Life is Not a Competition; Faith is Not a Competition

I woke up Tuesday morning and did not want to get out of bed. Nothing particular had happened—just felt like a gerbil in a habitrail—same ole thing day after day—or at least that’s how I felt that day. But the dogs were barking, so I got up, let them out, and laid down on the sofa in the den. Some time passed,

and wouldn’t you know it? Those darn dogs wanted to come back in (read above), so I let them back in and moved to the sofa in the living room.

 

So slight confession here—when Chris got up I pretended I was asleep so he would make the coffee. That seems to be the extent of our change in routine—who makes the coffee.

 

I started to get up and thought to myself, “I don’t want to get out of my pj’s today. I just want to lounge around doing what I want.” But then I remembered…

 

August 1^st I joined a Facebook group One for One Hundred. Actually, I joined the group in 2016, and that year I completed it, but I recommitted on August 1^st. Basically, you commit to walking or running at least one mile every day for 100 days straight no exceptions and I had done it—even the day I had an infection. I really didn’t want to do it on Tuesday AND I really didn’t want to be a failure AND I’m a little competitive with myself and others. Not a good combination.

 

I got up and moved to the basement (where there is not another sofa to lie down on). I looked over at the ironing and realized I could iron and be on the zoom calls I had scheduled for that day (truth y’all, ask the Bible study group). Two and half hours later after ironing 37 napkins, 9 pillowcases, 7 sheets, and 4 shirts, I was finished.

 

I was finished ironing and I was finished beating myself up because I didn’t want to and ultimately wasn’t going to complete my mile that day.

 

Here’s where I am—at least for today. Accountability groups are good, lifesaving even (think AA, NA, etc), they are meant to build up and support. Being a part of this accountability group was not doing that for me—it did once, but now instead of being encouraging and supportive, it made me grumpy, self-loathing, and competitive in an unhealthy way. It was standing in the way of me listening to the still small voice (what I consider the Holy Spirit) inside of me saying, “It’s okay. Take this day to do what you need to fill your soul.”

 

While ironing I thought about the upcoming readings for this Sunday. Romans 12:3-4says, “For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think, but to think with sober judgment, each according to the measure of faith God has assigned. For as in one body we have many members, and not all members have the same function.” Faith is not a competition. Life is not a competition. How we live our lives of faith is not a competition. We do not have a measuring stick or measuring cup that proves one person is “more Christian, more Christ-like, more holy, more worthy.”

 

Yes, we are to hold one another accountable, but that does not include making judgments. There is a difference. We each have a calling, a function God is calling us to. For some people it might be marching in protests, for others, it might be stocking food pantries, for others, it might be spending hours in prayer, for others, it might be extending hospitality to all, for others, it might be participating in studies, and the list goes on. There is no particular way that makes someone a “real” Christian.

 

Tuesday the meanie little voice in my head (I call her Darlin’ Devil) was telling me if I didn’t do that mile I wasn’t a “real” runner, a “real” competitor, a “real” athlete. It’s a good group, with good people, and there was a time it was a positive in my life, but not now, and that’s okay.

 

Let’s commit to not being the Darlin’ Devils voice in each other’s head. Let’s support where we are each called because we are all real people created in the image of God and loved unconditionally, no exceptions.

White Knuckling it Through Life

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No this is not my bike and there's no way I'm riding on the beach--but it's ORANGE!

I rode my bike for the first time yesterday morning. I know that doesn’t sound like a huge deal, but I haven’t ridden a moving bike in over a year and definitely not since my knee surgery. Chris encouraged me to try it—the breakfast burrito at the marina ½ mile away was also a good incentive. 

Here’s the truth. I was scared to death. I suspect Chris knew it. As we went into the garage and I led the bike (yes it sounds like I'm talking about leading a bucking bronco, but that's what that bike looked like to me, and I was pretty sure it could do as much danger) I didn't say a word. Actually I didn't say a word the whole way except once when I thought he was going to swerve into me and I shrieked, "What are you doing?" He was a good 8 feet away...back to that fear thing.

