I opened a can I'm not sure I was ready to open. But it's opened so here goes--Caroline's traumas are really a trilogy and since I started I feel pulled to finish the story. So here's part two.
November 2000 my nephew was to be baptized in Philadelphia. Chris was in grad school and I wasn't working, so finances were a bit tight. We decided to divide and conquer. He would stay home with the "big kids" (ages just turned 5 and 3), and I would take the "babies" with me (4 and 21 months old). It seemed a perfect plan and was a wonderful weekend until....
Late Sunday afternoon Dritte, my little brother, drove my sister, my parents, me and the babies back to the airport. We all had different flights but around the same times. We said our goodbyes and I started towards my gate pushing the double stroller with William's car seat propped on the top while balancing the over sized diaper bag and my purse. Caroline was getting pretty squirrley as she was hungry; my plan was to nurse her on take off.
I arrived at the gate and approached the desk. I could both see and feel people staring at me and I'm fairly certain they were all hoping they didn't have a seat near me. As I got to the desk to check in the attendant said, "I'm really sorry but we're overbooked and have had to bump you from this flight." Are you kidding me?!?!?! Who bumps a woman flying alone with two children under 2? "But," he continued, "We can get you to Chicago tonight and put you up in a hotel and fly you to Atlanta in the morning." I didn't say it, but I thought, "Why would I want to fly to Chicago by myself with two small children you moron?" Instead I said, "I'll just stay here for the night. Can you get me on a flight in the morning?" I suspected that Dritte was not going to be thrilled to have unexpected guests for another night he's more of a neurotic planner than I am, but I couldn't worry about that right then. Caroline's squirrliness was turning into full blown screams. We were re-booked, I called my brother to come back and get us--to his credit he was very sweet. I then called my parents to tell them what happened. Mama could hear Caroline screaming through the phone, or perhaps through the airport, it was that loud, so she said she'd meet me to help get to the car.
Mama got Caroline out of the stroller; I continued to push the stroller with one hand as I called Chris to let him know what was happening. "Just let me know he said. We're going to the Balls' for dinner." Mama was in front of me and suddenly I saw her slip. As she was slipping she threw Caroline into the air; it was slow motion as I watched Caroline arc up and then down. She landed on her head. There was a loud echo and then complete silence.
I dropped the phone in the stroller and raced the 15 feet to scoop Caroline up off the floor. I saw a man sitting at a table a few feet away and shouted, "help that woman." There was no blood, but Caroline wasn't making a sound. I saw my sister approaching and I screamed, "Where's Daddy?" "Down the escalator" she directed, "I'll get William." I took off running. As I raced towards the escalator Caroline began to cry. I reached the top of the steep escalator and saw Daddy at the bottom talking to a security guard. "Daddy!" I shrieked. He looked up and I suppose saw terror on my face; he definitely heard Caroline. He turned to the security guard and said, "I think we're going to need an ambulance."
I reached Daddy and he took Caroline into his arms as I breathlessly explained, "Mama dropped her. She landed on her head; she didn't cry. She went silent." "Well she's crying now," Daddy calmly said as he felt along her head, "That's a good sign." He continued to rub his hand over the back of her head and I could see his lips moving. I know now that he was counting the number of fractures that he could feel. Meredith arrived with William and the stroller just as the EMT's arrived. Wild Willie as he was known around Athens was unusually quiet. He climbed out of his stroller, stood beside me with eyes wide open, and silently held my hand. Daddy began explaining to the EMT's that he was a pediatrician and he suspected multiple skull fractures. He told them to take us to Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. As they strapped me onto the stretcher holding my precious baby Daddy began to quietly explain to me what was probably going to happen. "Listen carefully," he said, "This is the type of injury that occurs with child abuse. They will most likely separate you when you get there and question you. Don't worry--I will be right behind you." I was trying to focus on what he was saying but William was beginning to panic and would not let go of me. He was desperately trying to climb onto the stretcher with me. My sister Meredith was attempting to convince him that he could ride with her and Pop, but he was having none of it. One of the EMT's said to the other, "Grab the car seat and put him in the back with ya'll." "We're not allowed to do that," replied the driver. "Screw the rules--oh sorry m'am--forget the rules. We've got to get this child to the hospital." And so we were all loaded and off we went full lights and sirens.
As we made our way towards the hospital I prayed like I had never prayed in my whole life. I asked God to please not take this child from us. She was our miracle baby--a 1% chance of being conceived--and she had brought so much joy to all of us. From the moment she was born we knew there was something special about her. She lit up a room. "please God," I prayed, "I wanted this child so badly; you gave her to me, please don't take her. Please don't make me have to call Chris and tell him we've lost a child." I couldn't bear to think about how I would make that phone call. Every time she stopped crying however briefly, I stopped breathing.
As we arrived at the hospital and the doors opened I immediately knew my father was right. There were doctors and nurses and one very official looking woman with a clipboard. As they were pulling me out of the ambulance she said, "I'm going to need you to follow me when you get off the stretcher. I have a few questions." One of the nurses asked me what the baby's name was. I have no idea what possessed me to answer with her full name, but I said, "Caroline Kanto Doyle" Suddenly one of the doctors abruptly turned around. "Did you say Kanto?" he asked, "As in Dr. Bill Kanto?" "Yes," I responded, "he's my father; he's on his way. We were all at the airport. My mother dropped her." Tears began streaming down my face. The man's eyes softened as he patted my arm turned to the woman and said, "We're not going to need you. Dr. Kanto trained me. I'm sure everything is fine. We'll let you know."
Daddy appeared just as they were whisking us to x-ray; he shook the doctor's hand and took William from me. After x-rays we were put in a room where Meredith, Dritte, and Mama were waiting. Meredith took William and said, "Let's go get lots of candy." (She is still his favorite aunt to this day and she still spoils him rotten.) Mama kept trying to apologize to me and explain what happened. She kept saying, "It wasn't my fault." I knew it wasn't her fault; I knew it was an accident, but I couldn't focus on that just then. I still believed there was a good chance my child was going to die, and I needed all my emotional strength to hold myself together. "Dritte," I pleaded, "Please get her out of here." And he did. Daddy, Caroline, and I were left waiting--it wasn't long before the doctor asked Daddy to step into the hall. I could see them through the door way pointing and counting and I saw my father step away and wipe tears from his eyes. He regained his composure and the two of them re entered the room. They explained to me there were between 5 and 7 fractures a couple close to blood vessels and arteries. They said she needed a CAT scan immediately and if it was what they suspected she would be taken directly from there to the OR. I needed to sign consent forms. Daddy said, "They're going to let me put on scrubs. I'll go with her to the CAT scan and I'll be in the operating room. She'll never be alone. But Katherine Mouse, you need to call Chris and tell him he needs to be prepared to get here. When.." and he caught himself, "If we take her into surgery we'll send someone to tell you and Chris needs to get on a plane. Kiss your baby and we have to go now." He lovingly reached for her. To this day letting him take her from my arms is the hardest thing I've ever done. I kissed her forehead and prayed this wouldn't be the last time I held her.
They showed me to a waiting room and I dialed our home number. My very dear friend and Caroline's godmother Gillian answered. I told her I needed to talk to Chris. "What's going on?" she asked. I briefly explained and repeated I needed to talk to Chris. "Leslie and I are here at your house right now. We're cleaning and scrubbing. You should see Leslie with a sponge." In an instant it hit me, she was stalling and why was she at my house cleaning? "Gillian, what's going on?" "Weeeeelllll," she started, "When you first called Chris called me to tell me they weren't coming to dinner and what happened so I came and got the children so he could focus on you. We were playing and there was just a little accident--it's not serious." "What happened?" I asked as I begin to panic. "It's really going to be fine," she assured me, "Sarah Katherine fell off the slide and cut her head kind of close to her eye. I think she's going to need a couple of stitches." I immediately hung up and called Chris on his cell. He answered and before he could say anything I said, "Get a plastic surgeon to sew her up!" "Too late," he answered, "Now what's going on there?" I filled him in and he said that he would get home and get packed. As I hung up the phone I saw my father heading towards me and smiling with Caroline in his arms. A nurse was scrambling to keep up pushing the IV pole. "It is truly a miracle," Daddy said, "The fractures are all around the vessels but they've missed it. Surgery is not needed." I burst into tears as I gathered a very drugged Caroline into my arms, "Oh thank you God," I said over and over. Daddy explained they were going to put us in the ICU for observation for 24 hours and if all went as they expected we would be discharged the next day. Daddy's former student was standing in the background waiting to say goodbye. "I don't know how to thank you" I said. "It wasn't me, it truly was Divine. God bless you and your family. It was good to see you again Dr. Kanto." Daddy turned to the man, tears streamed down his face as he said, "Bill--call me Bill; you took care of my grandchild. I'm just Bill." The two men embraced and he left.
Meredith returned with William; Dritte returned with Mama and it was decided that Daddy and Meredith would try to get the last flights out. Dritte would take Mama and William back to his house. William was clutching a bag of candy and Meredith told him he could have it all to himself if he went with Uncle Dritte and Babah. (God bless them for dealing with a 21 month old full of sugar!) They took us up to the ICU and I climbed into bed with Caroline. I asked for a phone and I called Christy my prayer warrior. I didn't even realize I was calling another mother of 4 children at 11:30 at night and she never said a word. She listened to me and let me process and she prayed a prayer of thanksgiving for us and as only someone as sweet and kind as she is could do, she also asked God to bless and be with all those parents who were not leaving the hospital with their children in their arms. After we hung up, I laid in the bed with Caroline and cried. As her drugs wore off, Caroline became playful; I was exhausted, my whole body ached. The nurse sitting beside the bed looked at me and said, "I'm not supposed to do this, but let me take the baby. I'll walk the halls with her so you can get some sleep. I've heard it's been quite a day for you."
The following morning we were discharged. Mama, William, Caroline and I headed to the airport where we were given first class seats. Caroline's head was three times it's normal size and completely bruised, but she was alive and we were going home.
Chris and the big kids met us at the Atlanta airport. Sarah Katherine had a bandage over her stitches, Caroline looked quite odd, the boys were rumpled messes, but we were all together. Chris and I circled our arms around each other and all four children. I felt complete peace, happiness, and gratitude. As we stepped apart Sarah Katherine looked closely at Caroline's head. "She looks funny," she said, "but I got stitches."
We arrived back in Athens to balloons and signs in the yard and a piping hot dinner in our oven. We felt so blessed to have the friends and neighbors that surrounded us during that time. There have only been a few lingering effects from the weekend; Sarah Katherine has a slight scar by her eye; I spent months trying to convince the insurance company that it was indeed possible to have two hospital bills in two different states at exactly the same time; and Caroline now responds, "well I was dropped on my head" whenever I wonder why she does some of the crazy things she does.
30 October, 2013
Caroline lost a pinky and I gained a stronger faith
This post has been a long time coming--I knew one day I'd be ready to tell this story in its entirety, but this morning it hit me; now's the time. It's painful to remember; it may be hard to read; I know it's hard to write, but I promised myself that when I did finally write it I would be totally honest even though I'd rather not me. I'm not proud of every moment lived during those long days; here I go...
