The Pit

Psalm 88:4
I am counted among those who go down to the Pit; I have become like one who has no strength

This week I attended a perinatal bereavement conference. I was asked by someone at my job if I wanted to attend. I routinely deal with women and families dealing with losses, and I felt it would help me in my job. I like education which helps me be a better nurse. As I sat in this conference, and started hearing stories, I started dredging up my own experiences with pregnancy and loss. I lost my first pregnancy early. It was a very welcome and long desired baby. I had just enough time to tell everyone I knew that we were going to be parents, and start adjusting to our new life. When the bleeding started, a hole opened up that I didn't know existed.
"It was a woman's trial. Something no man could fully understand. After moons of speaking to the child, feeling it move inside you, seeing it grow up in your dreams, a powerful love, like no other developed. The shock of loosing that child, of suddenly realizing you would never look into its living eyes- it stunned the soul." p. 126 of People of the Silence by Gear and Gear.

One of the last speakers used the image of open-pit mines to show us what this grief felt like to people. He used it to explain why most people back away from this grief. It is like standing at the edge of one of these mines, disoriented and afraid. People usually back away from it and say things to soothe their own great anxiety. As he was saying these things, so much of my experiences made complete sense.

After my miscarriage, people either avoided me, and said stupid things like "It was meant to be", "At least you can have more children" and many other things. Their words were meant to be comforting and helpful, but they weren't. They meant for these words to fill in a hole, but this hole was bigger than a city. Afraid of this hole, they move away from it.

Of course, there were others. A co-worker of my husband sent us flowers. Some people sent us cards. I think the nicest thing anyone did for me was a simple hug. I was at work, avoiding people, looking at a bulletin board. He walked up beside me, put his arm around me and simply said. "I've been thinking of you."

Although my pit has been a large sorrowful part of my life. I can certainly say, now, that I wouldn't trade it for anything. I have been blessed to see my own experience of this hole as a connection with other women. I have managed to stand on the brim along side others as they try to make sense of this feeling. I have had several conversations with women as I try to remember that Psalm that talks about the Pit. I tell them to read it, knowing that the Psalmist tried his best to articulate what that sort of grief is. I think that my experience gives me the gift of being fully present, as others have been present for me. It is truly a privilege to spend this sort of time with others. I feel sorrow for those who spend their time backing away. I understand that the depth of pain, can also be matched by joy.

So, this is how my life seems to work. The universe put me in a place to help me. I went to this conference under the pretense of helping others. I, now, see that it was in a very profound way, it was simply to help myself. If there weren't enough coincidences in this conference; I realized, yesterday, that it happened on the anniversary of that loss 16 years ag. I have been given an incredible gift of healing among incredible people. I hope that I can begin, in some way, to repay this gift.



Am I mom enough?

The front page of Time Magazine last week pictures a mother breastfeeding her 3 year old and the title: "Are you Mom enough?"  It has bothered me since it came out, and I have tried to pretend it didn't exist.  Now I realize why it bothers me so much.  It is a question I often ask myself.  A friend called me on mother's day and left me a very nice message, saying something about me being a great mom.  Deep down inside, I cringed.  I wonder if I really am.

My parenting journey began with so many things to prove.  I dove into attachment parenting for many reasons.  I, honestly, think it is a great way to parent.  I had natural births, breastfeed.  I have home schooled, used cloth diapers, co-sleep.  I've tried to do all of those 'radical' things that prove that I have devoted myself to being a mother.  Been there done that.  It never filled that void of wondering if I am enough.  Being a mother is a very, very vulnerable thing.  It is that soft spot on our underbelly that leaves us open to being hurt.  It is the place where we tend to hurt others. 

My primary job is now working with new mothers.  I try very, very hard to give space to that vulnerability.  I once had a new mom who was exasperated and crying saying she didn't realize it would be this hard.  I said "Yes, it is very hard.  It will break you, and it is OK to let it."

It is my dream that mothers find ways to realize that EVERY SINGLE MOTHER is enough.  We are all humans trying our best to do the hardest job on the face of the earth.  It is my dream that we give each other the Grace and Compassion that we all deserve.  I hope that we quit trying to prove things and concentrate on our raising our kids the best way we know how. 

It is my prayer that I will learn all of these lessons for myself.

Compassion, part 1

As it usually turns out, I find a few words in a book that strike a real chord with me. Yesterday was no exception.
"All wounds are openings to the sacred," the great holy man, Dune the Derelict, once taught me. "You must crawl inside those chasms. Go alone, on your hands and knees, and sit in that terrible darkness. If you sit long enough, you will discover that the worst pain is the breath of compassion." p. 29. People of the Silence by Kathleen O'Neal Gear and W. Micheal Gear.

