Engagement and Thanksgiving--the Lessons I Learned

Family gatherings--for some they are dreaded, for others they are cherished, and for others they are, well, some where in between.

Every other year we travel to spend Thanksgiving with my sister's family, but I believed this year it would be different.  I thought this year SK would want to come home for the holidays, so I was over the moon happy when I got the call that said, "I want to go to the beach with the Sherrills."  I tried to withhold my excitement as I asked, "Are you sure?"  "Yes," SK responded, "I didn't see Ellison this summer.  I want to see her."  (Now Boss tells a different story, but this is MY blog.)  I couldn't believe my good luck--our beach house (read my own personal sanatorium), all four of my children and husband together, and my sister/best friend and her family all together.  IT WAS GOING TO BE PERFECT!!!!

Planning the meal wasn't as hard as I thought--the children pretty much told us what they wanted and we complied.  Things were going beautifully.  This was a piece of cake (which may in fact be the only kind of dessert that wasn't requested.)  SK, Meredith and her girls arrived Tuesday night and the rest of us rolled in (after a 9 hour drive, but who cares when you're heading to heaven) Wednesday afternoon.  There seemed to be a tad bit of stress, but that seemed to dissipate as we headed off to Poe's Tavern, a family tradition.   I really believed this holiday was going to surpass all my expectations.

We started teasing one another--some the same old things we say every year, but this year, for some reason, I got my feelings hurt.  (And I suspect others feelings were hurt as well over the weekend, but again this is my blog.)  How is it that family who knows you the best, loves you the most can also unintentionally (at least in ours) hurt you the deepest?  I took my hurt feelings like toys in a sandbox and began planning in my head how I was going to respond or not respond or pretend to respond or well who knows, I just gathered up my toys  prepared to flee--if not physically then emotionally.  I decided disconnecting would be my response.   When our feelings are hurt life isn't especially rational.  And I certainly wasn't going to just admit my feelings were hurt or ask for clarification--why would I do that?  That would have cost me hours of not being able to obsess over this.

Thursday morning during the Turkey Trot (and yes my 17 year old son who does not run on a regular basis beat me by at least five minutes a fact I'm trying to forget) I tried to process what had happened the night before--to make some meaning.  I came to the beach with expectations--what I realize is that everyone came with expectations.  We came together as a family who although is far closer than most extended families, doesn't live in the same places.  We don't know everything about each other's daily lives; we all came with our own exhaustion, some of us with our own pain, some of us with our own feelings of failure and insecurity, but all of us with love.  And we came with teenage children who have their own relationships with one another and thankfully with the adults.   I truly give thanks to God for that.  All those years of traveling to be together have paid off, but it creates a complex web of relationships.  It creates a complex web of who knows what about who (and I'm not talking skeleton in the closest kind of stuff just stuff).  Assumptions are made, comments are thrown out, words are said, and sometimes intentions are lost.  We also came together as two separate primary families who have their own ways of doing things; their own ways of being--for starters the Sherrills are much calmer than we are--calmer by 1/2 the children, their own inside jokes.

As I was running I was thinking about our family, the unintended hurt and it occurred to me.  Our family, probably many families, are a microcosms of what happens when different groups--whether its different races, ages, genders, political affiliations, schools--you name it, gather.  Groups come together with their expectations of how things are going to be often without having discussed their expectations.  Groups come together with different ways of understanding some words and actions; groups come together with their own histories, their own hurts, their own prejudices, and sometimes, these get in the way.  Groups sometimes believe (and sometimes they're right, but sometimes they're not) that another group wants to hurt them--is making fun of something that is deeply personal and meaningful, and they want to hurt back or they want to flee.  It is during these times we sometimes dig the trenches of differences wider and deeper and make the bridges to connection harder to construct.  It happens in families; it happens in society.

I didn't take my toys and go home.  I didn't even share my feelings.  But I stayed and I engaged and everyone else engaged and it was a wonderful Thanksgiving.  It was the peace and respite I so desperately needed with those whom I love most and who know me best--and still love me back.

