beyond warts

This past Wednesday Ken and I lived the refrain from one of Toby Keith's songs: "I'm not as good as I once was, but I'm as good once as I ever was." Early that morning we got up at 2:00 a.m. to drive to Rockwell, North Carolina to attend the funeral of Ken's aunt. It's a seven hour drive, and with a time zone to cross putting the pedal to the metal was imperative. We arrived as the casket was being taken from the hearse and carried into the church. Phew! Three hours later we were back in the car, heading home. It was a long day.

Travel like this is sort of an out-of-body experience. Were we really there?  Did our heads leave and return to the same pillows on that day and yet give us the gift of those few hours with family far away?

In the natural course of things on the way home we talked some about the family we had just seen. Ken made calls to his dad and sister to "report in," and conversation around the nature of those conversations (or lack thereof) fueled further conversation. I shared with Ken a recent conclusion I had reached after reflecting on the stories and details of families with whom I am acquainted. No matter what "norm" our culture/society tries to paint of what a family looks like, few bear a resemblance to that projected norm.

Whether the family portrait reflects hues of divorce, addiction, triplets, estrangement, illness, adoption, no children, eight children, disability, premature death, infidelity, abuse, gifted children, homosexuality, celebrity, poverty, trophy wives, wealth, fill in the blank--it seems that no family is spared a reality skewed from the cultural ideal (I am not attaching value to any of these descriptors, only naming deviations from the cultural script). Some of us are unphased by this, some adapt, others learn to cope reasonably well, and still others carry scars that impair them for life.

Reflecting on that notion further this morning I heard in my mind a scene from Franco Zeffirelli's 1968 film Romeo and Juliet. I was 11 when I saw it, and was captivated by it. I bought the record of the movie and listened to it endlessly, essentially memorizing the whole thing. The scene to which I refer is the concluding portion of the story, whereupon receiving news of the deaths of Paris, Romeo and Juliet the prince ferets out what led to their demise. To the heads of the Capulet and Montague families he says,

See, what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.
And I for winking at your discords too
Have lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish'd.

In the film, astride his horse, the prince repeats those final three words, shouting them at the top of his voice, "all are punished!"  The words reverberate among the cobbled floor of the town square and the walls of buildings surrounding it.

It is that declaration of punishment that echoes in my mind now, not stemming from hate and power-wrangling as in the case of Shakespeare's story, but as a result of the many ways our lives become fractured and damaged. It causes me to wonder why, when we have the means to heal and recover from damaging story lines, and when the desire for wholeness generally permeates our being, we shrink from opportunities that lead to that wholeness. Why is it so hard to be honest and vulnerable, to risk sharing our hurts and bridging gaps when instead hateful words are hurled, or taunting putdowns and meanness carry the day? I know the clinical answers, but that's not good enough. I believe we all have the capacity to put aside whatever false benefit we believe power holds for us, to be seared by the healing power that comes from love, or at the least, the willingness to respect another person.  It boggles my mind that the world is full of so much dysfunction when it doesn't have to be, and worse, that human beings choose dysfunction over health.  The result is that we all are punished.

I know it can be wearying to put on our best face, to lay bare the rawness of our being in an effort to overlook the toxic fruit that emanates from the wounds of others. I am convinced, however, that without efforts to show love in return, to mete out kindness and compassion as balms for those wounds, we will spend our lives in the shadow of punishment.  That's unacceptable to me. I hope it is unacceptable to you as well.

untangling the knots

Next week will mark the sixteenth anniversary of my ordination as priest. That's not a long time, but it's a significant length of time to have walked that path. As I stand at the present fork in the road of my life I haven't really said much about why I choosing the prong of that fork that doesn't have anything to do with priestly ministry. The short answer is that it hasn't worked out. The long answer is considerably more complex and nuanced.

Here's a window into that complexity that might help understand where I am.

It's not uncommon to hear that members of any church think that pastors or preachers don't do anything between Sundays. I'm not going to waste my time dignifying that myopic cluelessness, but it does share similar qualities with a persistent experience of mine as a parish priest. When parishioners express their appreciation for me as a priest that appreciation has fallen into a singular category: preaching. Don't get me wrong, to be praised in the area of preaching is not a small thing. I suspect there are any number of clergy out there who are starved for praise in that department. But here's the rub. It's essentially the ONLY area of my ministry that has received appreciation.

Why is this an issue? For reasons that escape me it is the only one that members of congregations I have served seem to notice. Let's do the math. Fifteen minutes out of a sixty-hour week (the average norm for clergy) is .625%.  Does it make sense that it frustrates me that 99.375% of my effort goes under-acknowledged and unappreciated?

My coach helped me understand this dynamic in this way: in parish work my strengths and abilities were focused around communicating opportunity, illuminating possibilities, sharing transforming realities, honoring diversity, assuring the love and available presence of God in times of distress, listening, expressing gratitude for the efforts of volunteers, encouraging doubters, speaking truth, mediating grace, loving when I didn't like, valuing the smallest contribution, telling stories of hope, and more. The collective behavior of the people I served suggested that they paid attention to what was available to them and chose not to participate in the kingdom being proclaimed.

In visual terms I was about growth (picture vertical, reaching upward), the community was about business as usual (picture a flat, horizontal line). See that intersection? No wonder there was no affirmation, appreciation or recognition. No wonder I felt empty and starved. No wonder it's time to use what God has given me in a place where music can be made.

Does this mean that the world of parish ministry is empty and void of fulfillment? No. What it means is that my experience of serving in it has left me depleted.

