I tried to corner three priests this morning, hoping to offer a good confession. the first one said he didn't have time, but that if I was truly sorry for my sins, he would offer me absolution without hearing them. He asked, "Are you sorry for your sins?" and I looked him in the eye and said, "No!" and turned around and walked out. The other priest sitting on the chair watched me leave with disbelief in his eyes.
I figure, if I want a drive-thru confession, I can do it on my own, without the assistance or counsel of a priest. (I don't spend a lot of time being nice to other people these past couple of weeks. It's not my job to make them feel wanted or better right now. I just don't have enough energy to be pleasant.)
The second priest, in his homily, tried to soft-pedal today's gospel reading. You know that story about Lazarus and the rich man. Lazarus goes to heaven, after suffering poverty on earth and the rich man goes to hell and begs for mercy, and he is given none. "You had your chance" the gospel of Luke tells him. The first priest said this gospel is a case for the Protestant church to support why we should not pray for the dead. I can't remember his Catholic solution. The second priest said it was okay to be rich, but that we needed to care for the poor, too. Something like that. Thought I could go to confession with him, but my conversation with a friend caused him to disappear before I could even ask. The third, I actually called, but he was busy all day today.
So perhaps God wants me to sit with my thoughts a bit longer. And they are unpleasant thoughts. I am filled with different angers, reasonable and unreasonable. The circus this weekend will be hard on my kids, but I have learned from last weekend that we are not capable of blessing each other right now. The best gift I can offer is my disappearance. My own personal mourning is much too deep for me to be of any use to anyone. Last weekend, the party was for his wife: her interpretation of my ex-husband's life. And then, more useful to me, was learning how my children saw their father...and more frightening, how they saw me in the context of that past.
What I learned by Monday, is that very little of what we do or do not do is ever understood with any kind of truth. No one really understands our private thoughts and motivations. It is a cruel world who will judge us, and it will judge us according to its own standards. It matters little whether we offer good or bad, what will be left behind is other people's opinions of our actions. This was a cruel and harsh reality for me and for those of us who might hope for atonement and reconciliation.
But then, that's really what funerals and memorials are for...kind of reworking the past to make it palatable. The ideas of Lazarus and the Rich Man are just that, ideas. For each of us, a different image and interpretation. God chooses, God decides...and we really have no clue about what God think about our antics here on earth. Even a child molester will offer what he thinks are perfectly justifiable reasons for his horrid behavior. And who knows, perhaps his reasons make sense to God. See how frightening it is?
I know that I don't want to go to hell, because that's what last weekend felt like. Surrounded by people who don't know anything about you, but hold opinions about you...and when the suffering comes...it's like you didn't exist at all, that there was proof you were here on this earth, but no one could see it or wanted to see it. What a true horror it is to be breathing and to not exist.
I suspect that is how the tragically poor feel on some level. How Lazarus may have felt in the presence of the Rich Man. But then, I ask myself, does a poor person truly know what he does not have, if he never had it to begin with? And can a rich man, never knowing deep suffering, know what it is like to be truly poor?
There are greater things at work here.
But I have been imagining things, hence the need for confession. I have been playing the role of Walter Mitty, for the older generation, and perhaps Ralphie, for the younger one. Imagining the suffering of those who torment me. Wishing less than good things for my enemies. Wanting justice and justification. Wanting desperately to tell "my side of the story." Yet, before long, as the party plays out in my head, I am ashamed of my own thoughts.
Should it matter that I go unloved, ignored, misjudged, humiliated....calumniated?
Isn't that the prayer of humility? To learn to not care what the world...or even my children...think of me? To endure the pain and allow it to make me even stronger? To be silent and let this situation come down on me, without defending myself?
It seems that is the proper course of action. Yet, I am told I must embrace my own anger. Express it. Let it heal me as well. There is a difference, which I have yet to sort out.
I wrote a bunch of ideas on a napkin as I was praying my way through this pain and confusion.
Writing some short stories where I can play out my fantasies of how I want to deal with these people, and these "unjustices" while still on an errand of mercy.
I watch a llama roll around in the dirt. I thought, that's how I feel...I'm rolling around in the dirt...and I realized that sometimes rolling around in the dirt has its purpose: it is a kind of cleaning and scrubbing...and it just feels good when you are all tight and stressed.
A sign proclaiming: Vote for Me! Yes, we all want to be popular...and right.
Then after the second Mass, I watched a young Hispanic mother and her daughter...thinking in my head: Madonna, mother...and the child was crying...a certain kind of cry...a deep sadness...in her little stripped knit hat and gloves...her mother held her but she would not be consoled...I felt better, listening to her cry, comforted by her tears. After a while, I asked, "Is she okay?" Her mother replied, "She wants her daddy."
I smiled and nodded. "I do, too."
Love,
Cindy
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Anger
One of the reasons I married my ex-husband was because he was not an angry man. I didn't think he would ever hit me...or my children. And he never did.
But one day, he decided he had enough...and he walked out.
His words were: "I don't love you. I haven't loved you for years."
I think he was angry.
I was more accustomed to people screaming obscenities...and physically hitting me. Breaking brushes on me. Knocking furniture over. Throwing things across the room. That is anger. Right?
Anger is a good emotion given to us by God, but we really don't know how to use it, accept it, understand it...perhaps even more confusing than love. Yet, I am convinced it is an aspect of love.
When Bob left, my daughter lashed out at me...even more than before, she was so very hurt by everything...and didn't know what to do. A therapist calmed me by telling me that we generally attack the one in whom we feel the most secure. That kind of boils down to something like: the one we know loves us, we will lash out and hurt that one the most. She knew I would not stop loving her, so she could release her anger upon me.
We do not get angry at people we are afraid of losing.
So when I was told yesterday that I was angry, I accepted it as a possible truth, but I did not want to believe it. Then, I began to become aware that my brain found the idea reasonable. But I did not feel anger. I felt sadness, disappointment, regret...but not anger. I felt like I was nothing in this world.
The obit came out for Bob...and I was not mentioned. He was married to a woman, not me, and his children came about by spontaneous generation I suppose (that's sarcasm...a masked kind of anger). I have always accepted the fact that when I die, people will probably forget me quickly...but to be nothing before my own death...that feels different. And I was surprised by my response, but somewhere deep in my own consciousness, I have always felt...always been treated...like I didn't matter.
So this whole God thing is great for me. The Jesus effect is directed specifically at the marginalized, the ignored, the "don't matter" group of people. This allows people to survive with civility in the very worst of circumstances. Jesus knew that. He knew in his heart...all the people who believed they didn't matter. And he whispered in their ears: You matter. You have value. To me. To God.
And what happens to us when we start to realize this great emptiness is real? We get angry. Anger catalyzes change. It energizes us to move from where we are to a new place. Anger is not a bad feeling, one to be conquered and subdued...but it should be embraced because it warns us that something is wrong.
How we respond, or act out, to anger, is something we need to face, and then find appropriate responses to let people know we are angry. I think we are grossly lacking in teaching each other how to manage anger.
Most often, we fear it. "I dislike confrontation." is a clearly a fear of anger, our own and others. Some people, rather than face the anger, walk away or hide. In more extreme cases, an angry person will kill themselves, or kill others. We think, because of these extremes, we should put a cork on our anger.
