The children of Israel defined themselves by their story: We were slaves in Egypt and the Lord rescued us with a strong and mighty hand...
We also define ourselves by the stories we tell. Sometimes as a therapist I work with clients on rewriting their story. Perhaps they inherited a story from their family that identified them as being the screw-up, the one who'll never amount to anything. These stories become self-fulfilling prophecies.
But we also heal through our stories.
I've known it to be true for a long time, and am now experiencing it again. When friends ask what they can do for me as I grieve my mother's death, I'll often say, "Let's go to lunch" or "let's get a cup of coffee." What I'm really asking is for them to listen to me tell my story. The story of sitting in the hospital room. Of talking to the doctors and making decisions. The story of saying good-bye. The story of what I miss.
One of the greatest gifts of Christian community can be offering a place where we can tell our stories and where our stories may be heard. Not only that, but that they may be told and heard within the context of God's grace, the place in which all of our stories may find meaning and all of our hearts may find home.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Life comes at you fast, part two
At first we laughed about it.
At almost the exact time that I started getting back on my feet after my accident, my mom started not feeling well. Old fractures in her back were acting up, and my normally active mom needed some help. We laughed about how quickly the caregiving roles changed.
We had a good Christmas even though she wasn't quite up to snuff. They were getting ready to move. My folks had made the decision to move into a retirement home. Together, we all picked out paint and wallpaper and tile and carpet. They were moving into a neighborhood filled with old friends.
But it was a hard move for my mom. Forty-six years ago this house had been her dream house, and she loved it fiercely. It was chock full of memories of kids and grandkids and now a great grandchild. It had her yard that had been both her therapy and her exercise. But it was all getting to be a bit too much, and it was time to move. Although she'd made the decision, she was grieving deeply.
Her deep grief explained the symptoms she was having. Even after she wound up in the hospital, the medical staff agreed with us that it all made prefect sense. Until it didn't.
One day we were talking about how to transition her back home. The next day they were moving her into ICU and putting her on a vent. A CT scan done after the move to ICU revealed an out of control malignant tumor, one that wasn't there six weeks ago. Two days after discussing her discharge plans my family and I were talking with the doctor about disconnecting life support. At 4:30 the next morning she slipped from this life to the next.
In the midst of these unexpectedly hard hours, my family has talked about the many, mysterious graces that have surrounded us. My mom had always worried about what would happen to my dad if she went first. Two weeks before her death, they'd moved into a retirement home where someone calls to check on him every morning, where meals are provided every day and where he has many friends to embrace him. He's not left to rattle around a big old house that's empty except for the memories.
There is grace in not knowing. Earlier in the fall a doctor had suggested she might have lymphoma (a follow-up reassured her that there was no reason to worry). At that time, she said she didn't want to go through chemotherapy at her age. Had it come to that, it would have been a difficult choice, torn between what she didn't want to do and staying with her family longer. We had a wonderful last Christmas in the old house free of any shadows.
There was grace in the fact that she had talked openly and honestly with us about her wishes. When we talked with the doctor about life support, we absolutely knew what our mother wanted.
There is grace in the fact that my mom was active almost to the end, didn't have to suffer for an extended time, and that we got to say good-bye. She wanted to die with her boots on.
And for me, there was a very personal grace. On that Friday I'd sent my dad home from the hospital. My mom wasn't awake and he was exhausted. So I was alone when the doctors and nurses began realizing how sick she was. At almost the exact moment that a doctor came out to discuss DNR orders with me, my friend Jane showed up.
Jane is a chaplain at this hospital, and had been my supervisor for half of my residency year. We'd remained friends ever since. She was there for me to cry on her shoulder, disbelieving and overwhelmed. She let me use her office to e-mail my family about the change in circumstances. She drove me to my father's house so I could break the news to him. She stayed with me nearly until my nieces showed up, so that I did not have to be alone.
She "just happened" to decide to visit at that moment on that afternoon. She "just happened" to have a free and flexible Friday afternoon.
Sometimes God "just happens" to prod us to do ordinary things that become extraordinary gifts.
At almost the exact time that I started getting back on my feet after my accident, my mom started not feeling well. Old fractures in her back were acting up, and my normally active mom needed some help. We laughed about how quickly the caregiving roles changed.
