Mary Did You Know--Cause I Didn't

I'm writing what I don't want to write for two reasons--okay maybe three. First, I read this this morning. "Feelings of pain and loss clarified, named, spoken aloud and lamented over have never had more of a role to play in our life of faith, corporately and individually, than right now." -Br. Keith Nelson Second, I listened to Brene Brown's podcast talking about the emotion cycle and the need to complete it, and third, it's like having to go to the potty and not being able to think about anything else--until I write, I'm a mess. So here goes...

Last Christmas I heard over and over an interpretation of the song "Mary Did You Know" that I didn't see. Well after it was explained to me I could see how someone might interpret it as mansplaining. But that's not how I hear the song. I hear a person reflecting back on Jesus's life and all the goodness. I hear a person reminding Mary of the goodness of her son not because she doesn't know but because sometimes a mama's heart needs to be reminded that others know too. And I also don't believe when Jesus was born Mary did know all the things Jesus would do. I don't believe Mary knew how much strength it would require for her to walk to the cross and watch her son die. I don't know how she would have lived day by day if she knew what was to come.  

Even after Jesus rose from the dead there were people who hated him. There were people who despite all the good he had done, all the people he had healed, all the love he had showered on others, had nothing kind to say about him. I get that--boy do I get that. In this song, I hear someone taking the time to remind Mary not because she doesn't know but so she doesn't feel so alone.

Yesterday we went to clean out our son's apartment. Well, finish cleaning it out. Chris had already removed most of the furniture. I had only been there twice before--neither time pleasant. Chris prepared me--actually, Chris offered to do it himself, but I knew that we needed to do this together as we have done most things throughout our married and parenting life. 

We opened the door to the building and were immediately greeted with, or rather punched in the face with the smell of pot. That's how it felt to me--like a punch in the face or the gut--choose your body part. Upstairs there was a loud angry argument happening. I took a deep breath (not too deep) and kept walking.

We took load after load out to the dumpster, and I tried to feel something. I was sure I would either be shaking with rage or tears would be streaming down my face. Neither happened. Instead, I just felt numb and eager to be rid of everything.
We didn't speak much except for the few times Chris asked, "Should we save this?" Each time I responded, "I want it all gone. All of it." Into the dumpster went food, mugs, utensils, blankets, and tons of trash. We scrubbed counters and floors. And then we were done. It was over.

As we pulled away and I glanced one final time at a now overflowing dumpster, I thought about parents who have to clean out their children's apartments because they have died and not because they have moved on to start life fresh. I wondered if I would have wanted to save something if that had been our case. And I thought about Mary.

She watched her son die. She watched with horror as they taunted and abused him. She saw them cast lots for his clothes. Did she want just one fragment of the cloth so that she had something to hold onto--something that had touched her baby's skin? Mary had the strength to stand there, and I believe it was because God was with her holding her up when she needed it most and not because she'd known all along.

Twenty-plus years ago I didn't know one day I would be cleaning out an apartment of one of my children. I didn't know I would have to watch him walk a journey and he would have to do it alone. I didn't know it would be one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I didn't know much when each of our children was born. What I did know, and continue to know, is God is with us, walking the journey, holding our hands, holding us up. 

And really, isn't that all we need to know?

May Our Hearts Always Be Broken

I love to read—always have. When I’m reading I become part of the story. As a child, I can remember being called to dinner and worrying I would miss something in whatever book I was reading. 

I am also a sensitive person. I have been described as an empath, and if empath is defined as “a person who actually senses and feels emotions as if they’re part of the person’s own experience” then it’s probably accurate. And it extends into reading. If a book I’m reading is sad, if a character is struggling, I often take on that mood and it invades the rest of my life. (Which is a very good reason to sometimes just read something that’s jovial and light…)

This past weekend I read This Tender Land by William Kent Krueger. In the book one of the main characters, Odie, is struggling with his relationship with God, struggling with the nature of God—is God a kind and loving and merciful God or Tornado God who leaves death and destruction wherever God goes? I spent the whole novel wanting to convince Odie that God is a God of love and faithfulness. I wanted to hug him and let him feel God's love through my arms. I ached for the pain Odie was experiencing and how again and again he was let down.

