Living with Regret and Learning to Be Gentle

I embarrassed my son last night.  I know, I know--parents always say, "We are supposed to embarrass our kids.  It's our job."  But this was different.  This was beyond that; this was devastating to him; this was something I could have prevented and I didn't.  He wanted--he needed last night to be wonderful, and I ruined it.  

I knew it then and I knew it this morning.  It broke--correction--it breaks my heart over and over.  I apologized; we talked; he said he forgave me.  I don't forgive myself.  I'm living with regret and shame that I cannot shake off my shoulders.  That's not true; it's been shaken off my shoulders and entered into my body where it joins the other incidents I believe are parental failures, the other incidents I can't release, and they tangle themselves together into one and course through my body entering my heart and my brain where they wreak havoc with my emotions--with my sanity.

These incidents become a part of me.  I carry them with me, and I live with regret.  I can play them in my mind like a silent movie that never ends--the time I yelled at Sarah Katherine when she wouldn't get in the bathtub; the time I told Christopher I was ashamed of him; the time William specifically asked me not to bring up a subject with someone and I did anyway; the time I didn't come home from dinner right away and Caroline ended up in emergency surgery--the movie loops through my mind over and over.  I live with regret, and I live with fear.  My greatest fear--losing one or all of my children.  "Losing" be either through a death or abandonment.  I fear that I am never enough, that consciously or unconsciously I am damaging them.

Okay, before I get overly dramatic--let's just say I am a well functioning adult, but some days, some days these incidents, this movie, these fears overtake me and affect everything.  A couple of hours after my tearful time with my son,  I went to pick out floors. While there I received an email about some work I was doing and asking me to rework some things.  I lost it.  Seriously, standing in the middle of a flooring store picking out new floors for our still wrecked house from the June 9th (yes seriously JUNE 9th and no work has been done) I burst into tears.  That poor woman--she was just trying to help me pick out tile--she looked at me and then around the showroom and said, "I know this is overwhelming, but we can work through it all."  (I suspect the next time someone makes an appointment to come in with an insurance claim from a flood, she's going to call in sick...)

So as today comes to an end, I've been thinking--a lot.  I've been thinking there are probably many people who live with regret everyday.  People who everyday have their own silent movies playing in their minds, and sometimes those movies take over--sometimes those movies become their reality and they respond to something totally unrelated with that movie as their reality.  And then we judge...

As a person of faith, I know we are to take our failures--real and perceived--and lay it at the feet of God.  We are to lay down those movies, walk away and be released.  I believe that; I preach that; I repeat it over and over to people, but I myself know I often turn around and run back where I grab that parcel back up and pack it back into my identity backpack that I try to define and control myself forgetting that God has already taken care of it.  I wonder how many other people do the same?

I received a second email today--from the same cohort.  This email said, "Please be gentle with yourself and know you have the love and support of a community that cares deeply about you."  She didn't know about the other, but she knew how I responded to the first email--and she cared.  I keep rereading that email trying to give it permission to splice the film in my head.  I'm trying, and I hope one day it will work.

Tonight as I'm getting ready to sleep, as I'm getting ready to rejoin a community tomorrow who I have grown to love and I believe has begun to love me, I can't help but wondering.  Who else tonight needs to be told to be gentle with themselves?  I was told to be gentle with myself; I tell people to be gentle with themselves; but I wonder, what if we as a community, if we as people were gentle with others first?  What if we were gentle with others even if we didn't know what movies were playing in their heads but just because being gentle was the way to show the love of God.

Could it be that by being gentle with others, by others being gentle with us. we could learn to be gentle with ourselves?

Boots on the Ground Ministry

I've been thinking a lot lately about lay ministry--specifically I've

been thinking about ministry in the our daily lives--ministry lived from our hearts and souls, ministry that is far more difficult than standing in a pulpit week after week--boots on the ground ministry, and so I've been remembering. Remembering times I've seen it--reflecting.....

With four active children, over the years I've spent a lot of time in hospital emergency rooms, not to mention I served as a chaplain at a  level 1 trauma hospital one summer--a great place to see boots on the ground ministry....

I remember one night in particular.  It was a Sunday evening probably a little after 7 or 8--still light outside.  A car pulled up to the ambulance dock and I saw two people struggling to help a young male walk from the car to the door. He was crying and clearly intoxicated.  As they were struggling an EMT approached the couple and started trying to help.  "Good," I thought, "Someone to help."  But...

