It's About People

My mother kept an immaculate house. (Our friends lovingly called her Barbisol--not to her face.) Let me elaborate a little bit...the house was immaculate--dinner on the kitchen floor? No problem. She had high expectations, and we for the most part met them. There were very specific "rules" or ways things should be done. Bathroom sink and mirror cleaned every morning. No sitting on. beds after they're made.  Drawers and closet doors shut tightly with nothing hanging out. No posters on the walls. We had assigned chores that rotated every week. Dusting, unloading the dishwasher, setting the table, cleaning the bathroom--I think you can get the picture. 

That was and is all true. And it was good. I mean who doesn't want to live in a clean house? But there was a part of it...let's just. say I have a good friend who still has PTSD from the time Mother saw her sitting on the bed...

And here's the other truth that I firmly believe Mother would even agree with--well I know she would. I do not have the same "standard." I mean she's told me and others. "Katherine isn't the housekeeper I am." Just like I'm sure there are things I say which grate on my children and make them run for their body armor, Mother makes comments such as "When. was the last time you cleaned these ceiling fans?" In the past, before Mother would come to visit, it was not pleasant for my family. I was A MESS and frantically tried to make everything perfect. (Side note--it never was.) It might also be true this has been a topic talked about during therapy on many occasions.

Ready for a third truth? Chris and I love to have people over, and we really do care about making it nice for people. We also want it to be clean. But I can promise you, it is never immaculate. 

The other night we were talking about the "gathering" (it is a gathering because it's less than 20 people) we are having to celebrate William's graduation this weekend. Two weeks ago the kitchen sink collapsed--no one is available to fix it this week. Three weeks ago the bathroom flooded and we now have multiple water stains on our living room ceiling. (The holes that were there for a year are finally, or at least temporarily, gone.) Two days ago I painted 1/2 a kitchen cabinet trying to choose a color for the new kitchen we are going to get. So basically, yeah, it's not a perfect house. 

Chris asked me whether we should postpone until we had some stuff done. I thought about it. I mean I thought about it A LOT! And then I said, "Nope, let's do it." Part of that is me trying to break out from the feeling of not being enough because I don't measure up to an extremely high standard. (Don't worry I have therapy tomorrow.) And part of it was because I really believe it's not about having a perfect setting, it's about people, who guess what? Also aren't perfect!  

So this is me--slightly rebelling but totally loving people. Because that's what it's all about right? Love and people.

Oh, and you can sit on our beds--I'm the only one that makes mine!

Obviously, I'm still not completely settled or comfortable with this. If I was, I probably wouldn't be writing about it. But I'm trying. 

Developmentally Delayed Parenting

I love to write, and sometimes I hate to write. Writing makes me look deeply at myself and the world.  Okay, that's not entirely true, I already think (or as I'm often told overthink) myself and the world, but writing forces me to put it in some sort of order, which sometimes is freaking hard and painful and unsettling and all those things--and sometimes even after writing it still doesn't make sense, and I still don't know what to do, but here goes.....

The BIG question is, "Why doesn't anyone tell you how hard it is to be the parent of adult children?" Seriously y'all. There are oodles and oodles of books about babies, toddlers, preteens, and teens, and then when it comes to young adults and adult children--well google it and you'll see. And keep in mind, I'm not saying parenting adult children, I'm talking about being the parent of adult children. There's a difference. There is this perpetual myth that once they turn 18 or 21 and move out it's like the first verse of Joni Mitchell's Both Sides Now.

Rows and floes of angel hair

And ice cream castles in the air

And feather canyons everywhere

I've looked at clouds that way

But instead of looking at clouds that way, it's looking at parent/adult-child relationships that way. It's going to be all magical and everything will be perfect. Well done good and faithful servant, you've launched them into adulthood now sit back and enjoy. And the biggest overused and deceitful line, "The youngest is almost out of the house. We're seeing the light at the end of the tunnel." What no one tells you is there is a very real possibility that light is a train!

Anyway....