What keeps us together?  Some may say it's just because we're family and we have that common bond--that history of love and forgiveness.   That's where I was going with this blog on Thursday morning.  That we have a commonality which is our family--our family name if you will.  Then I was going to write that groups that don't flee also have a commonality.  They have the commonness of humanity.  The right to dignity and respect because they each and everyone are human and all created in the image of God however anyone understands God.  That is all true--and I could end here, but for me it's not the ending.  I think what made this the most perfectly hurtful, healing, loving Thanksgiving is that we all stayed and we all stayed engaged.  That's the hard part--staying despite pain, despite anger, despite fear--staying and staying engaged again and again and again. Family staying; different groups staying; just staying engaged despite the difference, despite the pain.  My prayer is that one day because we stay and stay engaged--the differences will diminish.  We will  no longer be different groups, different people, staying engaged--we will all be one.

I'm ready for another Doyle/Sherrill Thanksgiving.  I've been afraid this one will be the last--but in my neurotic it's all about me state, I've already looked up the holiday schedule for Boss' first choice of colleges.  He can come home for five days and then we can head back to the beach--and stay engaged.

I am angry and so I write

I am so angry, so very angry.  I am so angry and don't know what to do with my anger, and so I write.

All SK ever wanted was to go to UVA.  We made her look at other schools just to be sure (We give her plenty to sit on a therapist's couch and talk about in 20 years-- I try to control what I can and I've taken off the table 'my mother forced me to go to her cherished alma mater.')  But it's all she ever wanted, and she worked very hard to make sure it happened.  And it did.

In August Chris and I took an excited young lady to the hallowed Grounds of UVA.   She was ready to start a new chapter of her life, to embrace all the University had to offer, to make life long friends, and to grow in her love for UVA.  She has done and continues to do all those things, but she is also living in a dark shadow--the whole University is living in a dark shadow, and they are fighting like hell to keep the darkness at bay.  And I am angry--angry that on top of every other adjustment to University life, she has to endure all of this.  I am angry we will spend holiday time not only hearing about all the exciting times she has had this fall but also processing all the trauma and tragedy engulfing the University.

Hannah Graham went missing and I was terrified. I was and am angry, but  I was also so proud of my University and how the community rallied around the Graham family and one another; I was so proud to be able to say that I am part of this community-that this was my University.  I was proud, and I was grateful.  I was grateful for my University friends who rallied around my girl making sure she was okay and probably the bigger challenge making sure I was okay.

Despite the fear that seized the Grounds, SK was thriving.  She was and is making incredible friends; she was and is not only excelling in her classes, but soaking up all the knowledge.   I love the phone calls I get that start with, "Guess what we talked about in class today?" and then we have rich deep conversations.  I am proud of her service through Madison House.  I love how she has become part of the Monroe Society so she can pass her love of the University onto prospective students, and I am angry that there are now prospective students who may not even apply.

Two days ago a chilling article was printed in Rolling Stone (Read with caution).  It is horrific, and I am embarrassed and so angry that this is my University.  Sabrina Rubin Erdely the author, has said that she looked for an elite school to highlight-- to highlight this atrocious behavior that happens on college campuses across the country.  I am angry that she found it so easily at UVA.  I am angry that so many lives have been damaged at UVA and across the country because of a culture of silence and shame.  I am angry that the behavior of some casts a pall on college life that is sometimes hard to crawl out from under.  I am so very angry.

I am angry that I have had to talk to SK about this, and I am proud of her stand.  She is horrified that some students are saying people should have stayed quiet, and she better understands than many adults the complexities of the situation.  She is angry with some of the administration, and she supports others.  And I am both proud that she is so articulate about all of this and angry that this situation--this complex legal and societal issue is not something she is just learning about in classes but rather is living.