He grabbed the young man and was a little rougher than I expected him to be.  Then he starts talking (and I could hear because he wasn't being confidentially quiet), "What's his problem?  Boy you better get moving or we're going to throw you down.  We're going to have to jam a tube down your throat. What kind of mess have you gotten yourself in?  What did you think was fun to take today?" I was stunned.  Now I understand, this man had probably been working all day; I understand he has probably seen and dealt with more drunks and addicts than I ever want to; he's probably fed up.  But I saw the woman's eyes.

This wasn't just another drunk or addict.  This was her son, her baby and she was scared.  Maybe she's been dealing with this for years or maybe (and I learned this to be true) this was the first time she was walking through these doors with this problem, but she was bringing her son in for help--help she couldn't give him.  The days of bandaids and a kiss on the boo boo were long gone.

I suspect she felt powerless--totally helpless; I suspect she wanted to scream at the man, "Stop treating my son like that. He's my little boy. This isn't who he really is.  He's a good boy, and I love him.  Every word you say is piercing my heart and soul. You don't know him.  He's not a bum; he made a mistake; he's a little boy, my little boy." but as I saw her eyes well up with tears and saw her stroking her son's back I knew she wouldn't say anything because this man now had the power, and she wouldn't do anything to make his treatment worse.  She knew her power was gone and to remain silent was the best choice to receive the care he needed.

(Sometimes you do have to scream--when my son was in a hospital in North Georgia for stitches and the doctor was threatening to restrain him in a not so kind way, I may have become the two headed mommy monster and I may have made a few threats including throwing out my maiden name...it worked--perhaps another blog--)

They approached the clerk who looked up, looked at the woman, looked at the young man and said, "We're going to take care of him.  I need some information.  Can you help me? Can you answer some questions?"  The mother's eyes spilled tears as she began stammering and trying to find information from her wallet all the while clutching her son's hand.  "I don't know what he's taken; it happened so fast. I thought he was okay." she said. She had to let go of her son's hand in order to open her wallet, and as she extricated her hand from his he began grabbing for her and crying harder repeating over and over, "Mommy don't leave me.  Please don't leave me. I'm so sorry; I'm so scared."  Her tears flowed, and I saw her hands shaking--wanting to hold onto him and knowing she had to let go.

It was hard to see--cut straight to my heart.  I thought about my own children and how long it had been since they called me Mommy.  I remembered how sad I was when they made the switch from "Mommy" to "Mama."  I remembered my own son clinging to me as I dropped him off at preschool and how hard that was, and I thought, this has got to be way harder.  It made me wonder why I even went through that everyday during preschool.  Why didn't I just keep him home with me?

As I was thinking about my own children as toddlers I imagine this woman might have been as well. I suspect this woman suddenly saw her young adult son as the little boy she had reared.  I thought about how she was having to let go of his hand to help him and thought, I bet when he was a little boy and she wanted to hold his hand crossing the street or whatever he would try to let go, but she knew she had to hold onto him to protect him.  But now, now to help him she was the one who had to let go.  It broke my heart as I saw the pain in her eyes.

I guess it broke the clerk's heart too.  "M'am, I can promise you we are going to help him.  Let me explain exactly what the process is going to be."  About this time the father joined the group; he placed his hand on his son's shoulder so gently as though he would break him if he pressed too hard. I got it.  He just needed to touch him, to know he was still there--to know he was safe--to connect.

The clerk turned to the young man and gently said, "You're going to be okay.  We're going to help you."  She kept talking to the parents softly and with compassion.  And then I heard this, "Here's what is going to happen. We have to take him back to a holding area, and you aren't going to be able to stay with him."  Panic crossed their faces and so she quickly continued, "I'm going to let the nurse know about him; I'm going to let you go back with him and see if they can find you a private room, but there are probably going to be a few minutes you won't be with him.  I promise you we are going to take care of him.  We need to do a tox screen to check his liver....." and she continued talking so kindly as they wheeled the young man away.

I think about those two hospital employees a lot.  I have no idea if either of them are people of faith, but I can tell you that woman was a minister to those people.  That woman treated those people with dignity and respect and compassion and grace.  That woman made a difference; I noticed; I wish I'd told her...

Ministry--boots on the ground--it matters.

Disclaimer: While I put these people's words into quotation marks, I really don't know if they were the exact words. 

My Shopping Mask

I've been shopping a lot this summer--reframe that A LOT!  Oh I

haven't been going to the mall or even to my favorite boutiques--but thanks to online shopping and daily emails advertising "best sales ever," I've done my fair share of getting money back into the economy.

