All good things....

I have spent a good deal of time pondering many things over the past few weeks.  I seem to have a new reluctance to write on this blog any more.  I remembered a friend who is now on her third blog.  She mentioned that it was time to close the one she was on and start another one.  At first, I found that weird because we are all just on a continuous journey.  Right?  Recently, I began to realize she might really have a point. How do we mark the major shifts in our lives? How do we mark a place in the path where we realize we can never return to previous issues?
I started this blog in a fit of hurt and anger.  It was my way of finding 'my voice'.  It was new for me to know that people were reading my thoughts.  It was freeing to realize I could really say what I thought.  I think in the end, I realize that I had never 'lost my voice'.  I was just surrounded by people who couldn't hear.
This blog was actually mentioned in the letter I was given by a deceased Priest when he ex-communicated me.  It was offered among private, soul searching emails given as evidence that I must be removed from community.  I learned that my voice could be very threatening to people.  I also had people search me out and comment.  I had one friend who cried telling me that he found what he needed to hear within these writings.  I learned that my voice could also offer solace, perspective and sometimes healing.
A remember sitting and talking with someone whose friend had been murdered.  We talked about a core shift that happens when you have certain experiences.  I understood because I knew I looked at the world with different eyes because of my own core-shift.  What I didn't realize at the time:  you can shift again.  God willing, it will happen many times.
This trip to Ghana and some other things have helped me mark another shift.  This particular shift has been beautiful.  I've begin to see the abundance of blessings around me.  I'm no longer operating out of fear.  I've learned real boundaries and have great hope for the future.

This is my last post for this blog.  I've already tried to start another one about my travels.  All good things, and all really hard things must come to an end.

Much love,
Melissa

Rest in Peace

When I was at the park, a friend was telling me about her son having to go to first communion class.  I told her this was one of things I liked least about my Lutheran upbringing.  I had a flash to what I figured is the best first communion story.

My youngest child had been going up to the Communion Rail with me since she was born, actually before.  When she was about 18 months old, I went up to the rail holding her in my right arm.  I decided to stand and hold out my left hand to receive the Host.  As I reached out my hand, she also reached out her hand.  The Priest looked at me and whispered, is it ok?  I nodded my consent and he gave it to her.  She was a child.  I believe that children are far more capable of understanding the Sanctity of the Eucharist than adults.  She was at the table, and she wanted to eat.

I don't know how most clergy would have handled the situation.  I am eternally grateful that this Priest handled it perfectly.  I shudder to think what it would have done to my child's spirit to be refused.  This was one of my favorite encounters with Father Maltby.

Over the many months and years that our church struggled through change and lack of growth, my relationship with this man would become very different.  I am very sorry and sad for this change, especially since he died recently.  Since I am still not allowed to attend church there, I was not in a position to say good bye.  This was very hard on me.  I'm not sure how to grieve this person.  It is very complicated.  I wish we had been able to work toward reconciliation.

I felt pretty bad about all of this and took my worries to my Spiritual Director.  Her advice is simple "focus on the good things, don't forget the bad things."  I'm allowing myself (maybe even begging myself) to focus on the good things.  This memory of a first Communion is a perfect example of the good things.  I won't forget the bad things, I learned too many lessons.  One last lesson that I am learning is how to process complicated grief.  It is a kind of grief that seems to bubble over with all sorts of extra, complicated memories.  For me, it was almost like volcano erupting.  It spewed ash all over things.  Things are starting to settle down, and I'm glad to start seeing the good again.  My hope is that this man will Rest in Peace.  He deserves it.

Perspective

After spending 3 and a half hours in an Anglican Church service in Saltpond, Ghana, we walked to the beach.  I snapped this picture of Little Rosina who looked so beautiful gazing out on the ocean.  I walked out there with her and pointed over the horizon.  "My home is way over there, across the ocean."  When I spoke this sentence, it hit me in the pit of my stomach.  I'm looking toward my home from a totally different perspective.

I've had quite a few experiences that have completely changed my perspective on things.  One of the most memorable was a friend's funeral.  I wrote about it awhile back.  Her funeral took place in the mountains, buried in a cardboard box that my children had helped paint.  After that day, I knew things could be different.  I knew I wanted things different.