I got on the bike and gripped the handlebars. I stared straight ahead and used all my energy to concentrate on keeping the bike steady and upright. Immediately after turning off our street I saw 2 bikes coming towards me. In my head I was panicking. I didn’t want to move over into the grass and ride on unsteady ground. They did it for me passing me on the grass, smiling, waving (who lets go of their handlebars--they were clearly senior citizen stunt people. She even had a bag of groceries in her basket!) and saying, "Good morning." I was as grateful to them as I was for the spinal block after 36 hours of hard labor.

Just as they passed I realized I wasn't smiling, I didn't wave,  and I didn't say thank you. I was too scared; I was concentrating too hard. “I’m sure they think I’m rude.” I thought to myself and kept thinking to myself deciding over and over and over completely convinced the rude, crazy lady on the bike was going to be the topic of their conversation all morning.

A short while later I crossed the street. I knew this perilous act was coming; I'd been dreading it from the beginning. I knew the cars had the right away and I'd have to brake without falling and then restart again without falling. But instead a car stopped to let me pass. I was white knuckling those handlebars and didn’t wave thanks. More Miss Manners shame washed over me. 

Seriously y'all I couldn't stop thinking about all this. (My therapist already knows I need to see her when I get back...) But you've got to keep in mind we are in South Carolina, in the SOUTH—everyone waves and smiles and says hey to EVERYONE!!! It's so ingrained in us we don't even realize we're doing it. I had a boyfriend in college from Baltimore that just couldn't understand how I knew so many people when we walked on the inner harbor. When I told him I didn't know them he was completely befuddled. "Why would you speak to them then?" "Well duh", I thought, "because that's just what you do...obviously not the man for me to marry."

Returning home I tried to be better. I thought I was smiling even though I knew there was now way in tarnation I was going to wave to anyone.  I suspect, however, my strained smile looked more like I had some Carolina gnats stuck in my teeth and nary a toothpick in sight.

But here's the thing I can think about now that I'm safely back with not a scratch on me. I wonder how many times we judge someone based on their facial expressions or the way they respond or don't respond? I wonder how many times we place our expectations for relationship on others? I wonder how many times we don’t give each other the benefit of the doubt? And really, let's just put this out there, how many times do we think we're so important that we are the subject of other's conversations?

People are complicated and living complicated lives. Some lives are full of pain and fear. Sometimes people are doing everything they can to just stay upright, to just keep moving, to just stay on track. Sometimes people are white knuckling it through life holding onto what they can. 

So, what if instead of judging when someone didn’t respond the way we wanted we sent up a prayer, “God be with that person in whatever place that person is?” What if we gave people the benefit of the doubt--assumed good intentions? What if we noticed, acknowledged, and gave thanks for the people that move over to give us the space we need, gave thanks for the people who let us have the right away even if it's not what the world says is the "right" way?

What if we extended a little more grace?

Oh by the way, I made it there and back—and breakfast was awesome! Might even try another ride today....

Life's Obstacles-and that Stupid White Truck

Monday I sat in the living room in front of the beautiful picture window (one of the main reasons I wanted this house--it certainly wasn't the size of the kitchen) gazing out at the bright blue sky and the dogwood newly blooming in the front yard. 

That sounds poetic doesn't it? Well, it wasn't...

The truth is on Monday I sat in a recliner that doesn't match the living room, borrowed from a friend with my knee iced and elevated and tears running down my face. I was doing nothing except feeling sad, overwhelmed, impatient, weak, like a failure and feeling guilty for feeling all those things. I was lecturing--read berating-- myself. I told myself I was the worst because others have it so much worse--this shall pass and some people live with chronic pain. I told myself I was being a baby, I needed to get over it and get on with it. I was rehashing all the "words of advice" people had given me prior to the knee replacement and measuring myself against what everyone told me their experience was--or the experience of people they knew--I was failing miserably. I told myself I clearly wasn't a good person but instead someone who pretended to be.

