importantly, I would learn that I really have noting to prove.
This picture is of a sign at the gate to our driveway.  As I write this, I am listening to a crew cutting down a pine tree.  I watched the guy with a chainsaw hanging out of the bucket and realized that, for the most part, that really is a man's job.  Very few women would have the upper body strength.  Actually, very few men would have it.
I remember my days in EMS fondly.  I cringe when I think of some of the things I did or said.  I was relentlessly picked on, and developed quite an attitude.  Yet, I wouldn't trade those years for anything.  I'm glad I broke into a "man's" world for a little while.  There are more and more women in EMS and there are more and more men in Nursing.  While there is still a small part of me that wants to see the sign say 'people' working, I don't have the energy for those fights any more.

For the last time...

I was at our family's fourth of July picnic.  My great uncle lingered about at the end.  I was very interested in this, because this is a family that is very practical and hard working.  I watched him walk towards his house a little bit and come back.  He seemed to want to say goodbye again.  I made an effort to talk to him again, very business like.  I'll never forget the picture in my head of him turning, waving and walking off with his baseball cap. 
It was the last time I ever saw him.  He died a few weeks later.
I think that at that very picnic, he knew.  I think we all, on some level knew.  Of course, we would never discuss that.  That is just not how things are done.  I just tried to be present to it.  I'm glad that I did, because I have no regrets.
Wouldn't it be wonderful if we lived every day this way?  How would it be if we all lingered about, trying to find a word or action?  This could be for the last time.
I've found that sense of finality a good bit lately.  It doesn't necessarily have to be someone dying.  It could be a simple as the last time we ride in this car, the last day of summer.  Sometimes, I try hard just to linger in the sweetness and uniqueness of a moment.  I don't want to take anything for granted.
A few years later, my great aunt spent an unexpected night at my house.  I loved fussing over her and fixing her breakfast.  I made this event as special as I could, loving and hanging on to one of my favorite people.  It became apparent that her health had declined greatly, and I spoke seriously with her daughter.  At the end it became very bittersweet as I made sure she knew how much I loved her.  I managed not to get too mushy.  I had same feeling I had when I watched my uncle walk away.  As Aunt Susie rolled off to her car, I knew it was the last time I would see her.  I held her in my heart and savored those moments, for last time. 

A narrative

I've spent a great deal of effort in this blog and in the past years of my life telling MY story.  It has become very important to me as I journey through this life.  Yet, sometimes I am reminded that there are other narratives involved in a story.  It is humbling to hear your child describe a particularly intense time of your life from her own perspective.  It brings gratitude in the form of a shared experience unique to everyone who was present.  I forgot how truly present children can be.
I've watched my children be told stories of my child hood.  It is offered in the the view of a singular perspective, not in a shared experience.  In other words, some people think that there is only one narrative.  I offer a concept that shows there are diverse narratives in shared experiences.
I think that this is, by far, one of the greatest divisions among people.  We have parents, leaders and people in authority who offer only their story.  I have grown tired of this.  I'm tired of sitting in a pew, meeting or class room with only a one way conversation.
I think that I am truly blessed to have found elders in my life who have listen deeply to me.  They have offered me that opportunity to be heard in a way that helps me hear myself.  I have been seeking Spiritual Direction from the moment I read about it in a book 8 years ago.  Although, I realize that a midwife had already guided me onto this path.
I think that the true gift of discovering your own unique narrative in life is to be able to listen to other people.  I will probably never tire of telling my own story.  I just hope that I can honor those who share this Journey with me and listen to them.

Young mother

Here I am with the 103rd Archbishop of Canterbury (and an unnamed child who had him wrapped around her finger).  I heard he was coming to the Cathedral, so I decided to go.  I'm not sure why I had so much stress today getting ready.  I'm always concerned I will sit in the wrong place or have some old lady cluck at me for not wearing panty hose.  The old lady who sat next to me was actually quite charming and welcoming.  I told her that I lived out in the country and I came to the Cathedral whenever I needed some high church.  She responded with "Episcopalians put on a parade like nobody else!"

Lord Carey gave quite a nice sermon, using humor.  He talked about a Cathedral being a place for seekers to come to.  It was quite affirming in my desire to show up there every once in awhile.  He was also able to speak about the Anglican Church in a very global nature.  It was very interesting to hear this perspective.  As I waited in line to shake his hand after the service, I joked with a retired Priest:  "Am I supposed to curtsy?  I don't know how.  I've never met a Lord before."

Well, he shook my hand and asked my first name.  I was at the end of a very long line and he was still very much engaged with people, standing in 90+ degree sunlight.  What he said to me has had me stymied.  I guess this is why I am writing about this here.  He said "You're one of the young mothers."  I laughed and said, "No, I'm an old mother."  I'm 41 years old and it is hard to think of myself as a young mother.  Plus, I did not have a single child with me.  Why would he refer to me this way?

I'm in an interesting place in my life.  Being a mother is, by far, the most difficult and important job I have ever had.  In many ways, it became how I identify myself to everybody.  I still seem to struggle with this role of mother.  Is this who I am, or all I am?  I've decided I am so much more than just one thing.  Yet, is there a better way of distinguishing myself?  I guess it is still place in the back of my mind that our culture diminishes women.  More importantly, I've watched too many people try to diminish my worth because I am busy raising my children.  I wish I didn't have to fight back about being diminshed.  I wish that I could recieve a decleration from the Archbishop with pride and excitment.  Yes!  I am a young mother.

 

 

A message

I am homeschooling my 3rd grader this year.  One of the main reasons we take a couple of years to home school each kid is to give them some real life experience as they grow up.  A strict public school schedule doesn't allow for much extra.  When I heard about a rally in Columbia in support of the homeless population, we decided to take off.  Of course, my kindergartner tagged along also.  I was the only person there with kids, so I got interviewed on TV. 

http://www.wistv.com/story/23270273/protestors-push-back-on-columbia-city-councils-homeless-plan

I have my kids yelling and pulling on my back pack while I am talking, so I had really hoped they wouldn't show it.  Plus, I looked pretty rough.  I really hadn't intended to be in TV, or have my statements made public.  I've, in many ways, backed off being on stage.  I'm still working on things behind stage, don't get me wrong.  I have nothing to hide, I just got tired of all the attention I was getting at one point.  Infamous was the word a bishop used with me (as in well-known).