I've been thinking about this a lot, and I've been wondering (and praying about) why I'm feeling so sensitive, unsure, and inexperienced. (Spoiler alert, the answer is because I AM all of those things! But let's back up a little.) 

Two days ago I was listening to the podcast "Share the Love Stories" and my good friend The Rev. Amelia Arthur was interviewing Karoline Lewis. Karoline was talking about her college-age sons being home during the pandemic and how she was trying to navigate that if they were still at college she wouldn't talk to them or know what they're doing all the time like she can now. I literally stopped running, stood on the street, and rewound it four times. Then this thought raced through my mind, "I am a developmentally delayed parent." (You really should take the time to listen to the whole podcast here.) 

Stay with me here. When our children were/are away at college or living somewhere else, I heard from them a lot! SK would text or call as she was walking to class. She would tell me about all the great classes she was taking; we would talk about friends; and sometimes, she would ask my advice. Or she would text or call when things weren't going great--the car got towed, the zipper in her formal dress broke 2 hours before formal--she needed me (or at least my debit card---sort of joking with that comment). The same happened with Caroline. And I loved it! 

To be totally transparent and honest, the boys didn't call and text as much, but it was still multiple times a week, and they always responded to me. They shared their lives with me, talked about relationships, asked advice (yes often laundry advice), and told me about their fears, frustrations, and successes. I had this, I'll admit it, smug satisfaction whenever I'd hear mama's saying, "Once boys leave home, you never hear from them." Not my boys, not my girls. And then things started to change.

Now here's the thing I do truly believe 100% in my head and 75-80% in my heart. THIS IS NORMAL AND GOOD!. But it's also HARD!! It's like this landmine of navigation, at least for people like me who overthink. How much calling is too much? If they don't answer my text should I assume they're mad at me, dead in a ditch, or maybe just busy? Do they roll their eyes when they see my number pop up? Do they have a funny ringtone for me? Would they tell me if I was annoying them? Or are they glad to hear from me and they'll stay in touch as their lives allow and it has nothing to do with me?

And then there's the whole thing about their relationships with each other....y'all this isn't just a landmine, it's a whole dang country of mines. I love they have always been close, but life. and choices have created some stresses between them and it's not mine to fix. Damn, I hate that! Then there's the 53-year-old woman I am who is overjoyed they talk to each other so much--truly it was always our dream/goal that they would stay close, but that mature woman is taunted by the 5 or 3-year-old who is jealous and misses them and wants to (or at least thinks she wants to) know everything about them. And don't get me started on the times they are together and I'm not with them. Should I text or call? Is that interrupting them and being too overbearing? If I don't engage do they think I don't care?

I am loving watching them grow and become the people God created them to be. My heart burst with pride watching where life and their hard work take them. I am excited for the plans they have already made and are executing and for the dreams they are dreaming. I'm just trying to figure out where I fit or maybe just how we navigate our relationship now. And let's be honest, just like with so much of being a parent, I come to it with my own "stuff."

So here's the thing. I can write all about this, think all about this, pray all about this, but I'm just at the beginning of this. Years ago when she was 13 Sarah Katherine said to me, "Mama I think you should just try to be the mother we need and not the one you wanted." She's pretty smart...

Here we go--no one tells you how hard it is, will someone please tell me if it gets easier?

Also maybe we should all just
listen to Joni Mitchell's complete song and not just the first verse. Both Sides Now

Love Wins--Love Always Wins

 

I think love is the most overused and the most underused word in the world. Now that's quite the paradox. But isn't life one big paradox? Anyway...

“Love” is in the top 20 powerful advertising words. (I googled it.) Imagine how many times we hear it or see it each week if not each day. We throw the word around talking about butterflies, cars, clothes, food, drinks, and the list goes on. It reminds me of when Sarah Katherine was little and everyone she met became her “best friend” within minutes. “Mommy I can’t leave the playground. That girl is my best friend.” Me, “What’s her name?” Sarah Katherine, “I don’t know.” (Calling people your best friend is a whole other rant I may get on one day.) I wonder what the numbers would be if we all counted how many times we said or wrote “love” in any context every day?