At one point Odie says, “Once again we were grieving loss. It was a feeling that should have been familiar to us by then, but does anyone ever get used to having their heart broken?” (p.256). I have not been able to get away from this question and the answer which I think more times than not is a resounding no. 

I think about broken relationships—relationships where one or the other believes “this time it will be different” and the betrayal, loss, and pain happens yet again. I think of addiction and relapse—does anyone ever get over watching themselves or another suffer? I think of mental illness, divorce, death—does anyone’s heart ever harden enough for it to no longer hurt?

This week I am particularly thinking of our LGBTQ brothers and sisters and the statement that came from the Vatican that priests cannot bless same sex unions because “God cannot bless sin.” My heart hurts not only for those in the Roman Catholic faith who hurt and hurt deeply, but also for every single person who once again has to read a headline or hear a news story where their belovedness, their goodness, their dignity, their humanness, their worth is debated. I feel a sadness that sinks deep into my bones, and I cannot fathom how those in the LGBTQ community feel.

But I can answer Odie’s question about whether anyone ever gets used to having your heart broken. I hope not. I hope the world’s heart continues to break over and over as we stand with those who are treated as less than whether because of addiction, mental health, race, gender, sexuality, or anything else. I hope our hearts never harden enough to not see and feel the pain. I hope our hearts break wide open and the love of God comes spilling out into the universe. And I pray our broken hearts lead us to action and eventually to healing and wholeness. I pray our hearts continue to break.

Until one day no hearts are broken because the world knows God is love--love for all no exceptions. Until one day the world knows, believes, and lives into the reality that we are all one.

Life Lessons, Pandemic Lessons from the Dentist's Chair

After three hours in the dentist's chair, I was finally free and heading to work. As I turned out of the parking lot I felt tears pooling in my eyes. "Where did that come from," I wondered? 

I was born without one of my permanent teeth. After I lost all my baby teeth I had to have a false tooth put in--what they call a Maryland bridge. There have been several times when it has fallen out--embarrassing yes, but always able to have it repaired relatively quickly. Probably the biggest concern I had was eating corn on the cob.

Several years ago when having it repaired, the dentist suggested I consider having a permanent bridge put in and use it as an opportunity to fix the way the rest of my teeth looked. They're different sizes, different shapes, and different shades. He gave me a quote and I giggled. We had three children in private school, one in out-of-state college, and cosmetic dentistry just wasn't on the list of priorities. Plus I had never been bothered by how my teeth looked. Over the past several months, or rather the last year, I wasn't giggling quite so much.

Well, that's not true. I was spending a lot of time giggling and amusing myself with far more selfies than a normal person should take (oh and I post them too). Gradually, and with the help of a few people who shall remain nameless's comments, I started to become more self-conscious (not self-conscious enough to stop taking selfies--much to my children's chagrin). It started to bother me, and I dreamed of possibly getting it fixed sometime in the wild blue yonder.

I lost the tooth again in December and the dentist again suggested we consider a different option. He also explained (and showed me) that it wasn't just the way they looked but because of their different sizes and shapes, the stress on some was beginning to cause break down in others.  I agreed to get a quote from the insurance company. Fast forward 2 months--my tooth came out AGAIN on Saturday. Early Monday morning the dentist's office called with the insurance quote. Talked to my husband and we decided to go ahead with the whole shebang. I was nervous about both the process and the cost.

I didn't ask a lot of questions about the procedure (chalk that up to being nervous--ignorance can be bliss), so imagine my surprise when he started working and suddenly I could feel big gaps in my teeth and very pointed ends. I had no idea why they were doing what they were doing, but I trusted the end result would be okay. Well, that's not exactly true--he kept saying, "This is just temporary until your permanent bridge comes in in a couple of weeks." I started to have doubts about what I would look like when I walked out of the office that day. (Y'all, I'm pretty transparent and easy-going--I walked around with a monogrammed catheter bag for crying out loud but walking out with teeth like this? That was even too much for me.) So, when he stepped out of the room for a moment my fear and doubt got the best of me. I turned to the assistant, "I'm not going to have to have my mouth looking like this for two weeks am I?" God bless her--and I mean that sincerely--she didn't burst out laughing (she did snicker). "No, ma'am. You'll have a full set of teeth they just won't look like the finished product."