I knew that my trip to Ghana would be life changing.  I guess I was naive as to how hard it would be to come to terms with that.  I lived in a house for 13 days where only one person knew me, and I knew I could trust her.  She had brought me there to see her culture.  I think what I did was see myself in it.

I spent 13 days seeing myself in other people's eyes.  These were not American eyes.  These were Ghanaian eyes.  These were eyes that knew how to look into another person's heart.  These were people who never asked me "Who are your people?"  "What do you do?"  "What is your degree in?".  They didn't need to know any of that.  I was a guest and a family memberT . hat is all they needed to know in order to love me.  I looked for days to find a flash of contempt for me.  I searched people's face to see if they judged me.  I never saw this.  Never.  What I saw was love and generosity.  At one particularly exquisite moment, I saw pure compassion.  I finally started to quit expecting or looking for that flash of contempt.  It wasn't going to happen.  I relaxed and became a person who felt accepted and loved.  I started looking for that love.  This was new for me.

Another gift I was given was the gift of having no past.  No one could remind me of what I had done wrong or shame me for a mistake.  If I had made a mistake, they would have told me immediately and moved along with the day.  Grudges don't exist there.  Life is too precious.  Survival is too important.  There is too much work and too little money.  Yet they never feel overwhelmed or sorry for themselves.  I watched closely a couple of people who had every reason to feel trapped and resentful.  They were exhausted from caring for a very, very sick baby.  Not a second of self pity, not a second.

I had a hard time understanding why a church service would last so long in a country so mired in poverty.  My last Sunday there, the answer came.  In the chapel, an older woman sat in front of me.  She had had a very scary, long and exhausting week.  She had handled it with extreme Grace.  I watched her shoulders sag and her start to sob.  This was the one place she could feel the weight of her work.  It was the one place she could share her burden.  I began to sob also.

In Ghana, there is no room for bull.  None.  Do it, don't do it.  Whatever.  Life is too short and too busy. Say what you have to say and keep it moving.  There are no personality tests that give you excuses of needing closure or being introverted.  Your well being depends on the people in your community's well being.  If you isolate yourself from others, you don't survive.

I'm pretty sure I could never reside in Ghana.  I like facebook and netflix.  I like having frozen pizza and 16 acres to play on.  However, I'm pretty sure I'll never shake this feeling that I'm really missing out on something.  I loved being in community with others.

So, standing on that beach, it started to sink in that I was looking at my country from a different perspective.  Slowly, I am coming to terms with the fact that I came away looking at myself from a different perspective.

An unsettling Ache

About 2 weeks ago, I walked around a used book store.  I was looking for a few paperbacks to take with me on the plane.  I am traveling to Ghana, West Africa in 2 weeks.  I am completely terrified of making this trip.  Yet, I go.
I realized that the books I was looking at were murder mysteries and other dark books.  I very much so have a tendency to look into dark places.  It finally hit me that this trip meant something different for me.  I needed an uplifting book and the first name that came to me was Maya Angelou.  The owner went and found a book I had never heard of.  I've never actually read any of Dr. Angelou's books.  I've had her poems pasted on my wall before, but never read an entire book.  The book is titled  All God's Children Need Traveling Shoes.  The price on the cover was $20 because it is a first edition.  I don't have extra money and didn't want to pay that much, until I looked at the inside cover.
          'In this continuation, Angelou relates how she joins a "colony" of Black American expatriates in                      Ghana-only to discover "you can't go home again."'

I looked at the man and told him that I will be leaving for Ghana soon and I guess I need to buy the book.  "I guess you were meant to have this book, I just got it in on Friday."  He hadn't seen one of her books for years.  Now I had it.

The title of the book spoke to this ache I've had for many years.  It is an ache to explore the unknown, to tap into a larger family in the world.  This trip seems to be a manifestation of that ache.  Over the past few weeks, I've met some very real and personal anxieties.  I had to get a shot, I had to mail off things, I had to spend money on myself.  I've had to buy clothes, plan things.  I avoid all of these things, yet I cannot escape. This process is changing me.  What does that mean?

