Vivid Memories that Last a Lifetime

I didn't sleep much last night--for a lot of reasons, but one was thinking about the youth I serve, the messages they "get" from the world, and my sermon for chapel today. I'm going to use the epistle for Thanksgiving Day.

Philippians 4:4-9

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.

The thing is, the youth I serve, they're not alone. Many of us have had parts of ourselves stripped away slowly and over tie--you know death by a thousand cuts. But I think, or at least I know for me, there are a couple of times that standout.

I was in seventh grade--new school, new friends. The beginning of the year went great. I made a fun group of friends. I felt on top of the world.

Up until this time, I had always been confident in my scholastic abilities, and I wanted to excel. If I'm honest, I wanted to standout--even in seventh grade I wanted to be top of my class. I worked hard.

We had a seventh grade very challenging English teacher--one sentence fragment, one run-on sentence--failing grade. He was challenging but also encouraging. I think his class is when I fell in love with writing. His class and this episode--writing became my refuge.

Vocabulary/spelling tests were always difficult, and this one covered the full semester of words. I studied very hard and began the test confidently. After he told us to put our pencils down, I looked down and realized I had misspelled a word. My heart sank, but then I remembered the bonus word and I was confident I had nailed it.

My teacher told us to switch tests to grade. (Do people do that anymore?) As I handed it to one of my good friends I said, "I know I missed #9, but I also know I got the bonus, so I should still get an A." My friend was also a high achiever, I thought she would understand.

That weekend I wasn't invited to a spend the night party. I didn't know that until Monday morning. (I am SOOOO glad we didn't have social media then.) Monday morning my group of friends were all acting weird hurriedly walking past me saying they were late to wherever they were going. When the lunch bell rang one of the group asked to talk to me. She told me the group didn't want to be friends with me anymore. They decided I was conceited (ironically that was one of our vocabulary words) among other things She used as an example the vocabulary/spelling test. I don't remember anything else about the conversation other than I didn't even try to explain/defend myself. We both walked away. I went to the library instead of lunch.

As a grown-up looking back I have several thoughts. First, I feel for the young girl who was chosen to deliver the "news/verdict" of our friendship or rather the end of the friendship. Did she draw the short straw? Second, I can understand how seventh grade girls could have interpreted that exchange about the test.

I remember and relive that day a lot. I lost confidence that day. I lost healthy self-pride. I lost self-esteem. And I put on the cape of imposter syndrome--never believing I had truly earned or deserved something. I am careful before I share any accomplishments with others, and I always worry about how I am perceived. I do, however, love to celebrate others--no matter how big or small. God is a God of celebration.

Fast forward 12 years. I was at my cousin's bridesmaid's luncheon. I was sitting next to a woman I'd known almost my entire life because she and my cousin had been best friends forever. She had the most beautiful (and loud) laugh. We were laughing and talking--and yes being loud. On the other side of me was another woman I'd known forever, and I loved and admired (looked up to) her. She put her hand on my arm and said, "SHH You're being too loud and obnoxious. Stop acting that way." I thought I had lowered my voice, but a few minutes later she kicked me under the table and through gritted teeth said, "I said STOP." And I did, for years.

I withdrew into myself believing I was too much, believing I didn't know how to behave in public, believing I needed to be less. (Some of you may agree--trying to use a little humor here.) Over time, a part of that person began to re-emerge, but the doubt remains, the insecurity remains, the hurt remains. One "weird" look from someone I love and respect, one whispered "stop" and I am right back there.

Last night as I tossed and turned I thought about the passage from Philippines as well as Jeremiah 1:5, "Before I created you in the womb I knew you; before you were born I set you apart," God created each of us in God's image. God created all of us--the parts we like and the parts we don't. The parts others like and the parts they don't. We can grow into that image, and we can also learn/be taught to deny parts of it. But I believe every part of who we are is pure, commendable, pleasing, and worthy of praise. We, with God's help, grow into those parts of us. It takes time--probably a life-time--but there is no part of ourselves God wants to excise.

Today I'm going to ask those in chapel to think about a part of themselves they have been told or learned to diminish and to give thanks for that part of who they are. I'm going to ask them to pray that God will help them regain the goodness in that trait/part of themselves.

And I will pray it won't take them a lifetime to do so.

What If?

 

What if that voice in your head was right?

        The voice you were told wasn't real

        The voice you tried to silence

        The voice you tried to ignore

         The voice that grew quieter over the years

                    But was never completely silenced.

What if the voice in your head was right?

        The voice who told you who you really were

        The voice who told you what was wrong

                    With you

                    With relationships

                    With the world

What if the voice in your head was right?

        And you ignored it

        And lived a different life

        Instead of living into the voice

        And lived a different life

        And learned from the voice

        And lived a different life

        Instead of the life you lived

                    That is now crashing down

            

Could Have Been the Start of a Bad Joke

 

Last Thursday I was traveling home from New York. Traveling in the dining car was a Rabbi, two Presbyterian ministers (from 2 different sects), a Methodist minister, and me an Episcopal priest. (No this is not the beginning of a bad joke.) Also traveling in the car was a transwoman.

