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
Sunday, February 17, 2013
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
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Order and Chaos
Perhaps my favorite genre of fiction is the short story. If I could write one or two good short stories before I leave this world, that would be so very nice. I like a tale that can be told in one sitting, with enough color in it to have me thinking about it for an entire week, or longer. The short story...in the beginning of my life...was a bedtime story, though I cannot remember too often at all, my mother reading them to me. And of course, my father never read to me. Suddenly knowing that makes me very sad. I wish my father had read to me.
The theme this week always seems to be drawn back into "blessing." In all the conversations about the Pro-Life marches, I am forever drawn back into that reality: whether or not abortion is available and safe just doesn't seem that important to me. I would prefer it to not be necessary, to never have to be a consideration in people's lives...but as long as we continue to use or exploit each other, abortion will always be around. But don't try to convince me that abortion is more horrible than war. Death is death. The deliberate killing of another because they are interfering with your lifestyle is wrong in any situation. But that is not why I write.
The Pro-Life movement should be focused on life, not death. To define itself by fighting against something rather than fighting for something is just not good use of energy. Calling it Pro-Life, but speaking out unceasingly AGAINST abortion...is kind of contradictory. And choosing life, that should be at all stages, for all people. Pro-life means health care, education, safety, community, respect for ALL people. Pro-life means that wars will stop...because people will stop fighting.
And most importantly, this week for me at least, pro-lfe means Blessing.
Into each life, a blessing must come. A promise of commitment and hope...and unconditional love. A blessing for each of us. A blessing for all. That is true pro-life.
What I have found, is that women, who do not receive that blessing from their fathers, do not really know in their hearts that their life is precious, valued, and a gift. If the blessing does not come from the father for the daughter, the daughter will seek the blessing wherever she can find it...in whatever form it comes. And often, it arrives in a good-looking swaggering older man who will tell her anything to get what he wants in that moment for the moment. And then, when she trusts in that little bit of what she thinks is light, he wanders off to find the next piece of candy.
What is true also, is the man who wanders from woman to woman, has never received his blessing either. And my heart breaks.
A man shows up at the house where I stay, for the little girl, who is pregnant again...and I look at him with stern eyes, hoping he can read my mind: "Treat her with respect." And I pray that he does. He holds a look of humility, at least in my presence.
Not so the woman who sits in the chair, talking with another woman, who is lying on a bed. The woman in the chair holds a book, "Fifty Shades of Gray." I look at it. I look at her. I try to make a joke out of the pain of seeing her with that book causes me. "The Sisters would not be happy if I told them you were reading that book. " "Oh, please don't tell them." she asks. Her friend on the bed asks me, why I object to the book.
"Because it is the story about men who hurt women on purpose and how women like it. It teaches that it is okay to abuse women. It is a lie. I haven't read it. I simply know about it. It is not a good book."
I think about the poverty in front of me. These women do not yet know they are daughters of God. They are still slaves to the hungry one who will never love them. I don't know how to help...and I think my words will just make them laugh at me. I don't care. They'll remember what I said. Maybe they will wonder.
Last month, I found another young girl with a book, from the library, about how to please a man in sex. I confronted her, too. "Why do you want to do this? Where is he now?"
And I hurt inside as I understand. This is the only blessing these women have ever known: the lie from the snake: it will not kill you. It will make you like God.
Chaos.
The idea of the House is to create order in the lives of women who have never known order, or safety. They fight it at every turn. The gripe at me when it is time to go upstairs, to lock up the phones, no more cigarettes for the night, and then, in the morning, the gripe at me again...telling me their little lies: no one else makes up wake up, why are you setting the alarm now, you are doing it wrong...
And I remind them, if you keep breaking the rules, the house might be shut down. Do you want that? The other places they know about: some don't take pregnant women, some have only a mat on the floor to sleep on, some don't have hot meals at night and in the morning. Yes, there is no TV here...but you have enough to eat, and bars on the windows, to keep the bad people out. Here you can get your vitamins, your medicine for your babies, a private room with a bed, a bus pass...
Some catch on eventually...at least for a little while. I have worked there enough that the ones I saw in the beginning have returned, to sleep until their next child is born. This is pro-life. And it is hard, unceasing, sometimes discouraging work. But it is a step out of chaos for many women...it is the beginning of trying to accept a blessing...even if it cannot come from that very important "father."
Order.
Not to withhold life, but to set it truly free. I offer hints as much as I am able: Don't let them ever tell you you can't, you are not good enough...you are smart, you are beautiful, you are important. That is the blessing. And if it can't come from the father...then it must come from you.
Love, Cindy
The theme this week always seems to be drawn back into "blessing." In all the conversations about the Pro-Life marches, I am forever drawn back into that reality: whether or not abortion is available and safe just doesn't seem that important to me. I would prefer it to not be necessary, to never have to be a consideration in people's lives...but as long as we continue to use or exploit each other, abortion will always be around. But don't try to convince me that abortion is more horrible than war. Death is death. The deliberate killing of another because they are interfering with your lifestyle is wrong in any situation. But that is not why I write.
The Pro-Life movement should be focused on life, not death. To define itself by fighting against something rather than fighting for something is just not good use of energy. Calling it Pro-Life, but speaking out unceasingly AGAINST abortion...is kind of contradictory. And choosing life, that should be at all stages, for all people. Pro-life means health care, education, safety, community, respect for ALL people. Pro-life means that wars will stop...because people will stop fighting.
And most importantly, this week for me at least, pro-lfe means Blessing.