Trust me. I’m not innocent. And I do try to tell people I love them. Except that’s not entirely true. I tell people I love them when talking to them or being with them gives me that warm fuzzy feeling. I tell people I love them when I’m deeply grateful for our relationship. I tell people I love them when I want to build them up, encourage them, support them, and yes, love them. But I don’t always say it. In fact, sometimes I deliberately don’t. I'm not proud of that, but it's the truth.

A couple of weeks ago I overheard a phone conversation one of my children was having with someone she didn’t want to be talking to. Their relationship is currently very strained. Well let me be completely honest, I thought, their relationship was butting up against the path of no return—completely broken. There is a great deal of hurt and anger. As she was hanging up the phone, I heard her say, “I love you.” (And then because I have really good hearing—Mama sonic ears--) I heard, “I love you, too.” Tears sprang to my eyes, and I was in awe. I had just witnessed the power of unconditional, holy love. Love that exists despite pain and brokenness, anger and hurt. Love is stronger than hate. Love that holds us gently and fiercely no matter how close to the brink we get. Love holds one another accountable but also says you are beloved because you are you. At that moment, I witnessed the love that embodies, “Can anything ever separate us from Christ’s love? Does it mean he no longer loves us if we have trouble or calamity, or are persecuted, or hungry, or destitute, or in danger, or threatened with death?” (Romans 8:35 NLT) At that moment, she truly was the body of Christ. She could be angry, hurt, and not want to engage, but none of that could separate her from what it means to love unconditionally--not loving because of warm fuzzies, unicorns, and rainbows. Loving because it's what we're called to do. 

The story isn’t over, and one day I hope I get to write about eavesdropping on the relationship's total reconciliation, forgiveness, and healing. I hope it’s soon, but it may not be. But I do know this: we don't always know what it will look like, but love wins. Love always wins.

We Weren't In-Person But the Lord is Risen!

There was a letter to the editor on April 1. I was hurt, angry, hurt, angry and repeat. So I decided to write. I might make the paper but it might not. But this is my response to this Letter

I’m writing in response to Mr. Lyon’s letter written and published on April 1, 2021. I must confess when I first read your letter I was angry and hurt. I am the rector of a parish that did not resume in-person service for Easter, and I don’t know when we will. I take very seriously my vows which include to preach the Gospel and to administer the sacraments. 

As I read your letter, again and again, I began to read the pain you must also feel. The pain of not being able to gather with your community of faith I am sure is intense. I am sorry for your pain. It also makes me wonder how many people there are in the world who have felt pain because for some reason or another over the years they have not been welcomed into communities of faith? How many people have been denied access to communities whereas you write “personal growth in Christ-likeness cannot take place outside of a relationship to the Body of Christ, His Church?” (And by that I’m assuming you mean within church buildings.) 

Mr. Lyon, you write about the “true Church of Jesus Christ.” I’m not sure how you are defining “true.” The true church I know does, as you write, comply with our Lord’s clear commands, and the greatest commandment is, as I am sure you know, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” It is those two commandments I return to over and over as I, along with parish leadership, try to determine when and how to resume in-person services. 

Over the past year, I have thought about all people. Those with underlying conditions as well as those with limited access to quality health care. I see that as loving our neighbors. I have thought about those with access to early rounds of the vaccine and those who are still waiting. I have thought about those who are able to worship with us virtually because for various reasons they are not able to and may never be able to worship in person. I have thought about those who are eager to return and those who are scared. And I have thought about the families of the people I buried because of this horrific virus. 

You also write that God established three institutions within human society: the Church, the family, and the state. On this I strongly disagree. God did not establish the institutional church. That was in fact established by humans—specifically males—but that’s another conversation. God established the Church which is also the Kingdom of God. The Kingdom of God has no walls, no barricades, no boundaries, nothing to keep anyone out. The Kingdom of God welcomes ALL. 

