four little words

Two minutes early, I slid into the waiting room chair at the beauty parlor where my mother, sisters, and I all have our locks trimmed.  Two minutes early and within five seconds of my bottom touching the vinyl seat, I hear those four little words that follow me seemingly wherever I go.  Regardless of community, geography, age, race, gender, socio-economic realities, education level, employment status, sexual orientation, or marital status, those four little words echo across the globe, or at least this great nation of ours.  “I don’t like change.” 

Curiosity stirs.  I wonder who first uttered these four humble words (or those of equal sentiment).  Let’s go back to the United States of America.  One of the key reasons we came into existence was a hunger for change.  For 12ish years, my most consistent context has been the local church which I pastored in various forms, sizes, and locales.  Each one had bastions built to resist change as if the next World War were ready to erupt.  Yet, the Protestant Church came into reality out of a passionate need for change. 

“I don’t like change,” said the woman with the ultra-dark, black-dyed bouffant.  Really?  Whilst you’ve tried to pretend that it’s still the 1960s, your body shows signs that change is all around you:   your wrinkles, your dye job, your posture, osteoporitic as it is.  Still more than physical realities remain, dear one:  your wisdom, your knowledge, your awareness of current events.  You have such beauty, courage, and honor that has helped you to make it thus far.  Would a continuing education event really hurt you that much?

Change came for me.  Perhaps those three or four of you who are my consistent audience were already aware.  My last post here was in May 2011.  My aunt died.  That death released a new level of awareness in me about where I was and who I was and who I was going to become if I didn’t change some key things.  Sure, there is always diet and exercise, but my food intake is not very extravagant and most would consider it quite healthy.  I’m talking about core issues that kept stirring over and over.  God grabbed a hold of me and wouldn’t let go this time.  No more backing down.   Change with grace must happen.

So in August, I snapped-to like Jacob’s hip when the angel pulled it out of socket.  After a foot/ankle injury, I’d already been limping all summer.  I decided that I might as well complete the total picture.  As God grabbed hold of me, I grabbed hold of God.  “I won’t let you go ‘til you bless me” (Gen 32: 26).   And I didn’t.  So God did.  As Jacob saw the face of God, he was ready to cross the Jabbok River (Gen. 32: 30).  Likewise, I was ready to cross the New and head back to the land of my home, the land of the Holston.  This time with a new/old name, a new/old approach, a new way of living out the same realities of whom I had always been.  

Today, I write from that new context:  hospice chaplaincy.  Who could have thought that those who are dying are the ones most ready to live honestly, fully, and well?  One doesn’t get a second chance at dying, so let us make the very best of it.  Let us learn and grow as much as we possibly can as we are being born into the mystery of life-without-end.

Regularly, I count my blessings — growing and striving to learn more about myself;  perceiving and enacting my purpose in the kingdom-coming and kingdom-present; pushing myself at the raw edges; amazing loved ones and the opportunity to be with them; the opportunity to be instead of do; the ability to re-engage a spirituality of creativity — all of these things are deeply meaningful to me.  Helpful as it is to hear others honor the courage out of which I’ve lived, I would have done it even without that recognition.  I suppose I’ve learned I’m nothing if not resilient.

Still, as one might imagine, the past 9 months have been painful.  But then, every pregnancy and birthing includes its fair share of pain.  Gestationally, it has been fruitful.  Rest and freedom and hope and companionship and authenticity and no more obscuring truth because it is too dangerous or difficult for others to handle.  Still, I cannot try to hide that the grief of leaving the womb is an ever-present reality.  I wonder if it will fade.  In no way would I be willing to return to that pre-birth state, but I do miss elements of its known-ness and safety.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so critical of those who don’t like change… or still hold on desperately to that mile-high bouffant.  After all, when I googled the hairstyle, there appeared several photos of present-day celebrities whose up-dos look hauntingly like what I imagine mine does when I twist it up on the back of my head.  Four little words.  Four little words.