It was a paperback I picked up at the used book store so that I could read while in the pool. It is about the Anasazi of the Midwest, and I find it fascinating.

So, as I have written this blog, I have shared some of my wounds. Several of those wounds happening within a church. Last year, my family started visiting a local Methodist church when my oldest daughter was invited to sing with a Praise Team. I had a very difficult adjustment to make from a 'high church' mentality to a contemporary service complete with power point and recorded music. One night at the youth 'jam', I started wandering the halls and found a bible study. I was made welcome, so I decided to stay. As we started a section about the place of church in people's lives, I started sobbing. I told these new friends of my hurts from church and declared I would never join another church. Not only did they not judge me, one of them even shared his own similar story. Later that night, I would skype with my Spiritual Director. I had time to become embarrassed about my meltdown, yet she praised me. She told me that was how I needed to start the healing process.

About 6 months later, my family decided to become official members of this small country congregation. I relented on my refusal to join another church and went up on stage to join in being welcomed into a new community. Several people from that bible study class followed us onto that stage and supported us. I then cried tears of joy, understanding how lucky I am to have been able to sit long enough in that chasm.

Last night, the pastor came up to me and asked me how I was doing with this Transition. It took me several minutes to be able to speak, because my emotions are still very deep. I told him about my mom's cousin telling a group about our family tradition of starting off Episcopalian and ending up Methodist. My grandmother was 92 when she changed churches. I then managed to thank him for asking and that this church had been very good to us. He said it works both ways, we had been good to them. We agreed that it is best when it does work both ways.

That is what compassion means: to suffer with. It means that we are all suffering, and we all need love to flow between us. I understand on a very deep level the pain of the breath of compassion. It is hard to breath it in, finally; knowing that it should have been there all along. Yet, when you do breath it in, you can live.

As I write this, I hear the voices of several teenagers at my house. They are on that Praise Team at church and they sound like angels.

Getting away with it

Several years ago, I was behind a gentleman at the grocery story.  He was fiddling with the eggs and muttering to himself.  He turned to me and exclaimed, "I don't see how they get away with it."  He went on to explain that he used to run a chicken farm and send eggs to the grocery store.  He always made sure he sent good eggs.  He started showing me how these eggs were small, cracked and not healthy looking.  I had never known that there was a difference.  I always thought an egg was an egg was an egg.  Later, some friends would give us two hens to keep in our back yard.  After a few weeks, we began eating out own, free range chicken eggs.  I could NOT believe the difference.  That man in the grocery store was right.  How in the world could the grocery stores claim that they were selling the same thing that I was growing in my back yard?  This morning, I happened to have one of our free-range eggs and a store bought egg and fried them up in the same pan.  You cannot tell much of a difference from the picture.  The one on the right is our egg.  It has a much deeper orange color and the sack around the yolk cooks up much differently.  I have had to spend some time understanding how differently the eggs cook up.  There is no comparison on taste.  Or course, the nutritional value is much different.
There is something in our culture that seems to train us to accept everything as the same.  When I was a paramedic, the only requirements were 'a pulse and a patch'.  Excellence in emergency medicine were not recognized.  In many ways, nursing is the same way.  With a shortage in nursing, you used to be able to get a job anywhere, any time.  My first job was offered to me over the phone with a hiring bonus.  Later on, I would go to work in an emergency department and learn that there are vast differences in nursing.  Even after I gained some experience and confidence, my mentor would remind me that I was pretty good "For a nurse with 1 year of experience."  I would later have the privilege of working with a couple of very seasoned nurses, and realize the huge difference in nurses. They would end up leaving because excellence in nursing was, again, not rewarded (or even recognized).
So we go back to the big question:  How do they get away with it?  Why does mediocrity hold such a prevalent status?  I think that it has to do with two things.  The first is that we don't make a big effort and discernment.  We just take things at face value, and settle.  I think that it is a bit of laziness.  The second is that we don't want to threaten anyone.  If there is one thing that my experiences over the past couple of years.  Very, very few people want to be confronted with concerns or issues.  I am certainly guilty of that.  I went to great lengths to keep people from being able to tell me where I was going wrong.  It is far easier to blame someone else when things are not going well.  It is excruciating to look at your own part of it.
I think this is the biggest reason people keep getting away with it.  We don't love each other enough to tell the truth to each other.  Worse than that, we don't trust each other enough to listen.  All truth needs to be spoken in love for it to be heard.  I have learned this the hard way.
So, now that I know the difference in so many things in my life, I struggle some days.  Comparing the way things are to the way that they could be is hard.  Understanding what part I play in all things is even harder.  We bought 4 more chicks to give us more eggs.  Perhaps we can make a little progress one egg at a time.