Yesterday I received a text from SK, "someone committed suicide here today."  And I literally froze and my anger bubbled to the surface as I let out a scream, "NO!!!!"  She sent me the link, and I began to cry hot angry tears.  I'm angry for the community, for the child--yes child, who ended his/her life, and I am angry and sad for the family that will now enter the holiday week burying their child instead of welcoming him/her home for Thanksgiving.  I yelled out to my empty house, "NO!  Please not one more thing at UVA.  Please God, no more."  And my anger continued throughout the afternoon and into the evening to fester and to burgeon.

Later in the evening I received a message from a friend about something else.  In it she said, "You and Chris are amazing parents."  I was surprised that a comment that I should have been grateful for, a comment that was meant to build me up, made me even angrier.  It made me angrier  because I don't feel amazing.  I feel powerless and out of control.  All I could think was, "Yeah we're so amazing that our girl is having to deal with stuff alone."  I didn't, we didn't, prepare SK to deal with all this.  Yes we talked to her about the dangers of walking alone, of not accepting drinks from other people, of date rape, and of stress.  But we didn't prepare her for all this...I am angry that she and so many other people have had to endure this onslaught of tragedy at the University.  I am angry that I can't fix it.  When SK sent me the text with the link to the suicide article I responded, "Do you just want me to come get you tomorrow?" and I silently hoped and prayed she's say yes.  For two hours as my anger grew I got no response.  She finally responded,  "I would but I have a bunch of stuff.  I'll be okay."  That's the girl Chris and I raised--and I'm both proud and angry.  Proud and angry that she is so conscientious and responsible, proud and angry that she wants to stay.  I want to go get her.   I want her home in my arms; I want her home where she can process with those she loves; I want her to not have to process, to not have to try to make sense of the violence and senseless behavior surrounding her in C'ville.  I am so angry, and so I write.

I write so the anger won't fester and become fear and hate.  I write so that the anger finds a way out and hopefully, and I do hope and pray, the anger joins with others outrage and anger and begins to find a way forward.  I believe in the goodness of the world despite the evil that continually tries to blot it out.  I believe in my University and the goodness of the community.  I want to be a part of the solution, but first I must get rid of the anger, and so I write.

A Messy Room and Hope for the Children

Yesterday I entered the dregs, the chaos, the indescribable--yes, yesterday I decided that instead of telling William to clean up his room (which I have realized requires an understanding he doesn't have of what "clean" means) I decided to clean alongside him.  Let's just say I kept saying, "Good Lord deliver me." to which he would respond, "Why do you keep saying that?"  Create your own picture of what I found.

As we finished cleaning--HOURS later--I thought, "I hope he marries well." And then a funny post started developing in my mind; a post describing the person and the attributes that person will need to live with my second and beloved nerdy, athletic son who at almost 16 I still have to remind to take a shower, put on deoderant, and brush his teeth.  That person is going to have to be patient, have a great sense of humor, and understand his sensitive, loving, kind, justice filled heart.  And that person is going to have to either love to clean, love to live in chaos, or have enough money to hire William a personal assistant.  So I was laughing as I thought about who this person might be.  Then my mind jumped (William's physical life might be chaotic, but my mind is--chaotic and connecting things that don't seem to have any connection, and I expect people to keep up, SO KEEP UP!)--back to the jump.  I started thinking about William's Godmother  undeniably one of the most faithful people I know--our Aunt Christy.  I thought, "Thank goodness she's his Godmother because I know she not only prays for him daily but also for whomever becomes his life partner."  Stay with me we're jumping again...

Right after her first born, my Godson, was born we were talking about the incredible responsibility we had in rearing our children.  I was pregnant with Sarah Katherine and so didn't really yet know how immense your love can be for someone and how you can feel so ill prepared and yet so protective, and so determined. Christy told me that every night she stands over Andrew's crib and prays for him and for whomever he  would some day marry.  I pledged to follow her lead (I'm pretty sure I haven't been as consistent as she has been...trusting God will understand); I'm pretty sure our husbands thought we were slightly hormonal and a bit off, but hey they married us; they should have known.

