And the Word Became Flesh

Words are something I think about a lot--the power of words.  I actually really love words which anyone who has ever been around me could easily tell from the  flow of words constantly emerging from my mouth.  In college I took a souther literature class.  Some of the guys were complaining that Faulkner was too hard to follow, too hard to understand.  I was shocked and said, "Really?  I totally can follow him."  to which they all responded, "Of course you do!"  Chris says it takes me over 100 words and 45 minutes to say goodbye.  I said I love words!

I also know that sometimes words can be scary.  Something happens to someone and we want to say something but what?  We don't want to say the wrong thing and so we fumble around with our words or say nothing at all.  Yesterday in his sermon,  Father Tim Mitchell talked about how we as fishers of men can choose to be people of edification or of demolition.  He wasn't specifically referring to the words we use but rather to our whole being as we interact with others--words are certainly a part of that; I'd say a huge part. Even our fumbled words can be edifying.

One thing I have learned as the parent of four teenagers is that sometimes words are over used.  As they try to convince Chris and I of things they go on and on and on.  I suspect they think the same about me as I "explain" things to them.  I have learned that sometimes even with words less is  more (which is very hard for this Faulkner loving girl!).  My family probably disagrees that I have learned it and would say instead that I am still in the process...early in the process..

Over the past weeks I have received many notes, emails, and messages of love and support.  I have treasured them all; they have been words of edification; they have been words of hope.  They have reminded me of the importance of saying something even when you don't know what to say.  They have reminded me that love can and does come through words. Last week I received a note that touched the very depth of my being--a note of four words--four beautiful, edifying, holy words.
Through this note I learned that it's not always the number of words or the elegance of words that matter most.  And through this note I was reminded  of what I powerfully believe, "the Word became flesh and dwelt among us." (John 1:14)  The Word became flesh and this note reminded me that the love of God comes to us through the flesh of others, through the words of others.  Words can be, words are powerful; "Now to him who by the power working within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine." (Ephesians 3:20)  Even the simplest of words.....

Beth and Janie--God's Voices

Years ago when we lived in Pittsburgh, the children were very young, and we were doing everything in our power to single handily make sure every doctor at Children's Hospital made enough money to purchase a second home and send scads of children to college, I was often very frustrated about what I could and couldn't commit to doing.  I desperately wanted to be more involved in the ministry of the church and yet time and time again I had to gracefully (maybe not so gracefully) bow out of commitments as I was needed at home.  My very wise friend Janie said to me at the time, "Stop being so hard on yourself. You have many years to give to the church; right now your ministry is at home with the children. Honor that.  Love that--and you also have a ministry in connecting to people.  Your handwritten notes--they are a ministry.  All of ministry doesn't have to be within the walls of the church building.  Minister where you are right now, in your context at your place in life." I was and am very grateful for Janie's kind and caring and immensely wise words--I've even passed them on to other young mothers (footnoting the source of course).

Over the next decade or more I have returned to those words again and again as we made multiple moves, the children grew into adolescents, I entered seminary, graduated from seminary and accepted my first call.  "Honor the ministry where God has placed you in this moment."  As I am in this in between time, I have loved being home--cooking, cleaning, laundry and uninterrupted, unhurried conversations with Chris and the children.  It felt and feels good.  I have worked hard to be a good wife and mother, and it feels natural, comfortable and holy.  We aren't fancy parents, permissive parents, but we are present parents.  Friday night Boss had a friend spend the night.  Clay said to him, "I love your parents.  They are so cool."  Boss, I'm sure seriously considering the mental health of his friend asked, "Why would you say that?"  Clay, "I mean they're just hanging out in front of the fire in their pajamas.  My parents would never do that."

So as I was taking down Christmas decorations I was convincing myself that I shouldn't even entertain doing anything else.  Clearly this conversation between Boss and Clay was a sign; clearly hanging out in front of the fire with a precious two year old and loving it was a sign; clearly enjoying the laundry was a sign.  Oh I was good...I can out rationalize any teenager!  So I continued preparing a speech in my head to deliver to Chris with all my signs.  I was going to convince him that I would stay completely happy, how we could continue to afford 4 tuitions, how I was certain this is what God wanted me to do for the next four years.  I was still working on that conversation in my head when I read a blog post from a friend.

Beth became my friend when we were both in the Diocese of Kentucky. She was the Diocesan Youth Coordinator and I personally provided a slew of youth---she is younger than me, her children are younger than mine, and yet again and again I turned to her for guidance as I met different struggles in parenting.  There are some people who are just born wise; Beth is one of them.  (Beth's Blog)  In her post (which is well worth reading the entire thing and following the blog) Beth quoted a Mary Oliver poem.

the mangroves (by mary oliver)

as i said before, i am living now
in a warm place, surrounded by
mangroves.  mostly i walk beside
them, they discourage entrance.
the black oaks and the pines
of my northern home are in my heart,
even as i hear them whisper, "listen,
we are trees too." okay, i'm trying.  they
certainly put on an endless performance
of leaves.  admiring is easy, but affinity,
that does take some time.  so many
and so leggy and all of them rising as if
attempting to escape this world which, don't
they know it, can't be done.  "are you
trying to fly or what?" i ask, and they
answer back, "we are what we are, you
are what you are, love us if you can."