That is the absolute worst thing to do. Owning our anger, and learning to express it in constructive ways, is a skill to be learned. Ignoring anger makes us blind to love and kindness, it makes us unable to forgive, it makes us fat, it makes us smoke, it makes us abusive.
So we must face our anger...and look to the place from where it comes. We name the hurt, the transgression, the disappointment...we allow ourselves to feel it, grieve it...and then let it go.
It is an odd thing to find in the desert, but I found it. Someone else, actually two someone elses, had to tell me that was what was wrong with me...but unlike some of my angers, this one seemed to be more justified. I'm not sure how that fits. I'm still pretty much of a baby, learning to see my own anger...and learning how to stop being a victim of it.
This morning I woke to it, and I began to feel it. It wasn't nearly as scary as I thought it might be...
[Irony: Cat Stevens singing "I can't keep it in, I can't hide and I can't lock it away...I've got to let it out." from Catch a Bull at Four]
So, perhaps, if my ex-husband and I knew how to express anger, we'd still be married today. Married people really do need to take a class in how to fight with each other. That confrontation is not a bad thing.
But, for me, all that is gone. He's taken his feelings with him to the next place, wherever that may be. I'm still here, in this mess, wondering what God wants from me now...
And I'm angry...about being left out...again. And this writing is my way of dealing with it. For now.
The wind is not blowing today, and I am not afraid of burning too bright...but I am still in the desert...one step in front of the other.
For the moment, anger is not ruling me. But it walks beside me, to teach me what I need to know.
Love, Cindy
But one day, he decided he had enough...and he walked out.
His words were: "I don't love you. I haven't loved you for years."
I think he was angry.
I was more accustomed to people screaming obscenities...and physically hitting me. Breaking brushes on me. Knocking furniture over. Throwing things across the room. That is anger. Right?
Anger is a good emotion given to us by God, but we really don't know how to use it, accept it, understand it...perhaps even more confusing than love. Yet, I am convinced it is an aspect of love.
When Bob left, my daughter lashed out at me...even more than before, she was so very hurt by everything...and didn't know what to do. A therapist calmed me by telling me that we generally attack the one in whom we feel the most secure. That kind of boils down to something like: the one we know loves us, we will lash out and hurt that one the most. She knew I would not stop loving her, so she could release her anger upon me.
We do not get angry at people we are afraid of losing.
So when I was told yesterday that I was angry, I accepted it as a possible truth, but I did not want to believe it. Then, I began to become aware that my brain found the idea reasonable. But I did not feel anger. I felt sadness, disappointment, regret...but not anger. I felt like I was nothing in this world.
The obit came out for Bob...and I was not mentioned. He was married to a woman, not me, and his children came about by spontaneous generation I suppose (that's sarcasm...a masked kind of anger). I have always accepted the fact that when I die, people will probably forget me quickly...but to be nothing before my own death...that feels different. And I was surprised by my response, but somewhere deep in my own consciousness, I have always felt...always been treated...like I didn't matter.
So this whole God thing is great for me. The Jesus effect is directed specifically at the marginalized, the ignored, the "don't matter" group of people. This allows people to survive with civility in the very worst of circumstances. Jesus knew that. He knew in his heart...all the people who believed they didn't matter. And he whispered in their ears: You matter. You have value. To me. To God.
And what happens to us when we start to realize this great emptiness is real? We get angry. Anger catalyzes change. It energizes us to move from where we are to a new place. Anger is not a bad feeling, one to be conquered and subdued...but it should be embraced because it warns us that something is wrong.
How we respond, or act out, to anger, is something we need to face, and then find appropriate responses to let people know we are angry. I think we are grossly lacking in teaching each other how to manage anger.
Most often, we fear it. "I dislike confrontation." is a clearly a fear of anger, our own and others. Some people, rather than face the anger, walk away or hide. In more extreme cases, an angry person will kill themselves, or kill others. We think, because of these extremes, we should put a cork on our anger.
That is the absolute worst thing to do. Owning our anger, and learning to express it in constructive ways, is a skill to be learned. Ignoring anger makes us blind to love and kindness, it makes us unable to forgive, it makes us fat, it makes us smoke, it makes us abusive.
So we must face our anger...and look to the place from where it comes. We name the hurt, the transgression, the disappointment...we allow ourselves to feel it, grieve it...and then let it go.
It is an odd thing to find in the desert, but I found it. Someone else, actually two someone elses, had to tell me that was what was wrong with me...but unlike some of my angers, this one seemed to be more justified. I'm not sure how that fits. I'm still pretty much of a baby, learning to see my own anger...and learning how to stop being a victim of it.
This morning I woke to it, and I began to feel it. It wasn't nearly as scary as I thought it might be...
[Irony: Cat Stevens singing "I can't keep it in, I can't hide and I can't lock it away...I've got to let it out." from Catch a Bull at Four]
So, perhaps, if my ex-husband and I knew how to express anger, we'd still be married today. Married people really do need to take a class in how to fight with each other. That confrontation is not a bad thing.
But, for me, all that is gone. He's taken his feelings with him to the next place, wherever that may be. I'm still here, in this mess, wondering what God wants from me now...
And I'm angry...about being left out...again. And this writing is my way of dealing with it. For now.
The wind is not blowing today, and I am not afraid of burning too bright...but I am still in the desert...one step in front of the other.
For the moment, anger is not ruling me. But it walks beside me, to teach me what I need to know.
Love, Cindy
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
The Wind Blows Where it Wills
I wanna know
Have you ever seen the rain...
For the loser now will be later to win...
Knocking on heaven's door...
I wrote so much yesterday, but I'm thinking, maybe not yet...
as good as it is to write..
the attention is always drawn to a possible scandal...
Seems the ordinary crowds like their
Bread and circuses
And very few want meat and vegetables.
I could write of desserts that you would never be able to get out of your head
of lovers and passions and betrayals and adventures
all entertaining
but that is not why I write
yet
when I need money, I'll share the "good stuff."
I wonder if people in the past read Augustine for his treatise on God
Or just for the juicy details leading up to his conversion...
Some people really are that shallow.
I've heard stories that would make your stomach turn
and you would have to throw up...or wash yourself...
if I told them
If that is all you seek, scandal and betrayal and humiliation
Then go into your closet and look in the mirror.
You'll find what you seek
Because it was there first, before you sought it outside.
The wind is blowing so hard
It frightens me...
wind and no rain.
I need the water.
I am a fire sign...
Water brings me balance
Wind lets me burn much too brightly
I laid in bed, head on my pillow
and I wondered...
Why this Job-ian activity?
My head is spinning from the events in my own life
And I'll be damned if everyone else's life is in chaos as well
The mentor said "yeah" instead of "yes." That means he's angry with me. One letter. Yeah, I know. You do, too. You know the "look" and you know what it means. We all communicate on so many different levels...and we all know that we do, but who wants to own it.
That furry little demon ego is having a field day in all of us. Especially when the wind is blowing.
Oh, the tales I could tell...and you would live vicariously inside them...gleefully enjoying and judging at the same time. I could remind you of your own sins...and that would tick you off. Then we would carry each other into hell.
This is a picture of despair. I have suddenly realized that priests are not what I thought they were: people who really want to help. They want their pretty clothes and their rituals given only to them, their secret handshakes and cloistered decision makings...and all just for the boys...I began reading a book yesterday...and I saw how the game is played out. Rules on top of rules on top of rules...all designed to fail...so that more rules can be made.