We had a good Christmas even though she wasn't quite up to snuff. They were getting ready to move. My folks had made the decision to move into a retirement home. Together, we all picked out paint and wallpaper and tile and carpet. They were moving into a neighborhood filled with old friends.
But it was a hard move for my mom. Forty-six years ago this house had been her dream house, and she loved it fiercely. It was chock full of memories of kids and grandkids and now a great grandchild. It had her yard that had been both her therapy and her exercise. But it was all getting to be a bit too much, and it was time to move. Although she'd made the decision, she was grieving deeply.
Her deep grief explained the symptoms she was having. Even after she wound up in the hospital, the medical staff agreed with us that it all made prefect sense. Until it didn't.
One day we were talking about how to transition her back home. The next day they were moving her into ICU and putting her on a vent. A CT scan done after the move to ICU revealed an out of control malignant tumor, one that wasn't there six weeks ago. Two days after discussing her discharge plans my family and I were talking with the doctor about disconnecting life support. At 4:30 the next morning she slipped from this life to the next.
In the midst of these unexpectedly hard hours, my family has talked about the many, mysterious graces that have surrounded us. My mom had always worried about what would happen to my dad if she went first. Two weeks before her death, they'd moved into a retirement home where someone calls to check on him every morning, where meals are provided every day and where he has many friends to embrace him. He's not left to rattle around a big old house that's empty except for the memories.
There is grace in not knowing. Earlier in the fall a doctor had suggested she might have lymphoma (a follow-up reassured her that there was no reason to worry). At that time, she said she didn't want to go through chemotherapy at her age. Had it come to that, it would have been a difficult choice, torn between what she didn't want to do and staying with her family longer. We had a wonderful last Christmas in the old house free of any shadows.
There was grace in the fact that she had talked openly and honestly with us about her wishes. When we talked with the doctor about life support, we absolutely knew what our mother wanted.
There is grace in the fact that my mom was active almost to the end, didn't have to suffer for an extended time, and that we got to say good-bye. She wanted to die with her boots on.
And for me, there was a very personal grace. On that Friday I'd sent my dad home from the hospital. My mom wasn't awake and he was exhausted. So I was alone when the doctors and nurses began realizing how sick she was. At almost the exact moment that a doctor came out to discuss DNR orders with me, my friend Jane showed up.
Jane is a chaplain at this hospital, and had been my supervisor for half of my residency year. We'd remained friends ever since. She was there for me to cry on her shoulder, disbelieving and overwhelmed. She let me use her office to e-mail my family about the change in circumstances. She drove me to my father's house so I could break the news to him. She stayed with me nearly until my nieces showed up, so that I did not have to be alone.
She "just happened" to decide to visit at that moment on that afternoon. She "just happened" to have a free and flexible Friday afternoon.
Sometimes God "just happens" to prod us to do ordinary things that become extraordinary gifts.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Life Comes at You Fast
On the morning of May 27, I was enjoying a bike ride before work. Heading for home, I gave my left turn signal and began to move towards the center turn lane. The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back, being attended to by a paramedic.
I'd been hit by a Buick (as in, the car hit ME, not my bike!) The result of that collision was a pelvis fractured in three places. Thankfully, I did not have to have surgery; however, I am spending all of June and July in wheelchair, and will face months of rehab before I can climb on my bike again.
(Public Service Announcement) If you bike, wear a helmet. 90% of all bike accident fatalities come from head injuries. My helmet has four cracks in it... but my skull has none. (Public Service Announcement over)
It's the fashion nowadays to talk about how isolated we all are, but thank God it's not always true. I have been the recipient of many kindnesses, like the neighbor who kept my dog until I came home and who now takes her for "play dates" when she needs the exercise I can't give her. Or the neighbor who picks up my paper every morning and brings it to my door. Or the complete strangers who have opened doors for me and helped get my wheelchair over a curb when there was no curb cut available.
Most of all, there have been the churches. I first stayed with my parents after getting out of the hospital, and their church (the one I grew up in) responded with calls, cards and food. A church for whom I'd led a women's retreat last winter did the same. I have received notes and prayers from people in a church I served twenty-two years ago.
And then there's my church. Our diaconate is divided up into various ministry teams; for example, a team that helps with prospective members, a team that makes hospital visits, a team that goes into action whenever there's a death.