In your letter, you state the Lord may be using this time as a means of purging—“in order to reveal the true, versus the apostate, Church.” I’d like to tell you where I have seen the Church this year—the true Church which followed the greatest commandment. I see the Church—the Body of Christ in the hands of a parishioner who almost daily makes sure a houseless man who is often across from our parish, he has the name by the way—it’s Zach, has a fresh quart of chocolate milk because he has nowhere to store extra. I see the Church in the many people who made sure children and youth were fed when the schools were closed. I see the Church in the many people who show up to demand justice for all. I see the Church in the many, many healing blankets that have been sent to people all over Louisville and throughout the world. I see the Church in people who show up for window visits in long-term care facilities because not everyone has a local family. I see the Church in Little Libraries that have become food pantries. I see the Church in people helping others get signed up for vaccines. In these places and in many others I see the true Church. I see the Church in the world. 

All of what I have written above, and so much more, tell me the influence of the Church has not been negatively impacted as you write. I can assure you the pastoral work of the Church continues and not only through the hands of the clergy but through thousands of hands of the ministry of the Baptized—the ministers of the Church, laypersons, bishops, priests, and deacons. 

I look forward to the time we can safely return to full in-person worship. And I am overjoyed that Jesus rose from the dead, left the tomb, and invited his disciples—all of his disciples, past, present, and future to join God in transforming the entire world into a world where all are welcome, included, and living Christ-like lives. 

Alleluia the Lord is Risen! 

The Very Rev. Katherine Doyle 

Rector, St. Thomas Episcopal Church 

Coordinator Youth and Young Adult Ministries, Diocese of Kentucky

Mary Did You Know--Cause I Didn't

I'm writing what I don't want to write for two reasons--okay maybe three. First, I read this this morning. "Feelings of pain and loss clarified, named, spoken aloud and lamented over have never had more of a role to play in our life of faith, corporately and individually, than right now." -Br. Keith Nelson Second, I listened to Brene Brown's podcast talking about the emotion cycle and the need to complete it, and third, it's like having to go to the potty and not being able to think about anything else--until I write, I'm a mess. So here goes...

Last Christmas I heard over and over an interpretation of the song "Mary Did You Know" that I didn't see. Well after it was explained to me I could see how someone might interpret it as mansplaining. But that's not how I hear the song. I hear a person reflecting back on Jesus's life and all the goodness. I hear a person reminding Mary of the goodness of her son not because she doesn't know but because sometimes a mama's heart needs to be reminded that others know too. And I also don't believe when Jesus was born Mary did know all the things Jesus would do. I don't believe Mary knew how much strength it would require for her to walk to the cross and watch her son die. I don't know how she would have lived day by day if she knew what was to come.  

Even after Jesus rose from the dead there were people who hated him. There were people who despite all the good he had done, all the people he had healed, all the love he had showered on others, had nothing kind to say about him. I get that--boy do I get that. In this song, I hear someone taking the time to remind Mary not because she doesn't know but so she doesn't feel so alone.

Yesterday we went to clean out our son's apartment. Well, finish cleaning it out. Chris had already removed most of the furniture. I had only been there twice before--neither time pleasant. Chris prepared me--actually, Chris offered to do it himself, but I knew that we needed to do this together as we have done most things throughout our married and parenting life. 

We opened the door to the building and were immediately greeted with, or rather punched in the face with the smell of pot. That's how it felt to me--like a punch in the face or the gut--choose your body part. Upstairs there was a loud angry argument happening. I took a deep breath (not too deep) and kept walking.

We took load after load out to the dumpster, and I tried to feel something. I was sure I would either be shaking with rage or tears would be streaming down my face. Neither happened. Instead, I just felt numb and eager to be rid of everything.
We didn't speak much except for the few times Chris asked, "Should we save this?" Each time I responded, "I want it all gone. All of it." Into the dumpster went food, mugs, utensils, blankets, and tons of trash. We scrubbed counters and floors. And then we were done. It was over.

As we pulled away and I glanced one final time at a now overflowing dumpster, I thought about parents who have to clean out their children's apartments because they have died and not because they have moved on to start life fresh. I wondered if I would have wanted to save something if that had been our case. And I thought about Mary.