We had all said brief hellos and over the first two hours engaged in short conversations interspersed with longer times of silence. I’m not sure how this conversation got started, but I overheard one of the male ministers ask the transwoman if he could ask her some questions because he really wanted to understand her world. My ears opened as did the other people in the car. She responded, “Certainly. I don’t mind at all. I actually would like it. And don't worry you can't ask me anything I haven't been asked before.” He responded, "But please reserve the right to not answer anything you don't want to answer." I am not going to share specifics as I truly believe the conversations we had were personal and sacred and deserved to be preserved for the people in the conversation. But I would like to share some things.

We all gathered around and began talking, questioning, and most importantly listening. There was a lot of conversation, questions, explanations, and long silences. We began sharing perspectives from our different denominations, our own experiences, and culture. We talked about how the past and current administration and their policies impacted our lives on a daily basis. One question I was asked, “How is it impacting you sharing your faith with me a man who serves in a denomination that doesn’t recognize women’s ordination?” Instantly I responded, “Sad.” His reply, “Me too.”

These conversations went on for over 3 hours. As we were beginning to pull into the station where all but 2 of us were getting off, the car became silent, and I saw a notification come across my phone. A woman who has been a friend for many years and who went to high school with my husband has a son who after surgery had a complication and was being transported to Children’s Hospital ICU. She was asking for prayer.

I looked up at everyone and read her post. No words were spoken as we all stood up and clasped hands. And then we began to pray. 

So no, the gathering of these particular people in this particular dining car at this particular time wasn’t the start of a bad joke. It wasn't a joke;
it was a glimpse of the Kingdom of God.

Too Woke

I went to bed angry. I didn't sleep much, and I got out of bed angry. Not angry like I want to hurt someone or damage something. Angry like my heart is broken, and I don't understand the world. Lots of angry tears....

There are accusations of people (me included) of being "too woke." Here's the thing, people aren't even using the term correctly. Instead, a word that started being used in the 1930's to raise awareness of social and political issues affecting the African American community has been weaponized. (OriginalDefination) It has been weaponized, in my opinion, to criticize and demean those who think differently. And I'll say it, pretty sure I'll get backlash, but I see it being used to continue to marginalize and control.

Cause here's the thing. If....

Respecting the honor and dignity of every human being regardless of age, gender, race, sexuality, profession or any other "catagory."

Apologizing to others when I have wronged them regardless of their age, gender, race--you get it read the above.

Respecting that others' faiths are valid.

Understanding that people are complex and one action, one word, one experience does not define their complete humanity.

Caring for others with empathy, compassion and grace

Understanding I don't have all the answers and that through talking and sharing with others who are different, I can grow and be transformed. 

Admitting I can be and sometimes am wrong.

Striving for justice and peace for all people not just the ones I like.

Believing that every child deserves to feel safe and loved, deserves access to education and healthcare, shouldn't have to go to bed hungry and cold--really not just every child, but every person.

Recognizing that when we demean and tear others down, we are demeaning and tearing down the image of God in whom we were all created.

Listening to others stories and understanding their life experiences are different than mine and just like my life has been shaped by my experiences, so have theirs.

Recognizing that actions have consequences but also that doesn't mean second and third, maybe even fourth chances may be necessary for people who are just trying to do the best they can. Isn't God about second and third and more chances?

If all that is being too woke, then actually people are wrong,  I'm not woke enough. 

But I'm trying. 

(And maybe we can just call it being a good human being and following God's command to love others as we love ourselves.)

Things I Wonder

 I went to get a massage this afternoon. In full disclosure, I get them fairly regularly--at least monthly.

Today it was different. She was yanking on my limbs and stretching them in a way she never has before. I'm not complaining; it felt great. It was just different. Half way through I asked her why things were different. She responded, "You are so tight like you've been living in the fetal position with your head between your knees." I'm not sure why but the image of the woman caught in adultery about to be stoned popped into my head and wouldn't leave. (John 8:1-11)

I started thinking about it, and I thought I remembered it wasn't explicitly said she was caught in adultery. Alas, maybe that's what I wanted to believe. The story actually does begin with the words, "The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery, and, making her stand before all of them,  they said to him, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery." It doesn't say who caught her in adultery. Was she set up? Did someone lie? Or, was it true? Any or all could be the truth. But that's not what I dwelled on while lying on the table having my limbs stretched.

I thought about how Jesus knelt down and was writing in the dirt. I have always imagined he did that for two reasons. One he wanted to write whatever he was writing (we don't know what it was) and also because he wanted to be face to face and eye to eye. I imagine her head was down. I definitely could be wrong about that. Perhaps she was defiant and staring the men accusing her down. But knowing what I know about women's positions in the first century, I find that hard to believe.

I also wonder why she was committing adultery. Was she a woman in love with someone she shouldn't have been? Or just as likely was she a widow trying to find a way to support herself and possibly her family? 

What I can imagine is the woman holding her head down and perhaps thinking, "Just get this over with. I am standing here in front of all these people and I'm ready to just be gone." I wonder if she hung her head because she was thinking not only of this sin but also of every mistake she had ever made intentionally or not. I wonder if she was thinking about every moment of her life and how she had failed her friends, her family and her God? I wonder if she didn't want to look up because maybe she had children or friends or family in the vicinity. I wonder if she was trying to hide her shame, but also wanting to prevent those she loved from experiencing pain. 