Maya Angelou died yesterday.  I've been looking at facebook posts about her all morning and sobbing.  A great mother has left this earth.  We mourn together.

Now, it is our turn to take her words and go about the business of loving each other and lifting each other up.   I guess I'm going to put on my traveling shoes.

Deal breakers

Awhile back, I was sitting with a female friend who was lamenting about her husband.  They had grown children, and she mentioned something that he did when the children were young.  I winced and mentioned "that would be a deal breaker for me."  I'd probably had a couple of glasses of wine and wasn't holding my tongue like I should.  I told her that I had several deal breakers going into my marriage.  Actually, so did my husband.  We'd discussed these things.  Honestly, my biggest deal breaker was where we would live.  I told him that if wanted to move up north, he needed to find another woman.  I'm not moving.  We didn't set off our lives with terms to control the other person, we just discussed those things that were deal breakers. We've been married almost 20 years now.  Our deal breakers have been negotiated throughout the years, and we've had more than our share of struggles.  Yet, we've always bounced back to a respectful, loving relationship.  A partnership.

I recently sat with an old friend's second husband.  I found him to be a charming, affectionate, thoughtful human being.  His presence in her life has been one of healing and love.  This presence in her life is a very sharp contrast to her first marriage.  That relationship was marred with abuse and control.  I wonder where she would be in her life if she hadn't broken away from him.  I don't think she would have found herself in such a safe place as she has now.  I am very happy for her.

I have absolutely no wisdom to offer any married couple.  I barely think I know enough about my own marriage.  However, I do wonder where some women would find themselves if they had left abusive relationships long ago.  I've grown to have a great deal of respect and admiration for women (and men) who leave everything behind to search out a healthy life.

As I look back and really study on things, I'm pretty sure that the key to my list of deal breakers is not that we are perfect people and we follow all the rules.  We are not perfect, and we've broken some rules.  My husband and I have hurt each other and been hurt.  Yet, the key might have been simple.  We acknowledged our mistakes and refused to accept behavior that was controlling, mean or abusive.  In a couple of my friends descriptions of marriages, these behaviors are somehow accepted.  If things are accepted, they continue. My friend refused to continue to accept things.  With courage, she walked into a new life.

I am participating in the 30 day forgiveness challenge.  I've realized that I have not really protected myself in friendships like I have with my husband.  I forgot to set up some deal breakers with friends.  Or, more likely, I've not been able to bring myself to acknowledge my own acceptance of their abusive behavior.  It seems that I developed a sense of what a healthy marriage should be, but I forgot to develop the same sense with a healthy friendship.  I'm pretty sure that I don't trust my own instincts with it right now.  I'm struggling to define what my friendship deal-breakers are.

So in this 30 day challenge, I've worked to forgive someone.  I've named my hurts and pondered them.  At this point, my deal breaker is very simple with her:  she never acknowledged her behavior as harmful to me.  I've learned that it is very hard to forgive someone who shows no regret.  It is even harder to rationalize things with this person who feels that I deserve what happened to me.  I've seen a pattern with this in my life.  I've had several friendships that left me reeling in turmoil.  I've not done a good job of exiting those relationships.  I've always thought we could work things out, desperate to maintain ties to someone.  Somehow, I've always accepted the behavior.  It is easy for me to rationalize it.  By not releasing the relationship, I've stayed stuck in it.  This not been good for me.

I've got 12 more days of the forgiveness challenge.  I've been slowly exhaling as I seek to forgive.  I have been given a choice of renewing or releasing the relationship.  I've chosen to release.  With God's help, I will. I have some amazing people in my life, and I hope that by releasing dead friendships, I can make room for healthy ones.  I want to be a good friend and let others be one too.

Another growth experience

I've had a few crazy weeks.  No, actually months.  I've seen a few patterns in my life repeat.  I've experienced a few incredibly intense moments.  All of this has set me to questioning everything in my life, once again.