She watched her son die. She watched with horror as they taunted and abused him. She saw them cast lots for his clothes. Did she want just one fragment of the cloth so that she had something to hold onto--something that had touched her baby's skin? Mary had the strength to stand there, and I believe it was because God was with her holding her up when she needed it most and not because she'd known all along.

Twenty-plus years ago I didn't know one day I would be cleaning out an apartment of one of my children. I didn't know I would have to watch him walk a journey and he would have to do it alone. I didn't know it would be one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I didn't know much when each of our children was born. What I did know, and continue to know, is God is with us, walking the journey, holding our hands, holding us up. 

And really, isn't that all we need to know?

May Our Hearts Always Be Broken

I love to read—always have. When I’m reading I become part of the story. As a child, I can remember being called to dinner and worrying I would miss something in whatever book I was reading. 

I am also a sensitive person. I have been described as an empath, and if empath is defined as “a person who actually senses and feels emotions as if they’re part of the person’s own experience” then it’s probably accurate. And it extends into reading. If a book I’m reading is sad, if a character is struggling, I often take on that mood and it invades the rest of my life. (Which is a very good reason to sometimes just read something that’s jovial and light…)

This past weekend I read This Tender Land by William Kent Krueger. In the book one of the main characters, Odie, is struggling with his relationship with God, struggling with the nature of God—is God a kind and loving and merciful God or Tornado God who leaves death and destruction wherever God goes? I spent the whole novel wanting to convince Odie that God is a God of love and faithfulness. I wanted to hug him and let him feel God's love through my arms. I ached for the pain Odie was experiencing and how again and again he was let down.

At one point Odie says, “Once again we were grieving loss. It was a feeling that should have been familiar to us by then, but does anyone ever get used to having their heart broken?” (p.256). I have not been able to get away from this question and the answer which I think more times than not is a resounding no. 

I think about broken relationships—relationships where one or the other believes “this time it will be different” and the betrayal, loss, and pain happens yet again. I think of addiction and relapse—does anyone ever get over watching themselves or another suffer? I think of mental illness, divorce, death—does anyone’s heart ever harden enough for it to no longer hurt?

This week I am particularly thinking of our LGBTQ brothers and sisters and the statement that came from the Vatican that priests cannot bless same sex unions because “God cannot bless sin.” My heart hurts not only for those in the Roman Catholic faith who hurt and hurt deeply, but also for every single person who once again has to read a headline or hear a news story where their belovedness, their goodness, their dignity, their humanness, their worth is debated. I feel a sadness that sinks deep into my bones, and I cannot fathom how those in the LGBTQ community feel.

But I can answer Odie’s question about whether anyone ever gets used to having your heart broken. I hope not. I hope the world’s heart continues to break over and over as we stand with those who are treated as less than whether because of addiction, mental health, race, gender, sexuality, or anything else. I hope our hearts never harden enough to not see and feel the pain. I hope our hearts break wide open and the love of God comes spilling out into the universe. And I pray our broken hearts lead us to action and eventually to healing and wholeness. I pray our hearts continue to break.

Until one day no hearts are broken because the world knows God is love--love for all no exceptions. Until one day the world knows, believes, and lives into the reality that we are all one.

Life Lessons, Pandemic Lessons from the Dentist's Chair

After three hours in the dentist's chair, I was finally free and heading to work. As I turned out of the parking lot I felt tears pooling in my eyes. "Where did that come from," I wondered? 

I was born without one of my permanent teeth. After I lost all my baby teeth I had to have a false tooth put in--what they call a Maryland bridge. There have been several times when it has fallen out--embarrassing yes, but always able to have it repaired relatively quickly. Probably the biggest concern I had was eating corn on the cob.

Several years ago when having it repaired, the dentist suggested I consider having a permanent bridge put in and use it as an opportunity to fix the way the rest of my teeth looked. They're different sizes, different shapes, and different shades. He gave me a quote and I giggled. We had three children in private school, one in out-of-state college, and cosmetic dentistry just wasn't on the list of priorities. Plus I had never been bothered by how my teeth looked. Over the past several months, or rather the last year, I wasn't giggling quite so much.