I immediately began thinking of how I could add this to my signs.  How I could use this to explain to Chris that right now I needed to be with my pines (Georgia pines of course); that the pines were in my heart and soul and I needed to be present only there.  I was even going to use how happy he was being with that two year old!  

But then I continued to read her blog and she wrote, "i'm not sure if it's the connection to trees she experiences that resonates most with me, or the way she seems to long to be present both in the presence of the mangroves and her native oaks and pines."  She explained that motherhood was her pines but that out-of-the work home was her mangroves equally beautiful and worthy, important and meaningful.  And once again Beth's wisdom has nourished me.

I put together the wisdom of both these strong faith filled women and recognize that God is calling me to be present right here right now in the ministry of the home but that doesn't mean God wants me to stay here; it doesn't mean God doesn't want me to venture back into the forest of mangroves. They are not mutually exclusive.  What I now know is not that I have to have that conversation with Chris but rather I need to listen for God's voice and be willing to leave my Georgia pines, to stretch myself when God calls me back into the mangroves.

And now I think I will go write Beth and Janie one of those handwritten notes.

"Who do you say that I am?"--Final Calvary Sermon

When I came to this Diocese 7 years ago already in the discernment process, I was "assigned" to the Rev. Dr. Charles Hawkins.  He may have regretted that assignment!  For the next 2 1/2 years Charles and I met on a regular basis as I interned for him during my time in seminary.  Our conversations often went like this:

Me, "What do we believe about _____?"
Charles, "What do you believe?"
Me, "No I mean what does the Episcopal church believe about _______?"
Charles, "What do you believe?"

I hated those conversations--I had forgotten what brought me to the Episcopal church.  It was and is a place where questions are encouraged, theology is worked out in community--lay and ordained, and where there is a broad range of understanding.  It is a place where lex orandi lex credendi (the law of praying is the law of believing) is honored.  Worship shapes belief.  I thought I had to have the answer because I was going to be a priest, and Charles through his annoying, infuriating responses reminded me of what I had forgotten.  I am grateful for my mentor, for my friend and for his willingness to sit with me week after week as I struggled through the questions and grew in my faith.  Joan Chittister writes, "What forms us lives in us forever.  The important thing is that it not be allowed to stunt our growth." and "Religion gives us the structures that weld the habits and disciplines of the soul into one integrated whole.  Those same structures can also, however, smother the very spirit they intend to shape."

This week begins the week of prayer for Christian unity.  This week was begun in the early 1900's by the World Council of Churches.  Sometimes we get confused about the difference between unity and uniformity.  Our prayer is not that we all worship the same, believe everything exactly the same--that is uniformity.  Our prayer is that we all in our own contexts and cultures proclaim the Gospel--that we all answer the question "who you say that I am and how are you living in response to the answer." The prayer is that we all may be one so that the world may believe.  One in our proclamation that God is love and that God loves everyone no exceptions and certainly regardless of their differences in worship styles.  One in our proclamation that Jesus is the Emmanuel--God with us; God with us in the flesh. God with us still today.  The week begins with the confession of St. Peter and ends with the confession of St. Paul. Two very different men, two men whose ministries were very different, but two men who both in their own context and with their own lives had to answer that question.

Jesus asked Peter--Peter, a jew, a fisherman, a leader of the apostles, a man who left his home and followed Jesus for three years "Who do you say that I am?"  Not who do other people tell you to say that I am, not what do the creeds and rabbis tell you to say that I am, but who do you Peter say that I am and by 'saying' it also implies how will you live in answer to that question.  I suspect Peter had to answer that question over and over--I suspect he had to rethink his answer as he denied Jesus three times and I suspect he also had to rethink his answer on the Sea of Galilee when the risen Christ asked him, 'Peter do you love me."

At the end of this week we will read about the conversion of St. Paul--Paul a man of the law, a well educated man,  a man who persecuted those who followed Jesus, an apostle to the Gentiles--and we will hear how his ministry will answer the question, "Who do you say that I am?"

That question is being posed to all of us here.  That question is being posed to you the Calvary community.  Who do you as Calvary say that Jesus is and how will you live as a community, what will you do, who will you be in response to your answer?  The question is being asked today just as it has been asked before and will continue to be asked.  The question is who do you Calvary of today of 2015 say Jesus is--it is not who did the congregation of 50 years ago answer that question and live into that response; it is not who does one person or one group of people tell you Jesus is and how to answer the question, or how do others want you to answer that question--it is a question for you to answer together as a community.

And that question is also being posed to each of us individually.  Who do you business people, doctors, lawyers, teachers, parents, grandparents, friends say that Jesus is and how are you living your life, in your own context in response to that question.  It is a question we must continue to ask, we must continue to struggle with, to wrestle with--it is a question we must ask of ourselves and ask of one another.  And it is a question we must answer each and every day of our lives as we live in our own contexts as disciples of Christ.