So, I was writing in my mind the funny post I could write about William and his future life partner which led me to Christy which led me to tears.  (Our husbands know we're a bit off; now you do too.)

I began to cry because I started to think about all the children who don't have people praying for them much less praying for people who will eventually enter their lives.  My mind then jumped again to remind me that not all people pray, and that doesn't make them bad people and it isn't just not having people pray for you that is sad.  I try to be inclusive and recognize and respect everyone's faith that may or may not be the same as mine and to respect there are some very good people who define themselves as agnostic or atheist, while they may not be standing over their children's cribs praying, they are planning and preparing their children for their future.   Back to the children.

I went deeper into my thoughts and began to cry for the children who don't have anyone who thinks about their future, for the children who don't have anyone who believes they will have a future, for the children who don't have anyone to help them clean their rooms, for the children who don't have rooms, for the children who don't have homes, for the children who don't have anyone.  I know someone who worked in New Orleans for Teach for America.  Naively he asked his class of sixth graders, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"  The room was silent.  Finally one little boy raised his hand and said, "Mr.__________, we don't even know that we will grow up."  And that young man did not.

We live in a rich country; we "fight" for our rights; and yet we have children who grow up or don't grow up without hope.  And it makes me feel helpless and powerless.  Those children may be helpless and powerless,  but I'm not.  Earlier in the day I was reading Deuteronomy preparing for EfM and it repeatedly called the Israelites to care for the widows and the orphans.  In the New Testament Jesus calls the people to care for the widows and orphans.  I believe there are orphans who physically have no parents and I believe there are children who are orphans because they have no emotional parents; there are orphans who have no hope.  And I believe we are called to care for them.  My faith tells me there is always hope and that I am to live in such a way that brings that hope to others.  I am called to bring that hope to the children.

How do we live into hope?  How do we bring hope to the children and to the world?  How do I?

It all started with a messy room.....

Recognizing Privilege--Now What?

A couple of weeks ago while in Raleigh I was privileged to tag along as my good friend traveled to meet with "a grower."  Patti is the Development Coordinator of the Episcopal Farm Worker Ministry.  That's her title, but talk to her for 2 minutes and you will hear the title only begins to describe what she does.  You will hear her passion for this ministry as you watch her become more and more animated--sometimes smiling broadly at the good works that are happening and sometimes you will see tears pool in her eyes as she describes the abhorrent living conditions provided to some of the workers. You will hear how she loves what she does, the people she works for and with, and most poignantly you will hear her fury at the injustices she witnesses.  I challenge anyone to listen to her and not want to get involved in whatever way they can.

To be honest, it's a complicated ministry; it's a complicated situation.  The official mission of the ministry as written on the Diocese of East Carolina's website is:

The Episcopal Farmworker Ministry responds to the physical, emotional, and spiritual needs of migrant and seasonal farmworkers and their families, and actively supports opportunities for them to become self-directive. We seek to minister to farmworkers in three principal ways:

• through direct services,
• through development and support of programs that work towards the empowerment of farmworkers and through encouraging leadership development, and
• through advocacy and education that aim toward systematic change at the local and state levels.

But it's complex.  There are farm workers here legally and some not; there are growers who work very hard to provide the best conditions and there are growers who don't.  Into this world I got to enter.

Patti was traveling to visit a grower whom she had yet to meet but who had heard her quote a daily wage and the amount of work each migrant farmer had to do to earn it.  This grower disagreed with the number, and Patti wanted to talk to him.  While she desperately wants the problematic aspects of the system to be exposed, she also wants to be accurate and fair.  And so we went and met with this grower for several hours.  We toured his farm, the living quarters for the workers, and we had lunch.  He is a good man and Patti said, "A good grower."  He has workers who return year after year to work for him--I don't know much, but I suspect if he wasn't kind and fair they would find other places to work.  Patti and the grower had deep meaningful conversations and we left with the two of them wanting to continue the discussion.  Both want to work to better the conditions of the workers; I suspect this man will become involved with the ministry on a larger level.  

