Just Katherine

I have a love/hate relationship with titles. But, I love names and nicknames (Names and Nicknames)--most of the time I do. Nicknames are often bestowed on us by those who love us--I adore being Mama Doyle to the youth of this Diocese. The truth is, reflecting on names is what encouraged me (read forced me because I couldn't keep my thoughts inside me anymore--it was like an alien trying to get out) to start this blog.  The very first entry 11June 2008 was What's in a Name? But titles--titles, well lately, I've been thinking more and more about titles....

Titles are earned--I get that; titles show respect--I get that too; titles help define who we are, but titles are sometimes used for less than benevolent reasons. I have personally witnessed people using titles to exert power and influence. I have seen people use titles to separate themselves and not for altruistic reasons. (Kind of like reasons for wearing a collar or not which I have also spent countless hours thinking about--To Collar or Not to Collar) And I suppose if I'm fair I have seen people use titles to hide behind sometimes because of insecurity, sometimes for other reasons, and while I suppose I should be sympathetic, if I'm truly honest (which I try to be for better or worse) it just makes me furious. (I'll never forget taking Caroline to a doctor who I had BABYSAT when he was in elementary school--he kept referring to himself as Dr.____ while calling me Katherine.  I wanted to say, "______ I put your scrawny hiney (which by the way I have seen in the buff) in time out more times than I can count.  Get over yourself!")

And so for all these jumbled reasons that I can't seem to figure out, it sends me into a panic when people ask me, "What do you want to be called?" I always feel like there must be a "right answer" that I don't know--an expectation of some sort that I've missed. Not to mention clergy women seem to have so many "choices" Mother, Rev., Pastor etc--and all can be loaded for others...I've heard the stories. So it's a dreaded question for me....

This past spring I answered a call to be Priest in Charge and I knew the send me into a panic heart racing  question would come. And it did--at a ladies retreat with them all LOOKING AT ME! "What do you want us to call you?" My hands started shaking, my mind started racing (seriously y'all this is a HUGE phobia for me) and I stammered around for a few minutes before I finally said, "Here's the thing. I understand that for children and youth a title may be important. I don't want my children calling adults by their first names." And I went on to explain all the different titles my children use for different people.  (I swear these women were probably thinking, "we don't need a dissertation on etiquette just an answer....and maybe we should reconsider this call....) But I continued.....

Finally one woman, either trying to save me from myself or just trying to get the ongoing, irrelevant, mind numbing monologue to stop, said, "But what do you want us to call you?" I took a deep breath and tentatively said, "How about just Katherine?"

And so that's what they started calling me "Just Katherine" and I love it!

I love it so much I've even adjusted this blog title...

Love, Blessing and Walt--My Second Daddy

I left dinner with close women clergy colleagues feeling uplifted. As I got in the car I noticed I  had a voice mail from Walt. "Kaaatherine," I heard his souther drawl say, "I'm going to have to cancel lunch tomorrow. I'm at Baptist East and probably won't go home."  Now anyone who knows Walt knows that nothing he says or does is unintentional; he doesn't let anything "slip" and he notices everything--he was telling me he was there for a reason. Heck, I didn't care what the reason was, this was Walt and wild horses wouldn't keep me away.  I called him and said, "I'm on my way." hanging up as he began telling me I didn't have to come. This was my second Daddy....

I'm not sure when it happened, but over the past few years Walt has become my second Daddy.  To be clear, I have a daddy I adore and he has a daughter he adores.  (Although, and this shouldn't be a surprise, I have worried extensively that his daughter would feel like I was trying to take over--but that's an issue for my therapist and me.) Neither my daddy or his daughter live in Louisville, so I guess you could say we found each other--our families found each other.

Lee

I'm not even sure when "it" happened, but it did. When Chris traveled and something was wrong with a car or advice was needed that a person with more estrogen than testosterone couldn't give, I frequently heard, "I'm just going to call Walt." We began spending holidays together (again more
worry from me about how his daughter would feel; I didn't worry about his son; he was often with us. In fact, both boys now call Lee for life advice---oh dear God help us....) However it happened, we became family as seamlessly and as naturally as though we had been a part of each other's lives forever.

I guess it was solidified one night this winter. As usual Walt and Andrea were at opening night of Caroline's play. Walt and Andrea show up for everything--games, performances, dates (that is a little more complicated for the children). Following this particular performance Caroline went to introduce them to a friend; without a pause she said, "These are my grandparents." And it was settled. They have another set of grandparents to be loved by and to love--unconditionally.

They're house has become my home and it's where I go for comfort, for laughter, for advice, for love. When I knew I had to resign from my job I called Chris who was out of town and then I headed straight there where I sat, cried and told them everything. Truthfully, over the last year I have spent many evenings in that same spot crying (again, issues for my therapist) and also many days and evenings laughing and being unconditionally loved.

We segregate by sex

And so I called Chris told him what I was doing and took off for the hospital promising to keep them informed. Everyone was worried--this was "our" Walt.