Since my ordination each year I have asked The Rt. Rev. Porter Taylor, bishop of Western North Carolina, another mentor and friend of the Doyles, for book recommendations.  He is an incredibly spiritual man, a well read man, a humble man, and he never lets me down.  This year the first book I am reading at his recommendation is Called to Question by Joan Chittister.  I highly recommend it; it is a book that honors questions, encourages questions.  It is a book of spiritual depth. Joan writes, "Once we empty ourselves of our certainties, we open ourselves to the mystery.  We expose ourselves to the God in whom "we live and move and have our being." We bare ourselves to the possibility that God is seeking us in places and people and things we thought were outside the pale of the God of our spiritual childhood.  Then life changes color, changes tone, changes purpose.  We begin to live more fully, not just in touch with earth, but with the eternal sound of the universe as well."  Amen

Sorority Rush in the World

Last night was bid night in Charlottesville.  Bid night--the end of sorority rush.  The night some girls are filled with pride as they feel accepted, loved, and wanted, and the night other girls feel rejected, lonely and unworthy.  "It's a terrible system," we say.  It's a system that those who are more reserved dread as they dig deep to have the energy for two weeks of superficial conversation with random girls who begin to blend together like the smoothies they make in their rooms.  It's a system where extroverted girls thrive displaying their personalities like the sparkles on the princess crowns they wore as toddlers.  It's a system where those who know very few girls already in sororities have no one to speak for them, and a system where those who made "mistakes" in high school and know many girls in the sororities have all too many to speak against them.  It's a system that works for some and doesn't for others.  And we like to say it's a flawed system, a fake system, a false system, but sadly I think perhaps it's not.  Sadly I think it actually is a microcosm of much of the world.

It's a microcosm of the world where we make snap judgements of others, where grace is rare, forgiveness is provisional, redemption is scarce and love is conditional.  But it doesn't have to be that way.  Brother Curtis Almquist writes:

Compassion

Jesus consistently showed how “the first shall be last, and the last first,” because this was very much his own story. And we could say that the last person on our own list, the person who may seem least or last or lost - or simply a loser – is someone on Jesus’ own list, someone for whom Jesus has an infinite amount of love and with whom he plans to share eternity.

-Br. Curtis Almquist
Society of Saint John the Evangelist

Perhaps sorority rush and our view of it can help us look at ourselves; perhaps by recognizing the flaws of sorority rush we can recognize the brokenness in the world and then we can begin to change it.  Perhaps recognizing they are not different is in fact a start, a way to redeem both--sorority rush and the world.

God shows up

Flowers given in honor of my ministry three weeks before I resigned

When the children were small I had so much more control--I liked (like) control.  They were friends with who we wanted them to be friends with (read with those children whose parents we were friends with).  They went to church when and where we said.  They went to bed when we said (most nights). We decided where they would go to school, and we were in the schools constantly volunteering so we would know what was going on.  As they've grown as hard as I try not to, I have had to release more and more control.  I have had to trust them to choose good friends and make good decisions (as you know from a recent blog that doesn't always work, but we learn and love through it).  I have had to admit that sometimes I can't fix things for them--I have had to realize that sometimes life will be hard for them, they will be hurt, and while I would rather have my whole body repeatedly pummeled than know they are hurting, I can do nothing but love them through it.  And I have had to trust that the foundation Chris and I laid in their lives would be enough to get them through.  The foundation of love--the foundation of friends, family and faith.  Choose them all well.

This past week was one of those weeks, one of those weeks where there were more tears than smiles, more pain than joy but also a week where over and over that foundation of friends and family and faith supported us, held us--that foundation proved that it could not be shaken.  Over and over the three pillars worked together to get us through.  Over and over through our friends and family God showed up.

• God showed up in notes, calls and emails from friends all over the world knowing I needed support as I left a congregation I love
• God showed up in clergy friends, in Forma friends, in church friends, in friends who never go to church, in new friends and in life long friends--God showed up in all of them because God doesn't categorize
• God showed up in a therapist willing to make a house call because I had car trouble
• God showed up in a friend willing to walk whenever it worked for me (and then paid my child to watch hers because it fit my schedule)
• God showed up in people who showed up for my last Sunday--people I didn't think I'd ever see there again
• God showed up in the Eucharist and God showed up in the hands that pressed mine as I served 
• God showed up in children's cards and paintings
• God showed up in hugs and tears

But God didn't just show up for me this week--God showed up for our family.

• God showed up in a history teacher
• God showed up in an administrator who stayed well past work hours to make a difference
• God showed up in hugs and in people who knew I wasn't yet ready for a hug
• God showed up in friends that show up and say, "Just come back to school; we can do this together.  We'll all stay in study hall instead of study out.  Just come back."
• God showed up in a girlfriend (or whatever they call it these days) who drove Shawn and the babies home from school everyday so I could finish my work (okay she may have had another motive as well, but she also greeted me each day with a hug, so that counts!)
• God showed up in bean soup and football for the men as I left for Virginia
• God showed up in calls and texts from college friends
• God showed up in a friend who hearing SK in tears on the phone jumped in her car and drove 6 hours to get there
• God showed up in my sister who said, "I can get there faster than you.  I'll go."  



God showed up

• God showed up over and over and over

This morning as I ran I thought about how little control I have now; I thought about how I miss the days when I could take away the children's pain with a band-aid or a hug or an ice cream cone, and I started wondering what I could have done differently that would have helped them have less pain.  I suppose there's a lot I did wrong as the children were growing up--a lot Chris and I both messed up--I'm sure they'll be happy to give you a list (no worries I have a great therapist for them!), but for a change I'm going to think about what we did right.  We built a foundation--we built a foundation based on the importance of choosing and being a good and loyal friend, the importance of family, and of faith. And through all that, God shows up.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly--Living Out Loud

Living out loud--sometimes I wish I didn't (I'm certain my family often wishes I didn't), but living out loud is part of who I am, part of who God has called me to be, so here goes with the good, the bad, and the ugly....