Into each life, a blessing must come. A promise of commitment and hope...and unconditional love. A blessing for each of us. A blessing for all. That is true pro-life.
What I have found, is that women, who do not receive that blessing from their fathers, do not really know in their hearts that their life is precious, valued, and a gift. If the blessing does not come from the father for the daughter, the daughter will seek the blessing wherever she can find it...in whatever form it comes. And often, it arrives in a good-looking swaggering older man who will tell her anything to get what he wants in that moment for the moment. And then, when she trusts in that little bit of what she thinks is light, he wanders off to find the next piece of candy.
What is true also, is the man who wanders from woman to woman, has never received his blessing either. And my heart breaks.
A man shows up at the house where I stay, for the little girl, who is pregnant again...and I look at him with stern eyes, hoping he can read my mind: "Treat her with respect." And I pray that he does. He holds a look of humility, at least in my presence.
Not so the woman who sits in the chair, talking with another woman, who is lying on a bed. The woman in the chair holds a book, "Fifty Shades of Gray." I look at it. I look at her. I try to make a joke out of the pain of seeing her with that book causes me. "The Sisters would not be happy if I told them you were reading that book. " "Oh, please don't tell them." she asks. Her friend on the bed asks me, why I object to the book.
"Because it is the story about men who hurt women on purpose and how women like it. It teaches that it is okay to abuse women. It is a lie. I haven't read it. I simply know about it. It is not a good book."
I think about the poverty in front of me. These women do not yet know they are daughters of God. They are still slaves to the hungry one who will never love them. I don't know how to help...and I think my words will just make them laugh at me. I don't care. They'll remember what I said. Maybe they will wonder.
Last month, I found another young girl with a book, from the library, about how to please a man in sex. I confronted her, too. "Why do you want to do this? Where is he now?"
And I hurt inside as I understand. This is the only blessing these women have ever known: the lie from the snake: it will not kill you. It will make you like God.
Chaos.
The idea of the House is to create order in the lives of women who have never known order, or safety. They fight it at every turn. The gripe at me when it is time to go upstairs, to lock up the phones, no more cigarettes for the night, and then, in the morning, the gripe at me again...telling me their little lies: no one else makes up wake up, why are you setting the alarm now, you are doing it wrong...
And I remind them, if you keep breaking the rules, the house might be shut down. Do you want that? The other places they know about: some don't take pregnant women, some have only a mat on the floor to sleep on, some don't have hot meals at night and in the morning. Yes, there is no TV here...but you have enough to eat, and bars on the windows, to keep the bad people out. Here you can get your vitamins, your medicine for your babies, a private room with a bed, a bus pass...
Some catch on eventually...at least for a little while. I have worked there enough that the ones I saw in the beginning have returned, to sleep until their next child is born. This is pro-life. And it is hard, unceasing, sometimes discouraging work. But it is a step out of chaos for many women...it is the beginning of trying to accept a blessing...even if it cannot come from that very important "father."
Order.
Not to withhold life, but to set it truly free. I offer hints as much as I am able: Don't let them ever tell you you can't, you are not good enough...you are smart, you are beautiful, you are important. That is the blessing. And if it can't come from the father...then it must come from you.
Love, Cindy
Friday, January 25, 2013
The Power of Women
I perhaps waste a lot of energy on wanting what the boys have...(and no, that is NOT what I want!). And when I take a step back, I start to see how silly it would be to try to be a boy...that was never my goal. My goal has always been to serve God with every cell of my body. I'm not sure why that matters so much, but it does.
And every step closer to human death seems to make it more urgent...it makes me more hungry to love well...and to live well. The last 24 hours have been very full of thoughts. Yesterday morning, I was on a tear about how to motivate the women I am blessed to be with...to get them fired up about the great beauty and joy of their own creation...and I was literally flying around my house...finding all the little trinkets and smiley things that people have given me over the years since I began ministry work some fifteen years ago.
And it all began when my husband left me...left us...me and the kids...because, at least he said, "I can't handle the stress anymore." (this coming from a man who doesn't joke when he says, "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.) Let me be fair, he's a good enough guy...but he can't see God...and I couldn't make him see God. But in my heart, I am still hopeful that someday he will understand why it got so messed up...and he will find his way to the good life.
I mention that today because recently, I was in conversation with someone I had just met. In the course of our talk, I said something and she looked shocked. She said, "You're not married?! But you look so much in love!"
I rolled my eyes and looked up to heaven...
"I'm in love with God."
And that struck her as a totally new and foreign idea.
"You are that happy without a man?"
(Oh, how hard it was to laugh only a little!)
And we had a great talk about what love is and is not. At least from my perspective. Which is damaged. And I owned that. And as we talked (she was so beautifully articulate and honest), I started to see another of those God moments where I am used to help someone else and God is using the Other to help me. All this praying...all this worry and fear...and this sweet stranger affirms for me that I have not lost my 'being in love' with God.
I have been trying to get my head around what is happening to me. I have had some powerful conversations this week, and as I looked up last night to the moon growing full, I knew God and creation were working with me to calm me. I feel determined to deal with the physical challenge as I deal with everything else...not in the ways the world expects. I know there will come a day when it most likely will blow up in my face...but that day is not today. As soon as I have overcome a few more fears, I will go to the gym...and see if I can handle the toys there. When I decided to do things a bit differently...my body seems to be feeling better...the scary noises it was making last week have stopped for now. And I seem to be assimilating iron better. All the positive comments about my 'appearance' yesterday seemed to affirm a movement in the right direction.
