Triggered--How Dare You!?!?!

My whole body responded last night, and I felt my mind shut down and then explode.

Today it's worse. I feel sick to my stomach and heartbroken for so many, myself included, who heard what came across to me, as an attack last night. My hands are shaking as I'm trying to type.

I don't want to rehash the whole thing. You can read about it here. (Biden's Son's Story) Here's the gist--in a debate or let's call it a job interview, a man's son's addiction was "outed" for all the world to hear presumably (or how I heard it) to question the man's parenting ability and thus his ability to hold the job. For many of us hearing those statements, the job, whatever it may be in our own lives, and our ability to do it is no longer the focus. Instead, we hear yet again, "If only you'd been a better parent. You are a failure. You are not enough."

News alert--we've already asked ourselves the question of what we could have done "better" over and over and over. Sometimes we understand we did our best and addiction is a disease, and sometimes we see something or hear something that puts us right back into that place of believing the "if I'd only...." We've already spent hours and hours believing we were failures, and with the help of others have slowly crawled out of that hole. Thank you for trying to push us back down. 

For those of us with children in recovery, sometimes we are laughing and smiling and so relieved our child is healthy and let's just name it alive, and sometimes we close the bathroom door, turn on the shower, and shake and sob because we are terrified (often for no good reason) our child is using again. We don't need to be reminded of those long dark days, months, and sometimes years--they are permanent parts of our bodies. They are permanent scars on our hearts. But thank you for announcing to the world there are people who also will never forget and will use it against us over and over. Thank you for making it okay for people to use our pain against us. Thank you for making sure we continue to be demonized and judged. 

And as for our children in recovery or even still in addiction? HOW DARE YOU!?!?!? How dare you

continue to bring up their past--often embellished (that's my priestly way of saying f***ing lies)? How dare you say their names in public places using them to hurt us? How dare you insinuate addiction deserves to be punished for the rest of their lives or that it means people are weak or less than? How dare you out a family's private pain for your benefit? How dare you?!?!?! Go after me; go after my qualifications, but keep your f***ing mouth shut about my child.

I cannot speak for those in recovery from a first-person perspective. I can say I know it is hard freaking work. I don't know if last night people in recovery were triggered as I was. My guess is some were, and my heart hurts for them. I want you to know although I may not know your names, I'm carrying them in my heart. I want you to know you are amazing and strong and loved. Hold your head high, keep fighting your fight, you are braver and stronger than anyone I know--and definitely braver and stronger than anyone who uses your story to make themselves look better. 

Yes, I was triggered last night by one person, but he is not the only one who does this to families who have dealt with or are dealing with addiction. Last night I was triggered, and now I'm mad. Really, really, really mad.

An Unlikely Encounter at a Protest

Wednesday, while protesting with my daughter following the press conference given by the Grand Jury and Attorney General Cameron, (I write about it here) I saw several people I

haven't seen in months or years but who I love dearly. One of these reunions...well read on.

I was standing with Caroline in the street just behind the yellow caution tape. We started hearing a bullhorn and a police officer saying we needed to disburse or be arrested. I've got to admit, I haven't been to many protests (count them on one hand), but I was very confused. No one was doing anything except standing there and occasionally chanting and yet they were saying they were going to arrest us. I looked around, and there were far less people than there are on a typical Friday night on Bardstown Rd. Apparently, I wasn't the only one confused. Several people started shouting, "What have we done?" After much unproductive back and forth, an officer (not the one with the bullhorn) came over and said, "Please just get out off the street and onto the sidewalk." So we did. (To be completely transparent, another officer was trying to force people off the sidewalk as well. He was pulled back by a fellow officer.)

Now I've got to admit, I was completely flummoxed. Behind us were at least 30-40 police cars parked with their lights flashing. Obviously the road was closed, so why did it matter if we were standing in the road or on the sidewalk? I wasn't the only one confused. Lots of people were asking the question. Let me be clear--lots of people were asking each other the question, and shouting at the police.