For the record: there are individuals from  my congregations who have told me about transformation resulting from sermons, or bible studies, or one-on-one moments. I do have letters from parishioners who thanked me for my pastoral care, for being authentic and vulnerable, for helping them believe and hold on to hope when the world around them suggested otherwise. I have been chosen to lead retreats because it was evident that there was light in my soul, and because it was equally evident that I was eager to share that light. It has not all been a disappointment, and it does matter that 1% of my time could touch so many hearts and lives and make a difference in them (including members of the Bush family!).

Coming to understand that it is best, and right for me to take another path right now does not mean I have answers, only clarity where there was once a great deal of fog. It is my prayer that revelation will continue to unfold, that way will open, and that the moment of dancing in the light is not too far in the future.

gifts and shadows

Something I read on another blog recently has me thinking about giving. As in giving of ourselves through what we create. I'm choosing not to direct you to the blog because I don't want my comments here to appear as any kind of indictment of what is written there. The blog post catalyzed my thinking, evoked memories and feelings, and my train of thought since then is my own. But I know what it feels like to have someone refer to a post you've written and gotten feelings hurt unintentionally.

One of the ways I give of myself is to make things for other people. Like the cross stitch I am doing for my grandsons. Like sweaters I have knit, quilts I have made, clothes and Halloween costumes I have sewn, scrapbook albums I have created, and so on. Let there be no mistake, I find joy in the creating, a sort of incarnational expression of love for the recipient. One hopes, of course, that the recipient will be pleased with and appreciate what is created and given, but how something is received is not tied to the desire to create and give. The heart wants to give and share a part of itself, and so we find a way to express what is in our hearts through what we create.

Over the years I have created and given a number and variety of things to the people in my life. If memory serves, such gifts have been acknowledged with gladness and love, and generally, with enthusiasm.

There have been other times when I have invested myself in creating an experience for others that isn't about relationship, but is about offering a part of myself. For example, a number of years ago I picked up some odds and ends for a kind of grab bag at a vestry retreat. No one knew that they would be receiving any sort of gift. The grab bag event took place toward the end of the retreat. It was fun, involved laughter and the kind of kibbitzing that bore witness to the bonding that had taken place during our time together. To a person, no one acknowledged the thought behind it or referred to the grab bag ever again. That was disappointing.

I have done other grab bags, or things like that, and none have received a word of thanks or even recognition. I don't create to give with strings attached. I do claim that it is disappointing not to have the effort acknowledged or appreciated. I ask myself sometimes why I bother, but it never stops me from doing it again. I give of myself because it is what I want to do.

All of us face disappointment when what we give of ourselves goes unnoticed or unacknowledged. Whether it's something we've created, a skill we bring to a project or the workplace, or an expression of compassion, we share who we are. How are you affected by and how do you process such disappointment?

discovering wealth in poverty

We saved over $60 at the grocery store yesterday. That's a big "wahooo!" But we still spent too much. Having put together the grocery list I couldn't imagine what was on it that nudged the bill so high. I have to accept some of the blame for this--Ken went to the store without me. Other than bananas and half and half, which somehow didn't make the list, he didn't do any impulse buying. What he DID do was get two. You know, the buy one, get one? You don't have to get the second one to get the savings. For every BOGO I unpacked two items from the bags.

I have decided that I will take some of those items back to the store today. It may not seem like such a big deal. After all, we WILL use those second items in due time. But right now, the half price of those discretionary purchases serve us better in the bank.

Thinking about saving pennies this morning while making coffee, I was reminded of an earlier moment in my life when money was tight. I was barely out of college. I lived in Indiana and was headed to my Mom's in New York for Christmas. With my five-month old Sheltie keeping me company in the passenger seat, I was halfway across Pennsylvania when it suddenly hit me. Having bought dog food for the visit home, I didn't have enough cash to pay the toll to get across the George Washington Bridge.

A few miles further along my journey I spotted a sign for the state highway patrol station at an upcoming exit, and I made a decision. I got off at the exit and headed to the station. I went inside, where the woman who sat nearest the door looked up and asked if she could help me. I pleaded my case, and asked if she would consider cashing a small check for me. She shook her head, noting that they weren't equipped to cash checks there at the station. I must have looked crushed, because the look on her face indicated that she was trying very hard to find a way to help me out. Then the frown leveled and she offered, "I guess I could take some cash out of the coffee fund..."  And so she did. With the $7 cash with which I was now richer, I continued east to New York and made my way across the GWB into the city.

I headed to Greenwich Village to pick up my grandmother, and then we made a brief stop at Tudor City where she dropped off a gift for her friend, Charles. She returned to the car carrying the same, small bag in which she had toted the gift for Charles. As she got back into the car I inquired, "was he not at home?" and she placed the bag in my hands before closing the car door.

"This is for you!" she proclaimed. "They're cookies from Charles. He has more than he can possibly eat, and he wanted you to have some. It's what he calls the "share the wealth" plan."

I felt rich. On this day the kindness of a stranger and the generosity of a man I barely knew eased my burden and showered me with abundance. I have not forgotten either (as is obvious by this post). I no longer remember the name of the woman at the police station, though I did, at the time, send her a Christmas card with my thanks expressed. From that encounter I learned something about creative problem-solving and going the extra distance to help a person in need.

To this day I continue to practice Charles' "share the wealth" plan. When I have excess, and even when I don't, I try to share with others something of my abundance. I may be cash-poor, but I am surrounded by riches of other kinds, and my life is blessed.

Blessed are the poor of all kinds, for they shall know the mercy of God.

god is

I have acknowledged on previous occasions that I struggle to restore my spiritual life to a place where it doesn't feel threadbare. My inclination to pray is a mere whisper, the result of deep disappointment with God. My head believes. It's my heart that just can't muster up the wherewithal to engage.