The evening of August 7, 2002 started like most other evenings in our chaotic filled, four children under 6, just moved to Pittsburgh life. We were getting ready to have a couple who Chris worked with over for dinner. Chris was grilling; I was getting dressed; the children were riding bikes and running around on the patio. Chris came upstairs to tell me something and we heard a scream. "I'll go." he said not especially in a hurry. Bike spills, arguments over toys, screaming for the heck of it were all part of our life. I had one shoe on when I heard him yell up, "This is a real one come quick!" I raced down the stairs already dialing 911. I don't know what told me to do that; I just knew.
"What's the nature of your emergency?" a voice said. "I don't know, hold on" I stammered as I approached the patio. "It's her finger." said Chris, "It's barely attached." I repeated those words to the operator as I ran in for towels. Caroline was reaching for me; Chris was trying to bandage the hand; and I was scanning for the other children. William up on the hill, Christopher peaking around the corner, Sarah Katherine at my elbow. All accounted for. We hung up with 911; I looked at Chris and said, "I can't go do this alone." I am freakishly calm in crisis; I go into a zone and plan. "Chris call my daddy and tell him we're heading to Children's." Daddy was the head of the children's hospital in Augusta and I was hoping he'd know someone in Pittsburgh. Meanwhile I called a family that we had met a few times, been to their house once.
The phone rang and Paul answered. "Hey Paul. Am I interrupting your dinner?" He tells this part of the story pretty humorously. He calls it a "Southern SOS" He says it cracked him up that he could hear Caroline shrieking in the background, could hear an ambulance and I was asking whether I had interrupted his dinner! I couldn't help it; I was taught to always ask between the hours of 6-8 pm if I was interrupting dinner; habits die hard. Once he said no (even though they were eating ) I explained briefly, they were loading Caroline and I into the ambulance, that we needed help with the other children. Chris waited for Paul to come over and I was gone. As the ambulance doors closed, I saw our dinner guests drive up. As soon as Paul got there Chris left for the hospital. It took a good 8 months to convince the children that Mr. Garlitz was NOT a babysitter.
Dr. Richard Saladino, who I now seriously believe is an angel, met us as we were wheeled in. I heard him say he had just spoken to my father. As Dr. Saladino was examining Caroline Chris arrived. He started to say, "I am so sorry. I was supposed to be outside." but I stopped him. Not once, not then and never have I blamed him. I have never blamed anyone; I have wanted to blame someone or something, but only God ever got close to being blamed. Dr. Saladino told us she needed x-rays and he was going to call plastics. The next few hours are a blur; I called the church we had been attending; and Dr. Saladino brought me scrubs to put on as I was covered in blood. Although he was officially "off the case" after plastic surgery was brought in, he stayed close by and continually called my father with updates. Around 11:00 pm they decided they'd admit us and she would have surgery the next day. I will never forget the fellow looking at me and saying, "This is really not as bad as you think. We're just going to put some pins in it. She'll be fine." I held onto those words for the next 24 hours; they continue to haunt me all these years later.
Chris went home and Caroline and I were admitted to the PICU. The next day surgery kept getting pushed back. It was hard--Caroline couldn't eat anything and she was on narcotic pain medicine so she was very grumpy. She kept asking for her siblings, so finally I told Chris to bring them down. They were there for 30 minutes when the doctor finally showed up around 8:15 pm to take Caroline to surgery. Chris said he would take them to the Garlitz and come back. The fellow and the attending were both standing there. The attending had yet to actually see the hand but the fellow said, "we'll be in the operating room for less than an hour if you just want to have them wait. So off to the family waiting room we went.
Two and a half hours went by and no one came out. Finally both doctors emerged and asked to see us in a private conference room. I knew this wasn't good. The attending began to explain that her finger had been severed and crushed. The crushing meant they had to snip the ends of the arteries and veins to tie them back together which on a two year old was very complicated. He said they had to intubate her but they were doing everything possible to save the finger. Finally he said, "We can't promise anything. This is a very bad serious injury." I looked across the table at the fellow; my eyes locked with his and a calm icy voice came from my throat. "You said it was no big deal and she'd be fine." I held his gaze until he finally looked away. We never saw that man again, and I'm told he was immediately dismissed from the case. The attendant finished the conversation with, "This could take several more hours." As difficult as it was for Chris he left with the children. At 11:30 pm Dr. Saladino showed up in the waiting room. He'd worked a 12 hour day but sat with me until 1 am--until Caroline was settled in the ICU with leeches attached to her finger.
The next morning Chris arrived and we learned how to help the staff keep leeches on the pinky. Caroline was in a medically induced coma. She had a fever and was on antibiotics. We were told it was a wait and see. That was a very dark time. I honestly don't remember much except staring at the monitors measuring the blood flow and watching her pinky turn darker, then pinker, then darker over and over and over. People from Athens and all around the country called--good friends wanting to offer their love and prayers, and Chris screened them for me. I just couldn't talk to anyone. I suppose in a way I thought if I don't talk about it, it didn't happen. And I couldn't bear to think about or answer the questions--the what ifs.
At the end of the second day, Chris arrived home to find a basket on the front steps. There was a casserole, bagels, treats, and a note. "I heard about your daughter. You're in my prayers. Leave the basket out and it will be filled everyday by your neighbors." Chris called me choked up. Who could have done this? How did anyone even know? We found out--my mother was in an aerobics class in Augusta Ga. She told one of her friends about it. This friend said, "I think that's where our Rabbi moved last summer." She made a phone call and sure enough, Rabbi Amy lived in our neighborhood. She put the basket together and then spread the word. For the next two weeks our family was provided for by complete strangers--they wouldn't tell me names because they wanted no thanks. I do know the group was made up of Jewish people, Muslims, Catholics, and many other denominations. This was the community of God--God called by different names, worshiped in different ways--but a community reaching out to the stranger in need.
Three days into it I got a call from one of Caroline's godmothers. She demanded that Chris put me on the phone and she told me she was on her way from Virginia. She could only be gone one night but she was coming. She left her 2 year old and 6 month twins with her husband and drove straight through. When Julie arrived I was a mess. I hadn't showered in three days, I just sat in the rocking chair when I was allowed in the ICU and wandered the halls when I wasn't making calls to hire sitters to care for the other children. Chris handled the leeches. Julie took my hands in hers, looked me straight in the eye and said, "You're going home tonight. Chris is fine here and you have three other children who are scared and they need to see their mommy." Just as she finished talking, the doctor came in and said things were not looking good. We were going to have to make a decision soon as to whether to take the pinky off. He suggested that the following morning we donate blood in case she needed a blood transfusion. He said the next 24-36 hours were crucial. I asked him if we could wait to make any decision until my father got there. Absolutely he said.
Julie and I went home. We played with the children; we drank wine; and we talked about everything except the accident. I needed that. At 5 am the phone rang; it was Chris, "They've had to transfuse her four times during the night. You need to get down here. Her temp is 105 and we have to sign papers to have the pinky come off." I scrambled to get ready; Julie poured me a thermos of coffee, kissed my cheek and said we'll be praying. And I was off. As I arrived the doctors were already in the room. "My daddy gets her at 9 am, can't we wait?" The doctor kindly looked at me, I could see Chris behind him his eyes filled with tears. "Mrs. Doyle, we can't wait." I couldn't focus; I felt like I was watching a movie that I was in. "Please I said, please tell me that we've done everything to save it. One day she's going to look at me and ask me that question. I have to know." The doctor took my hand as he gently said, "Mrs. Doyle if we don't take that pinky off now, she will die."
Julie brought the children down to us; she had to get back. I knew she'd pray the whole way. Michele Garlitz went to get my parents from the airport. Chris and I said very little. We sat in the family waiting room; SK read her book (she has always used books as a refuge), William played with action figures, and Christopher sat next to me holding my hand and patting my leg. Mama and Daddy arrived and Caroline was still in surgery. They walked into the waiting room and Chris walked out. I could hear him sobbing in the hall; Daddy pushed me and said go to him.
I knew in my heart what Chris needed from me. I had repeatedly told him that I didn't blame him, but he needed me to put my arms around him and say it again. He needed to feel it. And I couldn't do it. I didn't blame him, but I knew if I touched him I would break into a thousand pieces and I didn't know if I would be able to recover. I made it about me, and I to this day am deeply ashamed. Chris had been my rock through it all letting me have whatever I needed. I wanted/needed to be the one at the hospital and so he went home every night. He loved me and cared for me unconditionally not counting the cost to his own emotions and I didn't do the same for him. Instead of taking him into my arms, I said, "let's walk around." As we walked I continued to talk. All of my fears came tumbling out--how mean other children might be, she'd never wear gloves, and when she got engaged and held her hand out there it would be so obvious. "You know" Chris said, "At least we already know what mean people will zero in on with her. We'll give her the skills she needs before that happens. We ARE going to make this okay for her." I reached for his hand, and we returned to the waiting room.
We spent the next four days in the ICU; Caroline was still in a medically induced coma, still on a ventilator, and I still wouldn't leave. No matter how much Chris tried to convince me to go home and get some rest, all I could remember is that the night I left she was transfused and I wasn't there. I have never again been able to leave a child in the hospital--So many little things happened during this time. Every morning Mrs. Saladino (yep the ER doctor's wife) would bring me coffee and a homemade pastry. Until we were checking out, I assumed she worked at the hospital. No, she dropped her children at school and brought me breakfast because her husband had told her about the little blue eyed girl with blonde curls that had touched his heart. Every day as he came on and as he left, Dr. Saladino came to the ICU to see us.
One evening after Chris had gone home daddy and I walked down to a restaurant. I was very quiet--not a good sign, and Daddy knew that well. He let me sit and think for a while and then asked what was going on. I broke down and sobbed as I laid out my fears. "Daddy, I'm the one who's vain not Caroline. How could God do this to my little girl just to teach me a lesson? Why is he letting her suffer for my vanity, for my pride? How am I going to tell her that she lost her finger because I'm full of vanity?" Daddy let me get it all out and then he said, "Katherine Mouse, that's not the God you've talked to me about for years. You've taught me about the God of love and care and compassion. Reach deep down inside yourself and find that God again. You need that God again. That God is here. That God is in the Garlitz and your neighbors that bring food. That God is in the Saladino's, Julie, in all those calling, writing and praying. Find that God. And teach Caroline about that God because that is the real God, the only God. You taught me that."
The next evening they were going to take Caroline off the ventilator. The doctors had been wonderful sharing everything with my father although he didn't have privileges at this hospital. But for this they told us we both had to wait outside. Daddy told me it would be just a few minutes, but the clock kept moving and they weren't getting us. Daddy began pacing and I knew something was wrong. I pressed my face to the glass door and I saw a doctor look over at me; he motioned to the nurse and said something. She ran for the door and I thought, "What did I do?" Instead she pushed it open and called for my daddy, "Dr Kanto, Dr ___________, said the hell with the rules we need you to help your granddaughter. She's fighting it." Daddy ran into the unit and within minutes it was over. She needed a familiar voice and touch and I thank God that the doctor looked beyond the "rules" and grasped onto the need. He didn't allow legalism to block out love, rules to block out people.