I believed that I might find some kind of solace in this place that some people call sacred. But bit by bit, all the sacredness is being whittled away. I am in chaos. I am in despair. I hurt because I cannot fix the broken things in front of me. I cannot take away my daughter's suffering. I cannot help my son inside his pain. I can't fix them and I cannot seem to fix me.
This is truly the desert...
And now the wind is blowing.
My path behind me
The wind has blown away
And I don't know where I've been
Who I was
I don't remember where I was going
Or where I wanted to go.
There is only this wind
And this desert
If I walk into the wind,
I must walk blindly
The sand stings my eyes and burns my face
I don't know where I am going
I can turn my back to the wind
which feels better
But I don't want to go back there
And relive that pain
Knowing there is no answer to the why.
Going forward hurts too
If the wind stops
And I can see the stars again
It is soo cold
My body freezes
Must protect the heart, it says
And all the blood goes there
Be still
Maybe you won't die tonight
In the day,
The heat is relentless
It blisters my body
Makes me tired
Longing for shade
And so thirsty
And weak
The desert beats us
Not even locusts for food
The priests hold no answers in the desert
The ministers can sing to me
But when their song is done
I'm still in the desert
The hands of women reach out
Not understanding
But they reach out anyway
They know suffering
They know what it's like
To not be heard
To be ignored
To be used and then discarded
They reach out
And take me as I am
They stayed in the midst of suffering
When all others ran away
The Levite crossed the road
Didn't want to look at me
Or smell me
The priest didn't want to stain his pretty clothes
He wouldn't be able to stand in front of the people
Talk to God for them...
How important...
To talk to God
This one suffering by the road is of little consequence
To the many who must witness the ritual
And be inspired
The women stayed
in the now
they looked upon
my ugliness
my shame
and held me anyway
let me cry
and shake
held me
and let the walls crumble
getting them dirty too
Yes.
It is in the desert
Where we find our true friends
And our true enemies
And all the ones who just want to be nice
But uninvolved
In the desert
Where the wind blows where it will
We will find real comfort
From those
who walked in the desert
before us.
Love,
Cindy
Have you ever seen the rain...
For the loser now will be later to win...
Knocking on heaven's door...
I wrote so much yesterday, but I'm thinking, maybe not yet...
as good as it is to write..
the attention is always drawn to a possible scandal...
Seems the ordinary crowds like their
Bread and circuses
And very few want meat and vegetables.
I could write of desserts that you would never be able to get out of your head
of lovers and passions and betrayals and adventures
all entertaining
but that is not why I write
yet
when I need money, I'll share the "good stuff."
I wonder if people in the past read Augustine for his treatise on God
Or just for the juicy details leading up to his conversion...
Some people really are that shallow.
I've heard stories that would make your stomach turn
and you would have to throw up...or wash yourself...
if I told them
If that is all you seek, scandal and betrayal and humiliation
Then go into your closet and look in the mirror.
You'll find what you seek
Because it was there first, before you sought it outside.
The wind is blowing so hard
It frightens me...
wind and no rain.
I need the water.
I am a fire sign...
Water brings me balance
Wind lets me burn much too brightly
I laid in bed, head on my pillow
and I wondered...
Why this Job-ian activity?
My head is spinning from the events in my own life
And I'll be damned if everyone else's life is in chaos as well
The mentor said "yeah" instead of "yes." That means he's angry with me. One letter. Yeah, I know. You do, too. You know the "look" and you know what it means. We all communicate on so many different levels...and we all know that we do, but who wants to own it.
That furry little demon ego is having a field day in all of us. Especially when the wind is blowing.
Oh, the tales I could tell...and you would live vicariously inside them...gleefully enjoying and judging at the same time. I could remind you of your own sins...and that would tick you off. Then we would carry each other into hell.
This is a picture of despair. I have suddenly realized that priests are not what I thought they were: people who really want to help. They want their pretty clothes and their rituals given only to them, their secret handshakes and cloistered decision makings...and all just for the boys...I began reading a book yesterday...and I saw how the game is played out. Rules on top of rules on top of rules...all designed to fail...so that more rules can be made.
I believed that I might find some kind of solace in this place that some people call sacred. But bit by bit, all the sacredness is being whittled away. I am in chaos. I am in despair. I hurt because I cannot fix the broken things in front of me. I cannot take away my daughter's suffering. I cannot help my son inside his pain. I can't fix them and I cannot seem to fix me.
This is truly the desert...
And now the wind is blowing.
My path behind me
The wind has blown away
And I don't know where I've been
Who I was
I don't remember where I was going
Or where I wanted to go.
There is only this wind
And this desert
If I walk into the wind,
I must walk blindly
The sand stings my eyes and burns my face
I don't know where I am going
I can turn my back to the wind
which feels better
But I don't want to go back there
And relive that pain
Knowing there is no answer to the why.
Going forward hurts too
If the wind stops
And I can see the stars again
It is soo cold
My body freezes
Must protect the heart, it says
And all the blood goes there
Be still
Maybe you won't die tonight
In the day,
The heat is relentless
It blisters my body
Makes me tired
Longing for shade
And so thirsty
And weak
The desert beats us
Not even locusts for food
The priests hold no answers in the desert
The ministers can sing to me
But when their song is done
I'm still in the desert
The hands of women reach out
Not understanding
But they reach out anyway
They know suffering
They know what it's like
To not be heard
To be ignored
To be used and then discarded
They reach out
And take me as I am
They stayed in the midst of suffering
When all others ran away
The Levite crossed the road
Didn't want to look at me
Or smell me
The priest didn't want to stain his pretty clothes
He wouldn't be able to stand in front of the people
Talk to God for them...
How important...
To talk to God
This one suffering by the road is of little consequence
To the many who must witness the ritual
And be inspired
The women stayed
in the now
they looked upon
my ugliness
my shame
and held me anyway
let me cry
and shake
held me
and let the walls crumble
getting them dirty too
Yes.
It is in the desert
Where we find our true friends
And our true enemies
And all the ones who just want to be nice
But uninvolved
In the desert
Where the wind blows where it will
We will find real comfort
From those
who walked in the desert
before us.
Love,
Cindy
Friday, February 22, 2013
About love and Death
When I was a pastor, my senior pastor retired. I didn't want him to leave. I knew the new one would be my undoing...and he was. I should have moved on. I saw the signs. I almost always see the signs. I do not heed them because it scares me, to see the signs.
When this pastor left, well...he was the one who insisted I get my local pastor license so that I could do marriages and such. He was the one who said I needed to be dating. He was the one who said my father needed to meet me. I tried to do everything he asked of me, because I knew him to be a good man, a man I still respect. He was a better leader than anyone else I have ever met. Protestant and Catholic.
When he was packing, he gave me a strange gift, obviously old and from the back of his closet. It was dusty.
These are the words on it:
When this pastor left, well...he was the one who insisted I get my local pastor license so that I could do marriages and such. He was the one who said I needed to be dating. He was the one who said my father needed to meet me. I tried to do everything he asked of me, because I knew him to be a good man, a man I still respect. He was a better leader than anyone else I have ever met. Protestant and Catholic.
When he was packing, he gave me a strange gift, obviously old and from the back of his closet. It was dusty.