Yesterday, I spent some time with some of the women of the Bible. There is a tendency to think that men made history because...well...men wrote the history. They had time...women were raising children, educating them, baking, cleaning, sewing, washing...and praying. Some women did huge and wonderous things, like Esther...others did simple things, like Rebekah...some laughed, like Sarah...some were loyal, like Ruth...some brave, like Deborah...and some so humble...their womb and their blood mixed together to create the One fully human (of Mary's blood) and fully Divine (of God's everlasting bloodlife)...and so many others who did not make it into the books yet changed the world.
I saw on the news this morning a totally foolish news story about women being allowed into combat...and how having women in the crossfire would ultimately lead to more losses in small battles. The reporter tried to be confrontational using an argument about African Americans not being allowed to fight, but the historian would not bend to her thoughts.
There are some places where it is better that women not engage.
Can you believe I said that? Women are women...and should do women things. Men are men and should do men things. Okay, not a blanket statement or a rule here...free will is important...but I don't think the male-female attraction can be ignored, particularly in stressful situations. If you mind is not on your job...then lives will be lost.
Looking at it from another point of view: women on the front line might just wake the world up to the reality of how stupid and wasteful war is anyway. I get the feeling that men like to fight, they have energy to use up and football, wrestling...and war almost seems natural to them...part of their hormones perhaps, just as women are drawn to attachment and life giving events...but the darker side of women, prone to jealousies and power...are more subtle. What they lack in strength they make up for in cleverness.
Ah...I have just gone full circle, haven't I? Oh well...the women who want to be in battle, be in battle. But don't whine about it. It is what it is. Ugly. Unjust. Bloody. Even if you win.
And I thought I was going to be profound today...alas!
Dear Lord,
Teach me to pray. Teach me to think. Teach me to write.
Love, Cindy
And every step closer to human death seems to make it more urgent...it makes me more hungry to love well...and to live well. The last 24 hours have been very full of thoughts. Yesterday morning, I was on a tear about how to motivate the women I am blessed to be with...to get them fired up about the great beauty and joy of their own creation...and I was literally flying around my house...finding all the little trinkets and smiley things that people have given me over the years since I began ministry work some fifteen years ago.
And it all began when my husband left me...left us...me and the kids...because, at least he said, "I can't handle the stress anymore." (this coming from a man who doesn't joke when he says, "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.) Let me be fair, he's a good enough guy...but he can't see God...and I couldn't make him see God. But in my heart, I am still hopeful that someday he will understand why it got so messed up...and he will find his way to the good life.
I mention that today because recently, I was in conversation with someone I had just met. In the course of our talk, I said something and she looked shocked. She said, "You're not married?! But you look so much in love!"
I rolled my eyes and looked up to heaven...
"I'm in love with God."
And that struck her as a totally new and foreign idea.
"You are that happy without a man?"
(Oh, how hard it was to laugh only a little!)
And we had a great talk about what love is and is not. At least from my perspective. Which is damaged. And I owned that. And as we talked (she was so beautifully articulate and honest), I started to see another of those God moments where I am used to help someone else and God is using the Other to help me. All this praying...all this worry and fear...and this sweet stranger affirms for me that I have not lost my 'being in love' with God.
I have been trying to get my head around what is happening to me. I have had some powerful conversations this week, and as I looked up last night to the moon growing full, I knew God and creation were working with me to calm me. I feel determined to deal with the physical challenge as I deal with everything else...not in the ways the world expects. I know there will come a day when it most likely will blow up in my face...but that day is not today. As soon as I have overcome a few more fears, I will go to the gym...and see if I can handle the toys there. When I decided to do things a bit differently...my body seems to be feeling better...the scary noises it was making last week have stopped for now. And I seem to be assimilating iron better. All the positive comments about my 'appearance' yesterday seemed to affirm a movement in the right direction.
Yesterday, I spent some time with some of the women of the Bible. There is a tendency to think that men made history because...well...men wrote the history. They had time...women were raising children, educating them, baking, cleaning, sewing, washing...and praying. Some women did huge and wonderous things, like Esther...others did simple things, like Rebekah...some laughed, like Sarah...some were loyal, like Ruth...some brave, like Deborah...and some so humble...their womb and their blood mixed together to create the One fully human (of Mary's blood) and fully Divine (of God's everlasting bloodlife)...and so many others who did not make it into the books yet changed the world.
I saw on the news this morning a totally foolish news story about women being allowed into combat...and how having women in the crossfire would ultimately lead to more losses in small battles. The reporter tried to be confrontational using an argument about African Americans not being allowed to fight, but the historian would not bend to her thoughts.
There are some places where it is better that women not engage.
Can you believe I said that? Women are women...and should do women things. Men are men and should do men things. Okay, not a blanket statement or a rule here...free will is important...but I don't think the male-female attraction can be ignored, particularly in stressful situations. If you mind is not on your job...then lives will be lost.
Looking at it from another point of view: women on the front line might just wake the world up to the reality of how stupid and wasteful war is anyway. I get the feeling that men like to fight, they have energy to use up and football, wrestling...and war almost seems natural to them...part of their hormones perhaps, just as women are drawn to attachment and life giving events...but the darker side of women, prone to jealousies and power...are more subtle. What they lack in strength they make up for in cleverness.
Ah...I have just gone full circle, haven't I? Oh well...the women who want to be in battle, be in battle. But don't whine about it. It is what it is. Ugly. Unjust. Bloody. Even if you win.