Slowly over the next two days they began to reduce her drugs and she came out of her coma. They moved us to a room which was good for the other children. They needed to see her. But she wasn't her; she wasn't Caroline. She sat in my lap staring straight ahead and only vaguely responding to commands. Daddy explained it was called ICU psychosis. I called it living hell. I just wanted my bubbly, outgoing, precocious two year old back. Late in the afternoon on the second day she turned around in my lap, wrapped her arms around my neck and whispered, "I was scared until that man kissed me when they put that mask on my face. And he said in my ear I would always be beautiful." And with those words she started coming back to us. I asked everyone who had done that for her; I wanted to thank the man who had not only kept her from being scared in the OR but who I also believed was bringing her back to me from the psychosis. I asked every person who was in the OR and everyone said it wasn't them. Yes, I believe in angels.
We were discharged and went home. We spent a long time preparing the other children, worrying about how they were going to handle it and all they wanted to know was where was the finger? It was not as easy for Caroline. During the day she was fine, but she could not be in her room by herself and she had nightmares every night. Four or five days after we were home the phone rang, it was Dr. Saladino. He was just checking in--I began to cry and tell him about the nightmares and the constant waking up. It was like having a newborn again but a newborn I couldn't soothe. He just listened, but that's what I needed. The next day we were going for a follow up appointment and he asked us to stop by. After we saw the doctors we went to see Dr. Saladino. Caroline climbed up into his lap and he gave her a stuffed dog. He told her this dog was going to take care of her and the nightmares would go away. On the way home Caroline named him Shiloh. That night for the first time, she didn't wake up screaming. She still couldn't go to bed by herself, but at least once she was asleep she stayed that way. Shiloh and Caroline were inseparable for years. It's only been in the last two that he hasn't shared her bed every single night. Now he just hangs out waiting to be needed.
It's been 11 years. That conversation I feared did come. One day walking home from school Caroline asked me if we had done everything possible to save her pinky and I could honestly say yes. And I told her the whole story. We both cried and then we laughed. Caroline lost a pinky that summer but over the years because of that our family has learned so many things.
We have learned what it means to care for the stranger, the vulnerable, the hurting. We have learned that God appears in many ways and in many people. We have learned what it means to stick together as a family, unfortunately both boys have been in fights defending their sister as others picked on her because of the loss. But those times are few and far between. Mostly people are curious or don't even notice. I have learned what it means to have strength and courage, and to laugh at what I never dreamed I could laugh at. Whenever Caroline gets a manicure she asks for 10% off--says it's only fair. During that time, I learned from Chris what it felt like to be given and to receive unconditional love--to put someone above yourself and your own needs, and I have vowed that others will feel that from me.
I have learned what it means to take control and to own your story. When we moved to Virginia it was the first time people didn't "know the story" and Caroline told it. Each time she has changed schools, she takes control, she tells her own story before anyone can ask. Does it still break my heart? Sometimes. In fifth grade she said someone called her a baby because she still wore mittens. That year for Christmas SK bought three pairs of gloves, cut off the left pinky and sewed the hole closed. A labor of love.
Caroline lost her pinky; I'd turn that clock back any day. I'd take that pain and any future pain away from her in a minute. But I would hold onto the lessons I learned. The lessons about who God is and the goodness of people. Caroline lost a pinky and I gained a stronger faith.
Shiloh hanging out.
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The evening of August 7, 2002 started like most other evenings in our chaotic filled, four children under 6, just moved to Pittsburgh life. We were getting ready to have a couple who Chris worked with over for dinner. Chris was grilling; I was getting dressed; the children were riding bikes and running around on the patio. Chris came upstairs to tell me something and we heard a scream. "I'll go." he said not especially in a hurry. Bike spills, arguments over toys, screaming for the heck of it were all part of our life. I had one shoe on when I heard him yell up, "This is a real one come quick!" I raced down the stairs already dialing 911. I don't know what told me to do that; I just knew.
"What's the nature of your emergency?" a voice said. "I don't know, hold on" I stammered as I approached the patio. "It's her finger." said Chris, "It's barely attached." I repeated those words to the operator as I ran in for towels. Caroline was reaching for me; Chris was trying to bandage the hand; and I was scanning for the other children. William up on the hill, Christopher peaking around the corner, Sarah Katherine at my elbow. All accounted for. We hung up with 911; I looked at Chris and said, "I can't go do this alone." I am freakishly calm in crisis; I go into a zone and plan. "Chris call my daddy and tell him we're heading to Children's." Daddy was the head of the children's hospital in Augusta and I was hoping he'd know someone in Pittsburgh. Meanwhile I called a family that we had met a few times, been to their house once.
The phone rang and Paul answered. "Hey Paul. Am I interrupting your dinner?" He tells this part of the story pretty humorously. He calls it a "Southern SOS" He says it cracked him up that he could hear Caroline shrieking in the background, could hear an ambulance and I was asking whether I had interrupted his dinner! I couldn't help it; I was taught to always ask between the hours of 6-8 pm if I was interrupting dinner; habits die hard. Once he said no (even though they were eating ) I explained briefly, they were loading Caroline and I into the ambulance, that we needed help with the other children. Chris waited for Paul to come over and I was gone. As the ambulance doors closed, I saw our dinner guests drive up. As soon as Paul got there Chris left for the hospital. It took a good 8 months to convince the children that Mr. Garlitz was NOT a babysitter.
Dr. Richard Saladino, who I now seriously believe is an angel, met us as we were wheeled in. I heard him say he had just spoken to my father. As Dr. Saladino was examining Caroline Chris arrived. He started to say, "I am so sorry. I was supposed to be outside." but I stopped him. Not once, not then and never have I blamed him. I have never blamed anyone; I have wanted to blame someone or something, but only God ever got close to being blamed. Dr. Saladino told us she needed x-rays and he was going to call plastics. The next few hours are a blur; I called the church we had been attending; and Dr. Saladino brought me scrubs to put on as I was covered in blood. Although he was officially "off the case" after plastic surgery was brought in, he stayed close by and continually called my father with updates. Around 11:00 pm they decided they'd admit us and she would have surgery the next day. I will never forget the fellow looking at me and saying, "This is really not as bad as you think. We're just going to put some pins in it. She'll be fine." I held onto those words for the next 24 hours; they continue to haunt me all these years later.
Chris went home and Caroline and I were admitted to the PICU. The next day surgery kept getting pushed back. It was hard--Caroline couldn't eat anything and she was on narcotic pain medicine so she was very grumpy. She kept asking for her siblings, so finally I told Chris to bring them down. They were there for 30 minutes when the doctor finally showed up around 8:15 pm to take Caroline to surgery. Chris said he would take them to the Garlitz and come back. The fellow and the attending were both standing there. The attending had yet to actually see the hand but the fellow said, "we'll be in the operating room for less than an hour if you just want to have them wait. So off to the family waiting room we went.
Two and a half hours went by and no one came out. Finally both doctors emerged and asked to see us in a private conference room. I knew this wasn't good. The attending began to explain that her finger had been severed and crushed. The crushing meant they had to snip the ends of the arteries and veins to tie them back together which on a two year old was very complicated. He said they had to intubate her but they were doing everything possible to save the finger. Finally he said, "We can't promise anything. This is a very bad serious injury." I looked across the table at the fellow; my eyes locked with his and a calm icy voice came from my throat. "You said it was no big deal and she'd be fine." I held his gaze until he finally looked away. We never saw that man again, and I'm told he was immediately dismissed from the case. The attendant finished the conversation with, "This could take several more hours." As difficult as it was for Chris he left with the children. At 11:30 pm Dr. Saladino showed up in the waiting room. He'd worked a 12 hour day but sat with me until 1 am--until Caroline was settled in the ICU with leeches attached to her finger.
The next morning Chris arrived and we learned how to help the staff keep leeches on the pinky. Caroline was in a medically induced coma. She had a fever and was on antibiotics. We were told it was a wait and see. That was a very dark time. I honestly don't remember much except staring at the monitors measuring the blood flow and watching her pinky turn darker, then pinker, then darker over and over and over. People from Athens and all around the country called--good friends wanting to offer their love and prayers, and Chris screened them for me. I just couldn't talk to anyone. I suppose in a way I thought if I don't talk about it, it didn't happen. And I couldn't bear to think about or answer the questions--the what ifs.
At the end of the second day, Chris arrived home to find a basket on the front steps. There was a casserole, bagels, treats, and a note. "I heard about your daughter. You're in my prayers. Leave the basket out and it will be filled everyday by your neighbors." Chris called me choked up. Who could have done this? How did anyone even know? We found out--my mother was in an aerobics class in Augusta Ga. She told one of her friends about it. This friend said, "I think that's where our Rabbi moved last summer." She made a phone call and sure enough, Rabbi Amy lived in our neighborhood. She put the basket together and then spread the word. For the next two weeks our family was provided for by complete strangers--they wouldn't tell me names because they wanted no thanks. I do know the group was made up of Jewish people, Muslims, Catholics, and many other denominations. This was the community of God--God called by different names, worshiped in different ways--but a community reaching out to the stranger in need.
Three days into it I got a call from one of Caroline's godmothers. She demanded that Chris put me on the phone and she told me she was on her way from Virginia. She could only be gone one night but she was coming. She left her 2 year old and 6 month twins with her husband and drove straight through. When Julie arrived I was a mess. I hadn't showered in three days, I just sat in the rocking chair when I was allowed in the ICU and wandered the halls when I wasn't making calls to hire sitters to care for the other children. Chris handled the leeches. Julie took my hands in hers, looked me straight in the eye and said, "You're going home tonight. Chris is fine here and you have three other children who are scared and they need to see their mommy." Just as she finished talking, the doctor came in and said things were not looking good. We were going to have to make a decision soon as to whether to take the pinky off. He suggested that the following morning we donate blood in case she needed a blood transfusion. He said the next 24-36 hours were crucial. I asked him if we could wait to make any decision until my father got there. Absolutely he said.
Julie and I went home. We played with the children; we drank wine; and we talked about everything except the accident. I needed that. At 5 am the phone rang; it was Chris, "They've had to transfuse her four times during the night. You need to get down here. Her temp is 105 and we have to sign papers to have the pinky come off." I scrambled to get ready; Julie poured me a thermos of coffee, kissed my cheek and said we'll be praying. And I was off. As I arrived the doctors were already in the room. "My daddy gets her at 9 am, can't we wait?" The doctor kindly looked at me, I could see Chris behind him his eyes filled with tears. "Mrs. Doyle, we can't wait." I couldn't focus; I felt like I was watching a movie that I was in. "Please I said, please tell me that we've done everything to save it. One day she's going to look at me and ask me that question. I have to know." The doctor took my hand as he gently said, "Mrs. Doyle if we don't take that pinky off now, she will die."
Julie brought the children down to us; she had to get back. I knew she'd pray the whole way. Michele Garlitz went to get my parents from the airport. Chris and I said very little. We sat in the family waiting room; SK read her book (she has always used books as a refuge), William played with action figures, and Christopher sat next to me holding my hand and patting my leg. Mama and Daddy arrived and Caroline was still in surgery. They walked into the waiting room and Chris walked out. I could hear him sobbing in the hall; Daddy pushed me and said go to him.