I don't, however, give up. I make internal commitments to instill a new discipline that will grow and bloom into a life of its own. I have asked God for his help. I continue to sputter and flounder and flap in the proverbial wind. I wait.

And then some Simple Little Thing will come along that kindles the flame of my spirit and I feel connected again. The latest Simple Little Thing came in the form of an ad for a calendar: 12 Things God Wants You to Remember. Each month features a short phrase of encouragement, and as I read those phrases it was as though I was filling with light.

God is for you.
God loves you.
God will guide you.
God will not fail you.
God will be with you.
God will provide for you.
God will bless you.
God will give you rest.
God will strengthen you.
God will answer you.
God will uphold you.
God will keep you.

Simple statements. Life-giving words. Hope from which to draw nourishment.

There's a phrase that Ken uses to describe his prayers for others when they are facing a difficult or significant moment, event, or phase in their lives. He assures the one for whom he cares that he will "bathe you in prayer." It's a great phrase, but better still, he is a man of deep and committed prayer, and he follows through. It helps to live with someone who prays as he does. By osmosis I feel buoyed and at least tangentially connected to the divine.

Today as my soul rests in the joy of snow-covered everything, I feel bathed in the awareness that simple statements and the gladness of the soul reveal God's presence in my heart. There is hope, and there is help, because God is.

absolution

I failed. It wasn't a small error or mistake. It wasn't catastrophic. It was significant enough to have consequences that I regret.

This failure hurts. It hurts on the surface and it hurts down deep. Soul reverberating deep.

I am trying to work my way through it. I own the failure, but that isn't enough. I wonder where to turn for help and I find that the resources for coping with failure are thin and impersonal, cliched. No surprise. Failure isn't something anyone wants to acknowledge. No one wants wants to lay out before the world, or even some small, trusted portion of it, the raw vulnerability that is failure. To fail is to reveal deficiency, incompetence, inability, or some other face of that same, dark beast. No one wants that revelation.

No one talks about failure in personal terms. Unless we work or live with someone and see the up-close-and-personal reality of their being, don't we imagine that those around us excel in what they do? Don't we want others to think the same of us? Do we not want to be admired, respected, and esteemed? How, then, do I confess to you my failing?

Yesterday our bishop made his annual visit to my parish. As vestry members filed out of an energy-filled meeting we had with him to head to worship, he lingered and turned to me. He asked me how I was. Of all the people in the world to whom I want to present my best face, I confessed my failure to him.

On reflection, to confess was presenting my best face. Not my most competent face, but the full humanity of who I am at this point in time, "warts and all." Honest. Authentic. And it helped me to turn a corner.

I have continued to reflect on the incident of failing, and have come to understand something else. What was apparent and revealed on the surface hid deeper realities. I have owned and repented of my part, but there is more to this episode than my neglect, the response and the resulting action on the part of another which, in part, has wronged me.

And so I pray. I Pray for the strength to reach out to bring to light the pain on both sides, to affirm the goodness of all parties, to forgive the actions that have led to hurt, and to have redeemed what might otherwise become buried and cancerous.

Bless me, O Lord, for sins committed. Extend your mercy to hurting hearts and light the way to reconciliation.

silence

This is a day that I tend to equate with silence.
Stores closed, businesses closed, schools closed.
A day at home of quiet, solitude, meandering through the hours as I choose.
I might cook, read, clean, sew, watch television, look out the window.
It is a time that feels peculiarly mine.

No matter that my life is different now than it was when this New Day pattern was formed.
I will still cook, read, clean, sew, watch television and look out the window.
I will reflect on the clean slate that stretches before me and not look back.
I will imagine what can be drawn and danced on blank canvas.
I will fill it with color and life, and blank spaces where silence can embrace the soul.
I will hear laughter and the soundless sobs of grief that grip hearts too torn to cry.
I will smile and rejoice and hold my head high.
I will practice releasing my heart from the bonds that have trapped it and know love again.
Real love. Selfless love. Sacrificing love. Abundant love.

In the silence of this day I will imagine love,
and in that imagining I will watch it grow and bloom and flourish and thrive
and replenish itself.
Wounds will yield to promise.
Hope will transform reluctance
and grace will triumph.
As ever, grace will triumph in the seed that is that day of silence.

coffin compassion

A picture in yesterday's paper was part of an editorial about DADT. It showed the interior of an Air Force C-130 filled with flag-draped coffins. The caption read: "which one is the gay soldier?" The picture and caption were the editorial.

Seeing the picture-- while the surrounding text was a blur without my glasses-- reminded me of the controversy surrounding the ban of photographing and publishing soldiers' coffins during the Bush administration, and the lifting of that ban that took place shortly after Obama took office. Bush's rationale aside, I recall that an argument in favor of the ban was that photos taken of coffins was an invasion of privacy of the families of those fallen soldiers. I have a different take on this issue that I never saw reported (which doesn't mean it wasn't). The photo here speaks to it.

With all due respect to the families of soldiers killed in the service of their country, I don't see how the publishing of photographs showing coffins is an invasion of privacy. As the caption in yesterday's paper implies, the remains in any coffin viewed in such a setting are anonymous. We don't know who, specifically, is in those coffins. What we know is that a soldier lost his or her life, most likely in combat.

It is important to me to see these pictures for the following reasons. It affords me an opportunity to take a moment to pray for those who have died and for their families and loved ones. It brings home to me the sacrifices made by our soldiers and their families. As the (step) mother of a soldier who served six tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, it reminds me to give thanks that his life was spared in the face of the dangers that were inherent in his missions.