Jesus challenges those standing around for the person without sin to throw the first stone. One by one they all go away. Today lying on the massage table I wondered if she wished they hadn't. Yes her life was spared, but what will her life look like now? Will those who walked away welcome her back into their community? Will her family accept her again despite her sins or will she now be truly alone?

Jesus forgives her. That is the point of the story; that and to point out there are none of us without sin. I imagine she did feel some relief (but we don't really know what she even knew about Jesus and who he was). Forgiveness from God without reconciliation with community sounds and feels pretty lonely to me.

There definitely could be people she hurt with her actions. And those actions have consequences, but I keep wondering, "What happened to her? What was her life like moving forward?" Was there ever any reconciliation? 

She has messed up in her life as we all have. Perhaps she did commit adultery and was caught in the act, but even if that wasn't it, I'm sure there was something else. Today I'm wondering. Did her life get better or were there some days she wished Jesus had just let them stone her?

I wonder if she began to walk straighter, looked people in the eye and lived a full life. Or, if she desperately needed a massage table because she couldn't and didn't forgive herself. 

But still

 Alone in the house

    it's quiet

Alone in the bathroom

     but still I close the door

The bathtub doesn't work

    but still I sit

water runs down on my head

    and down my cheeks

Joy and pain

    inextricably linked.

Unexpected Places, Unexpected Blessings

On Shrove Tuesday, Emmanuel Episcopal held its annual pancake supper. Every year the community of Covington looks forward to the all you can eat pancakes. I love mingling through the tables, greeting familiar faces, and meeting new people. This year I spent some time with the band Close to You—a Carpenters tribute band. Lisa, the lead singer, asked me if I would bring ashes to the concert the following evening as she wouldn’t be able to be at the service. She then turned to her bandmates and asked them if they would also like to receive the imposition of ashes following the concert. One said yes, one said no thank you, and one said, “I respectfully decline.”

Mr. “I respectfully decline” later took a picture of Chris and I on his phone. (Stay with me, this is actually part of the story.) I asked him to text it to me and he did. Wednesday morning, I started receiving texts from his number with pictures of food. A text followed explaining, “I meant to send these to my husband. Sorry!” I responded, “No problem. Happy Valentine’s to you and your husband.”

Wednesday evening, I brought the ashes to the theater intending to impose ashes following the performance. Instead, word got out I had them, and several people approached me as they waited in line for the doors to open. It was kind of like a pop-up ashes to go! Following the concert (which was very good I might add), I went downstairs to meet those in the band who had requested ashes. We chatted for a few minutes and then I imposed the ashes. As I was getting ready to leave, Mr. “I respectfully decline” approached me with tears streaming down his face and asked if he was too late to get ashes. As I was imposing the ashes his voice cracked as he said, “I have had nothing to do with the church in several decades. They were horrible to me when I came out. I didn’t think I would ever receive another sacramental touch. Thank you.” We embraced and I whispered in his ear, “You are a beloved child of God.” As we parted he gripped my hand again and said, “Bless you.”

Oh, I definitely was blessed Mr. “I respectfully decline.” Thank you.

What if We All Overshared?

Yesterday afternoon I had a meeting in Roanoke. Diocesan convention starts today also in Roanoke, so a friend who also had to be at both offered for me to stay with her.

I pulled into the Hotel Roanoke to valet my car. As I emerged from the car the young valet said, “Are you checking in?” I responded, “Yes, well not really. Really my husband is checking in for us tomorrow night. Tonight I’m staying with someone else. I mean I’m staying with a friend. It’s a woman—we’re just friends,” I continued stammering. To his credit, he didn’t break eye contact and only looked slightly uncomfortable. I continued, “You really didn’t need to know all that did you?” “No ma’am,” he said, “I just need to know your last name.”

I’ve told that story a few times since it happened. Laughter usually ensues and for those who no me well, well let’s just say they’re not surprised. I may be known as an over sharer and definitely an over poster on social media!

But, this morning I have a different thought. What if instead of being embarrassed at the possible inappropriateness of the situation I continued? What if I added, “She’s one of my best friends and we haven’t seen each other in person in a couple of months. She’s one of my people outside of my family that loves me unconditionally, holds me accountable, and reminds me through her words and actions that I am a beloved child of God no matter what.” And then what if I said, “Do you have a person like that?”

What if instead of interacting with others with the bear minimum of conversation we shared our stories? And what if we invited others to share their stories with us? What connections could we make with others? Whose lives could be transformed?

I believe God invites us all to share our stories—to name where God is present in our lives and to invited others to do the same. All of our stories together combine with God's story to create the Kingdom of God.

Faithfully,

Katherine+

I'm Not for Everyone

So I overheard a conversation about me--it wasn't positive. (PSA--before you talk about someone, make sure you've ended the call...) I spent a solid 24 hours pouting, moping, and just all around being hurt. I tried to logic my way out of my feelings, but sometimes you just have to feel yourself through feelings which I was doing quite well--well not getting through but just feeling...

