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.

Sometimes Life is a Pain in the Neck

Last Sunday night was a fitful night of tossing and turning and I woke up Monday morning in pain.  My neck and shoulders hurt like I've never experienced. It was the kind of pain your mind says "run from" but of course that's not possible because it's part of your body (and for me my knee was also choosing this time to give me trouble, which as an aside may be part of the reason I couldn't sleep--my stress relief of choice was not doable at this time--but that's beside the point--look squirrel).

I spent all morning trying to get comfortable. I rolled my neck; I used my hands to massage my neck; I tried sitting up straighter; I tried slouching--the dull ache continued sometimes punctuated by quick stabbing pains.  Nothing was working and pain makes me grumpy....

I pulled myself together (sort of), left my office and began walking towards the fellowship hall where I'd been invited for coffee with MOST (The Men of St. Thomas). As I was walking and still trying to get my neck to stop aching, I tilted my head back--excruciating pain; I tilted my head forward--equally horrible and then I held my head straight and steady, lowered and pulled back my shoulders--instant relief. Now to just remain in this position....

As I continued to walk I thought about this instant relief, and I thought about all the things that had led to the fitful night--things that I cannot resolve in an instance; things I may never be able to resolve; things that keep my life feeling anything but steady. But I can continue to move forward.

That instant if only momentary relief of pain showed me that when we walk around with our heads down avoiding facing life, with our heads down in shame, with our heads down not wanting to engage with the world around us--hiding the pain and vulnerability someone might see in our eyes, there is pain.  And when we walk around with our heads tilted back not looking down at the world around us, trying to keep ourselves above it all, there is pain. But when we continue to steadily move forward, heads and eyes facing forward--facing forward where we can see the faces of those around us, where we can search out the eyes of others who look back with love and compassion and understanding; where we can see the beauty of the world, and yes sometimes (all too often) we see more pain, sometimes we may even see judgement and pity and disdain, but we also can see we are not alone; we can see we are connected; we can see we are part of a bigger world-a world God created; a world God loves; a world where God continues to participate; a world where God wants no more pain and brokenness but rather healing and wholeness. When we move steadily forward eyes looking straight ahead we can move into the future...

I continued to walk with my head held steady; I saw the beauty of the tulips beginning to bloom; I saw the beauty of the dogwoods; and I heard the birds singing. I walked into the fellowship hall and sat with MOST, keeping my head straight, listening to their stories some stories of life's challenges and some stories of life's joys laughing along with them as I saw their smiles and the twinkle in their eyes. And for an hour my neck didn't hurt; for an hour I was a part of something beautiful and holy; for an hour my body practiced holding steady so my heart could follow along.

With Mary I Can Identify

For years I was ambivalent about Mary the mother of Jesus.  I thought little to none about what her role in my faith was or what it should be. I'd like to say it was in some sort of well thought out reaction to my Roman Catholic upbringing. But that would be completely untrue--I just didn't think about it. 

During seminary I started thinking more about it--this time probably in response to questions I would get from my fellow classmates (most of whom were Presbyterian) about whether we "worshiped" Mary like the Romans do. I felt ill-equipped to answer that question partly because I'm not certain Roman catholics' would use the word worship about Mary, and I didn't think it was my place as an outsider to speak to their belief and partly because I knew that in the Episcopal church there were varying thoughts and I didn't want to speak for anyone else. So instead I got to have something else to think about (some might use the words "obsess about" and others "agonize about" I choose to remain positive and in denial about my tendencies....)

After I was ordained I was still trying to find a place for Mary in my life of faith. One day during a noon Eucharist, Canon Amy Coultas preached on Mary. Afterward, I asked her about her sermon and she shared her personal journey with Mary and how she got to where she was today. (Her story to tell, but if you know her ask--) What it did for me was give me an anchor, a starting point, a different lens, and over the past several years my devotion to Mary has exponentially increased. With Mary, I can identify....

I can feel the joy and fear Mary must have experienced when she learned she was expecting. I think

about how miraculous her pregnancy was and I wonder whether she enjoyed the pokes and prods and movement as I did when pregnant with my four.  I can imagine after Jesus' birth how she must have looked down on his face and been amazed this person came from her body and how she knew at that moment she would willingly sacrifice her body, her very life for this little person.