Now to be clear, I haven't just been shopping for myself.  I've bought each of the girls quite a few new things as well--one time I bought the boys some shirts (guess I'll be paying for therapy for them...).  When I first started my summer splurge, I convinced myself it was to reward myself and the girls for being back into exercise.  We needed new clothes to fit our new bodies I contended--that worked for awhile.

As I descended deeper and deeper into my shopping (and into my wallet) I justified it by saying, "I haven't been able to spend as much time with them this summer, and while I know buying them

things doesn't make up for it, at least I feel better."  It did make me feel good; it made me happy to see them smile; it stroked my soul to hear them say "thank you." (They are appreciative enablers....) And then the one package that arrived for Chris gave me "permission" to make another purchase--I mean he bought something, couldn't I?  (These junior high kids I am currently camp chaplain to have NOTHING on me when it comes to rationalization.)

And then....then some stupid, meddling, healthy, annoying person gave me this packet of "behaviors" for co-addicts or some other irritating title.  Basically a list of "unhealthy" (yeah what do they know) behaviors that people who are living with or have lived with an addict can find themselves falling into when their lives seem out of control.  Yep, even us co-dependent, enabling, self righteous al anon types can relapse--who would have known?  And we have all these aggravating support people who point it out to us.  (Why do all these therapists and al-anon people have to have so much literature!!!!)

I started reading the list and checking off those things that I was currently doing.  My face started burning and my hands started shaking.  Our of three pages of "activities" I was dabbling in all but 4 or 5.  (I don't know how many there really are because I hightailed to my therapist with list in hand, and guess what we're going to be talking about for the next FOREVER sessions?!?!?!)  One of the things was overspending--I tried to argue with myself, "I've always like clothes."  That's true, but why this summer?  Why right now?  Why to this excess?

This week I have been privileged to again serve as junior high camp chaplain.  We have been talking about hiding behind masks.  We made masks out of plaster gauze (thank you Cindy Sullivan for the idea) and on the inside wrote all the things we were hiding about ourselves. (No one else saw them) On the outside others wrote the qualities they see in us. Some were shocked at what others saw. I stood before these young men and women telling them God loves them no exceptions.  God loves them with their brokenness, their vulnerabilities, their weaknesses and God sees in them goodness and love just like their fellow campers see in them.  And I do believe it to my very core but....

As I was running I began to think about my shopping(seriously, why do I run?!?!?!), and it occurred to me, new clothes, new accessories--these were my masks.  I'd see a picture of a happy, healthy, fashionable person wearing an outfit, and I'd want to be her.  I wanted to look carefree and problem free, insecurity free, vulnerable free (I also like to make up phrases).  I wanted to look like because I wanted to feel like I had it all together, like my life was one big happy perfect world where I was in total control.  That's what I really wanted....

Last night these incredibly courageous youth took off their masks.  They
walked into the labyrinth masks in hand and when they reached the center they left them there.  They took all of themselves--the hidden broken parts and the parts that others saw and they didn't necessarily recognize, and they gave them all to God.  They left them with God where God will bind up their brokenness and wounds and make their whole being holy and good.  And then they walked out with tears streaming down their faces; they huddled on the ground their arms around one another, comforting one another, loving one another, recognizing each others unspoken vulnerabilities and insecurities, but mostly seeing in each other what God sees--holy people created in God's image worthy of love and acceptance despite or maybe because of those hidden parts of ourselves.

This morning I am still shaken by the bravery I saw last night.  I am humbled by the example these young people have been and continue to be for me.  I thought I want to take off my mask, but how?  I can't return all these clothes--some of them have been worn and besides they were mostly bought on final clearance (I'm a thrifty shopping addict).

But I can write this--

What masks do you need to take off?

Remembering Fredrick

I will never forget the first time I met Fredrick Baker.  I had been working at Calvary Episcopal Church for less than 2 weeks, the bell rang, and I went to answer the door.  "Hey Preacher Lady," this elderly gaunt man with a smile on his face that could light up the night shouted, "I've come to get my sardines."  I must have looked confused (I'm pretty sure a common look for me), so he added, "Just ask Anita.  Tell her Freddie is here. She'll know where they are."  And he was right.  I handed him his sardines as he explained to me that because of his chemo it was all he could eat.  "I've got cancer," he told me. As he turned to go holding his pants up with one hand and the sardines in the other, he said, "I'll be back tomorrow Preacher Lady.  I've got to get some new pants."