Yesterday morning I was thinking (you can read obsessing and you'd be right) about what was said while cleaning up the kitchen. I picked up some papers and dropped one. I reached down to pick it up and saw it was a note from someone who was thanking me for the very thing about myself that someone else didn't like. 

I went to my desk and pulled my "good notes" file. Thank you Bishop for teaching me to save emails and notes that are uplifting! I read multiple notes from people who said my goofy over the top self helped them see God in a different way. I remembered something else a dear friend and mentor taught me. When someone says something to you or about you that is critical and/or hurtful, think about what part might be true, what you might be able to learn from it, and let the rest go. (Now I'll admit that is way easier said than done--especially the letting go part!)

I know I'm not for everyone. (And I know everyone's not for me.) But I am who God created me to be, and I am trying to live into that. My big fat audacious dream is that I live a life that helps others see and know that no matter who they are, what they've done or not done, how they live or anything else--there is nothing that can separate them from the love of God and that God loves them--there are no exceptions!

This morning as I've been working on my sermon, I've been thinking about what kind of Messiah people expected. I've been thinking about who God is and who God loves (spoiler alert--everyone), and I've been thinking about how God is so much bigger than any of us can imagine. People experience God in different ways, through different experiences and through different people. God is known through the introvert and the extrovert, through the quiet contemplative and through the boisterous, through those who are always serious and through those who never seem to be, through the orderly and through the messy--what is most important is that God and God's unconditional love is known.

Are my feelings hurt? Yes. Do I wish I hadn't heard the comment? Definitely yes. Will I let it go? I'm trying. Am I going to change who I am because of it? Not going to lie I paused at this point with my fingers hovering over the keyboard wondering how to answer...

Am I going to change who I am because of it? A little--I'm going to try to be more compassionate, more understanding of the differences in others. I'm going to try to see God in those who I don't "get." But am I going to change my personality--no.

But I'll probably need to talk about it in therapy!

There Has to Be a Line, Maybe?

I remember, or I think I remember, my mother telling me years ago--in my memory we are in the car driving down Ragley Hall Rd away from the house, don't know where we're going--but I remember Mother saying, "If I compliment y'all too much you'll get big heads and be conceited."

See here's the thing about memories--they may or may not be accurate. The words may or may not be exact. The intent of the words may or may not be understood. But, the impact of memories, even with their inaccuracies, live on in our bodies.

Fast forward to the everyone gets a trophy and everyone gets to be star student generation. Is there a point when compliments become meaningless? I think there is.

I also wonder, is there a difference between a compliment and just saying something nice, something positive, something kind?

I keep thinking there has to be a line. There has to be a line between being complimented by someone so infrequently even the smallest of compliments stand out and are remembered and being complimented by someone so often it's meaningless and their all forgotten.

I know it's so much more complicated--their are personalities, histories, and expectations. 

I do think there is a line somewhere--just not sure it needs to be or should be the proverbial line in the sand. And I think about Jesus writing in the sand. (John 8:1011) He didn't draw a line, but he did write something. And more importantly, he taught us a lesson about judging. He taught us no one is without sin and the importance of compassion and forgiveness. 

See here's the thing. I want Jesus to have also said something about taking responsibility, admitting responsibility, and even begging for forgiveness. I want Jesus to draw that line, and I want to tell him where it needs to be. 

Jesus doesn't draw lines, if anything Jesus draws a circle, a circle around the whole world, and we're all on the inside. 

Why a 12-Step Eucharist?

 Why a 12-Step Eucharist? This is what the press release says....     

Emmanuel Episcopal Church to host a 12-Step Eucharist Sunday, July 9 at 5pm

Why a 12-Step Eucharist?  Addiction touches almost every life in this country, either directly or through its effect on loved ones. In 2022, drug overdoses killed more Virginians than car crashes and gun violence combined. Although the worlds of law enforcement, politics, and medicine have had much to say about addiction and our response to it, the Church has remained mostly silent. We Christians believe firmly in hope, healing, redemption, and grace, yet we often lack the spiritual vocabulary to speak honestly about it when addiction knocks at our door. The 12-Step Eucharist provides all of us—whether in recovery or not—the chance to see both the need that is all around us and the resources we have to offer. This is a service of grace and hope.

 About the Twelve Steps

All Twelve Step recovery programs have their beginnings in a movement called the Oxford Group, which developed in the 1900’s in and around New York. One of their leaders was The Rev. Samuel Shoemaker, the rector of Calvary Episcopal Church in New York City. They sought to build their faith around the practice of what they called “The Four Absolutes” - absolute honesty, absolute purity, absolute unselfishness, and absolute love. These principles, they believed, were the definitive essence of Jesus’ moral teaching. They were convinced that action was the key to faith and spiritual growth, a premise that had been carried over into AA and subsequent programs - “to practice these principles in all our affairs.” The Oxford Group maintained that maintaining fellowship, keeping community, and sharing of one’s own experience - including public confession of wrongs - were the vital forms this action should take. As you’ll see in the service, our own Episcopal tradition is a natural path for following these principles. That, along with our open offering of the Sacraments and our gentle proclamation of the Gospel, positions us almost perfectly to offer to people in recovery and their loved ones a safe place to find that deep experience of God so many of us are seeking.