With all of the attention give to the 50th anniversary of the "I have a Dream" speech, my husband and I have had some conversations.  We both expressed hope that we would have taken part in the March on Washington.  During this Homeless Awareness Rally, I met a white woman who stated she was arrested 4 times during the civil rights era.  She talked about her husband finding out and packing up the three babies and trying to figure out what jail she was in.  I looked at her and said "I'd like to think I would have been working with you."  Then I realized:  I'm with you now.

This woman also confessed to working in a homeless shelter for many years.  She and her husband volunteer every Sunday and holiday,  "We don't go to church."  My response was simply "That is what church is supposed to be."

I'm intrigued at the fact that my voice was heard and broad casted in Columbia.  I'm intrigued that I did this protest and interview without hesitation.  I guess I've decided to stop hiding behind rules and expectations.  I am finding it incredibly freeing in this white southern culture.  I'm starting to be confident and my voice and whatever message I might bring.

The mall

We walked out to the parking lot carrying our bags and my 5 year old announced "It was a good day at the mall!"  This melted my heart as I tried not to think about how big she has gotten.  Yesterday, she announced she was getting her ears pierced.  This required a trip to the dreaded mall.  I really hate going there because we always spend more money than we have.  After her comment, I figured it was worth it.

Our house has had a baby in it since 1997.  It is all over when this beautiful girl starts kindergarten next week.  Where did it all go?

 

 

 

Emotional Reserve

     When my baby was 1 day old, the midwife came by for the checkup.  After it was over, she turns to my husband and looks at him square in the eye.  "At this point in recovering, your wife has about a 5 minute emotional reserve."  We all laughed.  Later that day, we would find out that she was wrong.  It was about 2 minutes.
     I was so glad to have this bit of wisdom in my post partum time.  It helped me feel better about the complete meltdowns and sheer sense of panic when unexpected things came up.  I had every reason to have depleted my emotional reserve with the work in birthing a baby.  I enjoyed the validation and love that came.  I also was able to accept my own limits without expecting rescue.  I could just feel what I was feeling.
     This summer, I have been working nights.  Once again, I have watched my emotional reserves dwindle as I loose sleep and rest.  I've realized there are quite a few times in my life when my reserves have dipped, and I had not paid attention to them.  Instead of paying attention, I ended up finding myself exhausted and completely depleted.  It is hard to build reserves back up from a negative.  I've learned to start paying attention sooner.  I also value friends who understand "I've over extended myself, sorry."
     I used to think that taking care of myself was simply selfish.  I should feel guilty for pulling back and saying no.  This, of course, means that I have one more reminder of how inadequate I am.  In a culture where you are valued for all that you do, I have to be happy with who I am.
     I hope that I can head into a world where people look for emotional sustainability.  A place where we can learn when to rest and when to work.  In this place, I wouldn't be judged.  In this place, people wouldn't express great concern.  They'd simply be able to recognize exhaustion.  Perhaps, they would recognize it in themselves and spend time building their own reserves without taking away from others.

Provoke

Colossians 3:21 21 Fathers, do not provoke your children, lest they become discouraged.

     Parents and other parent figures hold a special place in people's lives. I've read a great deal about parenting as leadership. As most psychologists would tell you, parents have an immense impact on a child. In my struggles to define myself as a parent, I decided I would accept the fact that I was extremely powerful in my kid's psyches. I realized that I really do set a tone with them. Ultimately, how we function as a family reflects my inner station. This was a very, very hard realization to come to. I would really rather abdicate my position in my child's life to everything else. More importantly, I could be less of an authority and more of a passenger to things. In our culture, most leaders blame the followers for any mistake. So parents can just blame their kids.
     I think the problem comes in when we realize that parents have the unique ability to provoke their children. No one can make a child cry quite as effectively as his own dad. Moms reside at a very intimate and vulnerable space. Therefore, we parents have a great power. We can use that power to provoke anger. And we can also use that power to heal.
     I read a book a couple of years ago about this exact scripture. I stammered about for the whole day realizing that a child's anger is provoked. Children, inherently don't have anger. It is a secondary emotion following fear. I had to look at myself in the mirror and realize that my child's anger was being provoked. In a more excruciating moment, I realized that I was provoking it.
     I grew up in a household full of anxiety and anger. For me, it can be the only emotion that makes sense. It is a place I easily go. It is a place I can send my kids to make me feel more comfortable. And sadly, at age 40, I remain easily provoked. Tonight, unable to sleep, I looked at my bookshelf full of books on enlightenment, parenting, leadership, psychology. I keep reaching for that next book that is going to make this all better for me, for my family. I keep wondering why I struggle so much in these aspects of life. I wonder when the struggle will end. Then, I take a sip of wine and realize that the day I quite struggling is the day I die. My journey towards understanding continues. I pray that it serves someone. Most importantly, I hope it serves this next generation I have living in my house. Perhaps they will be able to sleep at night and not struggle to unburden themselves from past generations.

Out loud

I love singing along with Alanis Morissette when I get distressed about something.  She always seems to have one of those songs I can sing at the top of my lungs with.  Of course, I only sing out loud in my car.  I struggle with singing out loud with people.  When I went to a recent retreat, I almost had a complete meltdown because it was a small group I was expected to chant with.  I really needed affirmation from someone before I would allow my voice to be heard.  I was so afraid of offending some one's ears, or being mocked.  It sounds a big childish, but it is my experience.  It is also my experience that when I use my voice to express dissent, people turn away from me.  In the past, I would rather be voiceless than to loose friends.
As with any childhood issue, things creep up all the time.  Sometimes, those issues combine into one event.  Having been raised in an Evangelical Church, I have struggled with ministers interjecting themselves into my relationship with God.  There seems to be an entitlement with this exact issue, especially in the South.  I was at the ball field one day when another mother walked up to me and commented on the cross I was wearing.  She went on to start lecturing me about something to do with professing things by word.  I was standing there in shock, shaking and wondering what I should do.  I started going back at her and arguing.  I even managed to quote some scripture, and I watched as her husband came up and had to pull her away.
So finding my voice with people who choose to place themselves in between me and God is hard for me.  It is even harder to reconcile it when I realize that someone seems to read this blog simply looking for a vulnerable spot to hook me with.  I write things and share them as part of a conversation, not a place to be told what I am, or what I need to do.
So, swallowing my fear of being heard out loud, and combining that with my fear of causing conflict, I get to make a conscious choice.  Quite frankly, I don't think it is fair that I have to do it.  I make sincere efforts not to interject my beliefs into someone else's relationship with God, and I expect the same sort of respect from others.  I welcome any dialogue and real conversation.  But, I do not welcome someone coming up to me to tell me that I am a 'tortured Catholic'.  This simply isn't true and it is an unwelcome intrusion.  So the time has come for me to use my voice.  Since real conversation isn't possible, I'll just post it here and hope that it is heard. 
"Back off"