So here I was leaving the dentist with my temporary bridge, which does look better than before, and tears were beginning to seep out of my eyes with the very real threat they would soon escape in torrents. What in the Sam Hill was going on with me?!?!?

Almost instantaneously it came to me (I call that the Holy Spirit)--my teeth were just an illustration of this whole last year. 

For two weeks I've been a little more worn out from the pandemic, a little more irritable, a little more morose, and if I'm honest a little more worried about what life will look like when we are all reopened and back to "normal." 

The thing is, we're not going back to normal, or at least not to the normal that was. And maybe that's not such a bad thing. Maybe what was before was good enough or we learned to live with it. Maybe before when life, institutions, relationships started to show weakness or fall out, we kept doing the same thing--you know gluing it back together and knowing it would fall out/break again. Maybe we accepted life, institutions, relationships as being "just that way" and being "good enough." Maybe the way it was put more stress on some than others causing them to break. Well, that is definitely NOT a maybe. The last year has definitely shown us over and over how many inequalities there are and how we have just let them be. Maybe, probably, definitely, we convinced ourselves the cost of making any changes to what we knew was just too high. 

And then came the pandemic--and pain--lots and lots of pain. We started to see the gaps in what we always considered good; we started to feel the sharpness, and I'll say it, the hidden ugliness of life as it was.  Please don't shun me for saying this, but maybe the pandemic with all its pain, loneliness, trauma, and yes there was so much of that and we will grieve for many years to come, but maybe it also gave us an opportunity to let go of the good enough (and let's be honest what some of us considered good enough was nowhere good enough for others) and to put in the work, the pain, the cost of changing. 

I began to understand my tears. We're still in the in-between. We're still in the temporary. We don't know

what it's going to look like on the other side of this pandemic. There is so much we don't know, but we also have the opportunity--the opportunity to do and be something different--something better, something more solid, something more beautiful--something more beautiful for the whole world. 

I so want to be on the other side of this. I want to know what the world will look like, and I want the world to be better than it has ever been. But for now, we have to just keep putting in the work and trusting that together and with God's direction, the world can emerge better, stronger, and more dazzling for all. 

Back to the Basics

One year ago on this day, I ran 7 miles. I was a runner--a part of a community of runners. I

was dedicated and engaged. I was part of a community of runners on a journey.

One year ago I was training for the Derby Half Marathon. My son and I were going to run it together to celebrate achievements we had both made over the previous year. One year ago I was 100% certain I would be able to finish it. One year ago I felt competent, confident, and carefree. One year ago....

And then March 11...

On March 11 our state, like many states across the country, shut down. Not unlike many others, I thought this was going to be a very short blip. How wrong I was.

Instead--Covid weight gain, hysterectomy, bladder damage, lack of energy, lack of motivation, frigid temperatures, family drama/trauma--well let's just say I am not running 7 miles today. But I do want to run again. I want to return to being an active part of the community of runners. I have reflected on all the ways I have gotten back into running over the years when I have had pauses for whatever reason. Here's the truth--I ask for advice; I start following a prescribed method; and then I think I know better, and I do what I want. It's always worked, but for whatever reason, this time I knew it wouldn't. 

I downloaded the couch to 5K app. I know several people who have used it and are now incredible runners. Now the truth is, I've used it before but see above--I used it for a while but then dropped it and did what I wanted. This time I decided that not only would I use it until completion, I would also not look ahead. I would listen to the app walking when it told me to and running when it told me to. I would trust the process. I would trust what had worked (yes I did research the reviews) for years for a community of runners.

Back to the basics....

I think our lives of faith are so often like a runner's who has to start again. We are in a rhythm. Our spiritual lives are deepening and increasing just as a runner's miles increase over time. But then something happens and we get derailed. Something happens and we lose our momentum. We stop engaging in our spiritual practices. Maybe we even begin wondering how we still fit into a community of faith. We felt so close to God and to others, and suddenly we're no longer sure.

Back to the basics....

As I was running I thought about our community of faith and the liturgies that shape us. These are our basics--returning to these practices helps us to reengage with God and one another. There is a time-proven method that has "worked" for generations. There is a pattern of living, a routine, that moves us deeper and deeper into relationship with God and each other. 

Going back to the basics, the routine, to the tried and true--it's what forms us into the people God has created us to be.