I'd like to think that if I were standing on the tarmac at Dover AFB receiving the coffin that held my son I would not take offense at a photograph that included his coffin. I believe, instead, that I would feel pride that in this poignant moment of face-slapping reality, his life and his loss would be captured for all the world to see. It is images such as these that keep us from becoming complacent about the personal cost of war. If a photograph depicting my personal loss could serve as such a reminder, I believe I would be glad, and grateful for its existence.

This view has nothing to do with politics. It's not about whether or not we should be at war. It's about human hearts, loss and grief, and how we are all connected to one another. It's my point of view.

feel the burn

The conversations taking place in my head--and occasionally with others--about relationships after death have stirred up some interesting food for thought. I have come to terms, for instance, with the reality that the unresolved tensions in the friendship about which I wrote earlier are fully mine to address. The hurt stemming from a lack of reconciliation before her death arises from questions that can't be answered. Having acknowledged aloud the depth of my hurt, the very act of saying those words has released the pain and healing is underway (thanks, Mom) .There will always be a lingering sadness, I think, that misunderstanding clouded the relationship, but such is life. We carry on.

While contemplating the questions of what becomes of us after death, I had a fresh revelation about a different version of purgatory. The RC doctrine is heavy on punishment. From my view, punishment is unnecessary and fails to reflect a compassionate God. Rather, standing in the face of eternal truth, the process of aligning ourselves with that truth causes a kind of anguish and spiritual pain. Whether you want to call it sin, errors in judgment, actions of malice, or whatever, being stripped of the things that interfered with being and living a life grounded in wholeness and love for which we have not made some effort to atone, is painful. It is the ultimate refiners fire. And again, not literal fire, but the kind of inner pain that comes with transformation. I'm thinking of the moth or butterfly that emerges from the chrysalis, for instance. Spiritual beauty doesn't come without sacrifice.

Maybe the step that takes us from a lifeless body to whatever comes next is really as simple as going into the light, being taken into the arms of Jesus, the bosom of God or the choir of angels. I don't know. But the questions that rise up like the smoke of incense capture our attention and warrant reflection. I don't dwell on these, but for what it's worth the process of turning over in my heart and mind the pain of brokenness has served up a feast for consideration.

Whatever awaits me when that time comes, it is up to me to live a life now that is loving, supportive, giving, and radiates the love and peace that I feel comes from God. However I am able to do that, by whatever means, I seek to do. I fail miserably so often, but each day offers an opportunity to start again, to set my sights afresh on the possibilities and blessings that await, and to be thankful for the opportunity to give it the old college try.

what can happen when you walk and wonder

I was walking yesterday on the track at the gym (the track is so. Boring. Must recharge my iPod!), and as so often happens when the brain lacks stimulation from its surroundings, it finds its own, inner track for entertainment.

A sequence of thoughts led me to ponder the nature of relationships after death (just a little light thinking…) A particular, personal situation began to spin some thoughts. A loved one died believing something to be true that wasn’t true. That belief interfered with the living relationship. In death, will the truth be discovered? Will the heart that clung to an untruth be released from whatever pain caused it to cling in the first place? Will there ever be a way that I might know of that’s heart’s transformation and release from pain?

It is not uncommon for some of us to be in a state of difficulty with another person at the time of their death. We know that in many circumstances in order for the person still living to experience peace and/or reconciliation with the deceased, it is the living person who does the “work” toward resolution, forgiveness, and letting go to reach the point of apprehending that peace. But what happens when the work that needs to be done lies with the one who has died? Is it possible for the one who has passed on to resolve and reconcile the issues at hand?

According to the catechism of the Episcopal Church we pray for the dead, trusting “that in God’s presence those who have chosen to serve him will grow in his love, until they see him as he is.” Forgive me, but that sounds a bit mamby-pamby. Overlooking for the moment the exclusive body referred to as those “who have chosen to serve him,” why do the prayers of the living assist that journey? It strikes me as an even exchange that the praying can be picked up by those “on the other side,” who have more familiarity with the after-death landscape when it comes to growing in love. And it is all well and good that growing in love will bring us to seeing God as he is, but in my view, once I’m gone that journey is beyond the sights of those still on the earthly plane.

My thoughts with this went all over creation, if you’ll forgive the use of that phrase, and I could write for pages more on the subject of “what happens to us after we die.” For now I’m interested to hear what you think about this (as referred to above) aspect of what transpires. Would you mind sharing your thoughts?

Much obliged.

new life

I'm not really sure when Advent begins technically. Thanksgiving marks the last feast day in the liturgical year, and the first Sunday of Advent begins the new cycle of the Church's walk of faith through the life and times and impact of Jesus. These in-between days of Friday and Saturday fall where, exactly? Friday might well stand outside of time, considering that many worship the altar of consumer enticements (not an indictment, simply an observation). I'll hedge my bets and refer to today as the Eve of Advent, which, in fact, it is. I suspect most people whose lives aren't influenced by having to prepare sermons and spiritually meaningful activities for others don't think of this time as a beginning, but this year I am very mindful of the concept of beginning. Or, more accurately, beginning again.

I am going to try, again, to improve my health habits. I find motivation in my friend Jayne's faithful commitment to healthier living, and having heard the testimony on Thanksgiving of one who has lost 26 pounds since August on Weight Watchers (and then there's Jules, who has also been successful on that program), I have good role models in this effort. I also have an accountability partner in my faithful canine, Juliet (above, right), who for various reasons has returned to the need to be walked a couple of times a day. She's not shy in letting me know that it's time to put on my walking shoes: she stands in front of me, raises her head and lets out a very vocal demand.

