Train up a child

For the first time ever it rained throughout Cousins' Weekend. It

didn't stop the fun, but I didn't get to spend a lot of time on the river something I always look forward to-something my soul needs. Tuesday everyone except a few had left. It was a beautiful day (of course because everyone had left). The river was calm; the sun was shining; there was a silence that sang to my heart, so after my morning run I went inside and asked Caroline to kayak with me before we left. She said yes but then was dilly dallying around. Finally I asked, "Do you want to go?" She responded honestly, "Mama I don't love it like you do and I'm not as good at it as you are, but if you really want me to go I will."

In one of my better parenting moments (I have to brag on them; they're few and far between), I didn't try to guilt her; I didn't beg her; I just said, "Okay. I'll be back soon."

I paddled out and thought about Caroline's honest answer, my better than usual response, my sadness that only 1 of the 4 could be at Cousins' Weekend (a grief they all also felt), and how our lives are changing.  The other 3 were sad not to be with The Cousins, but they were also happy and thriving where they were, and where they were was so vastly different from one another.

They were born 4 in 4 1/2 years. It was exhausting, overwhelming and wonderful. And they moved as a pack--we moved as a pack. Over time we were dubbed "The O'Doyles." Perhaps I in part created that as I dressed them alike for what they would consider far too many years, if one had a doctor's appointment  or any appointment, we all went (4 kids this close does not allow for a lot of extra funds for babysitters), they went to each other's recitals, games and performances. And they loved fiercely and completely.

As I continued to paddle I thought about how much they love each other, how much I miss each of them, and how different they've become. One was in South Africa working towards race reconciliation, one was in Montana hiking and mountain biking and working as a bellhop, neither of them would choose to be where the other was or doing what the other was. Another one was a life guard at camp and Caroline was stuck with me. I thought about except for 2 colleges none of them were looking at the same schools (I tried not to think about the fact we were paying for those 4 college tuitions...), and this is so silly but I thought about how when SK, Caroline and I went to get pedicures the colors we chose were so different; I thought about how the way we dress has become more different than in years past (I suppose I should be glad they are no longer "borrowing" my clothes and shoes.)

Surprisingly, I wasn't overly sad but rather a little sad at the passing of time and at the same time immensely proud of who each of them was becoming. And the words I wrote 3 years ago about The Cousins leapt back into my mind, "But most of all we come with our hearts full of  love- and we come with and for the stories.  The stories we've told for years and the new stories we bring each year. And all these stories are tightly wound together; they are wound as if they were multiple colors of yarn. Yarn that is wound together into a tight ball; they are wound together so that all the stories combined become not your story or my story but part of our story.  The story of the Cousins.
As we drive away each year, each cousin takes a hold of a piece of that yarn and carries it in his/her heart back through the hedges at the end of the drive and into the world--back into our separate lives into our separate states, the ball unravels as we move out; we are each given the right amount of string to be ourselves, but it never breaks; we are  always connected at the core because we are "The Cousins.""  (The Full Post) 

I thought that's how we are becoming as a family too. Always connected, always loving, always caring but moving out and away..

I thought about the connection and (I guess because I always seem to think theologically--a good trait if you're a priest) I thought about Proverbs 22:6, "Train children in the right way and when they are old they will not stray." (NRSV) and I wondered if parents often misinterpret this--if I have misinterpreted this... What does "in the right way" mean? As I continued to paddle I thought in the right way in addition to respecting the honor and dignity of all humanity, in addition to loving all people and believing God loves everyone no exceptions, it also means training up children to be who God created them to be--not who I want them to be. Training up children to live fully into the call God makes on their lives even if it means they are thousands of miles away from me (and I can give you the exact mileage because I'm the creepy mama that tracks them), dress differently than me (why does no one like bright colors or want to wear smocking anymore?) and have different interests (Boss is convinced I'll love mountain biking--he tells me this as he's pointing out his cuts and bruises from his last "awesome" ride). They get to make choices I may not make, and I get to keep on loving them unconditionally.

Those are the things I thought on July 5, and I continue to think them. I continue to try to really let go, to not hover and offer my unsolicited opinion. I continue to try to not have my feelings hurt that I'm not a part of every aspect of their lives, and I continue to remind myself that is healthy and appropriate. Some days are better than others...but I also have started thinking it doesn't just pertain to them.  I too get to be and to live into who God has called me to be. 