Sure enough, Freddie was back the next morning and Miss Bonnie helped him find some new pants. "Preacher Lady," (Yes Freddie was the one who bestowed that name upon me--a name many of my new friends in downtown Louisville still use.  A name I treasure as much as my name given to me by the youth of All Saints--Mama Doyle.) Freddie said to me, "I have to come every week or so to get new pants because I keep losing weight."  And sure enough, he did.  Sometimes we wondered if we were going to have to start altering them ourselves he was losing so much weight.

Over the next 2 1/2 years I learned so much about Freddie (or Skippy as some people called him). I loved talking to Freddie and was always amazed at his vocabulary.  One day one of my sons was with me at work when Freddie walked in, "Is this your boy Preacher Lady?" he asked.  "Yes Freddie," I responded and introduced them.  As Freddie shook my son's hand with that room lighting smile on his face he said, "Listen to Preacher Lady, stay in school, don't do drugs."  As he walked away my son asked me about Freddie and I told him what I knew.  "Freddie had a full life," I began, "He had a Masters in Social Work but he got involved in drugs and lost everything.  Now he's dying from cancer.  It's really sad."  My son turned to me and said, "He doesn't look sad to me--just looks like he needs to put on a little weight."

After that day I started looking at Freddie differently.  I started seeing what my son saw--a man who despite his life was indeed happy.  Every day wasn't perfect for Freddie.  There were times he was agitated, angry and argumentative.  But he always came back later and apologized.  "Preacher Lady," he would say, "Sometimes I just get mean. I'm sorry."

One Sunday I was celebrating the Eucharist at the 8 am service.  I saw Freddie come through the doors of the church and sit in the last pew.  I was so relieved as it had been weeks since I'd seen him. When the invitation was extended I watched as Freddie made his way down the aisle.  I wasn't sure he was going to make it, but slowly and stopping frequently he continued.  He knelt in front of me; I leaned over and kissed his cheek (not a liturgical act but one I always did with Freddie), "I'm glad to see you," I whispered, "I've been worried."  "Just got out of the hospital this morning Preacher Lady." he whispered back as he pulled his shirt up to show me his new tumor on his side.  "This one hurts," he told me.  "The Body of Christ," I said as I tried to hide the tears that sprang to my eyes.  I moved on but kept looking back at Freddie.

He was struggling to get up.  I tried to get the attention of someone, anyone with my eyes--apparently the eye focus only works with my children--I sat the paten on the altar, stepped through the gate, took Freddie's hand (his other hand hitching up his pants) and together we walked down the steps.  When we reached the bottom of the steps he whispered, "I can make it from here."  He leaned over, kissed my cheek and said, "I like you Preacher Lady."

As I returned to the altar, I could no longer hide my tears thinking, "I like you too Freddie."  I was distracted as I was cleaning up wondering what would happen to Freddie and how we would know if he needed us.  To be honest, I wondered how we would know when Freddie died as was inevitably going to happen.  I worried that he would be scared and alone.

Last week I learned that Freddie did indeed die, and he wasn't alone.  He was with a person or people who chose for whatever reason to beat him and then to toss his body like he was worth nothing. (Freddie's Homicide)  He was with a person or people who didn't see that wide bright smile because they were too busy treating him like he was worthless, and as I read the article I cried because my worst fears seemed to be true--Freddie died not alone but he was probably afraid.  I don't know who you are who were with Freddie at the end, abusing him like he was a rag doll, but I do know he was worth something--he was worth everything.  He was and is a child of God and he was and is loved.

I can't stop thinking about Freddie.  I can't stop thinking about his life and his death.  I can't stop thinking about how he changed the world--not through or rather just through his professional life of social work--but in how he faced his trials with a smile on his face.  I want to see him one more time; I want to kiss his cheek and whisper, "I like you Freddie."


Tonight there will be a vigil on the library steps at 5 pm for all those who have been victims of violence in Louisville. Freddie's viewing will be at Calvary Episcopal Church tonight from 5-8 with his funeral on Saturday at 11 am.  May Freddie's soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.

Ask the Clergy--A Tribute to All Saints (and a little bit of a plea....)

This is my fourth year as chaplain for junior high camp at All Saints; additionally I have served several times as chaplain for fall and spring gatherings.  One of the campers' favorite parts is “Ask the Clergy” which happens at the end of the day. (Must admit as clergy we sometimes come to the box with fear and trembling….)