One very early morning last week Boss came to me and said, "Mama I need you to know something. I don't need you to do anything but just listen.  William is having a really hard time at school right now.  There are some kids picking on him and making fun of him for trying to lose weight.  They used to just call him Pork chop and Fat ass; that didn't seem to bother him but now that he's trying to get in shape it is. He thinks they're his friends, but their just punks who aren't supporting him at all. It's really upsetting him, but he's talking to me about it.  I just need you to know that he might need some space. I'm not asking you to do anything."   I looked at him straight in the eye and said, "But I need you to promise me that if it gets worse you will tell me."  "I will; I promise."

Perhaps I should have been more clear--Friday afternoon while driving home from C'ville I got a call from Boss.  He was in trouble he said.  He'd gone to talk to the boy and the boy denied it, "I'm sorry Mama I just lost it and I pushed him around.  I don't know what to do."  I told him to go to the Dean of Students--it was a long 30 minutes before I heard back.

Boss was sent home and the administration told me they would meet the following day to decide next steps.  When I got home both boys were there.  Boss, "I think they're going to ask me to leave.  We need a plan for where I'm going to go."  While I too was panicking, I tried to remain calm.  "What have they done before when there's been a fight?"  He quietly answered, "I've never heard of there being one."  And so the waiting began....

I would like to say that I have progressed far enough in life to not care what people think, but that would be a lie.  I particularly care what people think about my children, and I really care if people have the wrong information. We all knew what Boss had done was wrong, but I also didn't want people to think he attacked (yes I can be dramatic--I am Caroline's mother) someone for no reason. I texted three good friends and told them what happened.  That may have been one of the smartest things I have ever done.  Over the next 24 hours, Chris and I felt the love and support of a community of friends, people who were willing to look beyond the incident and remind us that they knew Boss was a good kid who just made a bad decision and that they were here for us no matter what.

Kind heart, but poor grammar 

The next morning as William was leaving for mock trial he said, "I've sent an email to the administration.  I don't want something bad to happen to Christopher because of me.  I should have let it go."  I reminded him that while what Christopher did wasn't right, neither was what the other young man was doing to him.  "Yeah but I still think it's my fault."  He has such a loving spirit. He also understands better than some adults even that bad decisions should not be definitive.

Late Saturday night we got the email--five days suspension.  Boss was visibly relieved, "I just want to make sure I can get my assignments made up."

Yesterday he came down to work with me.  He wanted to help me get my office packed.  "Walt and I talked," he informed me, "We don't want you to have to do this yourself.  We know it's really hard and emotional and we want it done today."  And then he worked tirelessly loading box after box and then unloading it before I got home.

This morning while folding laundry in front of the fire I thought of my boys and their kind gentle spirits. William's is always so evident to everyone, but Boss' is much more hidden. And yet over the last few weeks I have seen so much of his kind heart--the same kind heart that led him to make a bad decision.  And I wished everyone saw it the way I do.  It made me sad thinking there might be people who think because of a bad choice he's a bad kid.  And then it struck me, there is another mama right here in Louisville (and probably more than one) who also may be hoping her son's goodness is known despite his bad choice.  The Psalm this morning says, "I praise you for I am fearfully and wonderfully made" (Psalm 139:14)  That means everyone---I sent up a prayer for all of these boys giving thanks that they are indeed fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God.

I Wonder

In August when we took Sarah Katherine to UVA, Chris, SK, Daddy, Marguerite and I all attended the legacy brunch.  As we got our plates and made our way to a table I pointed out to SK people with whom I had gone to school.  Daddy has been involved with the University far more than I so there were many people he knew, some I had met before and some I hadn't.  As we were eating a woman approached the table.  She was dressed in what appeared to be a "fancy" track suit.  As she arrived at our table, Daddy stood up and hugged her.  Marguerite did the same.  I recognized her; I knew I should know her, and I began racking my brain trying to remember who she was.  It wasn't coming to me, so I decided to just be honest.  I stood up, "Hey, I'm Katherine.  I know I have met you before and should know you, but I can't remember your name."  She reached out to shake my hand and said, "It's nice to see you again.  I'm Teresa Sullivan."  (For those who don't know, that would be the president of the University of Virginia.)  I sat back down and as she walked away my family burst into laughter.  Defensively (and sheepishly) I said, "Well she isn't dressed like I would expect the president of the university to dress."

This past week as I was working on my sermon I kept thinking about how people didn't recognize who Jesus was.  They were expecting a warrior king a Savior who would rule from on high full of majesty and glory, and instead the Son of God came as a poor carpenter's son.  The Son of God came and ate with prostitutes, touched lepers, and stayed in the homes of tax collectors.  They didn't recognize who Jesus was partly because he wasn't what they expected.

It makes me wonder, what expectations do we have that prevent us from seeing God?  What expectations do we have of other people that keeps us from seeing the holy in front of us, that keeps us from seeing the holy in one another?

I wonder....

Family Traditions

Kate is now part of our family!