I've always thought it was a good idea; now I know it's a powerful one. I cannot tell you what it meant to me to get a call from one of the deacons saying, "don't worry about cutting your grass this summer - we've got it taken care of." Or for folks to show up with food. In short, I have felt taken care of, by loving and generous hearts.
I think one reason these teams are working so well now is that people are truly in positions where they belong. People are getting the chance to do what they love to do. So, it becomes an easy thing to reach out.
The church gets some bad press these days, and frankly, some of it is warranted. Burt we also need to tell the stories of when they get it right.
So, to First Baptist and Ardmore Baptist of Winston-Salem, Beth Car baptist in Halifax, VA, and especially College Park Baptist in Greensboro,
Thank you.
I'd been hit by a Buick (as in, the car hit ME, not my bike!) The result of that collision was a pelvis fractured in three places. Thankfully, I did not have to have surgery; however, I am spending all of June and July in wheelchair, and will face months of rehab before I can climb on my bike again.
(Public Service Announcement) If you bike, wear a helmet. 90% of all bike accident fatalities come from head injuries. My helmet has four cracks in it... but my skull has none. (Public Service Announcement over)
It's the fashion nowadays to talk about how isolated we all are, but thank God it's not always true. I have been the recipient of many kindnesses, like the neighbor who kept my dog until I came home and who now takes her for "play dates" when she needs the exercise I can't give her. Or the neighbor who picks up my paper every morning and brings it to my door. Or the complete strangers who have opened doors for me and helped get my wheelchair over a curb when there was no curb cut available.
Most of all, there have been the churches. I first stayed with my parents after getting out of the hospital, and their church (the one I grew up in) responded with calls, cards and food. A church for whom I'd led a women's retreat last winter did the same. I have received notes and prayers from people in a church I served twenty-two years ago.
And then there's my church. Our diaconate is divided up into various ministry teams; for example, a team that helps with prospective members, a team that makes hospital visits, a team that goes into action whenever there's a death.
I've always thought it was a good idea; now I know it's a powerful one. I cannot tell you what it meant to me to get a call from one of the deacons saying, "don't worry about cutting your grass this summer - we've got it taken care of." Or for folks to show up with food. In short, I have felt taken care of, by loving and generous hearts.
I think one reason these teams are working so well now is that people are truly in positions where they belong. People are getting the chance to do what they love to do. So, it becomes an easy thing to reach out.
The church gets some bad press these days, and frankly, some of it is warranted. Burt we also need to tell the stories of when they get it right.
So, to First Baptist and Ardmore Baptist of Winston-Salem, Beth Car baptist in Halifax, VA, and especially College Park Baptist in Greensboro,
Thank you.
Monday, May 26, 2008
I just don't know
It was Youth Sunday at our church a few weeks ago. the youth choir sang and youth took over all aspects of the service. Our four graduating seniors spoke in place of the sermon, sharing the story of their faith journeys and their hopes for the future.
One spoke of how a mission trip to Hungary and later to post-Katrina New Orleans shaped her perspective and her future work as a social worker. Another spoke of the support he received during his parents' divorce. A young man who is originally from Latin America spoke of seeing the impact of economics on his people, and the differences he wanted to make as an adult. The last young man spoke of growing up in the church. Lately, it seemed, he' d been paying more attention to the world around him and trying to make sense of how terrible things could fit into a life of faith and what he believed about God. "It's a tough time right now," he said, with voice cracking. "I just don't know. I don't know what I think or what I believe."
We were proud of all of our students. We were especially pleased that they felt like they could be honest. And we were also grateful to be a part of a community of faith where a teenager didn't feel like they had to put on a spiritual grin and quote a party line, but could share truthfully and deeply from their heart.
Last Sunday our pastor started his summer sermon series. As a part of the series, he has a "talk back" time following the sermon. People are free to make comments and ask questions. Sunday a member asked a particularly thoughtful question. Our pastor's initial response? "The Bible doesn't give an answer to that, so I'm not sure I have one."
In the days when I was editing a devotional magazine, I received many wonderful notes of appreciation. but I once received a card from a pastor, chiding me. "You raise questions," he said, "but then you don't give people the answers." He thought that was too unsettling, too disturbing. I could live with that criticism because I believe that living with the questions is a part of faith.
The questions lead us out of our comfort zone. If we are very brave and keep journeying, we find ourselves in a new place with answers we never expected. Sometimes the answers come, but not for a very long time. And sometimes the answers never come, at least not in a way that truly and deeply satisfies us.