I knew in my heart what Chris needed from me. I had repeatedly told him that I didn't blame him, but he needed me to put my arms around him and say it again. He needed to feel it. And I couldn't do it. I didn't blame him, but I knew if I touched him I would break into a thousand pieces and I didn't know if I would be able to recover. I made it about me, and I to this day am deeply ashamed. Chris had been my rock through it all letting me have whatever I needed. I wanted/needed to be the one at the hospital and so he went home every night. He loved me and cared for me unconditionally not counting the cost to his own emotions and I didn't do the same for him. Instead of taking him into my arms, I said, "let's walk around." As we walked I continued to talk. All of my fears came tumbling out--how mean other children might be, she'd never wear gloves, and when she got engaged and held her hand out there it would be so obvious. "You know" Chris said, "At least we already know what mean people will zero in on with her. We'll give her the skills she needs before that happens. We ARE going to make this okay for her." I reached for his hand, and we returned to the waiting room.
We spent the next four days in the ICU; Caroline was still in a medically induced coma, still on a ventilator, and I still wouldn't leave. No matter how much Chris tried to convince me to go home and get some rest, all I could remember is that the night I left she was transfused and I wasn't there. I have never again been able to leave a child in the hospital--So many little things happened during this time. Every morning Mrs. Saladino (yep the ER doctor's wife) would bring me coffee and a homemade pastry. Until we were checking out, I assumed she worked at the hospital. No, she dropped her children at school and brought me breakfast because her husband had told her about the little blue eyed girl with blonde curls that had touched his heart. Every day as he came on and as he left, Dr. Saladino came to the ICU to see us.
One evening after Chris had gone home daddy and I walked down to a restaurant. I was very quiet--not a good sign, and Daddy knew that well. He let me sit and think for a while and then asked what was going on. I broke down and sobbed as I laid out my fears. "Daddy, I'm the one who's vain not Caroline. How could God do this to my little girl just to teach me a lesson? Why is he letting her suffer for my vanity, for my pride? How am I going to tell her that she lost her finger because I'm full of vanity?" Daddy let me get it all out and then he said, "Katherine Mouse, that's not the God you've talked to me about for years. You've taught me about the God of love and care and compassion. Reach deep down inside yourself and find that God again. You need that God again. That God is here. That God is in the Garlitz and your neighbors that bring food. That God is in the Saladino's, Julie, in all those calling, writing and praying. Find that God. And teach Caroline about that God because that is the real God, the only God. You taught me that."
The next evening they were going to take Caroline off the ventilator. The doctors had been wonderful sharing everything with my father although he didn't have privileges at this hospital. But for this they told us we both had to wait outside. Daddy told me it would be just a few minutes, but the clock kept moving and they weren't getting us. Daddy began pacing and I knew something was wrong. I pressed my face to the glass door and I saw a doctor look over at me; he motioned to the nurse and said something. She ran for the door and I thought, "What did I do?" Instead she pushed it open and called for my daddy, "Dr Kanto, Dr ___________, said the hell with the rules we need you to help your granddaughter. She's fighting it." Daddy ran into the unit and within minutes it was over. She needed a familiar voice and touch and I thank God that the doctor looked beyond the "rules" and grasped onto the need. He didn't allow legalism to block out love, rules to block out people.
Slowly over the next two days they began to reduce her drugs and she came out of her coma. They moved us to a room which was good for the other children. They needed to see her. But she wasn't her; she wasn't Caroline. She sat in my lap staring straight ahead and only vaguely responding to commands. Daddy explained it was called ICU psychosis. I called it living hell. I just wanted my bubbly, outgoing, precocious two year old back. Late in the afternoon on the second day she turned around in my lap, wrapped her arms around my neck and whispered, "I was scared until that man kissed me when they put that mask on my face. And he said in my ear I would always be beautiful." And with those words she started coming back to us. I asked everyone who had done that for her; I wanted to thank the man who had not only kept her from being scared in the OR but who I also believed was bringing her back to me from the psychosis. I asked every person who was in the OR and everyone said it wasn't them. Yes, I believe in angels.
We were discharged and went home. We spent a long time preparing the other children, worrying about how they were going to handle it and all they wanted to know was where was the finger? It was not as easy for Caroline. During the day she was fine, but she could not be in her room by herself and she had nightmares every night. Four or five days after we were home the phone rang, it was Dr. Saladino. He was just checking in--I began to cry and tell him about the nightmares and the constant waking up. It was like having a newborn again but a newborn I couldn't soothe. He just listened, but that's what I needed. The next day we were going for a follow up appointment and he asked us to stop by. After we saw the doctors we went to see Dr. Saladino. Caroline climbed up into his lap and he gave her a stuffed dog. He told her this dog was going to take care of her and the nightmares would go away. On the way home Caroline named him Shiloh. That night for the first time, she didn't wake up screaming. She still couldn't go to bed by herself, but at least once she was asleep she stayed that way. Shiloh and Caroline were inseparable for years. It's only been in the last two that he hasn't shared her bed every single night. Now he just hangs out waiting to be needed.
It's been 11 years. That conversation I feared did come. One day walking home from school Caroline asked me if we had done everything possible to save her pinky and I could honestly say yes. And I told her the whole story. We both cried and then we laughed. Caroline lost a pinky that summer but over the years because of that our family has learned so many things.
We have learned what it means to care for the stranger, the vulnerable, the hurting. We have learned that God appears in many ways and in many people. We have learned what it means to stick together as a family, unfortunately both boys have been in fights defending their sister as others picked on her because of the loss. But those times are few and far between. Mostly people are curious or don't even notice. I have learned what it means to have strength and courage, and to laugh at what I never dreamed I could laugh at. Whenever Caroline gets a manicure she asks for 10% off--says it's only fair. During that time, I learned from Chris what it felt like to be given and to receive unconditional love--to put someone above yourself and your own needs, and I have vowed that others will feel that from me.
I have learned what it means to take control and to own your story. When we moved to Virginia it was the first time people didn't "know the story" and Caroline told it. Each time she has changed schools, she takes control, she tells her own story before anyone can ask. Does it still break my heart? Sometimes. In fifth grade she said someone called her a baby because she still wore mittens. That year for Christmas SK bought three pairs of gloves, cut off the left pinky and sewed the hole closed. A labor of love.
Caroline lost her pinky; I'd turn that clock back any day. I'd take that pain and any future pain away from her in a minute. But I would hold onto the lessons I learned. The lessons about who God is and the goodness of people. Caroline lost a pinky and I gained a stronger faith.
Shiloh hanging out.
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| Cookie bouquet from Aunt Meredith |
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| A Welcome Home Tea Party |
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29 October, 2013
Well Mama, I am a Prep School Kid
Sunday night as I left Evensong I received a text, "Lacrosse game over, just come home." I wondered why it was already over, but since I'd been at work for 12 hours I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth--home out of the heels and into sweats was my goal. As I was leaving the building I saw I had a notice on facebook so I quickly checked that and read, "Haven't heard the whole story but I think I'm happy that Jack got kicked out of his lacrosse game tonight for defending a teammate in a blatant helmet grab." I was tagged, and I quickly put two and two together and realized there had been a fight, my son had been involved--probably the helmet grabee--and that was probably why the game was over.
That night I asked Christopher what happened and he said, "He grabbed my helmet and tried to throw me down." Chris Sr. quickly added, "And to Boss' credit, he backed up and put both hands up. He didn't retaliate. Jack, however, defended him." Now I love my son; I love to watch my son play sports; AND I know my son likes to talk trash on the field/court (notice I didn't use "love" in that part). So I say, "What did you say to provoke it?" Here's the story I got (and that has been corroborated by many). The other young man who happens to go to the same high school as our daughter--a public high school--said, "F****ing prep school kid." Christopher responded, "Yeah we get that alot." And then came the helmet grab. I don't know whether the player was irritated he didn't get a reaction out of Christopher or whether he was embarrassed he wasn't more original. Regardless, game over.
All night it bugged me--why did he have to say that? Why couldn't he just call him another name? And what led to the violent response? So in the morning I said to Christopher, "I know I should let this go, but I can't. Do lots of teams say that stuff to ya'll?" "Yes, " said Christopher, "both to the you should let this go and lots of teams call us expletive prep school kids." "That really bothers me," I said, "I don't want you to be labeled that way." And then as only a 16 year old son of a neurotic slightly obsessive mother can do, he put his arm around me, kissed the top of my head and said, "Well Mama, I am a prep school kid."
It's Tuesday--I still haven't let it go. I realize it's not the label particularly but the meaning behind the label--the stereotype--"the rich, entitled, spoiled kid". And I wanted to defend Christopher--who am I kidding? I wanted to defend myself; justify myself and the choice Chris and I made to send the children to LCS. I wanted to say he's not a rich, entitled, spoiled (well maybe spoiled, I do wake him up with hot chocolate brought to his bedside every morning) kid. We sacrifice; we make choices; we saved; we send our daughter to public school; AND we're nice people!!!! It wasn't the label--it was the meaning behind it. Besides, who gets to say that's what a prep school kid is? As I became more indignant I thought, and what if we were rich? Does that make us bad? And now I was really on a roll, who decides what rich is? Christopher may have stepped away with his hands in the air, but I was still swinging. I wanted to beat into somebody, anybody, that "prep school kid" is just a label and I wanted to beat out of anyone who would listen the stereo typical meaning. I could live with the label if the meaning went away.
Labels without meanings, hmmm. Christopher was right--he is a prep school kid. But the meanings we have put on the labels, the meanings, they create boundaries and divisions; the meanings create disdain, hostility, fear, and sometimes even hatred. And these divisions are not limited to high school boys on a lacrosse field. Divisions come in so many ways. Republican/Democrat, high church/low church, Protestant/Catholic, Muslim, Christian, Jew, and on it goes. So often we label a person, make an assumption based on the meanings behind the labels, and write them off. The person becomes only the label and yet more than the label. And when that happens, far too often, the person ceases to exist in "our world" as a worthy human being.
Yesterday commemorating Saint Simon and Saint Jude, the scripture was, "For he is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us." (Ephesians 2:14). As disciples of Christ we are called to follow his way; we are called to live in another way, a way we're labels and groups don't rule. We are called to break down the walls between groups and recognize that despite our differences we all, every single person, is created in the image of God and is a beloved child of God. We are all more than any label can ever be used to define us.
I believe God is calling us to reach across the political aisle, the religious aisle, the socio-economic aisle, the racial aisle, the sexuality aisle, the gender aisle and grasp onto the hand of someone on the other side. To hold on tightly to another, to feel the skin of another--to honor the other as a child of God who is so much more than one label. How do we do it? The Rt. Rev. Porter Taylor, Bishop of Western North Carolina, says, "Begin today. Think of someone you avoid or dislike or cannot talk to. Send them a hand written letter wishing them well.. When you see them, cross the divide to greet them in the name of the Lord. Call them. Refuse to write off the people who drive you crazy."