Well, that's not true. I was spending a lot of time giggling and amusing myself with far more selfies than a normal person should take (oh and I post them too). Gradually, and with the help of a few people who shall remain nameless's comments, I started to become more self-conscious (not self-conscious enough to stop taking selfies--much to my children's chagrin). It started to bother me, and I dreamed of possibly getting it fixed sometime in the wild blue yonder.

I lost the tooth again in December and the dentist again suggested we consider a different option. He also explained (and showed me) that it wasn't just the way they looked but because of their different sizes and shapes, the stress on some was beginning to cause break down in others.  I agreed to get a quote from the insurance company. Fast forward 2 months--my tooth came out AGAIN on Saturday. Early Monday morning the dentist's office called with the insurance quote. Talked to my husband and we decided to go ahead with the whole shebang. I was nervous about both the process and the cost.

I didn't ask a lot of questions about the procedure (chalk that up to being nervous--ignorance can be bliss), so imagine my surprise when he started working and suddenly I could feel big gaps in my teeth and very pointed ends. I had no idea why they were doing what they were doing, but I trusted the end result would be okay. Well, that's not exactly true--he kept saying, "This is just temporary until your permanent bridge comes in in a couple of weeks." I started to have doubts about what I would look like when I walked out of the office that day. (Y'all, I'm pretty transparent and easy-going--I walked around with a monogrammed catheter bag for crying out loud but walking out with teeth like this? That was even too much for me.) So, when he stepped out of the room for a moment my fear and doubt got the best of me. I turned to the assistant, "I'm not going to have to have my mouth looking like this for two weeks am I?" God bless her--and I mean that sincerely--she didn't burst out laughing (she did snicker). "No, ma'am. You'll have a full set of teeth they just won't look like the finished product."

So here I was leaving the dentist with my temporary bridge, which does look better than before, and tears were beginning to seep out of my eyes with the very real threat they would soon escape in torrents. What in the Sam Hill was going on with me?!?!?

Almost instantaneously it came to me (I call that the Holy Spirit)--my teeth were just an illustration of this whole last year. 

For two weeks I've been a little more worn out from the pandemic, a little more irritable, a little more morose, and if I'm honest a little more worried about what life will look like when we are all reopened and back to "normal." 

The thing is, we're not going back to normal, or at least not to the normal that was. And maybe that's not such a bad thing. Maybe what was before was good enough or we learned to live with it. Maybe before when life, institutions, relationships started to show weakness or fall out, we kept doing the same thing--you know gluing it back together and knowing it would fall out/break again. Maybe we accepted life, institutions, relationships as being "just that way" and being "good enough." Maybe the way it was put more stress on some than others causing them to break. Well, that is definitely NOT a maybe. The last year has definitely shown us over and over how many inequalities there are and how we have just let them be. Maybe, probably, definitely, we convinced ourselves the cost of making any changes to what we knew was just too high. 

And then came the pandemic--and pain--lots and lots of pain. We started to see the gaps in what we always considered good; we started to feel the sharpness, and I'll say it, the hidden ugliness of life as it was.  Please don't shun me for saying this, but maybe the pandemic with all its pain, loneliness, trauma, and yes there was so much of that and we will grieve for many years to come, but maybe it also gave us an opportunity to let go of the good enough (and let's be honest what some of us considered good enough was nowhere good enough for others) and to put in the work, the pain, the cost of changing. 

I began to understand my tears. We're still in the in-between. We're still in the temporary. We don't know

what it's going to look like on the other side of this pandemic. There is so much we don't know, but we also have the opportunity--the opportunity to do and be something different--something better, something more solid, something more beautiful--something more beautiful for the whole world. 

I so want to be on the other side of this. I want to know what the world will look like, and I want the world to be better than it has ever been. But for now, we have to just keep putting in the work and trusting that together and with God's direction, the world can emerge better, stronger, and more dazzling for all.