These are the words on it:
About Love and Death
...if the dead can come back to the earth
and flit unseen around those they loved,
I shall always be with you.
in the gladdest days and the darkest nights...
Always, always.
And if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek,
it shall be my breath.
As the cool air fans your throbbing temple
it shall be my spirit passing by...
Do not mourn me dead.
Think I am gone and wait for thee.
For we shall meet again.
excerpt of a letter...Sullivan Bailou
July 16, 1861
written to his wife before a Civil War battle in which he died.
It was an odd and wonderful gift from my mentor. It is the manner in which people give me gifts. I had one literally throw one at me once. It was also a special gift. I have always had an unusual effect on people. My goal has always been to help others see their truth...hoping that they will help me to see mine. The thank yous come in such unusual packages. I like that. I look at this picture...and I am thinking it may be time for me to pass it along, too, to another who needs it more. But I, too, will give it away in an odd way...there is no other choice.
But today, as I go off to meet the woman my husband choose instead of me, I go with joy...because he followed what he wanted most...just like me. This weekend will be hard and I am frightened, but so many good blessings are possible.
I wonder what will happen next?
But today, as I go off to meet the woman my husband choose instead of me, I go with joy...because he followed what he wanted most...just like me. This weekend will be hard and I am frightened, but so many good blessings are possible.
I wonder what will happen next?
Love, Cindy
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Letting in the Light
My supervisor suggests to me that I leave my rather non-Hallmark comments off Facebook and put them here. I am writing poetry like crazy, but none of it seems appropriate to publish for eyes that cannot understand. Yet, there is always a need to be heard. I cannot escape that.
Self-differentiation. Knowing where I begin and end. Knowing where you begin and end. And making peace with that.
I dreamed on Sunday night that I was ordained a priest. But there were no priests in my dream. I was surrounded by Methodist ministers, the ones I love. And Tom Graves, who died not too long ago, anointed my head with the sarcred chrism oil...even in my dreams, I am eccumenical. In my dreams, there are no distinctions between faiths. In my dreams, we all get along. And I was shocked and awed that I was annointed...and that I had these Methodist ministers who loved me. It was a good, hurting good, kind of feeling.
Lasr night I dreamed I entered a monastery...when I dream of the monastery, it is kind of like Eden, I can smell the grass growing there. And again, a special kind of bliss...belonging to a group of people who love God first.
The week before Bob died, I was dreaming about him "too much" I thought. I was frustrated with myself that I always brought him into my dreams, that I had no others to think about. I knew I needed to deliberately date now...create memories of something different, something to replace these dreams of a life long gone. And I was angry that I would have to "do something" like that so that I could be different...
How odd...
In the course of all these new Lenten things...and for me, that is what they are, I see God changing me again. Fear of my own illness is still there, but so much less important. The right now is very important. I am driven to be that person who can help create good memories in this crucial time, this Sacrament of death before me. My head spins with my history of who this man was in my life. I try to see from the eyes of my children (which is impossible), what they have of him. Can I see clearly to be an authentic bringer of truth to the present? I'm not sure.
I need to let in more light.
Dearest Lord,
Show me who I am
Show me who I need to be in the days ahead
To help heal
All these wounds
That sudden death brings with it.
Help me to do no harm
To see as clearly as I am able
To check carefully
My own feelings
of Loss
For I have been given a job to do
I am a midwife to this next thing
And I need your help
To bring about the birth
Of new life
In these beautiful people
Connected to me
In the moment.
I ask for grace
and healing in my own heart.
That the light before me
not blind me
to the light of others.
Let me fall back
And you do your work
though me,
if you choose to use me.
Heal me Lord,
that I might become
an instrument of healing
for them.
Let me place my pain
In a safe place
To share with you later.
Thank you for these lives
That have touched mine.
Made me better
Than who I ever thought I was
before.
Give us grace to heal.
Give us courage
To let in
The light.
Love, Cindy
Self-differentiation. Knowing where I begin and end. Knowing where you begin and end. And making peace with that.
I dreamed on Sunday night that I was ordained a priest. But there were no priests in my dream. I was surrounded by Methodist ministers, the ones I love. And Tom Graves, who died not too long ago, anointed my head with the sarcred chrism oil...even in my dreams, I am eccumenical. In my dreams, there are no distinctions between faiths. In my dreams, we all get along. And I was shocked and awed that I was annointed...and that I had these Methodist ministers who loved me. It was a good, hurting good, kind of feeling.
Lasr night I dreamed I entered a monastery...when I dream of the monastery, it is kind of like Eden, I can smell the grass growing there. And again, a special kind of bliss...belonging to a group of people who love God first.
The week before Bob died, I was dreaming about him "too much" I thought. I was frustrated with myself that I always brought him into my dreams, that I had no others to think about. I knew I needed to deliberately date now...create memories of something different, something to replace these dreams of a life long gone. And I was angry that I would have to "do something" like that so that I could be different...
How odd...
In the course of all these new Lenten things...and for me, that is what they are, I see God changing me again. Fear of my own illness is still there, but so much less important. The right now is very important. I am driven to be that person who can help create good memories in this crucial time, this Sacrament of death before me. My head spins with my history of who this man was in my life. I try to see from the eyes of my children (which is impossible), what they have of him. Can I see clearly to be an authentic bringer of truth to the present? I'm not sure.
I need to let in more light.
Dearest Lord,
Show me who I am
Show me who I need to be in the days ahead
To help heal
All these wounds
That sudden death brings with it.
Help me to do no harm
To see as clearly as I am able
To check carefully
My own feelings
of Loss
For I have been given a job to do
I am a midwife to this next thing
And I need your help
To bring about the birth
Of new life
In these beautiful people
Connected to me
In the moment.
I ask for grace
and healing in my own heart.
That the light before me
not blind me
to the light of others.
Let me fall back
And you do your work
though me,
if you choose to use me.
Heal me Lord,
that I might become
an instrument of healing
for them.
Let me place my pain
In a safe place
To share with you later.
Thank you for these lives
That have touched mine.
Made me better
Than who I ever thought I was
before.
Give us grace to heal.
Give us courage
To let in
The light.
Love, Cindy
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Lessons in Love
Make me a better chaplain, I asked God. Hospital rooms visits were not much a a challenge this year.
I have become quite good at what I do.
I at least thought I have become quite good at what I do.
I think it became for me a bit of a routine sometimes, kind of like I feel inside me when some priests do the Mass: all the words are there, but he's not into it and that makes me not into it either. They are human beings, they get bored or tired. There is nothing wrong with that. The Donatist controversy seems to cover all those problems. A priest might not be in a proper state to celebrate Mass, but the Mass is still effective, despite the manner of the priest.
Perhaps that covers chaplains also.
Make me a better chapplain, Lord.
First, it was the impending threat against my physical life: my blood was not good. Is not good. The real possibility of my life ceasing soon, ceasing to be what it was (not all that impressive to me, even in my eyes), and the possibilities for the future seemed to be dimmed dramatically.
Then I was/am surrounded by people in deep suffering. Tragic suffering. And so many of them don't believe in God at all. What do I do? How can I help? And how does my physical status affect what I do and who I am?
Make me a better chaplain, Lord.
