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.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
"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.
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.
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