I was ignoring every call, email and text that came in choosing to withdraw from the world instead of mustering the energy to be the positive, strong, determined, sometimes funny, always kooky person I think I'm supposed to be. I looked out the window noticing every smudge (read pretty much the entire window) and knowing although it looked beautiful it was actually only in the high 40's.

I took a picture--there was a teensy tinsey part of me that recognized the beauty and wanted to capture it. I thought about the beauty of the tree against the blue sky and thought, "Someday I might want to write about that." And I hated the image.

I tried to crop it. I didn't like the shadows. The bushes were too high. I didn't want the houses in the background or that great big white stupid truck. (I have no idea why I said stupid truck...); I didn't want the wooden slits in the window. I called them something other than stupid going on another tangent about how it would be so much easier to keep the window clean if they weren't there (as though I spend every day trying to keep the window clean....).

I began to cry angry tears trying to crop the picture to look the way I wanted it to look. I got angrier as I castigated myself, telling myself over and over everything would be fine if I could move around and get a better angle, if I was younger I would probably understand technology better and be able to use this stupid photo shop program my son had just downloaded on my computer, that I paid for, to make the picture look the way I wanted for the purpose I wanted-- all I wanted was the dog wood and the blue sky. All I wanted was the beauty.

But what I got was what I got and there was nothing I could do about it. Well actually I could. I could delete the picture hoping there would be another time I could get a picture when I could move better. Granted that movement would have to be such that I could move furniture, climb and angle and contort my body into completely unnatural ways to avoid what I considered the rif raf of the picture. 

I could crop the picture so small the houses, the shadows and the stupid white truck couldn't be seen. I tried that; it diminished the beauty.  The picture no longer took my breath away when I could only see a small part of the tree. It was still beautiful, but it was obviously contrived. Or, I could wait until said son, who supposedly was becoming a photo shop pro in his graphic arts class (a class I'm paying for may I add), came home and got him to work magic on the picture. I would also have to listen to him tell me how old I was and whatever else he wanted to tease me about---I didn't have the energy for that (see above).

My finger hovered over delete. I looked again. There were parts of the picture that were indeed beautiful, there were shadows, there were smudges, there were parts I considered obstacles to the beauty (that stupid white truck), but this was what I saw out the window at this time. This was life right here and now and there was some beauty even if it was marred.

I looked down at my phone with 27 unanswered texts, 5 voicemails, and multiple emails realizing I didn't want to respond until all those shadows, smudges and obstacles were gone. I only wanted to respond when I could be the glorious tree--when I could be what I believe others want and expect me to be. When I was in a place where others would only see the beauty.

Wouldn't it be great if I could end this blog writing, "But instead I picked up that phone and started responding. I answered every texts, returned every phone call and read every email basking in the knowledge that people's love for me transcends just the beauty--basking in the knowledge the love of God and of others exceeds all shadows, smudges, and obstacles?" Yep, that would be great. But it didn't happen...

This surface is full--cards taking over another soon.

Instead I spent the rest of the day still sulking but sulking with a little bit of softness and a little more understanding. I was also deeply touched by the number of cards that continue to come in the mail. And yesterday I began reaching out again--a long overdue call with my sister, a national championship t-shirt arriving
and a long phone call with a dear friend catapulted the emotional rebound--I even admitted to some I had been
struggling and feeling sorry for myself.

I still don't have a nice bow to tie around this experience. I'm still going to cry later when I have to watch my son (not the photo shop one) run on the field being announced as the starting goalie for the Randolph Wildcats--his first ever collegiate start. I'm sad that it's Wonderful Wednesday and I'm not taking Charlotte to school or to Lou Lou's later for cheese sticks (well maybe we could make that happen....).  I still hurt; I still want to be at work and preparing for all the liturgies of Holy Week; I still want to be positive and funny and available; I still want to run a marathon one day...

But I have something to think about---life is beautiful even with it's shadows and smudges and obstacles. Life is beautiful and messy and I guess so am I (I added that part so I could maybe start believing it....)