Can we do it? I believe we have no choice; the next generation is already learning the wrong way. Today let's stop the helmet grabs.
That night I asked Christopher what happened and he said, "He grabbed my helmet and tried to throw me down." Chris Sr. quickly added, "And to Boss' credit, he backed up and put both hands up. He didn't retaliate. Jack, however, defended him." Now I love my son; I love to watch my son play sports; AND I know my son likes to talk trash on the field/court (notice I didn't use "love" in that part). So I say, "What did you say to provoke it?" Here's the story I got (and that has been corroborated by many). The other young man who happens to go to the same high school as our daughter--a public high school--said, "F****ing prep school kid." Christopher responded, "Yeah we get that alot." And then came the helmet grab. I don't know whether the player was irritated he didn't get a reaction out of Christopher or whether he was embarrassed he wasn't more original. Regardless, game over.
All night it bugged me--why did he have to say that? Why couldn't he just call him another name? And what led to the violent response? So in the morning I said to Christopher, "I know I should let this go, but I can't. Do lots of teams say that stuff to ya'll?" "Yes, " said Christopher, "both to the you should let this go and lots of teams call us expletive prep school kids." "That really bothers me," I said, "I don't want you to be labeled that way." And then as only a 16 year old son of a neurotic slightly obsessive mother can do, he put his arm around me, kissed the top of my head and said, "Well Mama, I am a prep school kid."
It's Tuesday--I still haven't let it go. I realize it's not the label particularly but the meaning behind the label--the stereotype--"the rich, entitled, spoiled kid". And I wanted to defend Christopher--who am I kidding? I wanted to defend myself; justify myself and the choice Chris and I made to send the children to LCS. I wanted to say he's not a rich, entitled, spoiled (well maybe spoiled, I do wake him up with hot chocolate brought to his bedside every morning) kid. We sacrifice; we make choices; we saved; we send our daughter to public school; AND we're nice people!!!! It wasn't the label--it was the meaning behind it. Besides, who gets to say that's what a prep school kid is? As I became more indignant I thought, and what if we were rich? Does that make us bad? And now I was really on a roll, who decides what rich is? Christopher may have stepped away with his hands in the air, but I was still swinging. I wanted to beat into somebody, anybody, that "prep school kid" is just a label and I wanted to beat out of anyone who would listen the stereo typical meaning. I could live with the label if the meaning went away.
Labels without meanings, hmmm. Christopher was right--he is a prep school kid. But the meanings we have put on the labels, the meanings, they create boundaries and divisions; the meanings create disdain, hostility, fear, and sometimes even hatred. And these divisions are not limited to high school boys on a lacrosse field. Divisions come in so many ways. Republican/Democrat, high church/low church, Protestant/Catholic, Muslim, Christian, Jew, and on it goes. So often we label a person, make an assumption based on the meanings behind the labels, and write them off. The person becomes only the label and yet more than the label. And when that happens, far too often, the person ceases to exist in "our world" as a worthy human being.
Yesterday commemorating Saint Simon and Saint Jude, the scripture was, "For he is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us." (Ephesians 2:14). As disciples of Christ we are called to follow his way; we are called to live in another way, a way we're labels and groups don't rule. We are called to break down the walls between groups and recognize that despite our differences we all, every single person, is created in the image of God and is a beloved child of God. We are all more than any label can ever be used to define us.
I believe God is calling us to reach across the political aisle, the religious aisle, the socio-economic aisle, the racial aisle, the sexuality aisle, the gender aisle and grasp onto the hand of someone on the other side. To hold on tightly to another, to feel the skin of another--to honor the other as a child of God who is so much more than one label. How do we do it? The Rt. Rev. Porter Taylor, Bishop of Western North Carolina, says, "Begin today. Think of someone you avoid or dislike or cannot talk to. Send them a hand written letter wishing them well.. When you see them, cross the divide to greet them in the name of the Lord. Call them. Refuse to write off the people who drive you crazy."
Can we do it? I believe we have no choice; the next generation is already learning the wrong way. Today let's stop the helmet grabs.
27 October, 2013
What Would Have Happened if the Pharisee and the Tax Collector Stood Next to Each Other?
This morning's Gospel--two men went up into the temple to pray--you remember--the Pharisee and the tax collector? The Pharisee gives "thanks" that he's not awful like all those other people and the tax collector beats his breast and refuses to even look up. I suspect that as many people listened to the Gospel they were trying to figure out which "character" they most closely resembled--were they more like the Pharisee or more like the tax collector? These two illustrate the extremes of people's response to God and God's love, and I wager that we all slide up and down the continuum probably more than we'd like to admit. There's a sermon in there. There is something to be said about how we are all neither too good or not good enough, but not mine (at least not mine for today). I am more intrigued by the positioning of the men--their literal placement--where they are standing.
Both men went up into the temple, but the Gospel says the tax collector stood far off. In my imagination I picture the Pharisee standing very close to the altar and the tax collector way in the back perhaps even hiding in the shadows trying to fade into the background, to not be seen or known. They are so far away from each other--too far to see one another's faces, too far to be a part of one another's prayer. Too far to even feel one another's presence. I believe both men went into the temple with the need to encounter God, and I believe that although the tax collector left justified, their physical distance kept them both from a powerful encounter. I believe they could have both met God in the other if they had just crossed the divide.
It's easy to criticize the Pharisee; it's easy to say he was arrogant and thought he was completely self sufficient and so much better than everyone else. It's easy to say that because he was. He was arrogant and condescending. But I wonder; I wonder if some of that arrogance, some of that comparing himself to others really comes from a deep seated fear of not being good enough? I wonder if he is masking his vulnerability and that there is a small part of himself, maybe even a part that he doesn't recognize, that is desperately hoping that someone, anyone will see his need. That God will see his fear. He did go to the temple; if he wanted only to list his attributes, couldn't he have done it somewhere else? Why did he come?
There is the question for me and the answer--why did they go to the temple? Why do we gather together as a community of faith? What's the point especially when there are people there we don't like? In our community of faiths we are so often surrounded by people who are so not according to culture "like" us. There are so many people there with whom we have nothing in common. There are people there who live in different neighborhoods, come from different socio-economic backgrounds, vote for the opposite party, and cheer for the wrong teams. But, I believe our common need is to encounter God and to be reminded again and again that we are loved --each and everyone of us no exceptions.
I read somewhere this week a "truly faithful life can only be lived in community." It is in community--in a community that is made up of struggling, weak, broken, vulnerable, and flawed people where we truly encounter God. Yes, perhaps there are times when each of us feels the powerful presence of God when we are alone--those are wonderful times and should be cherished. But I believe that more often we encounter God in one another. Church--church as the body of Christ, not the building, is the living Christ amongst us. It is through engaging with one another that we again and again encounter God. These encounters come in big ways and in small ways. They come when we exchange the peace with one another sometimes with someone with whom we'd rather not, and they come when we kneel next to one another at the altar. But they also come in words we say--"Hey, I heard your daughter wasn't feeling well. We don't live far from you, give us a call if we can help." Or in the seasonings that someone gives so that each time you use them, each time you eat a meal that has been seasoned by them you remember--you remember the person and your remember the love--and the meal becomes holy. Or they come when you're invited to a 65th birthday party and you feel truly welcomed and loved. They come in the hug from a child and in the laughter of the teens. But they come, encounters with God come in community--if we open our eyes--if we stand close enough together, I promise, they come.
Both men went up into the temple, but the Gospel says the tax collector stood far off. In my imagination I picture the Pharisee standing very close to the altar and the tax collector way in the back perhaps even hiding in the shadows trying to fade into the background, to not be seen or known. They are so far away from each other--too far to see one another's faces, too far to be a part of one another's prayer. Too far to even feel one another's presence. I believe both men went into the temple with the need to encounter God, and I believe that although the tax collector left justified, their physical distance kept them both from a powerful encounter. I believe they could have both met God in the other if they had just crossed the divide.
It's easy to criticize the Pharisee; it's easy to say he was arrogant and thought he was completely self sufficient and so much better than everyone else. It's easy to say that because he was. He was arrogant and condescending. But I wonder; I wonder if some of that arrogance, some of that comparing himself to others really comes from a deep seated fear of not being good enough? I wonder if he is masking his vulnerability and that there is a small part of himself, maybe even a part that he doesn't recognize, that is desperately hoping that someone, anyone will see his need. That God will see his fear. He did go to the temple; if he wanted only to list his attributes, couldn't he have done it somewhere else? Why did he come?
There is the question for me and the answer--why did they go to the temple? Why do we gather together as a community of faith? What's the point especially when there are people there we don't like? In our community of faiths we are so often surrounded by people who are so not according to culture "like" us. There are so many people there with whom we have nothing in common. There are people there who live in different neighborhoods, come from different socio-economic backgrounds, vote for the opposite party, and cheer for the wrong teams. But, I believe our common need is to encounter God and to be reminded again and again that we are loved --each and everyone of us no exceptions.
I read somewhere this week a "truly faithful life can only be lived in community." It is in community--in a community that is made up of struggling, weak, broken, vulnerable, and flawed people where we truly encounter God. Yes, perhaps there are times when each of us feels the powerful presence of God when we are alone--those are wonderful times and should be cherished. But I believe that more often we encounter God in one another. Church--church as the body of Christ, not the building, is the living Christ amongst us. It is through engaging with one another that we again and again encounter God. These encounters come in big ways and in small ways. They come when we exchange the peace with one another sometimes with someone with whom we'd rather not, and they come when we kneel next to one another at the altar. But they also come in words we say--"Hey, I heard your daughter wasn't feeling well. We don't live far from you, give us a call if we can help." Or in the seasonings that someone gives so that each time you use them, each time you eat a meal that has been seasoned by them you remember--you remember the person and your remember the love--and the meal becomes holy. Or they come when you're invited to a 65th birthday party and you feel truly welcomed and loved. They come in the hug from a child and in the laughter of the teens. But they come, encounters with God come in community--if we open our eyes--if we stand close enough together, I promise, they come.
25 October, 2013
A Tribute to Those Who Have Attempted to Help Me Stay Sane
Each passing day I become more and more aware of how difficult it is to rear children. And each passing day I become more and more thankful for those people who have not left me to my own devices in rearing my children (my children and their future therapists thank you as well.) Two days ago as SK and I were driving to get her pictures taken it really hit me that connections are important, they sustain us and some last a lifetime. SK was texting and laughing. "What's so funny? " I asked. "Nothing, Ford and I are just snap chatting." SK and Ford haven't lived in the same place since 1999 but he, his three siblings and Mommy and Daddy Adams have remained as much a part of our lives as they were when we lived in Athens all attended Emmanuel, tailgated together, trick-or-treated together, and hung out in the cul-de-sac for hours as the children ran and played.