A green lawn

I do most important things on the spur of the moment.  It seems that if I think too much, I tend to hold back from doing things that are important.  This morning I told my daughter I wanted to go with her to a Baptism at the lake for 2 friends of hers.  She said I had 5 minutes to get ready, so I hurried. 
I justified my decision to go by wanting to give my 4 year old the experience of witnessing a Baptism by full immersion.  This is something that is rare in the Liturgical Churches we have brought our kids up in.  In those communities, Baptism's tend to be very structured and  polished.  For 3 of our children was used antique Christening gowns with jewelry.  We all dressed up in our finest and were expected to behave perfectly.  My youngest was Baptized in a hand made gown by someone who has forgotten we exist and this has left me very, very sad.
So this morning when we arrived at a friend's back yard on the lake, my 4 year old took off running across it.  She played tag with one of her friends and started giggling.  This caused me to flash back to another event in my life that caused me to see important things from a different perspective.  The first funeral I remember going to had been a very, very solemn occasion.  I remember wanting to play with my cousins, but I was instructed that I was not allowed to have any fun 'out of respect'.  I was taught that feeling sad and miserable was what the family wanted, so I did.  A couple of years later, I would attend a funeral with a very different family.  I distinctly remember my cousins taking off across my grandmother's green lawn to play tag.  I immediately felt guilty, having been taught that play and laughter at a funeral was taboo.  So, when I approached my grandmother, she wanted me to see it differently.  She said, "Of course you can play."  I was invited to enjoy myself and celebrate the life of the one who had left us.  This was not a time to be miserable, it was a time to rejoice.  In fact, my grandmother asked me to make sure the kids played tag at her funeral.  The day of her funeral was beautiful, and we rejoiced.
I'm trying to find that place in my life where I leave behind these instructions to be sad a miserable.  I'm not sure how to do this, as this seems to betray something.  I'm not sure what, and I'm not sure why I write this for the world to read.  I've found myself in a conversation with the church again, and this leaves me feeling vulnerable or woundable.  I don't like this feeling, and I am sure I can think my way out of it.  I hope that I'll find the courage to keep trusting and walking and doing things on the spur of the moment.  Watching and remembering running across a green lawn seems like a pretty good step.  Pray for me that I continue.

Party!

Somehow, I think we end up searching for great things.  We look for the big, huge parties with days of preparation.  We want the wedding that is perfect and took an entire year to plan.  We plan for Baptisms, Confirmations, Ordinations, all the rites of growing up.  In many ways, these are important rites and should be recognized.  Yet, sometimes, I think we do it at the expense of spontaneity and friendship.

Over the past 16 years of being a parent, I have gotten better at parties.  I've tried to pay attention to what is important, and what is not.  I've finally learned that most kids are very low maintenance.  They really just want to feel comfortable and relax with friends.  I've even turned the planning over to my teen, and developed the art of hanging back. 

Today, my house filled up with teenagers.  I get to enjoy listening to the giggling, joking and all around fun atmosphere.  Forty bucks worth of pizza is all it took to take care of this end of the school year party.  I've come a long way from the high levels of anxiety I had in years past.  It seems the more I fretted and planned, the less people came.  Now that I just leave everything up to chance, the house fills up.  There is something about just breathing into the rhythms of life and opening up yourself to what is.  I'm glad I've found this part out, it sure makes life easier.
My favorite part of today is that all of the kids here are welcome.  I've got my three younger kids, and they just blended right in with the teenagers who had to step over barbie dolls to get to the TV.  There is no one fighting for control or attention.  Its just a sweet gathering of kids who decided to swim in the pool even though it is raining.

Grief

One of my first big steps into self-reflection was a Retreat at my favorite Convent.  It was on my 35th birthday, and I didn't even care what it was about.  I was telling my therapist about this so-called "Shadow" retreat, and she told me something.  "I think part of your Shadow is Grief."

I remember being very upset about her idea.  Of course, I was paying her a great deal of money to give me an expert opinion on things, but that didn't matter.  I just wanted to get away for a weekend.  Of course, I walked into something far different.  What I found was a gift.  It was a gift of understanding a large part of my unconscious.  It was those things that I kept out of my conscious life because I didn't want to deal with them.  The lesson that I got that weekend was simple:  just because we don't consciously think about something, doesn't mean that it doesn't affect us or those around us.

I remember being in my teens when my grandmother and her sisters started telling a story about "Little Alexander".  I remember my mother's shock when she realized I had never heard the story.  It is a mournful story, and I should probably tell it, but I'll wait until another time.  The story was about my grandmother's littlest sibling being killed in a car accident.  'Little Alexander' was named for his father and a much loved baby of the family.  His death was one that caused great grief and remorse for my family.  As I understand it, his mother was never allowed to say his name after the funeral.  The family struggled greatly in their grief.  Instead of talking and mourning, they pushed it to an unconscious part of themselves.  They pushed it away.

I think we all do this.  When something is too hard to bear, we distance ourselves from it.  I remember pushing away my grief at a young age.  I was expected to comfort my parents in their grief, and that left little room for me to explore my own.  In many ways, I think my parents were carrying their own parent's grief.  It makes me wonder who carried the grief of my great-grandmother.  She was a woman who wasn't allowed to grieve the death of her child.  Did she have to push it onto her children?  Did it get caught in the unconscious of our family?  Is this where I came upon my own Shadow of Grief?

Grief is a slippery thing.  It is something that we cannot really hold in one place.  Sometimes, we grieve for a tangible loss.  Sometimes, we grieve for what could have been.  For me, at least, grieving touches many things in my life.  It slips around, and isn't well contained. 

Last week, I was faced with grieving a friend's death.  I decided to attempt to face my grief with courage and compassion upon myself.  I had forgotten how difficult this is, and it had brought me to my knees.  I am blessed with a family who has been understanding and friends who have prayed with me.  I feel my strength returning, maybe even growing. 

Since my shadow workshop, I have managed to avoid pushing things away.  I've learned not to be afraid of things.  I don't need to push them away.  Facing our fears, our remorse, our grief is important.  It helps us to keep from pushing things away.  It can also keep us from pushing it onto others.  When a mother looses a child, someone has to do the work of grieving.  Someone, anyone....