But, you knew there would be a but didn't you?  There is one statement he gave that has haunted me.  We were talking about how it is difficult to get "local" people to work on the farms.  It's a general statement, but his experience has been that locals show up occasionally, don't work as hard and cause problems (read fight with) the migrant workers.  The grower said that working with the migrant worker was a "win-win."  They need the work and the growers need the workers.  "Win-win" has echoed through my mind for these past two weeks--echoed through my mind is not quite right--thundered through my mind is more accurate and thundered in a void (not my mind the truthfulness of the statement).   I don't want to say it is completely hollow, completely false, but when I hear the phrase "win-win" I think equal; 50/50--but it's not.

The relationship is not equal; there is a power differential.  The workers are here on a specific work visa (again I don't claim to understand the complexity of this) which allows them to be here for a specific time frame.  They live on the farms where they work; they are dependent on the growers to provide them transportation into town for their groceries and other supplies.  If they quit or are fired, they have nowhere to go and no way to get there.  I cannot help but think that would keep people from speaking up if they felt oppressed.  Please remember, I do think this man is a very good man--a man who very much wants to do right by the workers who work for him, and I also believe he sees their relationship as win-win, and yet the echo in my mind won't stop.

And I think, where else are their relationships where on the surface they appear to be equal and yet just below the surface there is a power differential; there is a difference because one person has a privilege, has power the other doesn't?  What booms in my mind is the question, where do we not recognize those privileges?  Where do we, where do I have power and privilege that I don't own either because I am living my comfortable life to busy to see them or perhaps and more hauntingly because I don't want to see?  For two weeks I have wrestled with this; I have dug into my life and into my ministry and tried to uncover and own the privileges I hold and others hold.  Frankly I have been obsessed...

Last night some of us gathered talking about faith and politics.  How does our faith inform how we vote?  The conversation went in many directions--one of those directions was to our places of privilege.  We talked and talked and talked each admitting to places in our lives where privilege has played a part and then....a very good man who is becoming a very good friend (at least until he asked this question) asked, "So what do we do about it?  What are the next steps?"  I had myself convinced (read broke my arm patting myself on the back) that I was doing important work in recognizing and exposing.  It's a first step, but the stair case is steep.  Now I am restless, incredibly restless and yearning to do something, but what?  

I live in a warm home where this morning I got to take my children drinks to their beds to awaken them so they could leave for a school where they are provided an excellent education.   I have been able to sit in a chair, watching the news and thinking about all of this--writing about this--it does not escape me that in itself is a privilege.  Now what?

Aunt Betty's Home

We spent the weekend in C'ville for Family Weekend.  I love C'ville, the Grounds, the corner everything--but I particularly love Aunt Betty's home.  It has become for me a symbol...it's a story that stretches decades.

Aunt Betty is my Daddy's step sister; she has been his step sister for 45 years, but he's known her much longer than that.  They both grew up in Norton, Virginia--their parents socialized--they were friends.  After Libby's, Aunt Betty's mother, second husband died and my grandparents divorced, they were married.  None of Libby's and my Pop's children lived in Norton anymore so while I knew and loved Libby, my contact with Aunt Betty, her brother and their families was minimal.

When I became an English major at UVA, my Uncle Irby, Aunt Betty's husband, became my advisor. Aunt Betty graciously accepted my panicked calls trying to track Uncle Irby down to sign my registration forms because once again I waited until the last minute. (This was long before online registration.)  I suspect she began to expect that call because each time she responded, "Yes he's here. Come on over and plan to stay for dinner."  I'd be there within minutes and the table was already set for three.  Over the years I spent time at their home particularly when Mother and Daddy were in town.  Both my graduation celebration and my sister's were held on their terrace.  They were always gracious and loving--genuine and open.  But as life happens our visits became more infrequent (okay I'll be honest I saw her 4-5 times over the last 20 years), and yet when I walked through her door early this fall, missing my Uncle Irby who's been gone for 20 years, she reached out her arms to me as though I had been there just the previous week.