I wonder if during those first few months--through the sleepless nights she thought about his future. I wonder if she had dreams for him, dreams that one day she would learn were not to be.

I think about when Jesus was "lost" in the temple and how she must have panicked not knowing where her young son was.  I know the terror of those moments and the hours of feeling out of control, helpless when I didn't know where a child was and the dark thoughts and the hope swirl around, bumping into one another, vying for power and waiting to see who will be victorious in the coming reality. And I know the feeling of finding a child and not knowing whether to hug him/her to me and never let go or whether to shake the daylights out of them for scaring me to death.

I imagine as Jesus began his ministry answering his call how she must have been in awe of who this man had become when she still looked at him as her little boy. And I can imagine how she must have been full of pride and excitement for his future while at the same time wishing he'd stay a little closer to home--and really what's wrong with being a carpenter and staying right under her roof? 

I can feel the pride she must have felt as her son performed his first miracle at the wedding in Cana and when he preached in the temple, and I can feel the hurt and betrayal she might have felt when she came to where he was, wanting to speak to him and through his disciples, he seemed to be dismissing her-- moving away from her. She was no longer the center of his world--I can feel the pain that comes with that.

I wonder if she had sleepless nights wondering where he was. Was he warm? Was he fed? Did he have friends? Was he tired? And I wonder if she selfishly wished he would just come home and not have to do things his way? I wonder if she stayed awake trying to think of the words to say to convince him to stop walking this path he had chosen--she knew it was dangerous; she knew it might end in imprisonment or death, and I wonder if she struggled with letting go?  I wonder if she struggled with trusting God?

I am in awe of the strength she showed following her son to the cross and knowing there was nothing she could do. I wonder if with every step she took a memory of his childhood came flooding back? I wonder if she wanted to shout at those mocking him, "Stop it; stop it that's my little boy."? I can feel the powerlessness and pain she must have felt when she knew he was undergoing intense suffering for something he believed in and she couldn't stop it. 

I cannot, however, imagine what it must have felt like to remain standing at the foot of the cross watching the very life that she brought into this world slowly and painfully seep out breaking the promise she made to herself all those years ago.  I wonder if she felt bitter betrayal as those who supposedly loved her son, considered him a friend, and turned their backs on him out of fear or ambivalence. I can. And I can imagine how she must have felt loved and

supported as her sister and her friend--two women who had also probably known Jesus his entire life stayed with her regardless of the danger to themselves--regardless of the gossip, regardless of the ridicule, regardless of their own fears.

I have fallen in love with Mary. She is a woman of faith, strength, courage, and of love. She is a woman who loved her son, supported her son, until the end--and yet it's not the end. I have fallen in love with Mary because Jesus did rise from the dead and that reminds me over and over that, whether our children stay near to us or move away, whether they choose the path we chose or forge their own, whether they live the dreams we dreamed or search out their own, there is always hope, there is always life, there is always resurrection...

A special thank you to my friend who kept asking when I'd write this--it felt good to write; it feels better to be finished. 

(Below is the sermon that prompted her annoying reminders I needed to write....)

Good Friday Sermon

Tell Me Your Story

I woke up yesterday morning with two things on my

mind--one that was the weirdest dream I've ever had; (I dreamed about attempting to dye a piece of my hair blue and about toothpaste); and two I've got to write that blog I don't want to write but I've promised I'll get written...

I started my morning routine--dogs out, coffee made, dogs in, begin order of devotional reading (yes there is a specific order in which everything must be done--but that's a whole other issue). As I read the second devotional book I froze and tears sprang to my eyes; I immediately thought about the coffee I'd had the day before with a dear friend who has a pink stripe in her hair which I covet--

and she also happens to be the cousin of the person I'd promised about the blog. I'm not sure how the dream connects other than the stripe in her hair and the continual blue stripe of toothpaste in my sink (I hate toothpaste caps that won't close all the way and it just oozes everywhere), and I'm not going to write that other blog, but finally after six weeks I had to write....