A chance encounter

     When I was in High School, my mom received a phone call early in the morning.  Instantly, I knew something was wrong.  My cousin had committed suicide.  The news shocked our family, yet I headed off to school.  I ended up breaking down in my German class, just before an my early dismissal.  A friend walked me out to my car.  My mother and I were going to head to the house to speak with the family.
     I am fuzzy on the details of that day, it was a bit overwhelming to my teenage self.  After hearing some of the details, I began to worry about walking into the house.  I was not sure what it would look like after knowing that a death had occurred so recently.  Upon entering the front room, I realize that it had been cleaned completely.  It showed loving attention to leaving no mark of death.  I have a distinct memory of looking at the wall and saying a prayer.  "Thank you so much for the people who came and helped.  Oh God, thank you for sending them."  I realized that they had performed a very necessary and difficult task.  It was an act of sacrifice and love.
     I had not thought much about that day.  In fact, it was a time I had tried to forget.  So much grief, so much loss.  One day, beside my pool, I was sitting with my daughter's former Youth Minister.  As we got to talking, I realized that he had known my cousin.  In fact, he had been his Youth Minister.  We lamented together and talked.  We both struggled to understand such a loss.  We both missed him.
     Almost embarrassed, he confessed to me that he had been the one to come to the house that night.  He had cleaned the front room.  My jaw dropped and my body began to shake.  I teared up and started thanking him.  I even told him about the prayer I had said that day.
     It is so rare that we are given this sort of gift.  A chance prayer and a chance encounter showing the web of connectedness we all share.  I also realized a very, very important lesson.  Sometimes, it is years later that our contributions are acknowledged.  I need to just lower my head and do the best I can do.  Someone probably notices me, or the work I have done.  Maybe they didn't.  I know that showing up and doing things for people is what life is all about.  Sometimes, even 20 years later, you might be given the gift of knowing someone prayed for you.  You might be even luckier.  You may have the chance to meet the person you prayed for.

One of the Good Guys

In the ER, we have a section for non-emergencies.  It is called fast-track, and it is staffed by a mid-level practitioner.  I didn't really like working in this section because it is very fast paced and filled with patients using the Emergency Department for things that are not an emergency.  One day, I was working and getting aggravated.  The only redeeming factor was that I liked the Physician's assistant I was working with.  I remarked to him "You sure are generous with the pain medicine today."  His response was profound.  "These people are hurting.  If we can relieve their pain, that is what we are supposed to do.  Help people's pain."  He went on to talk about trying to relieve people's suffering.  He had spent his career trying to do this.  I'd say he relieve my suffering too.

When you work in Emergency Medicine, you usually work with people that are hardened.  Cynicism, mistrust and judgement are typical of the responses of staff.  Compassion is rare.  It is even rarer when it comes to having compassion for your co workers.  I had the privilege of spending numerous shifts with this physician assistant named Keith.  We had conversations that I would have never thought possible while at work.  We talked about God, politics, childhood baggage, raising children and much more.  He was completely open to listening and revealing himself.  I never, ever heard judgement from him.  He really was this source of light in our little ER family.  I usually keep my distance from co-workers.  Keith was the first one I ever shared phone numbers with.  He opened up a place inside of me that gave me permission to love someone I work with.  I don't know how I could ever thank him for that.

His illness gave all of us a chance to appreciate our time with him.  It was hard when we found out he wouldn't come back to work with us.  Most of us stayed in touch.  So when Keith came into our department in cardiac arrest, it sent our ER family reeling.  His passing became a very, very tangible part of our lives and we had to face it head on.  In many ways, this doesn't seem particularly fair because an ER staff thinks we need our hardened places in order to function.  When that facade of non-feeling falls, we are vulnerable.  Yet, when I really think about it, Keith functioned quite well without that facade.  In fact, he thrived because he remained vulnerable.  He stayed true to his profession of relieving other's pain by being present with us.  I will truly miss Keith.  He really was one of the good guys.

My heart is very heavy today.   Good bye, my friend.


                                                          Rest eternal grant to him, O God,
                                                               and let light perpetual shine upon him.

                                                                         

Masks

I went to the local IGA for a few things today.  The young cashier said "How are you today?"  It was said because that is just what you do, and I answered, "good, thanks."  I then paused for a second, looked up at her and said "Actually, I am very frustrated right now.  So thanks for asking."  She smiled and talked a little about herself and mood swings.  We had a very short, and real conversation.  I realize that she got to talk about herself, and so did I.  It seemed good for both of us.

A have a friend who is ALWAYS pushing me to learn new things.  She mails me books, or meets me to give them to me.  The latest one she gave me is about the masks people wear.  It is really, really messing with my head.  It is called TrueFaced, trust God and others with who you really are.  He breaks down people into basically 3 different masks.
 - Doing just fine
 -Those searching for the next 'new' technique
 -The Pedigreed mask

I usually fit into the 'doing just fine' mask.  This is the mask that I put on a long time ago in order to reconcile my feelings.  It is what I wear because it protects the people that hurt me.  If I'm 'doing just fine', then no one did anything wrong.  I've come to expect that people expect me to have this mask on.  It makes a dysfunctional system work.  It also helps the Pedigreed Mask wearer continue believing that her world is perfect. 

I've become tired of working in systems where we all wear masks.  I've spent too much time taking mine off and discovering who I really am.  Quite frankly, I am really struggling with this ache I have to be in authentic community with others.  I feel this struggle among people who insist that mask wearing is the way of the world. 

The point of this book is simple:  God loved us before we put our masks on, loves us without or masks.  I suspect that God even loves us with the mask on.

Taking care of our masks takes so much of our time and energy.  I wonder what the world would be like if we put our effort into loving each other instead of constructing masks.  I wonder where we would be if we trusted God and others with who we really are.