I say once again because I've already dug really deep into situations before and made some really hard decisions.  That time, I had deep questioning in my relationships to other people and organizations.  This time around, the questioning seems to be deeply rooted in myself.  I want to tell you that questioning others was much easier.

 I don't know why I attract other people's ire.  I've had one very wise person tell me that I intensely seek authenticity with people.  I'm not sure that this is such a great thing.  Most people don't want authenticity, they was to promote an illusion of things.  I don't work well with illusions.  In fact, they threaten something inside of me.  When I feel threatened, I don't behave very well.  I suppose this is one of my personal greatest lessons.  At least this recent lesson has taught me of one highly effective technique:

     If someone brings up a subject that threatens your illusion, you must (immediately) start an emotional tirade that brings up every single thing that person has ever done wrong.  After you have gotten the last word in that tirade, you politely change the subject and recover your illusion.  This avoids any potential authentic conversation and keeps the other person walking on your eggshells.

I've used this tactic before.  I see where I have really messed up some situations.  I get it. 

Much of the last few weeks has caused me to wince when I think about things I have said and done.  I wonder if my decision to be vulnerable and public will be a good one or a bad one.  I guess only time will tell.  

Shell Shock

I followed a link on Facebook one day to listen to Patrick Stewart talking about domestic violence.  He was answering a question at a star trek convention when a woman broke down thanking him.  He talked a bit about how abusive his father had been to his mother.  At the end, he mentioned that he was coming to realize that his father potentially had some residual affects from war.  Back then, it was called shell shock.  I instantly knew what he was talking about.  He was talking about all of the families who had been severely affected upon a father's return from war.  I know this first hand.
More recently, he did a segment on "Who do you think you are?" in the UK.  They had historians walk Mr. Stewart through many of his father's experiences.  In one segment, his voice cracks and he says something that has stuck with me.  He wondered what it would have meant to his family for his father to be honest with them about his experiences.  What if his father had just tried to explain the unexplainable?  In his voice, I found an ache.  I think it is the ache of any child who really wants to love his parent.  Perhaps, he had found a way to do it decades after his death.
My favorite local author, Pat Conroy, talks about his father's death in his latest book:  "Death of Santini."  I think Mr. Conroy had some of the privilege of trying to work out some things with his father before he died.  However, Pat Conroy's father never seems to relent in his book.  Even on his death bed, he taunts his daughter.  He seemed to refuse any opportunity to explain the unexplainable.
This brings me to some of my deepest questions.  Is it possible to find true Healing in this world?  Or does it usually wait until one of us dies?  Is it just easier to make our peace with someone after they are gone?
Once, I heard a story of a woman.  Her husband of 55 and half years had just died after a long battle with Alzheimer's.  She had very rarely been affectionate to him.  Most of the time she was verbally assaulting him.  She rose one morning to find he had passed over in the night.  After things settled down, she asked her son and daughter in law to leave her to have one last conversation.  She sat at his bedside and told him all of the things that she loved about him and thanked him for being so good to her.  These were the words she could never say to him on earth, but somehow she could after he had left.  It was just her way.
Sometimes, I think it doesn't matter when we say things.  It doesn't matter when we realize, when we forgive. Hopefully, we keep getting led towards finding peace, maybe even reconciliation.  I think some people might insist that his happen after a death.  I think that maybe I am starting to come to terms with that.  I wonder if there really is only so much work we can do in these bodies and these stories of our lives.  I guess all things must come in their own time and own way.