The truest test of our faith may not be our certainty but in how we live with the questions.
One spoke of how a mission trip to Hungary and later to post-Katrina New Orleans shaped her perspective and her future work as a social worker. Another spoke of the support he received during his parents' divorce. A young man who is originally from Latin America spoke of seeing the impact of economics on his people, and the differences he wanted to make as an adult. The last young man spoke of growing up in the church. Lately, it seemed, he' d been paying more attention to the world around him and trying to make sense of how terrible things could fit into a life of faith and what he believed about God. "It's a tough time right now," he said, with voice cracking. "I just don't know. I don't know what I think or what I believe."
We were proud of all of our students. We were especially pleased that they felt like they could be honest. And we were also grateful to be a part of a community of faith where a teenager didn't feel like they had to put on a spiritual grin and quote a party line, but could share truthfully and deeply from their heart.
Last Sunday our pastor started his summer sermon series. As a part of the series, he has a "talk back" time following the sermon. People are free to make comments and ask questions. Sunday a member asked a particularly thoughtful question. Our pastor's initial response? "The Bible doesn't give an answer to that, so I'm not sure I have one."
In the days when I was editing a devotional magazine, I received many wonderful notes of appreciation. but I once received a card from a pastor, chiding me. "You raise questions," he said, "but then you don't give people the answers." He thought that was too unsettling, too disturbing. I could live with that criticism because I believe that living with the questions is a part of faith.
The questions lead us out of our comfort zone. If we are very brave and keep journeying, we find ourselves in a new place with answers we never expected. Sometimes the answers come, but not for a very long time. And sometimes the answers never come, at least not in a way that truly and deeply satisfies us.
The truest test of our faith may not be our certainty but in how we live with the questions.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Dog Park wisdom
Rachel Remen has written a beautiful book entitled, Kitchen Table Wisdom. I guess my own wisdom comes in even more earthy ways.
I took my dog to a local dog park for the first time last weekend. After some initial shyness, she loved it. She ran. she played. She belly-flopped into a mud puddle. (For a picture of a filthy dog, see my other blog, Pets and Other Friends.)
It didn't take me long to realize that we need to become regulars at the park. There was such joy in my dog's play, and such joy in me at seeing her be so fully a dog, hanging around with the pack.
So, I stated planning... Let's see.. I could bring a book and get some of my reading done... get caught up on some articles....
Then it hit me. I could just sit. On sweet summer days, I could just sit beneath a tree and watch the dogs at play. I didn't have to DO anything (except maybe keep Oakley from the mud puddle.)
I could just BE.
I'm not a person who has a hard time just sitting. I love it when the weather turns warm enough for me to sit on my patio in the early morning, soaking in the free concert given by the birds. But sometimes I have a hard time giving myself permission. Even this morning - I took the time to sit in my favorite rocking chair with a cup of coffee, to journal a bit and read a bit and offer a prayer or two. But in reality, I don't think my spirit ever slowed down. It was one more thing to do.
I once gave a friend a small sign for her desk: I only have to do two things today... Breathe in. Breathe out.
It's a good thing to remember.
I took my dog to a local dog park for the first time last weekend. After some initial shyness, she loved it. She ran. she played. She belly-flopped into a mud puddle. (For a picture of a filthy dog, see my other blog, Pets and Other Friends.)
It didn't take me long to realize that we need to become regulars at the park. There was such joy in my dog's play, and such joy in me at seeing her be so fully a dog, hanging around with the pack.
So, I stated planning... Let's see.. I could bring a book and get some of my reading done... get caught up on some articles....
Then it hit me. I could just sit. On sweet summer days, I could just sit beneath a tree and watch the dogs at play. I didn't have to DO anything (except maybe keep Oakley from the mud puddle.)
I could just BE.
I'm not a person who has a hard time just sitting. I love it when the weather turns warm enough for me to sit on my patio in the early morning, soaking in the free concert given by the birds. But sometimes I have a hard time giving myself permission. Even this morning - I took the time to sit in my favorite rocking chair with a cup of coffee, to journal a bit and read a bit and offer a prayer or two. But in reality, I don't think my spirit ever slowed down. It was one more thing to do.
I once gave a friend a small sign for her desk: I only have to do two things today... Breathe in. Breathe out.
It's a good thing to remember.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Sin?