So yesterday we began anew with our walks, morning and evening. The morning walk followed the pattern of old, echoing the days before we had the invisible fence and I walked the dogs faithfully for their relief and pleasure. The morning route is always the same to minimize encountering vehicles bound for work. The evening route, however, varies. Last night as Juliet and I turned toward our old neighborhood I was overwhelmed by the nostalgia of earlier walks. The twice-daily walks of three years ago were born of necessity, but became for me an opportunity to enjoy the dogs without other distractions, and to entertain whatever thoughts might stray into the path of my consciousness. Those were also halcyon days of hope and possibility only barely strained by the weight of vocational, financial and family challenges. Hope and possibility are still present, but are often overshadowed by more urgent and pressing concerns.

To be visited by the pleasant ghosts of those previous journeys was bittersweet. I recognized the gift they were and can be again, now, at a time when such a gift is more than welcome. And I missed the companion who was part of those earlier forays through the neighborhood, my beloved Dooley. It is a comfort, in a way, to trace the paths of which he was a constant part, and to recall his peppy gait, happy expressions, and overflowing personality. I can feel rekindled the joy that he was in my life, and let the warmth of that fill my heart. I see in this remembrance, as well, an invitation to reclaim a ritual of peace and grounding. It is well and good to find motivation in the acts and successes of others, but it is better still to be empowered from wtihin by my own capacity of strength and resilience.

So I am marking today as a new beginning. It will have its bumps and jolts, its fits and starts, but the need and desire to be launched is greater than a desire to indulge the ease of inertia. It is time, literally, to put one foot in front of the other and move. Walks with the dogs never brought me back to the house the same person I was when we ventured forth. I can be satisfied, for now, to measure momentum one step at a time. Before I know it those steps will give way to strides, and with those strides I will cover ground I can only imagine now.

Juliet is waiting patiently. My future cannot afford to wait any longer.

Prayers for a blessed Advent.

photographs and memories

Years ago my grandmother and I went through some boxes stored at Melrose where family pictures, albums, and letters had accumulated. We made attempts to identify everything and everyone in the pictures, and if she couldn't remember who they were, she was of a mind to toss them. I understood her thinking--I toss pictures, too, when the event or person in a picture can no longer be recalled or ceases to be meaningful. But I live in an era when photographs are abundant. The pictures in her collection, well, not so much.

Among the photographs was this one. Meet Miss Sue. My grandmother didn't know when the picture was taken, or where, but she remembered Miss Sue, a friend of the family. And that is all I know. But I adore this picture. Miss Sue is standing so gracefully and regally, even if posed, that I feel a desire to honor her memory if only to admire her in this moment. And that is, in fact, all I can do, since I know nothing about any other moments of her life. I don't know how she knew my grandmother's family. Neighbor? Church? Distant kin (my grandmother would have known that, so probably not)? Whatever her connection, having a photograph of her among the family's other prizes was warranted, so she must have been important to someone at some time.

I am awash in photographs. Since going digital most of them haven't been printed, and as I get older I wonder which of the segments of my life I want to spend the time organizing, printing, journaling and presenting in some form that looking at them one day will matter to someone else. Without children of my own there are few people that I can imagine will be interested in my life and times. I don't take pictures, or scrap them, for posterity, but this whole aging business does make me mindful of how I spend the time I have.

One thing I do know. I need to record what matters to me in more than pictures. Because the day WILL come when I won't remember, or can't place the who, what, or where of some of the pictures I've taken. If I want my life to matter, then something tangible will need to reflect that, at least as I see it now, today. Lovely as she is, I don't really want to end up like Miss Sue.

nuggets

Nuggets of wisdom can be found everywhere: plaques, posters, greeting cards, tote bags, even tea bags!

Among my favorites:

• The battle of the sexes will never be won, there’s too much fraternizing with the enemy.
• Experience is a hard teacher. She gives the test first, and the lesson afterward.
• The hand that holds the car keys rules the family.

One such tote bag caught my eye recently, and I wrote down the quote and propped it by the phone on my desk. It claims a place of such prominence not because it trumps all other wisdom, but because I thought I would do something with it soon. Like put it on a greeting card!

I have been engaging in a pretty thorough course of self-examination over the last several days, and this morning one of the lines of this “nugget” stood out: “Choose with no regret,” it reads, followed by “Continue to learn.”

That first one gave me lots to think about. In the world of drama we are often shown a character looking at his or her life and coming to terms with its potential end right around the corner. The phrase “I have no regrets,” is uttered, the implication being that coming to the end of one’s life without regrets is a kind of finish line to cross. Perhaps it is. Maybe the substance of regret is the grist we are given for the mill of our being, to grind through and come to terms with the consequences of our choices, accept them and let them go. I can buy into that. But I also know that some unfortunate consequences have a long life span, and their impact on our lives can reverberate a very long time.

I have plenty of regrets about choices I have made. To the best of my ability I strive to make good choices with the information I have at the time. I think that is a fair standard for any of us when it comes to making choices. Held up to the light of scrutiny when all the information is gathered and evaluated is when we are able to recognize the flaws in what we chose. “If I’d known then what I know now…” But we don’t know. If we’re lucky, and perhaps intentional, we’ll learn from the experience when our choices head down the path to regret (see teabag wisdom about experience, above).

What I think “Choose with no regret” is really getting at, however, is the freedom to choose without second-guessing ourselves. It might be something as mundane as picking a color from one of L.L. Bean’s plethora of options when purchasing a turtleneck (or a t-shirt for my friends in the tropics). When a high school senior chooses a college, a more critical choice, the wisdom must hold, as well.