Of course for me, first and foremost is my husband who helps to keep my neurosis in check (he is also thankful for all those who have journeyed with us as they too have helped to keep my neurosis in check.) Seriously though a vivid memory from 1999 stands out--Christopher had just been diagnosed with severe asthma and allergies; we had already been in and out of the hospital several times, and I went into controlling mode. I researched everything I needed to do to "protect" him. I was panicked; I had three children under three and was pregnant with my fourth. How was I going to do it all, and so I made a list, color coded it--how often to vacuum, how often to crawl under the house to turn up the hot water heater to was his sheets, how often to give which medicines and how much, how to measure his breathing, what sports I thought would be acceptable etc. That evening I laid the spread sheet out before Chris and began to "educate" him on when and how we could take Christopher out, what to look for, who he could be around etc. He closed my notebook, took my hands in his and said, "I appreciate the work you have done; I love you for it, and it will help us. But hear me, you are not going to turn him into a freak. We will deal with this in a normal way." For some of you that may not sound loving or kind, but it was exactly what I needed to hear, and now 14 years later Christopher is a three season athlete who only uses a rescue inhaler occasionally and whose room is maybe vacuumed twice a month.
But there are others many others--
Six weeks after we moved to Pittsburgh when Caroline was fighting to save her left pinky and eventually her life, Aunt Julie dropped everything; left her three boys under 2 and drove straight through to get there. I was a mess--I hadn't left the hospital, hadn't showered, barely slept and only ate what people literally put in my hand. As only a very close friend can do she firmly said to me, "You haven't left this hospital for five days; you have three children at home who are scared and need their mommy and you have a husband who is willing to stay at the hospital. And he is perfectly capable!" She then sat up with me and listened to my fears until the wee hours of the morning. Caroline did lose her pinky and Julie stayed until she was safely out of surgery and we had other people come to help.
A few months later, one day in the early fall I received a call from Sarah Katherine's elementary school. She was in the first grade. They said she was in the office crying hysterically and they couldn't figure out what was wrong. I bundled the other three up and rushed to the school. I calmed her down and began listening to her story, "I'm scared," she said, "what if I come home from school one day and you're not there? Who will take care of me?" I took her in my arms trying not to let what I thought were the accusing glances of the office staff distract me--I wanted to shout at them, "That has never happened!! Never I tell you--not once!!!Please don't call child protective services!!!" Instead I said, "I will always be home when you get there or have someone there for you." As Sarah Katherine tried to calm herself she hiccuped out, "But it won't be Miss Leslie or Miss Gillian. I miss them; we NEEEEED them." (If she only knew how much...) What occurred to me was that my close friends in Athens mattered to her; their love gave her and still gives her an added layer of comfort. They are part of the community holding her and holding me up as a parent.
Two and a half years later we gathered the children in the living room (they have learned to be very afraid of conversations that happen in the formal living room--they're either being told I'm pregnant again or we're moving), and told them we were moving to Virginia. Caroline stamped her little saddle oxford foot and said, "No way!" I asked her what the problem was (she was only 4) and as her big blue eyes filled up with tears she said, "Who will I sit with in church?" "You'll sit with us," I responded. The tears were flowing now as she said, "But you're not Miss Janie, and I love Miss Janie." It's true every Sunday as Caroline came into church during the peace she would search out Miss Janie, the Rector's (whom Caroline called "Father God) wife, and sit with her. As the fourth of four, she needed someone to give her special attention and Miss Janie did that. (She also has given me much parental advice over the years either answering my questions or as I asked and continue to ask myself, "what would Janie do?")
Not long after we moved to Virginia, our dear friends the Harris' were to move back to Germany where Uncle John would be stationed. Our children were devastated because we "always celebrate New Year's with them." "Start saving so we can fly over there." It mattered being with the Harris family even if only once a year. In a world that was constantly changing with numerous moves, there was a constant.
Four years ago the babies were in Augusta visiting Daddy and Marguerite. I cannot remember the details of why I was suddenly in a bind, but I called Mommy Adams and said, "Can you go to Augusta and get the children and keep them for a few days?" "When?" she asked. "Would now work?" I stammered. "On my way" and I knew they were safe. A few days later she was to bring them back to Augusta and Marguerite got called into work, so I called Miss Susan--can the babies stay with you this afternoon? "Of course, " she replied, "And I might not tell them everything you did in high school."
All of these people and many others have helped Chris and I rear our children. Uncle Mike shows up whenever and wherever we live--loving all the children but making sure his Godson Christopher feels extra special. I only had to send out a message to Ingrid and Anne that their God daughter needed prayers and immediately both of them sent long heart felt letters. Miss Jamie takes off work to support "her William" as he earns awards; she provides him a safe place when he needs to get away, and I trust that he will be well loved and cared for. There are so many people who have touched and continue to touch our lives and the lives of our children. They sustain us with love and laughter, support and prayer. They walk with us through the highs and lows. What they may not know is that they matter as much to our children as they do to us. They help to make the world, for our children, a less scary, safer place because they know there are many people who love them and to whom they can turn. That matters--love matters. Community matters.
We are called to be live in community both with those to whom we are related and to all those in the world. Carolyn Sharp of Odyssey Networks writes, "A truly faithful life can only be lived in community." May we all strive to live truly faithful lives each day with all those we encounter. May our communities continue to grow until there are no boundaries only love.
Of course for me, first and foremost is my husband who helps to keep my neurosis in check (he is also thankful for all those who have journeyed with us as they too have helped to keep my neurosis in check.) Seriously though a vivid memory from 1999 stands out--Christopher had just been diagnosed with severe asthma and allergies; we had already been in and out of the hospital several times, and I went into controlling mode. I researched everything I needed to do to "protect" him. I was panicked; I had three children under three and was pregnant with my fourth. How was I going to do it all, and so I made a list, color coded it--how often to vacuum, how often to crawl under the house to turn up the hot water heater to was his sheets, how often to give which medicines and how much, how to measure his breathing, what sports I thought would be acceptable etc. That evening I laid the spread sheet out before Chris and began to "educate" him on when and how we could take Christopher out, what to look for, who he could be around etc. He closed my notebook, took my hands in his and said, "I appreciate the work you have done; I love you for it, and it will help us. But hear me, you are not going to turn him into a freak. We will deal with this in a normal way." For some of you that may not sound loving or kind, but it was exactly what I needed to hear, and now 14 years later Christopher is a three season athlete who only uses a rescue inhaler occasionally and whose room is maybe vacuumed twice a month.
But there are others many others--
Six weeks after we moved to Pittsburgh when Caroline was fighting to save her left pinky and eventually her life, Aunt Julie dropped everything; left her three boys under 2 and drove straight through to get there. I was a mess--I hadn't left the hospital, hadn't showered, barely slept and only ate what people literally put in my hand. As only a very close friend can do she firmly said to me, "You haven't left this hospital for five days; you have three children at home who are scared and need their mommy and you have a husband who is willing to stay at the hospital. And he is perfectly capable!" She then sat up with me and listened to my fears until the wee hours of the morning. Caroline did lose her pinky and Julie stayed until she was safely out of surgery and we had other people come to help.
A few months later, one day in the early fall I received a call from Sarah Katherine's elementary school. She was in the first grade. They said she was in the office crying hysterically and they couldn't figure out what was wrong. I bundled the other three up and rushed to the school. I calmed her down and began listening to her story, "I'm scared," she said, "what if I come home from school one day and you're not there? Who will take care of me?" I took her in my arms trying not to let what I thought were the accusing glances of the office staff distract me--I wanted to shout at them, "That has never happened!! Never I tell you--not once!!!Please don't call child protective services!!!" Instead I said, "I will always be home when you get there or have someone there for you." As Sarah Katherine tried to calm herself she hiccuped out, "But it won't be Miss Leslie or Miss Gillian. I miss them; we NEEEEED them." (If she only knew how much...) What occurred to me was that my close friends in Athens mattered to her; their love gave her and still gives her an added layer of comfort. They are part of the community holding her and holding me up as a parent.
Two and a half years later we gathered the children in the living room (they have learned to be very afraid of conversations that happen in the formal living room--they're either being told I'm pregnant again or we're moving), and told them we were moving to Virginia. Caroline stamped her little saddle oxford foot and said, "No way!" I asked her what the problem was (she was only 4) and as her big blue eyes filled up with tears she said, "Who will I sit with in church?" "You'll sit with us," I responded. The tears were flowing now as she said, "But you're not Miss Janie, and I love Miss Janie." It's true every Sunday as Caroline came into church during the peace she would search out Miss Janie, the Rector's (whom Caroline called "Father God) wife, and sit with her. As the fourth of four, she needed someone to give her special attention and Miss Janie did that. (She also has given me much parental advice over the years either answering my questions or as I asked and continue to ask myself, "what would Janie do?")
Not long after we moved to Virginia, our dear friends the Harris' were to move back to Germany where Uncle John would be stationed. Our children were devastated because we "always celebrate New Year's with them." "Start saving so we can fly over there." It mattered being with the Harris family even if only once a year. In a world that was constantly changing with numerous moves, there was a constant.
Four years ago the babies were in Augusta visiting Daddy and Marguerite. I cannot remember the details of why I was suddenly in a bind, but I called Mommy Adams and said, "Can you go to Augusta and get the children and keep them for a few days?" "When?" she asked. "Would now work?" I stammered. "On my way" and I knew they were safe. A few days later she was to bring them back to Augusta and Marguerite got called into work, so I called Miss Susan--can the babies stay with you this afternoon? "Of course, " she replied, "And I might not tell them everything you did in high school."
All of these people and many others have helped Chris and I rear our children. Uncle Mike shows up whenever and wherever we live--loving all the children but making sure his Godson Christopher feels extra special. I only had to send out a message to Ingrid and Anne that their God daughter needed prayers and immediately both of them sent long heart felt letters. Miss Jamie takes off work to support "her William" as he earns awards; she provides him a safe place when he needs to get away, and I trust that he will be well loved and cared for. There are so many people who have touched and continue to touch our lives and the lives of our children. They sustain us with love and laughter, support and prayer. They walk with us through the highs and lows. What they may not know is that they matter as much to our children as they do to us. They help to make the world, for our children, a less scary, safer place because they know there are many people who love them and to whom they can turn. That matters--love matters. Community matters.
We are called to be live in community both with those to whom we are related and to all those in the world. Carolyn Sharp of Odyssey Networks writes, "A truly faithful life can only be lived in community." May we all strive to live truly faithful lives each day with all those we encounter. May our communities continue to grow until there are no boundaries only love.
23 October, 2013
Names and Nicknames Matter
This morning I posted the following on facebook:
Boss wants me to be available Friday night to transport he and his friends around (because as he says, "you're always available"). I told him that I couldn't because I was going to the Male/Manual football game. He was not happy. SK, to avoid conflict, says, "don't worry. She'll be available. Have you seen the weather. It's not getting out of the 40's on Friday." I am taking that as a personal challenge. See you at the game!
Almost immediately I began receiving messages from people who could not believe that my boss would make such a request of me. I giggled to myself and then quickly made certain to post that this "Boss" was not in fact my supervisor but rather my eldest son. Boss is the nickname we gave him at birth--it in fact was my concession as my husband wanted to legally name him "Boss Bailey Doyle" as Boss Bailey was Georgia's number one recruit the summer of 1997. (Our daughter born in 1995, he wanted to name "Samaki Walker Doyle"--those conversations are for another post.) What was interesting this morning was that many people knew exactly who I was talking about in the post. Everyone in Athens called him Boss and family and friends who have known us for a long time called him and still call him Boss. It's part of who he is, part of his history, but for others it was not so clear. "Boss" held different connotations for different people--and that got me thinking about names--our given names, our nicknames, and what we call others and ourselves--they matter.
