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