Magnicicat

     I was at a meeting for new mothers.  One mother confessed that she was really struggling, and I sat to confess the same.  She said she will fall asleep at night nursing her baby while praying the Rosary.  I, to, understand that prayer in the middle of the night.  This is one which is so over looked.  She teared up and said she didn't realize how hard it would be to mother, and she didn't know what else to do.  My response came from a deep place of knowing:  "Go to Mary, she understands."
     I found a close relationship with Saint Mary when I found out I was pregnant with my fourth child.  Feeling completely overwhelmed, I emailed a Priest friend of mine.  She had told me at a retreat that she would stay up, nursing her sons and play with their hair.  She had called it her time to pray.  She said to remember that Jesus had siblings and Mary must have struggled also.  This helped me see the Blessed Virgin as real.  She was human, just like me.  She faced a great deal at a young age.  She did it all knowing what was at stake.  This was inspiration to me, and I think to many other mothers who feel overwhelmed.
     Every mother's day I struggle.  I struggle with a past, a present and a future.  I struggle with a holiday that was intended to be a peacemaking day, and has turned into a shopping day.  We post things all over facebook about how wonderful and perfect our mothers are.  Yet, we forget how human we are.  I am acutely aware of how human I am.  I am all too aware of the mistakes from my childhood and the problems in my adulthood.  I don't like the commercial place of all things mother.  Yet, this year I received two amazing, and completely unexpected gifts.
     I received a lovely note and present from a teenage friend of the family.  She thanked me for being a mother in her life.  This was humbling for me, and I am so grateful for a young lady being able to express herself that way.  I, truly, am the lucky one.
     I also received words of wisdom from a good friend who understands me and my struggles.  She called just to tell me she understands the 'work' I have done.  She has seen how her mother has worked to break chains of abuse.  She called me to let me know how much she respects her mom, and that my kids will know the same.  She said that my children will rise up and call me blessed.
     These words came from a woman who's integrity I cannot question.  She does not speak things lightly, and she certainly doesn't tell untruths.  I was stunned by her words, and all together grateful.  Every mother should recieve this sort of gift.  For that instant I touched another place with Mary.  Somehow I think she gets this one too.  She calls herself a lowly servant, understanding that this service affects the generations. 
Amen

Magnificat - Luke 1:46-55 (as found in the St. Helena Breviary)

My soul proclaims your greatness, O God;
my spirit rejoices in you, my Savior,
 for you have looked with favor on your lowly servant.

From this day all generations will call me blessed;
 you, the Almighty, have done great things for me,
 and holy is your Name.

You have mercy on those who fear you
 from generation to generation.

You, O God, have shown strength with your arm,
 and scattered the proud in their conceit,

Casting down the mighty from their thrones
 and lifting up the lowly.

You have filled the hungry with good things
 and sent the rich away empty.

You have come to the help of your servant Israel,
 for you have remembered your promise of mercy,

The promise made to our forebears,
 to Abraham, Sarah and their children for ever.

Bent

For my Mother's Day ponderings, I headed into our woods.  We have 16 acres including 2 creeks.  Sometimes, when I can quiet my mind, I get a gift of insight.  This morning, it came in the form of an oak tree.

I looked up at an oddly shaped sprout.  At first, I thought it was some sort of vine because it was only as thick as my thumb.  After looking at the leaves, I realized it was an oak tree about 15 feet high.  It was oddly bent, and I realized that the top leaves were catching the morning light.  This is why it was so oddly formed, it had bent from its original upward journey in order to catch more light.  All trees need sunlight to survive.  In a crowded forest, it can be scarce.  I think in a struggling world, light can even be more rare.  In my Spiritual pursuits, I have come to see light as Truth.  I also know that darkness can never overcome light.

So, this tree bent in order to find light.  I've seen others bend in order to find that Truth.  I've bent myself in order to find it.  It hurts to bend sometimes.  I hurts to leave your original path.  It can make you look oddly shaped.  Many people cannot understand and see it as a flaw.  As with this tree, you might see it that way.  It might be hard to realize that this deformity is beauty at its purest.  It is a physical way of seeking light. 

This tree seems to doing better than just surviving.  It is beautiful and appears to be thriving.  I wonder if it is so healthy because of that bend.  It catches more light now that it is bent.  With that extra few hours of sunlight, it can grow more and be more healthy.  I wonder what it will look like in another 30 years.  I hope whoever looks at it will see the immense beauty designed into a tree that bent in order to find extra light.

Call him Master

 

 

 

 

When our oldest child was less than a year old, my husband walked in the door and announced to me "I'm going to get my bachelor's degree."  I remember looking at my baby and wondering how the heck we were going to make this happen.  Well, he worked as a full time road deputy while going to class.  Then I worked full time while he finished up his degree.  He didn't get the typical college experience of living on campus and going to parties.  He had to rush home for our baby swap, and we paid for it ourselves.  When it came time for graduation, we were all busting with pride.  He ended up carrying our daughter across the stage.  It was so sweet.  They talked about it on the front page of The State newspaper.  It was a banner day for the Senf family. 

Three kids later, having paid off all the student loan debt, Steve decides again to further his education.  Over the past 2 years he has gone out of his comfort zone performing very well on a graduate level.  He has grown in confidence and ability.  We are going to his graduation ceremony tomorrow to watch him give the Invocation at the ceremony and then walk across the stage.  We don't have any small children for him to carry across the stage, but we will be cheering him the whole time. 

Another banner day for the Senf family!

Don't tell anyone

When I was first married and had a baby, we had friends across the street.  We'd play cards and discuss life happenings.  I was still new to domestic work, and having to learn how to keep a tidy house.  In fact, I haven't quite gotten a hold on it.  I remarked that I had finally dusted the lamp shades and I had no idea how dirty they were.  This is when the man sitting next to me smirked a little and said "I don't think I'd tell anyone that."  In other words, you should hide that secret, it is embarrassing.  I think this comment shaped our friendship in many ways.  Lets keep our dirty little secrets to ourselves.  Lets not pretend we have dirty shades, financial concerns, parenting problems or dust.  Just deal the next hand and lets go about our lives.
This week, I had an impromptu lunch with a friend.  After awhile, we got down to the dirty parts of our lives.  It was freeing!  We are both struggling every! single! day!  We laughed so hard I was almost in tears. 
I'm finding this space in my life where I get to be real.  I don't have to be afraid to tell anyone things.  These friends respond with their own struggles.  It is not a place where we feel sorry for each other.  There is no pity.  There is simply this acknowledgement that life is usually messy.  It is complicated and also very, very funny.
I guess there was a time in my life where playing games was important.  Go ahead and just deal the next hand, have another beer and don't tell anyone.  This must have been valuable to me, so I'm glad I had it.  I also spent some time wanting everyone to feel sorry for me, pity me.  That served a purpose.  Now, I hope I'm entering into a phase in my life where people acknowledge their struggles and successes.  We don't listen to each other's problems with the intent of using it against them.  We don't pretend to be better than each other.  We work every day to be a little bit better and we laugh at ourselves when we fail.

Justice

I just got up from the bulk of a day spent in bed.  I flipped through netflix and found a movie with Gregory Peck in it.  I like him, so I watched it.  It was a movie about anti-Semitism.  Later on, I watched a youtube video posted about arrests made after a peaceful protest in NC very recently.  I went from a black and white movie to a vibrant color video.  Both of them were talking about the same thing.  When synchronicity happens for me, I try to pay attention.