I'm not good at not having answers. 

I looked back down the street where the police cars were and saw four LMPD officers walking up. (Let me paint the picture. In front of me was yellow caution tape and oodles of police officers standing at attention batons in hand. Behind me were all the police cars with lights flashing. That is the direction I was facing when I saw the four officers without batons approaching.) Two were on the sidewalk and two were on the side of the street. They were smiling and talking with people in the crowd.

I moved towards them. (I think Caroline may have tried to stop me--not an uncommon occurrence. My young adult children are never quite sure what I'm going to do and often are not thrilled about it. But as one of my friend's told Caroline years ago--she birthed you so...") 

The officers were answering questions others were asking. I heard one explaining they were part of the community engagement unit of LMPD. Read about the Community Engagement Unit here I waited until they finished explaining what that was and said, "May I ask y'all a question?" They nodded, so I continued, "I'm really not trying to be a smart ass. I really just want to understand. I'm not trying to create any problems." (One of my "issues" is being overly concerned about offending people. Can I get an "Amen" from my British friends? How many conversations did I start in the schoolyard with, "I'm not criticizing; I just really want to know...") Anyway, I must have gone on for an inordinate amount of time because one of the officers said, "M'am, what's your question?" Snapped back into reality I said, "Oh, I don't understand why we can't be in the street when clearly the street is closed because of all the cars parked in the way as well as the area blocked off with caution tape. How is it different than if we were marching in a parade?" 

A look of relief crossed the faces of the two standing in front of me. "It's for your safety M'am." one officer stated, "During protests sometimes there are drivers who won't stop even though the road is blocked and a car could plow into the parked police cars pushing them forward into pedestrians. We don't worry about that during parades." "Thank you," I said, "That makes sense." A second officer said, "M'am, are you the priest at St. Thomas on Westport Rd?" I nodded yes, but before I could ask him how he knew that I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard, "Mrs. Doyle?"

I turned around and might have--okay I did--shrieked. I threw my arms around the neck of the officer standing there and he hugged me right back. It was Officer Ivan Haygood, but in my world, he was Coach Haygood or just Haygood.

I haven't seen Coach Haygood probably since 2015. He was my sons' basketball coach at LCS. During those years we often talked about faith and his dream of becoming a police officer. Those were good conversations, but most importantly during that time I was privileged to have conversations with a man with integrity, a love of basketball, and true concern not only for my sons but for all the young men he coached. He pushed them to be better on and off the court. He cared about developing them into basketball players who excelled, but he really cared about helping them to develop into being excellent men. And he did it with the most beautiful smile you've ever seen.

We stood on the sidewalk catching up as quickly as we could before he had to move on. We embraced again, and he was gone. As he walked away one of the protestors standing with me chuckled and said, "Well now that's not what you expect at a protest. A priest and a police officer with their arms around each other." Someone else said (in a joking manner), "I think you've missed the point of this protest." We all smiled, enjoyed the moment of levity, and began to chant and march.

My heart is still full after seeing Coach (Officer) Haygood. I might have even spent some time stalking him on Facebook and in the news to see what he's been up to. I also keep thinking about those comments. Even though the comments were made lightheartedly, my heart is heartbroken that a priest and a police officer hugging at a protest sounds like the start of a bad (Dad) joke. "A priest and a police officer met at a protest..." 

Officer Haygood and I embraced as two human beings who have loved and respected each other and as people who love and respect other people. The collar I wear and the uniform he wears does not or should not change who we are as people created in the image of God who love one another, respect one another, and want the best for all of humanity. I know that is what I want, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, it's what Haygood wants too.

I don't want to simplify all the complexities that are driving us to the streets day after day. I know justice needs to be served and hasn't yet. I know all people, particularly people of color,  are still not treated with dignity and respect. I know there are systems of injustices that need to be dismantled, and I want to be a part of the process. I will continue to stand up and to show up, and I will continue to seek the humanity and strive to see the image of God in everyone else who shows up as well--regardless of which side of the caution tape they are standing.