Our children were all named for family members. When they were younger they loved hearing the stories of how we chose their names and the stories of what they would have been called if they were the other gender. It connected them to generations of people; they love being a part of a long line, to being a part of a bigger story. My name matters to me; I was born Ann Katherine Kanto after my maternal and paternal great-grandmothers both living at the time. When Chris and I got married I couldn't let either name go and I also still wanted to keep Kanto--Chris loves tax time when he has to remember which three he used the previous year--also makes for interesting monograms; but I diverge.
The children also each have nicknames, Monkey Moo, Boss, Willie Wonka and Carolina. We use these names as often as their given names--they also have stories behind them--and they were given in love. I myself have carried nicknames through life and when I remember them I remember those who gave them to me, those who loved me, those who played a part in my life. Daddy calls me "Katherine Mouse", my sister calls me "Doodles", my cousin "Cuz", high school friends called me "Scooby", my almost little siblings "Big Katherine", college friends "Kunta Kanto", adult friends "K squared", my children's friends "Mama Doyle", Chris "Darlin'", and my children "Mommy" or "Madre". All these names help define who I have been and who I am; all these names and the people who bestowed them on me have helped to shape who I am.
Then there are the derogatory names I have been called over the years, some by people I can no longer remember, but I remember the names "Buffalo Butt", "Tom Boy", "Snob", and others. These also remain a part of me.
There are also other names or descriptions that I carry, "recovering anorexic", "child of divorced parents", "adult child of an alcoholic", and these names have also helped shape me; they are also a part of who I am. And finally there are the names I call myself, "neurotic", "controlling", "outsider."
Names and nicknames play huge parts in forming who we are as people. Perhaps what we tend to forget most easily is that we were first and foremost formed in the image of God, and God's name for each and every of us is "Beloved." May we always be shaped primarily by that and may we strive to live lives that remind others.
Boss wants me to be available Friday night to transport he and his friends around (because as he says, "you're always available"). I told him that I couldn't because I was going to the Male/Manual football game. He was not happy. SK, to avoid conflict, says, "don't worry. She'll be available. Have you seen the weather. It's not getting out of the 40's on Friday." I am taking that as a personal challenge. See you at the game!
Almost immediately I began receiving messages from people who could not believe that my boss would make such a request of me. I giggled to myself and then quickly made certain to post that this "Boss" was not in fact my supervisor but rather my eldest son. Boss is the nickname we gave him at birth--it in fact was my concession as my husband wanted to legally name him "Boss Bailey Doyle" as Boss Bailey was Georgia's number one recruit the summer of 1997. (Our daughter born in 1995, he wanted to name "Samaki Walker Doyle"--those conversations are for another post.) What was interesting this morning was that many people knew exactly who I was talking about in the post. Everyone in Athens called him Boss and family and friends who have known us for a long time called him and still call him Boss. It's part of who he is, part of his history, but for others it was not so clear. "Boss" held different connotations for different people--and that got me thinking about names--our given names, our nicknames, and what we call others and ourselves--they matter.
Our children were all named for family members. When they were younger they loved hearing the stories of how we chose their names and the stories of what they would have been called if they were the other gender. It connected them to generations of people; they love being a part of a long line, to being a part of a bigger story. My name matters to me; I was born Ann Katherine Kanto after my maternal and paternal great-grandmothers both living at the time. When Chris and I got married I couldn't let either name go and I also still wanted to keep Kanto--Chris loves tax time when he has to remember which three he used the previous year--also makes for interesting monograms; but I diverge.
The children also each have nicknames, Monkey Moo, Boss, Willie Wonka and Carolina. We use these names as often as their given names--they also have stories behind them--and they were given in love. I myself have carried nicknames through life and when I remember them I remember those who gave them to me, those who loved me, those who played a part in my life. Daddy calls me "Katherine Mouse", my sister calls me "Doodles", my cousin "Cuz", high school friends called me "Scooby", my almost little siblings "Big Katherine", college friends "Kunta Kanto", adult friends "K squared", my children's friends "Mama Doyle", Chris "Darlin'", and my children "Mommy" or "Madre". All these names help define who I have been and who I am; all these names and the people who bestowed them on me have helped to shape who I am.
Then there are the derogatory names I have been called over the years, some by people I can no longer remember, but I remember the names "Buffalo Butt", "Tom Boy", "Snob", and others. These also remain a part of me.
There are also other names or descriptions that I carry, "recovering anorexic", "child of divorced parents", "adult child of an alcoholic", and these names have also helped shape me; they are also a part of who I am. And finally there are the names I call myself, "neurotic", "controlling", "outsider."
Names and nicknames play huge parts in forming who we are as people. Perhaps what we tend to forget most easily is that we were first and foremost formed in the image of God, and God's name for each and every of us is "Beloved." May we always be shaped primarily by that and may we strive to live lives that remind others.
22 October, 2013
It's Important to Ask the Questions
Several weeks ago I was at the beach with my daddy and step mother. They are both Roman Catholic. On Sunday morning they invited me to attend church with them, and I gladly accepted. I was actually delighted to be able to share in their church with them; both Daddy and Marguerite always attend the Episcopal Church with me, and I wanted to extend that same hospitality to them. Additionally, I am, or thought I was, very comfortable in the Roman Catholic Church and this one in particular. I was reared by a Roman Catholic father and a Methodist mother and until the age of 15 I went to both churches every week. I "knew" Catholic. Further, we have been attending this particular island church for over 40 years. I was not prepared for what happened.
As we entered I thought how wonderful it was to be able to sit with Marguerite and Daddy. I have always been on the altar and have never sat with the two of them. It was a very special time. I easily followed the service and the rhythm of the liturgy soothed me. As I stood reciting along with everyone else, it felt a little bit like when I was in the early stages of pregnancy and no one knew. I had an identity, "a mother to be" that no one knew except Chris, myself and God. Standing there it occurred to me that no one in the building minus my parents and God knew I was a priest. I was responding as a member of the body of Christ. It felt peaceful and right.
During the Eucharistic prayer I began to feel a little more restless, should I go forth for a blessing or just remain seated as I have since I was 15? It never crossed my mind to receive as I have always respected, though not agreed, with the teachings of the Catholic Church. I did, however, feel a draw to go for a blessing; I felt especially close to Daddy and Marguerite, and I wanted to participate with them. I wanted to line up and walk forward with them. The feeling was powerfully intense; it was about sharing worship with my family. As it got close to time for our pew to rise, I noticed how quickly others were moving through the procession to the priest. No one was receiving a blessing; there didn't even seem to be time. It felt rushed and robotic. The struggle within me intensified, to go or not to go? What would the priest do? It was our turn and Daddy turned to me and said, "Aren't you going to come?" I knew in an instance that he didn't mean just come get a blessing but come and be a part of the Eucharist with me. My "I was an altar boy when they said mass in Latin" Daddy, my Daddy who says being Catholic is as much a part of him as being a Virginian, a doctor, a father, and a husband. My daddy who wept on my ordination day and for the first time ever received communion in a church other than a Roman Catholic one. He wanted me to come--to taste and see with Marguerite and him. And my heart broke because I knew while I may be welcomed by him, I was not by the Church. Try as I might, I couldn't stand up; I shook my head and willed my tears not to fall.
As I sat there and looked around my feelings were so raw--I felt excluded, lonely and judged. I wondered how many other people in that place felt the same way? I thought to myself, "Why am I not good enough? Not worthy? I've received six of the seven sacraments--three of them actually in the Roman Catholic church (baptism, first communion and penance). I've been confirmed, married and ordained--the only sacrament I haven't received is Catholic Last Rites. It even crossed my mind that I had received one more sacrament that the priest presiding had--I was married!!!Why was I not invited, not included, not wanted, not worthy? I knew in my head the answer to the questions; I've studied theology enough to know why the Catholic church doesn't have an open table, but the raw feelings weren't driven by my knowledge; they were pulsating through my body from my heart and soul. "How must other people feel?" I wondered. "I know the "reasons" and it, for the first time, is extremely painful. How must people feel who don't understand, who have never been told the 'why' feel?" "Being excluded and not knowing why must feel worse," I thought.Mass ended and we knelt for the final Hail Mary's which I prayed with the congregation, but the closeness, the bond was broken.
The discomfort and pain I experienced that day has not completely left me. I'm not sure how I am going to, or if I'm ever going to be comfortable being in a Catholic Church again. In the past, at weddings, funerals, and other times I was the one who encouraged my non-Catholic friends to respect the teaching of the Catholic Church and not go to communion. I defended the Church and its right to their tradition. Now I no longer feel I can be that person. But my discomfort goes further--much further.
The Roman Catholic church is not the only church with doctrine and traditions that can seem to exclude. I wonder how people who come into my church may or may not feel excluded, unworthy, not good enough. How is the church deliberately or not causing pain? How is the church seen as unwelcoming? What do we need to spend more time explaining or letting go? What doctrines and traditions are we allowing to guide us and which ones are we allowing to constrain us? Do people who come through our doors, who worship with us and who want a place to be loved and belong feel that in our churches?
I don't have the answers; but it's worth asking the questions.
As we entered I thought how wonderful it was to be able to sit with Marguerite and Daddy. I have always been on the altar and have never sat with the two of them. It was a very special time. I easily followed the service and the rhythm of the liturgy soothed me. As I stood reciting along with everyone else, it felt a little bit like when I was in the early stages of pregnancy and no one knew. I had an identity, "a mother to be" that no one knew except Chris, myself and God. Standing there it occurred to me that no one in the building minus my parents and God knew I was a priest. I was responding as a member of the body of Christ. It felt peaceful and right.
During the Eucharistic prayer I began to feel a little more restless, should I go forth for a blessing or just remain seated as I have since I was 15? It never crossed my mind to receive as I have always respected, though not agreed, with the teachings of the Catholic Church. I did, however, feel a draw to go for a blessing; I felt especially close to Daddy and Marguerite, and I wanted to participate with them. I wanted to line up and walk forward with them. The feeling was powerfully intense; it was about sharing worship with my family. As it got close to time for our pew to rise, I noticed how quickly others were moving through the procession to the priest. No one was receiving a blessing; there didn't even seem to be time. It felt rushed and robotic. The struggle within me intensified, to go or not to go? What would the priest do? It was our turn and Daddy turned to me and said, "Aren't you going to come?" I knew in an instance that he didn't mean just come get a blessing but come and be a part of the Eucharist with me. My "I was an altar boy when they said mass in Latin" Daddy, my Daddy who says being Catholic is as much a part of him as being a Virginian, a doctor, a father, and a husband. My daddy who wept on my ordination day and for the first time ever received communion in a church other than a Roman Catholic one. He wanted me to come--to taste and see with Marguerite and him. And my heart broke because I knew while I may be welcomed by him, I was not by the Church. Try as I might, I couldn't stand up; I shook my head and willed my tears not to fall.