And quite quickly, the night the firetrucks came, taped off my house and told me I could not go inside. I sat on the steps of my neighbor's house and watched. "Are you gonna take it all, Lord? (I paused.) Do I have to let all this go? (I paused and thought). Yes, Lord. I said. I can let it all go: my health, my property. I only want you. I only desire you. You know this to be true. Now I know this to be true. I am called to love. I don't need my health or my property to do that.
And later, in conversation with a friend, I was reminded. Some of us have so much energy, that, when it pours out of us, physical things are disturbed. Two days after my husband walked out, a tornado came through my yard, tearing down my fence, and uprooting my favorite tree in the front yard. I had to get a new roof. The dishwasher broke. The freezer broke. Coincidence? Perhaps. Yet I remembered this as I was telling my friend about my day, January 11th. (1-11-13) On 12-12-12, I had received two units of blood. Won't forget that either. But when the bad news came, the house seemed to blow up. The wiring went hay-wire. We laughed.
There is way more going on in the world that you know. Just recently, I stumbled upon a funeral. A woman I had visited, only a month ago, told me she dreamed all her dead relatives stood around her bed. She was frightened. In my pastoral mode, I knew exactly what she was thinking, but in my pastoral mode, I didn't play that card. I said, "Perhaps they knew you were lonely, and they wanted to let you know that you are not alone." And we had a long talk about forgiveness. But I saw her lying in that coffin and felt a bit like I had betrayed her somehow. I should have done a better job. I should be a better chaplain.
Lord, make me a better chaplain.
I was also a bit jealous. She moved on. I was still here. Why? I woke with a start to the news that the Pope was resigning. Holy crap! How is that possible? Does it mean we women have a chance for a full life again? But reason came back to me and fantasy left. Nothing's going to change. It is what it is. This is my world. I must learn to live well in it.
Lord, make me a better chaplain.
Then...after many looks from trusted friends and good priests...who did not like my decision. I decided I was not going to die in a bed, with tubes around me draining the money from me and away from my children and grandchildren so some doctor can buy a third home in Colorado...or perhaps more acurately, some insurance executive can take a third trip to the Galapagos next year. I weighed my choices and made my decision. Then I discovered something remarkable: my children really do love me.
Some of us are never really sure, about that love. Some of us take it for granted. Think about the Prodigal Son story. There's much more to it. We have the "good" son who stays home, who thinks he's earned his inheritance by his holy behavior. There is the "bad" son, who sees it all as damn good luck, and says "give it to me now." And there is the Father, who we often associate with God, which is perhaps the true pericope of the story...but what if the father is just human? A rebellious teaching that might suggest that neither of these boys learned what love is from the mere blessing/curse that the father is rich? The abundance of material wealth got in the way of all of them understanding what love is. Neither boy seemed to understand love, as they were becoming adults...so the father (and perhaps the mother) had not taught them how to give and receive love. That's why it was all about money.
I looked with awe at my children. We fight. We disagree. I love them deeply. Do they know that? Have I given them reason to believe it? Do they remember only a mother who just wanted to get out of the house? Do they remember the fun? Did I do enough for them to understand love? My daughter in law connected me to a post: "Put the phone down now" or something like that. The idea is much like that old Beatles song: "Life is what happens while you are making other plans." Perhaps less plans, more living.
Yet I must have done enough...or God filled in so many huge gaps. They love me. I know that now. And I was stunned by that love.
Lord, make me a better chaplain.
But I still had my plan. Valentine's day came...and I was alone. Always alone. Always by choice. Not going to let anyone use me or hurt me again. This heart just can't be broken any more. There is nothing left to break.
I was so very wrong.
Lord, make me a better chaplain.
I told God...no, I'm not going to write that yet.
Friday night, first Friday after Ash Wednesday. I could have gone to church for the Stations of the Cross. But I am still so frightened by my health, and the entire day was filled with changes and cancellations...either mine of someone else's. And I was supposed to go to the Missionaries of Charity, but my stomach decided that I needed to stay close to the bathroom...and my body seemed to be cleaning itself out agressively. I did not want to drive to church. I was tired. I tried to talk myself out of being tired. I failed.
I built an altar in my bedroom. A candle, a rosary, a statue of Mary, an empty cup. The one I bought when I thought I was going to be a Methodist minister. I turned out the lights in the bedroom, lit the candle and prayed. I thought about the Jewish women, preparing the Friday meal. I thought about my conversation with Duffy earlier in the day, how very grateful and lucky I am to be able to call him friend, how he grounds me. And I prayed. Never a priest, be happy with what you have, accept who you are. Be brave, accept who you are. Oh, God...help me. I am weary.
The call came around 1:30a.m. I didn't answer. Then the house phone rang. I thought, something bad, I thought, the hospital is calling about a death...do I really want to answer the phone? It was my sister in law. "Bob's dead. He died a few hours ago. I can't reach Beth. Can you help me?"
And my entire world shattered. This was not the way I planned it. I was to go first. They were going to learn to love each other better. They would forgive and be connected. And I would be in heaven watching...This was not what I had planned.
Lord, make me a better chaplain. If I thought I felt a bit like Job in January, I feel a whole lot more like Job in February. Whatever anyone says, even the Catholic Church, who granted my annulment this summer...could not make my heart forget that I made a promise to God, that I married this human man...and no matter how many women he might have taken to him (and let me say clearly that it was only one), I was still married. And yesterday, I knew the feeling of how much a heart can hurt and still pump blood. Whatever disagreements, no matter how unloving he may have felt, because of my long history of being neglected...I loved. And this was the pain of a woman's love for her husband. Even though he hadn't been there for 17 years. I loved. And in this moment, I knew it.
And I stayed far away from everyone, because I knew what they would say, "My god, woman, you have been divorced for 17 years, he has been married to another for the last 16 years...why don't you get over it already?" It was partly shame on my part, to admit that I still loved him.
And I recall counseling a young man, recently divorced...many years ago as a Methodist minister. I told him, "We never stop loving. The love just moves into another part of our heart, so we can do the next thing. Love does not goes away. At least, real love never dies. It just changes form....You did not lie to God."
So, it's time to get ready for church. I ache still, but the work is there to do. Somewhere in my life, there is always a witness to God's unconditional love, That is why I write here. Otherwise, it would be in my papers...somewhere...to be burned or buried at my death. I write to connect. To get this world to love.
Nothing else really matters, you know.
Love, Cindy
I have become quite good at what I do.
I at least thought I have become quite good at what I do.
I think it became for me a bit of a routine sometimes, kind of like I feel inside me when some priests do the Mass: all the words are there, but he's not into it and that makes me not into it either. They are human beings, they get bored or tired. There is nothing wrong with that. The Donatist controversy seems to cover all those problems. A priest might not be in a proper state to celebrate Mass, but the Mass is still effective, despite the manner of the priest.
Perhaps that covers chaplains also.
Make me a better chapplain, Lord.
First, it was the impending threat against my physical life: my blood was not good. Is not good. The real possibility of my life ceasing soon, ceasing to be what it was (not all that impressive to me, even in my eyes), and the possibilities for the future seemed to be dimmed dramatically.
Then I was/am surrounded by people in deep suffering. Tragic suffering. And so many of them don't believe in God at all. What do I do? How can I help? And how does my physical status affect what I do and who I am?
Make me a better chaplain, Lord.