And I thought I was going to be profound today...alas!
Dear Lord,
Teach me to pray. Teach me to think. Teach me to write.
Love, Cindy
Don't Mess with my Mass...
So I have learned more about the King of Hearts: the suicide king, or Charlemagne...interesting mythology surrounding the card. I suppose everything has a story of meaning behind it. Last night, we entered intot that strange part of Abraham's life...in later years, when he was visited by "the three" which became "the one," and LaCugna, a wonderful Catholic theologian who died some years ago of breast cancer, wrote a great paper on the Trinity using this passage and the icons painted of the visit to Abraham...in which Sarah "laughed" at the impossibility of her having a child in her old age.
Kind of like me wanting to be a priest. It just ain't gonna happen. This business of looking at my mortality...one of the big things for me this week: I'm going to die someday, and I will not die a priest. The lament of that seemed to hold me for several days. I am forced to ask: then why am I here? Why was I given this particular life, in the order and manner in which it was given? What will happen when I see God and God asks, "I gave you so much...why didn't you use your gifts?"
ink
At that point, the romanticism falls apart. My brain knows full well I don't need a collar to do good work. It would simply be wonderful to be able to make that kind of commitment to God. So again...always again...I must let go of what I want and just deal with what's in front of me. What I am allowed to do...in this very unhappy world. It doesn't matter to God, so it shouldn't matter to me.
And then, realizing that, I ask myself again and again...why am I a Catholic? The pretty answer is "When my mother gave me away, she had two requests of the people who would raise me: that I be given a piano and that I was raised a Catholic."
I think whatever faith tradition our parents give us a child is the one that is seared into our brains and nothing can or will ever replace it. Modified yes, but it is core in who we are.
I tried to work it out, I became a Methodist, and later a Methodist minister...and I always felt like I was letting God down. My sadness overtook me and I seriously shot myself in the foot...(I had help) and the idea of going back into that arena has long lost its appeal. I still have great love for the people I encountered along the way. The ones that knew me a bit more authentically I think somehow knew I would return to my Catholic roots, but cheered me on in love that I might outgrow my child like notions of God. The others, perhaps felt betrayed by my leaving...and still others were cheering as I left because my brand of Methodism was just a bit too 'out there.' But I still love them all, even the ones who disagreed with my point of view.
And I thought all was well enough...when I found a post on one of my Protestant friend's FB page. The comment went, "I was forced to go to a Mass, and I remembered all the things I hated about the Catholic Church. I remember why I left it." (Not a direct quote) And suddenly I became quite defensive inside. You can make all the comments you want about the Pope and I'll leave you alone. You can disapprove of priests and I won't argue with you. But if you slam my Mass...
And suddenly an old 60s Star Trek episode comes to mind. Scotty, asked by Kirk, about a fight he had gotten into with the Klingons. It went something like this:
"You did NOT hit the Klingon when he said I (Kirk) was a [slug worm], you hit hit him when he called the Enterprise a garbage skow(?) ?" To which Scotty replied, "Well, sir, this was a matter of pride!"
And I suddenly understood better why I am still connected to the Catholic Church. It is the Mass...the most perfect prayer ever created...that I cannot leave behind. It is the idea that it is presented, in an almost mirror-like manner, every single day, in nearly every moment of every day, somewhere throughout the world. It is the idea that God is present in the Mass...the God comes so close to us...and we come so close to God...inside the Mass is that break into creation that transcends time...and all disagreements and bitterness are suspended, during the act of the Mass...that we deny our own ego for just enough time to let God get close and transform us into something better.
Whether or not the priest is important is only between you and God. He is there to assure that the event follows an order, so you feel safe enough to reach out to God. He is a means to an end...no matter what he might think of himself, in his pretty clothes, he is still only a servant, a participant...albeit a very important participant...in the greatest prayer we could ever offer to God.
Does that make me a heathen? I don't know. Any priest who holds himself higher than servant will be in trouble quickly, and his soul at greater risk than those of us who do not dare to lead. But in the moment of the Mass, the priest is a means to an end...the end being union with God. I don't believe he was designed for more than that.
And I have problems with people who use the "hierarchy" of the church to discount the amazing gift of the Mass. Yes...the bells and whistles are grand. They are designed to inflame the heart for the desire of God. But not of a person, or a thing. And it is here that we must be so very careful.
All praise belongs to God alone. Not to some pretty building or some charismatic preacher/priest. We forget that sometimes.
Why are you here? What do you want?
Do you want to be healed?
Do you want forgiveness...or the power to forgive others?
Do you look for peace?
Are you in need of unconditional love?
Do you wish to see God?
I find these things in the Mass. And yes, it matters to me if a priest is authentic. You can tell the ones who think they are pretty special, just like protestant preachers...and you will separated from God because of that...you came to be healed...but instead, you were entertained...and you left hungry. Humility...find a leader who understands humility...and you will never go hungry again.
Find it where you will, what feeds you...but don't ever mess with my Mass.
I was going to edit this today, but I'm leaving it alone and just going to continue the thoughts on the next page...my apologies to those who might be offended with one of my perspectives on the Mass. Yet, yesterday, in the light of Frances de Sales...I am inclined to believe that he would agree with me. We are called to serve not to be served...
