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.

Harambe and What I Know

I have known for weeks I have to write about all this anger I have

welling inside of me.  I've avoided it--then I started thinking about seeing with different people's eyes and how that could help me, and the VERY NEXT DAY the daily reading from Mark Nepo's book The Book of Awakening  started with this quote, "Now, I have no choice but to see with your eyes, So I am not alone, so you are not alone." --Yannis Ratsos and it was solidified I had to write, but I'm really good at avoiding....

This morning out of the blue I decided to start praying the Daily Office again; (don't judge, it's been a long couple of months...) and the Psalms appointed for the day had these verses, "The arrogant smear me with lies, but with my whole heart I keep your precepts." (Psalm 119:69) and I thought, "YES!!" and I wrote in the margin (in red pen of course because that's this years color), "smear Christopher" and the next Psalm had this verse, "they will go to the company of their ancestors, who will never again see the light."  Seriously y'all I about did the happy dance.  Surely this was God talking to me and telling me what was going to happen to all those awful people--I mean why today did I pray the office and why today were these the verses?  Vengeance--punishment now there's something I can get my head around.

And then I went running and knew I couldn't write that--God wasn't damning anyone any more than God was damning me; furthermore, I knew to my core that this anger was and is eating me alive--I didn't say I did anything about it--I just knew (they say recognition is the first step).

And then I had to walk to cool off so I read my sister-in-law's blog (which y'all should all follow of course) (Sister-in-law's blog, "In the Messy") So I started thinking about the gorilla Harambe about which I have really not spent a huge amount of time thinking. I remembered how another dear friend posted a story in response to Harambe's story of how she lost one of her children and encouraged others to share their stories; although, I could have--I have many mostly involving Caroline (I know shocking..). I loved Shannon the sister-in-law's blog but one sentence stuck out and taken out of context made me a little mad (please read taken out of context). She writes, "Yes, I have wished the parents of that child seemed as remorseful over that innocent gorilla's preventable death as they have been grateful over the child being saved through it." And now I really started thinking--metaphorically 

As I've said I don't know much about the whole story--just bits and pieces (remember I've been too busy sending children to far away lands not to mention marinating in my anger). But this is what I do know

I know there are countless people sitting around tables judging those parents and what they should have done--our extended family was one of those on Memorial day.

I know some of those people know them and some have never laid eyes on them nor likely ever will, but still they talk and judge.

And this is what I know about the mother...

I know there will be lots people telling her what she should or shouldn't do and most of those people will have never had a son in a gorilla cage (because really how many people have....) but those people will continue to be the "experts" and their judgement will slowly pick away at any confidence in her parenting--the confidence she is barely holding together.

I know there will be one or two people who will step up and ask the parents about what happened and how they are--and most likely it will be people they least expect.

I know there will be other family and friends who remain silent and aloof and she will feel that loneliness and loss to her very core.

I know she will lose friends over their actions, and I know she will gain others, but her trust in people will suffer--I hope it's not forever.

I know that mother will lie in her bed night after night and relive that moment and then over time relive the moments where she hears people gossiping as she walks in a room that suddenly becomes deathly silent.

I know she will begin to avoid people and places.

I know she may wish one of those critical people's son was in that cage; she may create stories in her mind about how that will happen, and then she will feel like a reprehensible person for even thinking those thoughts.

I know she will question her ability to be a good mother.

I know that mother will rehearse every scenario that could have happened and know that while the end result was best for her son's life, there were tragedies along the way. And I know she will feel guilty about it, but she will also be so relieved her son is still alive she will try to quiet those relentless voices--from herself and others.

I know she will talk about it endlessly with her husband (or as often as he'll listen) and sometimes it will bring them closer and sometimes it won't. And she'll be thankful and relieved and sad and scared.

If that young boy has siblings, I know they will be affected--first relieved, perhaps later jealous of all the time and attention spent given to the one--because there will be an inordinate amount of time spent on him. And I know they may feel like they have to claw at her for any comfort of their own.

I know that mother might walk into her son's room and just touch him while he sleeps or perhaps even lie down next to him and send up a prayer of thanksgiving that he is there breathing deeply, sleeping peacefully in her home.

I know that mother will hug her son sometime and the tears will begin to fall for no reason, and I hope he holds on just a little bit tighter for just another second or two. But I know he will be the first to let go, and she will be glad because it means he's healing.

I know that mother will worry she hasn't done enough for any of her children and she will panic when any of them are out of her sight, not responding to texts or phone calls--it will all come rushing back.

I know that young boy will move on and forget long before his mother does. She will see a shirt or perhaps even one day fold the shirt he was wearing that fateful day or one of the horrific ones following and her hands will begin to tremble as the whole incident comes flooding back and she again can't breathe.

I know she might walk somewhere and smell a scent that reminds her of that day or the days that have followed or hear a song and will be so overcome with emotion that she has to sit and regain her composure all the while trying to make those around her think she has it altogether.

I know she will wish she had been the one in the cage and she will worry about the long term effects for her son and the family.

And that sentence--I know that mother may feel remorseful, may feel intense guilt and pain over Harambe but she could be trying so hard not to fall into a million pieces with the judgement, the criticism, the unwanted attention gnawing at her soul that she just can't express it. 

I know that mother will have to wake up every morning and face the day knowing there could be another attack on her character or her son's character and behavior and while she will know many of them are untrue she will have to decide whether to say anything. I suspect she'll say nothing, but inside she'll be screaming, "That's my son--my little boy. Please stop!"

I know that mother might sometimes look at her son and be so angry at what he did that has brought all this chaos into their family that she will want to shake him, and she will wonder what words she could have said that would have guaranteed this would never have happened. And she will also look at him and feel so much love for him and she will tell herself it is all worth it for him to be here and to be her son.

I know that mother will one day have to let her son go physically whether to a friend's house, to school or across the country, and it will break her heart but she will do it because she knows he has to move on even if she's not sure she ever will.

And I know that mother will pray over and over for God to take her pain and anger and bitterness at others away while at the same time giving thanks for her son's life and wanting to mutilate those who won't let them move on and put the past behind. 

I know that mother will want all those people to put their stones down and she will want to put hers down too.

What I don't yet know is how long that will take...

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.