And quite quickly, the night the firetrucks came, taped off my house and told me I could not go inside. I sat on the steps of my neighbor's house and watched. "Are you gonna take it all, Lord? (I paused.) Do I have to let all this go? (I paused and thought). Yes, Lord. I said. I can let it all go: my health, my property. I only want you. I only desire you. You know this to be true. Now I know this to be true. I am called to love. I don't need my health or my property to do that.
And later, in conversation with a friend, I was reminded. Some of us have so much energy, that, when it pours out of us, physical things are disturbed. Two days after my husband walked out, a tornado came through my yard, tearing down my fence, and uprooting my favorite tree in the front yard. I had to get a new roof. The dishwasher broke. The freezer broke. Coincidence? Perhaps. Yet I remembered this as I was telling my friend about my day, January 11th. (1-11-13) On 12-12-12, I had received two units of blood. Won't forget that either. But when the bad news came, the house seemed to blow up. The wiring went hay-wire. We laughed.
There is way more going on in the world that you know. Just recently, I stumbled upon a funeral. A woman I had visited, only a month ago, told me she dreamed all her dead relatives stood around her bed. She was frightened. In my pastoral mode, I knew exactly what she was thinking, but in my pastoral mode, I didn't play that card. I said, "Perhaps they knew you were lonely, and they wanted to let you know that you are not alone." And we had a long talk about forgiveness. But I saw her lying in that coffin and felt a bit like I had betrayed her somehow. I should have done a better job. I should be a better chaplain.
Lord, make me a better chaplain.
I was also a bit jealous. She moved on. I was still here. Why? I woke with a start to the news that the Pope was resigning. Holy crap! How is that possible? Does it mean we women have a chance for a full life again? But reason came back to me and fantasy left. Nothing's going to change. It is what it is. This is my world. I must learn to live well in it.
Lord, make me a better chaplain.
Then...after many looks from trusted friends and good priests...who did not like my decision. I decided I was not going to die in a bed, with tubes around me draining the money from me and away from my children and grandchildren so some doctor can buy a third home in Colorado...or perhaps more acurately, some insurance executive can take a third trip to the Galapagos next year. I weighed my choices and made my decision. Then I discovered something remarkable: my children really do love me.
Some of us are never really sure, about that love. Some of us take it for granted. Think about the Prodigal Son story. There's much more to it. We have the "good" son who stays home, who thinks he's earned his inheritance by his holy behavior. There is the "bad" son, who sees it all as damn good luck, and says "give it to me now." And there is the Father, who we often associate with God, which is perhaps the true pericope of the story...but what if the father is just human? A rebellious teaching that might suggest that neither of these boys learned what love is from the mere blessing/curse that the father is rich? The abundance of material wealth got in the way of all of them understanding what love is. Neither boy seemed to understand love, as they were becoming adults...so the father (and perhaps the mother) had not taught them how to give and receive love. That's why it was all about money.
I looked with awe at my children. We fight. We disagree. I love them deeply. Do they know that? Have I given them reason to believe it? Do they remember only a mother who just wanted to get out of the house? Do they remember the fun? Did I do enough for them to understand love? My daughter in law connected me to a post: "Put the phone down now" or something like that. The idea is much like that old Beatles song: "Life is what happens while you are making other plans." Perhaps less plans, more living.
Yet I must have done enough...or God filled in so many huge gaps. They love me. I know that now. And I was stunned by that love.
Lord, make me a better chaplain.
But I still had my plan. Valentine's day came...and I was alone. Always alone. Always by choice. Not going to let anyone use me or hurt me again. This heart just can't be broken any more. There is nothing left to break.
I was so very wrong.
Lord, make me a better chaplain.
I told God...no, I'm not going to write that yet.
Friday night, first Friday after Ash Wednesday. I could have gone to church for the Stations of the Cross. But I am still so frightened by my health, and the entire day was filled with changes and cancellations...either mine of someone else's. And I was supposed to go to the Missionaries of Charity, but my stomach decided that I needed to stay close to the bathroom...and my body seemed to be cleaning itself out agressively. I did not want to drive to church. I was tired. I tried to talk myself out of being tired. I failed.
I built an altar in my bedroom. A candle, a rosary, a statue of Mary, an empty cup. The one I bought when I thought I was going to be a Methodist minister. I turned out the lights in the bedroom, lit the candle and prayed. I thought about the Jewish women, preparing the Friday meal. I thought about my conversation with Duffy earlier in the day, how very grateful and lucky I am to be able to call him friend, how he grounds me. And I prayed. Never a priest, be happy with what you have, accept who you are. Be brave, accept who you are. Oh, God...help me. I am weary.
The call came around 1:30a.m. I didn't answer. Then the house phone rang. I thought, something bad, I thought, the hospital is calling about a death...do I really want to answer the phone? It was my sister in law. "Bob's dead. He died a few hours ago. I can't reach Beth. Can you help me?"
And my entire world shattered. This was not the way I planned it. I was to go first. They were going to learn to love each other better. They would forgive and be connected. And I would be in heaven watching...This was not what I had planned.
Lord, make me a better chaplain. If I thought I felt a bit like Job in January, I feel a whole lot more like Job in February. Whatever anyone says, even the Catholic Church, who granted my annulment this summer...could not make my heart forget that I made a promise to God, that I married this human man...and no matter how many women he might have taken to him (and let me say clearly that it was only one), I was still married. And yesterday, I knew the feeling of how much a heart can hurt and still pump blood. Whatever disagreements, no matter how unloving he may have felt, because of my long history of being neglected...I loved. And this was the pain of a woman's love for her husband. Even though he hadn't been there for 17 years. I loved. And in this moment, I knew it.
And I stayed far away from everyone, because I knew what they would say, "My god, woman, you have been divorced for 17 years, he has been married to another for the last 16 years...why don't you get over it already?" It was partly shame on my part, to admit that I still loved him.
And I recall counseling a young man, recently divorced...many years ago as a Methodist minister. I told him, "We never stop loving. The love just moves into another part of our heart, so we can do the next thing. Love does not goes away. At least, real love never dies. It just changes form....You did not lie to God."
So, it's time to get ready for church. I ache still, but the work is there to do. Somewhere in my life, there is always a witness to God's unconditional love, That is why I write here. Otherwise, it would be in my papers...somewhere...to be burned or buried at my death. I write to connect. To get this world to love.
Nothing else really matters, you know.
Love, Cindy
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Groundhog Day
Love the Bill Murray movie.
What day would you like to live over and over again for...eternity?
Any of them?
I can't think of an entire day that I would like to have, but there are moments...and most of them include a kind of break with reality, the moments when I let the mystery in...and the imagination...and things seemed in order...for just a moment.
One of those would include flying back from Indianapolis in 1975, with the person I thought I would love for the rest of my life, the person I grew up with...but never dated. I thought I could never be happier or more satisfied than on that June day. And I wanted to die, right then...so that I would never have to feel worry or concern or aloneness or fear...I wanted my life to end on the best day of my life. I went to Nationals in the National Forensic League with my best friends and my favorite teacher. I fell in love with a guy from Louisiana...and a guy from New York fell in love with me. It seemed like it was love all around...and anything could happen. I was meeting the smartest high school kids in the country. A week of competition and bliss.
But flying home, to the real world...if I had the power to stop that plane in mid-flight, I think I would have done it. I wanted to live that moment forever.
