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.