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.

International Day of Women

Today is the International Day of Women.  It has made me ponder what it was like to grow up in the south during a time when my own state helped defeat the Equal Rights Amendment.  It was a  very different culture than we seem to have today.  When I was young, women were not allowed to do the same things as men.  I remember having one hell of a temper tantrum when my younger brother was given a bb gun, and I was not.  I remember having to beg to go rabbit hunting with my father.  I wasn't allowed to play football, because it was for boys.  My outdoor/sports side ended up being labeled 'tomboy'.  My parents gave into it for the most part, but just being myself made me think that I was acting like a boy.  I remember feeling as though I had to apologize for being a girl.  After reading the book "Women who run with Wolves", I thought very differently.

The culture was also decidedly in favor of men.  I remember having conversations at school when as woman (gasp) had been given the nomination for Vice President.  One student commented that she would 'bomb the Russians when she had PMS'.  Medical schools only admitted 5% women.  There were very few women in professions.  As most women of my mother's generation have told me:  "I could be a secretary, teacher or nurse."  I could really go on for pages about the kinds of comments made against women by police officers, doctors and preachers.  Every one of them was hurtful and made me wish I had been born male.  It was also a time when women's innate abilities were stymied with twilight sleep for birth and formula feeding.

So, my desire to be successful in life seemed to lead me towards wanting to act like a man.  At first, I majored in Engineering and was usually the only woman in a class.  My first job out of college was running ambulance calls.  I was one of a few women in the entire department, and set to prove myself as good as any man.  I was rejecting the idea of becoming a nurse, even though that is what my heart desired.

My world turned upside down when I gave birth to my first child.  I had been blessed with watching my womanhood at its greatest.  I created, grew and then fed this little one.  I was unique in what I could do.  Men certainly couldn't do this.  For the first time in my life, I was thankful to be a woman.  I started looking into my femininne side, being creative, cooking.  I started doing things that were stereotypically woman's work.  I bet my pendulum swung far away from my 'tom boy' box.

After having more kids and growing a bit, I've started to realize that I live in a very different culture.  My kid's pediatrician is a woman.  I pointed on a parade float at our Governor, who is a woman.  I told my kids to look and see it is a woman in a place of political leadership.  I just don't see all of these cultural barriers in place for my kids.  They are lucky enough to have a father who hasn't imposed any sort of bias on them.  He wasn't even threatened when I had to show him how to clean a fish. 

So, hopefully, my kids can live in a way that they don't have to prove anything, and they don't have to fight against bias.  I am hoping they just get to be who they are without any sort of exterior or (more insidious) internal oppression.  Maybe even I can relearn what it means to be a woman.  Perhaps I could even reframe my childhood lens from 'tomboy' to 'Warrior'.