Get ready

Morning on the River by blueridgeblog

My grandmother died when I was eight.    A beloved first grade teacher gave me and my sister a book about the death of a pet canary to help us deal with our grief.  All I really remember was being freaked out by the strictness of the nurses when we were urged to go quiet as bedmice to her bedside.   We were not to squeak.  The whirring and buzzing terrified me.  She was in a — COMA — and I knew nothing more than that a — COMA — was a terrible thing.

Years later, training for ministry as student teachers prepare for their own classrooms, I had to face those fears of antiseptic green tile walls and strange machinery, intimidating physicians and nurses who seemed to growl from their eye sockets.  In the process, I got ready to help others deal with the overwhelming assault of the dying process.  But, it doesn’t have to be so overwhelming. 

Death can be beautiful, gentle, liberating.  It can be healing, cleansing, renewing.  Yes, surely tears flow and hearts are run-over.  But death can be much more than loss.

My family has experienced a death.  We have before, many times.  We will again, many times.  This was a death we anticipated, but somehow it has overwhelmed us.  Maybe we expected more time.  Maybe we expected promises to come true, instead of ringing hollow.  Maybe.  But what we didn’t do was facilitate the process for getting ready.

By the deathbed, we said goodbye.  This time around, I kept vigil overnight while the whirring and alarms and challenged breathing kept me company through the hours.  Our loved one didn’t sense my presence, thankfully dulled out by the relief of pain medication.  We said, “It’s okay to let go.”  The little ones whom the patient hoped to see came and giggled and cried in the space.  The sounds of life-full-circle graced us … and this beloved one so near the next phase of life.

Nurses, chaplains, patient advocates were agents of grace and healing.  Friends surrounded this one:  expressing gratitude, laughing, praying, supporting one another even to the last breaths.

But we still are overwhelmed.  In the hours and days after this loss, we have not yet begun to grieve.  Why?  None of us were ready.  You’ve heard a phrase about getting one’s “affairs in order.”    Nothing is in order.  This is chaos and chaos is painful.  Chaos is a place no one wishes to be.  But chaos is a birthing place.  What’s true here is that as this beloved one hastens to the next phase of life, we are being birthed into new creatures.

Artful metaphors cannot describe the urgency with which I write when I say, organize your end.  It is the greatest gift you can give to those whom you will leave broken-hearted.  Line out not only to whom and to what the particularities of this mortal existence will go, but declare for all the world who represents you and how.  Consider the little details.  Make it official.  Equip and inform those closest to you.  Breathe peace upon them for a time when they will not remember what  peace means.  Pave the way so that they will know well how to make this journey and join you when the time comes. 

Get ready.

resurrection as self-care

On Easter Eve, I find myself gathering the energies necessary to accomplish the task before me.   Through the week, I’ve practiced strategies of self-discipline:  eating well, going to bed on time, exercising, drinking plenty of water, singing and praising, quiet reflection, study and steady prayer.  In a previous blog post, I’d referenced self-care as other care.  I’m convinced it is true.  Because, as I am well, so am I able to help others on their journey of wholeness.  As I am strong, so am I able to equip others to walk with those among us who suffer.  If I’m a wreck, crashed on the rocks, then I am no good to others.

Likewise, I’ve learned a great deal about letting things go.  The same way a bride can cause her wedding to be a miserable experience, or a mother can ruin her household’s experience of “the holidays” by over-focusing on the details of a perfect celebration, I have learned that I can ruin Holy Week if I over-program it.  The observance will come around again next year.  We may not wash feet this year or hold a service of Tenebrae, but we certainly can next year.  And if the Lord comes between now and then, all the better.

While St. Paul was willing to go to the great lengths — (“by all means”) — of doing whatever he could to win some, I’m going with the CEV translation of what Paul said he’d do.  I’ll look at the needs of the people among whom I’m serving and address those matters in the time and context in which we are serving.

²²When I am with people whose faith is weak, I live as they do to win them. I do everything I can to win everyone I possibly can. (1 Corinthians 9: 22)

But I’ve also learned that “letting go” may mean a willingness to accept some solid failures.  If we attempt to truly be everything to everyone at all times, then we will exhaust ourselves.  Just because we’ve always done it, or just because another church has had success with a particular ministry, or just because we think a new step in ministry would be great fun doesn’t mean we should do it.  My concept of pacing ourselves is straight from the Holy One.  We should do what we do well.  Half-way attempts will yield a level of dis-spirited-ness.  With limited resources, we strive to show Resurrection to the best of our ability.  Not as much or as often or as spread thin as we possibly can.