I think choosing without regret means not uttering the phrase that begins with “I wish I had (or hadn’t)…” The reality at such times is that we didn’t do, say, or act as we had the opportunity to do. Regretting our choices at such a time does help us learn to pay attention to the things we have before us to consider at any point in time. I have learned, for instance, not to buy an article of clothing that I absolutely love when no viable opportunity to wear it is likely (or when it is just snug enough that I think that I really will lose the weight to be able to wear it!). But more importantly I am learning that the regret of not doing weighs more heavily on me than regretting doing something. I am working on understanding what part of my being interferes with action, and trying to determine how I can rehabilitate the character flaw that keeps me from getting to my feet, putting pen to paper, or getting out the mixing bowls.

I suppose that what it boils down to is that regret is opportunity. What we do with, whether or not we learn from it, is what shapes the choices we make in the future.

What do you think?

just thinking

He called the president a liar in front of God and everybody.

What has gotten into people? Shout outs at town hall meetings, boycotts of a presidential address to schools, and now there's a case before the supreme court where the argument is being made that because money can buy a media blitz it should be considered a right to free speech. Yeah, no.

I think it's all about control. The loss of it. At least it is that to which I attribute the anger, hostility, rudeness and self-righteousness that is so pervasive these days. There is so much uncertainty about jobs, money, whether or not the mortgage payment can be made and a family will be homeless in another month. It is about the cultural ego-slam when a man can't provide for his family. It is about gender bias when a woman is the head of a household and can't keep up. It is about the fear among the elderly whose nest-eggs have been robbed by the greed of a few. Closer to home it is about the concern for Junior when he deploys next in a unit that doesn't have the training and won't have the protection to which he's accustomed.

It's about daily survival, and it takes its toll.

We have concerns about money in our house, too. I'm not worried about the mortgage, but my credit rating is in the tank. That doesn't bode well for the future. There's no telling if it will recover or how long that will take. We have concerns about family estrangements, and the heartbreak tears at our souls a little with each day that goes by without movement toward resolution. Depression sucks air out of the motivation to do more to provide for our needs and recover from our wounds, fiscal and familial.

It's one day at a time, and it takes its toll. There are days when I feel right with the world and I get lots done and the people in my care are well served. There are days when survival barely allows me to spare them a thought. It's not fair to them, and I pray that the efforts of my better days compensate for those when I am merely surviving.

But I am not striking out. I am not disparaging another's character or shouting hateful words. I am not even thinking ill of someone who puts a bad face on the things I care about. In survival mode I am doing what I can to manage my life and use my time in a way that at the least benefits my household and my family, and then serves the needs of others. When we can't control the big things why can't we focus on the little things? Get the family together for a meal, wash a neighbor's car, plant a garden. Say "thank you" to someone every day for something they've done, expected or unexpected. Slap on some lipstick. Look at each day as a gift.

I have some friends who, when they get together for dinner they go around the table and offer up one thing that sucked about their day, and one thing that lifted it above the ordinary. It's a worthy endeavor, to acknowledge the crap and recognize the blessings. It puts life in perspective, shifts the focus away from the dregs and brings into the light at least one aspect of life that can be celebrated.

It's a place to start. And a world better than calling someone a liar.

mindfulness

I don't subscribe to the philosophy that everything happens for a reason. Let's just say that it has something to do with free will. I do believe, however, that there is synchronicity in the world. In the same way that pheromones communicate and appear to bring people (and hormones) into alignment, I believe that like energy draws people and ideas together. Over the last few days this has been the case with mindfulness: the idea that we become observers to situations and look at them without judgment. So much more could be said about this, but I touch on it because it relates significantly to something that has been bothering me for a few weeks.

Something written on another blog touched off a reaction in me. I wasn't hurt by the comment, which though not directed specifically at me could certainly have been construed to include me. But I did feel that what was written was a slight to some of the content that was appearing on my blog. Mindfulness looks at the feelings and thoughts that I experience. I'm not quite sure that I can identify the feelings, but the thoughts are that the comment made by the other blogger appeared not to honor whatever led me to choose to post what I did. (Is that too cryptic? It's difficult to keep the specifics out of this, but I am choosing to do that for a reason.) I don't need anyone else to value what I write here, but I guess I do have an expectation that bloggers don't go around trashing what someone else has written. The person writing the comment was speaking about her own reality and contrasting her life situation and blog entries with what was appearing elsewhere.

My struggle is whether or not to share my thoughts about this. I am new at this mindfulness stuff (looking at my own thoughts and feelings with detachment and without judgment). What do I do with what I learn from my observation? Is anything accomplished If I choose to note a response here? Do I dishonor myself if I choose not to write about it?

In short, this is my quandary. If you so choose, discuss!

fighting experience

A wise therapist once shared the wisdom that experience is not the same as truth. It is probably one of the more profound things I have ever learned, and something about which I need to remind myself regularly. It is kin to the more commonly known adage that perception is reality, but what we experience takes root at a place more deeply seated within us than a cognitive apprehension of our perceptions.

I've been struggling for years to reclaim a part of myself that used to thrive. Following the pattern of my distaff gene pool, I used to be very good at honoring the people in my life with remembrances of their birthday. I would send cards, bake a cake, make a collage... I let my creativity run wild with ideas that actually got executed. My mother provided wonderful examples of ways to make people feel special: I remember especially my freshman year in college when I opened a box from her that was filled with green Easter grass and the contents of what would have filled a basket had I been home for that holiday. (Thanks again, Mom!) I did my best to follow her example, and enjoyed exercising that gene enormously.