In the movie "A gentleman's agreement", Gregory Peck identifies himself as Jewish so as to experience the prejudice first hand.  He also gets a taste of it when his young son comes home crying after being harassed.  This changed everything for Peck, and he knows he can never see the world the same way.  The issue comes out to another level when his girlfriend decides she cannot handle the politics.  She ends up having a conversation with a Jewish friend when she talks about her outrage at some off-color jokes.  He responds with "What did you do?"  She did nothing.  She just sat and listened, not wanting to upset her perfect little world.  She said she wanted to stop anti-Semitism, but she confessed that she wanted someone else to fight it.  There is a very poignant place where she realizes that she is contributing by standing by silently.  She becomes the change she wanted to see.

This hit home with me when I watched people stand by silently while I was humiliated at a previous church.  The whole congregation stood by silently while member after member was run off.  They watched as one unethical decision was made after another.  Or, perhaps, they just chose to ignore it.  It didn't affect them, so why worry.  If I thought I had been the only victim of spiritual abuse there, I would have never stayed.  I did so in order to try to bring some sort of Justice.  Instead, I failed.  Better yet, I think the bigger church failed.  Hopefully, the lessons I learned there will help me be more successful the next battle for justice comes along.  I've experience true suffering, and I feel a bit invulnerable to humiliation.  I doubt I will let it cause me to react so strongly.

This brings me to the next video.  It was of NAACP members seeking Justice in North Carolina.  It shows pictures of them being handcuffed and driven away.  I saw them meet every second of it with dignity and singing.  The oppressors tried to humiliate them, but they didn't succeed.  These brave souls feared injustice more than humiliation.  They did it with Reverence and thoughtfulness.  I, honestly, wish I could have been there with them.  Perhaps, I could have found some redemption in my own hard worn lessons.

People in our world are too attached to their social positions, titles, incomes and power.  They spend their time keeping their worlds looking perfect.  They do this at the expense of others.  I've become very skeptical of churches who tout dance parties and wine tastings as Christian successes.  I think Christ spent his time fighting against this sort of establishment.  He fought for Justice and He wrecked peoples perfect little worlds.  He did them a huge favor.  I'm glad my world was wrecked, I would have missed out on so much.

Leaving the Tribe

Last weekend, I was on a retreat at a local Convent.  We were, as usual, off topic.  Somehow we started talking about finding Belovedness.  The Leader was talking about men she had met from an associated Monastery.  She said they had grown up in a tribe in Africa that had extreme fundamental religious beliefs.  They were raised to believe that God could not possibly love them the way they were, they must earn it.  Instilled in them was a deep sense of shame.  This was used to control them and keep their place within a tribe.  Apparently, somewhere in their life, they found out that God loved them.  They found out that they were a Beloved child of God.  This changed everything for them. 
As I was listening to this story, I said "They had to leave their tribe after that, didn't they."  Yes, of course they did.  I understand this completely, and I think it happens all over the world.

My story is a bit similar to this one.  I sat in the pew for my Confirmation into the Episcopal Church.  The decision to do this was a tortured one for me.  I fought it for many months, then gave into it.  During the sermon, the Bishop started using the term Beloved.  At one point, he stood directly over me, leaned down and looked me dead in the eye as he said that word.  My first reaction was "You don't know me, you couldn't possibly understand me, I am not who you say I am."  He paused in front of me and looked at me in a way that I couldn't resist.  I accepted his pronouncement.  At that moment, something inside of me broke.  It broke open.

I left my confirmation different, and I sensed that it would change my life.  I realized it changed the interior me.  I could no longer live in a place in a tribe that sought to shame me, or control me.  Within a few years, I would have to leave that tribe.  I attribute it to that moment of deciding to accept a place of one who has inherit worth.  One who is beloved.

I get to go hang out with another tribe this weekend.  It is a group of women who all carry battle scars.  We are a tribe which understands inherit worth of a human.  I feel that spot of Belovedness around them.  I doubt I would have imagined ever being so lucky.

Response

     I remember a time when I was very, very passionate about responding to a crisis.  I had days of training, I felt qualified and capable.  I kept hoping people would call me when needed.  I'd taken the classes, use me!  Right?
     When 9/11 happened I, like every other human being, wanted to do something.  Anything!  Just ask!  Of course, I had a small baby and that precluded me from driving up to New York.  Later, a friend would tell me of a different call.  She was asked not to respond.  She was asked to sequester herself from the horrible images that day.  I had a hard time understanding why the critical incident stress experts would ask someone to do this.  She is, by far, one of the most gifted debriefers around.  She explained that the bosses knew this.  This is why they wanted to save her.  I understand more after having had my own treatment for PTSD.
     I think we have something in our psyche that helps us to respond to a crisis.  As I told a friend of mine, most people run towards the fire, not from it.  We can prove that we have courage, compassion.  We want to know that we can help, that we are needed, that we matter.  What better time to respond?  I know this because I spent over 10 years responding to emergencies.  There is no greater satisfaction in truly saving another person; no greater thrill than knowing that you faced the fire.  There is no greater sense of satisfaction in a pastoral moment when someone is at their worst.  We all want to be a part of that, on some level.  This is why we pray, we watch the TV, we cry.
     For my friend, she chose to be held back from all of this because she understood something incredibly important.  Someone has to take care of the caretakers.  This is what my friend did at the Pile in New York.  It was months after 9/11 and the need for help was greater than it was on September 12th.  Sometimes, we forget the fallout of any event.  We forget everything, except for being needed.  Later, we pay a price.  I am beginning to realize that few people understand the price that caregivers pay.  Even fewer people understand the specific needs of caregivers.  It takes great courage to be willing to be held back, saved for a darker day, saved for a day that no one is watching. 
     I don't feel that urge to rush to the scene any more.  Perhaps it is fear of PTSD resurfacing.  Perhaps, I've finally decided I've seen enough.  Perhaps, I know I matter wherever I am.  Perhaps, I realize that not responding is its own response.  Maybe, I just don't have anything left to prove.

"The Cloister Walk"

I had driven down to Charleston to hear Sue Monk Kidd speak.  I was very excited to hear her, I had just read a couple of her books.  I didn't even know there was another speaker, and I tried not to get impatient waiting for Kidd.  The other speaker was Kathleen Norris.  She blew me away.