Marked

A few weeks ago, I went to the Cathedral for worship.  It was Ash Wednesday, and I was in the middle of a bit of a melt down.  I miss the Liturgy.  I miss the Seasons of the Church.  The beginning of Lent needed to be marked in my spiritual calendar.  I was limited because I needed a mid-day service.  As usual, the Cathedral becomes my answer for these types of issues.  She has many services to meet most needs.
Upon sitting down in a room full of relative strangers, I made my way through many feelings.  In that space, there were several people involved in my ex-communication.  They had been a part in a most humiliating experience for me.  I sat there thinking:  "Everyone here thinks they are better than me".  Forgive my rotten grammar, and forgive my own projection onto a group of people.  But, it is my true feeling.  I had my own list of facts to back it up.  Those people think they are better than me.  It doesn't help that I always feel my financial status among those people wearing nicer clothes.
I marched my way through the service because I find truth in it.  I find comfort in the words about bringing people back into community.  It is the time when those with notorious sins are brought back.  The Bishop spoke of this exact line during our initial meeting.  He said that notorious meant well-known.  My sins had become well-known.  In my words, I had been publicly marked.
Sitting in a large group of people, I began to feel that I had been the only person marked this way.  I feel, in many ways, that I carry a stigma.  Somehow, I feel I carry this mark for all to see.  Yet, I know I have a place in this space called church.  I know that I am welcome here and simply a child of God.  Just sometimes, it feels lonely.
As with any good Worship service, there comes a time of transformation.  For me, the Ash Wednesday service expresses that outward transformation like no other service.  You see, we all walked up to the altar rail and had someone smudge us with ashes.  For a few brief moments we look at every one's mark.  We become equal in the eyes of all mankind.  We are all marked.
There was a real moment of comfort in realizing this for me.  I went from feeling like I had been the only person marked to looking at an entire room full of people marked.  All of these people who think they are better than me, answered the call to pray.  This entire community allowed themselves to be marked and confessed their sins.  We did it together, in community.  Maybe I am wrong in thinking they are better than me.  Aren't we all just trying out best?  However, those marks fade, and we tend to get back to the world of busying ourselves with keeping up our appearances.  Yet, once a year, we practice our Faith in this way.  This is why I love the Liturgy.
I managed to journey through many of these feelings leading up to the Eucharist.  This solemn occasion filled a very ornate church with stone faced clergy.  We all seemed to be caught up in the reverence of the Ashes, sin and penitence.  I brought my kids up to the rail and as I reached for the chalice, the unthinkable happened.  It spilled all down my arm!  Instantly, I remembered my great-grandfather's book that explains how the wine and wafer change molecularly to the blood and body of Christ.  I panicked trying to make sure a drop was not left behind.  I've never had anything like this happen before, and I took me out of my own head and experience.  As we walked away from the altar into a small chapel, I began to laugh.  I laughed with my belly in a way that loosened all of my fretting and worry.  It was a beautiful moment as I realized that God is with us, around us, in us and even on me!
This particular service took me from depths of despair to soaring in laughter.  I sat in the pew and started licking my arm, wondering "What does one do?".  I bowed my head and laughed some more.  I wonder if the people behind me thought I was sobbing.  If only they knew!

A Vegetable Shrine

We went to my grandmother's house to start cleaning out the kitchen last weekend.  I pulled out a jar of beans that looked pretty old.  It had a rusted top.  It was from 1983.  I saw several more in the back.  It didn't make sense to me until I saw a note attached by a rubber band.  The band broke as soon as I pulled because it has dry rotted.  The note said "Canned by my mother before she died in 1985."
It was like vegetable shrine to her mother. 
I do feel there is something sacred in preserved food.  Especially if you grew, picked and processed it.  My grandmother grew up on a farm where survival was dependent on the hard work of growing and stocking food.  I understand why it these cans of vegetables were so important to her.  I understand that saving them was a part of a grieving process.  I just don't know what you are supposed to do with another person's shrine.  More importantly, what do you do with grief that is inherited?
Grieving takes on different processes for different people.  When Meme died, I had a ham she had sent home with us in our refrigerator.  I didn't have the heart (or energy) to use it, so it just sat there for weeks.  I finally had to feed it to the dogs because I didn't want to risk food poisoning.  I let perfectly good food go bad because I couldn't face the loss of someone.  I think this was part of the reason Meme kept those vegetables.  She really didn't want to let go of her mother and acknowledge the loss.
I grew up in this family where losses weren't acknowledge.  I still live in this sort of territory where my personal losses aren't acknowledged.  If we started acknowledging losses, it would be too many to handle.  Sometimes, I think they pile up and are handed down to the next generation to deal with, like cleaning out some one's pantry.  You are left wondering what it is and what to do with it.
I finally made an appointment with my Spiritual Director a couple of weeks ago.  I seem to be struggling a bit in my grief for the loss of my last grandparent.  It is grief that has caught me off guard.  We were not really close.  She was close with my kids, and I have been working hard to acknowledge that they all loss something.  I do that for them, even though it was not done for me.
I opened up myself to all of these things to my Spiritual Director.  I confessed that I have been grieving many things over the past few years.  I am grieving the loss of friendships and the loss of an important Church family.  I've spent time with a therapist grieving my grandfather among other things.  The appointment where I was exhorted to spend time with loosing Pop, I realize that it had actually been his birthday.  I miss him.  For many of these things listed, I've had to do the work for myself of acknowledging the loss.  Again, it was not done for me.
So, being left to do much grief work for myself has been exhausting.  I've committed to doing it because I don't want the next generation to be handed it.  They will have enough to face on their own.  My work has been long and tedious.  I've had many helpers along the way.  I've had many people who understand how hard, and valuable, this work is. 
At the end of that appointment, I got some real and beautiful validation.  I seem to be heading toward closure on some things.  Real closure, where people get to Rest In Peace within me.  Shrines are important, but so is transformation.  I took a cake box from Meme's pantry and made cupcakes last night.  We used her decorating equipment to ice them.  For his baseball practice, my 12 year old took a bottle full of Gatorade from her house.  We are moving forward, lovingly remembering where we received these things.  These ways my grandmother showed us love will live on, thriving.