It’s a box—looks like just a simple cigar box with a not so well drawn picture on top—but this box is far from simple.  Throughout the day campers (and sometimes staff) write anonymous questions and the clergy read and answer them each evening.  There are no limits as to what can be asked.  Some of questions previously asked are

·      Is God a man or woman?

·      Why is there evil?

·      Is homosexuality a sin?

·      What if sometimes I don’t believe in God?

·      If I’m no longer a virgin will I go to hell?

·      Is divorce a sin?

·      Is it a sin to have an erection in church?

·      What if someone likes me and I don’t feel the same about them?

·      How old should you be before you kiss someone?

·      Should I tell on someone who cheats in school?

We answer each and every one.  Sometimes we do wonder if they’re trying to embarrass us (they are in junior high), but we take each question seriously and answer it as completely as possible; we answer it through a theological lens hopefully modeling theological reflection.  I for one would rather err on the side that whatever question is put in the box is truly a question and answer it than risk what so often happens to youth—they are ridiculed, assumptions are made,  and their questions are buried deeper and deeper within themselves where they struggle alone.  (And we wonder why youth and young adults leave the Church?)

Last night I opened the box and there were only 2 questions—okay let me be honest there was one from a camper and one staged from staff (there was concern about “what if someone likes me and I don’t like them” circulating so this was a way to address it).  I thought it would be a quick night and I must admit I was slightly relieved (my cohort was dealing with some other things and I was alone….).  The second question asked “Why is there hell?”  “Whew” I thought, “Deep but I can handle these.”  I answered the questions, closed the box and began to stand up.  And then…

Hands started going up.  These rising 6^th, 7^th and 8^th graders started asking questions—deep, hard, sometimes controversial questions aloud—face to face--full disclosure of the askee.  (Is that even a word?) And you couldn’t hear a pin drop.  These youth were asking the hard questions and listening; they were asking the hard questions we as a Church need to be openly asking and talking about and they were respectfully listening, asking follow up questions—engaged. 

Thirty minutes later the questions stopped and it was time for Compline (another All saints tradition).  When I asked for intercessions either aloud or silently I heard many things—one stuck out and brought tears to my eyes, “Thank you for All Saints camp.”

This morning as I was running I thought about last night and how remarkable and how powerful it really was.  I thought about the courage these young men and women had, and I wondered why.  It didn’t take me long to realize it’s because of what All Saints is—a safe place. All Saints is away from the rest of their lives—a place to be open, to reflect, and to be loved unconditionally.  It is a place away from parents and other authority figures whom they think they have to impress or whom they are worried about offending.  It is a place where there questions are encouraged, valued, and taken seriously. It is a place to try on new things—canoeing, kayaking, hiking, camping, arts and crafts, Bible study, prayer and theological thinking.  All Saints is a safe place where all are valued, all are respected, all are included.  All Saints is what the world should be, and yet it’s not.

As I ran back through the gates I thought, “We have to save All Saints.  It has to be here for these kids and for future generations.  It is crucial for the Church as we form disciples of Christ.  It is crucial for the Church as young men and women learn how to engage in theological, controversial, difficult conversations—conversations that have to keep happening; conversations that will keep happening whether we can have them civilly are not.”  I have watched some of these youth since they started junior high camp three years ago; I have watched them grow and change; I have watched them struggle; and I have watched them become their own people with their own faith. Last night these young men and women showed me what it means to be Church in its best sense. 

*I didn’t intend for this blog to be a stewardship campaign for All Saints, but…

            

Honor, Humility and Health Care--a Paradox in Which I Live

"You're dad's a doctor; you're rich."  Those are words I often heard as a child.  They were confusing.  I certainly didn't feel rich; I looked around our comfortable home but never called it a "mansion."  How could I be rich?  I was the preteen wearing banana colored chinos because Mama only bought off the sale rack--surely rich girls have regular colored chinos and probably more than one pair! Nonetheless, these were the words I heard over and over whenever someone found out Daddy was a doctor....

As I got older and listened to my parents, the words were given more explanation always preceeded by, "Make no mistake we are not rich."  "There is a difference between private practice and academic medicine." I was told.  "Private practice you get paid per patient and academic medicine you get a salary no matter how many patients you see.  And besides Daddy works for the state--he's a government employee."  (I recognize this was VERY SIMPLIFIED for me and it was also surrounded by conflict between my parents...)  Bottom line, I knew my daddy being a doctor did not guarantee we were monetarily rich...