I walked into the waiting room and found him sitting alone. "Thank God I came," I thought, "I forgot Andrea was out of town." I sat next to him and there I remained for the six hours as we waited--yes you read that right SIX HOURS!!!  We talked some; we were silent some; and I watched his hands shake while he tried to pretend he wasn't in excruciating pain. I also watched him "be Walt" engaging with others waiting, showing compassion, showing empathy and making every person he spoke to or made eye contact with feel cared about just because they were a human being.

Really they're just too much to deal with

We were finally called back and a diagnosis was made--not of course before Walt knew the name and life story of every person that came in the room. I feel certain there are many employees who went home that day and said, "I've met my favorite patient of all time." Surgery was needed...

We were put in a room and as the nurse began doing the intake Walt said, 'This is my daughter; she's not listed in contacts but you tell her everything." Allie (see we know everyone's name--she commutes in from Frankfort but will move once her daughter who is a rising senior graduates and heads to Western where her brother already is) wrote out the instructions, Walt signed them and it was settled. (Now this probably became more confusing for Allie when at one point after many hours she said to me, "You can go home and get some sleep; we'll call you." and I responded, "I'm not leaving until his daughter gets here"...we like to keep people guessing....)

Anyway, Walt FINALLY called family. In true Walt fashion he down played everything telling them
not to come, but his daughter asked to speak to me and I told her everything I knew; she said she was booking a flight and would be there that evening. As we hung up she said, "I love you." I breathed a sigh of relief responded, "love you too" and with that a therapy issue is off the table. (sorry Becky...)

We settled in to wait--when SK stopped by on her way back to UVA Walt promised her he'd be out to see her before she left for Dublin on Tuesday. "But Walt," she said, "You've got to be there Saturday night for Caroline's prom." "Oh don't worry," he replied, "Even if I'm not discharged, I'll sneak out of here to come see her and then sneak back in." The boys stopped by individually (okay William skipped school to come--sorry LCS, but this is Walt and he did go back) where through a drug induced haze he lectured them both on life. Chris came and went and came again and all the while we waited....

Twenty one hours after arriving we were taken up to pre-op. I sat next to Walt as he began to be more and more out of it; my hands were resting on the side rail of the bed. If I'm honest, that's when I really started to be scared. I knew he was in good hands; I knew it wasn't a "big" deal surgery, but I knew I didn't want to lose Walt. I need Walt; my family needs Walt; the world needs Walt.

In his sleep he reached over and laid his extra large loving, comforting hands on mine. The nurse told us it would be five minutes before I had to leave. My mind began racing as I tried not to cry--what do I say? What do I do? Do I take on the roll of priest? There was no one else there--or do I not? What is my roll?  Who am I? (lack of sleep exacerbates even the typical frenzy of my mind)

Suddenly a calm came over me, as the nurse said "it's time to go" I stood, made the sign of the cross on his forehead, kissed the center of the cross and said, "I love you. See you soon." And I knew; it wasn't about being one or the other--it was about being me--priest, daughter, friend.  It was about being authentic, just the way Walt always is. It was about and is about love AND blessing.

As I waited in the waiting room during the surgery I remembered the words my dear friend The Rev. Tim Mitchell said to me when before I was ordained I panicked after he asked me to join a circle of priests who were laying their hands on one another, blessing one another--I didn't want to break "the rules." Tim said, "Katherine, I believe we are all capable of blessing one another, and I don't think we bless each other enough. Maybe the world would be different if we did."

I think Walt is a living example of that...

Despite the look on his face, he does love me

A Priest Like....

It was a beautiful funeral--I know to some that sounds weird, but really it was--the music, the flowers, just everything. Mostly it was the love that emanated from those in attendance and those who couldn't be. It was palpable--there was laughter and there were tears. It was all mixed together--like a family.  As we left the church, Chris the funeral director, said, "Why don't you just ride with me?" "Are you sure?" I asked not wanting to put him out, "You'd have to bring me back here." "It's fine," he said without adding, "I'm not an idiot; I get that."

So we set out--funeral processions in Louisville are not like those in the south; I still can't get over it. No one pulls over; you don't drive through stop lights--we were commenting on that just as Chris tried to stop a car approaching so the procession could stay together, a car I might add which came barrelling towards us (and just for the record would have hit on my side not his). Chris, "See what I mean? That car almost hit us."  "or me" I thought but didn't say.

We arrived at the cemetery; interred the ashes and were pulling out around 2:45.  "You know," I said, "My daughter gets out of school right across the street in 20 minutes.  I should just go get her and she can ride back with us so I don't have to come back." "Sure," said Chris, "Let's go get her." Then I realized I was in my cassock, my alb, and my chasuble and while I wouldn't mind walking in that way, I'm not quite sure how it would be received; plus I knew Chris wasn't feeling well and wanted to get home before taking his mother out for dinner. (You have to talk about something on the ride over; I also know all about his daughters, how he met his wife, and more....) So I said, "It's fine; I'll just come back in a few minutes. No big deal." Famous last words....