Look at the Bill Murray movie Groundhog Day. The day he had to relive was far from the perfect day. He didn't like that day. He didn't much like himself. And he started with anger, outrage, then cynicism...and later he focused on himself, learning to play the piano, sculpt ice, medicine, poetry...all while reliving the very same day...in the beginning, he began to exploit people, treating them like objects, things to conquer and control. He reached a place of existential loneliness...and he tried to kill himself...and still the same day kept repeating. A homeless man died. And his hard heart began to break. He started to use each day as a chance to save that man's life. He fed him, he clothed him. With all that knowledge, he healed few people from their aches and pains, and he brought joy to others with his music and poetry. He went from making fun of the human race to loving the human race...and finally loving himself and entering into a real relationship with one special woman.
He lived out the beattitudes. He lived the truth found in Matthew's gospel: everytime you cared for someone, you cared for Me.
It is a perfect story of redemption. By living out the same day...until he got it right.
Today was a good enough day. But a hard day. For me. Because I want something I can never have. Two wonderful men were ordained deacons today. I am happy for them, but I am also jealous of them. Because they were born men, they get to do work I will never get to do. I can't celebrate with them because I can't let go of my own wounds. The imperfection inside me embarrasses me. I am holding on to dead weight...why? What am I afraid of? Why can't I move on to the next day?
Do you understand? I am stuck in the same day. The one that I think, if I live over and over, I will find a solution that will satisfy everyone, the Church and me. I am somewhere between
**************************************************
I wrote that three days ago. Thought it was a waste, but it is what I used when I did the worship service for the kids at the hospital on Sunday. They were so engaging and delightful and honest...and I thought, here they are in the hospital.
A thousand thoughts shoot like arrows from my heart,
landing, I do not know where
And at the same moment, another thousand arrows fly
Aiming and me
They will wound me
But perhaps they will not kill me...yet.
I held the rosary in my hand last night, wanting to pray. Yesterday, in my mind, was a horrible day...but somehow, I know it must have been a good day, too.
I prayed to God all this year, "make me a better chaplain" always a bit angry because the prayer I wanted to say was "make me a better priest." So I accept my fate, this big and powerful church has not made it a crime for me, a woman, to be a chaplain. So I pray: "make me a better chaplain."
I did seem to get it on Saturday. I read the scripture. I listened to the priest's homily. And I thought about Anna in the temple. And I thought about how the Jews understood God and life. And I thought about my work in the hospital. And I thought about the things that are not working in my body.
It's all about blood. Blood is understood as the life force inside all of us. It is the part that is part of all. It is energy that makes us alive. When it pours out, we die. And inside of a woman, is the power to bring life into the world. It is her blood that feeds the child until it is strong enough to survive on it's own. And when she is not carrying a child, the richest blood on the planet flows out of her because it is not needed. It leaves and is transformed into something else that might be needed. But it is life...and it brings life.
A man does not have such power. He cannot bring forth life without the consent of the woman. (Note I am using the term here not is a political way: the woman's body must consent to the creation of a child).
This life giving blood is respected by both men and women. In the Jewish culture, the shedding of blood or loss of blood is sacred...or unclean, depending on the context. So I can understand, a woman of child-bearing years, might bring dishonor to the temple, or to God. (Now I cannot imagine God could be offended in such a way...but I can understand how people might think God is offended). So the idea of a woman menstruating perhaps, while at the altar, is something a man might not be able to handle (not that it might be publically proclaimed, mind you...but if it crossed a man's mind...it might cause him scandal) so I get why the Jewish people had certain defined roles for men and for women. If blood is the source of life, and women carry that power, it must be treated with so much respect...that perhaps the "work" of worship might be an issue for some. And the goal is always to bring people to God...not to a priest, not even to a particular church...but to God...and that must always be done with the greatest care.
Because I see that we are in so much trouble right now. The conservatives and the liberals and the progressives are all fighting so hard and so bitterly right now...that those who don't think are becoming so confused and joining sides without really understanding why. Perhaps this is the way it has always been. I know that in the past six months, I have found myself keenly aware of the waste, just in my personal life...that is the amount of trash this ONE person throws away. I am beginning to feel guilty about all of the packaging of convenience items...and I am shamed by my pile of trash. Go figure. Why, suddenly, am I attentive?
Perhaps it is about the blood again. I am keenly aware of what is saved and what is lost. I pray to God, make me a better chaplain. And this is what He gives me.
Do I have cancer? I do not know. But both the fear of knowing...and not knowing...grips me. I debated in my head about writing this all down, and I decided to do it, no matter how things turn out. It's important because, in my work, I see all that fear around me. I see how people cope with it, live with it, deny it, embrace it, or use it to get others to do what they want. I know my own baggage to some extent...and this gripping "unknown" right now is exposing so much more.
It will make me a better chaplain. God, as usual, answers my prayers.
The children are brave...I look at them...just beginning their journey of self-awareness. As I look at each one, I also see the family members, not in the room, who are possibly terrified at what it all means...or angry as hell that it happened...or completely shut down and possibly writing off the child exclaiming "this is not my fault."
It's all there...and I was good at helping them walk the path.
Make me a better chaplain, I prayed.
And now...it all turns on to me.
I have to let people back in to my terrifying places. I told the priest who comforted me yesterday: I will have to pay a price for this moment. I will care about him differently now. And he will be there in the darkness with me...perhaps see me through it...and then he will leave...and that will break my heart...and I will be angry...and the whole thing will start over again. I know this. But I have no choice. God has placed me into a situation where I am commanded to ask for help.
As a child, no one was there. No one protected me. No one seemed to care, they were so absorbed in their own personal pain. I can't blame them. I can't be angry. I understand. But what do I do with these feelings? And how do I learn to lean on others without such extreme scenarios?
You who are in the helping professions, understand this. The so-called normals in the world must truly see the unusual, the different...the truly cast-outs, cast-offs, cast-away. If we do not care for them (who are like me), then our world will never be right. It will never be good. It will never be "his Kingdom here on earth." And we will destroy it.
I wonder, if we don't really want "His Kingdom here on earth as it is in heaven" then maybe we should stop praying that prayer. We would pretty much be lying to God, if we prayed it and then didn't do anything about it. Or are we dull enough to think that God will do for us what we have chosen to not do for others?
God is making me a better chaplain. I believe it. Even in my fears about what will happen next.
Letting someone into my heart, for real...is terrifying. Yesterday, the priest was there. He knew I needed him. I don't know if he understood. But he knew. And the friend, who said, I"ll go to the doctor with you. But I don't want that. She said, I can be there to hear what you cannot.
Damn. I do not like this part of my life. This passage.
I am a rock.
I am an island.
But the rock is being worn down by the water that continues to baptize it...and the island is being washed away...and I have been given a choice:
Hold out my hand or drown.
I suppose, if the children are that brave, maybe I can be brave, too.
Love,
Cindy
What day would you like to live over and over again for...eternity?
Any of them?
I can't think of an entire day that I would like to have, but there are moments...and most of them include a kind of break with reality, the moments when I let the mystery in...and the imagination...and things seemed in order...for just a moment.