But we were rich--we were rich in ways I had no idea.  We were rich in medical privilege; for a long time, I just didn't understand it.

Here's what I did know

• We didn't pay co-pays--professional courtesy they called it--insurance only
• We didn't wait in the waiting room at the ER (I will never forget when my sister cut her finger shortly after being married.  She called us and said, "I had to wait for hours to get it looked at."  (Love you Meredith...)
• We didn't have to get referrals to see specialists
• We didn't have to wait months and months for appointments

But what I didn't know was others did...

There was so much I didn't know.  I have had 8 knee surgeries (yes you read that right--8). After the first my parents decided I needed to see an expert so off to Columbus Georgia we went and then later to Birmingham, AL where I saw Dr. James Andrews.  He was great--I liked him, but I didn't realize who he was.  I didn't realize people wait months if not years to get into see him. (Renowned Orthopedic Surgeon)  I sort of got the clue when I was scheduled for my 4th surgery and my time was bumped back a couple of hours because the Prince of Saudi Arabia need to be the first case due to security reasons....

When Chris and I were getting married we were told I most likely would not be able to conceive on my own--(and no smart alecs that didn't mean I just needed Chris' help).  While this worried me a great deal, my world famous reproductive endocrinologist reminded me that the insurance we had covered 100% of any--yes you read that right ANY infertility treatment including invitro.  (For years he would pass Daddy in the hall, shake his head and say, "I just don't get it."  Daddy would respond with either, "Well she's pregnant again." or "Let me show you pictures.")

It was around this time some of my privilege began to niggle at me.  Some of it made me just a tad uncomfortable; why was I given special treatment?--When I was in labor with SK (FOR HOURS AND HOURS) there was a sign put on the door, "Do not disturb--no residents permitted."  I gave birth to her at the Medical College of Georgia--a teaching hospital, but no one was learning on me.  I wanted to nurse her immediately upon delivery which was not standard hospital practice--it was for me.  And then the most disturbing...

I was in my room trying to get some sleep when there was a knock on the door.  A smiling young woman came in and began talking to me about WIC and Right from the Start Medicaid.  She handed me brochures and oohed and ahhed over SK.  (Who by the way was a beautiful baby--that perfect head makes a c-section almost worth it.)  This kind young woman was asking me how I was feeling and if there was anything she could do for me as the door burst open, "What are you doing in here?" a nurse bellowed, "Do you have any idea who this is?  This is DR. KANTO'S daughter--get out!!"  The young woman turned bright red, began apologizing and slithered out...I did nothing.

That scene has haunted me for years.  Why didn't I speak up?  Who cares who my daddy is?  This woman was doing her job; she was kind; she was professional.  Why did I let her leave feeling humiliated when she did nothing but treat me with dignity and respect long before she "knew who I was."  I so wish I knew her name...

It's been a process.  I'll admit it; I have used my privilege--my maiden name over the years.  I have made sure my children had the best care--any trip to the ER is preceded by a call to Daddy so he can let them know we're coming.  Any specialist we needed to see was vetted by Daddy before we went--and there have been many times we were extended that "professional courtesy."  And I am ashamed to admit that when Caroline was attacked by a dog and needed over 75 stitches in her face I wasn't the kindest person when I said, "Are you a resident?"  "Yes m'am" he responded.  "Well you're going to need to go and find someone else.  There is no way you are touching my daughter."  (And I didn't say it kindly or with respect...)

I have used my privilege, but what I wonder is why can't everyone have the same privilege?  Why can't everyone have the same access to the quality care?  Why can't everyone be treated like they're important--like they're somebody's child?  Cause guess what?  They are--we are all beloved children of God and as such we--each and everyone of us is deserving of dignity and respect.  

It's a tension I live in--a paradox I am not always proud to be a part of, but one that exists in my life.   And it is why being appointed to the Family Health Centers matters so much to me.  I don't have a lot to offer--I'm not a doctor, a successful business person (ask Chris about my financial expertise ;) ) or a marketing genius.  What I do have to offer is my experience of privilege in the medical field, my discomfort with that experience, my belief that everyone should have the same access to medical care and money should not be a barrier to caring for ourselves and our families, and possibly most importantly my deep, non-negotiable belief that ALL PEOPLE regardless of circumstance are worthy of dignity and respect in all areas of their lives.  I am so humbled and honored--