I've looked and looked for this quote and can't find it, but I'm almost 100% certain Nadia Bolz Weber, Lutheran pastor, and amazing author, said something to the effect of, "There is more truth in church basements than in the church on Sunday mornings." I read or heard that with suspicion before....

Before addiction entered our family's world. Or let's be honest before our family admitted addiction was and had been part of our family's world--maybe even for several generations. It was then I met some of the most amazing people. People in recovery and people who wanted to be, or maybe didn't want to be.  And it was also then I was punched in the gut and in the face and left stranded bleeding and weeping by some who spent every Sunday morning seated in church pews.

I was extended care and compassion through those I least expected over and over and over again. 

One such example happened very late one night or was it in the wee hours of the early morning. I was in a place I had never been, and  I was frantic. I was pacing without going anywhere while terror shot through my body. Two hands appeared out of seemingly nowhere, grabbed me by the shoulders and stared into my eyes with his bloodshot eyes, and said, "We've got this Preacher Lady. You go home. Nothing going to happen. Let me take care of things" I believed him, and I did go home. The next morning I stood in the pulpit and preached to people who had no idea where I had been or what had happened the night before and many I didn't trust to tell.

There was another time I was sharing with a friend who is in recovery a story about a particularly painful experience with another family member. She looked me straight in the eyes and said, "How can you love me and give me so much grace and understanding and not extend that to her?" Damn--another gut punch. I was the person in the pews that needed to be in the basement.

In April 2015, I was at the beach and just happened to stumble upon an announcement that Grace Church Cathedral was hosting a 12-Step Eucharist that very night. I went. It was packed, and to say I was profoundly moved is an understatement. The Rev. John Zahl preached. As I was leaving, I stopped, introduced myself as a priest (not sure why that mattered), and with tears streaming down my face told him I came in as a shell and left full of hope. I saved the bulletin for years. Two months ago John (I call him that now because he's now my friend) and I were together for a week at a clergy retreat. I told him how that service in April 2016 has been a part of the fabric of my being ever since. As we stood there talking I said, "John, I need you to hear this. I got to meet you again after 7 years and I get to tell you how much it transformed me. I know to the depths of my being there are many others who had the same experience that you may never meet. That night you truly made a difference. You preached the Gospel and changed lives. I want to be a vessel like that." 

Later that evening he emailed me a Google doc of the service, and with a few changes, that will be the 12-Step Eucharist on Sunday night. All are welcome those in church basements, those in church pews, and everyone else. We are all beloved children of God.

The New Green Swim Trunks

When we first started having children I heard lots of things like, "The days are long but the years are short." (They weren't wrong). I was given lots of advice--some I even took. One bit of advice was to savor the memories. So I did. I journaled and blogged and took loads of pictures, especially of the big things. You know, the mile markers. 

When I brought the fourth baby home, the other three looked so big, so grown up. They weren't. When they started kindergarten I took a picture, and they looked so big! Six years later when they "graduated" from fifth grade I looked at the current kindergartners and thought, "They're just babies." When they left middle school to enter high school I took pictures and thought, "They are growing up so fast!" High school graduations brought me to tears as I looked at them and saw both the babies they were and the adults they were becoming. I look at high school seniors now and think, "How could someone who looks that young be leaving home?"

But I was ready for these moments. Well as ready as someone can be. I took the pictures. I wrote social media posts. I journaled, I knew there would be both pride and tears. And there was.

On Saturday he walked into the pool, said "Hey Mama" and sat down. I looked up from my book. He was wearing green swim trunks. I'd never seen them before. He hadn't sent me pictures when he was buying them. He hadn't asked me for money to buy them. He just bought them, or maybe the woman he loves bought them. I don't know. I just know I didn't, and I felt a slight gut punch and tears stinging the back of my eyes. 

People told me about the big things. I was sort of ready. But no one told me about the "new green swim trunks."

It Wasn't Just a Boa

Last Thursday I was getting ready to watch my beloved Cavaliers take on (or as I assumed then, most likely beat--I must admit I was a little nervous) the Furman Paladins. As I finished dressing I thought of my orange boa and decided I needed it. I knew exactly where it was--hanging on the back of my high heel shoe chair. I walked to my study and was greeted by a room full of floating orange feathers. Immediately tears stung my eyes. 

"This is ridiculous," I thought as I turned and saw a very cute puppy with orange feathers stuck on his face and coming out of his mouth. I didn't clean up the mess; I simply closed the door.

It's Saturday and I still haven't cleaned it up. I have opened the door, but each time I feel a sadness, so I slowly close the door and walk away.

Here's the thing....

In November of 2017, I was installed as the Rector of St. Thomas Episcopal Church. As I walked into the reception following the service, the boa was wrapped around my shoulders as I was enveloped in a hug and the words, "welcome to the St. Thomas family" were whispered in my ear. I had served as Priest-in-Charge since March of 2016; I knew and loved these people. But that day it truly felt like I completely belonged and that orange boa became one of the tangible symbols of that acceptance.

I'm not going to turn this into a Hallmark movie or an ABC after-school special. When the person gave me the boa, I don't think either of us knew what the next just over five years would bring. During that time we shared times of great joy and fun and laughter. And we also had times when we were both angry and hurt (and dare I say stubborn?). The boa, however, remained. 