One of those would include flying back from Indianapolis in 1975, with the person I thought I would love for the rest of my life, the person I grew up with...but never dated. I thought I could never be happier or more satisfied than on that June day. And I wanted to die, right then...so that I would never have to feel worry or concern or aloneness or fear...I wanted my life to end on the best day of my life. I went to Nationals in the National Forensic League with my best friends and my favorite teacher. I fell in love with a guy from Louisiana...and a guy from New York fell in love with me. It seemed like it was love all around...and anything could happen. I was meeting the smartest high school kids in the country. A week of competition and bliss.
But flying home, to the real world...if I had the power to stop that plane in mid-flight, I think I would have done it. I wanted to live that moment forever.
Look at the Bill Murray movie Groundhog Day. The day he had to relive was far from the perfect day. He didn't like that day. He didn't much like himself. And he started with anger, outrage, then cynicism...and later he focused on himself, learning to play the piano, sculpt ice, medicine, poetry...all while reliving the very same day...in the beginning, he began to exploit people, treating them like objects, things to conquer and control. He reached a place of existential loneliness...and he tried to kill himself...and still the same day kept repeating. A homeless man died. And his hard heart began to break. He started to use each day as a chance to save that man's life. He fed him, he clothed him. With all that knowledge, he healed few people from their aches and pains, and he brought joy to others with his music and poetry. He went from making fun of the human race to loving the human race...and finally loving himself and entering into a real relationship with one special woman.
He lived out the beattitudes. He lived the truth found in Matthew's gospel: everytime you cared for someone, you cared for Me.
It is a perfect story of redemption. By living out the same day...until he got it right.
Today was a good enough day. But a hard day. For me. Because I want something I can never have. Two wonderful men were ordained deacons today. I am happy for them, but I am also jealous of them. Because they were born men, they get to do work I will never get to do. I can't celebrate with them because I can't let go of my own wounds. The imperfection inside me embarrasses me. I am holding on to dead weight...why? What am I afraid of? Why can't I move on to the next day?
Do you understand? I am stuck in the same day. The one that I think, if I live over and over, I will find a solution that will satisfy everyone, the Church and me. I am somewhere between
**************************************************
I wrote that three days ago. Thought it was a waste, but it is what I used when I did the worship service for the kids at the hospital on Sunday. They were so engaging and delightful and honest...and I thought, here they are in the hospital.
A thousand thoughts shoot like arrows from my heart,
landing, I do not know where
And at the same moment, another thousand arrows fly
Aiming and me
They will wound me
But perhaps they will not kill me...yet.
I held the rosary in my hand last night, wanting to pray. Yesterday, in my mind, was a horrible day...but somehow, I know it must have been a good day, too.
I prayed to God all this year, "make me a better chaplain" always a bit angry because the prayer I wanted to say was "make me a better priest." So I accept my fate, this big and powerful church has not made it a crime for me, a woman, to be a chaplain. So I pray: "make me a better chaplain."
I did seem to get it on Saturday. I read the scripture. I listened to the priest's homily. And I thought about Anna in the temple. And I thought about how the Jews understood God and life. And I thought about my work in the hospital. And I thought about the things that are not working in my body.
It's all about blood. Blood is understood as the life force inside all of us. It is the part that is part of all. It is energy that makes us alive. When it pours out, we die. And inside of a woman, is the power to bring life into the world. It is her blood that feeds the child until it is strong enough to survive on it's own. And when she is not carrying a child, the richest blood on the planet flows out of her because it is not needed. It leaves and is transformed into something else that might be needed. But it is life...and it brings life.
A man does not have such power. He cannot bring forth life without the consent of the woman. (Note I am using the term here not is a political way: the woman's body must consent to the creation of a child).
This life giving blood is respected by both men and women. In the Jewish culture, the shedding of blood or loss of blood is sacred...or unclean, depending on the context. So I can understand, a woman of child-bearing years, might bring dishonor to the temple, or to God. (Now I cannot imagine God could be offended in such a way...but I can understand how people might think God is offended). So the idea of a woman menstruating perhaps, while at the altar, is something a man might not be able to handle (not that it might be publically proclaimed, mind you...but if it crossed a man's mind...it might cause him scandal) so I get why the Jewish people had certain defined roles for men and for women. If blood is the source of life, and women carry that power, it must be treated with so much respect...that perhaps the "work" of worship might be an issue for some. And the goal is always to bring people to God...not to a priest, not even to a particular church...but to God...and that must always be done with the greatest care.
Because I see that we are in so much trouble right now. The conservatives and the liberals and the progressives are all fighting so hard and so bitterly right now...that those who don't think are becoming so confused and joining sides without really understanding why. Perhaps this is the way it has always been. I know that in the past six months, I have found myself keenly aware of the waste, just in my personal life...that is the amount of trash this ONE person throws away. I am beginning to feel guilty about all of the packaging of convenience items...and I am shamed by my pile of trash. Go figure. Why, suddenly, am I attentive?
Perhaps it is about the blood again. I am keenly aware of what is saved and what is lost. I pray to God, make me a better chaplain. And this is what He gives me.
Do I have cancer? I do not know. But both the fear of knowing...and not knowing...grips me. I debated in my head about writing this all down, and I decided to do it, no matter how things turn out. It's important because, in my work, I see all that fear around me. I see how people cope with it, live with it, deny it, embrace it, or use it to get others to do what they want. I know my own baggage to some extent...and this gripping "unknown" right now is exposing so much more.
It will make me a better chaplain. God, as usual, answers my prayers.
The children are brave...I look at them...just beginning their journey of self-awareness. As I look at each one, I also see the family members, not in the room, who are possibly terrified at what it all means...or angry as hell that it happened...or completely shut down and possibly writing off the child exclaiming "this is not my fault."
It's all there...and I was good at helping them walk the path.
Make me a better chaplain, I prayed.
And now...it all turns on to me.
I have to let people back in to my terrifying places. I told the priest who comforted me yesterday: I will have to pay a price for this moment. I will care about him differently now. And he will be there in the darkness with me...perhaps see me through it...and then he will leave...and that will break my heart...and I will be angry...and the whole thing will start over again. I know this. But I have no choice. God has placed me into a situation where I am commanded to ask for help.
As a child, no one was there. No one protected me. No one seemed to care, they were so absorbed in their own personal pain. I can't blame them. I can't be angry. I understand. But what do I do with these feelings? And how do I learn to lean on others without such extreme scenarios?
You who are in the helping professions, understand this. The so-called normals in the world must truly see the unusual, the different...the truly cast-outs, cast-offs, cast-away. If we do not care for them (who are like me), then our world will never be right. It will never be good. It will never be "his Kingdom here on earth." And we will destroy it.
I wonder, if we don't really want "His Kingdom here on earth as it is in heaven" then maybe we should stop praying that prayer. We would pretty much be lying to God, if we prayed it and then didn't do anything about it. Or are we dull enough to think that God will do for us what we have chosen to not do for others?
God is making me a better chaplain. I believe it. Even in my fears about what will happen next.
Letting someone into my heart, for real...is terrifying. Yesterday, the priest was there. He knew I needed him. I don't know if he understood. But he knew. And the friend, who said, I"ll go to the doctor with you. But I don't want that. She said, I can be there to hear what you cannot.
Damn. I do not like this part of my life. This passage.
I am a rock.
I am an island.
But the rock is being worn down by the water that continues to baptize it...and the island is being washed away...and I have been given a choice:
Hold out my hand or drown.
I suppose, if the children are that brave, maybe I can be brave, too.
Love,
Cindy
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