We'd met for coffee and started catching up.  As we settled into the comfortable chairs she looked me straight in the eyes and said, "I've heard the rumors, but I want to hear it from you.  Tell me the story." And I did. The whole long story--every detail, sometimes having to backtrack, sometimes repeating myself, but it all came tumbling out. She sat there and listened; she listened with her whole self--heart, mind and body; and she received my story.  She received my story; she accepted my story, but she didn't try to co-opt my story. She just let it be what it was.

She received my story which is different than hearing my story--she wasn't listening so that she could be the one in the know; she wasn't listening so that she could pass on the latest gossip or so that she could fix something; she wasn't just listening to the words--she was receiving part of me. She received my story with no judgement; she received my story with compassion; she received my story allowing me space and grace and dignity; and then she said, "Thank you for telling me." And suddenly I was a little lighter, a little freer. It was a holy moment.

What I read yesterday morning was from Mark Nepo's The Book of Awakening. He writes, "The line between living and watching is very thin. A moment's rest or pause for reflection can spread into a thickness of hesitation, and the next thing we know, reaching out or saying something or picking up the phone or stopping in unannounced is difficult, as if there is suddenly some huge wall to climb just to be heard. This is how we isolate ourselves, digging moments of healthy solitude into holes in the yard, and of course, the dirt we dig and pile up becomes a small mountain that separates us from everyone we love." (p. 117-118)

As I sat in my chair I thought about how easy it has been to continue to dig that hole--it has been easy to tell myself, "I've just accepted a new call so of course I'm busy" and "I need time for solitude and reflection so I can be a better priest" and I have closed off. My friend got her hands dirty; she pushed those piles of dirt away and offered me her hand to begin to climb out of that hole and over the mountain with the simple but life giving words, "Tell me your story."

Three Years

Me, "Ugh, I'm so tired of mopping these floors everyday."
Boss, "In three years you won't have to. We'll all be gone."
Me, "I'll still have the dogs."
Boss, "Bobby will probably be dead and Winnie will be old."
Me, "She'll still need to go out and she will still track in."
Boss, "I don't think you can know what the world will look like in three years."

Just a normal smart ass conversation between my 18 year old son and me as he was leaving for school, and yet, I couldn't let it go....

It's not just that I practically dissolve into tears (okay not practically, I do) whenever I think about being an emptynester.  I mean it kind of is that--I have no idea what the world will look like in three years on a global level (and that scares the beejezus out of me particularly because of this upcoming election).  But even scarier for me, I have no idea what my world will look like.  Who will I be in three years? The children will be gone (although not off the payroll) and being their mother has been my world. I'm still in transition from my previous call, will I still be? All day I thought about his off the cuff remark and while I can proudly say my anxiety didn't mount, my curiosity did.  (Okay maybe my anxiety mounted just a little...) So last night as I was showering I started thinking about February three years ago; three years doesn't seem like much time, but....

• Three years ago I was newly ordained and the curate at Calvary--I'm no longer there and have yet to settle anywhere (2013)
• Three years before that we were living at the seminary and I was in my second year (2010)
• Three years before that we lived in England and had no idea we would live in Louisville (2007)
• Three years before that we lived in Pittsburgh and seminary was not on my radar screen (I thought I'd go when the children were gone--you know three years from now....) (2004)
• Three years before that we lived in Athens and I would have died if you told me I'd live in Pittsburgh (the place where my faith grew and deepened and some of my best friends ever were made) (2001)
• Three years before that we had two children and thought we were done--2 months later I was pregnant (1998)
• Three years before that I was pregnant with our first child, living in Augusta and I worked for Planned Parenthood (1995)
• Three years before that I had was grieving an on again off again relationship that was permanently off--I met Chris 6 months later (1992)

I thought about all the changes that happened in these three year increments.  I thought about how not once would I have been able to predict three years down the road.  In fact, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have asked for any of the change that came each three years (except the two more children...I was praying against Chris on that one...) And yet, I know I wouldn't change a thing.  Each of those three years brought love and laughter and joy and growth and change.  Each of those three years had times of sadness and anxiety and uncertainty and pain.  But each of those three years have made me into who I am today--I hope a little wiser and a little kinder. I know each of those three years has deepened my faith as I learned to trust (most of the time) that God is in control. (whose earthly ministry by the way was three years....)

I have no idea what the next three years will bring; I guess I'll just wait and see...