Love, Cindy
Kind of like me wanting to be a priest. It just ain't gonna happen. This business of looking at my mortality...one of the big things for me this week: I'm going to die someday, and I will not die a priest. The lament of that seemed to hold me for several days. I am forced to ask: then why am I here? Why was I given this particular life, in the order and manner in which it was given? What will happen when I see God and God asks, "I gave you so much...why didn't you use your gifts?"
ink
At that point, the romanticism falls apart. My brain knows full well I don't need a collar to do good work. It would simply be wonderful to be able to make that kind of commitment to God. So again...always again...I must let go of what I want and just deal with what's in front of me. What I am allowed to do...in this very unhappy world. It doesn't matter to God, so it shouldn't matter to me.
And then, realizing that, I ask myself again and again...why am I a Catholic? The pretty answer is "When my mother gave me away, she had two requests of the people who would raise me: that I be given a piano and that I was raised a Catholic."
I think whatever faith tradition our parents give us a child is the one that is seared into our brains and nothing can or will ever replace it. Modified yes, but it is core in who we are.
I tried to work it out, I became a Methodist, and later a Methodist minister...and I always felt like I was letting God down. My sadness overtook me and I seriously shot myself in the foot...(I had help) and the idea of going back into that arena has long lost its appeal. I still have great love for the people I encountered along the way. The ones that knew me a bit more authentically I think somehow knew I would return to my Catholic roots, but cheered me on in love that I might outgrow my child like notions of God. The others, perhaps felt betrayed by my leaving...and still others were cheering as I left because my brand of Methodism was just a bit too 'out there.' But I still love them all, even the ones who disagreed with my point of view.
And I thought all was well enough...when I found a post on one of my Protestant friend's FB page. The comment went, "I was forced to go to a Mass, and I remembered all the things I hated about the Catholic Church. I remember why I left it." (Not a direct quote) And suddenly I became quite defensive inside. You can make all the comments you want about the Pope and I'll leave you alone. You can disapprove of priests and I won't argue with you. But if you slam my Mass...
And suddenly an old 60s Star Trek episode comes to mind. Scotty, asked by Kirk, about a fight he had gotten into with the Klingons. It went something like this:
"You did NOT hit the Klingon when he said I (Kirk) was a [slug worm], you hit hit him when he called the Enterprise a garbage skow(?) ?" To which Scotty replied, "Well, sir, this was a matter of pride!"
And I suddenly understood better why I am still connected to the Catholic Church. It is the Mass...the most perfect prayer ever created...that I cannot leave behind. It is the idea that it is presented, in an almost mirror-like manner, every single day, in nearly every moment of every day, somewhere throughout the world. It is the idea that God is present in the Mass...the God comes so close to us...and we come so close to God...inside the Mass is that break into creation that transcends time...and all disagreements and bitterness are suspended, during the act of the Mass...that we deny our own ego for just enough time to let God get close and transform us into something better.
Whether or not the priest is important is only between you and God. He is there to assure that the event follows an order, so you feel safe enough to reach out to God. He is a means to an end...no matter what he might think of himself, in his pretty clothes, he is still only a servant, a participant...albeit a very important participant...in the greatest prayer we could ever offer to God.
Does that make me a heathen? I don't know. Any priest who holds himself higher than servant will be in trouble quickly, and his soul at greater risk than those of us who do not dare to lead. But in the moment of the Mass, the priest is a means to an end...the end being union with God. I don't believe he was designed for more than that.
And I have problems with people who use the "hierarchy" of the church to discount the amazing gift of the Mass. Yes...the bells and whistles are grand. They are designed to inflame the heart for the desire of God. But not of a person, or a thing. And it is here that we must be so very careful.
All praise belongs to God alone. Not to some pretty building or some charismatic preacher/priest. We forget that sometimes.
Why are you here? What do you want?
Do you want to be healed?
Do you want forgiveness...or the power to forgive others?
Do you look for peace?
Are you in need of unconditional love?
Do you wish to see God?
I find these things in the Mass. And yes, it matters to me if a priest is authentic. You can tell the ones who think they are pretty special, just like protestant preachers...and you will separated from God because of that...you came to be healed...but instead, you were entertained...and you left hungry. Humility...find a leader who understands humility...and you will never go hungry again.
Find it where you will, what feeds you...but don't ever mess with my Mass.
I was going to edit this today, but I'm leaving it alone and just going to continue the thoughts on the next page...my apologies to those who might be offended with one of my perspectives on the Mass. Yet, yesterday, in the light of Frances de Sales...I am inclined to believe that he would agree with me. We are called to serve not to be served...
Love, Cindy
Sunday, January 20, 2013
King of Hearts
King of Hearts. I haven't posted in some time. I have good reasons. I am doing what was asked of me: to let people love me. Actually, I was given that task about three years ago. I didn't think that was what was going on. I saw myself...helping someone else...and that was my only task. I was wrong. That was not my only task. It just seemed that way...or perhaps, it was the only task I could bring myself to look at.
God works in mysterious ways. Clever ways. Annoying ways.
Yesterday was a great and wonderful day. I think the morning could have lasted forever and I would have been happy. I spent it with my daughter...and we talked about real things, used real words. It was a time and a conversation I had been waiting for all my life. Even so, I still did not let it last too long...and I ask myself why. Because I didn't want to ruin it.
When good things arrive, I still approach with great caution. Much differently than walking boldly into danger, which was pretty much my standard when I was a kid.
I think about how we learn...and somewhere, close to the beginning, I somehow learned that my life had little value, other than a means to an end. As much as I hate writing that, I have found that to be the case with many women...and some men. We somehow learn we are simply a means to an end, and that affects all of our choices. Especially when it comes to love.