Protests, Heartbreak, Humanity and God's Love

Yesterday afternoon, after the Grand Jury and the Attorney General held their press conferences where they announced one officer would be indicted for wanton

endangerment for shooting into a neighboring apartment and not because Breonna Taylor died, my daughter called and asked me if I would go to the protest with her. Without a second thought, I responded, "Of course. On my way home and we'll go."

On the drive over to Bardstown Rd. we heard media reports of "violent clashes between the protesters and the police." That is not what we walked up to.

Part of the street was blocked on two sides with close to 40 police cars on each side--lights flashing. In the middle of the blocked-off road were several people seated and handcuffed. The protesters where we stood were chanting, but there was no violence. 

Caroline and I moved to the front--notice I didn't say pushed our way to the front--there was no need to push--there simply weren't that many people there and those who were were not pushing and shoving. As we stood at the tape my eyes went to a man seated on the ground, handcuffed, and bleeding profusely from his head. I did not see what happened. A man next to me said he had been kicked in the head by the police at least 6 times. I did not see it. What I saw was a man injured, lying in the street bleeding, and no one doing anything.

A few minutes later we saw a stretcher coming through. The police lifted the handcuffed man to the stretcher and strapped him down. They moved to the side of the street close to where we stood. The man was crying, shouting out his name, and saying, "Where was God? God has abandoned us!" I could not, as a priest in the church, stand by. 

I tried to lift the tape and go to the man. I just wanted to put my hands on him, pray a prayer for healing, and let him know that while he felt deserted by God, God was present in all these people who were standing with and for him. I was told to move back. 

I kept saying, "I'm a priest. I just want to pray with him. Please let me come through." (Yes, I was in my collar.) I made eye contact with one very young LMPD officer. I begged him to let me through. I saw compassion in his eyes, and he walked over to another officer (I'm assuming his commanding officer) and spoke to him. That officer shook his head. The young man returned to his post and would no longer make eye contact with me. I kept begging to be allowed through. As my emotions ramped up, I didn't use the best language. I apologize for that.

I looked over at my daughter; I felt the collar around my neck; and as a mother and a priest, I could not do nothing. Let me be clear, this is not about me. I have many colleagues who would have done the same and more. I know many laypeople who would have done more. I am not out there protesting every day, but in that moment I knew what I had to do. When I was ordained I made multiple vows. My daughter was there. She heard me make those vows, and now she stood next to me. The two vows I thought of at that moment were, "Will you undertake to be a faithful pastor to all whom you are called to serve, laboring together with them and with your fellow ministers to build up the family of God?" and "Will you persevere in prayer, both in public and in private, asking God's grace, both for yourself and for others, offering all your labors to God, through the mediation of Jesus Christ, and in the sanctification of the Holy Spirit?" (BCP, p. 532)  This man deserved and deserves dignity and respect. This man deserved to be prayed for and with. I gave my phone and the car keys to Caroline and prepared to move.

As the stretcher came through I approached and was pushed back. "Please," I pleaded, "I'm a priest. I just want to pray with him. There is nothing in my hands." I was pushed with a baton and told if I didn't step back I would be arrested. (I was not hurt.) Should have I continued to approach? I don't know. That is a question I will consider for days and weeks to come. I didn't approach, but I continued to walk along the sidewalk reciting prayers as loudly as I could. I waited until he was loaded into the ambulance and then turned to go back to my daughter.

At that moment a man came up next to me. He stepped into the road and was embraced by the very officer who had pushed me with his baton. No one told him to get back. No one pushed him. The man who had stepped into the street stepped back and said to me pointing to the officer,  "That man is a good guy. He volunteers with me at the Y. He helps underprivileged children." Then he continued, "And thank you for what you did walking with that man and saying prayers." I nodded and moved on.