She had written a book entitled The Cloister Walk.  I, honestly, don't remember specifically much of what she said that night, I just knew I wanted more.  I bought the book and took it home to read.  I had no idea how it would change my life.

She talks about her time at a Benedictine Monastery, and her journey to becoming an Oblate.  In this story, I found my own call to become an Associate of a local Convent.  It was quite a journey, and I savor it's beauty.  One day, I was walking down the hall towards the chapel, and I asked one of the Sister's if this is the Cloister walk.  I meant, is this the place called the Cloister walk.  She looked at me a bit quizzically.  She told me that the walk was something that we did. 

I was stunned!  I had spent the past several years understanding the Walk to be a noun.  In fact, it had been a verb all along!  First of all, how could I have made such a mistake?  This formative book in my life, this book that gave me strength, conviction and confidence to move into a religious community.  I had misunderstood it all along. 

Perhaps there is a lesson in this for me.  This small, yet significant, difference might help me understand much of my struggle.  My yearning has been for a place, a noun.  It was for an inanimate object.  It was something to be attained, owned, walked on.  It was simply a destination.  Looking for an action seems far too nebulous.  Being that action even more difficult.  I've decided to re-read this book right now.  I suspect my perspective will be much different, having gone on my own Cloister Walk.  I sense that my longing of a place is morphing into an action.  This action being what I will do, who I will be.  More simply, I might even discover who I am. 

How to say it

I dedicated my fourth Toastmaster's speech to my grandmother.  Yesterday was her birthday, and I needed to talk about her.  I didn't do as well in the delivery as I had wished, but here it is.....

I called my grandmother Gaga.  She was a formal lady, wanting to be called grandmother.  All that I could get out was Gaga, and by the time I could say Grandmother, my little brother had come along and he wanted to call her Gaga.  She was a steady force in my life, teaching me many life lessons.  I remember one time when her sister had died.  I was about 10 and I went crying to her, afraid she would die soon.  Gaga simply smiled and said “Oh that will be the most Glorious day!”  I saw no fear of dying, and no sorrow.  This helped form my views on death and ultimately helped to form my views on life.

Soon after my grandfather died, my family moved into Gaga’s house to care for her.  She was in her nineties, and crippled with arthritis.  I was married with one child.  It was an interesting arrangement, and at times excruciatingly difficult.  However, I grew to know my grandmother in an intimate way, and our family was blessed.  When I became pregnant with our second child, we decided to move back to our house and Gaga moved to an assisted living facility.  When she reached the point of needing hospice care, we moved her back home.  She was 98 years old.  Her niece became her Doctor, and the local Priest became our Chaplin. 

When her niece, the physician, Dr. Anna and I decided to tell my grandmother our plans for hospice care, I was greatly distressed.  How do you tell a loved one “We can’t do anything to keep you living,  We can only help you die.”  Dr Anna found a way to be direct and kind, my grandmother responded with love and compassion.  She said she was sorry that we had to be the ones to have this talk with her.  She hated to see *our* distress.

This was my last semester of nursing school.  I had two small kids and it was only me and my mom to help care for my grandmother.  We hired people to help, and they became a part of our family.  On a Wednesday, I found myself going to my final day of clinicals and my phone rang.  It was one of our helpers, Mary, and she said the words “Death rattle”.  I knew it was time.  My mom, of course was halfway to Myrtle Beach for an important dental appointment, and my husband was in California.  So I was left to handle it alone, or so I thought.  I reached my grandmother’s bedside to realize that she needed help, and I found something to suction her mouth.  I hadn’t been prepared for the physical part of dying.  Alas, we settled things down, I went to the phone.  I didn’t want us to be alone, and I called for the Priest.  I began to panic that she wouldn’t arrive in time and reached for that Book of Common Prayer.

“Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your servant Harriet.  Acknowledged, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming.  Receive her into the arms of your mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.”

 As I was finishing, I realized that Mary had joined me and we ended with Amen.  We both paused for a moment in reverence, appreciating a sacred moment.  Later, when the door bell rang, I answered it, announcing to the Priest. “ It’s ok, I’ve already said the prayers.”

She smiled and sat at the bedside with me.  Mary decided to leave, and we were left to hold vigil.  My grandmother would not die easily, and I’ve often wondered why.  Once someone reaches a physical state of not breathing effectively, I thought that death followed quickly.  Not with Gaga.  This was agonizing. 

Later that day, my dad brought over my two kids.  My 7 year old daughter didn’t need to be told what was happening, she knew.  She and her brother went and picked flowers out of my grandmother’s yard and placed them on her bed.  My grandparents were life-long gardeners and loved flowers.  My kids made several trips, and filled the bed.  It was probably the most amazing sight I had ever seen. 

I stayed the night reading a Pat Conroy novel.  The next day, I went to my final nursing class, and then I returned to her bedside.  By the next day, exhaustion and anger had set in.  I even called the Priest and lamented “I am so angry right now!”  Her response was loving and kind.  She invited me to have integrity with my emotions and not be ashamed.  I remain grateful for that pastoral moment.

By Friday, I was at the end of my rope, and Doctor Anna offered to spend the night.  She was a God send, as was the food people sent over.  By Saturday night, we realized that, perhaps, Gaga needed to be left alone.  A fellow nursing student told me that many people choose to die by themselves, it being too hard to die while loved ones are holding vigil.  My mom stayed in the house, and I went home.  The call in the middle of the night was a relief.  I drove to the house to see my grandmother’s body at rest and at peace.  I watched the sun rise on my way home.  A new day.

On Monday, I took the first of my nursing finals.  On Tuesday we buried my grandmother.  I gave a eulogy during the church service.  At the cemetery, I waited until everyone had left, said my good byes and put the first pile of dirt on the casket. I felt, in some way, I had earned this honor.  It turned out to be that glorious day my grandmother had spoken of, and we spent it among family and friends.

Wednesday I took my last nursing final.  This week was complete, and I, honestly, don’t know how I survived.  Much of it was a blur.  I haven’t taken the time to write this down and talk about it, until now.  Yesterday would have been Gaga’s 105^th birthday, and I am just starting to realize how much I miss her.   Having spent that week in complete survival mode, I realize I pushed much of my grieving away, not having the strength to deal with it.  Now, I realize that I am in a safe place.  It is good for me to spend some time talking about this week.  It changed my life, and I want to share it.

In my career as a nurse, I have had the privilege of being with people at a time surrounding death.  Dying, like birthing, is hard work.  It has its physical processes and spiritual ones.   This week my grandmother died has been very formative in my practice as a nurse and a Christian.  I remain grateful for what my grandmother taught me in her life, and in her death.