On the edge of my eleventh Easter as a pastor in the local church, I am aware of all that I have learned about how to pace myself to win the race, rather that to simply to accomplish a sprint.  For Paul continues in his first letter to the Corinthian church by saying:

²³I do all this for the good news, because I want to share in its blessings.   ²⁴You know that many runners enter a race, and only one of them wins the prize. So run to win! ²⁵Athletes work hard to win a crown that cannot last, but we do it for a crown that will last forever. (9: 23-25, CEV)

Unlike any other Holy Week prior to this one, I sense that I am at a healthier place than I ever have been.  This could be due to the fact that I have a great team of support — a wonderful collaboration of staff and lay people have made this celebration possible.   Together, we have envisioned and carried out a meaningful season of Lenten worship, service, and devotion.  Together, we have set the stage for a powerful season of Easter experiences.  This partnership is growing us and we are becoming stronger in the love of Christ Jesus.

But this team also extends to a network of friends and colleagues with whom I share mutual support.  I can’t say enough for the idea-sharing I enjoy with a few partners in ministry.  My dear friends who listen to my struggles uplift me.  A neutral ear of a pastoral counselor makes a great difference in my quality of life.

That fact that I’m feeling more whole this year could also relate to the fact that I’m serving one congregation instead of two.  Focus makes a real difference in terms of effectiveness.  Racing 3-5 miles back and forth between similar but distinct congregations can make a pastor begin to wonder about her ability to hold onto any single thought for very long.  She always wonders if she has accomplished the detail at one congregation that she just addressed with another.  Waiting for double the phone or email responses, making twice the pastoral calls, and more can wear on one’s ability to focus and follow through.

But then again, maybe my focus isn’t as clear as I thought because when I began this post, it was going to be about women-in-ministry and the story of Mary Magdalene.  But here we are.  This is where the Spririt has led.

My discovery this year is that coming out of the Tomb is about self-care.  For this humble servant, the path to Resurrection continues in the space of self-discipline.

Seasons of silence

image by Wicked Nox

Yes, it’s true.  I am  a tweeter.  And while I gave up Facebook for Lent (for many reasons which I will enumerate after Easter), I didn’t quit tweeting.  This morning, the Unvirtuous Abbey — one of those whom I “follow” on Twitter and “Like” on Facebook — has taken a vow of silence for this holy week.  It’s a good thought, and I suppose maybe be connected to some of my practical and spiritual reasons for withdrawing.

Silence can purify.  Sloughing off dead skin like a molting snake, silence shirks off the excess.  Maybe it’s silence in what we put out into the world.  For me, it’s been about what I take in.  With thousands of images and ideas, articles and attitudes infiltrating my mental and emotional space, I must step back.  I am now one of those weirdos who doesn’t watch TV.  I still have one on which I watch my happy, little Netflix DVDs, but I’m the chooser of what flows through rather than some media mogul who opts for some trashy reality series rather than a good mystery.

Silence.  I used to fill up every moment with sound.  In college, we blared our boom-boxes.  Sometimes, we aimed to drown out noisy neighbors upstairs or down the hall.  Other times, the goal was to modify the frequencies of the train roaring by.  When the years of forced loudness went away, I found myself hungering for the sounds of others.  Some sort of media always kept me company.  But over the past few years, I’ve preferred the echoes of my dog’s feet padding down the hall.  Birdsong.  Mowers of people down the street.  Yes, even the cattle lowing under my bedroom window.

I have regretted the lack of interplay with other notions and experiences happening during my quiet times.  I feel I’ve missed the magnitude of the earthquake, tsunami, and reactor’s vulnerability in Japan.  I’m a bit numbed out to the ongoing economic crisis.  For better or worse, I nearly skipped over the national budget crisis.