As we were driving back the car seemed to making a weird noise, but who am I to say anything? Suddenly Chris said, "I think we have a flat." At the next light he, got out and looked, "Yep, it's a  #*#*@* flat. Oh sorry Reverend--I shouldn't talk like that." "Why not?" I asked realizing I hadn't flinched but hoping he didn't notice--I do want to keep some decorum, "This is a really shitty day for you."

He pulled over; we got out and looked at the tire--he was right a @*#*@* flat. "I've got to take off these robes," I said. I got out of my robes while Chris called AAA.  He looked very frustrated. "What?" I asked. "They say it's going to be 45 minutes."  I could tell all he wanted was to get home and get a nap and the window of time was getting smaller and smaller.

"May I use your phone to call my daughter (yes contrary to popular opinion mine is not attached to my body but rather was back at the church) and then we'll just change it." But here was the problem..the only number I could remember was SK's and she was in Virginia.  No worries I called already telling myself if she didn't answer because of the strange number I would just keep calling back--eventually she would.  She did answer and I asked her to text Caroline.

Chris, "Wait you don't remember your daughter's phone number that lives here? You had to call the other daughter? Your daughter is going to have her feelings hurt you didn't remember her number." Me, "She might, but at least she got the message and knows she has to wait.  I'll offer to pay her therapy bills." (Later I told Caroline that and she responded, "Well you already do..." Think I should teach her to change a tire too.)

We started rummaging through the trunk finding all the "tools." It was not easy to find and there were no directions in the car. "I suspect most people who drive Infinity's don't change their own tires." I said, "But surely we can figure it out. One tool is missing.  Did your wife have a flat and maybe put it somewhere else?" Chris looking slightly amused, "My wife wouldn't know what a spare tire was."

We took turns lying on the ground attempting to get the bolt covers off (seriously who cares if you can see bolts on the tire which are also covered by a center wheel cover!!) We tried and tried--I mentioned I wish I had one of my pocket knives which led to a conversation about 9/11 and no longer being able to have a pocketknife key chain which led to a discussion about hunting. "You've seriously hunted?" Chris asked. At this point I was lying on the ground with 1/2 my arm behind the tire--"Yes, but not since my first time home from college.  My daddy still hunts and just bought some property in Virginia; maybe we'll get to hunt there."  I got up having unsuccessfully figured out how to get those damn bolt covers off, brushing dirt and pebbles from my knees. "Well you've got an invitation any time you want it at our farm." Chris offered.

My tire changing attire

I lowered myself to the ground again with a flat head screw driver determined to pry those suckers off. As I got situated a car pulled over.  It was Chris's wife who had come to get me back to church. I wondered if I should feel awkward since I was sprawled out on the ground in my shortish skirt, but she didn't seem phased... I really did feel badly leaving him, but I did also need to get Caroline--I was already an hour late and I only have so much money to add to therapy bills.

This morning I called the funeral home to check on how things turned out and whether he got the much needed nap. "No I didn't get the nap, but I had a helluva story to tell at dinner. I don't think I've ever met a priest like you."

I'm never sure how to take that, but I responded, "Yeah I've heard that before..."

You Wanted a Hippopotamus but Got an Elephant

Years ago children enjoyed listening and singing a funny Christmas song "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas" (Hear it here). Instead of a hippopotamus, many of us have acquired elephants. You know the elephant in the room....

It comes with you everywhere. You have it on a leash at all times where it shares (read invades) your space. When you first acquire your elephant you wonder who else sees it. Actually you spend a lot of time wondering who sees the elephant, who also has an elephant, and whether you should just move over, dress it up, introduce your elephant, and let it join the party. Sometimes you really really want to.

But really who wants an elephant at the party? The answer is no one--and perhaps ultimately least of all the one holding the leash. And so you pretend it's not there and hope everyone else does too. But that doesn't last. The elephant grows and grows taking up more and more space so that you seem to become smaller and smaller. People stop seeing you; they only see the elephant. It makes them nervous; it makes you nervous. You're aware that with one sudden move the trunk could easily strangle you--sometimes you even wish it would.  And so no one says anything and you take short shallow breaths and just try to hang on.

Some people see you coming with your elephant and they lower their eyes or walk faster skirting around you--perhaps worried you'll ask them to hold the leash for you or perhaps worried that talking to you will unleash the elephant and chaos will ensue. Over time the effort to hold onto and control the elephant becomes so exhausting that while you want to reach out to others, you can't find the energy. But it's always there and the fact that your phone rings less and less, that the texts come fewer and farther between are constant reminders that like it or not, you are now the not so proud owner of an elephant

But then you're out somewhere--at a  game or a book club and someone out of the blue, perhaps even someone you least expect, walks up to you, puts a hand on your arm and asks about the elephant...but more importantly asks about you. And then you know that for at least one more day you can breathe, for at least one more day you can hold on.

Be that person no matter how hard--one day you might be the owner of an elephant.