When we lived in Lynchburg VA, we often drove I 64 to and from Louisville.  The first time we made the trip, we drove past the state capital in Charleston WV and I told the children, "When Mommy was in college, she went to a formal in that building with the gold on top."  Caroline looked at me with wide eyes and amazement, "Mommy, were you a princess?"  Well obviously I wasn't (although I now tell the girls I'm fine with them being their Daddy's princesses because that makes me the queen), but in that moment with her adoring eyes looking at me, I felt like I must have been. And so every time we drive past the capital I repeat, "I went to a formal in that building with the gold on top."  I suppose I want to recapture that look-mainly I get eye rolls now.  But it's become a part of our family.  If Caroline isn't with me now, I either text or call her just to tell her again.  And now she responds with a "cool Katherine".  That has also become part of our tradition.  It has become so much a part of our family that as we drove by on Thursday SK, without me reminding her, slowed down and rolled down my window so I could take a picture.  On the way home I began fretting because Caroline had sent me an email that her phone was broken.  I really did tear up thinking I wouldn't be able to contact her and that a family tradition would be broken. (It might also have little to do with just leaving SK again).  I thought and thought and then light bulb on---I have her friend's number!

As I was thinking about this family tradition and how it started I began thinking about all our family traditions and how they started and what they mean...

In the spring of 2002, Chris was in his final year of business school.  The children were 1,3,4, and 6. We were okay, but finances were tight--we had to really manage our money well.  At that time you couldn't pay bills online, so I would write out checks and date the back of the envelope with the day to mail them.  I had a 3 shelf file on the wall where I kept the envelopes and moved them down as the date got closer to when each had to be mailed.  Mail one; lower the others.  I spent hours strategically planning which would get sent when; I had a system.  Most of the time it worked....

We went to the beach for spring break (it's great to have parents with a beach house so even as poor graduate students you get to vacation.)  We returned home late Saturday afternoon having learned that coming home the day before heading back to school was a bad idea--another system I managed well.  As we pulled up to the house we noticed a red tag on the door.  "What's that?" Chris asked. "I have no idea," I answered "I promise I haven't ordered anything else."  (Was I little defensive? Probably but he was also wise--I may be the only person in the history of the world who was invited to her UPS delivery man's wedding.)  We walked up to the door and saw that it was a tag telling us our water had been cut off because we hadn't paid the bill.  Chris looked at me quizzically but not critically (he usually trusts my systems--especially when they're color coded), "Did you pay the bill?" "I'm sure I did." I answered.  "That's odd," he said, "I would think they would send a second notice before just turning off the water."  I froze (not because it was cold) but I vividly remembered a second bill coming and me throwing it away because I was certain I had already mailed the first.  I said nothing but ran into the house and to my well organized filing system.  I dug down into the bottom of the bottom cubby--and there I found it--the crunched up bill with the check.  Just as I pulled it out the boys came running into the kitchen with SK all screaming at once.  SK, "One of the boys went potty and didn't put the seat down."  I looked over at them.  Boss, "We both did; we team pottied. But now Sarah Katherine won't flush the potty and she says we broke it."  I looked over at Chris, held up the crumpled bill and sent the children outside to play.  Chris and I put our creative heads together--obviously we weren't going to have water until at least Monday so we had to be creative. We had to come up with a plan.  We tossed around several ideas none of which was call a friend and go stay with them--these were during the days when I tried to pretend I had it all together and before I blabbed our lives to the world.  Surprisingly we were calm (perhaps that was the continued effect of having just spent a week at the beach), and we came up with what we considered the best plan ever--

We walked outside and said, "Everyone back in the car.  We're going on a mystery adventure."  They climbed back into their car seats (yes all four were in car seats) and we headed for Atlanta.  We found a hotel where Chris had points, breakfast was free and there was in indoor swimming pool.  (It had been too cold at the beach to swim much.)  We ate dinner at a restaurant where kids under 6 ate free (there are a few benefits to four in four and a half years) and then we returned to the hotel.  We had a great time swimming until late at night (maybe it was only 9 pm, but they never got to stay up past 7:30 so we considered it late); we then put the children to bed and sat in the hall of the hotel drinking wine and congratulating ourselves for being so creative.  The next day we visited the science center--made sure everyone stayed semi clean and then very late drove back to our waterless house.  At 7 am I was at the water department and by 9 we had water.  I don't know if we've ever told the children the truth about that trip, but the Doyle Mystery Adventure family tradition began.  They never knew when they might come or what we might do, but when Chris or I yelled, "Mystery Adventure Day" four excited children scrambled into the car ready for family time.  Mystery Adventures continued for years but finally for many reasons came to a stop--I miss them.

As I drove and thought about how Mystery Adventures started I laughed out loud.  (I think the truck drivers around Huntington WV thought I was insane.)  Who would have thought we could take something as frustrating, embarrassing, and tension filled as returning to a waterless house with four young children and turn it into a loving lasting family tradition?  And I thought about how God works through everything--the frustrating, the embarrassing, the tensions of life, through the good and the bad; pain and joy; weakness and strength.  I in no way believe that God makes things happen so that God can then do something, but I do believe that God can and does work through everything and everybody--we just have to pay attention and maybe be a little creative.

Holiness Found at a New Year's Day Gathering

An email came a couple of weeks before New Year's and this is how I remember reading it.  "Drop in at the Fulton's around 1:30.   Bring a nibble if you'd like.  Tom Fulton will be making his famous bloody marys." I knew the group that was gathering; it was a group that had been gathering for years. We were invited last year but couldn't go so I was so glad we were kept on the list.  (See that's the high school adolescent voice in my head that tells me people keep score.)  I was really looking forward to the gathering.