At some points, I think Francis Asbury was better off on horseback in the wilderness.  But then, he would have lost wonderful conversation with Madame Russell, and many others.  During this long Lent of silence, I’ve missed the easy, brief conversations with loved ones.  So it is that I subscribe with gratitude to my friend J’s blog and ponder over her words and liturgies.  Here she shares some thoughts on Holy Week with which I resonate.  I commend them to you.

As for me, the silence will end, soon.  Will it be too soon?  Time will tell.

True Companion

Springtime Companions by Mary Elise (passiflora photography)

The memory grows short as the days go by.  I find myself in places that apparently cater to people who came of age in the late 80s and early 90s.  The music churns through the space and I find myself rocked as if a time warp has carried me back into those moments so long ago.

Last weekend it was 99 Red Balloons.  Today, it is Marc Cohn’s “True Companion.”  I remember his “Walking in Memphis” rocketed him into popularity.  I owned the cassette tape.  Long before I knew anything about his lines, the music called out to me.

Baby I’ve been searching like everybody else
Can’t say nothing different about myself
Sometimes I’m an angel
And sometimes I’m cruel
And when it comes to love
I’m just another fool
Yes, I’ll climb a mountain
I’m gonna swim the sea
There ain’t no act of God girl
Could keep you safe from me
My arms are reaching out
Out across this canyon
I’m asking you to be my true companion
True companion
True companion

Cohn’s lyrics stir beautiful images of what it means for a man to have gained a woman’s heart and trust, the greatest achievement he’ll ever gain  Still, I’ve learned even more of what it means to be “companion.” 

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the notion of a companion for a while.  I’ve spoken with people over the past weeks who’ve had their trust betrayed when their partner broke bread with others.  Others tell me about rejection they’ve experienced by someone whom they thought was their true companion.  Another tells me that one has no worth without a true companion.  Of course, we hear the heart-angst in each of these.

Literally, a companion is “someone with whom you break bread.”  So our companions are those with whom we share table fellowship.  That might mean eucharist (communion).  Or it might mean a dinner date.  It could even be Manwich and Preacher Cookies after a daylong, 350 mile trip to a health specialist. 

Years ago I decided that I never wanted to be married to someone with whom I sat in silence when we went out to dinner.  Why would two people who have nothing to say to one another break bread together?  Since then, I’ve decided that  maybe sometimes, the silence is necessary.

What makes a true companion?  Who is yours?  What is that person like?

*Note:  I came upon Mary Elise (passiflora photography) who created the image above.  I think her work is wonderful.  If you click on “Springtime Companions,” it will take you to her website.

Good reads

On the Platform, reading by moriza

From time to time, I come across a book, a quote, an article that is well done, truly.  That’s the case with these articles:

• Porn and paper pastors posted at Pyromaniacs
• 10 Characteristics of People Who Make Up a Great Church by Ron Edmondson
• Two articles on Marriage at pastors.com
  • As your Ministry 
  • After Trust Is Broken

What good stuff are you reading lately?

Sad Songs

If someone else is suffering enough to write it down
When every single word makes sense
Then it’s easier to have those songs around
The kick inside is in the line that finally gets to you
and it feels so good to hurt so bad
And suffer just enough to sing the blues

~Sir Elton John, Sad Songs

 

Lent is a season of minor chords, sad songs, and breaking hearts.  I know of a lot of broken hearts, lately.  Some of them have to do with relationships in ruin.  Some of them have to do with wrecked senses of self-esteem.  Some have to do with crises of identity.  Maybe it’s the full moon of the equinox pulling at these wounded places, tearing open the places only recently being knitted back together.  Maybe it’s just that deep awareness of new birth coming into and out of old selves.  When I open up my vocal chords and allow “There Is a Balm” to come flowing out, I know I’m finding my way home.

 

There is a balm in Gilead, to make the wounded whole,
there is a balm in Gilead,to heal the sinsick soul.
There is a balm in Gilead,to make the wounded whole,
there is a balm in Gilead,to heal the sinsick soul.

Sometimes I feel discouraged,and think my work’s in vain,
but then the Holy Spirit revives my soul again.