I am still processing. But here's where I am this morning. I am heartbroken the bleeding man was not given the human right to be prayed for and with. I am heartbroken he was lifted into the ambulance believing God had abandoned him. I am heartbroken there was a young officer, who I believe wanted to do the right thing and let me through, and was told no, and then he couldn't look me in the eye. I am heartbroken an officer either felt threatened by a middle-aged white woman priest half his size, (yes wearing a monogrammed color and pearls) or ignored the dignity and respect of the bleeding man as a child of God because of a broken system--a system which over and over dehumanizes people, particularly people of color. I am heartbroken those officers chose procedure over humanity and love. 

But I believe in the resurrection. I believe God will prevail. I believe that "neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." (Romans 8:38-39) And I believe that love is more powerful than any system the world has or will create. 

And I pray, "Come Lord Jesus" sooner rather than later please. 

Football is Indeed Holy

I try not to be the kind of person that is cynical and obnoxiously opinionated and most of all a judgemental person of faith. Sunday I realized, every fall, I have been all of the above.

Chris and I were sitting at a bar, (outside bar with masks on) waiting for our lunch as our beloved Steelers took the field. I have no idea who it was, but as they ran out of the tunnel, one player pointed to the sky and made the sign of the cross. Normally, I would have scoffed and said either aloud (oh far too many times...) or mumbled under my breath, "Good grief." (I'm trying to make my typical comments G rated here) "That is so sacrilegious. God isn't going to intervene and help you win this game. God has way more important things to do than deal with a football game." (More important things like deal with hypocritical, judgemental priests...) Well, apparently this weekend God was dealing with me because that's not at all what I thought.

Instead, I thought about how wrong I have been. `First, I have no idea what the faith is of these people I have criticized. I have no idea where their hearts are. I have no idea whether they are praying to God to help them win or whether, hold your hat--or your helmet, they are pledging to play to the best of their ability using the talent given to them by God. I have no idea if they are promising God to play to bring God glory. Bottom line, I have no idea...

Colossians 3:17 says, "and whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him." and 1 Corinthians 10:31 says, "So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do everything for the glory of God." So, why doesn't that include football? And who am I to limit God--to judge how much, how many things, God has the capacity to deal with at one time. (Spoiler alert--the answer is an infinite number of things.) Who am I to decide what "important things" God chooses to pay attention to?

I beleive ironing is holy as I pray for those who will wear the clothes or sleep under the sheets I'm ironing. I believe doing my best in any and everything I do, is holy because God is holy and God is present in all things. So yeah, I have changed my mind. God cares about football and football is indeed holy.

Not Just Despair--There's Room for Delight

I woke up this morning at 4:36 am with my heart racing as though I had just come in from a mile sprint. My mind was also in overload but I couldn't slow it down enough to know what it was all about. All I knew was pictures of my children rushed by like a screen saver on speed. Outside a storm raged, and I burrowed under the covers attempting to catch my breath. Now let me be clear--there is nothing going on right now which should have me responding in this way. And yet I was.

Not very smartly, I decided to think about each of the children and imagine what was going on in their lives right now. (I get it--completely dumb, but hey, it was 4:30 in the morning!) They are all young adults living their lives, making choices I may or may not agree with--they are young adults growing into the people God created them to be. "Or not," the evil part of my brain taunted. 

A little bit later I realized there was no going back to sleep, so I got up and tried to journal. That wasn't working so well either, and it was still raining. Before long there was a brief interlude in the rain and Winnie and I set off for a walk on the beach where I planned to have a serious conversation with God.

As I reached the top of the walkway and saw the raging waters a thought suddenly popped into my head. (Let's just call her the Holy Spirit.) "Think about all the ways you delight in your children. Think about all the things they are doing that have you bursting with pride." And so I did. 

Then I heard this, "He brought me out into a broad place; he rescued me because he delighted in me." (Psalm 18:19)  I stood and looked out across the vast expanse of the beach to the wild turbulent waves, and my heart rate slowed, and I was completely at peace. My slowed down heart burst with love and pride as new pictures slowly entered my mind. 