Why do some people marry? Do they marry for love? Or for safety? Do they marry because it is 'what people do when they get all growed up' or to they marry to escape their current reality? Do they marry to hurt someone else? To let someone go? Or are they just bored? Do they need money, food, security? Or do they just want to escape their own thoughts?
Of course, there are great and wonderful answers, too. But most often, I enter into people's live when they are asking the questions above...which can be summed up into perhaps this question: "Is that all there is?"
With real love, with true love, deep unchanging commitment to the good of the other...life never asks "Is that all there is?" because there is never an end to love. One is never too full, the filling space just grows along with the action of love. And it is not exclusive to marriage. Or to children.
There exists and encompassing self-giving that transcends any way we attempt to measure it. But it is not always idyllic, romantic or satisfying...love is sometimes quite painful.
I have a new watcher. He listens quite well. I don't have to hold back...I don't even have to think of holding back...and that is a sweet freedom to finally acquire. His entry into my life has allowed me to be even more authentic with all the other wonderful people in my life. It feels a bit like swimming in a lake with no bottom. The water is cool and clear, and no matter how far you look down, there seems to be just more clean beautiful water. Yet the thought still comes...what if there is a sea monster, a Leviathan, waiting...for that final surrender...when the kill might be so easy.
Such is the mind of someone learning to trust love.
And so odd that God would finally bring him in these moments of great challenge. I didn't think I would ever have to make the phone call where the person on the other end of the line would answer, "Texas Oncology." Heart disease, I expected someday. My biological mother had a bad heart. She also had trouble with love...or loving. The mother that raised me clearly had trouble with loving. So I have not had too much teaching in it, only what I could discern from watching my friends' families, who were sometimes darker than my own.
You see how I steer away...the blood I received in the transfusion was the greatest blessing. I was depressed because I was more and more unable to do much of anything...and then the pain began to increase all over my body. It was only when I could no longer put food into my mouth without having to fight pain, that I decided to go to the doctor. Let me be even more specific: when it became painful to receive Holy Communion, I knew that I had to do something.
I reacall Jill, on the cliff, in Aslan's country...in the book "The Silver Chair," which is the book on penance and reconciliation. The waters of life were before her...and she was so very thirsty...but a great and terrible lion sat at the edge of the waters. The lion said, "If you are thirsty, drink." And Jill said, "How do I know you will not kill me?" And Aslan told her she would not know, that he had killed many people...but he also told her if she did not drink she would die.
Such is the metaphor for love. You risk it, knowing you might die from it. And you might. The horrors of 2012, too many killings, too many broken hearts...and I believe all of it happened because of love...and the lack of it, the fear of it...and quite truthfully too much of it. But it is as Paul writes, the hunger for love killed to many people...it always does...because many of us don't have any real clue of what love is...and we can become very jealous of people who we think understand it.
I want to write so many things here...all the images in my head...of the love, the redemption, the forgiveness, the hope, the kindness...all swirling around in my bowl. My supervisor is correct, poetry may be the only way to communicate what seems to be forming in my head. There is just too much to explain.
The doctor does not know what is wrong with me, except that my blood is not working correctly. So now I must allow specialists into my life. All the work I have done as a chaplain, was it preparing me to act with grace in the moments I much now enter? I can say without question that my work has taken on greater humility and intention, as I examine my own fears: wanting a miracle, wanting courage, wanting good and helpful answers. And maybe it won't be cancer. I am optimistic enough to believe that the problem might be more manageable. But if it is not, then...I will face it.
And here's the kicker: in addition to this challenge refining my skills as a chaplain, God is forcing me into that place I have avoided for more than 50 years...I have to let people help me...and horror of horrors: I have to let people love me. When you have not grown up knowing what that looks like, I can assure you that it is as scary as hell. I had no idea how many walls I had put up, until I began the work of dismantling them. and I often feel great anger at the people who interferred with my life and upset my world.
Even more frustrating, I have to let people love me who I don't particularly like.
So I'm going to enjoy this good blood while it works. I am greatly fearful when the symptoms return. I am hyper-vigilant to the activity of my body right now. My thought is that we all are. It is the only reason I write here. Otherwise, I'd be writing in my journal. Slowly I am talking out the adventures which lead to now and what lie ahead...and I watch the eyes carefully. It is so curious to see love there...I had so convinced myself that I was merely a means to an end.
I must be careful here, let me assure you that I have never doubted God's love, and though I might kid around, I do not "blame" God for anything in my life. I wonder sometimes about the teachings, but they always seems quite profound once the teaching is complete...but God did not cause anything evil in my life...humanity did that...and it is humanity that I must forgive.
Father, forgive them for they do not know what they are doing. And I must forgive them. I was made for love and in love. I cannot deny my father, nor my mother, nor my spouse.
Do whatever He tells you.
Damn.
Even when I bend, when I give in,
He only asks for more.
And out of love, I must always say yes,
Because in love, I am...
And finally, quite oddly,
I have to let that love wound me all over again...or maybe for the very first time.
I went to a birthday party last night. I really did not want to go, but I loved my friend more than I wanted to stay home. I'm just not good company now. I am not entertaining. I am a burden. But I went, because I loved. Her. And I enjoyed watching her celebrate...and suddenly realizing I was celebrating with her. I did not have to be afraid of what was happening to me inside, because right then, it was a good day and everyone was having a good time. And I laughed at all the fun things going on...as I knew the stories of many in the room...and I thought, how marvelous we are, human beings, how resilient and strong and brave...and how very playful...and that being there reminded me quite rudely: I don't have to do any of this alone. This is a new world, a new Jerusalem...this is a taste of heaven.