It remained and it reminded me of the complexity of relationships. It reminded me that in deep relationships we sometimes bring our very best selves--generous, loving and loyal, but that we also sometimes bring the parts of ourselves that are capable of hurting and being hurt. It reminded me that no relationship has a single story or even a single storyteller. 

Every time I looked at it or wore it, I was reminded of my belovedness, my humanity, my vulnerability, and yes my brokenness. The boa became an outward and visible sign of the holiness of relationships. 

I can replace the boa. (I've even been told where I can find another...) But that particular one? Well, it wasn't just a boa. It was a tangible gift and then so much more.

Are You Ready for Christmas?

Are you ready for Christmas? I bet you've heard that already this year. I personally hate that question--mainly because it reminds me I'm not...but this morning I'm hearing it in my mind differently.

I first started thinking about people whose answer is, "No I'm not ready for Christmas or any other holiday. I'm not ready for the holidays to come when my loved one is no longer here." 

That led to the next thought--thinking about friends who buried their child this summer after the young adult child had struggled for years with mental health and addiction. The family chose to have a very small, mainly family-only, service. And they were criticized for it. (For the record, families who have family members struggling with mental health and addiction are quite used to being criticized, so we're like ducks shaking water off our backs--criticize away if it makes you feel better.)

Anyway, one of the parents said to me, "No one wanted to show up or acknowledge him during the years of struggle. I don't need them to show up now. For years we were left out of gatherings, and now people want to gather with us. No thank you. We struggled alone and now we'll grieve alone." It broke my heart, and I understood it.

As I started making cookie dough (back to the trying to be ready) I thought about the difference between having a family member in the hospital with cancer or some other illness and having a family member in a residential treatment program for mental health or addiction or both. With the former, meal trains are put into place, flowers are sent, notes are written, offers of child care are extended, and people are happy to run errands for you. With the latter, often its crickets. And it's lonely. (But I get it, no one wants to hang out with crickets.)

Here's the thing. When you have a family member in treatment, families have the same struggles as those who have a family member in a "regular" hospital. Meals still have to be made or bought and eaten. People still have to go to work. Children still need to go to school and other activities. People still have to choose between showing up for visiting hours and making sure the rest of the family can get where they need to go and be supported how they need to be supported. 

I've had this discussion with lots of people. People who are or have lived with this struggle and people who haven't but want to understand. The most common thing I hear is, "I just don't know what to say." Here's the truth, we don't know what to say. So maybe that is it just say, "I don't know what to say, but I want you to know I'm here. How can I help?" Or say nothing, but show up. Show up with a meal, a cup of coffee, or just a quick hug. 

All that is to say, I'm thinking about the question "Are you ready for Christmas?" in a different way. Being ready for Christmas isn't about the tree trimmed, the cookies baked, or the gifts bought and wrapped, being ready for Christmas is being ready to follow Jesus. Being ready for Christmas is being ready to step out of our comfort zones. Being ready for Christmas is being ready to show up--often in places and with people where no one else shows up. Being ready for Christmas is about being ready to extend love and grace and mercy to everyone because it is that love that transforms the world. It is that love that heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. It is the love that came down at Christmas all those years ago. It is the love of God for everyone no exceptions.

Are you ready for Christmas?

VOID

I checked and re-checked the list of documents I needed for two days before heading to the DMV to change my driver's license from Kentucky to Virginia. I know from many moves, and many children, it can be different from state to state and possibly from year to year. (When the baby was getting her learners just 17 months after her brother and within a few years of the Big Kids, I didn't remember all the things I needed which may or may not have caused a brief hormonal teen meltdown in a very long line. I was home and back with time to spare!) 

I felt confident as I drove of The Hill and headed to the DMV. I arrived and as luck would have it, there was no line. In fact, there was not another soul there. So I confidently and proudly swaggered up to the window and laid down my documents. She picked them up, studied them, and said, "I need to see your marriage license."  "Excuse me?" I asked pretty incredulously. "I said," she continued, "I need to see your marriage license and not just the one some clergy signed, the real one from the state." I must have looked completely befuddled, and possibly on the verge of having a hormonal teen meltdow. I mean, I haven't had to show anyone my marriage license in over 28 years. She continued, "Your birth certificate says Ann Katherine Kanto and your Kentucky drivers license says Ann Katherine Kanto Doyle. I need to verify you're the same person." 

Now fortunately, I knew exactly where the marriage license was as it was with all the other documents I had been looking at for the last 48 hours. She handed me the application and said I should also fill it out before I came back, you know to save time.

When I returned I handed back all the documents plus the marriage license and the application. She looked down, looked up and under hair color scratched off blonde and wrote gray. (Which for the record doesn't even show up on the completed license.....) Then she verified everything and passed me on to the next person. I guess that confusing adding one name was instantly cleared up--and yes, I know I'm being snarky and she was just doing her job--I've got to have some fun with this.

I again had to fill out forms (pretty much the same ones I already had, but I wasn't going to make a big deal about it. Teenage hormonal Ann Katherine Kanto would have). The second lady looked at me and said, "You pass." I'm not even sure what that means, but she reached down took my Kentucky license and with a hole punch punched the word VOID into it. I felt a punch in my gut and thought, "Void? Like I never existed there?" 