Weariness in the Christian journey.  Weariness in the search for love.  Weariness.  The Book of Lamentations gives voice to great woe.  Jeremiah is the Prophet of Tears.  Each of these and so many other storytellers and sages accompany us through the trials and travail of tears. 

 

Recently, a friend of mine shared a song by Christina Perri, called “Tragedy.”  I can’t help but think of “Moulin Rouge’s” penniless poet and  Third Day’s “Cry Out to Jesus.”

 

I wonder… what are your sad songs?  What helps you to release your tears?

 

 

A thing of beauty

Japan

Whenever Margitta updates a post, I give a word of thanks to God for RSS feeds and her eye for beauty in simplicty. 

“‘Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free,” goes the old Shaker hymn.  

“‘Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be, And when we find ourselves in the place just right, ‘Twill be in the valley of love and delight. 

When true simplicity is gain’d,  To bow and bend we shan’t be asham’d, To turn, turn will be our delight, Till by turning, turning we come round right.”

Margitta decorates her home with such ease and grace that she opens up quietness for the soul to stretch.  Her inventiveness is freshness to my eye and spirit.  It must be necessary in the Northland in which she dwells. 

If you need a still moment in which to pause, visit her space at White as Linen.

Tulips

Relaxation techniques

Everyone has their own strategies for relaxation.  My father sits down in a chair with the channel changer in hand.  Before too long, his eyes become heavy, his chin drops and his hand goes limp.  If he’s lucky the remote doesn’t land too hard.  My mother stitches and does handwork of all sorts.  Others run for endorphins and then enter into down time afterwards.  I listen to classical music.

Several years ago, I found that in order to be the most productive, I need to listen to classical music.  Preferably, there are no words to distract me.  But if  I listen to a piece often enough, I’ll begin to learn the music and hum along with it, words or no words.  Here are my top 10 for relaxation and creative production, all rolled into one:

1. Arvo Part:  I Am the True Vine
2. Ralph Vaughn Williams:  Tallis Fantasia
3. Peter Gabriel:  Passion
4. John Williams: Star Wars, Duel of the Fates
5. Aaron Copeland:  Appalachian Spring
6. Renee Fleming:  O Mio Babbino Caro
7. John Rutter: Requiem (Agnus Dei/The Lord Is My Shepherd)
8. Delibes:  Lakme (The Flower Duet)
9. Yo Yo Ma, Mark O’Connor, Edgar Meyer:  Appalachian Waltz

Discover Yourself

The Lenten Season is a time for reflection.  Lately, I’ve been thinking back over the fact that I possess no memories of a time before I knew myself to be a follower of Jesus, a singer, a reader and lover of stories, or an artist.  I contrast, I distinctly remember that I began writing in middle school.  Angsty poems, love poems, broken-heart poems, God-praise poems.  Stuff that turns my stomach now.  Over time, I published various contributions in school literary magazines. 

 In graduate school, I wrote many liturgical texts, some of which were collected in a seminary publication.  It seems that collection has been distributed widely because, from time to time, I find my texts at various churches’ websites or in their newsletters, such as this one from March 15, 2009 St. Pius X Parish:

 

O God of Wounded Hands,

who scoops us up out of lifeless clay,

who shapes us and sculpts us to reflect yourself;

 O God of Wounded Hands, who breathes life into us,

who knows our limited humanness and becomes like us;

O God of Wounded Hands,

who suffers the piercing and torment of your own flesh,

heal us.

Knit together our wounded places, our deep pain, 

so that we may move to reconcile

our relationships with you

and our kinships with our sisters and brothers

from whom we are estranged.

In you, O God who works through woundedness

to create wholeness.

Amen.

 

© 2000 (If you want to use this text, please contact me for permission.) 

 

As I reflect, my learnings are these:  

• Reading grows me.  
• Art unveils what lies in my depths.  
• Singing expresses what flows within me. 
• Writing helps me to discover who I am. 

The thing is, writing helps me to discover my faith, too.  What is deep down inside there?  What’s on the surface waiting to be scratched. I wonder what helps you to discover who you are?  Are you working on the process of finding who you are and who God dreams for you to be?