The magician asked me to pick a card, and write my name on it.
I picked the King of Hearts.
And I wrote my name on His heart.
He sais put it back in the deck.
Then he chose a card, and scribbled lines on the back of it.
He said it was all messed up
So he shook it around...
and showed it to us...
and there is was,
My name.
MY name.
My NAME.
And he turned over the card...
And there
On the King of All Hearts...
was my name...
and everybody marveled at the magic
magic...
Love,
Cindy
God works in mysterious ways. Clever ways. Annoying ways.
Yesterday was a great and wonderful day. I think the morning could have lasted forever and I would have been happy. I spent it with my daughter...and we talked about real things, used real words. It was a time and a conversation I had been waiting for all my life. Even so, I still did not let it last too long...and I ask myself why. Because I didn't want to ruin it.
When good things arrive, I still approach with great caution. Much differently than walking boldly into danger, which was pretty much my standard when I was a kid.
I think about how we learn...and somewhere, close to the beginning, I somehow learned that my life had little value, other than a means to an end. As much as I hate writing that, I have found that to be the case with many women...and some men. We somehow learn we are simply a means to an end, and that affects all of our choices. Especially when it comes to love.
Why do some people marry? Do they marry for love? Or for safety? Do they marry because it is 'what people do when they get all growed up' or to they marry to escape their current reality? Do they marry to hurt someone else? To let someone go? Or are they just bored? Do they need money, food, security? Or do they just want to escape their own thoughts?
Of course, there are great and wonderful answers, too. But most often, I enter into people's live when they are asking the questions above...which can be summed up into perhaps this question: "Is that all there is?"
With real love, with true love, deep unchanging commitment to the good of the other...life never asks "Is that all there is?" because there is never an end to love. One is never too full, the filling space just grows along with the action of love. And it is not exclusive to marriage. Or to children.
There exists and encompassing self-giving that transcends any way we attempt to measure it. But it is not always idyllic, romantic or satisfying...love is sometimes quite painful.
I have a new watcher. He listens quite well. I don't have to hold back...I don't even have to think of holding back...and that is a sweet freedom to finally acquire. His entry into my life has allowed me to be even more authentic with all the other wonderful people in my life. It feels a bit like swimming in a lake with no bottom. The water is cool and clear, and no matter how far you look down, there seems to be just more clean beautiful water. Yet the thought still comes...what if there is a sea monster, a Leviathan, waiting...for that final surrender...when the kill might be so easy.
Such is the mind of someone learning to trust love.
And so odd that God would finally bring him in these moments of great challenge. I didn't think I would ever have to make the phone call where the person on the other end of the line would answer, "Texas Oncology." Heart disease, I expected someday. My biological mother had a bad heart. She also had trouble with love...or loving. The mother that raised me clearly had trouble with loving. So I have not had too much teaching in it, only what I could discern from watching my friends' families, who were sometimes darker than my own.
You see how I steer away...the blood I received in the transfusion was the greatest blessing. I was depressed because I was more and more unable to do much of anything...and then the pain began to increase all over my body. It was only when I could no longer put food into my mouth without having to fight pain, that I decided to go to the doctor. Let me be even more specific: when it became painful to receive Holy Communion, I knew that I had to do something.
I reacall Jill, on the cliff, in Aslan's country...in the book "The Silver Chair," which is the book on penance and reconciliation. The waters of life were before her...and she was so very thirsty...but a great and terrible lion sat at the edge of the waters. The lion said, "If you are thirsty, drink." And Jill said, "How do I know you will not kill me?" And Aslan told her she would not know, that he had killed many people...but he also told her if she did not drink she would die.
Such is the metaphor for love. You risk it, knowing you might die from it. And you might. The horrors of 2012, too many killings, too many broken hearts...and I believe all of it happened because of love...and the lack of it, the fear of it...and quite truthfully too much of it. But it is as Paul writes, the hunger for love killed to many people...it always does...because many of us don't have any real clue of what love is...and we can become very jealous of people who we think understand it.
I want to write so many things here...all the images in my head...of the love, the redemption, the forgiveness, the hope, the kindness...all swirling around in my bowl. My supervisor is correct, poetry may be the only way to communicate what seems to be forming in my head. There is just too much to explain.
The doctor does not know what is wrong with me, except that my blood is not working correctly. So now I must allow specialists into my life. All the work I have done as a chaplain, was it preparing me to act with grace in the moments I much now enter? I can say without question that my work has taken on greater humility and intention, as I examine my own fears: wanting a miracle, wanting courage, wanting good and helpful answers. And maybe it won't be cancer. I am optimistic enough to believe that the problem might be more manageable. But if it is not, then...I will face it.
And here's the kicker: in addition to this challenge refining my skills as a chaplain, God is forcing me into that place I have avoided for more than 50 years...I have to let people help me...and horror of horrors: I have to let people love me. When you have not grown up knowing what that looks like, I can assure you that it is as scary as hell. I had no idea how many walls I had put up, until I began the work of dismantling them. and I often feel great anger at the people who interferred with my life and upset my world.
Even more frustrating, I have to let people love me who I don't particularly like.
So I'm going to enjoy this good blood while it works. I am greatly fearful when the symptoms return. I am hyper-vigilant to the activity of my body right now. My thought is that we all are. It is the only reason I write here. Otherwise, I'd be writing in my journal. Slowly I am talking out the adventures which lead to now and what lie ahead...and I watch the eyes carefully. It is so curious to see love there...I had so convinced myself that I was merely a means to an end.