Like any parent of teens and young adults I have heard the "don't do that, don't act like that, don't say that, you're embarrassing" comments over the years. Most of the time I try to honor them--ok sometimes I do everything in my power to embarrass them but that's one of the benefits of being a parent--most of the time I try to get it right, but sometimes I don't. Sometimes I say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, make them uncomfortable when I don't mean to. As they are leaving home (too incredibly fast--thought about having another baby or getting a puppy just this morning) who I am also changes, and you know what, they may not like/value/endorse everything about me, but just like I am trying so hard to let them be who they are, I get to be me too.

They get to be themselves, Chris and I get to be ourselves, but we will always be connected because for better or worse, in whatever time zone we each live, work and play, whatever we choose to wear, we love one another and we are the O'Doyles.

To See

Monday morning I put on my running shoes and with my mind

reeling from a testy conversation about the words "love vs. hate", I headed down the drive and out the hedges--out of the safety and security of The Cousin's and into the world-- feeling angry and alone...

My mind was spinning at the rate of a 78 not a 45 (those who understand that are especially loved)--love vs. hate, love vs. hate, love vs. hate--I had just sent an email out saying that as Christians we are called not to be against but to transform. I wrote, "God can transform all things even hate." and I do believe that, but at the same time I was struggling personally. Who am I to say we are to love those who target the least of these, love those who commit horrendous acts and yet I can't find the strength to love some in my own life who I believe have hurt me? I was thankful at the end of my run I would return to the safety of The Cousin's for another day...

I started to run despite how tired I felt in my body and soul. "But" I said to myself, "I'm just going to run to the circle and run around that for awhile. I don't have the energy to run to the end of the street where I will have to face the dogs. For 21 years I have been running this route and at the same house vicious dogs run out from under what seems to be a deserted home and chase me. I have not at this point been bitten, others have, and the terror remains...

I turned on a commentary about this upcoming Sunday's readings starting withThe Good Samaritan. I listened to the commentators and was reminded of the animosity between the Samaritans and the Jews. I was reminded it was much deeper than most of us realize.  This wasn't just a rivalry--Cats vs. Card; Dawgs vs. Gators. This was about life and death, destruction and fear. These groups had targeted one another and one another's most sacred spaces. I suppose someone who befriended someone from "the other side" could be disowned, ostracized and left completely alone not accepted by either group. They may have to leave the safety of the hedges alone forever.

A priest and a levite saw him and crossed the street. They saw him and kept going. They saw him. They saw him.

I wondered why? Were they really too busy as skits and stories often depict? Or were they afraid? Did they think those who had beaten the man might still be in the vicinity? Did they worry if they stopped to help the man someone might accuse them of being the robbers?

But the Samaritan--despite the danger, despite the risk, despite his possible own fear and uncertainty--he stopped. He saw the man, approached the man and cared for the man. Despite knowing the past, knowing the history of these two groups, knowing this very man could have been one who had destroyed property, one who had intentionally or unintentionally caused pain to Samaritans, despite knowing this man upon healing could accuse him, despite all that he saw and he stopped.

Saw him, saw him, saw him--these words took over the words love vs. hate mantra. The first two men saw the beaten man--one of their own and and crossed the street; they avoided; they distanced themselves. I wonder if later it haunted them? I wonder if they ever thought about it again? I wonder if they ever saw a man who looked like him and wondered what happened to him? I wonder if every time they passed that spot they remembered? I wonder if they ever found out who the man was or whether they had mutual friends?

As I ran around that circle for third time I thought about how for the past 4 months I have done that very thing. I have been hurt and angry by some who I know (or think I know) hurt one of my children with gossip and rumor. And for months when seeing one of these, I have crossed "the road." I have avoided places; I have avoided people; I have been in the same place, lowered my eyes and never crossed the space between us. I have let my hurt and anger fester. I have found others to help me justify my feelings and behavior. But I have seen....and I have chosen to walk on by.

Love vs. hate, transform vs. destroy, seeing vs. looking down, walking by vs. crossing over...