And then something happened my junior year in college that wounded me deeply. It was a few years later that I learned from a friend what was behind the behavior that had been so hurtful. I was able to understand the dynamics that led to what happened, and forgive those who had caused the hurt. Though I moved on from the pain of that time the wound had cut deep, and seemed to have severed the connection to the part of me that honored others in expressive ways.

I stopped baking cakes and cookies. I didn't buy birthday cards. My creative well of expressive ideas slowed from an abundant spring to a barely damp creek bed. Occasionally there were relationships that took me deeper into myself than the wound had cut. My goddaughter, Johanna, was one such relationship. My friend Kathy was another. And Sammy. From time to time an idea would strike about something that would be meaningful to another and I would do that. But by and large I have not been able to retrieve the self-less and generous spirit of my youth.

I miss that woman terribly. I'm not fond of the shuttered, inhibited person who has taken her place and fallen into routines of silence and benign neglect. That old, deep wound seems to have redirected the course of my inner river of connectedness and I don't know what to do to experience the life-giving flow that once nourished not only me, but my relationships. The experience of being closed is not the truth of my spirit, but it's shadow looms so large that light has a hard time reaching that spirit. I need desperately for this truth to set me free. It will make all the difference in my world.

when PB doesn't mean peanut butter

Somehow or other I didn't get to mentioning this earlier in the week (guess it didn't quite fit in with the posts), but our Presiding Bishop is in town this weekend! Katharine Jefferts Schori is a remarkable woman and bishop. Called to the vocation of priest several years after receiving her PhD in oceanography, she served as priest in Oregon before being elected bishop of Nevada in 2001. She was elected Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church in 2006 at our last General Convention. She speaks Spanish fluently and is an instrument rated pilot. Does all of that seem a bit right-brained? She has an incredible gift for pastoral leadership, is an astute listener, gentle in speech, full of compassion and mercy. She knows her bible and grasps fully the nuances and complexities of faith. And she doesn't flinch. Did I mention that she is amazing?

She is in town this weekend at the invitation of our bishop to help one of our congregations, St. Ann's, celebrate it's 150th anniversary year. The diocese gathered last night for Eucharist and a reception to honor the PB, and she spent a couple of hours with the clergy beforehand as a way for us to have access to her, to ask questions and speak our minds.


There was a good turnout of clergy, but I confess that I was disappointed with my colleagues. Do they not pay any attention? Do they not listen or read? Most of the questions asked were the obvious, well-worn (nay, exhausted!) questions of interviewers. The same stuff that appears in every article: being the first female PB and Primate in the Anglican Communion; the intersection of science and faith; her "liberal" theology, blah blah blah. To her credit Bishop Katharine (as she is called) replied to each question as though it were new to her, and honored each person's question with patience and directness. But oh, what a lost opportunity! I confess I had no questions prepared. Of late my own life has been so consuming that I haven't given much thought to the quandaries of the Church. Fortunately a handful of questions did offer the opportunity for her to head in new directions, directions that weren't about her but about the Church, faith, and mission. She has a heart for mission, and in her sermon last evening she invited and challenged us to be more attentive to that aspect of the Church's life. (She used a great phrase: the ministry of interruption, noting that we, as humans, could take a cue from the Holy Spirit's practice of interrupting us!)

As a Church, nationally, we are blessed beyond measure with Bishop Katharine's leadership. It saddens me at the same time that her extraordinary gifts can't be experienced more directly--a reflection of the paucity of those gifts among our leadership in the Church and in the world. I can only pray that as she leads us during her tenure as PB those who do come in contact with her will take note and make an effort to listen, to watch, to be moved to action so that we might, as she suggests we are able, change the world.

daring to hope

There's a situation here at home to which I've alluded, but upon which I have not elaborated. It's a fairly private matter (and no, it's not scandalous, simply private), so I don't feel that sharing details are appropriate, at least not now. That said, it is something very much on our minds, in our prayers, and weighing on our hearts. Since I tend to blog about my life it is difficult to avoid referring to it here. For one thing, it consumes a fair amount of time and energy. For another, it is something that requires thoughtfulness and reflection. There are decisions: do I speak or not? How carefully must I weight my words? From whom might I receive counsel? Is it appropriate for me to act? This is also a situation from which I am learning, and so once again reflection leads the way.

One thing upon which I am reflecting is prayer. In my thinking a desired result is the object of prayer. The journey toward that result is at God's discretion and in his/her hands, and not for me to suggest. For instance: someone I know is job hunting. My prayer for her is that she find a job that is satisfying and that challenges her toward growth into the fullness of her potential. I don't pray that she gets a specific job in a specific place. In my thinking attaching specifics to the prayer binds it and limits the possibilities for its fulfillment.

So I'm experiencing a little bit of a dilemma. I've been asked to pray for someone to be led to a deeper relationship with Christ through which transformation and healing would take place. The desire is that the resulting inner transformation would lead to the resolution of a difficult situation. Hmmm. On the one hand there is nothing wrong with this prayer. Its intentions are good and the desired result is definitely worthy. But I am balking. I am resisting the idea that I, or anyone else, should try to direct how another person experiences transformation or healing. It may be that this person's relationship with Christ (which already exists) is the best vehicle through which transformation can take place. But isn't that up to God? To me the prayer is best expressed in "end terms." By that I mean that I would pray that God would help the people involved in this particular situation to resolve their conflict, experience reconciliation and healing, and find transformation in the relationship. I'm uncomfortable suggesting how that result would come to pass. I suppose I am also troubled about this prayer request because it places the burden of change on one party, when both parties involved in this matter would benefit from transformation. That's a different matter, but it's connected.