An article in a recent USA Today focused on the complaints of some clergy that the church has shied away from talking about sin. Everything is just a matter of self-improvement. And if there is no sin from which we need to be rescued, then there is no need for salvation, thus robbing this Holy Week of its power and purpose.
I think that a large part of the problem is that we have focused on sins as actions. This is what we have done that is wrong. The problem is that across the spectrum of Christianity, we are not at all in agreement of what those sins are. I remember someone telling me of visiting a women's group in Rome years ago. The Baptist visitor was astounded to see the women drinking wine at their gathering. One of the women leaned forward and asked the American visitor, with some incredulity, "Is it really true that in your country Christians smoke?"
Some of the ministers complained that sin had been replaced by self-help. As one who is both a minister and a licensed counselor, I see both sides. Many times people act in selfish and hurtful ways out of their own woundedness. They don't do better because they have never been equipped to do better. Woundedness is not an universal excuse. I believe that as you become aware, you also have to accept responsibility. Yes, you had a terrible childhood. Now, what are you going to do with that?
So, has good insurance coverage replaced our need for grace?
I don't think so. I think our fault has been in neglecting Sin in terms of relationship. The big sin of Adam and Eve wasn't the action of eating the apple. It was breaking the relationship of utter trust between them and their Creator. Our sin (in biblical terms, "missing the mark") is in neglecting to foster and nurture our relationship with God. It is forgetting that God desires this relationship as passionately as any lover, that God desires our well-being as deeply as any parent. God wants us to live into the fullness for which we were created.
Grace reminds us that the relationship isn't all our doing and the work is not all ours. Grace holds us even when we make a terrible mess of things, reminding us that God doesn't give up on us. Grace holds up a clear mirror of accountability, but also extends the invitation for new beginnings.
The Ten Commandments may be roughly broken into two parts: How we live with God and How we live with each other. It's no accident that living with God comes first. When I am living in close connection with God's Spirit, seeking to honor God and serve God and love God with my life, things like taking advantage of other people or being less than honest don't even come on my radar screen. Of course, sometimes my own vision can get cloudy, which is why I need a community to help me see the blind spots I've been avoiding.
Perhaps what we need is not more preachers telling us how wrong we've been. What we need is more people reminding us of who we are, and what it means when we live as something less than God's beloved creation.
I think that a large part of the problem is that we have focused on sins as actions. This is what we have done that is wrong. The problem is that across the spectrum of Christianity, we are not at all in agreement of what those sins are. I remember someone telling me of visiting a women's group in Rome years ago. The Baptist visitor was astounded to see the women drinking wine at their gathering. One of the women leaned forward and asked the American visitor, with some incredulity, "Is it really true that in your country Christians smoke?"
Some of the ministers complained that sin had been replaced by self-help. As one who is both a minister and a licensed counselor, I see both sides. Many times people act in selfish and hurtful ways out of their own woundedness. They don't do better because they have never been equipped to do better. Woundedness is not an universal excuse. I believe that as you become aware, you also have to accept responsibility. Yes, you had a terrible childhood. Now, what are you going to do with that?
So, has good insurance coverage replaced our need for grace?
I don't think so. I think our fault has been in neglecting Sin in terms of relationship. The big sin of Adam and Eve wasn't the action of eating the apple. It was breaking the relationship of utter trust between them and their Creator. Our sin (in biblical terms, "missing the mark") is in neglecting to foster and nurture our relationship with God. It is forgetting that God desires this relationship as passionately as any lover, that God desires our well-being as deeply as any parent. God wants us to live into the fullness for which we were created.
Grace reminds us that the relationship isn't all our doing and the work is not all ours. Grace holds us even when we make a terrible mess of things, reminding us that God doesn't give up on us. Grace holds up a clear mirror of accountability, but also extends the invitation for new beginnings.
The Ten Commandments may be roughly broken into two parts: How we live with God and How we live with each other. It's no accident that living with God comes first. When I am living in close connection with God's Spirit, seeking to honor God and serve God and love God with my life, things like taking advantage of other people or being less than honest don't even come on my radar screen. Of course, sometimes my own vision can get cloudy, which is why I need a community to help me see the blind spots I've been avoiding.
Perhaps what we need is not more preachers telling us how wrong we've been. What we need is more people reminding us of who we are, and what it means when we live as something less than God's beloved creation.
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