As I write this today with all the hate and violence of the last 48 hours, I realize this seems so minimal. Yes a lot has happened this year; yes my pain is real and deep; yes I even have some memories I wish I didn't have (and I great therapist who is helping) but I in no way want to equate it with the travesty and devastation others have had. But as I write I think how hard it has been (at this point impossible) to cross the deck of a party and engage because of my pain and yet as a priest I am praying for and calling for us to respond to these events in love, to stand with those who are hurt ALL those who are hurt even with those we blame, and I realize despite how trivial in comparison mine seems if I could find the strength to cross over it could be a start. We are all called to cross over, to see and to engage both in big and small ways. Every step is essential....

And on Tuesday I ran past the dogs and thought about my sermon for this week and I thought...maybe one day soon I'll be able to walk across a deck...

Public Service Announcement (at least for St. Thomas people and all those who want to join us)--there will be a different sermon this week. Hope to see you.

A Grandfather's Faith

Last week I had one of the most if not the most profound, transforming experiences since being ordained.

Thursday afternoon I arrived at the home of an amazing couple to bless their newborn son. But this, for me, wasn't just any newborn, this was the grandson of one of the greatest men I have ever known--a man who was gone far too soon--a man who would never hold this precious child--a child named for him.

Just to be clear, (and to keep this from being a Hallmark movie post) this man wasn't perfect. In fact, when I first met him I would have described him as grumpy. But over the years I got to know him--as we argued (and I do mean argued) sports and theology, as he let down his tough guy demeanor and I got to know a man who was always a champion for the underdog (except in sports unless of course it was his beloved Cards), who had a fierce love and devotion to his family and who knew and practiced the importance of and precision of the use of words, my love and respect for him deepened. I learned a great deal from him, and I am proud to this day he called me "friend."

I walked through the door and within 30 seconds I had that baby in my arms--this of course is not unusual for me--I'm sort of known as "the baby stealer." Anyway, as I held him and talked to his parents about any and everything, but nothing seemingly important--in the back of my mind, just under the surface I remembered the words I spoke at the beginning of my sermon for his grandfather's funeral.

“I don’t understand why..”  When ____ approached me with those words, I quickly learned that whatever it was that was going to follow wasn’t simply something confusing, but rather something about which_____was angry or highly annoyed.  

We sat in their living room and talked about the usual--how much sleep they were getting (or not getting), going back to work, and of course with this family--sports. (Have I mentioned I love this family?!?!) I was having a wonderful time and yet almost but not quite completely unconsciously in the back of my mind I was asking that very question--over and over. I don't understand why. I don't understand why I get to be here holding this precious child and you never will; I don't understand why I will get to see him grow up and you won't; I don't understand why I get to see him in his mother's arms--his mother your little girl whom you both adored and of whom you were immensely proud; I don't understand why I will get to see him play with his cousins and you won't; I don't understand why I will see him hold his grandmother's hand, a hand you held for so many years and are no longer here to hold; I don't understand why I will get to see him fall in love with the Cards, see pictures of him going to his first games--games to which you won't be taking him.

Let's be clear, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I was thrilled to be there and to spend time with this young family, but just under the surface.... It was a paradox in my mind.  I wanted to be there, I wanted to be holding that sweet boy, I wanted to be given the privilege of blessing him, I just wanted my friend to be there too.

As the visit came to an end, it was time to anoint this precious child--this child of God. I held him in my arms, anointed his head and had a quick but intense flashback of anointing his grandfather at the time of his death. In that moment, I understood and believed as I never have before that God has "by the glorious resurrection of your Son Jesus Christ" destroyed death.

My friend knew and believed that to his very core.  I concluded my sermon at his funeral with these words, 

It is no accident that ___ chose The strife is O’er.  It’s an Easter hymn, a hymn of Resurrection.  ___ believed strongly in the resurrection and that despite the suffering he endured the victory would be won.  Death did not defeat ____; he didn’t sign with the Cubs—____ has won the World Series, and the Super Bowl, and the National Championship and is decorating his dwelling place in red and black.

As I got in my car I said another little prayer-- I prayed that this tiny precious baby would grow not only into the man God intends for him to be but will also grow into the faith of his grandfather--a faith that sustains when nothing else will. Death has been destroyed and love does win.