In spite of this prayer puzzle I am singing praises this morning because apart from the prayer request, a door that had been closed has now opened. It is a step in the process of resolution and reconciliation that is necessary, and this movement is inspiring hope within me that progress can, in fact, be made. I am grateful for the grace God has given me for my part in this thus far, and will pray that I continue to make thoughtful and, yes, prayerful decisions on this journey. I am also crossing my fingers, because God is full of surprises.

friday five: life is a verb

(All sorts of situations at home have delayed today's post, including no internet access!)

Jan at RevGals writes:
Jennifer recommended this book, which I got because I always value Jennifer's reading suggestions. The author of Life is a Verb, Patti Digh, worked her book around these topics concerning life is a verb:
Say yes
Be generous.
Speak up.
Love more.
Trust yourself.
Slow down.
As I read and pondered abaout living more intentionally, I also have wondered what this Friday Five should be. This book has been the jumping off point for this Friday.

1. What awakens you to the present moment?
Two things, which at first glance seem diametrically opposed: tension, and the Holy Spirit. When I feel my shoulders getting tight I stop whatever I am doing and take a deep breath. I try to release whatever is on my mind as I exhale and simply empty myself. In that emptiness other things often emerge, and those things tend to do with a present moment.

The HS is my most reliable partner in spontaneous crime. Out of nowhere a detached thought will emerge, or I will observe a detail in my surroundings that causes me to pause and consider some aspect of it. She is especially good at getting me to listen to silence. I can recall one evening a multitude of years ago when my goddaughter and her sister (then both under the age of ten) came to spend the night with me. As I was going to bed I was stopped by the sound of their breathing, an awareness of their presence and a reminder of the aching void of not having children of my own. (My goddaughter and her sister are pictured to the right, all grown up!)

2. What are 5 things you see out your window right now?
The front yard, full of birds eating breakfast.
The opportunity for getting better acquainted with our neighbors across the street, two of whom we haven’t met.
A garden project I would like to move from planning to reality.
The colors of sunrise reflected in the windows of the house across the street.
Our overgrown front lawn.

3. Which verbs describe your experience of God?
Inspire, accept, comfort, disappoint, amaze, annoy, love, surprise… I’ll stop there or I’ll be here thinking about it all day!

4. From the book on p. 197: Who were you when you were 13? Where did that kid go?
At 13 I was a girl adjusting to the separation of her parents; making new friends when in seventh grade four grade schools funneled into one junior high; experiencing live birth when my dog had a litter of puppies; suffering through death when the firstborn pup died at five weeks, and the mother of the litter was killed three weeks before Christmas; being involved in every conceivable sport for girls, either as athlete or team manager. As I list the things most readily available to my memory two themes emerge: grieving and relationship building. Where did that kid go? She was tasting adulthood, and her road pretty much continued down that path.

5. From the book on p. 88: If your work were the answer to a question, what would the question be?
How are you seeking to respond to God’s call of service through your gifts in this time and place?

I don't know if I would call this a "bonus," and it doesn't follow the ff instruction, but I found this a very challenging post today. Guess it's illuminating some of the bumpy road that is my path at present, and that's not exactly comfortable. Guess God is answering one of those prayers about revitalizing my faith! Careful what you ask for...!

holding within

My friend Jayne posted a meme on her blog the other day that I will apply to my own world shortly. In coming up with the responses to this meme challenge I got to thinking about what would represent my deep love for Scotland. One thing that came to mind was a framed work of batik that I used to own. It showed layers of hills/mountains that ran down to the sea, with a sky of gray and blue clouds and a gentle land mass in the foreground. I encountered this work at a craft fair the summer after my semester in Scotland and immediately recalled the rugged peacefulness of the western highlands and islands. It hung on my walls for years and finally grew dingy from years of accumulated dirt. It was made of silk stretched in a bare wooden frame.

I parted with it at some point not long ago. Other art had come into my life and competed for space on the walls, and though the batik continued to carry my spirit back to Scotland whenever I looked at it, I knew I could bid it farewell. I knew this because I carried in my heart the joy of that place, the colors and changeable moods of the landscapes according to sun or clouds, shadows or light. This part of Scotland is more than in my heart, it is deep within my soul.

In 1987 I ventured back there for the first time since I had been there while in college. The occasion was the wedding of a friend, and I decided to fly over and surprise her. It was the first time I ever took a trip alone, and many things are memorable about it. Apart from the wedding I had two priorities for my travels: Edinburgh to see again the family with whom I lived during that amazing semester (and to see the city, which I love), and Iona and the Isle of Mull. The latter are deeply spiritual places for me, and Mull, in particular, draws me like a magnet. At the wedding of my friend several days after my return to Mull I remember talking to the priest about the experience of my return. "As long as I can remember, when I sit down to draw and a blank sheet of paper is in front of me I draw mountains. Sometimes there is water in the foreground and sometimes not, but my first inclination is always to draw mountains. While crossing to Mull on the ferry," I told him, "I looked over to Mull with the mountains rising from her shores and realized that all of my life I have been drawing the mountains of Mull."

It was a startling revelation to me, but it explained to me the immediacy of my affinity for the place, and my sense of feeling at home there. All of Scotland works on me that way, but Mull, in particular, claims the core of my soul. It also explained why I could part with my batik. I don't need to see the colors dyed in silk to recall the place or remember its impact. I carry it within me. I can close my eyes and picture the landscape, feel the breeze and hear the gulls that keep vigil at the shoreline. I can smell the damp, dense earth and the salt of the sea. I can imagine my hands shoved into my pockets for warmth and the moist fog that clings to my skin. I can feel the dried heather yield to my steps on the mountains, and the sheep that dot the hillsides share the terrain without much of a blink. It is home, and I hold it in my being at the cellular level.

It is the richest blessing in the world.