I decided not to overthink it as I'm proned to do, and instead turn the whole episode into somethng funny. I texted the story to several friends and we LOL'd about it.

But, for the last few weeks, every once in awhile I think about it, and I don't laugh.

This morning as I was walking on the beach and feeling all kinds of feels, I kept seeing my Kentucky license with the word VOID and my Virginia license (which came in the mail right after I left and Chris brought me and does NOT say one word about my hair color). 

Fourteen and a half years---that's how long we lived in Kentucky. I am aware I'm not from there (which has also occasionally been painfully pointed out to me). I mean when asked, I say I'm from Georgia as that's where I went to school until college (my formative years), but technically I was born in Virginia, so well, whatever. But for 14 1/2 years I have lived in Kentucky--it is the place where some of the most difficult things I have ever lived through happened. And it's also the place where I believe I have evolved into some of the best version of myself. Kentucky is where we mostly reared our children and definitely where they say they're from. It's where I finished my discernment and was ordained to the Diaconate and the Priesthood. It's where I learned I love working with youth and I could indeed be a leader. It's where I made and lost friends and found my voice--some of that was definitely all intertwined.

"VOID" it's just a word. And there is a reality to moving. Life moves on in the place you left. Others fill roles that used to be yours. New people move in who never knew you. Some people forget you. But my life in Kentucky? It happened. 

It's just a word, but it also can, during transition, feel like a razor blade that slices off the scab that had started to form from the pain of leaving. It also can force you to look deep into yourself and stare at who you are at the core and wonder/dream/imagine what you will evolve into being in this new place, this new time, and this new space.

It's just a word, and it's so much more. 

Oh, and for the record, I am both Ann Katherine Kanto and Ann Katherine Kanto Doyle--they both still exist....

(The new license also says Endorsements--NONE which I am trying, somewhat successfully, to ignore...)

Reverent and Joyful--Even a Little Fun

Over the years I have learned many lessons from my Bishop. This one I'll never forget. 

It was the first visit for the new Bishop. I was a postulate (in the process towards ordination) serving at my sending parish. To be honest, it wasn't my first time meeting the Bishop, but that visit well....let's just say he met the real unfiltered me complete with snot dripping out of my nose sobbing. A story for another time, or maybe, probably, never. Suffice it to say, I wanted to make sure I made a better or at least a different impression this time. 

Caroline was one of my acolytes...

I knew Bishop White had arrived, but he had yet to make his way back to the sacristy to vest. I was running through the service with the acolytes. "Any questions?" I asked. Everyone was quiet until Caroline said something like (this was over 12 years ago can't remember the exact words), "All this fancy stuff for the Bish. I just want to wear that funny hat he has." At this exact moment, the door opened and in walked the Bishop. 

"Please please please let him be hard of hearing, or at the very least preoccupied," I prayed. "Surely he's thinking about the service and not listening...surely...." I turned to the acolytes and asked them to head on out to create space and to avoid any other irreverent inappropriate comments. As Caroline was moving towards the door, he stopped her, placed his mitre (the correct name for the funny hat) on her head and said, "Could you let everyone know the Bish will be ready in a few minutes?" I was mortified. Caroline, however, answered with a big smile (this part I remember), "Yes sir, Bish." Gonna be honest, I was speechless--not an easy thing to happen. Well, at least she said "yes sir."

During the service, I served as the Bishop's chaplain. I was determined to be very serious, very reverent, very anything but Caroline... We processed in and the Bishop handed me his crozier (staff). I placed it in its stand and sat down. A few seconds into the first reading Bishop White leaned over and whispered, "Could you please turn the crozier around? Right now you are indicating I'm dead. I'd like a few more years." I turned the crozier around thinking right now would be a great time for it to fall, hit me in the head, and knock me out. No such luck.

The service continued. As the table was being set for Eucharist, the choir was singing, and two of the acolytes (brothers in middle school) were hitting each other with their cinctures (ropes wrapped around their waists). I glared at them. They didn't stop. For the second time Bishop White leaned over and whispered, "You're giving them your best Mom stare." I nodded. "It's not working," he chuckled. Would this service never end!?!??!

When the service was FINALLY over my priest asked me to lead the Bishop back to the sacristy. My goal was to get him in the sacristy, unvest myself, and get out with little to no conversation--preferably the no. Thankfully I knew the acolytes were already out--doughnuts called!  The Bishop wears way more vestments than I did, so I thought the odds were good I could make a quick escape--I mean exit. I yanked my cincture and robe off throwing them on the hanger promising myself I would return to straighten them and repeating to myself, "this, this, this, is why I will NEVER work with children and youth." Bishop White, silently, slowly and I'll add reverently removed his vestments gently placing them on hangers. I moved towards the doorway. "Katherine," Bishop White said. I stopped, my. eyes looking longingly at the door--two feet, that's all that was left, two feet--so close.. "Remember," he continued, "they're kids. Church can be both reverent and joyful, sometimes even a little fun." 