Now I'm going to ice my knee, take my pain meds because the executioner, aka physical therapist is coming in an hour, and binge read my sister-in-law's blog because she has known and lived far longer than I have the reality that In the Messy is where life happens. Maybe later there will be a beautiful messy bow to tie around this post.

My Ego, My Faith, and My Blog

I had a conversation with another female priest yesterday.  (I'm adding the "female" part in because there will be a blog about that some day soon...)  Anyway, we were talking about how we live and believe so many of the same things,  but there are also differences in how we live our ministries.  So I started thinking about mine....

Part of my ministry I firmly believe is writing, but it goes back even further than this blog; it's more than just about writing.  The call I heard back in August 1997 was "I want you to be an ordinary priest living an ordinary life and telling people about it.  I want you to share how to find the Holy in the ordinary."  I wrote about it a bit in a sermon given the day following my Ordination: Answering God's Call; It's Not a Choice.  I still believe that is my call, and I firmly believe that a part of that call is admitting where I struggle, exposing myself--my vulnerabilities, my doubts and my fears.  I also unequivocally know God is in my writing--directing my writing even--that's why when I  have something to write I get tunnel vision until it's done.  But....

God is in my writing, directing my writing, and yet I'm not a puppet on a string.  I have choices about how I write, how much I say, how much I share, and sometimes, perhaps more than sometimes I allow my own ego, my own need to be recognized, to be affirmed, to be "popular" to cloud the voice and direction of God.

Part of my writing is about my struggle with faith and life; part of that struggle is, I think, a struggle we all have which is, "Are the lives we're living and the faiths we profess congruent?"  The other day I was slapped in the face like a red headed step child (thank you Thomas Tomlinson that I've never been able to forget that phrase even though it is completely and totally politically incorrect--yet, I'm still saying it--high school days invade my ministry, now there's a blog waiting to happen...), with a situation where I sincerely doubted mine was, and I wrote about it. (Homosexuality: Haunted and Hopeful)

That blog had lots of response, lots of reaction both for me and others.  Last night my very bright, compassionate, faith filled daughter and I had a conversation not just about that blog but about faith and life.  We talked about how sometimes living our faith, professing our faith makes other people uncomfortable.  I know the way I live mine so out there and unedited can definitely make people uncomfortable.  And I recognize that my living that way impacts my family--sometimes not in a positive way.  She shared with me that someone told her that because of how active she is in standing up and declaring that racism in the world is wrong, she may be labeled and criticized.  She told me, "it scares the hell out of me how strongly I believe in some things and how important I’ve come to realize some things are to me, especially this year."  (Moving into oversharing proud Mama mode--can I tell you how proud I am of her not just for what she's doing but for recognizing these things about herself at such a young age?  I can promise you--and my high school and college friends can attest to it, that I did not.  But SK and her friends do...I wrote about it twice-- I Go to UVA--So What? and Who Cares if You're in a Sorority?)  I didn't tell her this (because I didn't think about it until right now), but that someone who talked to her is so right.

We are white privileged women and the "causes" we choose to defend, to talk about, sometimes make other privileged people--our friends even--uncomfortable.  People, even really really good people, don't like to be uncomfortable--privileged people, myself included, even less so.  There is an internal battle to keep life stabilized--even keeled--to not rock the boat.  I do believe, however,  that sometimes we need to be uncomfortable because it is in our discomfort and in our struggle where we grow.  We need to challenge each other, to stir up the pools of questions and discomfort, and I think my writing sometimes does that. Yet there is a balance....

She said something else that I found powerful and profound, “I was very stuck between what I think is morally and theologically important and not wanting to make my friend uncomfortable.”  What I realized throughout my sleepless night as I turned the many conversations I've had these past few days over and over in my mind looking at the many different edges and angles, is one does not ALWAYS trump the other.

If it were just easier to get unstuck...

*Two disclaimers:  First, I have permission from said amazing daughter to use her quote. And second, as I read my writing, it is very clear to me why I have a son with ADD.  Thank you for jumping with my mind... And third (so I lied about two) I am so grateful I have life long friends who still influence me and remind me of who I was and who I am--for better or worse.