In the moment

If you ever wanted to get back to the present moment, there is no easier way than spending time with a child.  I took 6 year old Carter with me to work last week.  I was simply making an appearance and a co-worker offered to let him watch her TV while I did some paperwork.  I thought I was doing a nice thing for him, letting him tag along.  I soon realized that our trip to work would be wonderful for me.
About half  way down a very long hall, Carter announced that he couldn't step on any white floor tiles.  This had us hopping around an laughing until we turned the corner to find all white.  He looked at them and declared it was alright.  These tiles had blue mixed in with the white.  Whew!  On the way out, Carter announced that he had only 3 lives left.  When he started loosing lives, he decided that the blue tiles gave him a life.  Whew!  At the end of the final hall, he evened everything out and ended up with only one life.  Then, of course, he got to push the button on the elevator. 
Today, I spent some time with a 3 year old who became very excited about hanging clothes out to dry.  She fetched a chair to stand on so she could help.  Of course, she wanted a different bag to hold her clothes pins.  We then spent about 4 times as long hanging up clothes as it would have normally taken.
Both of these times (among many others) have brought me back to what is really important in this world.  In a job where people's health and well being are dependent on me, I can remember not to take myself so seriously.  I, now, walk up and down the halls avoiding the white squares.  If I see wrinkles in the clothes, I can know that beautiful little hands helped hang them up.  She did it with such care and pride.
Life is so full of stuff.  Some days, I feel inundated with all of the bad stuff going around.  Some days, I even spend a little time feeling sorry for myself.  I am beginning to come to terms with how much of my time is wasted on all of the bad side of things.  I have been challenged by someone to start focusing on the bright side.  A few more days hanging out with the amazing kids might just be the ticket!  Plus, I get to have some adult fun tonight going to a concert.  I'm about to get my dance on.  Watch out!

Giving Up

Over the years, I have given up different things for Lent. My children have also joined in giving up. One year, my oldest child and her best friend gave up pickles. They approached it very seriously, and reverently, as far as 5 year olds can.
I sat in church today and heard a sermon about Jesus giving up his family. It reminded me of a conversation I had with a very respected clergy member. He had forgotten something, and I had gotten upset. I apologized explaining that I was very sensitive to anyone representing the very church that had hurt me so much. I then went on to explain that I had been kicked out of church. He listened patiently, and then responded in a way that shook me out of my misery. “I was kicked out of my first church also” I choked back tears as I realized that I was speaking with someone who understood my story because we shared it. I managed to thank him, “There are very few people who understood what you give up in order to speak Truth.”
So, I sat in a new church this morning pondering what I had left to give up. My answer came to me so clearly that I felt it in the pit of my stomach. It has been a year since I went to the post office to sign for a letter from my home church. It was a letter threatening to have me arrested if I were found on the premises. It was a letter that changed my life forever. It was tangible evidence of what I had been willing to give up. Over the past year, I have fought with myself over reconciliation. I kept the hope of past friends remembering promises during Holy Baptism. I had hoped that I could forgive and be forgiven. I had hoped that somehow, some way, we could remember that we are all part of the Body.
So, this morning, my answer came to me. I realized that I had to give up hope of earthly reconciliation. This is God’s territory, and I need to give it back to the Holy One. This morning, I watched my precocious 3 year old follow her big sister up to the stage to sing a praise song at the end of the service. I realized, at once, how welcomed and valued my children were at this simple country church. I looked at my decision to give up hope, and I decided it was a good thing.

Ashes

Ash Wednesday has always been a very important observance for me. Since I was working yesterday, I went for a quick smudging at the chapel in the hospital. I then went on to have the very best imaginable Ash Wednesday ever.

Whenever I get to be in attendance with someone as they give birth, I get to be a part of something much larger than myself. I am humbled by the work and effort of a mother. I am entranced with the hands of a gifted midwife as she holds them in a loving way to catch a baby as he makes his way into this world. I fall in love with a new creature as he opens his eyes, realizing that things are a little bit different now. Birth is hard, it is messy. Sometimes, it even smells bad. Although surrounded by love and support, the mother is the only one who can do the work of birthing a baby.

So, yesterday, I remained busy holding things, handing things and fetching things. Yet, my main purpose was simply to hold sacred space, giving the mother and baby room to do whatever they needed to do.

It was a perfect way of remembering who I really am in this world.


Almighty God, you have created us out of the dust of the
earth: Grant that these ashes may be to us a sign of our
mortality and penitence, that we may remember that it is
only by your gracious gift that we are given everlasting life;
through Jesus Christ our Savior. Amen. Book of Common Prayer