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.