To know me

It was a bit of a heartbreaking Christmas.  We, as a family, were grieving the loss of my grandmother.  We also struggled to get our 4 kids the Christmas presents they asked for.  Our finances are limited, so the younger kids decided to ask Santa for things we were not in a position to buy.  Ugh!  I learned what it meant to disappoint my child.
My eldest was given the short end of the stick.  In the mix of things, her stocking and presents were pretty bare.  The one thing I spent time picking out was the wrong color.  "It's like you don't even know me!"  Those words hit hard.
Of course, with any expressed emotions, we have the opportunity for discussion.  After heartfelt apologies and attempts as making up, I shared my own experience of the same feeling.  As I child, I had a very limited palate.  I basically ate hamburgers and pizza.  In my 20's, my palate expanded exponentially and I came to reject the basic American foods.  Yet, when I was late for supper at a fine dining restaurant, my dad ordered me the hamburger.  "It's what you always order."  Yes, it's what I ordered 10 years ago.  Not now.
It was heartbreaking for me to watch my father struggle in his confusion.  I am one of those children who always aimed to please, so it was hard for me.  In these confusing times, it is hard to find firm ground.  It is even harder to recognize that maybe we don't always know the other person.  Most parents are not willing to admit they don't really know their kids.  Something in that can be very threatening for parents.  I'm not sure why.  It was easier for me to eat the hamburger with happiness than it was for us to spend time getting to know each other.
This is the same lament that I gave my Spiritual Director one day.  I was in the midst of a huge upheaval with friends and I cried "I thought I knew her!".  The Nun calmly replied with great wisdom "You knew her at a moment in time, but we all change.  You are different, she is too."  She was inviting me into a space that allowed me to grow, to change.  It is a space that allows other the same opportunity.  We humans are not supposed to remain a snapshot, frozen in time.  We are ever changing.  I think the Buddhists call it the Art of Impermanence.
The conversation following the Christmas debacle was a good one.  It was an important one for me and my oldest child to have.  I think parents should be invited into a space where they begin again.  One of the tasks of adulthood is getting to know ourselves.  I'm spending more and more of my time doing this.  Who am I?
Today, I filled out a questionnaire for Clemson Alumni.  For the first time, I fit into a "choose one" blank.  It was as if I was given a signal that I'm getting to know myself better.  It felt pretty good.  My hope is that as I get to know myself, I also get to know others.  I certainly should never assume that I really know another person, even when we live in the same house.
I am proud of a daughter who exerts her growth and doesn't shy away from hard discussions.  It took courage for her to confess her feelings.  It makes me proud to be her mother.

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.