New Year's Day came and I got hung up with a phone call so we were about 45 minutes late leaving the house.  I reminded my neurotic "it's rude to be late" self that it said drop-in (Chris reminded me too because I don't always like to listen to myself--which actually may be a good thing.  Voices in my Head)  We drove through the park--if you're married to someone from Louisville you HAVE to drive through the park no matter where you're going.  This time it actually made sense as they live on the park, but I digress.  We arrived and walked up the street as Chris said, "Let's not stay for hours; I'd like to watch a little football and relax before we go to the other party."  (That can be read 'do not talk too much and look like the desperate person that is the last to leave'--yeah, that's the adolescent voice again!)

I walked in first, glanced in the living room and saw all WOMEN seated in chairs, on the sofa, and on the floor around a coffee table filled with fabulous nibbles.  Laura, the hostess, walked over to me and I whispered, "I didn't know Chris wasn't supposed to come.  I'll get him to go and get another ride home."  Laura looked at me and didn't whisper as she said, "Of course he's supposed to be here."  She led him over to the made by Tom and then fled from the house bloody marys (which indeed are as good as promised) and we joined the group. Most Chris knew either from church, one he'd known longer than he's known me, and former Collegiate moms and teachers.

The ladies made room for Chris on the couch and the conversation continued to flow.  We talked religion, politics, current events and even about sex, and it seemed perfectly normal.  There were no awkward silences, no pauses and changing of conversation because of the male in the room--the conversation, the laughter, the love just flowed--effortlessly.  We'd been there about an hour when Ruth said, "It's time to eat."  I also had missed the part that it was an actual meal and since we were there so late, I suspected Chris had already eaten, plus we'd both eaten plenty of the nibbles. I was completely full and I knew Chris probably was as well.  As we headed for the dining room to fix our plates Sally said to Chris, "It's perfect you're here so you can have your hummingbird cake you didn't get last night at our house."  Chris took the plate Sally handed him said, "I'm so glad I get some today" filled the plate with more food and we returned to the living room and more conversation. Around 4:15 I said, "We should go."  As we were driving home I texted Callie (who couldn't be there because she was sick) and said, "Didn't know it was just women.  Chris came."  She responded, "I'm sure all were delighted."  And you know I think they probably were--I also think if I'm not black balled after this major faux pas I won't bring him next year, but it's a story we'll tell for years. And the point of the story will be the incredible generous love and hospitality that we experienced.

I knew I would blog about this but I thought it would be on my other blog, you know the totally irreverent, only read if you are over a certain age, rated at lease PG13 if not beyond, Growing Up Doyle blog.  But I keep thinking about these incredible women and their gracious loving hospitality. Their total acceptance of Chris into the group and how they went out of their was to make sure we felt comfortable and welcome and as though we both belonged.  And while it is a funny story, and I suspect Chris will be teased by their husbands, the story isn't all funny--the story is sacred; it is holy. The holy found in the ordinary world of New Year's Day gatherings.

These women showed the unconditional love of Christ--the love we should all show every single person who walks into our homes and into our church buildings.  The gracious hospitality we should show every person who comes to our altar, and the generous love and hospitality we should take from our altar out into the world.  All are welcome; all are worthy; all are included; all belong.

As we walked back to our car Chris and I laughed and then he said, "But after the initial shock of being the only male there, it felt alright."  May all whom we meet; may all who come to the table leave feeling alright and with the knowledge they too belong.

A message of hope; Thank you +Porter Taylor

It's the New Year--time to make resolutions, promises--time to set goals, make plans.  It's a time of nostalgia for the previous year as well as a time of letting go of the pain and sorrow that may have happened.  It is a time of hope for many--hope in what the New Year holds in store.  For others it is a time of sorrow as they enter the New Year without people they love either taken by death or broken relationships.  It can be a time of hope for new adventures, new careers, new opportunities and a time of pain as people say good bye to places they've lived, jobs they've loved or friends they've made. Every year for me I'm somewhere in the middle and every year I try to understand both the previous year--what I learned, what I gained (both in joy and sorrow) and I also think about the future.  It usually leads me to some activity--one year I decided that once a month I was going to send a note to someone who had impacted my life and maybe didn't know it.  I wrote a previous coach, a professor, my fourth grade teacher among others.  It was a chance to focus on the positive in my life and to let people know.  I've thought about doing that again this year; I might who knows?

This year I'm haunted by the previous week some which has been public and some which hasn't. Truth? I'm obsessing--trying to make it matter; trying to bring resurrection and life--hope and love. That haunting and my previous New Year letter writing scheme have been swirling in my head like the fall leaves that never were  completely raked in our yard.  Swirling in a frenzy like a tornado and swirling in beauty like a ballet.  It's that both/and....and I remember...

Years ago when the children were very small (all under 5 years) and Chris was in his first year of business school, something was happening at the church we had called home for 4 1/2 years, the church where our children were baptized and the church where we made some of the best friends of our life.  (Still to this day)  I don't remember the particulars, truly I don't.  Perhaps I was too sleep deprived, too young, too naive, but really all I remember was their was conflict and people were leaving.  Over a period of a few months Chris and I realized that we were using any excuse on a Sunday morning to not go to church--we were avoiding, hiding, running away--you pick the verb, but we weren't going to church and that mattered to us.  We had vowed to rear our children in the faith and so we decided to try the other Episcopal church in town.