When we got in the car to head home Caroline said, "I really like the Bish. He's pretty cool." "Yes he is," I answered. "And very human and very wise," I thought to myself, "I really hope I get to serve under him for a long time."

Last Sunday following a service, I headed back to the sacristy followed by three young boys. "Mama Doyle, can we put on those things? We want to be preachers like you." they said as they pointed to my stole and alb. "Sure," I replied. As I helped them put them on, a man said, "Are they allowed to do that?" I smiled and said, "You know, church can be both reverent and joyful, sometimes even a little fun."

It's Not About the Money

It's not about the money.                                       
Maybe it should be.      

But it's not about the money.      

It's about the investment in hopes and dreams.

It's not about the money.

It's about the broken hearts and broken relationships and trying to put them back together again.                                                                                                                                                              And again.

It's not about the money.

It's about the put back together broken hearts that now have shards of light shining through because every time they break there are slivers you can no longer find.

It's not about the money.  

Hopes and dreams cannot be bought. 

Broken hearts take time to mend--lots of time.                                                                                     And pain.

It's not about the money.

I wish it was about the money.

Choices, Consequences, and Unconditional Love

This week I am having what my sister calls, "a world's colliding" week. It's my last summer as Director for Youth and Young Adults in Kentucky, and there are several boys from Boys Home of Virginia on staff and here as campers. All Saints is a place of unconditional love and acceptance--no matter what. Read on...

It was Senior High week in the summer of 2018, and a young man made a poor decision. 

Let me give a little, probably oversharing information. This young man had been a camper for years.  And I'll be honest, he was/is one of my all time favorites. (I know, I know--we're not supposed to have favorites. But he's loud and funny and dances with me....appropriately of course). He was a leader around camp, and I fully expected him to be on staff one day. But he was 16, thought what he was doing was funny--it wasn't.

There were consequences--severe consequences that extended beyond camp. I'll just admit it. I was heartbroken. 

The young man owned his mistake and apologized, and learned that while forgiveness comes, consequences remain.

October 2018 we gathered again for our fall retreat. I was inside a building and got a text asking me to step outside. The young man was standing there. He looked at me and asked, "Am I welcome here? I don't have to stay if it makes people uncomfortable." Tears welled in both our eyes. I looked him straight in the eyes and said, "you are always welcome here. God loves you unconditionally and so do I."

That night during community meeting he asked to speak to the group. He asked for forgiveness. 

Last night, the young man, now a college student who volunteers in a neighborhood ministry organizing and coaching a soccer team for refugees, working with blessing boxes and all kinds of other ministries, brought a couple of campers to Senior High week. "MAMA D!" he shouted. As soon as his Covid test was negative, he jumped out of the car and threw his arms around me. 

Whoever you are, whatever you've done God loves you no exceptions. Find your place that serves as that constant reminder in your life. I've found mine....

I'd also like to give a shout out to The Episcopal Church and our commitment to Safeguarding God's Children. When this incident occurred, there was a process already in place. There is a reason we do what we do. Health and healing for all God's children.

Is There a Month for Us?

Please know I don't mean to be selfish or to try to co-opt the pain those struggling with mental health and/or addiction face, and I celebrate mental health awareness month in May and national recovery month in September, but I also just wonder, is there a month for us?

Is there a month for those of us who love those who struggle? A month for those of us whose lives are turned upside down repeatedly? A month for those of us who live on hope, then it crashes, then we struggle to hope again?

Is there a month for those of us whose cars are wrecked? A month for those of us whose homes become places of carnage instead of havens? A month for those of us who clean up those messes and welcome our loved ones back?

Is there a month for those of us who don't sleep while we wait for the phone to ring? A month for those of us who leave work and social events to answer that phone call?

Is there a month for those of us who sacrifice time, energy, and dare I say it, yes money one more time, and then one more time, and then one more time?

Is there a month for those of us who have to choose between loving our person and being the source of endless gossip? Is there a month for us who are so lonely and afraid? Is there a month for us who want to climb into our beds, cover our heads and hide but instead have to keep on working, keep on living?

Is there a month for those of us whose family and friend relationships are damaged or at the very least changed due to no fault of our own? Or maybe it is our fault...

Maybe it's not fair to ask, but I do wonder, is there a month for us?

The Raw Truth

People who love someone struggling with mental health or addiction rip their fingers raw holding onto even the slimmest grain of hope. I've heard (and said) more times than I can count, "As long as he/she is breathing there is hope." And I've sat with family and friends of those who have died and held them as they cried, "I'd take all the chaos again just to have him/her back." That my friends is the real hard raw truth of these diseases. But there is another side of the story....

I drove up to the graveside where the family was gathering. As I approached the mother, the first thing I noticed was a lightness in her step I hadn't seen the last time I saw her. She greeted me with a smile and a warm hug. Over the next 45 minutes I heard stories, there was laughter, and yes there were many many tears. There were statements such as, "He's at peace" and that is true, but there is still a hole in all our hearts that will never be completely filled again. 

I walked over to hug his mama one more time. She held onto me, put her lips close to my ear and said, "At least I don't have to wait for the phone call anymore. It already came. It's over. I can sleep."

God help me, but as I turned away and began walking towards my car, for a split second, I was jealous.