Last weekend I went to Raleigh to bury my beloved Uncle Jimmy  As I wrote, life wasn't perfect for Uncle Jimmy or for me, but we loved each other unconditionally; we were family.  During the days I was there I spent hours talking to both my Daddy's sisters, my aunts.  We talked about the good times, and we also talked about the years of pain.  My grandparents marriage was unhappy, very unhappy.  While there were times of joy, there were more years of silence, confusion, and pain.  It took a toil on my Daddy and my aunts.  It affected their lives and their relationships.  Last weekend we talked about those painful years and times; we shed tears; but we also celebrated the healing and the strength that we all have found.  I got home from that time with my aunts and 24 hours later I left for Charlottesville.

The night before we left I was telling my children all about Aunt Betty and the family they might meet this weekend.  I was trying to explain the relationships; "Aunt Betty is Pop's step sister or bonus sister as we like to call our steps.  She's about 10 years older than Pop and her sons are a little bit older than me but they have children just a little bit older than you."  Caroline looked back at me and said, "Oh great--I'm going to go meet someone who is in our family, who is older than Pop.  I'll fall in love with her, and then she'll die in the next 10-15 years and then I'll be sad, really sad. Thanks Mama."  How do you answer that?!?!?!

We arrived in C'ville and just as she did with me early this fall, Aunt Betty reached out and embraced me, Chris, and each of our children as we walked through the door.  She was heading out to a parade; she stopped, turned around and said, "I'm going to cancel going out right now; I'll go later.  I'm just going to tell my friend my family just got here."  And my heart swelled.  Throughout the weekend we spent lots of time with Aunt Betty, her son Bruce and his partner Nancy.  (I'm just going to call them both cousins--because that's how I view them!) We laughed and told stories; we enjoyed being together; we enjoyed being a family.

As we left yesterday I thought of Romans 8:28 which says, "We know that all things work together for good, for those who love God according to his purpose."  Let me be clear, I don't believe for one minute that God makes bad things happen so that good can come.  But I do believe that God is present in the bad--in the pain and the isolation and the hurt, and I believe God can and does bring hope and reconciliation.  My grandparents divorce, my parents divorce, other divorces, other addictions have brought immense pain to our family, but as I left the house hugging my aunt and hearing her say, "Any time, you hear me.  Any time you are welcome, and I'll call and check on Sarah Katherine tomorrow.  Don't worry about her; I know she's not feeling well.  I'll check."
I saw and felt the good that has come--the good that God has brought from the pain of our family.  The good and the blessing that we have found in our extended bonus family.

Last weekend both my cousin and my aunt asked me independently what I like about being a priest. Knowing how religion has hurt them in the past, I stuttered and spent more time saying what I was glad I didn't do--passing down judgment and being exclusive-than I did expressing what I did like about it.  Their question has haunted me.   This weekend the answer was crystal clear. As a priest, I am invited into people's lives in their most vulnerable times.  I am gifted with hearing people's stories, with journeying with them as they struggle to make meaning of their lives, and with offering myself as a bridge between God and themselves as they seek to mend broken relationships, to reconcile the pain of the world with God's unconditional love and grace.  I get to continually proclaim God's goodness and love.  I try to spend my days recognizing and pointing to God's redeeming love. I love so much what I am privileged to do, but the vow I took that I love the most is to "endeavor so to minister the Word of God and the sacraments of the New Covenant, that the reconciling love of Christ may be known and received."  (BCP, 532)  This weekend Aunt Betty was my priest.

This weekend I saw and felt Aunt Betty's home in a sacramental way.  Aunt Betty's home has become for me an outward and visible sign of God's goodness--of "proof" that all things can work together for good"--of God's love and God's hospitality.  It has become for me a sign of hope and reconciliation and grace and most importantly love--lots and lots of love.

As we left Boss said, "She is the best.  She said I can come back any time even without you.  When can I come back?"  And Caroline added, "Yep just like I said, I'll fall in love with her" and she paused, "but it's all worth it."