I remember that first Sunday so well.  We arrived just a few minutes before service and it seemed that everyone was looking at us.  (They probably were--we had four children dressed alike in smocked outfits under 5--not your typical "visitor")  We walked in and sat to the side by what I remember as sliding glass doors (I'm sure it wasn't) in a very contemporary style church.  Everyone was nice; they welcomed us, but when we got back in the car I cried.  (I did a lot of that back then--call it sleep derivation or hormones...)  It didn't "look" like a church.  It wasn't a traditional building; I missed my other church--but we kept going back.

I'm going to be really honest here.  I didn't want to love this new church; my heart still belonged in the other, but we were changed.  Porter Taylor, was the rector, and he gave the most amazing sermons.  He connected the sacred and the secular in ways that I understood. He inspired in me my desire to make the holy ordinary--to connect every day living with faith.  He challenged us, encouraged us and led amazing formation classes.  (One on Dante's Inferno--awesome!)  One Sunday after church as the children ran around Porter said, "We are so glad you're here; ya'll are adding so much to our congregation."  (I'm not sure what that was other than the spectacle of four children being corralled in service, but he seemed genuine.)   I don't know what came over me but I blurted out, "We're not transferring our letter."  (That is epsicospeak for moving our membership from one church to another.)  I think Chris turned bright red (we hadn't been married that long yet so he wasn't as used to my lack of filter), but Porter didn't flinch.  He touched my arm and said, "That is absolutely fine.  Just know you are welcome here for as long as you want to be here in whatever way that is."  In that moment, Porter became my priest.

Over the next year we cautiously became more involved.  Porter suggested EfM to me.  Chris and I talked about it; he wanted me to do it, but we didn't have the money.  I called Porter back and made up some excuse about timing; I know he saw right through me.  A few days later I received a call from the mentor of the group who said, "I know you said timing might not work but if you can work it out we'd love to have you.  Oh, and we have a scholarship we have to give to a first year so it's yours if you want it."  I took it and so began my love of EfM--14 years later I'm still involved.  I finally understand (or at least suspect) that scholarship was Porter's discretionary fund.  I wasn't ready to commit to this parish, and I made that clear, but they were ready to commit to me--unconditionally; expecting nothing in return.  A true witness to God's amazing unconditional love.

Chris finished graduate school and we moved to Pittsburgh (and to another parish we LOVE).  I heard Porter had moved on but didn't know where.  Several years ago I reconnected with Porter on facebook (I didn't think he'd remember me but he says he did--I choose to believe him.)  He was now a bishop and I was preparing for ordination.  He sent me a message telling me that one of his spiritual disciplines was to read Thomas Merton's New Seeds of Contemplation every year.  He suggested I might want to try it; see if it was helpful to me.  Being the rule follower I am, (I know he didn't mean for it to be a rule, but when you respect someone the way I do Porter you turn their suggestions into rules...or at least neurotic people do.)  I have done this for the past 3 years.  As an aside this year it was early December and I hadn't finished so I bought it on audible and told Porter that I was going to make the babies listen to it on our road trip.  He suggested I let them listen to a novel and just try to read one chapter a day by myself--they are grateful.)

I guess I have connected the two--the pain of last week and remembering those who have made a difference in my life.  Porter Taylor showed me then what unconditional love in a church can and does look like.  That church can both bring hurt but it can also be a place of healing, reconciliation, and total love--a place of acceptance, a place where all are welcome in whatever way they can be.  A place where need is met and hope is given.  The church isn't a building--traditional or contemporary--it is the people; the people who seek to live lives of mercy, grace, and love.

Today I give thanks for Porter Taylor and his ministry, for the witness he has shown me, for what I have learned from him--being a priest and being a person.  And today I move forward in hope that love will win in the church and in the world.

PS--He gave me another list of books to read this year if anyone's interested--

A Painful Post

Last Saturday and Sunday this article was sent to me via text, email, facebook messages and posted on my wall. I Will be Your Mother   Most people that sent it said nothing--just sent it.  I kept receiving it but because I was in the midst of my role as mother of a basketball playing son, I had not had a chance to read it.  I had no idea what it was about.  Then in the gym I received a text from one of my very best friends with the words, "You are my mother."  I love this man so incredibly much that I knew I had to read the article.  So on the way home from the tournament I opened it and read it.

I read it through a lens.  I read it through the lens of an assistant who had just resigned and was leaving a congregation and people I love dearly.  That lens told me, "you too can continue relationships with those you love, with those who you have learned from, with those whom you have traveled spiritual and social roads."  And so I read it with hope, and I read it with my focus on the beauty of mutual ministry, mutual affection, mutual relationship between clergy and lay--something I hold very dear.  And if I'm honest because of my friend's text "you are my mother" I read it with a little bit of pride.  (Okay a lot of pride...)  And so I re posted it on my facebook wall with this status:

This article has been sent to me almost a dozen times over the last 48 hours via text, email, and facebook. Most people don't tell me why they are sending it to me but I feel like I have to say something about it. This is the congregation I have served and loved for almost 3 years and will leave in January. I know many of the people in the story and know of others. I know the story although not the particulars.
What I do know all too well is the hurt that can happen in churches--often unintentionally but it still hurts. My hope is that I can be a "mother" for others through their joys and pain. Rhonda's coffee cup sits on my desk....

I did begin to hear rumblings that not all were happy about the article, but no one said anything to me specifically.  And again to be honest, I had a conversation with a fellow staff member who also saw the beauty in the article (and has been a parishioner for many many years) so I was able to silence in my head the other--until....