I began to walk, but the Holy Spirit wasn't through with me. "You know," she gently said, "You don't have to only come to me when you're in despair. You don't have to only come to me when you're in need or scared or repentant. I delight in you and want to be in relationship with you during times of joy as well as times of pain. Just as you worry about your children, I worry about you. And just as you delight in your children, I delight in you."

I continued to walk and the sun came out. I watched Winnie chasing birds and waves. I smiled and waved at others enjoying the morning sun after the stormy night. I realized I need to practice this new learning, so I committed to writing down each day at least one thing I did or said that would delight the Lord.

I walked to the pier, slapped it, and turned around. Suddenly the skies turned black and the rain pelted my face, but it was okay. God was with me in the sunshine, and God stayed with me during the storm.

In the storms, in the sunshine, in despair, and in delight--God is there. Guess I just needed a reminder today.

(But did it have to be so early in the morning?)

The Long Lonely Road of Reconciliation

Friday morning I woke up with an emotional hangover. The night before I had a

difficult conversation with someone I love dearly. The truth is this was one of several difficult conversations I have had over the past several weeks with people I love. I knew these conversations would shift our relationship, and I didn't know how. I didn't know if the relationships would be strengthened (my hope) because of our honesty with each other or if there would be a permanent fissure that would color the relationship for weeks, months, years, or forever. I knew I had to get a long run on the beach. I decided to run barefoot--I have always loved that.

Fast forward two miles....

My feet were in agony. There were blisters on the outside of both my heels. I slowed down to a walk. I tried walking in the soft sand. I tried walking in the packed sand. I tried walking in the water. They hurt no matter what. Tears were streaming down my face as I realized there was nothing I could do but walk back. I was at the beach alone. There was no one to call. I had to walk through the pain, and I had to do it alone.

As I painfully walked down the beach I thought about the difficult, honest conversations and the people with whom I had them. I started thinking about what I could do to just "fix" it all--what could I do to make things go back to "normal" and to what was comfortable. The truth is, that's my go-to. Send flowers, bake cookies, take someone out to eat--do whatever to placate, to bandaid, to return to comfort. I don't like the uncertainty. And it's terrifying to think about losing a relationship that is so important to me.

I also knew there was no glossing over any of these conversations. They had happened. They needed to happen. There was a combination of hurt and anger and truth-telling, vulnerability, and authenticity. 

As I was walking and praying and let's be honest crying, I received a text from a dear friend who knew about some of the conversations. She sent me a text that said (roughly), "I just want you to know as you're walking this path you have friends walking with you." I literally stopped and sat right down in the sand.

As my feet throbbed and I re-read the text from my friend, this is what I realized. I set out running barefoot, but I was not used to running barefoot. My feet had yet to develop that walking on the beach toughness I have had before. Over the following week they might get more used to it, but at this point, it just hurt, and there was nothing I could do but walk back, through the pain, and I had to do it alone.

I thought about the conversations and how uncomfortable I was because I was so uncertain about how the relationships were going to change because of them. It was hard. I wasn't used to letting things be. It was painful and scary, but it was something I needed to do--I wasn't used to it and it was uncomfortable. Frankly, it hurt like hell (just like my feet) and scared me to death. 

And I thought about my friend's text. She acknowledged I had to walk this journey. She didn't give me ways to get out of it or even take it over. Just like my walk down the beach. I know I have people who love me, support me, and pray for me, and I know through these people and through my faith, God walks with me. But the truth is, at times, it is still lonely, and it still hurts. And I'd rather find someone to carry me. 

Relationships go through hard times. Deep relationships, authentic relationships, don't ignore the hard stuff--the conversations, the offering of other perspectives. (yeah, three other friends reminded me of that Saturday night) And when these times happen, complete reconciliation is what we, what I want. Guess what? To have reconciliation, there has to be an acknowledgment there was a breakdown in the relationship and because of that the relationship has changed. I think true reconciliation comes when we each do our work, when we each own our part, when we each think about the relationship and how we move forward. Reconciliation comes between 2 people or groups of people, but first you have to walk alone.