I must be careful here, let me assure you that I have never doubted God's love, and though I might kid around, I do not "blame" God for anything in my life. I wonder sometimes about the teachings, but they always seems quite profound once the teaching is complete...but God did not cause anything evil in my life...humanity did that...and it is humanity that I must forgive.
Father, forgive them for they do not know what they are doing. And I must forgive them. I was made for love and in love. I cannot deny my father, nor my mother, nor my spouse.
Do whatever He tells you.
Damn.
Even when I bend, when I give in,
He only asks for more.
And out of love, I must always say yes,
Because in love, I am...
And finally, quite oddly,
I have to let that love wound me all over again...or maybe for the very first time.
I went to a birthday party last night. I really did not want to go, but I loved my friend more than I wanted to stay home. I'm just not good company now. I am not entertaining. I am a burden. But I went, because I loved. Her. And I enjoyed watching her celebrate...and suddenly realizing I was celebrating with her. I did not have to be afraid of what was happening to me inside, because right then, it was a good day and everyone was having a good time. And I laughed at all the fun things going on...as I knew the stories of many in the room...and I thought, how marvelous we are, human beings, how resilient and strong and brave...and how very playful...and that being there reminded me quite rudely: I don't have to do any of this alone. This is a new world, a new Jerusalem...this is a taste of heaven.
The magician asked me to pick a card, and write my name on it.
I picked the King of Hearts.
And I wrote my name on His heart.
He sais put it back in the deck.
Then he chose a card, and scribbled lines on the back of it.
He said it was all messed up
So he shook it around...
and showed it to us...
and there is was,
My name.
MY name.
My NAME.
And he turned over the card...
And there
On the King of All Hearts...
was my name...
and everybody marveled at the magic
magic...
Love,
Cindy
Friday, December 28, 2012
The Doll
No, I haven't left the planet...yet. I am still to busy to sit and write. My thoughts are either moving too fast or too slow, I cannot decide. A truth will come in about another week, when I'll get tested again to determine what is happening to this body that my soul lives in. Then, I will be able to decide what I want to do next.
All in all, this Christmas, I was given the greatest present someone could get:life. Through real human blood. I never thought too much about it before, perhaps because I never had to, but in my work, I am often working to understand what someone is going through in the hospital setting. One never really knows about fear until one experiences it firsthand. No one can say to you, "I understand" unless they have walked the path. Even then, a person can only really understand his own experience...and that is only if he wants to understand it. We cannot project our experiences onto another person, as much as we would like to, or unconsciously try.
It is so hard to be alive...when you think about it...and so easy to be alive...when you don't think. Shakespeare wrote that in a play, but I don't remember which one. "The world is a comedy to those that feel and a tragedy to those that think"
Alas, I think...and I feel...
I feel a lot...and I think about it...and if I work hard, I can write about it truthfully.
As I review the year, and I will do that, once my babies are safely on their way to the next thing, I have to pay attention to what I have learned in 2012. I put that here, because I charge you to look at your life this year. But the charge has one very important caveat: the review must be a redemption story. I don't care where you are in your life, or what you are doing, you must always remember that all stories should be redemption stories...and if you cannot see that in your story, then you you need to sit with it a bit longer. And if you are too proud to think you need redeeming, then I suggest you look again...not one of us is without the need for great mercy: from God, of course, but very much, too, from ourselves!
How can we possibly live a holy life without being merciful to ourselves? How can we offer mercy unless we have first received it? My whole life is tied up in the truth that we cannot give away what we do not have...and most people who are cruel or unkind...are cruel or unkind because that is what they have been given. We cannot judge. We must simply give love. To everyone. Because He said to do it...and because we know it is the right thing to do.
The children are not nestling anymore...must go.
Love, Cindy
All in all, this Christmas, I was given the greatest present someone could get:life. Through real human blood. I never thought too much about it before, perhaps because I never had to, but in my work, I am often working to understand what someone is going through in the hospital setting. One never really knows about fear until one experiences it firsthand. No one can say to you, "I understand" unless they have walked the path. Even then, a person can only really understand his own experience...and that is only if he wants to understand it. We cannot project our experiences onto another person, as much as we would like to, or unconsciously try.
It is so hard to be alive...when you think about it...and so easy to be alive...when you don't think. Shakespeare wrote that in a play, but I don't remember which one. "The world is a comedy to those that feel and a tragedy to those that think"
Alas, I think...and I feel...
I feel a lot...and I think about it...and if I work hard, I can write about it truthfully.
As I review the year, and I will do that, once my babies are safely on their way to the next thing, I have to pay attention to what I have learned in 2012. I put that here, because I charge you to look at your life this year. But the charge has one very important caveat: the review must be a redemption story. I don't care where you are in your life, or what you are doing, you must always remember that all stories should be redemption stories...and if you cannot see that in your story, then you you need to sit with it a bit longer. And if you are too proud to think you need redeeming, then I suggest you look again...not one of us is without the need for great mercy: from God, of course, but very much, too, from ourselves!
How can we possibly live a holy life without being merciful to ourselves? How can we offer mercy unless we have first received it? My whole life is tied up in the truth that we cannot give away what we do not have...and most people who are cruel or unkind...are cruel or unkind because that is what they have been given. We cannot judge. We must simply give love. To everyone. Because He said to do it...and because we know it is the right thing to do.
The children are not nestling anymore...must go.
Love, Cindy
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