As I sat there and looked around my feelings were so raw--I felt excluded, lonely and judged. I wondered how many other people in that place felt the same way? I thought to myself, "Why am I not good enough? Not worthy? I've received six of the seven sacraments--three of them actually in the Roman Catholic church (baptism, first communion and penance). I've been confirmed, married and ordained--the only sacrament I haven't received is Catholic Last Rites. It even crossed my mind that I had received one more sacrament that the priest presiding had--I was married!!!Why was I not invited, not included, not wanted, not worthy? I knew in my head the answer to the questions; I've studied theology enough to know why the Catholic church doesn't have an open table, but the raw feelings weren't driven by my knowledge; they were pulsating through my body from my heart and soul. "How must other people feel?" I wondered. "I know the "reasons" and it, for the first time, is extremely painful. How must people feel who don't understand, who have never been told the 'why' feel?" "Being excluded and not knowing why must feel worse," I thought.Mass ended and we knelt for the final Hail Mary's which I prayed with the congregation, but the closeness, the bond was broken.
The discomfort and pain I experienced that day has not completely left me. I'm not sure how I am going to, or if I'm ever going to be comfortable being in a Catholic Church again. In the past, at weddings, funerals, and other times I was the one who encouraged my non-Catholic friends to respect the teaching of the Catholic Church and not go to communion. I defended the Church and its right to their tradition. Now I no longer feel I can be that person. But my discomfort goes further--much further.
The Roman Catholic church is not the only church with doctrine and traditions that can seem to exclude. I wonder how people who come into my church may or may not feel excluded, unworthy, not good enough. How is the church deliberately or not causing pain? How is the church seen as unwelcoming? What do we need to spend more time explaining or letting go? What doctrines and traditions are we allowing to guide us and which ones are we allowing to constrain us? Do people who come through our doors, who worship with us and who want a place to be loved and belong feel that in our churches?
I don't have the answers; but it's worth asking the questions.
19 October, 2013
A midnight phone call elicits a tinge of fear to almost anyone; a midnight phone call from your teenager sends a spike in adrenalin; a midnight phone call from your teenager sobbing brings sheer terror; a midnight phone call from your teenager sobbing about something you can't fix causes a sleepless night, a great deal of prayer, a lot of reflection, and a blog post. I got that phone call last night....
Yesterday afternoon three of my four children left for All Saints their home away from home. The place about which one of my children routinely says, "it's the only place I'm religious." But he also says, "it's the place where I found my faith." In our family we begin counting down the days to the next All Saints trip the afternoon we get back from the current one, so I was completely unprepared for the phone call.
It broke my heart to hear, between sobs, "I have no friends here except John MacLean." (Thank you dear John--you continue to bless our family.) And, "I shouldn't have come. It's not the same." As her Mama I knew what she was really saying and so I said, "It's really hard being there without Mason isn't it?" While this question unleashed another torrent of tears, it also affirmed the feelings. After a few moments I followed the question up with, "What other girls are there?" Between sobs she replied, "I'm in a room by myself because they are all inseparable and so enthusiastic! "Sweetheart," I said, "they are the next generation of you and Mason. Ya'll followed the Paige/Rachel's and behind these girls come the twins/Caroline/Maria. And it will go on and on and on because these relationships are what are formed at All Saints and they last a lifetime. But these relationships are formed so that you can change the world. This is a time of change for you, a huge transition." I thought to myself, "It's like the 36 hours of labor to birth you--lots of pain but so worth the effort. A new life springing forward." After we hung up, as I said, I didn't sleep. I hope she did.
The pain SK felt last night caught me by surprise, but it shouldn't have. I know how much she deeply loves and needs All Saints. For her college applications she has to answer the question, "Describe a place or environment where you are perfectly content. What do you do or experience there, and why is it meaningful to you?" And without thinking twice, having traveled the world, SK chose All Saints on the outskirts of Leitchfield, KY.
As I read back over her essay, the word "same" continues to jump out at me. She writes, "We play the same games, sing the same songs, canoe to the same rock. But I also get to meet new people and piece together who I am." With the stress of senior year, SK needed "the same"; she craved "the same", and what she got was another experience of piecing together who she was as a person at All Saints, not a person connected to Mason but completely by herself. She began to feel the labor pains of moving out and moving on--always knowing All Saints would be there but feeling the beginning of not having it as frequently or in the "same" way.
It occurs to me, not for the first time, that All Saints for the youth is a microcosm of the church. And just as SK is struggling with change and what does it mean to be part of All Saints now that it's different, we in the church are struggling with changes all around us . Some changes we embrace and some terrify us. These changes can be big--who's welcome and invited into positions of leadership; and some are small and seem insignificant. If you'd told me 10 years ago I would not have turned my nose up at teenagers in jeans at church--four of whom are my teenagers in jeans at church, I would have scoffed at you. The struggle that SK is experiencing at All Saints is the same we struggle with in our own perception of church. If it's not what it's always been, what will it be, and will I still fit? Will I still belong?
The real ah-ha moment for me came when I thought, "this discomfort, this change, this is exactly what the purpose of All Saints and the church is." We are not called to be just a place for respite, just a place for solace. The Book of Common Prayers says, "Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength, for pardon only, and not for renewal." (BCP, p. 372) Mason has already begun to live into this, SK is transitioning, others have embraced it. It's a process. To illustrate, the eighth grade giggly girls are coming for solace and comfort and unconditional love and acceptance. They are coming for an escape from the "hell" of middle school. The 10th and 11th graders are coming and exploring their faiths; they have moved from just a place of refuge to a place of trying on identities, figuring out what it means to take All Saints with you into the world. And the seniors and college students are ready, thanks to All Saints, to take the strength and renewal they have gained and move out into the world. All Saints will always be there for them in their hearts and for many it will continue to be the place they return summer after summer for solace, strength, pardon and renewal. The lessons All Saints are teaching these youth are the very lessons we as a church need to learn.
Some people come into the church broken and hurting. They come believing they have nothing to give; they come for solace and pardon only. And that is okay. They come and hopefully are accepted where they are on their journey and accepted as people created in the image of God. As they are cared for, nurtured, blessed, not only do they bless those already there in ways they could never imagine, but they also gather strength and renewal so that the church in the world becomes bigger and stronger--more accepting, more empathetic, more tolerant, more holy. Things change, people come and go but the church in whatever form is the place where we are taken, blessed, broken and given to the world. Church is where we come both for solace and for strength. Church is where we come to be healed and to heal. Church is both the same and different--it lives within the tension of tradition and change. Church is not to be hoarded but to be given. It is hard; it can be painful; it is definitely scary; and it is our calling. "Go in peace to love and serve the Lord." (BCP, 366). We have felt the peace, now give us the strength to go and serve.
Yesterday afternoon three of my four children left for All Saints their home away from home. The place about which one of my children routinely says, "it's the only place I'm religious." But he also says, "it's the place where I found my faith." In our family we begin counting down the days to the next All Saints trip the afternoon we get back from the current one, so I was completely unprepared for the phone call.
It broke my heart to hear, between sobs, "I have no friends here except John MacLean." (Thank you dear John--you continue to bless our family.) And, "I shouldn't have come. It's not the same." As her Mama I knew what she was really saying and so I said, "It's really hard being there without Mason isn't it?" While this question unleashed another torrent of tears, it also affirmed the feelings. After a few moments I followed the question up with, "What other girls are there?" Between sobs she replied, "I'm in a room by myself because they are all inseparable and so enthusiastic! "Sweetheart," I said, "they are the next generation of you and Mason. Ya'll followed the Paige/Rachel's and behind these girls come the twins/Caroline/Maria. And it will go on and on and on because these relationships are what are formed at All Saints and they last a lifetime. But these relationships are formed so that you can change the world. This is a time of change for you, a huge transition." I thought to myself, "It's like the 36 hours of labor to birth you--lots of pain but so worth the effort. A new life springing forward." After we hung up, as I said, I didn't sleep. I hope she did.
The pain SK felt last night caught me by surprise, but it shouldn't have. I know how much she deeply loves and needs All Saints. For her college applications she has to answer the question, "Describe a place or environment where you are perfectly content. What do you do or experience there, and why is it meaningful to you?" And without thinking twice, having traveled the world, SK chose All Saints on the outskirts of Leitchfield, KY.
As I read back over her essay, the word "same" continues to jump out at me. She writes, "We play the same games, sing the same songs, canoe to the same rock. But I also get to meet new people and piece together who I am." With the stress of senior year, SK needed "the same"; she craved "the same", and what she got was another experience of piecing together who she was as a person at All Saints, not a person connected to Mason but completely by herself. She began to feel the labor pains of moving out and moving on--always knowing All Saints would be there but feeling the beginning of not having it as frequently or in the "same" way.
It occurs to me, not for the first time, that All Saints for the youth is a microcosm of the church. And just as SK is struggling with change and what does it mean to be part of All Saints now that it's different, we in the church are struggling with changes all around us . Some changes we embrace and some terrify us. These changes can be big--who's welcome and invited into positions of leadership; and some are small and seem insignificant. If you'd told me 10 years ago I would not have turned my nose up at teenagers in jeans at church--four of whom are my teenagers in jeans at church, I would have scoffed at you. The struggle that SK is experiencing at All Saints is the same we struggle with in our own perception of church. If it's not what it's always been, what will it be, and will I still fit? Will I still belong?
The real ah-ha moment for me came when I thought, "this discomfort, this change, this is exactly what the purpose of All Saints and the church is." We are not called to be just a place for respite, just a place for solace. The Book of Common Prayers says, "Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength, for pardon only, and not for renewal." (BCP, p. 372) Mason has already begun to live into this, SK is transitioning, others have embraced it. It's a process. To illustrate, the eighth grade giggly girls are coming for solace and comfort and unconditional love and acceptance. They are coming for an escape from the "hell" of middle school. The 10th and 11th graders are coming and exploring their faiths; they have moved from just a place of refuge to a place of trying on identities, figuring out what it means to take All Saints with you into the world. And the seniors and college students are ready, thanks to All Saints, to take the strength and renewal they have gained and move out into the world. All Saints will always be there for them in their hearts and for many it will continue to be the place they return summer after summer for solace, strength, pardon and renewal. The lessons All Saints are teaching these youth are the very lessons we as a church need to learn.
Some people come into the church broken and hurting. They come believing they have nothing to give; they come for solace and pardon only. And that is okay. They come and hopefully are accepted where they are on their journey and accepted as people created in the image of God. As they are cared for, nurtured, blessed, not only do they bless those already there in ways they could never imagine, but they also gather strength and renewal so that the church in the world becomes bigger and stronger--more accepting, more empathetic, more tolerant, more holy. Things change, people come and go but the church in whatever form is the place where we are taken, blessed, broken and given to the world. Church is where we come both for solace and for strength. Church is where we come to be healed and to heal. Church is both the same and different--it lives within the tension of tradition and change. Church is not to be hoarded but to be given. It is hard; it can be painful; it is definitely scary; and it is our calling. "Go in peace to love and serve the Lord." (BCP, 366). We have felt the peace, now give us the strength to go and serve.
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