Chastity

I was eating a meal at the convent with some Sisters. One of them joked saying that she thought in another life, I would have been a Nun. I laughed. "You have 3 vows, I could only handle two of them." I was referring to the vow of Chastity. I had taken it to mean the obvious refraining from you know what. I had not thought much more about it until the life-profession of a Nun. It was explained that Chastity is much more than that. It is loving people without expectations of anything. It is humans loving each other as God loves us. It keeps us from wanting the other person to be something that we WANT them to be.
I was quite convicted by this statement, realizing that I try to make people into what they are not. It is excruciating trying to let someone be exactly who they are, without any desire to change them or receive something from them. I should not expect others to love me a certain way, as perhaps a father loves his child. I shouldn't try to replace something missing in my life by loving or being loved by someone else.
So, in a way, I was right in saying that I don't think I could take this vow. It is far more complicated than refraining from a physical act. It is opening yourself up to loving without restraint. For many of us, it seems impossible to give this sort of love when we have never received it. This is something that children should live with. It is the sort of love that helps us know exactly who we are. It teaches us that we have inherit worth, not one based on performance. It is far easier to grow, love and serve others when we have Chastity as part of our being.
When I think of things this way, I begin to realize why I have so much affection for this Order. To be associated with a group of people who have loved me simply as I am has been very healing and affirming for me. It has given me a place to heal and grow. Perhaps, one day, I will learn the spiritual art of Chastity.

Being honest

It has been awhile since I sat in a sermon and started taking notes. I am easily moved during a sermon, especially when the message hits home. Rarely do I feel like I need to get the words exactly right. Since this was a sermon given without the use of notes, I couldn't even ask for a copy.
This was the life-profession of a nun. It was a teaching sermon, one that gave me a glimpse into a decision to dedicate a life of service to the church. It was given in a very humble manner, the Priest wearing crocs. It made me cry.
"We learn to pray by being honest with God" She talked about how we tend to fuss with our fellow humans, only to turn to God with platitudes and praise. We will be polite with the Creator while being rude to our Sisters and Brothers. Truer words were never spoken!
I remember sitting in a pew so angry with God, I refused to say the Psalm. I refused to say the prayers, I refused to sing. I started this conversation with someone or something I didn't really understand. I started taking my wounds and bringing them forth to the Healer, the One who knew me before I was born. I started being honest with God, and I ended up being honest with myself.

On the margins

I once heard a speaker say : "People marginalize others in order to normalize their own experience." She was speaking specifically of the politics of breastfeeding in order to help explain the resistance to public breastfeeding. Only a small percentage of women breastfeed past a few weeks in our culture. In order to normalize bottle feeding, we have marginalized breastfeeding.
Breastfeeding a baby was once considered normal, if not necessary. This normal biological function has turned into something radical in our society. Slowly, over the last century, the formula industry has convinced us that bottle feeding is 'normal'. For some people it is. I think everyone should be allowed to have their own normal. So, why did my choice have to be marginalized?
In a previous church, I ran into conflict with people who were offended by my nursing a baby during the church service. Eventually, the senior warden reminded everyone that there was a law protecting this. The interesting thing is that I had helped with that piece of legislation, not knowing I would need it one day. I guess the sacred act of nourishing a baby at the breast, as talked about in the Psalms, was not enough to overcome the margins. I needed a law.
I feel like much of my parenting life has been relegated to the margins. It has been a struggle to defend my decisions over and over and over. I have no desire to push other people's parenting to the margins. Why must I live there? Why must others insist on pushing me away in order to normalize themselves? Why does it matter? It helps me find compassion for those who remained in the herd in order to avoid the margins. It is a difficult place to live, even if I feel confident about my decisions.
Every once in awhile, I am given a glimpse into my own choices being placed squarely in the norms of society. It adds a bit of balm to the hurt places I have felt. This picture of the new Pope Francis is beautiful. It is an example of breastfeeding being seen as normal, and sacred.

White smoke

I was raised Lutheran.  During every service, we prayed for the holy catholic church.  Somehow, in this child's mind, I thought we were praying for the Roman Catholic church.  I think I internalized some great desire to be reunited with our long lost brothers and sisters.  Perhaps on day, I thought they would just forgive Luther, and we could all be happy.  As an adult, I remember asking a Methodist about this.  He explained we were praying for the little 'c' catholic church, or universal church.
Either way, I think this longing to be reunited with the Catholics was a representation of something much deeper for me.  I would like to believe that we really are one Body, and church divisions can never change that.  We can argue and fight with each other, but ultimately, we are One.
I was watching streaming TV yesterday when the white smoke appeared.  My 4 year old thought I was crazy running around yelling, "We have a Pope!"  I dragged her to the TV and showed it to her.  About an hour later, the window was open to the balcony.  I forced her bigger brother to sit in bed with me.  I tried explaining what was going on.  He really didn't care because he wanted to play a video game.  I started wondering if I was loosing my mind, especially after having facebook discussions with practicing Catholics.  Was I simply being a voyeur? 
I have nothing at stake within the Catholic church.  I doubt I could ever convert.  My family certainly wouldn't.  My kids have had an eclectic religious upbringing, and don't have any particular emotions towards any religion, or clergy.  So why were my emotions so high? 
I was just being silly at first, but this moment turned into a Holy one for me.  I was able to hold a Beloved child and witness, via Television a truly historical moment.  The Conclave and other rituals are rooted in ancient tradition.  They didn't tweet the answer to the election, they had to send smoke.
I watched the TV channel with the quickest feed, and they had an interpreter that was keeping up with the new Pope.  I was simply breathing in the moment when the Pope said something that touched my soul.  He asked the people to pray for him.  He didn't ask the Catholics, or the Romans or the attendees.  He asked the people.  I sat in stunned silence as I realized that he was talking to all of us.  For one brief moment, we silently joined our prayers.  Billions of us across the globe were praying with the same intention.  Beautiful.
I prayed the Lord's Prayer with him, remembering Catholics cut off the last couple of sentences (I learned this the hard way during a service).  I prayed some of the Hail Mary, from what I could remember from the Anglican Rosary.  I prayed with billions of other people.  No one cared about my baptism, my faith, my history, I was just among the throngs of worshipers.  I let myself be caught up in a moment.  A moment without theologians, cannons, doctrines, divisions.  A moment of humility in a man asking for the Blessing of the people before he was worthy of bestowing his first Blessing as a Pope.