I got home from work yesterday and there was a response to my post from a dear parishioner and a dear friend.  In fact one of those parishioners whom I thought of when I read the article.  A person from whom I had learned a great deal, loved a great deal and I believe loves me back.  His response was very articulate and very passionate and very counter to mine. So I re read the article through the lens he identified.  The lens of someone who had been there during this time and had loved Ned unconditionally.  The lens of someone who now felt betrayed.  I read the article that way and I saw exactly why he was hurt.  And I picked up the phone...

My Bishop told me after ordination, "There will be times you anger or hurt people.  Times you will disappoint people and that is going to be hard for you.  You like to please people all the time and you won't be able to.  Sometimes you won't even be able to defend yourself.  Learn to live with that discomfort."  (Did I mention I have a very wise Bishop who knows me well?)  I suspect this wasn't the first time someone has been upset with me, but it's the first time it hurt so deeply and it was the first time I felt so terrible about  my role in his hurt.  I was so grateful that this was not one of those times I couldn't speak up, and so I called him.  My hands shook, my voice probably cracked (for the record I didn't cry until after talking to him) and we talked.  We shared our lenses and I hope I honored his because I really do understand it.  More importantly I pray our relationship hasn't been fractured beyond repair but that is for time to tell.  And possibly one of the most important things I learned is that we all have lenses through which we view the world and through which we hear and read things, and because of that misunderstandings and pain, deep anguished pain, often unintentionally result.  I have written before about the power of words Sticks and Stones and The Power of Words (and probably some others) but this time I was knocked flat.

Even after our phone conversation I couldn't let it go; I was desperate to understand to be able to fix this for everyone and so I began re reading the article from every lens I could imagine.  I reread it from the lens of the priest in the parish (keeping in mind we don't actually know what really happened in that office).  I remembered the spring of 2009 when I was interning at St. Mark's, my parents were going through a divorce, I was in my first semester of seminary and both our boys were in and out of the hospital with severe asthma.  In and out of the hospital via ambulance, PICU--serious stuff.  I wouldn't leave them except to go to class because I was and am still haunted by the time I left Caroline and she wound up well-- that's another story and irrational but it's why I wouldn't leave.  I would sit on the floor in the hall outside of their rooms until very late at night and very early in the morning reading and writing papers so I didn't get behind.  I was exhausted but I refused to let anything go.  One day when neither was in the hospital I was sitting in my office at St Marks when Charles came in and knelt down beside me.  "Sometimes," he said with tears in his eyes, "Not often but sometimes as priests we have to take a more firm role--almost a parental role.  And this is one of those times.  I think you need to talk to the Bishop and to Isaac and withdraw from CPE this summer. (CPE is an intense three months of hospital chaplaincy and I had just learned I was accepted to my first choice.)  You are emotionally and physically exhausted and you need to just be with your family.  Go to the beach for the whole summer and just be."  Oh I was furious!!!  What right did he have to tell me what I should do?  I was in control; I was succeeding--I had good grades and I wasn't letting my family down. Laundry and ironing were done, meals were on the table, I made sure the children got to every activity they had, and I was at every ballet performance, basketball game.  I was FINE; my family was FINE!  (Oh that pride thing again)  Charles left the office and I know I called people and let them know how rude he was, how angry I was, how I wasn't going to let him tell me what to do.  I probably found people who agreed with me, told me it was none of his business--I can't remember that; I was too tired.

Just three weeks later I was sitting in our apartment (did I mention we also discovered the boys were allergic to our house so we had to move within 48 hours? And we moved into seminary housing 900 square feet for a family of six.), Chris was out of town, and the school called.  William had again stopped breathing and was on his way to Kosair.  I jumped in the car and I can tell you exactly where I was, what I was wearing and what song was on the radio when I called Charles sobbing and said, "Please get me out of CPE.  Please, please I can't take anymore."  He's never told me how he "got me out of it" but he did.  He didn't make it my responsibility.  He took care of me; I was deferred for a year.  I arrived at the hospital and shortly thereafter Charles walked in.  He took me in his arms and let me cry.  He never said, "I told you so."  He never spoke of it again; he was and is my priest and my friend.

I suppose that lens I read through was both the lens of the priest as well as the lens of someone who it seems that like Ned was angered and hurt by the church.  (Again I don't know what really happened just what I've read.)  But through that lens I also saw the compassion and love the priest in the article was showing to Ned.  And I saw how hard that conversation must have been for both.  And I know that Charles and I are still in relationship so even though difficult conversations sometimes have to happen, I know, I have seen, there is power in love and in honest loving mutual relationships.

I go back to my original post and I believe it is even more clear.  People hurt one another; they deeply wound one another sometimes in ways that in this world may not be able to be reconciled.  No one is free of the ability to hurt--to unintentionally hurt.  We can hurt others even when we believe we are acting in love, even when we believe we are showing God's love, even when there is nothing within us that would ever want to hurt others.  And I think hurt that comes through the church is the most painful hurt out there.  I know I have been hurt and I know I have hurt others.  It pains me deeply--I haven't found the ability to live with the discomfort. I'm not sure I ever will.  

I don't know what other fallout there may be from this article.  I don't know who else has been hurt or who else has been uplifted by the article  But I believe in God's powerful redeeming and reconciling love.  And I believe ultimately love wins.