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
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 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